The King of Mulberry Street (5 page)

For two days I searched the whole boat for her, over and over. When I didn't find her and Franco wouldn't answer my questions, I imagined he had her in a cage off the boiler rooms. So I told Carlo. If anyone could stand up to Franco, it was Carlo. He helped me search. Everywhere.

She wasn't here.

I was alone on this ship. I hugged myself hard and pressed my back into the wall and listened to the buzz in my head. I was dizzy the rest of that day. Dizzy and nauseated.

Franco had left Mamma in Napoli. That coward. I hated him. Poor Mamma. My poor, poor mamma, frantic with worry for me.

But I had a plan. When we got to America, I wouldn't get off the cargo ship. I'd turn right around and go back to Mamma. In my prayers, I asked the Most Powerful One to tell her that, so she wouldn't cry too much. In the meantime, my job was to fit in. The first time I went into the galley and asked what I could do to help, Riccardo ignored me. So I watched. Then I shelled peas. When he saw how quick I was, he gave me all sorts of tasks.

There were tons of jobs on this ship. I looked around and did whatever needed doing. I was living Uncle Aurelio's lecture—I'd been smacked with adversity, and I'd picked myself up like any good Jew.

I swept out the poultry coops on the top deck and gathered eggs. I got my share of pecks on my hands and arms and even on the back of my neck. Fabrizio taught me how to milk the cows. And I cleaned the cabins, the galley, the bakery, the wheels and pipes and tools and water-distilling machine. I loved cleaning that machine, with the shiny compasses, wheels, and complicated gauges in the helm. I washed dishes, swept rat droppings, scrubbed the toilets. I brought the coal trimmers water while they shoveled, and raced up the ladders to the top deck to dip the rags for wiping their foreheads into the bucket of cold seawater.

The crew came to count on me. It was part of my plan. If they needed me, they'd take me back with them gladly. I couldn't tell them my plan, because stowaways were illegal. But when they discovered me on the ship on the way back, they'd be glad.

Eduardo said I reminded him of his son. He woke me in the morning and asked if I needed anything at night. And Carlo liked me, too. He made sure I got my fair share of food.

Each afternoon, when most of the crew took a nap, I sat in a corner far from everyone and practiced my private ritual. I untied the string around the tiny bundle Mamma had tucked in my right shoe and unfolded the cloth. Inside were four tassels, each made of eight strands of yarn, seven white and one blue, tied into many knots. The first time I opened the bundle, I recognized them instantly. They were holy tassels—
tzitzit
—from my grandfather's prayer shawl. I held them and let memories wash me clean.

My grandfather Nonno had had a beautiful prayer shawl—a
tallit
. My uncles had beautiful ones, too. But theirs were combinations of blues and greens and yellows. Nonno's was a mix of extravagantly bright swatches of red silk fabrics stitched together with fine embroidery. And it was so long that even with his arms hanging by his sides, it draped down a full hand's length past his fingertips.

From the four corners of that shawl hung these tassels. In synagogue, I used to stand beside Nonno and hold a tassel and count the knots. When we got home and he took it off, he let me help him fold it. I smoothed the tassels and wondered what secret message the Hebrew letters across the top of the
tallit
held.

Nonno died when I was five. We buried him in his
tal-lit
. But Nonna saved the tassels. When I turned thirteen, I'd get my own prayer shawl at my Bar Mitzvah, with these tassels at the corners.

Mamma had put them in my shoe for safekeeping.

I fingered the knots. Then I rubbed my shoes with that small piece of cloth. Not because they were dirty. No, no. They were perfectly clean. I didn't wear them; they were too slippery to walk around the ship in. And it would have been impossible to keep them dry. So I stored them in a bale of hay. I rubbed them every day—at first to make them soft again, because they'd dried hard after Franco had thrown the water on me, but later just as part of my ritual.

While I worked, I thought of Mamma. Mamma, who had wanted a better life—the life of people who wore shoes even when they were children. We'd have been together on the trip to that better life in America if it wasn't for Franco.

When I got back home, I'd go to school. Then in a few years I'd have my Bar Mitzvah and Nonna could attach these tassels to my prayer shawl and I'd get a good job. The first thing I'd do with my money was buy us ship tickets. We would live Mamma's dream, that better life.

