On the Way to America

by Stephen Wayne Greene & Meredith Greene

Copyright 2008, Stephen Wayne Greene and/or Meredith Greene. All rights reserved.

One

Muffled coughing woke Molly from the grasp of slumber. Sitting up, the young girl drew her woolen shawl about her shoulders. She did not dare light a candle; the small stubs of wax on the table were only to be used for emergencies. Woolen stockings kept some of the cold from her feet as she stepped to the bedroom door. Listening, she heard the soft sounds of her grandfather's loom. Shaking her head, Molly smiled a little and pushed open the door.

“What ar' ye doin up this time o' night, lass?”

The phrase was spoken even before the door was fully open. Molly smiled at the aging man sitting at the loom.

“I heard you coughing, grandfather,” she explained, softly. Walking to the man’s side the young woman took off her shawl, lovingly placing it over his worn jacket. The white-haired man smiled up at his granddaughter, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Thank ye lass,” he said, turning back to his work. “Tis a mite nippy in 'ere.” Molly sat down on a stool by his chair. Still smiling, the aging weaver took up his shuttle once more. The cloth he wove was a fine linen cloth, for a rich woman's table. As her grandfather moved the slender, wooden shuttle back and forth over and between the delicate-looking threads, Molly admired the smooth, even work of the master weaver.

“Beautiful,” Molly said, “Is it going with the crate, to London?” Her grandfather nodded.

“Aye... 'tis the last of them I'll be making on the Erin shore...” the white-haired weaver's eyes took on a watery appearance as he said the words. Not able to find words of comfort, Molly covered one wizened hand with her own; the contrast between them was striking; his so pale and shrunken, hers fair and smooth. Patrick Callahan patted the girl's hand.

“Twill be alright,” he said, heavily. “'Tis hard 't leave. It be the thing we must do, but 'tis hard to leave all t' same.”

Molly felt grief well in her throat, but said nothing. Wiping away a tear, she nodded and swallowed the pain. Many of her friends had left with their families already, gone to Dublin, England or to New York City. Though the Great Famine was long over, the Emerald Isle had not fully recovered. Work was scarce, food was scarcer and in the cities the poor grew ever the more poor and wretched. A skilled worker of flax, her grandfather earned enough to keep them alive and housed, even setting by a little now and again; Molly aided him in knitting good, woolen stockings scarves and mittens to sell, but the earnings were meager.

At the very least, they had but the two of them to feed. Many young children and elders had perished from the poor food. Even in summer to see fruit or greens was a luxury. The stronger souls made for the farms to work, or set out on the long journey across the sea... to America.

“Will your cousin's family meet us in New York City?” Molly asked, after a moment. Her grandfather nodded, slowly.

“Aye,” he said, continuing his work. “Liam and his family will meet us when we get off Ellis Island, so they say; they'll have a place where we can stay for a spell, until we find our own.”

Molly watched her grandfather work for a moment.

“So, we’re to drive a cart to the station, take the train down to Dublin, then the ferry to Liverpool,” she said, quietly; saying their plans aloud seemed to bring with it a bit of comfort. “I heard there are inspectors at the ports that say whether or not ye can get on the boats at all,” she ocntinued. “They say that if you're even a bit sick you cannot go to America.” Patrick smiled down at the young woman as he worked.

“You're nearly twenty years of age, Molly Callahan,” he told her, with a bit of humor. “'Tis time you learned to take all advice with a grain of salt. Like as not there are inspections, however, we'll buy ‘second-class’ tickets. Nat Connor down at the pub said that his brother went last year; he said if you ride second-class 'tis a much better place than steerage. I’ve heard of stifling conditions down in the belly of the ship, where all the poor are crammed together… with no curtains for dressing or water for washing.”

“That sounds dreadful...” Molly said, gravely. The white-haired man shot her a grin.

“I've some coin laid away lass,” said he. “With what Liam sent, ‘tis enough to get us to America without being robbed and pressed against others. Have ye bundled yer things?” Molly nodded, still watching his hands as they worked the fine, flaxen threads.

“Aye, sir,” she replied, with a sigh. “I won't complain, grandfather… but I am loath to go. My heart is here, in Ireland.”

The weaving stopped.

“I feel the same as you, lass,” the aging man told her, gently. “But, we must look ahead now and keep the Isle within our hearts.” He patted the top of Molly's red head briefly. “We are Ireland, you know; it goes where we go.” He began working once more.

“If you think about it, we're but leaving one island for another. Ellis Island is where we're bound, after that Manhattan Island. Our new home will be what we make of it, lass.”

The elderly man’s words comforted his granddaughter a little; Molly watched him finish the pure white cloth. An hour later, she helped him cut it carefully from the loom and finely knot the ends. Together, they folded it with twists of spare cloth in the creases and packed it in the large, wooden crate with many others. The coughing spasms Molly's grandfather was prone to bothered her; perhaps these officials would not let him onto the boat. The aging weaver seemed better as of lat; he coughed less and less, in spite of the cold weather. With care, Molly laid an extra blanket over his tired form as he stretched on his mat.

“Thank ye,” he said, in the darkness. “No fretting, now about t' journey. They say America has great promise, even for a poor Irishman. They say there is no sight like that of Lady Liberty, the huge statue in the great harbor of New York; she can be seen miles away, calling those in whom need a but a chance to make something of themselves. That's what we need now. Just a chance for a better life.”

“Aye, sir,” Molly returned; the aged man's quiet words gave her heart. “Goodnight, grandfather.”

“Sleep well,” came the tired reply. Molly smiled in the dark, quietly moving back to her own room.

The two occupants of the small weaver's store were up before the neighbor's rooster crowed. With Molly's help, Patrick wheeled out their borrowed cart and pony; on its rattling sides they hoisted the crate of linen tablecloths, their satchels and a single crate of the Callahan belongings. Casting one longing look at the weaving shop, Molly got up in the front seat beside her grandfather. Patrick flicked the reins and set them going. It seemed even the bumpy road was begging them to turn back… not to go on the long journey away from home.

After a long, dirty train ride, crammed tightly in with many other travelers, Molly and her grandfather were both aching and exhausted as they boarded the ferry to Liverpool harbor. Early January weather did little to help matters; it was bitterly cold and the wind cut like a knife. As heart-wrenching the sight of Ireland's green shores moving farther and farther away, Molly’s sadness was abated by excitement. She was filled with awe and wonderment at the sight of the sprawling, gray, snow-dusted city of Liverpool with its rising smoke and vast harbor crammed with steamships. The mighty sea-going vessels of two, three or even four smokestacks dwarfed the tiny ferry they all rode upon.

Well-wrapped against the cold, Molly kept a tight hold of her grandfather's arm as they disembarked onto the loading dock. It was the first time either of them had stepped foot on English soil. Agents from shipping companies were among the people swarming the docks; these men were sought out by families and travelers who'd bought traveling packages at the railway office. Molly and her grandfather had traveled in the sooty, stench-ridden third-class railway cars and took the cheapest ferry passage over to England. Any temptation to complain about the smell or the cramped quarters was tempered by excitement.

Every passenger seemed to be going to America, to Ellis Island and New York. Along the journey Molly heard whispered rumors of the immigration island.

“It is the Island of Hope,” she overheard from one older woman on the train. “My cousin Mary wrote back, saying they eat like kings there, and they give you a flag and a kiss on the cheek and say you are now an American.” The woman's companion shook her head, sadly.

“My neighbor's daughter and her husband went over last year,” she said, in a hushed voice. “They said the journey was horrible, packed in like fish in a box and the smell was terrible; they were not let out for air in bad weather and she got ill with the boat rocking about so. She says when they got to New York, they had to strip stark-naked and let doctors look at them. Even then, some people were not allowed to go on and were sent back to the ship. Some people there were very afraid and called it the Isle of Tears.”

Though the speakers had no idea they were being overheard, their words made fear well up in the young woman's mind. The journey to America sounded bad enough, but the island of Ellis suddenly changed from a gateway to freedom to a dark and mysterious den of uncertainty and exposure. Patrick did his best to allay her fears.

“Gossip lies nine times, and tells a half-truth the tenth,” he told her. “Even if all of that is true, folk still think 'tis worth the risk to have a chance at a new life. Myself I include in that, lass.” Molly took heart at his words, though she kept the rumors in her mind, just to be prepared.

The harbor docks proved to be like no place Molly had ever seen. The day was mercifully clear, but frigid. Steamships were docking and going to and fro, people streaming by the rows of shops to get to line up outside the shipping company offices. Vendors pushed carts of bread and hot soup to sell, calling out above the din. Sitting on the crate of their belongings, Molly waited for her grandfather to come back to her; she could see him just across the way, buying a loaf of bread from a vendor. Many families and travelers sat nearby and all around, all waiting to speak to one of the shipping company officials.

Immense vessels lay moored nearby. Keeping her hands wrapped in her woolen muff, Molly stared up at the closest ship, its metal sides streaked with mineral deposits; black smoke drifted from one of the enormous smokestacks. Above the waterline, little, brown barnacles clung to the hull in dense clusters. The smell of food, fish and smoke whirled in the air on the chilly breeze.

“Well, here’s a pretty lassie...” a strange man nearby her spoke, distracting Molly's eyes from the boat. A man in a fine, fur cap and a well-cut overcoat stood not two feet away from her crate, smiling down at her. Though he smiled widely, Molly felt unsettled by the man's manner; she moved her eyes to her shoes and did not answer. Her grandfather sternly warned her to speak to no one, especially men.

“'Tis a lovely sight ye are,” the man continued, leaning a bit closer. “The loveliest girl on the docks that I've laid eyes on all day... is no one with you? Are ye all alone?”

“Nowt she is not,” came a stern voice from behind the man. Molly looked up, relieved.

Patrick Callahan was an old man but the hard look in his eye belied his frailty; in his youth he'd been a boxer and right now he felt capable of wringing the younger usurper's neck with sheer wrath. “You'd best be pushin' off, afore I whip ye for harassin' a young girl and call the constable!” The stranger stepped back, took off his fur cap and nodded in a half-polite fashion. He grinned at Molly again before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

“Cheeky blighter...” the white-haired weaver murmured, glaring as the man.

“I said nothing to him, grandfather,” Molly said, apologetically. Sitting down beside the young woman on the crate, Patrick Callahan nodded.

“Ah know,” he said, heavily. “You're a good girl, Molly. Ye did right looking away and being silent. If I were but a little younger I'd have thrashed him. All brazen-like, too... trying to pick up a young girl under the very eyes of her kin...”

Taking the bread in his hands he broke the loaf with force; he gave one half to Molly. “Eat some, save some,” he said, looking around with narrowed eyes. “'Tis likely all we're to get afore t' morrow.” Molly kissed him on the cheek for thanks and tore off a few bites of the bread. It was fresh and delicious; they'd not had fresh bread in a week. They ate in silence, taking in the sea air mixed with hundreds of other mingling smells.

A newsboy came through up the dock, waving a paper and crying his stories out. The loudest call he made caught Molly's attention.

“Earthquake in Messina! Harbor destroyed! Death toll in the ten thousands! Sicily in uproar... read all about it!” Patrick shook his head.

“A tragedy that,” he said, sadly.

“Where is Messina?” Molly asked. Her grandfather took his pipe from his mouth.

“In the north-eastern part of Sicily,” he told her. “Italy is shaped like boot and the island of Sicily 'tis right at the toe, is if the mainland is kicking it away.” Molly smiled at the imagery.

“Is it a big island?” she inquired, taking a bite of bread. Patrick titled his head a little to one side, his brow creased in thought.

“As I remember from maps an' such,” he told her. “Not as big as Ireland, mind you, but big enough. Messina's likely a large city, with so many dead from one earthquake. A shame, really...” He pointed to a nearby ship with a strange-looking name. “That ship's from Italy, there... perhaps it docked at Messina once. There are all manner of ships here, from all harbors in the world. That ship over there is from Norway.”

“Which ship is ours?” Molly asked, interested. Her grandfather grinned.

“The R.H.M. Cedric came in last night; most likely that will be it,” he said, pointing straight ahead; it was the massive ship closest to them. Of the many flags it flew, the topmost was a red flag with a white star. “'Tis almost brand new, built just last year. That and the Celtic are twin ships… the biggest vessels on the sea. See that line of crewmen? They're re-stocking the boat with supplies, and ‘tis being scrubbed down up top.”

Molly looked on the boat with awe, slowly chewing a bite of bread. “The man at the railway office advised we travel second class,” her grandfather continued. “He says the food's terrible in steerage, and there's no privacy at all. At least we'll have a door on our room and linens, even hot water for bathing.”

Molly looked relieved at this information.

“That sounds better than a posh hotel,” she said, smiling. “We'll be traveling on the same boat as the rich folk, and there's nowt they can do about it.” At this Patrick Callahan chuckled and tugged on the brim of Molly's bonnet.

A moment later he stood up, and gave her the rest of his bread.

“Now, tie that up and save it,” he instructed. “I've to visit those shops for but a moment, and I'll be back.” He glanced around quickly, and spied a constable, standing guard nearby. “You get his attention if anyone bothers ye. Like as not he'll come right away to help a bonnie lass.”

Nodding her head, Molly watched him flip up the collar of his thin coat and walk away, towards the harbor stores. Curious as to what he'd be after to buy, Molly contented herself with watching bold gulls dive and land on a nearby bread cart, avoiding the swipes of the owner and his son. The scene made her laugh quietly; one gull managed to get an entire roll, only to have it stolen from him by another. A half hour later, her grandfather returned, bearing several, large and mysterious parcels, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Molly looked at the white-haired weaver in expectation but he merely took out his pipe and lit it, smoking in the confusion of voices and activity around them.

Due to the strict standards of the Immigration department at Ellis Island, all the shipping companies adhered to a process of cleanliness for all passengers. On the dock, an agent for the White Star Line politely informed Molly and her grandfather that if they wished to journey to America, they would need to be medically examined, their clothing de-loused and they'd given an antiseptic bath. Horrified, Molly looked at the man aghast, holding onto her grandfather's arm; the white haired weaver patted her hand encouragingly.

“They fear contagion, lass,” he told her as they followed the agent into a large building, flying red flags with a white star on them.

“What about our crate and bags?” Molly asked, clutching her grandfather's arm.

“We have them, miss. They will be fumigated and marked for you,” the agent said, giving the pretty young woman a kind smile. “Do not worry... we'll take good care of you.” He wrote down their names, national origin and ages on two, large cards of thick paper and pinned them to their jackets. “'Tis so you don't lose them,” he explained. The agent led them down a narrow corridor to a bustling hallway. Women and men with similar tags pinned to their jackets stood on opposite side of the room, in long lines down the hall. “Women on that side, men on this side. Good afternoon.” The agent nodded and walked back from whence he'd come.

Patrick Callahan squeezed Molly's hand.

