At times like these, one needs faith. He fell asleep murmuring the Our Father and Hail Mary prayers. When he awoke, all was calm again.
Martin pulled on his pants and grabbed his jacket as he headed back up the stairs to stand on deck. Michael was already there, looking a bit peaked. “How did you fare last night?”
“Not good but I’m still here as you can see.”
“Have you spotted anything out at sea?” And just as the words came out, a pod of dolphins appeared alongside the ship. “My prayers have been answered.”
The two boys hung out on the deck for several hours. Michael offered Martin a cigarette and they both lit up. “I rolled these myself. I only have a few smokes left, which need to last me the rest of the trip. But it’s always nice to share one with a friend.” After taking a few drags, Martin told Michael about growing up in Dubrovnik and fishing with his father. “The first time I was only eight years old and we went out into the sea at night fishing for anchovies and sardines.”
Michael told Martin about his life in Split, the medieval city built inside Diocletian’s Roman palace. “My father has a small grocery store. Now I miss all the fruits and vegetables we had so abundantly at our table. I hope I will have them again in America. My uncle is a farmer near San Francisco and that’s where I’m going.”
“San Francisco. That’s where I’m going, too, but to work in my uncle’s restaurant. I only know a little about cooking from my mother but I’m going to learn to be a chef. People always need to eat. So, feeding them should ensure I can always put bread on my own table.”
“Do you want to own a restaurant one day?”
“Yes, that’s my dream…be a businessman…my own boss…make money for my family.”
Chapter 3
The rest of the journey was smooth sailing for the passengers aboard the Carpathia. The captain had the crew pass the word that they were nearing New York Harbor where the immigrants could catch their first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. She came into view amid gasps of awe that could be heard throughout the ship. As they drew near, Martin saw the colossus up close, holding out her arms and lighting the way.
Upon docking, the first and second-class passengers were let off first since they did not have to go through Ellis Island. Each steerage passenger was given a tag to wear with a manifest number then, like animals, they were herded onto barges to make the short journey to Ellis Island. Martin and Michael stayed together so they had each other for support. Once they debarked, an interpreter came up to them, speaking Croatian. This was an unexpected surprise but not out of the ordinary since interpreters spoke at least six languages and sometimes twice that number.
Now it was time for the medical inspections. Martin knew he would pass since he didn’t limp or have any health issues. But regardless, he would have his eyes checked for trachoma, a terrible disease that could blind and deny a person entrance to America. The buttonhook exams put fear into even the bravest when the doctor took the hook to invert the upper eyelid to check for signs.
Once that was over, Martin moved to the area where inspectors were asking a series of questions of immigrants. He passed with flying colors and was admitted. He looked around for Michael but did not see him in the crowd so he proceeded to the moneychanger. Martin had just enough money for the train ride to San Francisco with a little to spare for food. He took the change and put it into his money belt and asked directions to the ferry terminal where he could buy his train ticket.
To his surprise, Michael was already there in line. Martin called out to him and they waved. “I’ll wait for you inside,” Michael said. But when it was Martin’s turn at the ticket window, he found he was short train fare. That moneychanger must have cheated me. And it was not uncommon for that to happen to new clueless arrivals who were an easy mark. Now what?
As he left the ferry terminal, a man in a dark suit approached him, speaking Italian, which he could understand a little since many Italians lived in Dubrovnik. “Do you need work?” Martin nodded yes. “Then follow me.” What choice do I have? I need to make enough money to get to California. So, he followed the man in the navy, pinstripe suit with the swarthy face and narrow eyes to an area known as the seaport located on the East River near the Brooklyn Bridge. Little did Martin know that this area was the domain of river pirates and mobsters. But he may have suspected something was amiss in the neighborhood populated with whorehouses, dog-fighting pits, and drug addicts. However, as they got closer, he could smell fish. And finally he saw it. More fish than he had ever seen before in his life and more varieties—in fact, millions of fish a day went through here. This was the Fulton Fish Market and Martin was about to become a fishmonger.
The man in the pinstripe suit guided him into the fish market, which was already done for the day. Work started at the wee hours of the morning and ended well before noon. The man approached a group of workers and began speaking in a language Martin assumed was Italian. Then the man, whom the others had called Vito, said, “Come with me.” Martin followed him through the fish market littered with fish heads and entrails until Vito came upon another Italian man in a bloody white apron. The two men talked while Martin waited. Then the fishmonger, named Luigi, handed Martin an apron and broom. “Clean,” he said. Not knowing what to do, Martin looked around and noticed others sweeping up the debris, scooping it up and putting it in a garbage bin. Martin began imitating what he saw while Luigi wiped down tables, shoving more blood and guts onto the floor.
