New York

  And that was the point.

  Rose was always grateful to her father-in-law for the names he had chosen for his son. The fact that it had come about by chance, that for some reason Tom’s wife had taken a fancy to the name of Vernon and that Tom had disliked it and suggested the old family name of Vandyck instead, didn’t matter. What mattered was that Rose could, quite properly, call herself Mrs. William Vandyck Master—and in doing so, proclaim that her husband came not only from Anglo-Saxon Protestant money, but from Dutch ancestors who went all the way back to the days of Stuyvesant and before.

  The Masters were only modestly rich, but their money was old. As long as a family could afford to stay in society, that counted for something.

  So this was the delicate balance she needed to think about this afternoon. How close could she—should she—live to those ostentatious palaces which, secretly, her heart desired? Or how far should she maintain a staid and distant attitude? If she could play her cards right, she would achieve the perfect result: the new princes would invite her to their palaces, and wonder if she’d come.

  William had given her the pearl choker for their third wedding anniversary. It was just like the one that Alexandra, the Princess of Wales, always wore in the society photographs from London, and it meant more to Rose than any other piece of jewelry she possessed. She let her fingers play over it now, as in her mind she went up and down Fifth and Madison, street by street, thinking about who lived on each block and whether, should she find the perfect social territory, there might be a house, or a building lot for sale there.

  “There it is, Toto.” Anna was pointing. The bridge of the ship had obscured the great monument from view, but now the passengers were all pressing toward the port side to get a better look as it approached. “The Statue of Liberty.”

  There was hardly any need to move to the rail. The mighty statue towered over them. Its upraised arm, torch in hand, seemed to scrape the sky. Salvatore gazed up in silence. So this was America.

  Salvatore didn’t know much about America. He knew it was big, and that the people there spoke English, of which Uncle Luigi spoke a few words, and that when you worked, they gave you dollars to send home. He had never heard of the Anglo-Saxon Puritans or the Dutch settlers, or the God-fearing farmers of New England. His family had never spoken of the Boston Tea Party, or Ben Franklin, or even George Washington. Nor, gazing at the Statue of Liberty, could he have derived any clue as to the existence of such a Christian or democratic tradition.

  Yet instinctively, as the Mediterranean boy looked up, he understood what he saw.

  Power. The colossal, pale green, pagan god rose alone on its huge pedestal above the waters. Hundreds of feet up, under its mighty diadem, the blank, heroic face stared with Olympian indifference across the clear blue sky, while its upraised arm signaled: Victory. If the statue bade him any welcome at all, the little boy sensed, it was to an empire like that of his ancestors. Only one thing puzzled him.

  “Is it a man,” he whispered to Anna, “or a woman?”

  She also gazed, uncertain. The huge face seemed to belong to a male god, yet the massive drapery that fell over the statue’s body might have suggested a stately Roman matron. Anna tugged at Uncle Luigi’s arm, to ask him.

  “She is a woman,” said Uncle Luigi. “The French gave her to the Americans.”

  Had Uncle Luigi known it, he could have added that the sculptor came from Alsace, on the Franco-German border, had studied in Egypt as well, and that therefore it was not so surprising if this monument to Liberty, timeless as the pyramids, should also echo that modern version of the classical spirit, the French Second Empire—with a hint, perhaps, of German power as well.

  They sailed straight past Ellis Island. The first- and second-class passengers, the people with cabins, did not have to pass though that ordeal. They had already been given a brief and courteous inspection on board before the ship entered the harbor, and were free to disembark at their leisure.

  On the starboard side, the ship passed Governor’s Island, then the tip of Manhattan with its little fort and park. Beyond, in the East River, both the funnels of steamships and the huge masts of sailing ships graced the waters. On the port side, Salvatore saw the high cliffs of the Palisades up the Hudson. Then, moments later, the ship began to make its slow turn toward the Hoboken piers on the New Jersey side, where the German liners docked.