“Courage, lass,” he said. “Best to get it over with.” Molly slowly released his arm and swallowed hard as she looked at the line of women, waiting to be 'inspected'. It was an accurate description; after waiting two hours, Molly joined ten other women in a small, private room. The woman working there were not unkind; the moment Molly disrobed, she was ushered into a warm antiseptic bath and given soap to wash her hair and a clean sheet to wrap up in. Sitting on a bench with the others outside the examination room, Molly bit her nails and tried to imagine she was back home, sitting in a green field where there were no doctors or strange, white rooms.

The doctor and woman nurse glanced her over quickly; they did exams hundred of times each and every day and the young woman, though slightly malnourished, appeared to have no symptoms of any disease whatsoever. The nurses in the room sat Molly down on a chair in her sheet and looking carefully at her head and combing through her damp hair.

“This one washes,” one nurse said, to the other. “No eggs at all.” Molly looked baffled at this; the nurse smiled. “It means there are no lice in your hair, dearie,” she informed the young woman. Molly felt relieved; so far it had not been so bad. Each exam she passed through the doctor or nurse would write something on her card; they looked at her eyes, her teeth and washed her clothing with strong soap.

An hour later, she sat waiting on another bench for her clothes to dry; she could see them hanging on a line on the other side of the room. Even her worn bonnet had been fumigated. Everything in the room, from the staff uniforms to the floors, was scrubbed clean.

“Can you really be sent back for being ill?” she asked of one white-aproned women whom stood nearby. The woman nodded; her expression appeared quite grave.

“Aye,” she said. “It's far less expensive to make certain you're healthy before we ship you over, than have to pay to ship you back as well.” Considering the woman's words, Molly huddled in the sheet, wrapping it about herself a bit more securely.

Dressed and squeaky clean, Molly found her grandfather already waiting in the parlor of an adjacent hotel, owned by the shipping company. They sat down in chairs set up all over the large room, along with several other passengers. He was glad to see her unscathed and joked a bit about the exam.

“Felt like I was back in t' army,” he said, with a shudder. “The doctor said my lungs were weak but not bad enough to detain me. He were an Irishman, so I gave him no trouble. I've been told were' to sit here and wait in the parlor. Cannae go out lest we catch summat. We've bunks upstairs for sleeping. Boat leaves on t’ morrow… after breakfast.” He packed his pipe as he spoke, nodding to himself. Molly looked at him a moment, then down at her clean fingernails.

“We're really going away,” she said, softly. The ferry to England was one thing; ‘twas but a small distance back to Ireland. New York was weeks away by sea and the journey perilous, if it stormed. Patrick patted her hand; leaning back in his chair, he began thumbing through a worn newspaper lying on a nearby table.

A well-dressed shipping agent in spectacles came in the parlor some minutes later; he sat down with each traveler and family, bringing out a large ledger and writing down answers. Patrick and his granddaughter were last. After checking the numbers on their traveling cards, he found corresponding lines in his ledger and poised his pen to write.

“What's that there?” Patrick asked, interested. The man did not look up from his ledger.

“This is the ship's manifest,” he enlightened them. “You're boarding the Cedric tomorrow morning.” He glanced at their cards. “Patrick Callahan, and granddaughter Molly Callahan. Age?” He asked their marital status, town of origin, the exact amount of money they carried with them and then asked a few very strange questions that Molly had never been asked in her life.

“Are you an anarchist?” the shipping agent inquired; his face was just as calm as if he'd commented on the weather. Molly had no idea what this meant; her grandfather took his pipe from his mouth.

“No, young man,” the white-haired said, scowling a little. “I’m Protestant… and I can speak for my young granddaughter as well.” The agent nodded, writing this down.

“Are either of you polygamists?” the man asked. Patrick snorted.

“No,” the white-haired weaver said. “I suppose one wife would be sufficient.” A small snort of laughter came from the agent but the man hid it with a discreet cough.

After the questions Molly's grandfather asked the agent about conditions on the boat. The man took off his spectacles and cleaned them on a cloth; Patrick watched the younger man with a stoic expression, puffing his pipe.

“If you are able...” the man began, glancing at Molly. “You may wish to keep your granddaughter and yourself out of third-class.” The white-haired weaver nodded, slowly.

“Tis as I heard,” he said, slowly. The be-speckled shipping agent closed his ledger and stood; he extended a hand to Patrick and shook it and took his leave.

“I suppose they've run out of good questions and have turned to the bizarre,” Molly's grandfather muttered, somberly puffing on his pipe. “Oh, aye... the 70 year-old anarchist with seven wives...” Molly sighed a little, not quite understanding what he meant. She was glad to sit quietly in one place; the day of travel, exams and questions had taken their toll. As tired as she felt, Molly knew sleep would not come easy.

Tomorrow, they would board one of the gigantic ships bobbing in the harbor and sail away... to America.

Two

Departure day dawned clear; after a simple breakfast of warm oatmeal in the crowded dining hall, Patrick and Molly lined up to wait out on the boarding dock. Uniformed ship-hands from The Cedric were loading the cargo directly from the dock outside the shipping office. Standing with the other cleaned and de-loused passengers, Molly watched as her grandfather carefully printed their surname across the top and sides of their crate with a piece of coal, then he rubbed a bit of candle wax over the letters.

“Seals it against washing off,” he explained. They'd purchased tickets at the shipping company ticketing office soon after breakfast, a two-bunk cabin in second class. Molly was appalled at the cost of the tickets… a whole month’s earnings for just one; her grandfather assured her it would be worth it to stay out of steerage.

“We'll have a cabin... with a door,” he told her as they moved up the gangplank with drooping, rope railings. “Don't you worry, lass. We'll at least be comfortable and safe from brigands.” Ahead and behind them was a narrow mass of solid people, all moving slowly forward. Molly clung to her grandfather's arm as they shuffled along with the others. “Second class gets better food, too so I'm told,”Patrick continued, smoking his pipe.

At the top of the gangplank two dark-clad crewmen stood by as a white-coated ship's mate looked at their tickets. The sunlight glinted off the shined, brass buttons of his uniform; he wore a spotless white cap with a black, shiny brim. The deck of the ship looked clean and scrubbed.

“Second class, that door there... take the stairs down one level, turn right at the corridor, make another right, room 312,” the ship’s mate said, without looking at them; he clipped their tickets and waved them onward. They walked down the wide, wooden deck, looking at everything. Shined metal railings edged the deck. Round, white life-preservers hung on the wall opposite the railing, the name ‘R.H. S. Cedric’ printed on them in bold, blue letters. Large lifeboats covered in canvass dotted the edge of the deck, with spaces between so you could stand at the rail. Molly wanted to look over the rail right away but her grandfather shook his head.

“First let's to the cabin, lass,” he told her, smiling at the excited expression on his granddaughter's face. “We'll take a turn afore we set sail.”

The cabin was tiny, but clean; the ceiling was painted a bright white and real wallpaper was on the walls; the floors looked recently scrubbed. It was just wide enough for two narrow berths on one wall, one above the other and a small, porcelain basin attached to the far wall. Two overhead racks hung to store their bags. Their crate was down below in the hull, so they were told. Though the room was close and cramped, it had a small, round window above the basin... one that opened.

“That's called a porthole,” Patrick told his granddaughter. “There's a handle here...” Unfastening the window, the elderly weaver swung it open, allowing a burst of fresh, cool air into the small cabin. Molly closed her eyes and smiled, inhaling the sweet, cool air. Patrick smiled, grateful for the blessing of air. “We'll be happy of it once we're at sea, like as not,” said he.

Examining the beds, another blessing presented itself to the two voyageurs; spring mattresses lay there and a real, feather pillow; newly laundered linens sat folded as well and a bright blue-woolen blanket with the ship's name embroidered upon it in white thread. A little curtain ran along a thin metal pole, above each berth, which one could draw for privacy when sleeping. On the wall opposite the berths hung a small, round mirror, well fastened to the papered paneling. Hooks lined up by the narrow door for hanging up clothes and hats.

Patrick Callahan appeared highly pleased with the beds. Touching the mattress on the bottom berth, he sat down upon it and puffed on his pipe a moment.

“Not bad at all,” he said, nodding. “Shall we draw lots for the bunks?” Molly giggled, softly.

“Please take the lower one, grandfather,” she offered, smiling. “It is easy for me to get up there and down again.” The white-haired weaver nodded again.

“Aye,” he said. “Like as not I'd break mah neck attempting such a feat.” Carefully, he laid down his precious fiddle in its tapered, wooden case. Molly smiled as her grandfather tucked it under the blanket for safekeeping. Music was their one luxury; most nights he played for her the sweet airs of their ancestors, the winding, rhythmic war marches and soulful ballads of long-lost love. He'd taught her to play on the same instrument on which he'd learned, himself; as much as he'd encouraged her to use it, Molly loved nothing more that to hear the white-haired weaver play. No fingers flew over strings as fast as his, nor as skillfully.

They spent a moment looking over the paper brochure they'd received with their tickets. Along one side of the tiny cabin, under the mirror, a fold-out bench could be unlatched and lowered from the wall to sit upon. They unfolded it and sat, looking at the lunch and dinner menus.

“There's a dining 'salon' to eat our meals in,” Patrick observed, puffing his pipe. “Photographs, too.” Molly peered over his shoulder at the thick paper he held. In a black and white image, she saw a family seated at a long table with many others, the ladies dressed well and their hair up and fashionable.

Real china plates sat on the table and odd-looking wooden chairs attached to the floor by a single, metal post. Potted plants sat nearby and a server in a smart, white jacket held a plate of drinks a folded cloth over his arm.

“Oh my... it looks posh,” she said, quietly. “They look fine ladies.”

Unconsciously Molly touched her thin, blue frock, her best dress. It was a handed down to her from a neighbor girl, whom herself was not the original owner. Patrick looked at her a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Bring me them bundles I got earlier, lass,” he said, evenly. “I've some things that should hang up.” The man's words pricked Molly's curiosity greatly. Going to the lowest berth she gathered the bundles from his satchel, lugging them back over to her grandfather. “Now, afore ye chastise me for spending money, know that my kin sent over some money for tickets, for the both of us. I dinnae want us arriving in New York looking threadbare beggars, so I bought some clothing. I've my savings for when we get to America, small that it is. So, no tongue-lashing from you, lass.” The humor in her grandfather's voice made Molly smile.

“New clothes?” she said, smiling. Patrick nodded his white head, his pipe moving along as well. It had been long since they'd had new clothing; several years.

“Well, not new... second hand,” he told her, grinning. “... but, new for us. Clean and better than what we have now. Go on... open them up, lass. We've not all day, now.”

Molly drew out folded previously owned or donated clothes, sold to travelers whom had neither the time nor money for tailors; these had once belonged to others but had been cleaned and pressed with steam.

“The girl at the counter could see ye through the window,” her grandfather said, smiling. “She thought it would look well on ye.” The young girl's face lit up with an unexpected joy; her slender hands drew out a long woolen skirt, finer than any she'd ever possessed. The last new dress she'd had was made by her mother, just weeks before the woman died, many years ago. The wool was dyed a deep green, the color of a rain-kissed forest, with pressed pewter buttons in two rows down the sides. A matching, warm dress jacket came with it, with the pressed buttons down its front and on the thick cuffs.

“Oh... 'tis lovely...” she whispered reverently. Patrick Callahan chuckled and handed her another, thicker package. A long, woolen overcoat of a pretty, light brown color, lined with faded, green silk was put in Molly's hands, a white blouse with a real, lace high-collar, a pretty straw bonnet with a green bow and ribbon ties, good stockings, trim, brown boots and new gloves, dyed a rich brown.

The white-haired weaver found himself tightly embraced by his granddaughter, her face shining with grateful tears.

“Now, now...” he soothed, patting Molly's red-gold hair. “You'll look right proper at dinner, now won't ye? We both will. I've a new suit as well and a bonny, warm greatcoat. We'll look a pair, walking out on deck won't we? No lady on the boat will hold a candle to you, lass. None at all.” Molly wiped her eyes and nodded, calming herself. Her grandfather could see gratitude in her eyes and nodded to himself, pleased. With care, the young woman hung up the new things on the hook that the creases may fall from them before dinner. The bonnet, especially she hung by its ribbon from a hook, that it might not be crushed.

Their luggage stowed away, Molly's grandfather suggest they locate the 'relievin' closet', as he called the toilet. The whole corridor had just one, way down at the end of the hall. As soon as the door was opened, flies came out in a small cloud, buzzing angrily. The closet contained little more than a metal toilet with a lid; a hole in the middle led down to a pipe, which led elsewhere. A faint, cold breeze blew up through the hole, into the tiny space. The smell was powerful; Molly held her nose and squinted, much to the amusement of her grandfather.

“Jes hold yer breath when you're inside,” Patrick advised, cheerfully. “Twill make ye hurry, for certain. There's like to be a line afore long.”

“I'm glad we don't have to go outside, in the cold,” Molly said, closing the door.

“Aye,” her grandfather put in, nodding his agreement. “Be glad they've paper. At least you can use a small piece to lift the lid; don't touch it more than ye have t'.”

A printed card on the wall of the 'closet' told the occupant in dire words of warning that to avoid the spread of typhus, they must wash their hands with soap after using 'the facility'. Once free of the odoriferous closet, Molly dutifully found the laundry room for a small bucket of water; bringing this back to their cabin, she washed her hands in the white basin of their room with a hard, brown cake of soap provided by the steamship. The soap smelled of antiseptic and oil but it foamed well as she rubbed it in her hands.

Heightened noise out in the corridor announced the arrival of other passengers; young children's voices, excited by the big, new ship rang out, along with the firm warnings and whispered comforts of mothers and fathers.

“What say we head out to the promenade deck and watch the ship embark?” Patrick suggested, with a grin. Molly smiled at this, and then frowned.

“Is it alright to leave our things in the room untended?” she asked, uncertainly. Her grandfather held up a key, with a white, wooden tag; it had the number of their room carved on it, the number painted blue.

“They've been in the business some time, lass,” the man said, with humor; he led the way out of the room. “They've most things taken care of, methinks.” Re-adjusting her old bonnet, Molly took her grandfather's arm and walked with him down the bustling corridor.

Directed by a crewman to the second class deck, Molly found herself walking by couples dressed both well and plain, and families holding their children tightly. Most nodded politely as they took a turn out in the fresh air. People lined the rail, waving at those below on the shore or watching the sights with animated faces. Liverpool spread out a bit more before them from the high deck of the huge ship; the darkened slums were grouped around the harbor under dim clouds of smoke. Larger, brighter homes sat beyond, with tall spires of churches and the white, city buildings.

Walking slowly among the milling families and couples, Molly and her grandfather headed towards the back of the huge ship. The second class deck was located below the first class deck; the deck above formed a sort of roof some eight feet overhead with pillars at the rail every so often. Deck chairs lined the wall opposite the rail. The back part of the deck itself was over sixty feet wide, made of freshly swabbed planks of planed wood. It all looked bright and clean, traversed by people acting courteously and dressed in a respectable fashion. Some women and older folk sat in the deck chairs here in the sun, with blue blankets over their legs.

