The King of Mulberry Street

by Donna Jo Napoli

  I wouldn't get up. I'd done what Mamma said. I'd watched and learned and fit in. And none of it mattered, because now this “uncle” had me and I'd be lost and alone for the rest of my life. I lay there and screamed.

  The “uncle” kicked me. “Get up, or they'll throwyou in a home with sick boys and you'll die.” He turned back to Giosè.

  My side hurt. I drew my knees to my chest and hugged them.

  “That's where I'm going,” said the boy with the colored chalk mark on his shirt, “to the sick home. To die.” His eyes were glassy with fever.

  “I'm going to Napoli!” I forced out as loud as I could.

  The “uncle” kicked me harder.

  “What are you doing?” The translator from the first line stepped between us. “Don't kick him again.” He pulled me up. I held my side where I'd been kicked and looked at him in surprise. I'd thought he'd forgotten about me. Now he pulled me over beside Giosè. “That isn't his uncle. He just says it because one of his boys is sick and he needs a substitute for the padrone.”

  “The guy says he's the boy's uncle,” said Giosè, “so he is.”

  “Listen to the way he talks. He's from somewhere in Basilicata, but the boy's from Napoli.”

  “What, do you think I'm deaf?” said Giosè. “You're German; I'm the Italian. This is my country they come from. I hear how they talk. That doesn't change a thing. The boy needs an uncle.”

  “He's got shoes. He's going to stand right here till his father comes. He's not going anywhere with some fake uncle.”

  Giosè looked at the “uncle” with both palms turned upward in apology. “Eh, beh, what can you do?” He pointed to the stairs behind him. “Those are the stairs of separation.The sick boy goes in that hall to the left. If you ever want to see him again, you go with him. Everyone else goes down the stairs to fetch baggage and buy ferry tickets.” He held his hand out low, at the side of the podium.

  The “uncle” put money in Giosè's hand. Then he pushed the feverish boy toward the hall on the left and barked at the rest of the boys to go with him downstairs. The sick boy left without a word. I was sure he believed what he'd said—he was going to the sick home to die. I wanted to yell to him, “Fight!” Hadn't his mother told him to survive?

  I didn't want to stand anywhere near Giosè anymore. But where else could I go? The endless lines kept moving.

  After about an hour Giosè unwrapped a skinny loaf of bread stuffed with cheese and meats. Lettuce, tomato, onion, and pepper flopped out the sides. He said, “In America they call this an Italian sandwich.” He laughed in a chummy way, as though he hadn't just tried to betray me. “These Americans,” he said, “they give only an hour for lunch—not enough to get home and eat in pleasure.” He shook his head.

  His complaints went on and on. Did he think I cared one bit? Did he think he could win me back so easily? I listened because I had to. Otherwise, he might get mad and pawn me off on the next “uncle.”

  I was hungry for his food, but Jews don't eat cheese and meat together. Still, it looked good. The people in the line glanced at the sandwich, closed their mouths, and looked away.

  Giosè stood chewing over me. “Stay here and stand tall while I go eat. Your father will find you soon.”

  The minute he was gone, I sat on the floor.

  A man pushed a metal cart between the lines, selling boxed lunches of sandwiches, fruit, and pie for a half dollar. People paid in their different monies. A box lunch was big enough to feed five men. You could buy bread for four pennies, a sweet cake for six pennies, sausage for ten. I didn't know what the prices meant, and it didn't matter, because I didn't have pennies. But the smells …

  Finally, Giosè came back. He didn't tell me to stand up. He got back to work.

  The German translator said he was leaving for lunch now, and he handed me a piece of newspaper. I unwrapped it. A corner of a sandwich sat there. “Thank you,” I said in amazement.

  “Don't mention it,” he said.

  I took out the meat and ate the rest of the sandwich. The meat was pink; it could have been pig. I looked around for a place to stash it so the translator wouldn't find out that I hadn't eaten it. Mamma always said ingrates were the worst kind of people.

