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Authors: Donna Jo Napoli
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said, “In America they call this an Italian sandwich.” He laughed in a chummy way, as though he hadn't just tried to betray me. “These Americans,” he said, “they give only an hour for lunch—not enough to get home and eat in pleasure.” He shook his head.
His complaints went on and on. Did he think I cared one bit? Did he think he could win me back so easily? I listened because I had to. Otherwise, he might get mad and pawn me off on the next “uncle.”
I was hungry for his food, but Jews don't eat cheese and meat together. Still, it looked good. The people in the line glanced at the sandwich, closed their mouths, and looked away.
Giosè stood chewing over me. “Stay here and stand tall while I go eat. Your father will find you soon.”
The minute he was gone, I sat on the floor.
A man pushed a metal cart between the lines, selling boxed lunches of sandwiches, fruit, and pie for a half dollar. People paid in their different monies. A box lunch was big enough to feed five men. You could buy bread for four pennies, a sweet cake for six pennies, sausage for ten. I didn't know what the prices meant, and it didn't matter, because I didn't have pennies. But the smells …
Finally, Giosè came back. He didn't tell me to stand up. He got back to work.
The German translator said he was leaving for lunch now, and he handed me a piece of newspaper. I unwrapped it. A corner of a sandwich sat there. “Thank you,” I said in amazement.
“Don't mention it,” he said.
I took out the meat and ate the rest of the sandwich. The meat was pink; it could have been pig. I looked around for a place to stash it so the translator wouldn't find out that I hadn't eaten it. Mamma always said ingrates were the worst kind of people.
I worked the meat inside a pocket. Then I leaned my head against the inspector's podium and fell asleep.
Tap, tap
. Someone was tapping on the top of my head.
I looked up into Giosè's face. “The lines are done,” he said. “No one reported a lost son. You were a fool not to go with that ‘uncle.’ ” He straightened his cap. “All right, it's time for us to deal with you. Did you come off that ship called
Città di Napoli
?”
I nodded.
The German translator asked, “You're really alone? Like you said?”
I nodded.
He picked up his pen. “What's your last name?”
Could my name get me in trouble? I shrugged.
“I've got to write something. You came over on
Città di Napoli
… so, okay, your last name is Napoli.”
“Don't do that,” said Giosè. “Call him di Napoli or de Napoli or da Napoli—not just Napoli. Only Jews take city names for their last name.”
My breath caught. “Napoli is okay with me,” I said.
“So you do want to talk,” said the German translator. “Good. But Giosè has a point. You don't want to be taken for a Jew, trust me.”
Adversity, that was what he was talking about. Like Uncle Aurelio said. I didn't care what adversity I'd face in America. I wasn't going to be here long anyway. And no matter what, I'd always be loyal to my family. “Put my last name as Napoli,” I said firmly, feeling Nonna's approval.
He lifted an eyebrow. “All right, Signor Napoli, don't get upset. Anyway, you can use whatever name you want after you leave here. So, what first name do you want?”
I stood there.
“I have to put a first name, or I can't give you the document you need.”
“Dom,” I said.
“Domenico,” he said, writing on a form.
“No, just Dom,” I said.
He hesitated. Then he stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “All right, Napoli, Dom. Birth date?”
“Twenty-fourth of December.”
“A Christmas present, huh?” Both men laughed.
“What year?” When I shrugged, he asked, “How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“That would make 1883—no, 1882, because you were born at the end of the year. So, who's waiting for you here in New York?”
I shrugged.
“No one? Oh, boy.” He put down his pen. “Here's how it works, Dom. Beyond
His complaints went on and on. Did he think I cared one bit? Did he think he could win me back so easily? I listened because I had to. Otherwise, he might get mad and pawn me off on the next “uncle.”
I was hungry for his food, but Jews don't eat cheese and meat together. Still, it looked good. The people in the line glanced at the sandwich, closed their mouths, and looked away.
Giosè stood chewing over me. “Stay here and stand tall while I go eat. Your father will find you soon.”
The minute he was gone, I sat on the floor.
A man pushed a metal cart between the lines, selling boxed lunches of sandwiches, fruit, and pie for a half dollar. People paid in their different monies. A box lunch was big enough to feed five men. You could buy bread for four pennies, a sweet cake for six pennies, sausage for ten. I didn't know what the prices meant, and it didn't matter, because I didn't have pennies. But the smells …
Finally, Giosè came back. He didn't tell me to stand up. He got back to work.
The German translator said he was leaving for lunch now, and he handed me a piece of newspaper. I unwrapped it. A corner of a sandwich sat there. “Thank you,” I said in amazement.
“Don't mention it,” he said.
I took out the meat and ate the rest of the sandwich. The meat was pink; it could have been pig. I looked around for a place to stash it so the translator wouldn't find out that I hadn't eaten it. Mamma always said ingrates were the worst kind of people.
I worked the meat inside a pocket. Then I leaned my head against the inspector's podium and fell asleep.
Tap, tap
. Someone was tapping on the top of my head.
I looked up into Giosè's face. “The lines are done,” he said. “No one reported a lost son. You were a fool not to go with that ‘uncle.’ ” He straightened his cap. “All right, it's time for us to deal with you. Did you come off that ship called
Città di Napoli
?”
I nodded.
The German translator asked, “You're really alone? Like you said?”
I nodded.
He picked up his pen. “What's your last name?”
Could my name get me in trouble? I shrugged.
“I've got to write something. You came over on
Città di Napoli
… so, okay, your last name is Napoli.”
“Don't do that,” said Giosè. “Call him di Napoli or de Napoli or da Napoli—not just Napoli. Only Jews take city names for their last name.”
My breath caught. “Napoli is okay with me,” I said.
“So you do want to talk,” said the German translator. “Good. But Giosè has a point. You don't want to be taken for a Jew, trust me.”
Adversity, that was what he was talking about. Like Uncle Aurelio said. I didn't care what adversity I'd face in America. I wasn't going to be here long anyway. And no matter what, I'd always be loyal to my family. “Put my last name as Napoli,” I said firmly, feeling Nonna's approval.
He lifted an eyebrow. “All right, Signor Napoli, don't get upset. Anyway, you can use whatever name you want after you leave here. So, what first name do you want?”
I stood there.
“I have to put a first name, or I can't give you the document you need.”
“Dom,” I said.
“Domenico,” he said, writing on a form.
“No, just Dom,” I said.
He hesitated. Then he stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “All right, Napoli, Dom. Birth date?”
“Twenty-fourth of December.”
“A Christmas present, huh?” Both men laughed.
“What year?” When I shrugged, he asked, “How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“That would make 1883—no, 1882, because you were born at the end of the year. So, who's waiting for you here in New York?”
I shrugged.
“No one? Oh, boy.” He put down his pen. “Here's how it works, Dom. Beyond
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