by Maria Riva
The great ship shivered, as though, tied in its stall, it wanted to tear loose its fetters and run free! Four funnels belching, it began to move. Passengers crowded the open decks to catch the last glimpse of land; that split moment when vague regret mingles with the excitement of anticipated adventure united their faces before individuality took over. The waving of those who had someone left behind to wave to, the tears, the shouts of words left unsaid before, now needing to be said even if impossible to be heard above the din, the joyous laughter of those shedding the old world for the new. Slowly, the ship moved its human cargo into the Channel and out onto the Atlantic Ocean.
Megan’s excellent sense of direction brought the girls safely back down to their small cabin, where they surprised a very buxom woman unpacking her belongings into a cubicle allotted to one of the lower bunks. Megan’s eyes blazed, “OH NO! That one’s mine! I was here first!” The fourth fellow traveler of their cabin, her potato face taking on the color of her accuser’s hair as she wielded a very large salami, threatening mayhem, braced for a fight like the bull terrier she resembled, growling a language none of them had ever heard before. Giovanna tried to take charge in oil-upon-the-waters Italian, Eugenie twittered in philosophical French, Megan cursed in merciless Gaelic, while the as yet nameless terrier spluttered Polish. “Me Bela, ten-year wife of Lotar Zankowsky, iron miner, Missouri!”
The cabin door opened and Giovanni stood surveying the Tower of female Babel before him. Suddenly, with a man in their midst, docile female silence was instantly restored.
“Giovanna! I leave you to get properly settled and what happens? I find you squabbling like some peasant. This is NOT the behavior I expect from my wife!” and not waiting for any explanation, Giovanna’s husband strode out, slamming the heavy door behind him. As a man’s angry disapproval belongs to that unassailable realm of universal language, making translation unnecessary, the women duly chastised, eyes downcast, careful not to bump into each other, arranged their individual spaces without another word. Bela Zankowsky tossed her sausage up onto the remaining bunk and laboriously climbed the precarious ladder with Slavic resignation.
The first days out, when the trumpet sounded for meals, no one in Giovanna’s cabin paid the slightest attention—all were seasick. Fortunately, not all at once, so those not yet could minister to those not caring if they lived or died. Bela was the first to become seaworthy and, true to her name if not exactly her looks, took on the labors of ministering angel. Held foreheads over chamber pots, fetched water from some discovered source, applied cool compresses, patted limp hands reassuringly, and, when nothing else seemed to do as well, sang soft lullabies, mothering her young as though they were really hers. Giovanna shared her precious lemon with nonhesitant generosity and everyone agreed that it and Bela were the sole reasons they eventually survived the demon sea. Eugenie did continue to linger on the brink, whenever the steam from boiling cabbage, so necessary to all German ships, drifted by her sensitive nose, but as she claimed she was actually sensitive all over, soon no one took any notice of her daily vapors.
The first evening after a dinner that had miraculously stayed down, Giovanna approached her husband as he sat smoking in the men’s section.
“Giovanni, I need to ask a favor.”
“I see you have recovered,” he flicked off the ash. “Your cabin is back to normal?”
“Oh, yes—but it was truly awful. I nearly used Antonia’s potion, then thought better not. But now we are all well again, and so I really must learn to speak and understand American. Megan, the Irish girl, glares when Eugenie and I talk together in French. Bela doesn’t seem to care as much. I think she is quite used to no one ever knowing Polish—but poor Megan, she really needs to talk and, as I need to learn, would you please teach me right away?”
Pleased, Giovanni agreed. Every morning, bright and early before the dining hall became the hub, the meeting place, with her copybook spread open before her on the long table, pencil in hand and penknife ready to resharpen it, Giovanna received intensive instruction in the use of conversational English. Giovanni was a strict teacher, she a fast pupil, and so one evening when preparing for bed, Giovanna turned to Megan and said, with proud assurance, “Good night, Megan. I wish you good to sleep,” placing the accent on the last syllable of the girl’s name, whose delighted chuckle spoke volumes.
“Oh, my! What a fancy name I have! Go on! I like it—say it again!”
