"My inspector says you have to keep him beside you till his father shows up," my translator said, then gestured to the man behind me to come forward.

"I'm not babysitting him," said Giose.

"Look," said my translator. He pointed at my shoes. "This is no urchin. The father will be grateful. Maybe I should keep him myself to get the reward."

Giose blinked at my shoes. I might not have had socks, but my shoes looked beautiful. "What am I supposed to do with you? All right, you've got shoes. You're somebody's little signore. Get over here and stand behind me."

I stood behind Giose. My arms hung at my sides like dead fish. It was too hard to keep fighting. Soon enough they'd realize I had no father here and they'd have to send me home.

The lines went on forever. Giose told me that more than five thousand people would pass through these lines that day. I knew that was huge.

The immigrants were almost all men, some in their teens. They talked about how wonderful they knew America was and how they would send for their wives and mothers and sisters soon, as though Giose would be impressed and treat them better. But he didn't really look at them, and he did a lot of sighing. Many of the men held books and read to one another.

When Giose went to the bathroom, I asked the man at the front of the line, "What are the stories about?"

He smiled proudly. "These are no stories. This book isteaching me how to speak English. Listen." He spouted off gobbledy-gook. Then he waited.

It took a second before I knew what he wanted; I clapped.

He pressed his palm against his chest. "I'm a skilled artisan and now I speak English. I'm going to get a good job making beautiful furniture." His breath was foul, and I found myself staring at a tiny black bug jumping in his hair. I stepped away.

Giose came back and the morning went by slowly. Every time I sank to a squat, he told me to stand again so my father could find me.

My father.

Mamma hadn't ever told anyone who my father was.

I imagined him now. He'd have black eyes. His nose would be straight-because mine was straight and Mamma's was crooked, so I must have gotten my nose from him. He'd be able to read. Mamma never would have chosen an uneducated man.

Maybe Giose was right; maybe my father was here. I stared at each man. None of them looked at me.

After a while I switched to staring at the boys. They came in groups, ranging from six years old up, and most of them were with an uncle.

Giose whispered, "Those men aren't really uncles. They're hired by the padroni to bring the boys over. A padrone pays a man's ticket. In return, the man watches over the boys until they get through immigration. Then the 'uncle' goes on his way." Giose brushed off his hands. "And the boys begin work for the padrone. It's illegal, but that doesn't stop anyone."

The boys were barefoot, skinny, and dirty. Their "uncle" barked orders, and they obeyed immediately.

I stared at one boy. Mucus crusted his cheek and there was a colored chalk mark on his shirt. His "uncle" pointed at me. "That one, he's my nephew, too."

Giose shook his head as though he'd been right all along about me. "Get over there behind your uncle."

"I don't know him," I yelped. "I've never seen him before."

The "uncle" grabbed me by the elbow and flung me behind him.

CHAPTER NINE.

Trust.

"No!" I screamed. "I don't know him!"

"Shut up," said the "uncle."

"Send me back to Napoli!" I screamed.

The "uncle" smacked me across the jaw with the back of his hand. I fell. He went on answering Giose's questions.

The other boys turned their backs to us, but one of them hissed out of the side of his mouth. "Stupid. You'll have work in America. And food. Get up."

I wouldn't get up. I'd done what Mamma said. I'd watched and learned and fit in. And none of it mattered, because now this "uncle" had me and I'd be lost and alone for the rest of my life. I lay there and screamed.

The "uncle" kicked me. "Get up, or they'll throwyou in a home with sick boys and you'll die." He turned back to Giose.

My side hurt. I drew my knees to my chest and hugged them.

"That's where I'm going," said the boy with the colored chalk mark on his shirt, "to the sick home. To die." His eyes were glassy with fever.

"I'm going to Napoli!" I forced out as loud as I could.

The "uncle" kicked me harder.

"What are you doing?" The translator from the first line stepped between us. "Don't kick him again." He pulled me up. I held my side where I'd been kicked and looked at him in surprise. I'd thought he'd forgotten about me. Now he pulled me over beside Giose. "That isn't his uncle. He just says it because one of his boys is sick and he needs a substitute for the padrone."

"The guy says he's the boy's uncle," said Giose, "so he is."

"Listen to the way he talks. He's from somewhere in Basilicata, but the boy's from Napoli."

"What, do you think I'm deaf?" said Giose. "You're German; I'm the Italian. This is my country they come from. I hear how they talk. That doesn't change a thing. The boy needs an uncle."

"He's got shoes. He's going to stand right here till his father comes. He's not going anywhere with some fake uncle."

Giose looked at the "uncle" with both palms turned upward in apology. "Eh, beh, what can you do?" He pointed to the stairs behind him. "Those are the stairs of separation.The sick boy goes in that hall to the left. If you ever want to see him again, you go with him. Everyone else goes down the stairs to fetch baggage and buy ferry tickets." He held his hand out low, at the side of the podium.

The "uncle" put money in Giose's hand. Then he pushed the feverish boy toward the hall on the left and barked at the rest of the boys to go with him downstairs. The sick boy left without a word. I was sure he believed what he'd said-he was going to the sick home to die. I wanted to yell to him, "Fight!" Hadn't his mother told him to survive?

I didn't want to stand anywhere near Giose anymore. But where else could I go? The endless lines kept moving.

After about an hour Giose unwrapped a skinny loaf of bread stuffed with cheese and meats. Lettuce, tomato, onion, and pepper flopped out the sides. He 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.

Giose 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, Giose 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 Giose'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 Citta 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 Citta di Napoli ... so, okay, your last name is Napoli."

"Don't do that," said Giose. "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 Giose 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 that door you get a physical inspection ..."

Giose cut in, "No one's going to let you onto the streets of New York alone. A boy your age needs a family or a padrone."

"Padroni are illegal," I said defiantly. I could find a policeman and tell him all about the money Giose took from the "uncles." I could, if I knew where a policeman was. And if a policeman would listen to me. And if he spoke Napoletano. Suddenly it all felt so hard.

"Lots of things are illegal," said Giose calmly. "The padroni have been running the show for years."

"I don't want a padrone."

"I don't blame you," said the German translator. "So that means you need a family."

"Change his name to di Napoli," said Giose, "like I said. The translator in the third line, the one who knows almost no Italian, wrote in di Napoli for at least four men today whose last names he couldn't spell. The kid can try to find one of them and latch on."

The German translator picked up his pen.

"No," I said. "I'll stay Napoli. Napoli, Dom."

"All right, then, kid. It's your life. You'll go it alone. If you act smart, you've got a chance. Others your age have done it." He filled out my form.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Why are you writing without asking me anything?"

"The whole thing's a lie anyway," said the German translator. "But it's the only way you'll get into Manhattan."

"What's Manhattan?"

"The main part of New York City. Where the big buildings are."

"I don't want to go to New York City," I said. "I want to go to Napoli."

"No one's going to pay your fare back, boy," Giose said. "It's New York City or an orphanage-your choice."