In the meantime, being on this boat wasn't so bad. Sometimes I'd stand at the rail, holding tight, and look out at sea, pretending to be a pirate scouting for ships to raid. There were lots of dolphins, and Riccardo taught me how to spot whales. Sometimes, when we threw garbage over the side, sharks came close enough to the surface to give me goose bumps.

I finished cleaning the squid now and carried the bowls to the galley. Even when the sea was rough, I kept my footing. All it had taken was one storm to teach me perfect balance.

The crew usually ate out on the poop deck, where I'd
had my first meal with them. This was the best part of the day; the men talked till the stars came out. I headed there now. The men were already sitting around.

“Maybe I'll stay this time,” said Franco. “Maybe I'll join the line on Ellis Island and make my fortune in New York.”

“You can have it,” said Ivo. “They speak too much gobbledy-gook there. English, bah.”

“English?” said Franco. “They don't speak English in America. They speak English in England.”

“Shows how much you know. In New York they speak English and German.”

“And Irish,” said Carlo.

“What are you all, idiots?” said Ivo. “Most Irish people speak English. Just in a funny way. Like the people from Avellino speak Napoletano funny. Nah,” he said. “You can have New York. You go ahead, sound like a dumb immigrant your whole life, with everyone laughing at you. I've heard the ship officers talk about it. People even laugh at them when they go into town. For me, if I was going to jump ship, why, I'd go to South America any day. They speak Spanish there. It's like Napoletano, I hear. It's easy.”

“Or Africa,” said Salvatore. “In Tripoli, they respect Italians so much, they learn Italian rather than making the Italians learn African. That's where I'd go.”

All this talk of different languages was news to me. I'd thought everyone everywhere spoke pretty much the same, except that Jews spoke Hebrew in synagogue, Catholics spoke Latin in church, and Muslims spoke Arabic in the mosque. Maybe when I got rich, I'd take Mamma to
South America instead of New York. If English sounded awful, who needed it?

That night as I lay in my usual spot on the floor under Eduardo's bunk, he leaned over. “Hey, Dom? You awake?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Tomorrow, when we land …”

“We land tomorrow? Already?”

“Already? We're ten days overdue because of those storms. Anyway, when we land, you have to stay out of sight in the bunk room till I tell you. I'll find a way for you to sneak off. But you have to be quick about it. The captain said we're leaving the same day we arrive because we're so far behind schedule. So you have to do what I say when I say it. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have people waiting for you in New York?”

“No.”

“That's what I was afraid of.” He gave a brief whistle. “There are plenty of kids on their own in America, but it's hard. Harder than in Napoli. Head for Mulberry Street.”

“Why?”

“That's where Napoletani live. You'll understand them, know what's going on. I have a cousin there, but he's a son of a gun. Otherwise I'd tell you to look him up.”

“Okay,” I said, “Mulberry Street.” What did it matter? I wasn't going anywhere but home to
bella
Napoli.

“Stay how you are, Dom, exactly how you are—make yourself useful. You know how to do it. But don't trust anyone.”

“Except Napoletani,” I said, “Napoletani on Mulberry Street.”

“Especially don't trust them. Napoletani cheat everyone. Remember that.”

“But you don't have to cheat in America,” I said. “Everyone's rich.”

“What a sack of lies. My cousin, jerk that he is, told me the truth. It's tough all over, especially at the bottom, where you'll be. Take care of yourself, Dom, because no one else will.”

I didn't answer.

“
In bocca al lupo
,” he said—In the mouth of the wolf. It was a roundabout way of wishing me luck without challenging fate.

“
Crepi
,” I answered—May it burst and die—the standard response.

“And don't forget your shoes,” said Eduardo. He pulled his head back up.

Snores came from many bunks.

I rolled on my side. We would be in America the next day.

A match struck, and the little flame lit the cigarette between Franco's lips. His face appeared old, all the crags deep in shadow. Smoking wasn't allowed anywhere except on the open deck. But there was no one awake to notice. No one but me.

“Go put your shoes on,” said Franco.

