* * *
Saro had traveled all night and a good part of the following day, sometimes on foot and sometimes hitching rides from passing trucks headed for Palermo. When he reached the port, he was assailed by a horde of solicitors, some wanting to sell him medicine to prevent seasickness, some promising him a job as soon as he landed in America, and some asking him to marry their sister—otherwise she wouldn’t be permitted to leave. He was completely bewildered by the demands of those desperate petitioners, who were often joined by small-time con men and swindlers who, posing as health officials for the port or as customs officers, managed to cheat a fair number of naive souls out of their few coins in exchange for promises that would never be kept.
Holding the third-class ticket he had purchased, Saro was directed toward a long line of people who were required to undergo a preliminary medical examination. The doctors simply had to make sure that the individuals did not have lice or some contagious disease; then they sent them to a second line, where a boarding pass was issued to those who had passed the exam and had a ticket.
When evening came, the second officer finally gave the order to board the ship. Like a swollen river, people flooded to the sleeping quarters below deck, lugging bundles and parcels, shouting and shoving one another to grab the berths on the first level.
Saro did not join the charge and remained on deck, in a corner next to the hawsers and air outlets. Leaning against the railing, he watched the maneuvers of the sailors who were preparing to cast off the moorings of the Florio fleet’s Principessa Matilde. When the siren blew its raucous whistle, Saro Ragusa felt a piercing laceration in his brain. It was as if his heart were being squeezed by a fist. For the first time, he became conscious of the journey he was about to make. For the first time he understood the meaning of good-bye: that he might never see his beloved land again, the land of his roots, his parents and his sisters, his friends, but especially Mena. Sweet Mena. With her he had experienced the most intense emotions of his brief life.
The second time the siren shrieked, the steamer began to move. It was Saro’s first time on a ship. He was intrigued by it all, watching the sailors on the wharf and on deck casting off the hawsers, and the display put on by the tugboat that had started pushing the Principessa Matilde out of port. The dock was mobbed with relatives, and silence hung over the scene. Some wept quietly, others waved white handkerchiefs, but most of them were overwhelmed at seeing the vessel move slowly away from shore.
Saro leaned his forehead on the railing and felt tears running down his face. He tried to suppress his emotion, but the tears were unstoppable. Then he thought of his mother. When he was little, before falling asleep, he often felt discouraged, and at those times, his mother would tell him to pray. “Prayer is the medicine of the poor,” she whispered in his ear and began a litany that she made up on the spot to lull him with its sweet sound.
Though he was no longer a child, Saro began to pray.
He curled up in his shabby clothes, and sank into a troubled sleep.
* * *
Once the Principessa Matilde passed the Strait of Gibraltar and confronted the great ocean, it began to pitch and lurch, as unstable as a toy boat. Scores of third-class passengers fell sick, many vomited and were forced to leave their sleeping quarters and find a sheltered corner on deck. The wind blew fiercely on the open seas, and only the hardiest could withstand the intense cold, wintry despite the fact that it was late spring. People were irritable and in a bad way, while the crew was short-tempered and insolent. Everyone’s mental and physical endurance were sorely tested.
Saro didn’t know a soul and kept to himself, spending most of the time crouched in the shelter of the afterdeck. Because there was nothing to do, the days dragged by interminably. The only time there was a flurry of excitement was when meals were served in the large hall below the cargo hold. It was there that Saro met Titina, a young girl from the Noto area, who was looking, she said, for a soul mate.
Titina was petite but curvy, with full hips and ample breasts, which, squeezed into a laced-up bodice, turned the head of every man on the ship. She had her eye on Saro, and on the eighth day of the voyage, when he sat down to wait for the mess crew to come by with the soup, she took the opportunity to sit beside him and strike up a conversation.
“Where are you from?” she asked, nibbling a piece of bread.