This was not the American dream Martin had had in mind when he left home and endured a miserable sea voyage. But he didn’t know what else he could do to get the money he needed for the train fare. He worked for a couple of hours and was told to return at two in the morning. He had no watch so he wondered how he would be able to tell the time. Martin left and walked aimlessly around lower Manhattan until he came upon Battery Park, which had benches scattered about. Some were already occupied by sleeping bums, or were they actually immigrants, like him, exhausted from a day’s work with no place to call home? Fortunately, he found an empty bench and laid himself down to rest but fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke it was still dark. He hurried back to the fish market, which was just beginning to set up again with trucks full of fish to be off-loaded. Martin wove his way through the confusion until he came upon Luigi. “You are late,” he said, pointing to his watch. Martin shrugged. Luigi shook his head and then took Martin to a truck where he grumbled something. Martin understood that he wanted him to bring the crates of fish to his table. He picked the first one up. It was heavy but full of the fresh fish aroma he loved that reminded him a bit of home. When all the crates had been moved, Luigi showed Martin how to open them. Then while Martin removed the fish, Luigi began cleaning them and cutting them into filets.
The work was going smoothly, and Martin began to feel at ease in a place that had some familiarity. Then he heard Luigi let out a cry, and turning his head, he saw blood gushing from one of Luigi’s hands. Martin quickly grabbed a towel for Luigi to hold to stem the flow. Between winces of pain, Luigi cursed and cursed over and over again. Martin noticed he had barely fileted half the fish so he flew into action, taking a fish, slicing off its head and tail, slicing it down the middle, removing its entrails and bones. Luigi stood by astonished. He had never seen anyone with such skill. “Where did you learn to do this?” he asked.
Martin shrugged and said, “Home…father.”
“You have saved the day for me,” Luigi said as he gave Martin a pat on the back.
Martin continued to filet fish for the customers until closing time arrived. Then he went back to cleanup—first wiping tables down and then sweeping up the floor. He left feeling a sense of pride in a job well done. But he had not yet been paid. Tomorrow he would ask about the money, but for now he was content that he had proved his worth.
The rest of the week Luigi had Martin filet the fish since his hand was in no shape to do it. On Friday, he finally received his pay. M
artin counted enough for the train but not enough for food to carry him through the journey. He would have to work another week to have what he needed.
As he left the fish market, he saw Vito standing nearby wearing a bowler hat and smoking a cigar. “Come here, kid,” he said. Martin walked over to where he stood. “Do you want to make some money, big money?” he asked.
Martin only understood that he was offering him a job so he said, “Yes.”
“Good. Now take this satchel to the address on this paper and when you have delivered it, come back for your pay.”
Martin was naïve to the ways of the world, so he did as he was told. When he got to the address on the lower east side after asking directions several times, he knocked on the door and a man, another Italian, answered. Martin was about to hand him the satchel when a fellow brandishing a gun ran up the steps, grabbed it, and began shooting. Martin jumped off the stoop and starting running, and he didn’t stop until he got to the ferry terminal. He went right up to the ticket window and said, “San Francisco,” while opening his money belt and laying out its entire contents. He was surprised that the attendant left him a few coins to spare.
It wasn’t long before the ferry arrived to take him to Jersey City where he would catch the Trans Continental train. He was glad to be away from lower Manhattan and especially Vito. He now realized he was a bad man but not until much later would he realize he had been involved with a precursor to the Mafia.
The Transcontinental Express was waiting on the tracks. Martin walked down the line of cars to find third class. He passed the luxury first-class coaches, which would take passengers less than four days to reach the West Coast. But third-class passengers were not as lucky. When Martin finally reached his boarding place, it was a freight car attached to the back of the passenger coaches. He climbed aboard and found the car filled with people who appeared to be immigrants sitting shoulder to shoulder on hard wooden benches, eyes downcast, faces resigned. Someone told Martin the trip could take them up to ten days since freight cars were often forestalled to allow passenger trains to pass. Ten days was a long time to go without food and water. Thank goodness he had had the presence of mind to fill up his canteen. And he still had the hard tack and dried apricots his mother had packed. Somehow he would have to stretch them.
When the train pulled out of the station and he got his last look at New York City, he was not the least bit sad to leave it behind. Nothing much good had happened there except his entrance into the US and the sight of The Statue of Liberty when he arrived, a hopeful greeting for an immigrant searching for freedom. But he had learned freedom also has its downside. As far as he knew, Croatia didn’t have hoodlums perpetrating crime on people. But now he was aware that America did, and he would keep his guard up.
Chapter 4
The train trip was worse than Martin imagined it would be. The car was cramped, noisy, smelly—as putrid as steerage on the ship. Babies cried almost nonstop, husbands and wives argued, and men came to blows over the cramped conditions. Not to mention everyone was hungry. Martin wished he had enough food to share, but he had to save everything for himself and he had to be secretive about it. He would wait until it was dark before he pulled out a bit of hard tack or dried apricots so others would not try to steal it, and then he would hold the piece in his mouth allowing it to soften so the food could slide down his throat without chewing so as not attract unwanted attention.
The days dragged on and on and on. Martin wished he were back on the ship for all its drawbacks. At least he could breathe fresh air on the deck, sleep in a warm bed and get a hot meal even if it was only a bit of gruel. He felt like a prisoner doing penance, the train accommodations sheer torture.