  Across the river, New York stretched for miles. Street after street of brick and brownstone houses; here and there, clumps of office buildings, several stories higher. Nearby, the dark spire of Trinity, Wall Street, and further off, the Gothic towers of the Brooklyn Bridge rose into the sky. Even more dramatically, nearly a dozen tall skyscrapers, each over three hundred feet high, soared into the heavens above them all. But while everyone gazed eagerly at the city, Salvatore started thinking of something else.

  It had been at the turn of the metal stairs going up to the deck. That’s where he’d heard his father say it. The other children didn’t hear, because they’d already turned the corner above.

  His parents had been arguing about Uncle Luigi just before. His father was complaining about something Uncle Luigi had done, and his mother was defending him, which wasn’t unusual. Salvatore hadn’t really been listening. But then his father had turned to his mother and announced: “You know what’s going to happen at Ellis Island? They are going to send your brother back.”

  “Do not say such a thing, Giovanni.” His mother had sounded shocked.

  “But it’s true—I know what happens, I spoke with a man who has been there. It’s not only your chest and eyes they inspect—they have special doctors there to spot the ones who are crazy. They chalk a cross on their chest and they make them sit on a bench, and then they talk to them. And in a minute …” he made a gesture—“it’s over. They can always tell. They are specialists, from the finest lunatic asylums in America. So they will understand at once that your brother is crazy, and they will send him back to Italy. Ecco. You will see.”

  “Do not say it, Giovanni. I will not listen,” his mother had cried.

  But Salvatore had listened. And when they got up on deck, he had tugged at his father’s sleeve and whispered: “Is it true, Papa, that they will send Uncle Luigi home because he is crazy?”

  His father had looked down, with a serious expression.

  “Shh,” his father had said, “it’s a secret. You mustn’t tell anybody. Promise me.”

  “I promise, Papa,” Salvatore had said. But it was a terrible secret to keep.

  It took an hour before they were let off the ship. His father, Giuseppe and Uncle Luigi each carried a heavy suitcase. Uncle Luigi’s case was made of rattan, and it looked as if it might burst open at any moment. There was also a wooden trunk which was taken across on a trolley. The steerage passengers were led straight along the wharf to where a barge was waiting. His father made them hurry, to be near the front. He had talked to men who’d come back to Italy from America, so he knew exactly how things were done.

  “They sometimes keep you waiting for a whole day on the barge, before they let you off at Ellis Island,” he’d been told. “So in this weather, it’s better to be inside than on deck.”

  Once they were all on board the barge, it only took a few minutes to get to the island. And though they had to wait a while, within another hour they had joined the slow line making its way toward the big doorway.

  The main facility on Ellis Island was a large, handsome red-brick building, with four stout towers at its corners, protecting the roofline of the huge central hall. The line of people moved slowly but steadily toward the entrance. When they got there, a man was shouting, and porters were taking people’s bags away. His mother didn’t want to give up her bag, because she was sure it would be stolen, but they made her all the same. Then they entered the vestibule, and he noticed that the floor was covered with small white tiles. There were military surgeons standing here in dark uniforms with high boots, and attendants in whi
te who could speak Italian and tell people what they had to do. Soon Salvatore had several labels pinned on him. He kept close to his mother and Anna.

  Then the men were told to go one way, and the women and children another. So his father and Giuseppe and Uncle Luigi had to leave them. That made Salvatore sad, because he knew his uncle wasn’t coming back, and he called out, “Good-bye, Uncle Luigi,” but his uncle didn’t seem to hear him.

  In front of him, a young doctor was checking everyone’s eyes. Salvatore saw him mark one child with the letter T. When he finally came to the Caruso family, he started with little Maria, probing her eye gently with his forefinger. Then he did the same to Salvatore. And Salvatore was relieved, because his father had told him that they might lift his eyelid with a little buttonhook and that it would hurt and that he must be brave. The doctor carefully inspected Paolo, Anna and his mother, and waved them on.