  I worked the meat inside a pocket. Then I leaned my head against the inspector's podium and fell asleep.

  Tap, tap. Someone was tapping on the top of my head.

  I looked up into Giosè's face. “The lines are done,” he said. “No one reported a lost son. You were a fool not to go with that ‘uncle.’ ” He straightened his cap. “All right, it's time for us to deal with you. Did you come off that ship called Città di Napoli?”

  I nodded.

  The German translator asked, “You're really alone? Like you said?”

  I nodded.

  He picked up his pen. “What's your last name?”

  Could my name get me in trouble? I shrugged.

  “I've got to write something. You came over on Città di Napoli … so, okay, your last name is Napoli.”

  “Don't do that,” said Giosè. “Call him di Napoli or de Napoli or da Napoli—not just Napoli. Only Jews take city names for their last name.”

  My breath caught. “Napoli is okay with me,” I said.

  “So you do want to talk,” said the German translator. “Good. But Giosè has a point. You don't want to be taken for a Jew, trust me.”

  Adversity, that was what he was talking about. Like Uncle Aurelio said. I didn't care what adversity I'd face in America. I wasn't going to be here long anyway. And no matter what, I'd always be loyal to my family. “Put my last name as Napoli,” I said firmly, feeling Nonna's approval.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “All right, Signor Napoli, don't get upset. Anyway, you can use whatever name you want after you leave here. So, what first name do you want?”

  I stood there.

  “I have to put a first name, or I can't give you the document you need.”

  “Dom,” I said.

  “Domenico,” he said, writing on a form.

  “No, just Dom,” I said.

  He hesitated. Then he stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “All right, Napoli, Dom. Birth date?”

  “Twenty-fourth of December.”

  “A Christmas present, huh?” Both men laughed.

  “What year?” When I shrugged, he asked, “How old are you?”

  “Nine.”

  “That would make 1883—no, 1882, because you were born at the end of the year. So, who's waiting for you here in New York?”

  I shrugged.

  “No one? Oh, boy.” He put down his pen. “Here's how it works, Dom. Beyond that door you get a physical inspection …”

  Giosè cut in, “No one's going to let you onto the streets of New York alone. A boy your age needs a family or a padrone.”

  “Padroni are illegal,” I said defiantly. I could find a policeman and tell him all about the money Giosè took from the “uncles.” I could, if I knew where a policeman was. And if a policeman would listen to me. And if he spoke Napoletano. Suddenly it all felt so hard.

  “Lots of things are illegal,” said Giosè calmly. “The padroni have been running the show for years.”

  “I don't want a padrone.”

  “I don't blame you,” said the German translator. “So that means you need a family.”

  “Change his name to di Napoli,” said Giosè, “like I said. The translator in the third line, the one who knows almost no Italian, wrote in di Napoli for at least four men today whose last names he couldn't spell. The kid can try to find one of them and latch on.”

  The German translator picked up his pen.

  “No,” I said. “I'll stay Napoli. Napoli, Dom.”

  “All right, then, kid. It's your life. You'll go it alone. If you act smart, you've got a chance. Others your age have done it.” He filled out my form.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Why are you writing without asking me anything?”

  “The whole thin
g's a lie anyway,” said the German translator. “But it's the only way you'll get into Manhattan.”

  “What's Manhattan?”

  “The main part of New York City. Where the big buildings are.”

  “I don't want to go to New York City,” I said. “I want to go to Napoli.”

  “No one's going to pay your fare back, boy,” Giosè said. “It's New York City or an orphanage—your choice.”

  Orphanages. We had them in Napoli; the nuns ran them. Children who had no one in the world lived there in misery. I saw myself in ragged clothing, covering my ears against Catholic preaching, alone forever. “No.”

  One of the nurses who had tested me earlier appeared, shaking her head and scolding the men. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away.