Molly's heart swelled at the sights around her, looking at everything with bright, wide eyes. The second class back deck had no roof on it; the first class deck sat terraced behind them and sun streamed down onto a larger walking area some sixty feet wide, with benches for seating. Moving forward, Patrick led his granddaughter to the rail, overlooking the third-class deck below. Molly looked over the railing, placing a gloved hand on its shined surface.

Below them appeared another realm altogether. Suddenly, the extra money her grandfather spent on the tickets seemed like a reasonable amount. The steerage deck was cramped, filled with a mass of people, hardly any room for more to stand; babies cried in their mother's arms, men spoke in loud voices, smoke from pipes and cigarettes drifted up in clouds. Not only were there travelers from northern Europe but dark-haired Spaniards as well, here and there a Romanian or Jewish family stood, the mothers keeping their children close. The sounds of foreign and English-speaking voices mingling made a deep impression on Molly; never before had she seen so many people from different places all crammed together in one place. She supposed Ellis Island would be much the same, since they were all going there, too.

It seemed nothing but a flock of confusion, at first. The ship's horn let out a long blast, signaling that departure was eminent. Down below the voices grew in volume; some mild pushing causes tempers to flare and angry looks. For a moment, Molly felt uneasy; brawling was a thing men did in taverns or in the streets, late at night, not when children and women were so close by. All at once, someone in a group of men below brought out a fiddle and began to play. ‘Twas barely audible in the crowd and noise but the man played away in spite of it, a big grin on his ruddy face. The chill breeze could not dampen the musician's spirit and soon the music he played was joined by another fiddle, then a guitar. Soon, an accordion came out and sweet music calmed the crowd below. Looking over her shoulder, Molly could see the music had attracted even the first-class folk on the terrace above. Smiling, she enjoyed the good, clear sound of the lilting Irish tune, humming along as the smoking, immense ship slowly pulled away from the bustling shore.

Cheers went up as the ship eased from the mooring; black smoke surged down from the smokestacks. The ship's horn gave another long blast; a few people tossed their hats up in the air with joy. They seemed happy to be leaving. As exciting the prospect of the journey, of a new home and a new land, Molly felt a vast sadness well up in her. They sat in English waters along with all these others, driven out by necessity and the great fear of starvation and disease. Walking along the deck by her grandfather, Molly let out a tear or two, wiping them away before the white-haired weaver could see them.

A few more tears showed upon her face later, as the great ship Cedric steamed past the southern shores of Ireland, on its way out to the open waters of the Atlantic. Even in winter, green hills and white shores greeted the young woman's eye; they seemed to call out with forlorn laments, pulling on the very heart within her. Looking up, Molly saw a tear fall from her grandfather's eye as well, trailing down his pale cheek. Taking out her handkerchief, she gently wiped it away. Patrick looked down into the young woman's face; her clear green eyes were filled with sadness and worry. Without a word, he patted the fair hand on his arm and set to strolling once more.

The anticipation of a good meal pushed back the throes of homesickness. It had been so long since either of them had eaten anything resembling the dishes described on the menu card, years in fact. A serving woman came by an hour before dinner was to be served, bringing a large, empty bathing tub with her. She offered its use for a farthing, along with hot water, perfumed oils and soaps. Patrick helped to fill the tub and stood outside the cabin's door on guard as Molly washed.

It felt wonderful to wash in warm, soapy water. The young woman washed her hair quickly and oiled it, drying off her damp skin as fast as she could with the rough towel. The air held a decisive chill, even in the cabin. Dressing in the laced blouse and green, woolen skirt, Molly quickly fastened her hair back in a linen cloth until it would be able to dry. The warm stockings felt like a luxury to pull on, the new boots buttoned smartly up with real buttons of cloth-covered metal. The dress jacket she pulled on and fastened up; the collar opened and let the lace of her collar show through. Patrick smiled at the sight of her when she came out and quickly went in to bathe. The corridor was almost quiet, save for the white-aproned serving women bringing hot water to and fro from different rooms. Sounds of children splashing in the water and muted laughter reached Molly's ears as she stood, waiting.

After a few minutes, her grandfather opened the door and ushered her back in the room.

“I need your help to trim me beard, lass,” the aging man said, smiling. He looked very well in his new, gray suit with its crisp, white shirt and deep-blue tie. It made his old-fashioned hat look almost distinguished. “No use doing it myself,” he continued, “I'll cut summat I don't want to.” Laughing softly, Molly took the small, metal scissors from his hand. Leaning over a cloth, Patrick let his granddaughter trim his white whiskers to the neat, cropped appearance which seemed the fashion. With a critical eye, the aging weaver looked over her handiwork in the small mirror.

“Very fine, lass,” he said, smiling. “I look a bit more pleasant on the eye.” He fit on his hat and looked at Molly's wrapped hair. “Best brush out yer locks and braid them up. Twill be the dinner bell soon.” He opened the window and with Molly's help they poured the bathwater out into the dark; Molly could feel cold wind whistling through the porthole onto her damp hair and shivered.

Once the cabin was warm again, she quickly brushed out her hair until it dried; clean and oiled, her hair look like burnished copper, the ends of the long tresses curling softly as she braided it into a high, complicated crown; her mother used to wear her hair so. Molly had always thought it beautiful, like an ancient princess would wear it. Her grandfather approved of it with several nods.

“Ye look a young lady like so, Molly Callahan,” he said. “So much like your dear mother.” The white-haired man looked almost sad at these words; he turned to his satchel and looked around a bit. “Your mother left summat... where is it... her silver locket with the milk stones on it. You remember it, don't ye? Used to wear it on high days...” He turned and held out the bit of jewelry; the delicate chain was from a far gone time, when Callahans were a clan of powerful merchants along the banks of the Shannon. From the chain dangled a silver, star-shaped locket.

“I hoped I'd not have to sell it and we did not. Here... put it on. 'Tis right ye should wear it.” Her throat tight, Molly could only nod and take the shiny locket in her hand.

Smartly arrayed, Molly felt equal to all on board this grand vessel as they walked towards the dining salon. Rallying an inward hope, she put on a brave face to show the more refined strangers they would meet. Her grandfather saw this effort and silently applauded it. They walked into the well-lit salon and were shown to seats at a long, white-covered table. Molly tried hard not to stare. Indeed, she had never eaten in such a place; the room was paneled in dark wood and looked like a long, fine pub from a rich neighborhood, with the long tables and swiveled chairs just like in the brochure pictures. There was polished silver, pressed linen napkins and glowing, china plates. They were seated near the end of one table, facing each other over the white cloth.

All her life, Molly never forgot the first dinner aboard The Cedric; so many nights she'd gone to bed with only part of her stomach full. Hunger was a thing most people felt all the time in her home town. Charities and churches kept starvation off, but most of the time there was not enough food to satisfy all the pangs of want. Yet, here on this lovely, white table in the low-ceilinged room of carved wood and lighted lamps servers brought them fresh-baked rolls with real butter on it. Then came wide, flat bowls of soup, smelling as savory as anything. Molly's grandfather especially enjoyed this browis, being made with barley and good bits of beef. They dipped the rolls into the steaming soup, smiling a good deal as they ate.

As she lifted the spoon to her lips, Molly strove to remember what deportment and manners her mother and teachers had taught her. Using her napkin often, she supposed she fared alright. Out of the corner of her eye, she could watch the others ladies and how they used their silver. Discreetly, she copied their manners with a fair bit of success. The soup gone, servers brought plates with strips of roasted fowl, baked potatoes, steamed greens and afterward a small pie of sweetened, sliced apples. Molly was treated to a cup of tea... with actual cream and a lump of sugar. Her grandfather enjoyed a good cup of coffee, something he'd longed for often.

The two said hardly a word throughout dinner. In that long dining room, no one enjoyed the dinner more than the aging weaver and his pretty granddaughter. Across the table, Molly felt someone staring at her; ignoring it, she ate and exchanged pleasant glances of contentment with her grandfather. Eventually, the white-haired weaver brought out his pipe and lit it, as did several of the other men in the room. The sweet smoke of the tobacco lingered in the air up by the lamps.

Glancing across the table at his young granddaughter, Patrick was mindful of how grown up she appeared; so sweetly did she sit, genteelly sipping her tea. Oft he'd wished to give her nicer things and see her well cared for. America must truly the land of hope, if even the voyage there made one's life a little better.

“Pardon my intrusion...” came a man's voice from beside them. “May I join you?”

Looking up, Molly saw the well-dressed stranger whom had spoken to her so boldly at the docks the day before; he stood at the end of the table, smiling down at her; she did not return it. The man's voice was not unrefined; he was Irish from his brogue but sounded much more educated than a commoner. He appeared a man of twenty nine or thirty years of age, in a tailored suit and polished shoes; his light hair was carefully combed back. He held a lit cigar in one hand, looking down at them with an expectant smile.

Molly said nothing, waiting for her grandfather to say something; the white-haired Irishman just sat there, looking narrowly at the man from his seat and smoking. Patrick Callahan had recognized the man at once; ‘twas the same brazen blaggard from the docks. The fine clothing did not fool him; the wily weaver knew a black-hearted villain when he saw one. He'd observed this man gawking at his granddaughter from across the room, and openly so. To be certain the girl was a lovely sight but such scrutiny was unseemly, even rude. However, the aging weaver did not let his anger show.

“We're just off now, sir,” he said, standing up with care. “But, good evening to you. Come Molly...” The stranger stepped aside and let them pass, smiling at the pretty, young woman the entire time she put on her coat and bonnet.

Taking her grandfather's arm, Molly shivered a little as they left the dining hall. Patrick felt this and cleared his throat.

“Stay away from that one,” he said, quietly. “Take nowt what he offers, even if it be a gift. Some men are not capable of kindness; you remember that.” Molly nodded, silently vowing to do so. Her grandfather sighed, puffing smoke from his pipe. “'Twas a good dinner, that.” he said at last.

“It was,” she agreed, letting her smile return. “The best I ever ate, sir.” Smiling down at her, Patrick strolled along, breathing deep of the fresh, cold air.

For the whole day after they ate well in the dining salon; the strange man bothered them no more. The food was hearty and varied; for breakfast there were red, oddly shaped fruit the like Molly had never tasted.

“Strawberries,” Patrick said, regarding them with a smile. “When I were a lad we grew them in summer in the empty lots. Buried in straw, 'tis how they're grown.” Sprinkled with a tiny bit of sugar, they were the tastiest treats Molly had ever eaten.

“If I were a rich lady, I'd eat strawberries every day,” she said, aloud. Her grandfather chuckled, finishing his coffee.

“Even the finest food would be dull if eaten every day, lass,” he told her, smiling. “Sweets taste best if waited for.” They followed eating with pleasant turns about the deck in the fresh air. Polite company and the occasional brief word ensued with those whom also strolled; on the whole the aging weaver and his granddaughter found the other passenger well-behaved and most minded their own business. With the good food and hours sitting in the deck chairs well-wrapped against the cold, Molly saw her grandfather gained in strength and cheer.

After hesitating a minute or two, Patrick Callahan had Molly retrieve his fiddle from their cabin; brining it from its case, he played several airs near the rail of the back portion of the second class deck. Below, musicians in steerage--out for fresh air--pointed up at the white-haired fiddler and grinning. After a moment, they joined in; for nearly an hour they sang along and played old tunes of the Emerald Isle. Standing by, Molly was filled with joy hearing those lovely notes and the voices lifted in song. It appeared home had followed them, after all.

The next day dawned as if they were being tumbled about in a rolling mill-wheel. In the night, the weather changed from serene to enraged; most of the unseasoned passengers felt the huge swells acutely. The wind, seeming to dislike being left out of the brawl, joined in and battered the large ship with constant, driving gusts. The pitching and rolling of the cabin was incredible to behold, let alone feel in one's stomach. Molly was terribly green with it, though not enough to confine her to bed. Braced against the wall, she aided her groaning grandfather in what ways she could. A bucket had been provided for just such emergencies as would arise from sea-sickness.

Neither the aging weaver nor his granddaughter supped at noontime; even the idea of breakfast was enough to make one feel ill. Molly lay on the floor of the tiny cabin, her legs braced between the wall and her grandfather's bunk, holding the bucket for them both. The wind howled outside like a wild thing, the waves crashing against the sides of the ship with dreadful force.

Frightened and ill, Molly managed to open the porthole window and dump the bucket contents outside. The sea appeared wholly wrathful to the young girl's eyes; gray waves with streaks of black hurled downward upon the heaving surface of the water, the waves lifting in great swells under the blackened skies. It seemed the water had come alive and was wrestling mightily with the sky itself, with them trapped in the middle.

Fresh, cold air came in through the rounded window; it felt wonderful upon the face. In spite of the chill, Molly left it open and put her own blanket over her grandfather as he lay on his bunk. She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and sat braced upon the floor again. As much as Molly wanted to lie in her bunk, she feared being thrown out of it as she slept. Through the walls, her grandfather and she could hear other passengers in similar states of discomfort. A little after midday, a serving woman came staggering by their door, bringing with her little covered pots of ginger tea.

“Drink it; it will help,” she told them above the din. “I'll be by with bread and a bit o' meat. It will help ease the sickness to eat.”

“Like as not will come back up again, madam,” came Patrick's strained voice from the bunk. “Tell me if you will... I felt the ship turn in the night. Are we going 'round the storm?” The woman nodded, bracing herself against the door frame. As the floor pitched and rolled Molly felt she was growing more used to the motion.

“Aye, sir,” the serving woman replied. “Captain's turned us south. 'Tis the worse storm we've seen in awhile. He dared go no farther into it. In warmer waters it should blow itself out and we'll be back underway. Captain says we may have to go as far south as the Azors.” With this, she gave a little nod and shut the door.

“Well, lass...” Patrick said, at last. “We may have a few extra days to work on our sea legs. The Azors be far south of our course. Islands off the coast of Portugal, if I recall.” Molly's concerned face made her grandfather chuckle, in spite of his misery. “'Tis alright lass... we'll be on Ellis Island eventually. A bit o' diversion from the route, 'tis all.” He heaved a sigh as the boat pitched again. “Better wait awhile longer than to be sunk in a storm.”

His grandaughter nodded and poured a bit of the ginger tea in their tin cup. It sloshed a bit over the side as the boat rose up again. The hot brew did smell good and seemed to quell some of her grandfather's nausea. As she sipped a bit of the fragrant liquid Molly wondered if the folks down in steerage were getting tea as well. Leaning her head back, she kept her legs braced against the wall with the bunk at her back and tried to get some sleep.

The Captain was eating his supper in the first class dining hall when the first mate came up to him, walking in pattern with the rolling deck. The man had weathered many storms before, as had the captain. The near-empty dining hall showed evidence that many of the passengers had not.

“Sir... communication from a foundering ship, The Florida,” the first mate said, evenly. “Large steamer carrying over 800 survivors of the Messina disaster, heading to Ellis Island. Seems she hit the Republic in the fog and is making repairs off the Azors. They need to transfer most of their passengers off.” The captain nodded, slowly.

