New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [301]
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