Saro looked at her. She had pale-blue eyes, like the sky, but her hair and eyebrows were dark. “I’m Saro, and I’m from Agrigento,” he lied, remembering Manfredi’s stories: the campiere had told him that the thieves and informers in America were connected to the thugs back in Sicily. “And you?”
“I’m Titina, and I was born in Noto,” she replied promptly. “Do you have relatives in America?” she continued.
“No. Just some friends.”
“I have a fiancé, and I’m going to get married.”
“Good for you.”
“I don’t know him. I haven’t even seen a photograph of him. The parish priest in my town arranged it all. He told me, ‘Titina, go to America, otherwise all the men here will go to hell.’ ” She laughed, showing a row of bad teeth, like those of an old man.
Everyone turned to look at the two young people because it was rare to hear anyone laugh on the steamer, and they all wanted to share in someone’s happiness, even if that person was a stranger. But when they saw it was Titina laughing, they went on dipping their spoons into their bowls.
“What are you looking at, you slobbering old fools?” the girl yelled.
Saro felt uncomfortable. “Don’t mind them, Titina.”
Their soup arrived too, cold by now, and they began eating. But Titina kept pestering him. “Where are you going to live?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Saro said patiently.
“My fiancé wants to bring me who-knows-where, but I want to stay in New York,” Titina complained.
“The place doesn’t matter. If you’re happy with him, you’ll be happy anywhere.”
“I want to stay in New York,” she repeated like a spoiled child.
* * *
Later, when the ship encountered a violent storm, all the passengers holed up in the third-class compartment. It was the worst moment of the crossing. People wailed and moaned. Not only the women—but even men who back in their villages had never shown the slightest weakness. The young ones cried incessantly, testing everyone’s nerves.
They were a humanity crushed by poverty and hunger, ignorance and despair. For some a glimmer of hope remained, but every one of them, even in their abject squalor, possessed a sense of dignity that would make them struggle against life’s adversities, never giving up until they breathed their last. That strength marked those individuals as a special breed, people who, although treated as an inferior class, could face the toughest conditions, showing an uncommon spirit of sacrifice and ability to adapt.
But the future was still a thousand miles away from that foul-smelling hold filled with their cries, their suffering, and their despair.
At that moment, reality was something else, represented by a young mother who, on one of the berths, was trying to nurse her baby. But the baby didn’t want to suck the breast milk and wailed continually. Then toward evening the cries grew fainter. The mother tried to make him take the nipple, but the child was no longer responsive to nature’s stimuli. The woman hugged him tightly, as though wanting to protect him from death. They tried to take him from her, but she defended him with her nails, screaming that her son was sleeping and that they couldn’t take him. That night she got up and said she was going to the toilet. Instead she climbed the stairs leading up to the deck. She clutched the defenseless bundle as if it were the most precious of gifts. She went outside while the storm was still raging. No one saw her and nobody was able to stop her—or maybe someone did see her but let her go to her fate in her immense grief. She never returned to the hold, and the following day she became a mere notation in the logbook.
* * *
Then one day, as if by magic, the storm subsided. A desperate people regained their vitality and optimism. Everyone went out on deck to enjoy the sun’s tepid rays.
Saro, lying in his usual place, saw Titina in the distance, toward the prow; she was arguing heatedly with a man who was decidedly much older. Saro watched as she gave him a shove, and after that, the man walked away, heading for the quarterdeck. Saro then realized that the man was coming in his direction; that he was the one the man was after.
He stood up, while the man, angry as a bull, strode up to him and said without preamble, “Don’t you talk to my fiancée again, got it?”
“Which one is your fiancée, pal?” Saro asked.
“Don’t get smart. You know I’m talking about Titina. I saw you two yesterday. It isn’t right for you to disgrace her.”
“But Titina already has a fiancé. He’s in America,” Saro explained.
“That’s the first suitor. If he doesn’t appeal to her, Titina will marry me. And don’t you come between us, you hear?”