“We're nearly there,” he said, sipping his tea. “We're not at full capacity, anyhow. The Company will welcome the extra revenue, I reckon. Send back a message saying we'll gladly take on 300, at most. Pack them into steerage and what families can afford it we'll put into second class.” The first mate saluted and walked off to the wheelhouse.

Three

Only minimal swells could be felt in the calm waters around the Azors. A little more used to the movement of the sea Molly strolled along the rail of the second-class promenade; her grandfather was still a bit “green about t' gills”, as he put it and urged to her walk out in the air a bit.

“Jes a few minutes and don' talk to anyone but a lady,” he warned her. Putting on her green bonnet and gloves, she walked out in her gray common dress with her good shawl about her shoulders.

The wind was warmer here, making heavy coats unnecessary. Those able strolled the deck, stood along the rail or sat on the deck chairs, recovering. A large steam ship was anchored beside the Cedric; squinting, Molly could just make out the words “Florida” written on the bow; rope ladders hung down its sides, letting down passengers into lifeboats. These boats were ferried back and forth between the ships.

“Survivors of the earthquake in Messina.”

Molly overhead two men talking nearby. One shook his head, puffing on a cigar.

“So, we're to be invaded by the dagos, as well,” he said. A little surprised at the rough language the young girl moved away, out of earshot. Walking down the promenade, Molly headed for the back of the ship; she wanted to get a better view of the steerage deck and of these people from Messina. If the third-class deck had been crowded before, it was even more so now. A riot of voices, cries and laughter sounded out. Confusion reigned; families called to one another, people greeted and glowered at each other, talking and merriment ensued along with anxious discussions.

Many dark-haired, olive-skinned Italians swarmed the deck, the women in black or dark headscarves and some with braids in crowns pinned over their heads, white blouses, bright skirts and shawls, clutching small children, or satchels; some carried bags of bread or netted wine bottles over one shoulder. Luggage and crates were being loaded into the cargo bay from one ship to the next with the long, wooden crane, pulleys and rope, the sailors carefully watching each part of the process.

Leaning out over the railing just a little, Molly avidly watched the scene below. A figure caught her eye; the bold, well-dressed stranger from the dining hall was down in steerage, talking sternly with a rather thin-looking Irishman and his family, out for air on the deck. The woman and children looked at the well-dressed man with wide, frightened eyes. The wizened man nodded sadly, putting something in the second class man's hand; it looked like coins to Molly but the suited man put it out of sight, looking around sharply.

A slight movement at her neck took Molly's attention from the crowd; looking down at her necklace, she saw it fall down upon her shawl. Horrified, she grabbed for it, only to watch it slip right through her fingers. The silver locket and chain fell, right onto the brimmed cap of a man standing below, smoking a cigarette with a few others. Molly froze, her eyes wide with shock. The man in the cap below started and looked behind him quickly; the well-dressed stranger from second class was standing there.

The well-dressed man found himself suddenly face to face with one angered Italian emigrant.

“Why you do that?” the young man demanded, gesturing with one hand. The stranger frm econd class appeared somehwat mystified and gauged the potential foe in front of him. Burly, tall and younger than he, the Sicilian appeared to be sizing him up as well.

“Do what?” the stranger said, equally loud. “I've no quarrel with you.” The crowd around them grew a little quieter, watching the situation with interest.

“You hit my head?” the young man hazarded; the youth was no fool… his brown eyes were wary and calculating. Two older emigrant men, familiar in form and face to the young Italian stood nearby, glaring at the well-dressed man from second class. The Irishman snorted.

“I did not touch you,” he spat.

“Please sir... it was me...” called a feminine voice from above. “I'm so sorry, sir....” Both men looked up, along with the other people standing nearby. Molly waved and leaned over the railing a little, her face drawn with concern. Her green eyes met those of the young Sicilian.

Luigi Dimattio felt his anger vanish. A pretty girl in a green bonnet was calling down to him from the upper deck, apologizing.

“My necklace dropped...” she continued, “... on your hat. It was an accident. I'm so sorry, sir.” Taking off his cap, Luigi looked at it and smiled; a silver chain hung off it, with a little star-shaped locket. Taking it in hand, he held it up; the silver gleamed in the sunlight. The girl above saw it and smiled; her radiant smile made Luigi feel lighter, somehow; she had green, clear eyes.

“Oh, thank you!” the young woman said, with a keen look of relief.

“I can toss it up,” Luigi called up to her. “But it may go over... into the sea.” Molly's smile faded at his words.

Looking around, she saw a staircase leading down, guarded by two crew members. Steerage passengers were not allowed up on the second-class promenade. Leaning over a little again, Molly found the young man's face once more. He was still smiling up at her; his warm brown eyes held a kind look.

“I will come down,” she called to him. “Can you meet me by the stairs?” The two older men standing behind Luigi exchanged a grin at these words. The young Italian nodded, still smiling; he began to make his way through the crowd over to a staircase, some thirty feet away.

Molly had a bit of trouble getting down the stairs, at first.

“Miss... don't go down there,” a uniformed crewman said, holding a hand in front of her. “'Tis no place for a respectable young woman. 'Tis steerage.”

“My necklace fell,” Molly explained. “'Twas my mother's. That man rescued it and he's bringing it to me. I’ll come right back up.” The crewman looked down and nodded.

“Please stay on the stair, miss where I can see you,” he said, letting her pass. Molly held onto the rail and carefully stepped down the white-painted stairs.

At the base of them the young Italian man turned and smiled at her again; he held out the necklace without hesitation.

“Oh… thank you, sir!” Molly said, accepting it into her gloved hands. She turned grateful eyes up to the stranger's, suddenly feeling shy. “It was my mother's... I could not lose it. I do not know how it fell off.” The young Sicilian man kept his cap in his hand, scrutinizing the girl in front of him. At the head of the stair a crewman eyed him with frank suspicion.

“You should get the…eh, clasp fixed,” he told her, in a thick accent. “It has broken.” Molly smiled, looking at her necklace.

“I will,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”

“My name is Luigi... Luigi DiMattio.” Molly looked up at him again.

“Molly Callahan,” she replied, giving a small curtsy. “I see you speak English very well, Mr. DiMattio.”

The young man smiled, proudly.

“Sister Mary at... eh...the church, yes?” he explained; his warm smile never faded. “She taught us good English, in Messina.” Molly's face fell at the name of the city.

“Oh... I heard about the terrible earthquake. I am so sorry for your city,” she said, her eyes saddened. Luigi nodded, his smile finally disappearing.

“Yes. Many die,” he said, seriously. “We go now to New York. Ellis Island.” Molly smiled at this.

“My grandfather and I are going to New York as well,” she said. “You said Sister Mary... are you Catholic?” Luigi shook his head, no.

“God has, I think left, with my parents,” he said. “But... He is not done with me, yet.” At this he crossed himself. Molly did not quite understand him but nodded, politely.

“Miss...” came the well-dressed Irishman’s voice, interrupting. Molly and Luigi turned to look at the man. The man stood nearby in the crowd, looking at Luigi with undisguised disgust. “Allow me to escort you back up to the promenade,” he said, looking over at the young red-haired girl. “It is not safe for you down here.”

Molly felt almost nauseous, as if she were sea-sick again.

“I do not know you sir,” she said, politely. “I shall not go anywhere with you.” Luigi grinned; the girl had spirit. She turned her lovely green eyes to his again and smiled. “Thank you again, Mr. DiMattio,” she said, shyly. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her fair skin and green eyes were unusual to the young man but her hair seemed even more so; red-gold curls of it peeked down from under her bonnet.

“A pleasure for me, Miss Callahan,” Luigi said, haltingly. His English was not perfect but Molly was able to catch every word. Giving the young man one last smile, she turned and went alone back up the steps, holding tightly to the rail. Luigi watched her go, his smile lingering.

“What do you think you're after?” the well-dressed man cut in, stepping between Luigi and the base of the stairs. The young woman was gone from view.

The Sicilian turned his gaze to the pale stranger in the tailored suit, the warmth in his eyes fast draining away. “You'll be sorry if you speak to her again, dago...” Luigi did not step back; he did not seem to react to the slur.

“What do you do here in third class?” he inquired, after a moment. “You should be up there.” He grinned and pointed up the stairs. “It is not safe for you down here.” People crowded around murmuring; an excited buzz seemed to lift into the air as if they sensed a fight. The well-dressed man's face twisted into a sneer.

“Do not order me about, you filthy ginny,” he spat.

At this, several woman in the crowd gasped; 'ginny' was short for 'guinea negro'. It was a terrible thing to say to a Sicilian, or anyone for that matter. Quick as lightning, the young man had his fist in the stranger's jaw; the well-dressed man staggered back, reeling from the blow. The crowd reacted loudly; some cheered, people pointed and gasped. Crewmen began making their way down the stairs. Ready for a counter-attack, Luigi felt hands grip his shoulders and was forcibly dragged back, into the crowd.

Well away from the skirmish Luigi found himself facing the grim faces of his two uncles.

“What is the matter with you?” barked one of them, in their own language; one of the man's hands was up, gesturing in the younger man's face. “You will get yourself kicked from the boat, before we even embark!”

“He called me a ginny....” Luigi tossed back, both his hands out, the palms up. “He deserved two more just like it.” His other uncle chuckled at this and shook his head.

“The Irishman was up to no good,” the man said, smoking his cigar thoughtfully. “Fancy clothes, but he is down here, collecting money from the poor. We should ask around and find out who he is.” The other uncle nodded, and then turned back to Luigi.

“I am your godfather,” he said, the hand back up and moving back and forth in expressive movements. “I am responsible for you! Just because your parents are gone...” he paused and crossed himself, “... does not mean you must pick a fight with the Irish, capisci?” His nephew mumbled and shrugged, looking off into the crowd.

A dark-haired woman in a rich, red shawl approached the little group, leading a small girl by the hand.

“Gino,” she said in her native tongue, looking at one of Luigi's uncles expectantly. “Do we not have second class tickets?” The man nodded, smoking a cigar, still leaning against the wall. “Then... why do we stand here in steerage?! Answer me that!”

“There is enough noise on this deck without you yelling, Donata!” the man returned, loudly; he appeared upset, though his eyes held humor. “Yes, we have tickets for berths upstairs! On the good deck... with the good food. So stop the yelling, already!” The woman scowled at him, lifting up the girl in her arms.

Gino clucked at his wife's sour expression and launched into conversation with his brother. Donata Giovanni looked over at her nephew, Luigi; he was scanning the railing above them on the second-class deck, apparently looking for someone.

“Are you going up to second class or staying here, Louie?” she asked. Gino's brother Vito chuckled.

“He is looking for the pretty Irish girl that smiled at him,” the man said, amused. Luigi snapped his gaze down at his uncle.

“I'll stay here in steerage,” the young man said, to his aunt. “I can save a whole month's pay down here. It is what... a week? Two maybe.” Donata nodded, looking up.

“Well... this boat is better than the other. They will not like us in their fancy dining salon,” she said.

“I hope more from Messina have been put up there, or it will be awkward.” The men smiled and nodded at this, looking into the crowd around them.

Molly found her grandfather sitting up in his berth; he appeared much improved.

“There you are lass...” he said, smiling. “I've the inkling to wash up and take a turn on the deck, myself before supper.” Smiling, Molly closed the cabin door; she felt lighter, for some reason.

“You'll be chastising me, sir,” she said, sobering. “I spoke with someone.” A little surprised, Patrick Callahan cleared his throat and pointed to his pipe bag, hanging on a hook on the wall. Molly fetched it without a word and gave it to him; she watched in silence as he packed his pipe and lit it.

“Well...” her grandfather said, indicating the fold-down bench. “Tell me what happened.”

When Molly finished her tale, her grandfather looked grim.

“I'm not blaming you, lass,” he said, “… but that bold dandy keeps haunting your steps. And what were he doing down in steerage? Him in his fine clothes, too.”

“He was collecting money from a family down there,” Molly told him. “I saw it. The man's family looked afraid of him.” Patrick puffed on his pipe for a moment, deep in thought. After some minutes he sighed, looking at his granddaughter.

“You told him that he were a stranger and you'd be going nowhere with him, eh? With the Sicilian boy standing there, watching?” Molly nodded, unsure of what to say. Her grandfather surprised her by chuckling. “That's good,” he said, simply. “Well, help me up. I've been abed far too long.”

Soon, Molly and he walked by the rail of the promenade; the brisk sea air seemed to help Patrick feel a bit stronger and brought some color to his pale cheeks. They walked around at a much slower pace than normal; Patrick kept a sharp eye out for the 'dandy' as he now referred to the stranger in the suit. Towards the staircase Molly used to meet Luigi there appeared to be a commotion; two unformed crewmen were arguing with a couple of large, slightly portly men whom appeared to be Italian in origin; a woman and a child stood near, looking on; the men held up tickets and looked rather agitated.

“What do you mean we can't come up?” one of the men said, his brow dark. “We paid good money to be in second class. These tickets say so; we just bought them last week!”

“That was on the Florida,” the crew man said, firmly. “Here, you're in steerage.” The woman looked upset and the little girl in her arms hid her face in her mother's neck.

“Is that how business is done on this ship?” Molly heard her grandfather's voice, sounding unusually brittle. The crewmen turned to look at the white-haired gentleman with his pretty granddaughter on his arm. “I've second class tickets too, laddie. Does this mean you'll chuck me and my granddaughter into steerage as well?” The crew men looked uncomfortable and stammered a little. “Suppose I get the Captain and ask him...” Patrick Callahan continued, leaning forward and fixing the younger man with a glare.

The uniformed crewmen mumbled something and stepped back, allowing the family through. One of the Sicilian men gave Patrick a respectful nod, hurrying his family and baggage by. Molly smiled at the little girl who hid her face again; the white-haired weaver and his granddaughter walked on in serene posture.

“Sometimes, Molly... you're best to say nowt and let lie,” Patrick said, after a moment. “However, my father once told me that a man who can right a wrong and does not is the worst kind of coward.” Molly smiled to herself, putting the wise words away in her mind for later use.

All at once the great foghorn let out a long blast, high above by the wheelhouse. Looking up, Molly beheld a large quantity of black smoke pour from the smokestacks. Going to the rail, she looked down at the deep, blue water and saw it move slowly by.

“We're underway again,” Patrick said, nodding to himself. He looked critically at the sky and saw nary a cloud. “Perhaps I'll be able t' stomach some food; sure an I hope no storms come in the night.”

“I as well, sir,” Molly agreed. “I could go my whole life without feeling seasick again.” Patrick chuckled and led her onward, towards the dining hall.

The atmosphere of the dining hall had changed with the addition of several newcomers. Steerage had overflowed into second class berths, though some from the Florida had bought the more expensive tickets outright. A town of tradesman and merchants the emigrants from Messina were by no means beggars. On one side of the room the Italians sat, adding a boisterous air of louder conversation and occasional laughter. Some had even brought music with them; Molly saw wooden instrument cases leaning against the table legs down by the owners' feet. On the other side of the room the original second-class patrons sat quietly, glaring at the more noisy occupants and whispering among themselves.

