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Alberto placed his arm around Maria's waist and pulled her to him. “I'm sorry,” he said, replacing his hat on his head with his free hand.
“Oh, and look at the bridge,” Maria squealed, quickly forgetting her anger. “It's named the Brooklyn Bridge.” She glanced furtively toward Alberto, expecting him to question her further knowledge of these landmarks of America, but he stood, with mouth agape, also taking in all these wonders of the New World. So Maria turned her gaze to see the rest herself, continuing to rattle on. “And we are now in the harbor of Manhattan. Isn't it just too magnificent, Alberto?”
The ship inched its way to the dock. Maria drew in a deep sigh of relief, listening this final time to the noises of the ship . . . all its timbers creaking, the low drone of the rumble of the boiler that was becoming less and less noisy by the second, and that endless splashing of the water that had sometimes almost driven her to screaming.
The aromas of the ship's deck around her were what she was happiest to leave behind, the aromas of human waste, vomit, steaming fish and potatoes, and the ever present stench from the animals that had shared the far end of the top deck with the massive group of immigrants.
Feeling smug, so soon to become an American, to stand and walk atop American soil, Maria bent and reached for her violin case, ready to make her departure alongside her brother.
When she straightened her back, she let her gaze travel around the crowd, feeling an ache circling her heart. She was remembering the more pleasant side of her journey. That which had been shared with the man who she would always love. Michael. She so longed to get a glimpse of his golden locks of hair and the blue of his eyes. She so longed to search him out. . . run to him . .. fall into his arms … to confess her love for him … let him lift her into his arms and whisk her away.
But she knew this to be an impossibility. She had been the one to decline his proposal of marriage. She had been the one to walk away from possibly the only man who could turn her insides into a mass of rippling warmth. She had been the one to say no to what was to have possibly been a life shared with a man and the riches he possessed. Would he have showered her with jewels? Satin dresses? Furs?
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes when she found no trace of him on top deck. He most assuredly had stayed in the privacy of his cabin and would continue to do so until the ship had emptied of the poor and unfortunate, and the smells that seemed to cling to their skins and clothes.
Maria looked downward at her own attire and cringed. Soon she would cast these filthy, ugly clothes aside. And once she was attired in a beautiful, lacy dress, breeches would never be slipped upon her legs again.
“Come. It's time to leave the ship,” Alberto said, lifting their one trunk to rest on his right shoulder.
Maria moved along with the crowd, hearing the eagerness of all the Italian chatter around her. She smiled to herself, so glad her Papa had prepared her and Alberto so well by having taught them the American language. He had even sent American dollars to them, explaining that many Italians would get tricked out of their lire when exchanging them for American dollars upon their first arrival to America.
“Hey. What's going on here?” Alberto exclaimed as he and Maria stepped from the ship to the pier. They were being roughly shoved toward a small boat along with several other of the Italians. Many other small boats were lined up next to this one, also being boarded.
A man with dark hair, a large, thick moustache and pale gray eyes, attired in a dark uniform, grabbed Alberto by the arm. “Get aboard, lad,” he ordered sharply.
“Why?” Alberto shouted. “We're in America now. We're Americans. You can't shove us around. We have the same rights as you.”
The man laughed raucously. “You've got to be Americanized first, lad,” he said. “Then maybe you'll be able to call yourself an American.”
Alberto jerked away from the man, fists doubled, swinging them near the face of the man. “My father is here in America. So I will also stay. No one can tell me I can't stay.” He continued to dare the man, though his heart was pounding so hard, he was fast becoming breathless.
Maria stepped to his side, shadowing her eyes with the back of her left hand. “Please, Alberto,” she whispered. “You're creating a scene.”
“I must. Don't you see?”
“This Americanization the man speaks of,” she whispered further. “It is quite necessary. AH immigrants have it to do.”
Alberto's eyes wavered. “Really?” he murmured. Then his gaze lowered, his dark eyes burning a hole through Maria. “And how do you know?”
“I just know,” she answered. “Now please do as the man says.”
“Oh, all right,” Alberto sulked, having become a bit frightened anyway when he had seen the man lift a long, dark club from a loop at the waist of his breeches.
Maria studied the name printed in bold red print on the side of the small boat as she stepped over the side, into it. “The General Putnam,” she whispered to her-self, then stood in silence next to Alberto, clutching tightly onto the handle of her violin case, once again hearing the dreaded noises of water splashing, and the drone of a boiler's engine as the boat began to make its way from the pier.
“I didn't expect anything like this,” Alberto grumbled.
“What did you expect?” Maria whispered, sidling closer to him.
“I expected our ship to be met by a cheering crowd of welcome. Maybe even gifts given to each one of us. But not this. I fee! like an animal. It this is what America is, we should've stayed in Italy.”
“It will soon be better, Alberto,” Maria encouraged. “You'll see. And when we reach Papa's home, just think of what must await us. Can't you just envision a house so beautiful that has several separate rooms among which to choose from to be in any time of the day,
instead of one large drab room as we've just left behind at Gran-mama's house?” Her eyes grew wide in wonder. “And there will be beds, bathing facilities….”
Alberto interrupted her. “Maria, will you just be quiet,” he stormed. “Look ahead. Does that look like a place that welcomes Italians with open arms? Is that even the place we are actually being taken to? Damn. What have we gotten ourselves into? And did Papa have to go through all of this when he first arrived in America? Why didn't he warn us if he did?”
Maria's gaze followed Alberto's. Suddenly she was afraid. They seemed to have left the grandest section of America behind and were being taken to an ugly island. She eyed it closely, seeing that it was just a ragged rock jutting out of the harbor, covered with gray, drab buildings. Her attention was then drawn to the same dark-clothed man who had been so rough to Alberto. He now stood at the stern of the ship, beginning to speak to all who were standing as quietly as Maria and Alberto with fear etched on their faces and in their eyes. Maria clutched her violin case to her bosom, listening.