The only saving grace was that when the car stopped, they could open the door to allow fresh air to circulate and could get out to walk around. At the next opportunity, Martin climbed out of the car and spent time walking around in the sunshine. He had counted the sunrises so this must have been his sixth day on the train, but he had heard they still had to cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains, which he had not yet seen.
When he got back to his seat, he was hungry and decided to have a little hard tack to stem the stomach pangs. He reached into his knapsack and felt for the secret pocket at the bottom but nothing was there. Then he put the knapsack on his lap where he could peer into it, but the hard tack and fruit seemed to have vanished. In a panic, he dumped the contents of his knapsack on his lap to search through everything. Still he came up empty-handed. That was when he heard the snickering and turned to see two men across from him with smirks on their faces. Then he knew he had been robbed and would have no more food to sustain him for the rest of the journey.
Each day seemed like an eternity until the mountains came into view that separated them from the West Coast. At last there was an end in sight. Martin was close to starving with only a few drops of water left to quench his thirst. He tried to sleep so time would pass more swiftly but found his anxiety kept him wide-awake. After what seemed like an eternity, the train finally made it past the mountain range and roared onto its final destination—San Francisco, California.
When the train finally came to a stop, Martin was among the first to touch his feet down on the West Coast. Both tired and elated, he moved through the train station to the street bustling with activity. He stopped for a minute to orient himself, and that’s when the magnificent San Francisco Bay made its appearance. He blinked several times to make sure it wasn’t a mirage or that he wasn’t dreaming of the Adriatic. But it was real and he knew he had reached his new home, which reminded him of the one he had left behind with the beautiful sea and hills paired in surreal splendor.
Martin stood still, gazing at the view for some time before a more pressing matter came to mind. He needed to find his uncle. Martin had put the address of his uncle’s restaurant in his money belt that he now removed. The address was written in both Croatian and English—522 Sacramento Street. He had no idea how to get there but would find someone to ask. At first he tried to stop people on the street, but they always seemed to be in a hurry if not afraid of the young man looking like a beggar and speaking a language they had never heard. Then it occurred to him to go back into the train station to ask a clerk. At least he could show him the address written in English.
Luck was finally with Martin as he found a friendly, helpful clerk who went to the trouble to draw a map for him to follow. He sent him off, pointing him in the right direction. Martin was not used to reading maps, other than nautical charts, but this one was fairly simple and it appeared the restaurant was not far. After some twists and turns and a few retraced steps, he finally arrived at 522 Sacramento Street with a sign out front announcing Adriatic Coast Cafe.
Before entering, Martin buttoned his coat and ran his fingers through his wavy hair to spruce up his appearance. He didn’t want his uncle’s first impression of him to be a bad one. Then he put his hand on the door handle to open it but it wouldn’t budge…it was locked. Now what was he supposed to do? He peered in the windows but no one seemed to be around. Martin had no idea what time it was, but he guessed it was too early for the restaurant to open. They’d have to show up sooner or later, he thought. So he sat down on the stoop, leaned against the doorway, and fell asleep from pure exhaustion.
The door finally opened causing, Martin to wake up and nearly fall onto the floor. A man, dressed like a waiter, started yelling at him, taking him for a bum. Martin had no idea what he was saying but tried to respond politely in Croatian. “My name is Martin Petrovich. I am looking for my uncle who is the chef here.”
The waiter raised his eyebrows in surprise and then responded in Croatian. “He has been expecting you. Come this way.” Martin followed him through the small restaurant making his way around the rustic wood tables already set for lunch. The waiter introduced Martin to a vital-looking man who resembled his mother. He was shorter than Martin and somewhat portly with short blond hair, blue eyes, and the Croatian tra
demark: a bulbous nose. As soon as he saw Martin, he wrapped his strong arms around him in a bear hug and said, “Welcome to America. We are so glad you are finally here. But you don’t look well…too skinny and pale. The first thing you need is a good meal. Sit down at the table here and I will make you something to eat. Vlad, bring Martin some water and milk while he waits.”
Uncle Anton set a plate of seafood risotto down in front of Martin, along with a green salad, bread and butter. Not only was this a feast but also it reminded Martin of home and his mother’s cooking. How did Uncle Anton know that seafood risotto was his favorite dish in the whole wide world?
“Now, the last lunch has been served and eaten and the last patron is out the door, fully satisfied, at least that is my hope. Let’s sit and talk.” He motioned to Vlad to join them.
Martin was too exhausted when he entered the restaurant but now he noticed it had a typical Croatian décor—white stucco walls, beamed ceiling and framed pictures of Dubrovnik on all the walls. It felt like an oasis in the desert. Martin sat down on a wooden chair to join his Uncle and Vlad at the table.
“Martin,” Uncle Anton began, “this is your cousin Vladimir.” Vlad was tall and thin with dark hair, almost black, a Roman nose and brown eyes topped with thick black eyebrows. Martin opened his eyes wide in surprise. His mother hadn’t mentioned cousins. Then he gave a wide smile and extended his arm to shake hands as he took his measure.
The California Immigrant Page 2