  Something tugged at the back of my waistband. I felt behind with my hand. Someone had tucked folded sheets of paper into my pants. I quickly jammed them in my pocket.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Needs

  The nurse took me to benches at long tables, where tired people sat. Many had chalk marks on their jackets. She tapped on shoulders, getting everyone to look at me. When no one claimed me, she gestured for me to sit and she marked with chalk on the back of my shirt. I could feel her write a giant O.

  Every so often, a nurse came up and led someone down the hall to the left. But mostly, we waited. A man pushed a metal cart between the tables and gave crackers to everyone and warm milk to the children. It tasted funny, but I drank it.

  Some of us were herded upstairs to dormitory rooms. Triple-decker beds pushed against each other in pairs. I was put in the room with the women and children. We were told to leave our things and come down in two hours to eat. In the meantimewe should line up for washing. Mothers stripped their children.

  I wasn't about to undress, so I had to find a way to avoid the washing. And I wanted to look at that paper in my pocket.

  I went to the bathroom, but women crowded around it. I headed for the stairs down to the bathroom I'd used during the day.

  An Italian woman stood in my path arguing with a woman in uniform. “I paid my passage.”

  “But you came alone,” said the official. “And no man is waiting for you.”

  “See these hands?” The Italian woman held up red hands. “I did laundry night and day to get here.”

  “Unescorted women are not allowed off Ellis Island. It doesn't matter how many people you argue with, that's the rule. We'll have to contact an immigrant aid society to come get you.”

  “No charity home. I take care of myself. I have money.”

  “Don't say it too loud,” said the official, “or you soon won't.” She fingered the keys that hung from her waist.

  “I paid my passage.”

  “The women's home is nice, I hear.” She jiggled her keys.

  “I hear it's a hellhole. I paid my passage.”

  I sidled past them and went downstairs. The bathroom was locked from the inside. I waited.

  An official appeared from around the corner. I looked at my feet and hardly breathed. He walked by.

  And still no one came out of the bathroom.

  Finally I knocked. “Excuse me?”

  The door opened a crack. An eye peeked at me. Then a hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me in, locking the door behind me.

  We were pressed against each other in the tiny stall. I looked up into a boy's face.

  “What are you doing making noise like that, trying to get me in trouble?” He was clearly from Napoli.

  “I just want to use the toilet,” I said.

  “No one's supposed to use this one after hours.” He frowned. “Go on.”

  I hunched over and did my business.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “And make sure no one sees you leave.”

  I reached for the doorknob.

  “Hold on.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Did you see if the stairs of separation were empty?”

  “Are you trying to sneak out?”

  His cheek twitched.

  “I want to sneak out, too,” I said.

  “You? What are you, nine? Ten? I'm fourteen. I can do a man's work. I can earn five dollars a week in a textile mill. Or even more. They won't let me work officially till I'm sixteen, but underage workers make it through all the time. I'm going to make it through.”

  “You'll look older with a little brother tagging along.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Get out of here.”

  I opened the door and peeked out.

  The boy shut the door, pulling me inside again. “You should have told me you're an orphan.”

  “Who says I'm an orphan?”

  “The O on the back of your shirt. Even if you do sneakthrough, whoever sees that O will turn you in and you'll be thrown into an orphanage. You won't get out till you're sixteen.”

  I took off my shirt, turned it inside out, and put it on.

  “That's too obvious. You need a new shirt. And pants, too. Yours are ripped. Tell you what. I know where you can get other clothes. But you have to promise to bring me back some, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why shouldn't you?”

  His forehead furrowed.

  “Look,” I said. “If I bring back clothes, you're better off. And if I don't, you're no worse off.”

  He swallowed. “You're too smart for your age.”

  “I'll bring back clothes,” I said. “I owe you for telling me what the O meant.” And then maybe you'll let me come with you, I thought. But I said, “That way we're even.”

  “Upstairs there's a room full of used clothes. Get me a coat. And pants and a shirt.”

  “I can't carry all that. Besides, it's hot out.”

