cattle drive. He saw the cart stop. The girl stood up and looked back in the direction of the noise—she was terrified. He ran, ran, as fast as he could toward her, grabbed the reins from her paralyzed hands and pulled the donkey and cart off the street into a nearby alley just as the cattle thundered through.
He lifted the still-frightened girl out of the cart and then held her for just a moment. He felt strange, like nothing he had ever felt before. Then, as she hugged and kissed him, the strangeness got stronger. She returned to the cart, her face red like the tomatoes in his grandfather’s garden.
He felt the burning in his own face and began moving toward her when he heard the clapping of hands and turned to see a watching crowd. Suddenly he was surrounded by his friends who were laughing and dancing, holding fingers to their heads to imitate the horns of a bull.
“Moo! Moo! Moo! Antonio has the horn!”
A few motioned crudely grabbing their crotches.
He realized it was true, and he ran off embarrassed to the shelter of his home.
“Antonio, the other boys are joining the army. Have you done so yet?”
“No, Papa, not yet. I thought you and Grandpapa needed me here.”
His father scowled and walked away.
Pasquale emerged from the shadows of the stonecutting room.
“Tonio, I see you with the carpenter’s daughter. You love her.”
He was embarrassed that it had become so obvious to everyone, but he nodded.
“Listen carefully to me, my son. Yes, I call you my son, because you are more like me than your father ever was. You are a thinker. I will not let you become cannon fodder. Here, boy.”
The old man held out a small leather pouch.
“This is for you and your Anna. Take it. It will be enough for you both. Go to Naples, get passage to America. You must leave before the guns start sounding. War is not glory. Many of my friends lie in the ground because of it. Now go, pack your clothes and say good-bye to your mama. She will understand. Do not be upset by your father.”
Antonio took the pouch and could feel the weight of the coins. He hugged the old man and thanked him, knowing they soon would never see each other again. As he left the room, he saw his father standing there, his face darkened with rage.
“Papa, I …”
His father turned his back, and the words echoed off the stucco walls.
“Non ho figlio!”
“Mama, I’m leaving for America with Anna. When we get enough money together, we’ll send for you and Papa and Grandpapa. It’s going to be all right.”
Maria looked at her son. She pulled his head to her chest and rocked him as she had done when he was a baby. She was stricken with grief, but she knew Pasquale was right; her son had to leave in order to live. She turned and took down the small silver crucifix from the mantle and put it in her son’s hands.
“It is all I can give you.”
“Come, Anna, we’ll miss the boat!”
They moved quickly through the crowds at the Naples dock. The great steamship towered over everything as they clutched the two small bags and moved up the gangplank. The steward looked at the young couple, sneered, then pointed toward the steerage section, the cheapest, darkest level of the ship. Crowded and dank, the smell of fear and hope mixed there with incipient seasickness. But it was worth it. They were going to America.
Fourteen days later, they saw the great copper statue rising above the entrance to New York Harbor. It had been a rough voyage until they finally were allowed to stand on deck.
“No deck chairs for this refuse!” the steward had laughed to his co-workers.
Disembarkation was worse. After the rich passengers streamed leisurely down the gangplanks to the waiting arms of family and friends, the steerage masses were herded off and loaded onto a crowded barge for transport across the harbor to a large carved-stone and red-brick building. At the entrance, the men were separated from the women and children, and all were grouped into long lines.
Government doctors quickly screened the new arrivals for diseases, passing along those deemed healthy or shaking their heads in rejection when they detected tuberculosis or a severe defect. They sent those not accepted to special holding areas, more like cages, condemned to a return voyage to whatever land they had left.
Then the final line, the ultimate evaluation for the “Non-English.”
“Hey, Mike, what do I do with these two dagos?”
The older man turned and saw the two standing there: short, rough-clothed, worn high-top leather shoes, tired.
Children! God help them, just kids.
“Send them over, Tim.”
He knew that his partner was always a little too eager to stamp the fatal word UNSUITABLE across the papers of the incoming, but there was something in this couple’s eyes, a spirit he rarely saw among the tired line of people.
He looked at the boy. Strong, determined, fix-jawed. This one could succeed. The girl holding onto the boy—there was hidden strength there, too.
“What are your names? Do you understand me?”
He hoped they did. It would make his decision much easier, and then he smiled inside as he heard the strongly accented English.
“My name Antonio Gallini.”
The man turned to Anna, but Antonio spoke up before he could question her.
“My wife, Anna Abrescia Gallini.”
It was a small lie.
The inspector looked at them.
Married? Right—and I’m Charlie Chaplin.
“Okay, son, here’s a list of what you need to do. Keep it with you. You look strong. I know a place that needs strong men. What do you do?”
“I am stonemason,” Antonio stammered.
He handed the boy a piece of paper.
“Take this card. There’s a metal foundry just outside the city. They can use you.”
He didn’t tell the kid he would receive a commission for sending him, but it was a damn sight better than what his partner would have done.
He offered another card—another commission.
“Here’s a cheap place to stay until you get set up. Now give me your papers.”
The inspector took them, examined them, and then pulled a fountain pen out of his breast pocket and made a change in the names.
“I’m doing you a favor, kid. In America, your name is your ticket. It’s now Galen.”
He took a big rubber stamp and marked the papers: ENTRY ALLOWED.
A few minutes later, they walked out of the teeming building and onto the ferry taking them to the place where they would begin their new life.
Dearest Mama,
Anna and I have settled in a place called Newark. It is not far from the great city of New York. I work at the iron foundry. Anna and I are still living in the boardinghouse that a nice officer told us about. As soon as we put enough money aside, we will move to a boardinghouse near work.
Tell Papa that I love him and meant him no disrespect, but Grandpapa is right. The old country is not for us anymore. How is Grandpapa?
Please tell Father Infante that his English lessons have served us well. Anna and I are studying for our citizenship and we both read the questions and recite the answers in English.
I will write again soon.
Your