Since the room was almost full, Patrick saw chairs open by the Sicilian 'side' and made his way slowly towards them without hesitation. The group grew a little quieter as they approached, but Patrick did not let on. Molly helped him off with his coat and stood by as he sat down; she could see her grandfather was still weary from his long bout of seasickness and he eased down into his seat with a sigh. The white-haired weaver indicated the chair next to him with his pipe and Molly sat down without a word. The others at the table looked at each other but seemed to accept their presence.

Taking off her bonnet and coat, Molly hung then on the back of her chair; as interested as she was in studying the newcomers, she did not want to stare or be rude. Listening to them talk, Molly decided she liked hearing the strange language of these people of Messina; it was pleasant-sounding and flowed gracefully from the tongues of those whom spoke it, breaking upon the ear like a warm wind. One of the Italian men stood and motioned to a reluctant server.

“I want something with garlic in it, eh?” he said, gesturing with an open hand at the white-coated waiter. “Garlic? Onions?” The server nodded at this but hurried away. Shaking his head, the man sat back down. Molly sat watching the new people at the table with interest; the faces were so different than those she'd grown up with. Some of the men had the noble, Roman nose and then others had more pronounced features. Dark brown or black hair was common to all but some heads bore a riot of curls, while other men wore it oiled and combed straight back. The married women wore scarves on their heads or their haired braided up into a crown with no scarf at all. The children were neatly dressed and sat somewhat quietly in the strange, new room.

Sitting still, Molly observed these Italians possessed clothing of good quality and washed; none seemed to be suffering from hunger at all. Indeed, they appeared almost wealthy and robust compared to some of the poor she'd seen wasting away in Dublin and Liverpool. Some of the women wore silver necklaces and ear-rings or the glossy, black beads of a rosary with its silver cross. The eyes of all were brown but so varied in shade that one word was not sufficient to describe them; these self same eyes flashed with animation when speaking. Words were said with flair and a sort of delight; these were not dull or uninteresting people.

Another new family came in the dining room; the only seats left were by Patrick and his granddaughter. Turning her head, Molly recognized the family from the deck, whom her grandfather had aided. They came forward, greeting a few others in the section heartily, ushering the woman and her little girl forward. The two older men sat down across from Patrick, while the woman and little girl took the seats by Molly. Looking up, the young woman smiled at the older Italian woman and her little girl.

“Good evening, ma'am,” she said, politely.

The Sicilian woman appeared surprised but nodded back and helped her little girl into the chair next to Molly. Looking across the table, Patrick nodded at the two newcomers and received a nod in return. It was as if no one knew what to say, but the air was not unpleasant with it. The servers brought rolls in baskets, putting them onto the tables with the tiny plates of butter. A pleased murmur spread throughout the Italian group. Though hungry, Molly waited until a nearby basket was passed to her; taking it, she turned and offered it to the little girl next to her. The small girl's brown eyes turned up to her mother, who nodded. Reaching in shyly, the little girl took a roll and smiled, just a little. Molly smiled back and took a roll herself before handing the basket onward.

The white-haired weaver looked up from his pipe and found a basket of bread being handed to him from across the table. Nodding, he took the pipe from his mouth and put a roll on his bread plate.

“Many thanks,” he said, to the man. “Fine weather isn't it?” The Italian man grinned at him and nodded, passing the basket on to his brother.

“Yes,” he said, in a thick accent. “I think no more storms for a little while.” Patrick smiled.

“You've quite the command of English, sir,” he said, matching the younger man's gaze. The Sicilian’s man's grin did not fade.

“Not ‘sir’...” he said, shaking his head. “I am Vito Giovanni.”

“Patrick Callahan,” the white-haired man said, standing up with difficulty. “A pleasure to meet ye...” He reached over the table with a welcoming hand. Vito Giovanni stood as well, his face dressed in mild amusement. The men shook hands.

“My brother Gino...” Vito said, indicating the man next to him; the man smoked a cigar and stood to shake the aging Irishman's hand as well. “His wife Donata, his daughter Gina.” Patrick nodded at the woman politely.

“This is my granddaughter, Molly,” he said, smiling down at the young woman at his side. Molly dipped her head and smiled a little at them. Donata nodded at her in a slightly friendlier manner than before.

“We speak very good English...” Vito said, sitting down. “... our father insisted we learn it. He would say it is the language the whole world must speak. So, we learn it.” Patrick nodded, puffing his pipe for a moment.

“Come from Messina then, so ye?” he inquired. “We heard of the earthquake.” The men across the table both nodded and sobered a little.

“Yes,” Vito answered, heavily. “Many dead. Many... thousands are dead. So many the officials say to leave this place. Most of the dead had to be burned. None were left to bury them all. Almost all the buildings are gone. Our butcher shop is standing but there are no people to buy the meat. So, we sell what we have and now we go to New York, eh? To Ellis Island. We will open a shop in Manhattan.”

Patrick sat forward a little, at these words. Molly felt a great sadness well up in her at the idea of a whole city destroyed; she looked at Donata as the men conversed.

“Is everyone gone from your city?” she asked. The woman nodded, sadly.

“My sister and her family are dead,” she said, soberly. “My husband's sister and her husband as well. Many that I knew are gone now. Some went to Naples but most went on the steam ship, to come to America. Too much death to stay.” Molly nodded.

“We are going to Ellis Island as well,” she said. “It is... hard, in Ireland. Not enough food. Not enough work. Some even starve in the cities, it is so bad.” The Sicilian woman held her daughter closer and shook her head.

“It will be good in America,” she said, at last. “Better than where we have come from, yes?” Molly nodded, her thoughts blanketing her face with sobriety. Ireland seemed greener now in her memory, in some places but she could not escape the images of the skinny faces of children in Dublin, nor the beggars.

Nor the friends she'd lost to disease. Molly felt extraordinarily blessed; her grandfather and she had gone to sleep hungry more than once but they had never had to beg. Never had the earth shaken below them, either... killing an entire city of friends and family.

The food came, effectively dispelling the lingering thoughts of home. The people from Messina admired the bread but found the soup bland.

“Garlic is a gift from God,” Gino Giovanni said, to all those within earshot. “It smells, yes but it is good and cleans the blood.” His brother gave a low laugh.

“It cleans more than the blood,” Vito returned with a board smile. Molly saw her grandfather cough into his hand to hide a laugh; she did not understand the joke but did not ask. Feeling a slight tugging at her sleeve, Molly looked down into the brown eyes of Gina. The little girl said something to her in a language Molly did not understand. Nearby, Donata smiled at Molly's puzzled face.

“She says your hair, it is so pretty,” the woman informed her, kindly. Molly smiled at her, then down at the little girl.

“Thank you,” she told the little girl. “Your hair is pretty too. My mother used to braid my hair just like that when I was little.” Donata translated this for Gina, whom beamed.

“You parents are in America already?” the older woman asked, politely. Molly's face fell a little; she shook her head.

“They died many years ago, ma'am,” she told her. “My father of consumption, when I was ten; my mother joined him four years ago, from the typhus.” The little girl asked her mother a question and they spoke for a moment in their own language.

Donata looked up at Molly.

“She wants to know what you said and I tell her. She asks why did they not go to a doctor, your parents?” Molly looked at the little girl, not really knowing how to answer.

“My parents were very poor,” she said, striving to quell inner tears. “It was still bad, from the great famine, even after many years. “We had no money for a doctor. My grandfather did what he could but...” She could not finish the sentence but smiled a little; it hurt to think of them, still. Little Gina reached out and patted Molly's fair hand with her own; the small action brought the young woman much comfort. “Thank you,” she said to the little girl.

“Graze...” Donata said. “It means the same.” The woman pronounced the word as graht-see.

“Graze,” Molly repeated, stumbling a little with the word. Gina smiled and nodded, bouncing a little in her seat. Donata smiled as well, leaning forward to finish her dinner.

Molly played a game with little Gina, dressing up the silver spoon like dolls, with cloth napkins for dresses. Now and again she'd glance up at her grandfather when she heard his voice or laughter. He seemed to be having a fine time speaking with the Giovanni men and a few others whom could not stay out of the conversation. In sharp contrast to the white-haired weaver's posture and manner of speaking, the Italian men seemed so much more animated, using their hands frequently in gestures and expressive movements, as if constantly emphasizing their words. Some at the table did not speak English quite as well as the Giovannis and now and again Vito would break off to translate something to one or two of his fellows. The entire group seemed comfortable listening to, or talking with the aging Irishman; Molly heard no sharp words at all, nor saw any suspicious looks directed towards her or her grandfather.

After dinner was cleared away, a few of the men got out instruments, the like such as Molly had never seen. A small, brightly painted accordion, a diminutive guitar which Donata called a 'mandolin', a larger, glossy black accordion and a burnished, wooden guitar; the musicians lovingly unwrapped these with great care and tuned them with little plunks of strings or wheezes of air. She saw a fond look come into her grandfather's eye.

“Would you like me to fetch your fiddle, grandfather?” she asked, quietly. Patrick took out his pipe and smiled at her.

“I would, lass,” he said, nodding. “But I'll go with ye. Ye should nae walk alone at night.”

“We will go with her,” Donata said, standing up. “I must get my shawl from our room. I will watch her.” Patrick sat back down at this, with a sigh.

“I thank ye madam,” he said, smiling. “I've been in my bunk too long with seasickness, and this chair is mighty comfortable.” Gino nodded at his wife and Molly jumped up, putting on her coat and bonnet. She helped little Gina into hers while Donata tied on the little bonnet on he girl's glossy black hair.

Walking together, the little group found the corridor; Donata's room was just down the hall from the Callahan's; this room, though it had four bunks instead of two. It seemed crowded but Donata seemed grateful for it.

“It is better no, than steerage?” she said, shaking her head. She found her shawl quickly and put it on. “They are packed in like chickens down there. One cannot change clothes or wash in such a place.” She was impressed with Molly's cabin, especially because of the window. Molly located her grandfather's fiddle case and took it carefully with her. She locked the room back up securely, keeping the key in her coat's hidden pocket.

On the way back to the dining hall, they passed a man emerging from his room; it was the 'dandy'. He wore another, fine suit and smiled at Molly as she passed; the young woman did not smile back but hurried on. Donata went with her, keeping Gina close. The man did not speak to them nor follow them, for which Molly was grateful.

“Bidonista...” the Italian woman said, distastefully. “He has the look of a swindler.” Molly nodded, walking a little faster.

They reached the dining hall without incident. Music flowed from the door as they opened it; low, harmonious melody itself wove about the room, emanating from the four Italian musicians. Molly was interested to see that the other dining patrons were enjoying the music as well, even smiling. Walking up to her grandfather, she placed his fiddle case in his hands. The white-haired weaver nodded his thanks and kept listening.

The men of Messina played as if they had been born with instruments in their hands. The music sounded familiar, as if they loved the song itself with fervor and played it merely as an expression of that emotion. Molly sat transfixed, her face a picture of serenity. Donata saw this look and smiled, exchanging a glance with her husband across the table; she yet remembered how the youthful soul felt to be touched by beautiful music. Gino favored his wife with a rare smile; he sat back in his chair, smoking contentedly.

After the last song had ended, Vito looked across the table at Patrick.

“What do you think of the music of Messina?” he asked, smiling. Patrick nodded, taking his pipe from his mouth.

“'Tis fair, this music,” he said, earnestly. “Breaks well upon the ear, it does. I'd not be averse t' hearin' more of it.” Vito liked this compliment and translated for the musicians; they grinned and nodded copiously. The man with the small accordion pointed to Patrick's fiddle and spoke in his own language.

“He wishes to hear you play,” Vito told the white-haired weaver. “He has never heard any music from your land.”

Patrick smiled a little, tapping out his pipe; he nodded to the man and stood to remove his ancient fiddle from its case. The wood glowed reddish-brown in the dim lamplight. The musicians looked at the instrument with keen interest, talking among themselves and nodding. Sitting back down, Patrick adjusted his jacket a bit and touched the slender bow to the thread-thin strings. Molly let out a sigh as the first note sounded; it was a simple melody but hauntingly beautiful, a song of Ireland; without words it extolled the beauty of the Emerald Isle. She closed her eyes and let the music conjure up the green fields and crisp breezes of her homeland. The wretched slums were forgotten, the hardships, work and hunger laid aside; all that remained were the happy faces of those long gone, of music and dancing, flocks of fleecy-white sheep, valleys of golden grain and green, misty hills.

The others in the room must have felt it as well; the room quieted and listened. Patrick was a skilled weaver but his skill was sorely waylaid from his fiddle. Molly felt pride in the music he played and this feeling swelled when the men from Messina clapped vigorously as the last notes from the fiddle died away. Patrick accepted the praise humbly, asking for the Italian men to play again; they did so with vigor, pleased to be so entreated by a man foreign to their own land and customs.

After an evening of food, conversation and music, Molly felt strangely happy as she walked back to their corridor with her grandfather. The music the aging weaver played made her sad and proud all at once but good company had filled her soul as much as the food filled her stomach. Here at least there were good people to speak with, people with families whom loved and lost as much as any in Ireland. Thinking on these things, Molly said little as she went to bed in her lofty bunk.

“Not a bad lot,” her grandfather said from the bottom berth, once the lamp was out. “If they are examples of Sicilians, then we've been seriously misguided of their character. As fine a people as you'd ever wish to meet, says I.” Molly smiled.

“I liked them very well, sir,” she replied. One particular individual came to her mind. Fingering her necklace, Molly thought on someone, not of the dining hall... but younger, with warm, brown eyes and dark, curling hair, with a kind, wide smile. “Luigi DiMattio,” she whispered, to herself. Molly wondered if she would ever see the young man again; she found herself hoping that she would.

Luigi waited by the base of the stairs, smoking a cigarette. He watched the white smoke from the ship billow against a black sky packed with stars. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Vito Giovanni whistled, getting his nephew's attention.

“I just go down to talk to my nephew,” Vito said to the crewman on watch; the younger man shrugged a little and nodded. Stepping down to the base of the stairs, Vito clapped Luigi on the back.

Bringing forth a little packet, he handed to his nephew, making certain no one was watching. “A few things from the table,” he said, in his own language. “They eat like kings.” Luigi put out his cigarette and took the packet gratefully, hiding it away in his coat.

“They have nothing but thin broth and a hard biscuit for us here,” the young man said, looking around. “The beggars in Messina ate better... but, it is better than the boat from Naples... it is cleaner. We are packed in like sheep in a corral but they keep things washed and there is soap.” Vito nodded, taking out a partially smoked cigar. Lighting it, he puffed a few rings.

“Eat... give out the rest,” he said. “Make what you can of it. We'll bring more in the morning.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Luigi said, nodding. “It is so crowded that they ran out of beds; families are lying on the floor in the dining hall, staying in their clothes to sleep. You were smart to keep Donata and Gina out of there; there is no privacy.”

