Chapter 3 ~ Port of New York, 1920s

Francesco Moretti holds on tightly to his young bride Teresa.

"Leave me here to die," she pleads meekly, all her strength seemingly leaving her body in pools of revolting vomit.

"Never, I will never leave you. Grab onto my arm, I'll get you to the deck; the fresh air will help."

Francesco can barely stand himself, weak from malnutrition and lack of sleep. He places Teresa's left arm around his neck and painstakingly drags her. A fellow passenger takes pity and flanks Teresa to the right, placing her limp arm around his neck. Francesco acknowledges the help with a faint nod. They make their way to the limited open deck space reserved for steerage passengers and gently lay Teresa on blankets. Francesco leans by her side, brushing away the sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. Without taking his eyes off his wife, he thanks the charitable stranger who lent him a hand.

"Grazie, grazie mille… my wife is so sick…"

"Naturalmente… my name is Gianni, I'll help you any way I can; we Italians need to stick together."

Unlike the Morettis, Gianni is spry and alert. He scans the upper deck and realizes that Teresa is drawing the unwelcome attention of the crew. They point at her and deliberate agitatedly, apparently to elect an emissary that will reluctantly handle the hindrance of the sick steerage passenger.

Gianni crouches down and whispers in Francesco's ear.

"Signore, you can't stay here with your lady. The first-class passengers above, they can see you. If they think that she's contagious, well…"

"What do you want me to do?" wails Francesco.

"Signore, please," Gianni implores as the commotion above surges, "you and the lady have to go. I'll stay and stall the crew; you go back down below and hide. You can trust me; I'll make sure they don't get to your lady."

With no other option, Francesco reluctantly complies. He musters every last bit of strength to laboriously lift Teresa into his arms. Shoving his way counter-current against the flow of passengers in search of fresh air, he makes his way down below. Ironically, hiding is rather easy in steerage where passengers are packed as tightly as space would allow, sharing their limited living space with livestock.

The appointed first-class crew member steps down onto the steerage deck and searches for Teresa.

"Where is she? Where is the sick woman?" he bellows to no one in particular, incensed at having to evaluate a steerage passenger's potentially contaminating illness, "You!" he spots Gianni, "you were with her, where did she go?"

Gianni feints ignorance, "I don't know what you're talking about, Signore."

"I could have you arrested, thrown into the brig for obstructing the work of a naval officer," roars the low-ranking seaman.

"The brig, my, that would be mighty fine Admiral," Gianni openly mocks, "it can't be much worse than the third-class accommodations!"

A feminine chuckle interrupts the exchange.

Both the seaman and Gianni turn toward the impetuous giggle and are confronted with a smoke screen emanating from a lit cigarette gracing the tip of a needlessly long cigarette holder. Gianni's gaze travels from the ember, down the holder, to bright ruby red lips. The woman's eyes are obscured by a cloche hat placed low on her forehead, hinting at a boyish bobbed haircut. A low-waist dress with a full hemline is adorned with a pearl necklace descending all the way down to her midriff. The woman seems ready to kick up her heels and start dancing the Charleston; quite an incongruous sight on the third-class deck.

The woman slowly lifts her chin to expose her face and stares at the seaman provocatively, a mocking grin gently pressing the tip of her cigarette holder. The seaman immediately recognizes the ship's most illustrious passenger.

"Miss Mitchell, you shouldn't be down here," he stammers, visibly distraught, "please allow me to escort you back to the upper deck."

"Fiddle-dee-dee, I will not be ordered around. You go back to where you came from officer…" Mitchell tantalizingly blows a lung-full of smoke in the seaman's face and runs her finger along his name plate as she languidly enunciates C..a..n..d..l..e..r… any relations with the Coca-Cola tycoon?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am," he blushes.

"Umm, that's too bad," she teases, "in any event, I'll have this fine young man here," she places her hand on Gianni's shoulder, "escort me to the lady who was indisposed previously. I'm convinced there's no cause for alarm, Mister Candler. Now, that's a name I won't forget - Candler - let's just hope I remember it for the right reasons."

"But Miss Mitchell," he dissents, "you don't want to go down there, the conditions are…"

"Deplorable? Horrendous? Abysmal? I am well aware of the inhumane conditions maintained in steerage, Mister Candler. Those unfortunate passengers are confined to their berths for most of the voyage, in a stupor caused by the horrid air. Do you realize how difficult it is for these poor souls to get a breath of fresh air? In rough seas, you batten down the hatches, forcing steerage passengers to remain below in the dark and rocking ship. In fair weather, sea water seeps into steerage through the holes intended for ventilation. I am painfully aware that you average a mortality rate of ten percent per voyage, Sir, and I have yet to see a First Class passenger being so much as inconvenienced. Your operation stinks in all senses of the word."

"But, Miss Mitchell," Candler justifies, "they are third-class passengers…"

"Exactly! They are passengers, and not cargo, Mister Candler."

Gianni stifles the impulse to cheer.

"With all due respect," Candler frets, "may the record show that you have been thoroughly warned. This being said, Miss, feel free to do as you please."

#

"Teresa, can you hear me? My name is Margaret. You need a doctor," Mitchell presses the palm of her hand on Teresa's clammy forehead, "I'll have the ship's physician come down."

"No!" shouts Francesco, "nobody can know that she is here. In fact, she is not even here…"

"I see", a stowaway, Mitchell figures, "don't worry, I won't tell. At least, take some money," she forces a few American bills in Francesco's hand, "and make sure she sees a doctor the moment we dock. I need to go back to my quarters now; I fear that the overzealous Candler may have sent a search-and-rescue party after me. I'll come back with food and whatever medicine I can discretely sponge off the on-board doctor."

