Trembling from the chill, Maria moved closer to Alberto. He was all she had now until she reached Papa's arms. And wasn't America such a large, vast land? Her fears seemed to triple just thinking about it. Her gaze moved to the ship Dolphin, feeling a sadness, wondering if Michael had yet left its ugly, smelly decks. Her thoughts wandered further. Was he missing her? Had he possibly even been watching her as she had left the ship and had as quickly been herded onto this smaller boat? Did he even understand what she was going through at this time? Had he known that so much .was being asked of her and her brother now? He had warned her about some of it. But had he truly known to what extent she and Alberto would be treated so roughly?
Her eyes lowered. No. Michael wouldn't know. He was not an immigrant. He had never been an immigrant. All his knowledge of what went on at this point in her journey was only speculation, or from rumors that he most surely had heard. The thrill of what had so long been a dream of hers, to become an immigrant, was slowly turning into a nightmare.
Eyeing the island as it grew closer, Maria grew even more tense. It appeared to be a prison. Not a place she wanted to be taken to, even if it did mean that in the end she would indeed be an American. There was something about the buildings on this colorless island that gave her a sense of dread. Was it because she saw no one around it? Were the immigrants herded into these buildings like animals, just as they had been while being ordered onto this smaller boat?
Then her gaze moved upward. Against the gray horizon, many seagulls were circling overhead, crying eerily as their large, white wings spread, soaring, dipping, moving closer to the boat. Maria loved birds, but these with their dark, imploring eyes made her even more afraid. It was as though they were studying her. She had to wonder how many immigrants these birds had seen pass through these waters? Oh, if only they could talk. What a tale they could probably weave.
“Alberto, I only wish this was over. I wish we were on the train, on our way to Papa's,” she whispered.
“I know. Me also,” Alberto said, shifting the heavy trunk atop his shoulder, feeling a slow aching beginning in his body. His eyes darted around him, seeing sadness on the faces of all who surrounded him. He knew that most were weary from the trip. He knew that most were losing hope for the future now. The cheers from the ship Dolphin had faded away to a silent, gloomy nothingness. It hadn't been at all as any of them had expected.
“Maybe it will go quickly,” Maria sighed, seeing the boat now being secured at the pier. Once again she found herself being shoved along with the rest of the immigrants, now onto the wetness of gray rocks, so slippery she almost plunged into the water.
“Here. Take my hand and hold on to it. Don't let go,” Alberto ordered, reaching for her.
“All right, Alberto,” Maria murmured, moving onward, watching all around her, seeing how quickly they all had been ordered into one of these buildings that she had been studying from afar. Once inside, she looked quickly around her. She was now standing in a huge room that held many stalls, and in these stalls there were lines and lines of other immigrants, most looking bone-weary, waiting and watching around them.
The same dark-clothed, moustached man shoved Alberto, then Maria into one of these stalls, along with the others. “You just stand there and wait your turns,” he said, pushing and probing even more into the small space that smelled of perspiration and dried urine.
Maria eyed Alberto questioningly, seeing the confusion in the dark of his eyes. She knew what he had to be feeling. That they were like cattle . . . being herded. How many more times would this happen to them before coming face to face with becoming an American?
Then Maria's eyes moved on around her. A huge American flag graced the far end of the room, making goose bumps rise on her flesh. She had always dreamed of the day that she would see this symbol of freedom. She had read that the Stars and Stripes had been always the most popular name for the red, white, and blue national flag of the United States, standing for the land, the people, the government and the ideals of the United States, no matter when or where it was displayed. Surely in this place, its presence meant that freedom was only footsteps away, Maria thought to herself.
Looking further around her, she saw many uniformed policemen standing with arms crossed, watching. This further increased her feelings of having just stepped inside a prison. She glanced quickly in another direction, frowning. The room was filled with total confusion and noise, even scenes of near chaos. Maria shuddered when she listened to the mothers shrieking at their children; then at the many tormented cries from the children; and at the coughs and ramblings that rose from the cubicles. Maria soon discovered that Italians weren't the only ones who were a part of this horrid transformation into Americans. There were many nationalities. She could tell by the many languages being spoken.
