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Maria's gaze moved quickly to Alberto once again, having forgotten the name. “Alberto? What is the name of the town … ?” she asked, feeling desperation rising inside herself.
Alberto stepped to her side. “This is my sister Maria. I am Alberto Lazzaro,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “We are on our way to Hawkinsville, Illinois. Our Papa awaits us there with lodging.”
“Okay. Good enough,” the man said, recording this information in a large journal. “And, Maria, how much is six times six?” he asked, smiling crookedly.
Her eyes widened. Such a question, she thought, remembering Alberto and how good he was with numbers. But herself? She didn't know how to answer so quickly. She began working with her fingers, counting them to herself, then bolted out an answer. “Thirty-six,” she said, sighing, feeling her face flushing, knowing that this man had to think her quite dumb to have hesitated so long with the answer.
“Have you ever been in jail, Maria?” was the next question addressed to her by this man, who continued to study her closely, lowering his eyes usually to where she continued to breathe heavily from nervous tension.
Maria's jaw set firmly and her shoulders squared. “Do I look like a person who would have been in jail, sir?” she snapped, her eyes flashing.
“I just ask the questions that are assigned, miss,” he said, furrowing a brow. He then added, “And do you have any weapons on your person?” He again the same as raped her with his eyes.
She grabbed at her throat, remembering the gun. But she also remembered that no man would get near her to remove her clothes .while Alberto was around. She knew that he would kill the person first. “No. No weapon,” she said quietly. “Do I look the sort who would carry a weapon, sir?” she said, fluttering her lashes nervously toward him.
The man's eyes wavered and a slow flush rose upward from his neck. “No. Guess not,” he mumbled. He entered some more into his journal, then asked, “Is there anyone in your family who is insane? Mentally disturbed?”
“No. No one,” Maria murmured, glancing quickly at Alberto, reminded to still be a bit worried about his state of mind.
“Anyone afflicted with contagious ailments?”
“No. No one.”
The questions seemed to go on forever, then Maria was directed to another table, where a lady attired in white stood waiting. “Here, miss,” die lady said, taking Maria by the arm. “You must remove your jacket and roll up your shirt sleeve of your left arm.”
“Why . . . ?” Maria gasped, seeing the lady holding onto a long-needled instrument.
“You are in need of an inoculation. All whom enter into America must be inoculated.”
“And . . . why . . . ?”
“It's to prevent one from acquiring the dreaded disease called smallpox. Now please, do as I say. Roll up your sleeve as soon as you get your jacket removed.”
Maria searched m desperation around her for Alberto, but saw that he was now seated, answering the long line of questions, the same as she had just done.
“Please, miss,” the lady insisted, moving even closer to Maria.
Maria sighed, hating it when she felt the trembling beginning in her fingers. She had wanted to be brave enough to get through this whole ordeal without showing her fears. She wanted to show that she had strength. That all Italians were strong and could withstand anything. But she was afraid. Oh, so afraid of that needle that was waiting to be plunged into her flesh.
She placed her violin case on the floor before her and slowly pulled her jacket off, holding it in front of the gun's bulge beneath her shirt, then rolled up her shirt sleeve. She held her arm out, turning her face in another direction, closing her eyes. When the sharp point made its intrusion into her arm, and then over and over again, like several pinpricks being made over a small, circled area of her arm, she felt as though she might faint. She teetered for a moment, then ordered herself to stand upright. No Italian would faint just from pinpricks into the arm. No. She just couldn't.
“Okay. That's it, miss,” the lady said. “Move on so the next person can step forward.”
Maria's eyes widened. The whole area throbbed as though the lady was continuing her assault. She turned her eyes back around and looked at her arm, seeing a circle of redness where the needle had been inserted. “You are finished?” she whispered.
“Yes. Now please move along.”
“Yes, ma'am,” she said, pulling her jacket quickly on. Having been vaccinated in the left arm, she lifted her violin case with the right hand and inched her way through the crowd, all the while keeping an eye on Alberto. If she were to lose him, she would more than likely never see him again. She had never seen so many people at one time. They were swarming around her like bees.
She waited, anxious, until Alberto moved to her side, with the trunk lifted onto his right shoulder, mumbling some soft obscenities.
“Alberto?” Maria asked, going to him. “Are you all right?” His face had paled and the lids over his eyes had grown heavy.
“Such a crude way to welcome us into America,” he continued to grumble, wincing when Maria touched him on the left arm, close to where his own vaccination now throbbed and ached.
“Are we now free to move onward? Is our Americanization over with?” she asked anxiously.
“I was told that a ferry awaited us. Out on the far end of the island. It will take us once again to the piers on lower Manhattan's shores.”