“Look, buddy, I couldn’t care less about your Titina. She’s the one who’s always bothering me. I already have a girl.”
“How dare you disrespect her!” The man grabbed him by the lapels.
But Saro jerked free. “You’re asking for trouble.”
With lightning speed, the man took out a knife several inches long. “You’re the one who’s asking for it,” he said, poised to attack.
Saro didn’t want to fight; he spun around and started to run away. The man with the knife was about to chase him, but a young man nearby slammed into him with his shoulder and knocked him down. The two young men looked at each other. The rescuer was tall, with a pleasant face and a roguish mustache that made him look like a movie star. Tugging his blue checkered cap down even lower, he nonchalantly raised two fingers to his forehead and saluted Saro, who smiled by way of thanks.
Meanwhile, the man who had been knocked to the ground was fuming with rage. Now he didn’t know whether to get back at “Mustache,” who had intentionally shoved him, or continue chasing Saro. He got up and chose the latter option. Saro was almost at the stairs to the hold, out of the jealous fiancé’s reach by now, when someone cruelly tripped him, making him fall to the ground. Saro turned around to see who the scoundrel was who had made him stumble, and was startled to recognize Vito Pizzuto sitting on a crate, well dressed, smoking a cigar.
Instantly the man with the knife was upon him, but the sound of a whistle had summoned several sailors and an officer. The sailors restrained the armed man before he could hurt anyone. The man tried to break free, squirming as forcefully as he could, but the sailors had their own methods; they clubbed him and knocked him out, and then dragged him to an isolation cell. The officer approached Saro to learn why the man was after him. He wasn’t sure whether to throw Saro in a cell as well. Had the man maybe tried to rob him? Or perhaps it had to do with old grievances?
Saro wouldn’t answer.
“If you won’t answer me, I’ll have to put you in lockup. That could jeopardize your entry into America. You’re better off cooperating,” the officer said patiently.
Meanwhile, a man was approaching, and as he passed, the crowd parted to let him through. His charismatic figure was known to all the ship’s passengers, and it was curious that a first-class passenger would come to the third-class deck.
When Prince Ferdinando Licata got to Vito Pizzuto, the latter, recognizing him, rose to his feet as a sign of deference. The prince addressed him in a low voice with his typical intonation: “Chi nun po’ fari a buttana, fa a ruffiana”—“If you can’t be a whore, be a pimp.” He gave him a long, smoldering stare meant to incinerate him. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Vito Pizzuto,” the Mafia boss replied, aware of the prince’s authority.
“I’ll remember you,” Licata said, continuing on his way.
Vito Pizzuto did not react. He lowered his eyes and disappeared among the crowd of passengers, who watched him go, muttering about the prince.
Ferdinando Licata approached the officer and said, “Lieutenant, the young man is my friend. I’ve known him since he was a boy. He’s the son of a doctor in Salemi.”
The officer, recognizing the prince, motioned to his sailors, who immediately let Saro go. Then he saluted the prince and went away.
Saro was surprised to see Prince Licata on the ship. He moved to kiss his hands, but the prince drew back and gave him his first lesson: “Cu’ iè ricco d’amici iè scarsu di guai”—“A man with friends has few problems.”
Saro smiled at the thought of having Prince Ferdinando Licata as a “friend.”
“Prince Licata, you too are going to America?”
Ferdinando smiled and responded with a nod. “Come, I’ll show you around the ship.”
* * *
Then one fine day at last: “It’s la Merica!” All the passengers spilled out on deck to finally see their dream. The reality was far superior to whatever they might have imagined. There was the Statue of Liberty. They stared at it, gaping, as the ship went past, astonished at its size.
But America was still far away for them. Only the first- and second-class voyagers could go ashore in Manhattan, along with Americans and crew members. All the third-class passengers were put on a small ferry that would take them to an island a quarter of an hour away by boat from the Port of New York. Before being allowed to enter America, that assemblage of desperate individuals had to pass through the Isle of Tears, the nickname given to Ellis Island.