From what she could tell, most immigrants’ possessions were few. What she did see were mainly battered wicker trunks and bedding rolled into tight balls, being held tightly in the arms of many, as though to lose these was to lose one's soul.
Maria ached inside. But she had only to think of the future. Once this ordeal was over, she and Alberto would be on their way. And wouldn't they be seeing Papa in only a matter of days now? Oh, how anxious she was. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts dwell on this, on their reunion, on how she would make her Papa's house a showpiece. She would plant flowers in flower boxes, she would place beautiful lace doilies on all his furniture. . .. Her eyes were jolted open when a loud voice boomed from beside her. It spoke fluently in the Italian tongue.
“It will be a while now. Please just be patient,” this man said. “Your turns will arrive.” He moved closer to the group, looking from person to person. “I am the immigration officer officially working with you Italians,” he added. “I would like to ask that when it comes your turn, please answer the questions asked of you as quickly and accurately as possible.”
“Turn? What does he mean?” Alberto said. “What the hell are we going to have to do now to be able to move on to Papa's home?”
“Patience. That's what you have to have now, Alberto,” Maria whispered. She was just beginning to feel tired, even sleepy. It had been a long, exciting day. She looked for a place to sit, but there wasn't even enough room to do this. All were squeezed together, even mingling breaths. She closed her eyes and leaned against Alberto, feeling a wetness surfacing around her eyes. If only they would hurry, she thought to herself. “Please, God, let them hurry.”
But hours upon hours passed. It seemed that no one was going to be admitted into the land of America. And then suddenly, the immigration officer began taking them one by one to a table and chair, inviting them to sit. Maria listened carefully, hoping to hear the questions, but couldn't, so she just waited her turn. When she was guided to the chair, she was all ears and eyes, knowing that it was coming to an end. Hopefully coming to an end. Surely she and Alberto would be allowed to move on as soon as they had completed this questioning.
She settled down onto the chair, relishing its comfort, even though it was only hard wood pushing against her sore, aching bones. She placed her violin case on her lap and leaned her elbows against it, resting her head in her hands.
“And what is your name?” the immigration officer asked, eyeing her closely with steel-gray eyes and pointed nose.
Maria gulped back fear. His eyes told her that he possibly knew the truth of her gender. She glanced quickly at Alberto, then back at the immigration officer. She had still wanted to remain as a boy until she was safely at her Papa's house. She flinched when the immigration officer reached upward and jerked the hat from her head.
He laughed hoarsely, flinging the hat onto the table. “Well? Lad?” he mocked. “Thought I had me a beauty here. No male could have such a beautiful face. Now tell me. What's your name so we can get along with this thing.”
Maria's gaze lowered. She swallowed hard, then spoke. “Maria. Maria Lazzaro,” she said in perfect Italian, since that had been the way in whi
ch she had been addressed.
“Birthplace?”
“Outside of Pordenone. In my Gran-mama's house.”
The officer laughed hoarsely. “Yeah. I bet,” he chuckled further, tapping the eraser of his pencil on his chin, studying her lower than her face, tilting a brow when he could see the largeness of her bosom, though covered by a dark, thick jacket. “And your destination?” he blurted.
Maria's gaze moved quickly to Alberto once again, having forgotten the name. “Alberto? What is the name of the town … ?” she asked, feeling desperation rising inside herself.
Alberto stepped to her side. “This is my sister Maria. I am Alberto Lazzaro,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “We are on our way to Hawkinsville, Illinois. Our Papa awaits us there with lodging.”
“Okay. Good enough,” the man said, recording this information in a large journal. “And, Maria, how much is six times six?” he asked, smiling crookedly.
