New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [300]
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 white who could speak Italian and tell people what they had to do. Soon Salvatore had several