  There was a broad, square staircase next. His father had warned them all about this. “It is a trap,” he told them. “And you have to be very careful, because they are watching you. Whatever you do, don’t look tired or out of breath.”

  And sure enough, Salvatore saw that there were the men in uniform quietly watching them from the hallway below and from the stairway above. One of the men in uniform was standing at one corner of the stairs, saying a word to people as they passed.

  The family in front of them was large, and the doctors seemed to be taking a long time with them. While this was done, the line was held up, and Salvatore started to get quite bored. But at last the line began to move again. When Salvatore reached the man in uniform, he was asked his name, in Neapolitan so that he should understand, and Salvatore said it loudly, so that the man smiled. But when he asked Paolo his name, Paolo coughed before he gave it. The man didn’t say anything, but he made a mark in blue chalk on Paolo’s chest. And a few moments later one of the men took Paolo away. His mother became very agitated.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. “Where are you taking my son?”

  “To the doctor’s pen,” they told her, “but don’t worry.”

  Then one of the men told Salvatore to take a deep breath, and he puffed his chest out, and after a moment the man nodded and smiled. After that, another man inspected his scalp and his legs. It took a while until they had all been checked, but at last his mother was told they could all proceed.

  “I will wait here until you return my son,” she said. But they told her: “You have to wait for him in the Registry Room.” And there was nothing else she could do.

  They entered the Registry Room through a big double door. To Salvatore, it looked like a church—and indeed, the huge space, with its red-tiled floor, its side aisles, its soaring walls and high, barrel-vaulted ceiling, exactly copied the Roman basilica churches to be found all over Italy. About twenty feet above their heads, an iron balcony ran round the walls, and there were officials observing them from up there too. At the far end there was a row of fourteen desks, in front of which there were long lines of people snaking back and forth between dividing rails, but there was also quite a crowd of people waiting to join the lines.

  They looked around, but there was no sign of Paolo. Nobody said anything.

  Nearby they saw a man they had spoken to on the ship. He was a schoolmaster, a man of education. Seeing them, he smiled and came over, and Concetta told him what had happened to Paolo.

  “It’s just a cough that he has,” she said. “It’s nothing. Why have they taken him?”

  “Do not worry, Signora Caruso,” replied the schoolmaster. “They have a hospital here.”

  “A hospital?” His mother looked horrified. Like most of the women in their village, she believed that once you went into hospital, you never came out.

  “It’s different in America,” said the schoolmaster. “They cure people. They let you out after a week or two.”

  Concetta was still doubtful. She shook her head. “If Paolo is sent back,” she began, “he cannot go alone …”

  Salvatore was thinking that it wouldn’t be much fun in America without Paolo. “If Paolo has to go home, can I go with him?” he said.

  His mother let out a cry, and clasped her breast. “Now my youngest son wants to desert his family?” she screamed. “Has he no love for his own mother?”

  “No, no, signora.” The schoolmaster was soothing. “He is a little boy.”

  But his mother had turned her face away from Salvatore.

  “Look!” cried Anna.

  It was Paolo, with Giuseppe and their father.

  “We waited for him,” Giovanni Caruso explained to his wife.

  Paolo was looking pleased with himself. “I had three doctors,” he said proudly. “They made me breathe in, and cough, and they looked down my throat. And two of them listened to my chest and another to my back.”

  “You are safe, then?” cried his mother. “They have not taken you away?” She clasped him to her bosom, held him close, then released him and crossed herself. “Where is Luigi?” she asked.

  Giovanni Caruso shrugged. “I don’t know. He got separated from us.”

  Salvatore knew what had happened. The doctors from the madhouse were questioning Uncle Luigi. But he didn’t say anything.

  The family joined the line in front of the desks. It took a long time before they reached the head of the line, and there was still no sign of Uncle Luigi, but finally they were approaching the big desks where the officials were waiting, some seated, others standing close behind.