The young man nodded and began to walk away; his uncle cleared his throat.

“I saw the pretty Irish girl up there,” Vito said after him, grinning into the dark. Luigi halted and turned around, puzzled. “You remember... the one with the necklace...” The older Sicilian hid a smile as his nephew came closer; the young man affected a disinterested air.

“You did, eh?” Luigi replied, absently taking out another cigarette. His uncle grinned at him, which the young man ignored. “Why would I care about that?”

“Maybe you don't,” Vito said, scratching his chin. “Maybe she is just another girl traveling with her grandfather to Ellis Island. Maybe she was polite to your aunt. Maybe her grandfather did us a favor. Maybe we talked with them at dinner... who knows?”

Luigi tried not to look interested but failed. His uncle sobered, recognizing the look on the young man's face.

“Listen to me, Louie,” he said, quietly. “Don't get too attached to her. She is pretty, yes... but she would not understand you. She knows nothing of our culture. It is better you marry a girl from Sicily.” Luigi looked at his uncle for a moment, and then smiled.

“If I wanted a girl from Sicily, I would have stayed there,” he said. “We go to New York now, Uncle... to America, the land of liberty. The melting pot. Besides, how hard would it be to teach a woman how to cook for me?” At this, Vito snorted and swiped one hand down through the air in a frustrated gesture.

“Eh! minchione.... you are stubborn like your mother,” he said, scowling. “She wanted to marry a Protestant...” Crossing himself, Vito stomped back up the stairs to second-class.

Smoking in silence, Luigi took his packet of food and walked towards the steerage dining hall. He would eat a few bites and distribute the rest among those he knew; the food down in steerage was far from nourishing. Anything extra at all would be appreciated, he knew. He walked back into the third class corridor, thinking on what his uncle told him of the lovely Molly Callahan. The girl was so different, with her red hair and green eyes. None of the women back home looked like that. She was sweet and fair, with a smile filled with sunshine. Though he did not know it, Luigi smiled all the way back to his bunk.

Four

The meals on the ship seemed far more interesting with the newcomers present. Molly liked hearing the lively conversation at their table; the Sicilians seemed to always have something good to say to each other. Like the night before, she and her grandfather sat near to the emigrants from Messina. Molly nodded her head in greeting and smiled, even earning a few nods in return. Donata Giovanni gave her the widest smile; little Gina waved at her. Molly smiled back and felt happier for the company.

During breakfast, she noted that most of the Sicilians would squirrel away food here and there, into handkerchiefs or cloths and hide it away when they thought no one was looking; a piece of bread, a slice of fruit, a hard-boiled egg and so forth. They were very quiet about it, though and the servers did not notice.

Intrigued, Molly made a point to ask her grandfather about it as they exited the dining salon.

“Like as not they'll take it downstairs, somehow,” Patrick told her. “The folk down there have a hard time of it, or so I hear.” Molly looked at him, surprised.

“They get no food?” she asked, feeling ill at the suggestion. Her grandfather chuckled.

“Aye, they get food,” he said, sobering again. “Like what we et each day for the last five years. Broth, weak at that and maybe a hard bit o’ bread.” Molly thought about that for a minute. On the deck, she saw Vito and Gino Giovanni head down the stairs to steerage; her grandfather led them a little closer, curious himself.

“They wouldn't sell it, would they?” Molly asked, quietly. Patrick thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

“Ah think not, lass,” he said. “They seem good folk.”

“It seems very cruel that some can eat well while on the same boat as those eating almost nothing.”

Patrick nodded at this.

“Aye,” said he. “But, 'tis how the world works, lass.”

Looking over the rail, Molly saw Vito and Gino stop at the bottom of the stairs up to second class; a familiar looking figure came out to greet them. A smile spread over her face.

“Grandfather...” she said, pulling a little on his arm and pointing. “That's him!” Patrick looked where she pointed, then back at his granddaughter.

“Him?” he inquired. “Him who?”

“Mr. DiMattio,” Molly enlightened him, craning her neck to get a better look at him. “The man who saved mother's necklace. He's shaking hands with Mr. Giovanni and his brother.” Patrick looked down again and squinted at the men at the base of the stairs. One indeed was much younger... a strong and bonnie dark-haired lad with a quick smile. Vito and Gino each handed the younger man a wrapped bundle of food, with a smile and a nod. Patrick glanced at his granddaughter's face and sighed.

“Let's keep walking, shall we lass?” he suggested. “I be a mite tired. Wanting to rest for a bit.”

Molly looked at him with concern and nodded, taking his arm once more. The plight of the families in steerage could not escape Molly's mind. She'd lived so long with hunger that it seemed almost second nature to feel it. This last week, however, had been peppered with wonderful meals… such as she'd never had before. The idea of sharing it was planted and slowly the idea grew as she helped her grandfather off with his coat.

“There is a washroom at the end of the hall, sir,” she said, taking out a laundry bag. “I saw some women in there washing some clothes; there are tubs and soap and line to dry them on. May I take a few things there?” Settling back in his bunk, Patrick nodded.

“Stay nearby,” he said. “Keep your wits about ye and come back quickly.” Molly nodded, gathering a few things in her bag to wash.

A serving woman directed her to the laundering station; it was down a long corridor, past the second-class kitchens, where servers and cooking staff were busily cleaning. Molly found the room with a few tubs and hot water and soap in it; a few other women passengers were there as well, washing and hanging up things. A tag with her cabin number on it hung on the wall with many others.

It felt such a pleasure to pour warm water in the wooden tub and watch the soap flakes foam up; the dirt washed away as she rubbed, rinsed and twisted the clothes; with a smile she fed the clothes and stocking through the very modern-looking hand-wringer. Once her things were washed and hung on one of several lines stretched across the end of the room, she marked the line with the room tag and left, carrying her laundry bag.

Passing the kitchen on her way back, Molly heard raised voices and slowed her steps.

“I don't like it!” came a man's angry voice. “These apples are not spoiling; I hate to see them thrown into the sea just because they are bruised. It is a waste!” Pushing open the kitchen door a little, Molly saw two people standing in the white-tiled room, arguing. A woman in a long white apron held a bag of apples and tapped her foot on the floor impatiently.

“Cook says toss 'em,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't like it either Mr. Burke, but...” The woman stopped, spying Molly standing there.

“I'm sorry ma’am,” the young woman said, scaring up the courage to speak. “I'm in cabin 312, and...”

“How can we help you, miss?” the man asked, politely. Molly swallowed a little.

“I overheard you,” she admitted. “I'll take the apples, I know some people who'd love to have them... very much so. They wouldn’t mind if they’re bruised.” The two kitchen attendants exchanged a glance.

“Miss... we're not allowed to give food out,” the man named 'Mr. Burke' said, clearing his throat.

“As much as we'd like to, we can't.” Molly nodded, looking down; she began to turn back to the door.

“However...” the man in charge continued, pausing and looking around, “... if I were to set these apples here...” He walked over and put the bag under a stack of empty canvass bags in the corner. “... and if they were to mysteriously vanish... I'd consider them thrown out.” Molly smiled, very wide. The woman in the apron did as well and went back to her duties. Mr. Burke turned around, pretending to be busy at the large, shiny stove. Molly saw they were giving her a chance to retrieve the apples and did so, stowing them away in her laundry bag.

Not really knowing what to do with the fruit, Molly knocked on Donata's door; no one answer and it appeared locked. Taking a deep breath, she bore the sack outside. Molly walked around as casually as possible to the rear of the promenade. Looking over the rail into steerage, she looked down, where she'd first seen Luigi. After a few moments of searching, she saw a familiar-looking cap. She wondered soberly how to get his attention; it was not ladylike to shout.

Moving along the rail her toe hit a small pebble on the deck; looking down, Molly stooped and grabbed it. Leaning a little over the rail, she aimed for right above Luigi's cap and dropped it. The reaction this time was a little different; the man started and looked around, then up. Molly waved a little, suddenly shy again. The young man below grinned up at her; his smile was warm and ready, every bit as nice as when she'd first seen it. Pointing over to the staircase, Molly lifted her eyebrows a little, as if to ask 'meet me over there?' The young man below her nodded, still smiling. Letting out a breath of relief, Molly stepped back, carrying her laundry bag of apples.

Luigi beamed as he made his way over to the stairs; hurriedly, he took off his cap and smoothed his unruly hair, using one hand to brush off his waistcoat and trousers. The young woman came tripping down the steps in her slender boots and light blue dress; she had no bonnet on and her hair--though it was braided up--reflected the sun's rays gloriously. The young Sicilian thought he’d never seen a prettier girl in all his life. Smiling up at her, Luigi thought of several things to say as she came closer.

On the last step Molly looked at the young man and smiled; he smiled back. About to say something, Luigi found himself being handed a hevay laundry bag. The young woman nodded sweetly at him and tripped back up the steps, disappearing above onto the second-class deck. Surprised, Luigi looked into the bag he held; a few dozen apples lay there, looking a little bruised but very edible. Glancing back up the stairs, Luigi smiled, putting the bag over one shoulder as he walked away.

The apples were well received. Luigi cut them in half and gave them to every Italian family he could find. The Irish and English kept to themselves and would not have accepted anything from a 'dago' anyway, so he did not offer. The children were very happy to bite into the half-apples. When thanked, Luigi would smile and shake his head.

“It is nothing,” he said, pleasantly.

A familiar face greeted him among those the crowded dining hall.

“Luigi...” a young man his age called out in his own language, smiling. “Same as in school... food for favors, yes?” Luigi smiled back, clasping the man's hand.

“Antonio,” he said, nodding. “No favors... I'm doing a public service.” Antonio laughed at this.

“Sure... sure,” he said. “With what they are feeding us, I can see why you are suddenly so popular.” They spoke a few minutes, exchanging news. “That one has been down here many times...” Antonio said, pointing discreetly with a cigarette towards the deck entrance doors.

Turning a little, Luigi saw the pale Irishman in the fine suit he'd decked the previous day. Leaning back against the wall, he watched the man from the shadows.

“He is a swindler... he roasts fish in the flames of the fire,” Antonio went on, in their language. “People who cannot afford the tickets to America, he will pay it, for a fee. Most cannot pay this fee…”

“... and then he owns them,” Luigi finished, darkly. Antonio nodded, taking a long draw on his cigarette. Both men from Messina watched as the well-dressed man approached a family in the corner. Luigi could not hear any words above the din in the room but the sight was easy to interpret. The father--a thin red-haired man--stepped over to the well-dressed swindler, his face filled with dread. The man said something to him, and the father nodded; his thin wife took off her necklace and gave it to her husband, whom handed it to the 'swindler'. The man in the suit looked at it, then put it in his pocket. The woman wiped away tears from her eyes and turned to tend to her children.

“I heard you knocked him out, yesterday,” Antonio said to Luigi, with a grin. “Your uncle Gino found me and told me.” Luigi nodded, his eyes still fixed on the handler.

“He called me a ginny,” he said, quietly. At this, Antonio's smile faded.

“Son of a bitch,” he spat, glaring at the handler with narrowed eyes; they smoked in silence, watching the well-dressed figure across the room grift money and valuables from the people he owned.

After dinner, Molly waited until the kitchen staff had cleaned up and left before entering the white room. Molly's grandfather approved of the plan to help feed the unfortunate folk crowded in steerage, but warned her against telling any one. By not forbidding her, he was telling her to continue; Molly was both surprised and pleased by this; it felt quite good to be of use, even on this greaat vessel of strangers traveling the sea. Under the empty canvas sacks in the ktichen, the young woman discovered not only more apples but two loaves of bread and several cooked artichokes, cut in half. Stowing it in a new laundry bag, she gave Mr. Burke a quick smile; he pointed to the door and pretended to scowl at her, though his eyes had humor in them. Luigi was waiting for her by the base of the stairs. The crew members seemed to not care if Molly went down the steps, as long as she stayed in sight.

Keeping the sack under her coat, Molly went down the stairs, towards the young man with the wide smile.

“Miss Callahan,” Luigi said, as she handed him the sack. “Why do you do this? Why do you bring food?” Surprised, Molly stared at the young man for a moment.

“They eat broth and bread in steerage,” she said, quietly. “Nothing else.” Luigi nodded at this, leaning against the wall by the stairs.

“Yes,” he said. “You eat better, up there.” Molly smiled, a little sadly.

“Here I do,” she told him. “Only because grandfather's family in America sent money for tickets. Every other day for many years, we ate nothing but broth and bread.” Luigi looked at the young woman for a moment, and then nodded.

“Is good,” he said, at last. “It is good to help, yes?” Molly gave him a bright smile.

“Yes it is,” she agreed. “I… I must get back to my grandfather.” She gave the young man a little curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. DiMattio.” Luigi smiled.

“Bona cera,” he said, looking at her. “A beautiful evening for you, Miss Callahan.” Molly smiled to herself all the way up the steps and through the corridor to her cabin. Luigi watched her until she dissappeared from view.

The laundry bag held even more food, this time; along with the food his uncles brought, Luigi was able to give many families bits and pieces. As he gave out the food surreptitiously, the young Sicilian man saw a large group of Jewish families, sitting in one corner of the dining hall. They were not in the line for broth. Thinking back, Luigi could not remember them ever standing in the line. The faces of each person in the large party seemed drawn and thin; the children were sitting with their mothers, crying quietly.

Lighting a cigarette, Luigi slowly made his way towards them, the bag over his shoulder. An aged Jewish rabbi stood in the corner with his prayer shawl and black hat, moving back and forth slightly as he prayed, his eyes closed. As Luigi came closer, he could hear the reverently spoken words:

“Koomah Adonai... El nesa yadecha al tishkach aniyeem,” the rabbi said; the words were spoken with acute conviction. It was an appeal to God to aid those whom suffered from want, the poor. Other Jewish men stood with him in the white-prayer shawls, speaking along with him; their wives and children

sat nearby, huddled in groups. Leaning against the wall, Luigi waited for the rabbi to cease his speaking and put away his prayer-book.

“Rabbi...” he said, quietly. He stood straight and took off his cap; the men regarded the young Sicilian man with uncertain expressions. “You do not stand in line. Why do you and your families not eat?”

The aging rabbi looked at the young Sicilian for a moment.

“There is meat and bones from pigs in the broth,” he, at last. “So we are told. We cannot eat anything from pigs. It is our law.” Luigi looked at him, then at the faces of the men and families nearby.

“Will they make it without pig?” he asked, plaintively. The rabbi shook his head.

“No, we have eaten one biscuit for breakfast, one for lunch and one for dinner,” he said. “We cannot eat the broth and they have nothing else for us.”

Luigi turned towards the wall and swung the sack down from his shoulder.

“What can you eat?” he asked, looking around. The rabbi seemed to realize Luigi's intent and bent forward a little.

“Kosher...” he said. “Only kosher food; no pigs.” Luigi looked thoughtful, putting is cigarette between his lips.