  “Summer doesn't last forever, kid. It's not like Napoli. It snows here.”

  Snow? But what did it matter? I'd be home soon. “Where's the room?”

  “Somewhere upstairs. Search.” He opened the door a crack.

  I peeked, then raced up the stairs. I walked near the wall and glanced into open doors.

  I came to a closed door. Locked. But the next door opened to reveal piles of clothes. I shut the door behindme. From the window I saw people scurrying about. It would be easy to get lost in that crowd—and then I could figure out what to do next.

  Across the water tall buildings rose. A ship docked in the narrows. It looked small from here, a wolf in a canyon. Would I ever see the canyons near Napoli again? Would I ever see Mamma?

  Not if they threw me in an orphanage.

  I took the papers out of my pocket, finally. They were the documents the German translator had filled out. Somehow they would help me. I changed into a clean short-sleeved shirt and lightweight pants and tucked the papers in my new pocket. Then I grabbed a coat for the boy in the bathroom. I stuffed a shirt for him down one of the coat sleeves and a pair of pants down the other. I took the meat from my old shirt pocket and put it in the coat pocket. The boy could eat it later.

  I walked back along the balcony. A hand caught my shoulder, and a woman yanked on the coat. I pulled away and ran. When I snuck a glance back at her, she was watching me.

  The boy in the bathroom was waiting. He'd make a dash for it soon. Then I'd be alone again. And someone would write another O on my back. And I'd never make it onto a boat. Never get home to Mamma.

  I needed something to catch that woman's attention so I could get to the bathroom. Anything.

  I took the meat out of the coat pocket and tapped on the shoulder of a man. He looked at me. I pointed at the woman and handed him the meat. The man frowned. He stood up and walked toward her. I forced my way past therest of the men and ran down the stairs. I tapped on the bathroom door.

  The door opened. The boy snatched the coat and shut the door in my face.

  Panicked, I dashed down a hall and opened a door.

  Men stood with their shirts in their hands, waiting to be inspected. A young girl carried a coffee cup to a doctor. S
he left through a side door.

  A few of the other doctors had cups on the tables near them.

  I picked up two empty cups. One in each hand, I walked out the door the girl had used.

  I was in a kitchen.

  A woman tilted her head at me and said something.

  I forced a smile and put the cups on the counter. Then I walked through the kitchen and out another door and, sure enough, there were stairs. I went down and out onto the street.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Manhattan

  I broke out running. I wove in and out of the people, checking over my shoulder. No one had followed me.

  Ellis Island was easy to figure out. Ships docked on one side to drop off people. Smaller boats docked on the other to take them away. Immigrants stood in little groups and wrinkled their brows, carefully counting American money. Some were met by the joyous shouts of relatives. Others milled around in the early evening heat with paper pinned to their shirts. They looked hopefully at everyone who passed. A tall man went from person to person, reading their names off those papers. He gathered some together. One man said, “Ah, so you're my padrone.” After that, anytime I saw someone reading name tags, I hurried the other way.

  Women in white uniforms with red crosses on the sleeve gave out doughnuts and apples. They didn't offer me any, so I took two doughnuts off a pile. They weren't nearly so good as zeppole back home, but okay. People ate sandwiches the women had given them, but there weren't any left. When I finished the doughnuts, I took an apple. Other women not in uniform but all wearing the same little hats helped people find lost baggage or relatives. America was full of women who wanted to help strangers.

  Many spoke languages I understood more or less— Italian dialects, I heard a woman call them. I followed her around for a while, until I heard her explain she was sent by a society to help protect Italian immigrants. I would have asked her what we needed protection against, but I didn't want her to notice me.

  A man clutched a scrap of paper and showed it to another man in uniform, who pointed. “That's the boat to Mulberry Street.”

  Mulberry Street. Napoletani. Maybe Tonino, Mamma's friend. I'd try to get on a ship back to Napoli first, but if I needed help, I'd look for Tonino.