Francesco, overcome by emotions at such unexpected generosity, grasps Mitchell's arm, "Miss, how could I ever repay you?"

She gently unclasps Francesco grip, one finger at a time: "Take care of her - that's all I ask."

#

The sun shines brightly on Ellis Island, like a beacon of hope. Francesco Moretti tenderly holds the hand of his young bride as they both leave the dark and damp steerage room of the RSM Mauretania, squinting painfully. Companions of misfortune, Francesco, Teresa, and Gianni huddle on the foredeck for fear of separation and look with wonder on this miraculous land of their dreams.

Teresa clutches the only memento she brought from Italy: her father's watch. During the Great War, that pocket watch - worn in a breast pocket - had saved his life by dodging a bullet that would have otherwise pierced his heart. Teresa, the first member of her family to ever leave Europe, caresses the dented watch to calm her frayed nerves.

"Will I get to meet the wonderful Miss Mitchell who so generously contributed to my well-being?" she softly inquires.

"I really doubt it," snickers Gianni, "those rich people; they casually breeze through Customs without so much as a second look. The government figures that someone who can afford a First Class ticket will most likely not end up in an institution, hospital, or become a burden to the state. We, on the other hand, will be heavily scrutinized."

Panic seizes Francesco, "what about Teresa? She's not fully recovered; what if they deny her entry?"

"Don't worry, follow my lead," Gianni takes off his overcoat and hands it to Teresa, "here, wear this."

She pulls back, "No, thank you, I'm not cold… in fact; I'm still a bit feverish."

"You won't keep it on for long; I have a cousin in America, he wrote to me and told me all about passing the health inspection," he gently cups Teresa's face in his hands, "trust me."

Francesco intercedes in his favor. "Do as he says, Teresa; Gianni is one of us," he winks at the man who would once again rescue his wife.

The trio joins a cohort of other immigrants and walks single file up the grand staircase which enables health inspectors to do a rapid check for lameness and other physical problems that would appear while moving. Given her apparent weakness and shallow breathing, Teresa's outer garment is marked in chalk with the letter 'P' signifying a physical or lung ailment. About twenty percent of prospective immigrants receive similar chalk marks: some would only undergo closer examination while others would be sent back to their homeland. Gianni casually places his arm around Teresa's shoulders and slowly lowers the marked garment off her back. Teresa catches on; she continues walking as she sheds the coat, which Gianni reverses - thus hiding the chalk - before putting it back on his own shoulders. They are free to continue the clearing process unencumbered.

With sincere gratitude, Teresa quickly embraces Gianni before being rushed to the next clearing stage: the legal exam. The interrogation is uneventful, most immigrant readily proffering their name and whether they had relatives or a job waiting for them in America. Francesco goes first.

"Do you have any money?" inquires the inspector.

"Yes, of course."

"Let me see it."

Francesco frantically rummages through his pocket and retrieves the crumpled bills that the American woman generously tendered him on the ship. He peels off twenty-five dollars which he hands to Teresa and shows the balance - twenty-five more dollars - to a satisfied inspector. Teresa quickly follows her husband and, having carefully observed the process, gets approved without a hitch. Their happiness is short-lived though, as they both witness Gianni squirming when asked about the required stipend. Teresa runs back to her friend to seemingly embrace him one more time and whispers in his ear 'in tasca'. She lets go and returns to Francesco, leaving a stupefied Gianni to reach in his pocket to find the money Teresa passed him.

Up to that point unscathed, Francesco finds himself in dismay over the final hurdle of Ellis Island.

"I can't read," he shamefully admits to Gianni.

"That's not a problem, my friend," smiles Gianni, "you're a good Catholic, aren't you."

"Is the Pope Catholic?" Francesco indubitably acknowledges.

"Well, the test consists of reading a passage from the Holy Scriptures in your own language," explains Gianni, "good Catholic that you are, I'm pretty sure that you can confidently 'read' John 3:16."

Francesco sighs with relief, "I can 'read' it like nobody's business!"

#

Francesco and Teresa do not stop in New York even for the night. With their newly minted immigration papers in hand, they head for the Stairs of Separation. One staircase is for 'New York Outsides', where people like Gianni take a boat to Manhattan Island to meet a waiting friend or relative.

"Thank you for this," he hands Francesco the loaned money that allowed him access on American soil.

"Keep it," insists Francesco, "you'll need it. I have Teresa, so I'm already rich. Besides, we couldn't have done it without you."

Gianni reluctantly pockets the money, not wishing to be an immediate charge on his cousin.

"Where do you think you'll be settling?" he asks the doe-eyed couple.

"We have nobody waiting for us, so we'll take the staircase leading to the railroad ticket office. I heard great things about Philadelphia."

Gianni nods in approval and hugs his travelling companions farewell - knowing all too well that they would plant new roots in different locales and would never see each other again.

#

As they wait for the train, Francesco asks his young bride to read aloud the passionate, patriotic passage that they received prior to leaving their homeland to explore the land of opportunity, the land of freedom, the United States of America. Francesco closes his eyes and revels in the invigorating message delivered by Teresa's soft, soothing voice.

The immigrant should never abandon his feelings of the value of being an Italian… Keep alive, at all times, the use of your mother tongue and the practice of your own institutions; bring up your children in a love for your Fatherland and teach them the language, history, and geography of Italy. And even if you assume the nationality of the country in which you have settled, never deny and never forget the sublime moral inheritance of your ancestors and transmit to your descendants the sacred flame of the love of the distant fatherland. Thus will you ever remain a true son of that world-extensive and strong Italy. Long Live Italy. Forever.