  “The men behind are the interpreters,” his father whispered. “They can speak all the languages of the world.”

  When they reached the desk, the man addressed Giovanni Caruso in Neapolitan, which anyone from the Mezzogiorno could understand.

  Checking their names against the manifest, he smiled. “Caruso. At least the ship’s purser could get your name right. Sometimes they mangle them terribly.” He grinned. “We have to follow what’s on the ship’s manifest, you know. Are you all here?”

  “Except my brother-in-law. I don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s not named Caruso?”

  “No.”

  “I’m only interested in Caruso.” The man asked a few questions, and seemed satisfied with the answers. Had they paid for their own passage? Yes. “And have you a job in America?”

  “No,” Salvatore heard his father answer firmly.

  Salvatore knew about this. Giovanni Caruso had warned his whole family. Although their Uncle Francesco had found work for him, none of them must say that he had a job, or the men at Ellis Island would send him back. There were two reasons for this strange rule, he explained. The first was that the United States wanted men who were anxious to take any job they could find. The second was to discourage an illicit trade. For there were padroni who promised jobs, paid people’s passage, and even traveled with the immigrants on the ship—though the padrone was in first or second class, of course. Foolish people trusted the padrone because he was a fellow Italian. He’d be waiting for them in the park near the docks, and take them to lodgings. And before long the new arrivals were in his power, trapped like slaves, and fleeced of all they had.

  Satisfied with his inquiries, the man at the desk was waving them through.

  “Welcome to America, Signor Caruso.” He smiled. “Good luck.”

  They passed through a turnstile, down a flight of stairs, and then into the baggage room. Here they were given a box lunch and a bag of fresh fruit. They found their suitcases and the big wooden trunk. Nothing had been stolen. Salvatore watched as his father and Giuseppe started to put the trunk and cases on a trolley. They were told that they could have them delivered free to any address in the city, but Concetta was so relieved that they hadn’t already been stolen that she wouldn’t let them out of her sight again.

  She was still looking about anxiously for Uncle Luigi, but since Salvatore knew he wouldn’t be coming, he didn’t bother.

  Then, suddenly, his mother started crying out.
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  “Luigi! Luigi! We’re here. Over here.” She was waving excitedly. And sure enough, at the far end of the room, Salvatore saw his uncle coming toward them. He was smiling.

  “Uncle Luigi!” Salvatore started running toward him. His uncle was carrying his suitcase. He scooped Salvatore up in his free arm and carried him back to his sister.

  “Where were you?” she asked. “We couldn’t see you.”

  Uncle Luigi put Salvatore down. “I came through before you. I’ve been waiting here ten minutes.”

  “Thanks be to God,” she cried.

  But Salvatore was even more excited. “They let you into America, Uncle Luigi. They let you in after all.”

  “Certainly they let me in. Why shouldn’t they let me in?”

  “Because you’re crazy. They send all the lunatics back.”

  “What’s this? You’re calling me a lunatic?” His uncle slapped Salvatore’s face. “Is this a way to talk to your uncle?” He turned to Concetta. “Is this how you bring your children up?”

  “Salvatore!” cried his mother. “What are you saying?”

  Hot tears came to Salvatore’s eyes. “It’s true. They put a cross on the lunatics, and the doctors from the madhouse question them, and send them home,” he protested.

  Uncle Luigi raised his hand again.

  “Enough,” said his mother, while Salvatore buried his face in her skirt. “Luigi, help Giovanni with the suitcases. As if we hadn’t enough troubles in the world. Poverino, he doesn’t know what he is saying.”

  Minutes later, when Salvatore was beside his father, he whimpered, “Uncle Luigi hit me.”

  But his father gave him no comfort.

  “It’s your own fault,” he said. “That will teach you to keep a secret.”

  1907

  It was just before noon on October 17 when the telephone rang. The butler answered. Then he came to inform Rose that her husband needed to speak to her.