“Bread?” he asked, bringing out some loaves. The rabbi nodded, gratefully taking them and handing them quietly to the men pressing around.

Boiled eggs?” The man nodded again. His family stood up, standing closer at the prospect of food. “Apples?” Another nod. The young man dug around in the sack for more items. “Bacon?” Luigi asked, with a smile. The Rabbi's sudden, disgusted expression made the young man chuckle. Seeing the Sicilian youth was joking with him the white-bearded rabbi smiled a little, shaking his head. Nearby, the rabbi's wife put her hands on her hips and gave the newcomer a narrow look. Smiling, Luigi brought out the artichokes instead. These were gratefully accepted.

“What do you want for these?” the rabbi asked, as Luigi closed his sack of food. The Sicilian looked at him and shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said, with a smile. “When you get to New York, don't forget me... Luigi DiMattio,” he told the rabbi. The man grinned.

“I will not forget you,” he said, with a firm nod. “I am Moshe Reuben, a jeweler.” Luigi nodded back and put the sack over his shoulder again. The rabbi looked towards the ceiling of the dining hall, lifting his hands a little his palms facing upwards.

“Father... bless this goy whom you sent to ease our hunger,” he said. “Shine your face upon him.”

Luigi nodded at the rabbi and crossed himself respectfully, putting his cap back on. The group of Jewish men returned to their corner to eat, sharing with their families.

Five

For an entire week Molly found food under the empty sacks in the kitchen three times a day. The items grew in number until the food almost over-filled the laundry sack. No one questioned the pretty, young woman from second-class as she brought her laundry sack down to steerage. Luigi found excuses to make her stay and talk with him for longer periods of time. They talked about where they grew up and what they remembered of their parents.

“How do you know the Giovannis?” Molly asked him, one day, sitting down on a step by the wall.

Luigi grinned.

“Vito and Gino are my uncles,” he told her, sounding amused. “My mother was their sister; she and my father were taken in the earthquake. We never found them.” Molly swallowed; sadness welled up in her at his words. Death had touched every family she knew, sometimes repeatedly. It was still an occasion for sorrow.

“Oh... I'm sorry,” she said, sincerely. “I lost my mother and father as well.” Luigi looked at her, and then nodded at the floor. He lit a cigarette and stood downwind of her.

“Donata, my aunt, she told me this,” he said, glancing at the young woman seated on the stair. The wind was chilly now; they were deep in the Atlantic. The cold made Molly's cheeks and the tip of her nose red; the wind whipped thin curls of her copper hair loose from under her bonnet. “She says you care for your grandfather well.”

Molly smiled.

“He does the same for me,” she said. “We work together; he weaves fine linen cloth and I knit stocking and scarves from wool; it is a good trade, for us.” Luigi nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes… you can do this in a home,” he mused, aloud. “You do not need a shop to weave or knit.” Molly smiled, nodding.

“Aye, sir,” she agreed. “We used to live in the same room as the loom. It was so big, we could not bring it with us, but Grandfather hopes to buy another in America.”

“My uncles they… eh, wish to open a butcher shop in New York, like they had in Messina. They are butchers.” Luigi leaned against the wall as he said this. He found himself enjoying the conversation with the young woman very much; she listened to him with bright eyes, as if she were actually interested in what he said.

“If I may ask, sir… what did you do in Messina? What was your trade?” Molly felt slightly bold for asking but she was very curious to know more of this man. Luigi smiled at her.

“Carpenter…” he said, nodding. “I have tools... I make tables, shelves… many things.”

As she listened, Molly inwardly studied the young Sicilian’s manner; he appeared confident but not proud; he glanced around with a calm look. This stance said much of his character; he was not easily put off… nor was he uncertain. Molly supposed Luigi DiMattio would be a very steady sort of person in any situation, my like her grandfather in character.

Remembring her duty to the aging weaver, Molly stood to go.

“I must get back,” she said, apologetically. “Good day to you, Mr...”

“Luigi,” the young man stated, interrupting her. He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his shoe. “Call me Luigi... please, or Louie. Both are good.” Looking at the young man for a moment, Molly smiled.

“Good day then, Luigi,” she said, quietly. “I suppose I shall see you again tonight...”

“No...” her companion said, firmly. Molly stopped, surprised at his serious tone. “It will storm tonight,” Luigi explained, pointing at the sky. Looking up into the gray firmament, Molly could see that he was right; dark clouds boiled on the horizon and the chill in the air seemed to grow sharper. “It will be bad. You will fall on the stairs,” Luigi continued, stepping a little closer to her. “Give the bag to Donata. She will give it to my uncles.”

Molly nodded, biting her lip a little; a well of disappointment sprang up in the young woman's mind, though she quickly pushed it back down. Luigi felt a surge of well-being flood through him; the young woman actually looked crestfallen at the prospet of not meeting him that night. The young Sicilian smiled.

“Good day, Molly,” he said, giving her a warm glance. ”I hope to see you very soon. I like to speak with you.” Molly felt her face grow a little warm and nodded, turning hurriedly away. She was not quick enough, though... Luigi saw her face turn pink. Watching the young woman quickly climb the steps, the young man new a foolish grin dressed his face. He did not care. Turning, he made his way through the crowd with the heavy laundry bag of provisions.

The sea became rough soon after the midday meal. In the steerage dining hall, people gathered in miserable groups braced against the roll and pitch of the floor; the floor was slick with vomit and acrid smells lingered in the air like mist. Luigi stood in the wind and driving rain out on the steerage deck, preferring the cold and wet to the smells and sounds of sickness inside. Looking towards the stairs up to second-class, he was surprised to see his uncles coming down, bearing with them a heavy laundry bag. Gino carried it, grasping the rail along with his brother, making their way along the rolling, drenched deck towards their nephew. Luigi opened the door to the steerage dining hall, following the men inside.

“Bad weather,” Vito said, over the din of the waves and wind outside; he shook the water from his cap. His brother Gino held the wet laundry bag away from the floor and grimaced as he looked around the long, low room.

“What a smell...” he said, disgusted. Taking out a stub of a cigar, the Sicilian man lit it, keeping the smoke under his nose. Luigi nodded, side-stepping a trail of murky liquid on the floor.

“The crewmen come and scrape it,” he told his uncles. “They swill is down with seawater. The captain is not a fool; he does not let it sit for long.” Gino nodded in agreement, handing the bag of food to his nephew.

“They may not want this just now,” he said, glancing around. The dining hall door next to them opened; in stumbled the well-dressed handler. His expensive overcoat was soaked with rain, but the man seemed more affected by the stench in the room than the weather. As the Sicilian men watched, he snorted with revulsion and took out a folded linen handkerchief; he held it to his nose, carefully stepping on the dry areas of the floor, trying not to lose his balance. The handler made his way over to the corner where the Irish and English passengers grouped.

Already mired in seasickness, the families he handled looked at the swindler with absolute dread. Vito and Gino exchanged a look and drifted closer; Luigi followed close behind, careful to keep his face partially hidden. The handler leaned one hand against the wall, speaking above the noise of the storm to a family huddled on the floor. The father, a thin man dressed in threadbare clothing stood with his cap in his hands.

“We have nothing more to give ye, sir...” he said to the handler, his eyes on the floor. “You've the last bit o' finery and our money gave out days ago.” The hander searched the father's face for a moment, and then looked down at his family. The mother held her two young sons in her arms, their pale faces resting against her chest; at her side a teen-age girl huddled, her hands around her mother's arm.

“Your daughter will come up with me,” the man said, firmly. “Once she bathes, that is. See that she brings clean clothes with her.” The mother looked up in horror, as did the girl; her husband looked even more ill of face and began to protest; lifting his hand, the handler struck the man with the flat of his hand; the father fell back landing on the filthy floor by his wife and sons.

“You dare question me?!” the handler shouted, his face red. “I own you, and your family!”

On the very edge of the Italian 'section', Luigi stood behind his uncles. The young man's face was dark; his eyes flashed with anger at the handler's terrible request. When the well-dressed Irishman hit the father, Luigi stepped forward, trying to push past his uncles. Vito and Gino both stayed him with a firm grip on the young man's arm.

“No, Luigi...” Vito said. “Do not be a fool in showing the man what you think.”

“Go,” Gino said, shoving his nephew a little. “Give out the food to the families. Leave him to us.” Luigi looked at his uncle in the eye for a moment, and then nodded; he shouldered the sack and made his way back through the crowd. Vito watched him go, and then exchanged a look with his brother. Gino nodded. They walked forward towards the handler, purpose in their features.

The mother of the girl sobbed aloud; she begged the handler to reconsider. The man sneered at her words.

“She is the only thing of value you have left,” he said. “Your debts must be paid. This will hold them off until you get to America.” He eyed the young woman as she cowered behind her mother.

“Irishman...” came a thickly-accented voice from behind. “You, in the suit...” The handler turned to face two Italian men; the Irishman man recognized them from the dining salon above.

“What do you want?” he asked, with narrowed eyes. Vito smiled at him, though his eyes held a cold look; Gino stood at his side, smoking.

“You are a businessman?” Vito inquired, holding up one hand, rubbing his fingers together. The handler looked from one brother to the next.

“I do not do business with Italians,” he sneered, standing as tall as possible on the heaving floor. Ignoring the man's rude tone, Vito's smile increased. Taking out a gold coin from his pocket, he held it up.

“We can make it worth your while,” he said, above the noise of the storm. “I think our money is not Italian, yes? We can talk outside…” Looking at the gold, the handler glanced back down at the family at his feet.

“You remember what I said,” he told them. “Have the girl packed when I come back.” He looked over at the Sicilian brothers and jerked his head towards the door. Vito nodded and made their way towards it. Luigi watched them from across the room, busily doling out food to what families would accept it.

Out on the steerage deck, the crashing waves made it difficult to hear anything. The three men braced themselves by the dining hall entry. Vito pointed to a small recess closer to the side of the ship, a little more protected from the wind and water.

“We can talk there!” he called out; the handler squinted at it, holding on to his felt hat. Nodding he gripped the rail and followed the Sicilians towards the recess.

“What business do you want to discuss?” the handler said, over the wind. “Make it quick!” Gino gripped a projecting handle, looking over the steerage deck. Crewmen in oil-coats and boots were busily ushering the few people on deck into the dining hall. Seeing no one looking their way or within earshot, Gino turned back to his brother and nodded.

Vito Giovanni fixed the handler with a glare that rivaled the chill of the waves themselves.

“Can you swim?” he asked, above the wind. The man in the suit shook his head, no... his face showing puzzlement. “Good,” Vito finished, nodding his head once.

The handler felt his arms pinned from behind; Gino held the man in a vice-like grip, refusing to let go as the man struggled. The wind stole away the handler's shouts for aid. Vito quickly searched the man and found a small bag of valuables; he put the bag into his pocket. Grabbing the handler's coat lapels with both hands, Vito and Gino moved to the side of the ship. The handler saw their aim and shouted louder, his eyes wide with horror. Ignoring this, Vito and Gino hauled the black-hearted man up and over, letting go their hold on him.

As the handler fell, Gino removed the cigar from his mouth and put the top of his hand under his chin, bringing it forward and down with force; his face held a look of disgust.

“Finire in merda!” he called out. “You end in excrement...” His brother Vito glanced around then looked back over the side. The handler was far below, struggling in the waves, his fine overcoat heavy with seawater. The ship passed him by in seconds; the waves heaved around him, his cries swallowed by the howling wind. Slowly, the Sicilian men made their way back to the dining hall; they stood a minute, smoking and watching the speck of a man bobbing far behind the ship on the dark, wind-driven waves.

After a minute, Gino ran up to a crewman, gesturing to the water with a frantic face.

“I saw a man! In the water!” he yelled. “A man is down there!” The sailor looked where the Italian was pointing, his face a wall of consternation; grabbing his binoculars, the young man looked through them, searching back and forth. The man stiffened, and then lowered the binoculars. Running over to the large warning bell, the crewman rang it hard, yelling and pointing to where he's seen the flailing man. Gino and Vito watched as the crewmen began untying a lifeboat and running, shouting to each other above the storm. Squinting, Vito saw the tiny speck floating out on the stormy waves was already starting disappear below the surface. The boat would not arrive in time.

In the dining hall once again, Vito and Gino strolled back in to the smelly, humid room; in the Irish corner, families looked up at them, and then at one another as the warning bell rang outside. Passengers stepped out of the way as the two brothers walked towards the family the handler had been speaking to before. The father stood up, looking up at the Italian men then behind them for the handler but he was nowhere to be seen.

“I am Vito Giovanni of Messina,” one of the Italian men told him; he took out the bag from his coat. Taking the father's wrist, he brought the man's hand up and emptied the bag into it. Necklaces and brooches, rings and coins tumbled out; the father used his other palm to contain them, looking up at the two brothers in unbelief. “See these get back to those he took it from,” Vito continued, quietly. “The man... he decided to swim to New York... but I fear he is no swimmer.”

The father looked appalled for a moment, and then smiled down at the valuables. His wife, still huddled on the floor gave a cry of relief; she held her daughter even closer.

“Find the rightful owners,” Vito warned the father, seriously. “Or you may decide to swim to New York as well.” The Irishman nodded vigorously in response. Vito grunted and clapped the man briefly on the shoulder before turning away, Gino at his side.

Six

In spite of the supplemented food the condition in steerage worsened with the continual cold storms. Snow and ice peppered the rain, making walking on deck nearly impossible. Seasickness lessened a little but in the close quarters of the packed dining hall another illness began to spread. A few, older passengers were first to begin coughing, then a small number of children. The sick were put in a separate corner, away from the others. A white-coated doctor and nurses from the sick bay came to peer into the bunks in steerage, feeling foreheads of the ill and shaking their head.

“The doctor, he says it is pneumonia,” Vito told everyone at the dining salon table. “My nephew says two have died already, more are sick with it.”

Her food forgotten, Molly listened with wide eyes as the men and Donata discussed the sad circumstances below. “They are being moved to the sick bay now, before it spreads more,” Vito continued, shaking his head. “Some small children are taken with it. Hopefully they will get better... if not they will join the others in the sea.” At this Donata Giovanni held her daughter close. Molly felt ill and blessed all at once.

“Will your nephew be alright?” she asked of Donata. “Luigi… he won't get the sickness, will he?”

Vito looked up and noted the concerned expression on the young woman's face. Glancing at Molly's grandfather he saw the elderly man observed it as well. The two men exchanged a knowing glance.

“No, no...” Donata told the young woman, shaking her head. “Luigi is a strong boy, he works hard. He does not get sick.” A little comforted, Molly left her fruit and roll uneaten, tying it away in her handkerchief to give to the young man in question.

Donata looked at the young girl for a moment. “Do you play, like your grandfather?” she asked, smiling. “The music, yes?” Molly looked up at her and nodded.

“A little,” she said, nodding her head. “Grandfather taught me, but he is far more skilled than I am.” The Sicilian woman nodded, turning to talk to her husband; they spoke quietly in their own language. Molly returned to her own thoughts until her grandfather expressed a desire to go.