“What?”

“Eduardo's right. You're sleeping with them on tonight. So you'll be ready in the morning.”

I put on my shoes, careful to place the cloth with the tassels under my right arch, and crawled back beneath Eduardo's bunk.

Eventually, Franco's cigarette went out. Then the smell
of the smoke faded. There was nothing but the quiet noises of sleepers and the background rumble of the boiler and engines.

I stared into the dark.

The funnel horn woke me. I was groggy from too little sleep, but I jumped up. I raced to the open deck to find everyone else working even though it was barely morning. We were pulling into a gigantic harbor. People and horses and wagons jammed the shore. Another cargo ship unloaded sheep in clumps of three, lifting them with pulleys from the deck, swinging them over the railing, and plopping them onto the dock. Bells clanged, horns blew, the air shook with bleats and shouts.

Someone smacked the back of my head.

“Get to the bunk room till it's time,” said Eduardo. “You'll only make trouble for everyone if they see you now.”

So I ran, but not to the bunks. I hid in the dairy cow house. I strained to see between the slats, but I couldn't make out much. The noise went on for hours.

I had slept through breakfast, so I patted my favorite cow and squirted hot milk into my mouth.

The heat of the cows and the milk in my belly and the roar of the world outside … I'd gone to bed so late … I dozed off.

When I woke, I peeked between the slats. The men were already loading things for the return trip. Lined up nearby were crates marked with the post office symbol. I'd always wanted to get a letter—and to write one. I knew exactly
what went into a letter, because I listened when Uncle Vittorio read the mail for women in our neighborhood. Many of the men didn't read, either. Mamma could have read for them, but no one asked her to. The women said Mamma was uppity to know how to read like that.

Mamma Mamma Mamma. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyelids to stop the tears. This was a trick the journey had taught me. Sometimes I sat for hours with the heels of my hands against my eyelids.

Then the horn blared and the plank was drawn up and the ship pulled away from the dock. I was going home. I whooped for joy.

The door of the cow house opened. “It's you!” Franco's shocked face was in mine. “You idiot! We're leaving already.”

“I'm going back to Napoli.”

“A promise is a promise.” Franco dragged me out. “You said you knew how to swim. So swim.” And he threw me overboard.

The water was farther down than I'd thought. Far enough for me to scream, far enough for me to think I was dead. I hit it with a smack and went under so deep, I couldn't see anything.

I put my hands over my head and swam upward as fast as I could. My hands split the water and slammed down to push me up, up. I gasped to fill my burning lungs.

The swirl of water from the screw-propeller engine of my own ship pulled me under. I swam away with all my might, broke the surface, gasped, got sucked under all over again.

But then my ship was gone, and I was alone in the water. With another ship coming in to harbor.

I swam for the dock and latched on to a piling
pole. Barnacles cut my hands and arms. I shouted. I imagined the huge ship crushing me against the pole as I screamed for help.

The ship made the water rise and fall and swirl. It splashed over my head and pulled me. If I let go and swam under the dock, I might get sucked down again and not have the strength to swim up this time. So I held on with my whole body, despite the barnacles, curling myself as tight as I could, praying that none of me stuck out past the dock's edge.

The bang of the ship against the dock sent a shudder through my pole, but the ship didn't touch me.

I was cold. Bleeding. Exhausted.

And alive.

Shouts of joy came from the ship as people walked down the plank.

I called out. The people were looking around in wonder at the new world in front of them; surely someone would glance down between the ship and the dock. Just one person, that was all I needed. That man in the suit, or that woman in the fancy dress. I kept calling. My throat grew hoarse. But who could hear me?

Soon the passengers were gone and the crew unloaded luggage. No one was looking around in wonder anymore.

I cried out again. My neck hurt from straining. I let my head fall.

After a long while, a holler came from above. I looked up. A man on the dock jabbered at me frantically.

“Help,” I tried to shout, but it came out as a croak.

“Italian?” he screeched.

A man with a large mustache appeared and looked down at me. “What are you doing there?” His words sounded strange—but I understood.

“I fell.”

“Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Swim under the dock. I'll throw you a rope on the other side.” He disappeared.