Her eyes widened. Such a question, she thought, remembering Alberto and how good he was with numbers. But herself? She didn't know how to answer so quickly. She began working with her fingers, counting them to herself, then bolted out an answer. “Thirty-six,” she said, sighing, feeling her face flushing, knowing that this man had to think her quite dumb to have hesitated so long with the answer.
“Have you ever been in jail, Maria?” was the next question addressed to her by this man, who continued to study her closely, lowering his eyes usually to where she continued to breathe heavily from nervous tension.
Maria's jaw set firmly and her shoulders squared. “Do I look like a person who would have been in jail, sir?” she snapped, her eyes flashing.
“I just ask the questions that are assigned, miss,” he said, furrowing a brow. He then added, “And do you have any weapons on your person?” He again the same as raped her with his eyes.
She grabbed at her throat, remembering the gun. But she also remembered that no man would get near her to remove her clothes .while Alberto was around. She knew that he would kill the person first. “No. No weapon,” she said quietly. “Do I look the sort who would carry a weapon, sir?” she said, fluttering her lashes nervously toward him.
The man's eyes wavered and a slow flush rose upward from his neck. “No. Guess not,” he mumbled. He entered some more into his journal, then asked, “Is there anyone in your family who is insane? Mentally disturbed?”
“No. No one,” Maria murmured, glancing quickly at Alberto, reminded to still be a bit worried about his state of mind.
“Anyone afflicted with contagious ailments?”
“No. No one.”
The questions seemed to go on forever, then Maria was directed to another table, where a lady attired in white stood waiting. “Here, miss,” die lady said, taking Maria by the arm. “You must remove your jacket and roll up your shirt sleeve of your left arm.”
“Why . . . ?” Maria gasped, seeing the lady holding onto a long-needled instrument.
“You are in need of an inoculation. All whom enter into America must be inoculated.”
“And . . . why . . . ?”
“It's to prevent one from acquiring the dreaded disease called smallpox. Now please, do as I say. Roll up your sleeve as soon as you get your jacket removed.”
Maria searched m desperation around her for Alberto, but saw that he was now seated, answering the long line of questions, the same as she had just done.
“Please, miss,” the lady insisted, moving even closer to Maria.
Maria sighed, hating it when she felt the trembling beginning in her fingers. She had wanted to be brave enough to get through this whole ordeal without showing her fears. She wanted to show that she had strength. That all Italians were strong and could withstand anything. But she was afraid. Oh, so afraid of that needle that was waiting to be plunged into her flesh.
She placed her violin case on the floor before her and slowly pulled her jacket off, holding it in front of the gun's bulge beneath her shirt, then rolled up her shirt sleeve. She held her arm out, turning her face in another direction, closing her eyes. When the sharp point made its intrusion into her arm, and then over and over again, like several pinpricks being made over a small, circled area of her arm, she felt as though she might faint. She teetered for a moment, then ordered herself to stand upright. No Italian would faint just from pinpricks into the arm. No. She just couldn't.
“Okay. That's it, miss,” the lady said. “Move on so the next person can step forward.”
Maria's eyes widened. The whole area throbbed as though the lady was continuing her assault. She turned her eyes back around and looked at her arm, seeing a circle of redness where the needle had been inserted. “You are finished?” she whispered.
“Yes. Now please move along.”
“Yes, ma'am,” she said, pulling her jacket quickly on. Having been vaccinated in the left arm, she lifted her violin case with the right hand and inched her way through the crowd, all the while keeping an eye on Alberto. If she were to lose him, she would more than likely never see him again. She had never seen so many people at one time. They were swarming around her like bees.
She waited, anxious, until Alberto moved to her side, with the trunk lifted onto his right shoulder, mumbling some soft obscenities.
“Alberto?” Maria asked, going to him. “Are you all right?” His face had paled and the lids over his eyes had grown heavy.