While Bela knitted yet another pair of thick socks for a husband with unusually large feet and Eugenie, feeling very sorry for herself, trimmed her boater with paper roses, Megan now chatted away like a chipmunk in spring. Although most of what she said was often far beyond Giovanna’s English language skills, she listened, recognizing the Irish girl’s need to confide her good fortune to someone.
“Patrick, that’s his name. Oh, if you could but see him! Hair black as a raven’s wing seen by moonlight, with eyes blue—blue as the sky—with his grin that can break a girl’s heart if not meant for her. Would you believe it? Found employment right off as head groom on a grand estate that breeds Thoroughbreds. I am not certain where it is exactly … a place called Virginia where me Patrick says even the grass is rich. The fine lady of the manor house, needing a serving girl to polish her silver, said I too could come work for her and someday, when we have saved enough, we will return home, buy the land on the Bluff, build us a grand house of our own, be looked up to. Look …” Jumping off the bunk, Megan pulled her trunk out from beneath, opened its battered lid, displayed its interior wooden tray filled with linen. “See … it’s me very own bridal sheets. I stitched them meself and … here …” Carefully, lovingly, she pulled from its paper wrapping a long apron, so starched it crackled, its square yolk edged in Irish Point openwork, a thing of true beauty. “This too I made with a proper dust cap to match. I mean to wear it on me very first day as a serving maid in a grand American home!”
Even Eugenie, permitted to admire the fine needlework, agreed that the apron was beyond criticism, would be deemed acceptable in the finest châteaus.
Naturally, now it was the French girl who was miffed, showing her disdain at being ignored by flouncing from the cabin whenever Giovanna practiced her newly acquired American, but Bela stayed, clicked her knitting needles, after a while joining in the sessions of practicing conversation. Using each other’s language skills, correcting each other, by the end of the many days at sea, they would be a triumphant duo of basic language for the country of their destination. Each could name themselves, their marital status, their homeland, their final destination, ask for food, water, washroom, and the price of things.
For those in the Upper Cabin classes, shipboard life settled into its structured routine. Men bonded over endless card games, exchanged impressive opinions engulfed in thick clouds of tobacco smoke, marched briskly circling decks on daily constitutionals, adhering to the strict boundaries of their class. Their women tended bored children, strolled while gossiping, crocheted, wrote into Morocco bound diaries that could be locked with very small keys.
Since the tragic sinking of the “Unsinkable Titanic” the year before, daily lifeboat drills were strictly observed. Everyone made certain they knew where their life jackets were at all times, some carrying them about, slung on one shoulder as though they were a part of clothing. Giovanna solved her problem of where to place her life jacket for fastest retrieval by wearing it to bed. She reasoned that as disasters at sea most often occurred in the dead of night, this was her most intelligent option. In daylight, she felt quite capable of taking whatever came in her stride. At first, Megan laughed when she saw Giovanna strapped into her bulky harness, then decided why not, and followed her lead. Eugenie refused, saying even if it meant she must drown, she would not wear it. Its rough canvas and wood slats would chafe her so delicate skin and whatever would Etienne say if his wife arrived covered in blotches! Quelle horreur! Bela’s bunk was already so crowded by
her ample bulk to say nothing of the sausage she had sworn an oath to never let out of her sight, and bring to the waiting arms of a husband, that she hung hers on the door handle, hoping none of the girls would knock it off when rushing out to save themselves while she was still struggling to get down her ladder.
Below the water line in steerage, Giovanna’s ship designated it as Third Class, 1,074 immigrants also bonded. Like abused animals, they clustered, seeking comfort, safety within their languages and nationalities in order to survive.
