"Your mother again?" said a man. "Eat, and we'll worry about her later."

Nonna's proverb came to me: "Chi tene mamma, nun chiagne"-Whoever has a mother doesn't cry. I held my breath to stop the tears, but they came anyway.

The men jabbered on, not looking at me. I should have been grateful, but their ignoring me only made me feel more alone. They talked about the trip: two weeks if we were lucky and didn't hit storms. It could be three weeks. Four.

All that time at sea. How far was America, anyway?

They passed around a bottle of wine, each one taking a swill. When it came to me, I hesitated.

"What's the matter, aren't you weaned yet? You want milk?" asked a man jokingly.

They laughed.

I tried it. It was strong-not like the sweet wine we had at Passover. I didn't like it, but I was thirsty. I drank again, then passed the bottle.

But now they were all looking at me and talking about me, as though they'd suddenly been reminded I was there. The man who had brought me over from the mast said, "I'm Carlo. You get an extra tomato since you didn't eat the salami."

"I'll save it for Mamma."

"Don't worry about your mother," said the man who had spoken before. "Just eat."

"Why should he eat more?" said a man gruffly. "He's another mouth to feed-a useless mouth."

Still, Carlo handed me a tomato so ripe and sweet, its juices burst in my mouth. I finished it and wiped my chin with my palm, then licked my hand.

"At least he appreciates a tomato," said one man. And the others laughed again.

They went around the circle introducing themselves. Then they asked my name. Beniamino was a typical Jewishname. These men weren't Jewish-not the way they'd devoured that salami. I remembered Mamma taking my yar-mulke off. I shrugged.

"A talking rat with no name," said Eduardo, the one who had lifted me from the top of the ladder. A cigarette bobbled between his lips as he spoke.

"He must have slipped in last night early," said Carlo, "because we had someone guarding the plank from midnight on."

I glanced at Franco, the man who had snuck Mamma and me onto the boat this morning. He was looking at me, his face tense.

"... quieter than a rat," Carlo was saying. "More like a mouse in church. What shall we call the mouse we see at Mass on domenica-on Sunday?" He clapped. "Let's call him Domenico."

"In America, though, he'll need an American name," said Eduardo. "Joe would be better."

"Or just make Domenico short-Dom-like the Americans do," said Carlo. "After all, he's a little fellow."

They laughed. Most of them had lit cigarettes by now, and they were blowing their smoke into the breeze.

"What'll it be, little mouse?" asked Eduardo. "Joe or Dom?"

"Dom," I said.

"See?" said Eduardo to Franco. "A talking mouse."

"What do they call you in America?" I asked Eduardo.

"I don't need an American name," he said. "I'm not staying when we land. You'll go off to Mulberry Street. But us ..." He looked around at the circle of men. "We go back to Napoli-bella Napoli. So, little mouse, little Dom, let'stalk." He leaned away from me as if to get a look at my whole self, while he picked salami from between his teeth. "Is your mother really hidden on this ship?"

I stole a glance at Franco. He closed his eyes briefly. But he didn't have to, because I'd figured it out. He'd get in trouble if I told; he'd brought two more mouths to feed onto this boat.

I looked down at my hands. As soon as these men went about their business again, I'd find Mamma. On my own. And I'd bring her food. Franco would give me food for her.

"If there's a woman on board," said Carlo, "I'll be mighty happy."

The men chuckled.

"If there were other stowaways, we'd know by now," said Franco.

I remembered the sick man. "There is someone else," I blurted.

"What! Who?"

"I don't know. He talked to me, but he didn't tell me his name."

"Where is he?" asked Eduardo.

"One deck down. He was hiding in the dark near me."

Eduardo got up.

"Wait." I grabbed his ankle. "Be careful. He's sick."

Eduardo's cheek twitched. "Sick how?"

"Cholera."

He jerked free from me.

"I don't have cholera," I said. "I swear."

"Did he vomit?"

"Yes."

Eduardo's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Then he's dying."

And now they were all arguing. Everyone had heard of a different way to deal with cholera. The only thing they could agree on was that someone had to find the man. And soon.

No one volunteered.

They played a game-guessing the number of pigs on deck. The loser, a big man called Beppe, touched his forehead, his chest, his left shoulder, then his right. Aha: the sign of the cross. Catholics did that a lot. Beppe held up the medal that hung around his neck and said, "Help me, Sant'Antonio." He kissed it and disappeared down the hatch.