“Such a crude way to welcome us into America,” he continued to grumble, wincing when Maria touched him on the left arm, close to where his own vaccination now throbbed and ached.
“Are we now free to move onward? Is our Americanization over with?” she asked anxiously.
“I was told that a ferry awaited us. Out on the far end of the island. It will take us once again to the piers on lower Manhattan's shores.”
“And from there? What then, Alberto?”
“I have already been directed to where we can catch the train called the ‘National Limited’ that will carry us to Papa's town,” he said, beginning to move forward, anxious to be away from the drudgery of this large room, where children shrieked and women babbled so with one another.
Maria panted by his side, trying to keep up with the pace of his long legs. She knew that she was almost as tall, but her energies had almost been drained from inside her. As a man brushed against her left arm, she recoiled in pain. “My arm . . . it aches so, Alberto,” she whined. “It feels so heavy. As though it might even drop off. Does yours feel the same?”
“Mine? It feels as though a knot has formed beneath the pit of my arm,” he grumbled, inhaling deeply the freshness of the air as he finally reached the outdoors. “But that doesn't matter, Maria,” he quickly added. “Let's get away from this place. Come. Hurry along now. We must reach the ferry before it leaves us behind. I wouldn't want to spend a night on this wretched island. I imagine the rats swarm thicker than even the people once nightfall comes in its total black-ness.”
Maria stepped gingerly along the wetness of the rocks beneath her feet, remembering having almost fallen earlier. Then when they reached the ferry, she followed alongside Alberto as he stepped high and climbed aboard. As was the boat that had carried them to this island, this ferry was crowded with immigrants who were as newly Americanized as Alberto and Maria.
Maria smiled to all who squeezed in around her, glad finally to see hope flashing in their eyes once again. Their ordeal of Ellis Island was being left behind them, and only a bright future lay ahead of them.
Shivers of delight rippled along Maria's flesh, now being able to see and enjoy the tall buildings of New York without having to fear anything. Her neck craned, trying to see to the tops of the ones closest. She so longed to go inside on'e of these, but she was too anxious to get to her Papa. Maybe one day, later on in her life, she could return and fully explore the expanses of New York and its people's ways of living.
“Now stay close beside me, Maria,” Alberto urged as the ferry moved next to a pier and was secur
ed by a rope. “New York is almost another country in itself, it seems. It must be even as large as Italy. Now don't take your eyes off me for one second. Do you understand?”
Maria swallowed hard. “Yes. I understand,” she said. She pushed and shoved her way along, next to Alberto, until they were finally walking along a cobblestone street that lined the waters of the harbor. Maria's heart swelled inside her, wanting to laugh and shout that she had made it. She was in America . . . and had just become an American. “Do you have my papers, Alberto?” she asked anxiously, not wanting to lose the only thing that proved that she had indeed gone through the complete steps of Americanization that were required to be able to stay in America.
“Yes. I have yours with mine. In my inside jacket pocket. Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to those. They could mean the difference between life or death for the both of us. I'm sure of it.”
Maria sniffed, glad to be leaving behind the strong aroma of dead fish and horse manure. She stepped high onto a curbing and then saw that they had reached an area that was mostly horses and carriages and Fine ladies and gentlemen entering and leaving the harbor area. She looked behind her. Not only had they left the unpleasant smells behind, but also the long line of ships and the hectic atmosphere of the waterfront, and had entered an area of business establishments. Small shops lined each side of the street, enticing her to stop and stare. But Alberto just kept trudging along, head held high, ignoring the better class of people that were milling along the streets.
Maria got a glimpse of herself in a large plate glass window of a store and soon felt her face reddening. She had never seen such a sight before as herself and her brother who walked beside her. Their outfits looked even more pitiful than when she had at first hated having to wear them. They now were wrinkled, filth-laden, and her hat had been crunched, leaving the bill of it to hang limply over her forehead.
Rapture's Rendezvous Page 11