In a secluded spot she had discovered for herself on deck, Giovanna watched as from below overcrowded, airless holds this human flotsam emerged each day as though released from some undeserved captivity, blinking in the sudden brightness of daylight, faces lifted gratefully to the open sky. From her vantage point above, Giovanna marveled at the resilience of these hordes of desperate people willing to endure whatever they must to achieve a dream. She did not equate her condition with theirs. She knew the difference between her security and their precarious, possibly doomed, search for it. A roof, food, and protection were guaranteed her therefore her quest for a new life could not be compared with theirs and so felt the privilege of her status as Giovanni’s wife. Once he too had been one of them, endured, struggled to make a place for himself—a stranger in a foreign land—had succeeded, not only found work but his pride within it! Now, she, as wife to this courageous man, was reaping the rewards and, for the first time since her irrational request, Giovanna considered the man not only what he represented, her means of escape, from what she still could not identify only knew her need of it. For a long time she watched the people below her, thankful she was not one of them, wondering what lives awaited them—what waited for her.
Entering the Gulf Stream, the sea became strangely calm, its mirrorlike surface reflecting a chalk gray sky. Putting away her learning things, Giovanna went in search of her husband. He who had crossed this vast ocean twice before would be able to tell her, know if it was preparing a tumultuous storm or just lying still without any malevolent intentions. When she couldn’t find him anywhere, she went up on deck to her private spot to take a good look at the sea and try to figure it out for herself. Leaning on the railing, a faint breeze making her skirt ripple against her ankles, she studied the endless horizon. The sudden thought that Columbus must have seen what she was seeing made her smile. Now that she knew being seasick was not a fatal condition, she liked the sea. Its unpredictability, even its frightening power, an intriguing challenge. If I were a man, I’d be an explorer, live my whole life on a ship, circle the world! The low sound of a man’s voice disturbed Giovanna’s musings. It came again, clearer, more emphatic this time and she recognized it was Giovanni speaking to someone directly below from where she stood. What was he doing down there? In Third Class? Second Class passengers weren’t allowed there—so who was he talking to? Crouching down straining to hear, Giovanna listened.
“All of you who understand Italian, listen to me carefully. I have knowledge that is important for you to hear. I will come here every morning at this time to speak to you of the things that you must know before you are taken to be processed on Ellis Island.” A low murmur greeted the name. “Yes, I know, some of you have heard it called The Island of Tears and that is one of the reasons I have come. I know it—I have been there, I was able to pass through to America and found work, good work and so will you. But there are some tricks that can help get you through and I know them. Those of you who speak other languages can translate my words to the other groups—or ask around. Try the Russian Jews, they are usually good linguists. Tomorrow we meet. I must go. Take heart, from now on, the sea will remain calm, so they may allow you to sleep up on deck.”
The next day at the appointed time, Giovanna was crouched by her listening post, ear pressed to the bottom railing as Giovanni began speaking to his attentive flock that now comprised representative Poles, Romanians, Bohemians, Germans, Hungarians, and Hollanders amongst the Italian men.
“Once we have arrived, you will be unloaded onto smaller boats and ferried to Ellis Island. Once there, you will be told to leave all of your belongings to be reclaimed when you are through. I cannot tell you that this will be so—for such things are often stolen, disappear—even the Promised Land has its thieves, so take what is most precious to you, put it with your papers and your money on your person for safety. Next, you will be herded into the Great Hall. It is called so because it truly is—greater than you have ever seen before, with many aisles marked off by iron pipes to contain the thousands of people being moved towards the stairs that lead up to the inner balcony that circles the hall. Remember ours will not be the only ship to arrive, the harbor will be full of ships from many ports, all filled with people like you. Tell your women they must hold onto the children, never let go of their hands or they will lose them in the crush of people. Yes, it is frightening, even for men. But you must not allow fear to take control of you or be seen, for then bad mistakes can happen. The guards will move you towards the steps where men who look like the police …” Alarmed voices interrupted him. “No, no—they are not real policemen. They are doctors in special uniforms and they are there to watch you. Watch how you climb the stairs. If you stumble, have a difficulty and they think there may be something wrong with you, with their piece of chalk, they will mark you with a C—which means Cripple, so the other doctors upstairs will know ‘here is one who has to be examined more thoroughly.’ If you seem out of breath, they move you up at a fast pace for that reason, you could get an H on your back for Heart. So, remember, watch out how you climb, place your foot firmly one after the other … tell those of your women whose skirts are very long, to shorten them before we arrive. It is safer and remember, when you climb the stairs, to calm yourself, so your breathing comes easy. Anyone here with children who are deaf mutes? Come closer.” There was a shuffling of feet as some pressed forward. “Now, while you still have the time, teach them that when they see you talking to them, they must nod their heads as though they can understand. They must also be taught to keep their eyes open and their heads up to look alert. This is true for everyone, all of you—no downcast eyes, even from your women. If you don’t look straight at them, the doctors and the officers think maybe you are trying to hide something and then they will single you out. Don’t ever give anyone a reason to be suspicious of you. Don’t shuffle—don’t look down, don’t mumble, don’t hesitate. Never appear confused even when you are. Look as though you understand, even when you don’t. Those who can’t read or write, find those who can and stay close to them for help. Try to make everyone understand this—how very important all this is. The worst chalk mark that you can receive, the one that can mean great tragedy for your whole family, is an X, for it means Mental Deficient and the special doctors for that will put you through tests that even those who have nothing wrong with them often fail—then America will be lost to you, you will not be allowed to enter. They will send you back where you came from—separated forever from those of your family who are healthy and allowed to stay. I must go. Tomorrow I will talk about the purchase of railway tickets and money matters in general.” The men crowded around him, questioning, eager to hear more, finally let him go when they realized, young as he was, here was a man who could not be cajoled into changing his mind. Murmuring their gratitude, the men dispersed.
For a long while Giovanna remained where she was, thinking through all she had heard, trying to understand the enormity of what lay behind Giovanni’s words, the need that had prompted them. His amazing generosity beguiled her. She found she liked him, was enormously proud of him. Love was so foreign to Giovanna, she wasn’t aware she was taking the first step towards it.
During the evening meal, first making sure no one near them understood Italian, keeping her voice low, Giovanna confessed, surprised that her husband was not angry at her eavesdropping as she had expected, she dared to ask, “But aren’t you frightening them?”
“They are already frightened. It is always better to know than to imagine.”
“Giovanni, would you allow me to accompany you down there? It is not easy to catch all the words from above and I too want to hear what you have to say.”
He hesitated, then replied, “Maybe seeing you there might encourage the women to come and listen. Their fears are so much worse for they have children to protect. Yes, it is a good idea. You may come.”
The next morning, Giovanna met her husband at the appointed rendezvous, making sure their passage was unobserved, followed him down secluded stairs, along half-hidden walkways, finally ducking under the chained barrier separating classes. The men were waiting, many more than Giovanna had expected.
“Buon giorno. Last night, not so many were seasick—right?” A few wan smiles acknowledged Giovanni’s greeting. “Even in the dead of winter, it is better when they allow you to sleep on deck. Here, this is my wife, Giovanna. Like you, she is crossing the ocean for the first time to accompany me to my home in America.” Slightly uncomfortable, the men acknowledged the female stranger in their midst, as two young women, one obviously pregnant carrying a small boy on her hip, the other holding two little girls by the hand, sidled up to the back of the group. Seeing them, Giovanni raised his voice, hoping to attract the other women who watched, afraid to come nearer in case this being man’s business they were excluded.
“Before I begin, let me make one important observation. Not all the women here are fortunate enough to be accompanied by their men. Some, as many hundreds before them, are traveling alone, some with children, to be reunited with husbands, fathers, or brothers who have saved enough to send them their passage to join them in America. So they must be allowed to listen—make room for them. First, the sum of money that is now required of all immigrants who enter America through the port of New York City. This is not a law—only the man who rules New York demands it—so you must have this ready. You all have this? Safe? At Ellis Island there is a special room where you can change your money into the dollars of the United States. There they will not cheat you …” As though something disturbed him, Giovanni stopped, hesitated, then continued. “Some of you have heard of the examination of the eyes and what they do to you. I cannot make that easier for you. I wish I could but I can’t. You will have to endure it. They will use a buttonhook to fold back your eyelids, while the doctor looks for infection, understand?” The stillness that froze the crowd was answer enough.