He came back up, holding an oil lamp. "He's breathing. But he's too far gone to answer."

One man got an oilclotch. Another got three brooms and handed them out. Beppe went back down the ladder with the lamp, leading the way to the sick man.

"Get up," said Beppe.

No response. He must have been playing dead, hoping they'd go away.

"They won't hurt you," I said. "They'll feed you. They fed me."

He didn't answer.

Two men spread the oilcloth beside him and stood holding tight the top and bottom ends. Three other men used the brooms to push him onto the cloth.

He groaned and his head lolled to one side. The black bristles of his new beard were streaked with yellow and red. "Water," he breathed roughly.

They carried him up onto the deck near the railing. Then two men lowered buckets over the side and filled them with water.

"Don't swallow," said Beppe. "It's seawater. To clean you up." And he doused the sick man with bucket after bucket.

The man's chest rose and fell. His face was clean now, and his black beard glistened.

"I've got fresh water for you," Beppe said. "Open your mouth wide."

The man opened his mouth but kept his eyes closed.

Beppe poured water into his mouth.

The sick man gulped and opened his mouth again.

Beppe poured a little more.

The sick man lay there with his mouth open. He didn't swallow this time. His chest stopped moving.

Someone nudged him with a broom. "He's gone."

What? He was right there. The man nudged him harder. "He's not gone," I said. "He can't be." I went closer.

Eduardo caught me by the pants and pulled me to him.

They argued about whether they should search the man's pockets for identification, since his family would want to know. But no one was ready to touch him.

They all made the sign of the cross. Then the men with brooms came forward and the rest stepped back. I knew what they were going to do before they did it. I didn't scream.

He was gone, oilcloth and all.

He was there, and then he wasn't.

They swabbed the deck. Some went down the ladder with buckets and mops to swab below, too.

I stood and watched, my legs splayed so I wouldn't fall. The spot where the man had sunk, the man who was now food for the fish, was far behind us, covered by the turbulence of our wake. He was dead when they threw him over. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. They would never throw over a living person. They would never throw over Mamma or me.

"Your pants could use some cleaning, too, Dom," said a voice.

It took a moment before I realized the voice was talking to me. I was Dom. I looked up at Franco, who held a bucket.

"Take your pants off and dip them in here."

Never undress with anyone else around-Mamma had made me swear. And now I knew why; she had said it for the same reason she had taken my yarmulke. She didn't want people to see my circumcision and know I was Jewish. I shook my head.

"You smell, boy."

"I don't care."

"But we do." Franco wrinkled his nose. "Take off your shoes."

Why? My shoes were way too small for these men. "No."

"Suit yourself," he said. "Do you like the water?"

"I swim," I said. Then I tensed up. What did he mean?

"Oop la." And he sloshed the whole bucket right at my middle with a smile.

I stood dripping, my new shoes soaked. Before I could think straight, I raised the back of my forearm to him, fist curled tight, in the angry gesture every Napoletano recognized.

CHAPTER SIX.

The Plan.

I sat on the deck cleaning squid for Riccardo, the cook. I didn't like squid-they weren't kosher. The first time I cleaned them, I had to fight off revulsion. But cleaning squid took all my attention, and that was good because then I couldn't think about Mamma.

For two days I searched the whole boat for her, over and over. When I didn't find her and Franco wouldn't answer my questions, I imagined he had her in a cage off the boiler rooms. So I told Carlo. If anyone could stand up to Franco, it was Carlo. He helped me search. Everywhere.

She wasn't here.

I was alone on this ship. I hugged myself hard and pressed my back into the wall and listened to the buzz in my head. I was dizzy the rest of that day. Dizzy and nauseated.

Franco had left Mamma in Napoli. That coward. I hated him. Poor Mamma. My poor, poor mamma, frantic with worry for me.

But I had a plan. When we got to America, I wouldn't get off the cargo ship. I'd turn right around and go back to Mamma. In my prayers, I asked the Most Powerful One to tell her that, so she wouldn't cry too much. In the meantime, my job was to fit in. The first time I went into the galley and asked what I could do to help, Riccardo ignored me. So I watched. Then I shelled peas. When he saw how quick I was, he gave me all sorts of tasks.

There were tons of jobs on this ship. I looked around and did whatever needed doing. I was living Uncle Aurelio's lecture-I'd been smacked with adversity, and I'd picked myself up like any good Jew.