Part Two
* * *
1939–1943
Chapter 28
– 1939 –
To enter America you could not be sick or malformed, you could not have any mental disorders, a criminal record or, worse, a history of being an anarchist. If discovered upon disembarkation, these “defects” led to automatic expulsion. Immigration inspectors admitted people who were able to work, who had enough money or a prepaid ticket to reach their final destination, or a relative or friend who pledged to assist the immigrant until he found his first job. The government wanted to make sure that the new arrival did not end up swelling the ranks of paupers and criminals. Immigrants who were sick would be quarantined on the island until they were well; pregnant women, until they gave birth. Many arrivals were returned home, amid the wailing, tears, and despair of friends and relatives who, more fortunate than they, had obtained permission to enter.
For an immigrant sponsored by a “guarantor,” the stay at Ellis Island might last less than eight hours. In this case, he was not issued any permit or authorization, and all that remained of his having passed through the island was a line or two in the immigration register noting his particulars—name, place of birth, and so forth—and his work skills.
Saro was one of the lucky ones, leaving Ellis Island after only a six-hour stay. Later he learned that some of his fellow passengers had been detained for more than three weeks, and that a couple of them were put back on the steamer to be sent home.
Along with about a hundred fellow travelers, he was allowed to board the pilot boat that went back and forth between the Isle of Tears and the Port of New York, and twenty minutes later, he finally set foot on American soil.
Toward the end of the 1930s, roughly one hundred thousand Italians crossed the ocean to live halfway around the world. They were far fewer in number compared to those who had preceded them at the beginning of the century, but their circumstances had not changed. Those who decided to emigrate were almost always fugitives, adventurers, offenders hunted by the police. or simply people with no hope.
* * *
Vincenzo Ciancianna was pondering these thoughts as he stood leaning against a lamppost, watching the hundred or so immigrants disembark from the pilot boat, having gone through the humiliation of Ellis Island. For more than thirty years, he’d been a recruiter for the Bontade organization and by this time, he was quite adept at recognizing those who could b
e of use to the family.
He had drawn up a personal rating scheme for the immigrants, dividing them into four categories. First there were the piagnistei, or “whiners.” They were the ones whose faces were awash with nostalgia for the country they’d left behind. Clearly, they already regretted the choice they’d made and would gladly have reboarded the ship to go back home. Though these were the easiest prey for the Mafia’s recruiters, in the long run, they were also the most undependable.
Then there were the cacasotto: those who were “scared shitless.” Afraid of their own shadows, these timid souls panicked as soon as they stepped off the ship’s gangplank, fearful of an uncertain future and of the new life they faced. Compared to those in the first category, however, they were more confident, because they carried in their pocket a letter from the parish priest or from some relative asking an uncle or a cousin to help them out, at least in the first few weeks. The Mafia preferred to leave them alone, since, for better or for worse, they already had a protector.
The next group was the sottopanza: the “eager beavers” ready and willing to pitch in. They had embraced the adventure and couldn’t wait to start working. Moreover, they knew that they would find waiting for them on the dock a relative or a fellow villager who would help them find lodging and a suitable job. The recruiters stayed away from them as well.
Finally, there were the verdoni: the “greenbacks” with money. These individuals gave the impression of knowing what they wanted, even though it was the first time they were setting foot on American soil. They were attentive to everything going on around them; they had an arrogant gaze and a certain air of defiance. These were the ones who had worked for the landed gentry, gabellotti who must have done something wrong at home and fled from the Italian justice system, hiding in the bottom of a hold to seek refuge in America. Or more simply, they were mafiosi from Sicily, Campania, and Calabria who had to get away from the fascist regime and needed a change of scene. These tough guys weren’t looking for a stable job. For them, America was merely a land where they could survive. For them, America was a land waiting to be conquered. These were the ones the recruiters went after more doggedly to persuade them to join the organization.
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