“Luigi looks at her like he has never seen a woman before,” Gino told Donata in their own tongue. The man and wife watched as Molly and her grandfather nodded to the table and walked out of the dining salon. “He has never looked at anyone like that. She is not even Italian...”

Donata smiled a little sadly.

“Does that matter anymore?” she inquired, “We're not in Sicily. We go to America now, and Molly is a sweet girl… very polite. I think she feels something for Louie.” Gino took out his cigar and leaned forward.

“It does matter, Donata,” he said, seriously. “We have traditions. To break with them is to forget you are Sicilian.” His wife began to argue with him but Gino waved it away. “Enough! Luigi will make up his own mind. If not, we can always send for a bride for him from Sicily.”

Patrick Callahan awoke far past midnight; his chest felt tight; spasms of coughing made him sit up and lean against the wall of his berth. Molly was at his side in a flash; her white night-dress shone bright in the moonlight streaming through the porthole. The ship's rolling was almost second nature to her now but the room was cold.

“You'll catch your death, child,” her grandfather told her, sternly. Another paroxysm of coughing shook him. Putting on stockings and a shawl, Molly took down her own blanket and drew it around Patrick's back, tenderly folding it over his chest. The wheezing sound when he breathed concerned her greatly. It was too late at night to call anyone. Sitting on the floor by his berth, she held onto the aging weaver's thin hand as he coughed.

The next day Patrick Callahan seemed a little improved, especially after a hot meal and a few cups of steaming tea. Everyone in the dining salon was sobered; three more unfortunate passengers in steerage had died in the night, including a small child. A few, quiet words of prayer were said at the table and even the waiters dipped their heads in respect for the dead. Watching from the rail of the second-class deck, Molly saw the three bodies below by the railing of the steerage deck on stretchers; they were completely wrapped in canvass. One was much smaller than the other two. A lump welled in Molly's throat at the sight of it, even more so at the child's parent's standing nearby. The mother sobbed quietly into her husband's shoulder; the man stood tall, seemingly unable to take his eyes from the little form wrapped in sailcloth.

Feeling tears rolling down her face, Molly did not wipe them away; ‘twas no shame to feel sorrow for a mother's loss, and that of one so young. The captain himself came down the steps to steerage, the first mate and bos'n trailing after. The normally noisy, bustling deck grew quiet as the captain stood by the stretchers; he stopped by each one, taking off his hat at the last, smaller form. Looking at the parents, he spoke a few, quiet words to them. The father nodded, his forehead lined with grief.

A red-haired minister came out of the steerage crowd by the parents; standing by the child's stretcher, the man in a worn corduroy jacket opened up a small Bible and cleared his throat. The wind had died down a little but the minister's voice rang out over the sounds of the sea.

“Young men and old men, wives, maids and children, tomorrow is promised to no man, but for those whom believe upon the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Before we commit the bodies of the departed to the sea, let us hear from the holy book, the words of the Living God. From the Book of Hebrews, verses 23-28 of the ninth chapter: “For Christ is not entered into the holy places made with hands, which are the figures of the true; but into heaven itself, now to appear in the presence of God for us: Nor yet that he should offer himself often, as the high priest entereth into the holy place every year with blood of others; For then must he often have suffered since the foundation of the world: but now once in the end of the world hath he appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself. And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment: So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation.'”

As soon as the minister's words died away, the captain and first mate came forward with the bos'n; the captain stood by with his hat off as the two officers lifted up the end of each stretcher, letting the body slide over the side of the ship. They did so somberly, his heads bowed. It did not matter what country any on the boat was from or how different their cultures were; each person felt grief as the smallest form in the canvass slipped from the stretcher into the sea.

Standing on the deck above, Molly's face was wet with tears; sniffling, she dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. The scene was so still and sad; she was especially touched by the figure of the child's mother, leaning against her husband by the rail. They looked completely wretched. Below, in the crowd, standing by others from steerage, Luigi caught sight of the red-haired young woman as she stood there along the rail of the upper deck. Though some next to the red-haired young woman looked sad, Molly Callahan was openly crying, her expression one of compassionate sympathy. The chill wind blew harder, giving the air the feel of ice. The crowd dispersed, the officers went back up to their stations and Molly turned, heading back to her cabin.

A somber mood yet lingered on the steerage deck, even after the stretchers were removed. Luigi stood by the rail, smoking and looking out into the water. Until the earthquake, life in his town was not bad at all. Death happened once in awhile, to the very old, or the foolish; once in a great while a child died, usually an accident of some kind. That fateful morning the quake stuck, death was suddenly all around. The stone building he slept in was spared, but for days afterward he almost wished he had been taken. It was a ghastly sight to climb over the rubble-filled streets, searching for survivors.

Along with anyone else able, he'd helped take the bodies and put them in carts; once or twice they found an entire family entombed in a crumbled home. The smell of death was at times overpowering. After this, he thought he was inured to death, but seeing the young Irish girl cry for a poor child she did not know stirred something in him. Resting his elbows on the rail, Luigi ignored the cold and watched the deep blue water of the ocean; he stood there a long time.

In the cabin she shared with her grandfather, Molly sat on the fold-down bench; she sat still for some time, gazing towards the porthole in sober contemplation. Dozing in his berth, Patrick looked over and saw his granddaughter seated there.

“By your long face I'll not ask if ye saw the funeral,” the white-haired weaver said, sitting up a little.

He coughed into a handkerchief and cleared his throat. Molly looked at him, not really knowing what to say. “Ah know what yer feeling,” her grandfather said, after a moment. “You feel guilt assailing you for not doing more, for being up here and not in down there among the sickness.”

Drawing in a deep breath, the young woman on the bench nodded, swallowing hard.

“I have seen death before,” she said, quietly. “And still… I yet wonder how it is possible that God can allow a child to die.”

“He does allow it,” her grandfather said, firmly. “He would not be God if He did not give life and take it away as He wills. We do not know His mind, lass... but, we know He is just.” Molly nodded, looking out the porthole. “However... as I told ye when ye were small, this world is but a footstool to what is to come. In the Kingdom of God, there will be no death. Not ever again.”

The simple words brought with them comfort. It was far easier to think of the dead child happy in the Kingdom of God, rather than enshrined in the cold grasp of the sea. Molly dried her eyes and took in a deep breath. Patrick took out his ancient pipe and lit it, glancing towards the porthole.

“We're not far off, so I hear,” he said, after a moment. “The day after tomorrow, near midday, we should be catching sight of the statue of liberty.”

The news stirred a new feeling in Molly's mind, resurrecting thoughts of America and of hope. Even the wretched and grief stricken could find a new beginning there.

“I should dearly like to see it,” she told her grandfather. The white-haired weaver nodded, puffing his pipe.

“So would I, lass,” said he.

Seven

The weather calmed during the night; even the wind died down and felt as if it had tames. Sea birds could be seen, showing that land was not far away. Patrick spent much of the day in a deck chair, well wrapped against the cold in rugs and blankets. Molly busied herself with collecting food at each meal, enjoying her few moments talking to Luigi. The arrival day dawned clearer than any so far; the sun beamed down warding off some of the chill. Though he coughed now and then and looked a bit pale, Patrick got up and dressed himself in his best suit.

“We should make ourselves fine, lass,” he said, combing his white hair in the small mirror. “This is the day we become Americans.” Molly worried at his pallid complexion but reasoned he'd be better off out in the sun then in the cabin. When her grandfather went out of the room she hurried to put on her best clothes.

The excitement in the air seemed nearly tangible out on the deck; passengers came out and packed the rail, looking about. Land came into view, along with other steamships journeying along with them; the lower bay of the New York Harbor came slowly closer. Molly craned her neck with all the others, getting her first look at America. Down on the steerage deck the mood was downright festive. Gone were the woes of the former life; sorrows floated up and away from the minds of those on deck and were caught away by the strong shore wind. For those in the lowest decks, this was a day to celebrate; today they would begin another journey, one to citizenship... to freedom. The feeling seemed to grow in the faces of the folks in steerage, until a few emigrants stood up and took out instruments. Of all the languages on the boat, the one understood by all was music. Irishmen brought out fiddles and penny-whistles, the Italians played on concertinas and mandolins, Romanian musicians brought out guitars and the Jewish folks played on violins and flutes.

Molly's grandfather leaned over the rail a bit, his fingers tapping the shined metal expectantly.

“Fetch me my fiddle, lass,” he said, smiling. “I feel we shall go down and join them.” Molly was surprised but nodded and ran to get the wooden fiddle box. “Just keep close to me,” the white-haired weaver told her as they descended the stairs. “Where else could I get to play with all musicians of the world at once?”

Squeezing through the crowded deck, Molly and her grandfather found a corner by the rail where several other folks stood in a group, playing their instruments with a growing energy; smiling wide, Patrick took out his fiddle and nodded at the musicians closest, before joining in. Standing near to him, Molly gripped the rail, her smile going from ear to ear. The music was like no other she'd heard, being neither quite completely Irish, nor Italian, nor any other type… yet all of them at once.

“This must be the music of America,” she thought. It sounded like harmony.

As the unique music was played, land rose up and the water grew calmer. Molly gripped the rail, fascinated by the land; many ships as big as their own sailed the straight with them; tiny passengers on board these waved handkerchiefs in the air excitedly. People by the rail aboard the Cedric did as well. Excitement swelled as the ship surged forward; the music played gaily. Some even danced in the center of the deck, where there was room. Molly clapped along, keeping close to her grandfather, not leaving the rail.

Soon, familiar figures came through the crowd by the rail where Molly stood. Donata Giovanni greeted her, holding tightly to little Gina's hand. The little girl was jumping up and down, trying to see the land between the closely packed people. Vito and Gino were next to her, smoking and nodding their heads to the music. Molly found herself looking for one particular face but did not see it. Nearby, her grandfather seemed to be playing with renewed strength, along with the other musicians. The smile on his face made Molly want to cry with joy. She could see many on the deck shared these feelings and felt somehow connected to all of them.

A slight catch at her neck made Molly start; opened by the lace collar of Molly's shirt, her necklace tumbled down her jacket, towards the deck. This time, it was caught in a wide hand and lifted back up towards its owner. Luigi smiled down at the red-haired young woman; they stood very close, there being little room on deck. He stood taller than her; his warm, brown eyes held a kind and amused look. Molly thought he looked quite handsome, all clean and shaved, wearing a black suit and clean, white shirt.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him; she had to speak loudly to be heard above the music. “I suppose should not wear it until it is fixed.” The young Sicilian man nodded; his eyes did not leave hers.

“Yes,” he said, returning her smile. He closed her slender fingers over the necklace with his own.

“Keep it safe.” Molly felt her face grow a little warm and nodded, looking down at her hand; quickly, she put her necklace away in her jacket pocket.

“There she is!” came a shout, from the forward deck.

At the cry, the music stopped; every face turned towards the front of the boat. People quietly crowded the left-hand rail, looking forward with eager eyes. The landmass bordering the water obscured their view until it slowly passed. Cheers came from the front of the ship, happy cries of joy and people waved their hands and handkerchiefs wildly. Leaning out a little over the rail Molly searched for any glimpse of the famous statue, the beacon of America itself. Behind her, Luigi stood close, his arms on either side of her, his hands on the rail by hers, keeping the crowd from pressing them into the rail. His uncles and aunt stood nearby also looking forward.

Suddenly, the sight came; a ship ahead of them moved onwards and the tall Statue of Liberty stood out above the water as if it floated there, visible even from far across the upper bay of the harbor. The people in steerage and on the other decks erupted into cheers at the sight; some wept with relief and joy, some fell to their knees and crossed themselves; families hugged one another, pointing. Molly took out her handkerchief and waved, unable to speak.

It was a tremendous moment, hearing a whole ship of people cheer, seeing all the waving hands and smiling faces. Next to her Donata lifted Gina up so she could see it, holding her close; Gino caught his wife to him and kissed her.

“You're in America now...” he said, above the din. “You have nothing to worry about, not anymore.” He picked up his daughter in one arm, pointing to the statue. “That's America!” he said, smiling. Donata looked too, tears running down her face.

Wiping tears from her own eyes, Molly turned and looked for her grandfather; she saw him further down the rail, waving his hat with his frail arm, grinning at the beautiful statue across the bay and cheering with everyone else. Smiling at the scene, Molly turned and beheld Luigi still standing right behind her. The young man waved his cap in the air excitedly as well, his arm high over his head. He looked down at the young woman in front of him, his smile bright; with one arm he drew Molly towards him and leaned down, giving her a brief kiss on her mouth. Shocked Molly looked up at him, her eyes wide, Grinning Luigi kissed her again and let go of her. Turning, he accepted a hug from his aunt as the woman looked over; he clasped hands with his uncles. Everyone seemed to be sharing the moment of relief and happy tears. The long, sorrowful journey was almost over.

Her face flushed pink, Molly looked around quickly; the skin on her face burned with warmth. Everyone was still waving and cheering, completely caught up in celebration; no one seemed to have seen the kiss. The yong woman saw several others nearby exchanging similar affections to commemorate their happiness. Every arm and hand seemed to wave gleefully as they passed Liberty Island; the statue loomed tall and the blue-gray color of the weathered copper became clear. Molly looked up at the statue in awe; a deep respect welled up in her for the people whom made such a marvel. The figure was majestic in its cast-metal robe and pointed crown, holding high the torch of Freedom. Luigi kept his position protectively behind her, looking up over the young woman's straw bonnet at the liberty statue. They kept waving and shouting until the ship passed the grand landmark, moving slowly onward, towards Ellis Island.

On the right side of the harbor, enormous buildings seemed to be growing right out of the water; windows glistened in them; flags flew from their very tops. Many on the boat had never seen such large buildings, nor so many grouped all together. Molly shook her head in wonder at such marvels; she stood close to Luigi, feeling an odd sense of security wash over her in his presence. Molly dragged her eyes from the jagged New York skyline and looked ahead. The famed gateway Island of Ellis slowly came into view.

The island itself appeared to sit just a few feet above the water, with green lawns and nearly arranged buildings. The brown and white brick main hall was a fine, ornate structure several stories tall and topped with four, decorative towers. In the crowd of onlookers around Molly, a few emigrants sang a low, sweet melody. The young woman could not understand all of it but she heard the word 'America' mentioned in the sweet refrain several times. The crowd quieted as they watched the immigration island draw near. Hope, elation and joy were tempered a little by the vast uncertainly before them... though many smiles remained. The excitement simply could not be overcome.

The ship slowed as it approached the island, and then stopped moving altogether. The deep grating of the anchor chain vibrated through the deck; water spalshed loudly as the great metal object plunged through the surface. Still clutching the rail, Molly counted seven other ships stopped in the upper bay along with theirs, all waiting. Some of the ships had large, double-decked ferries by them, and were offloading passengers and crates upon them. American flags flew from the tops of each ferry boat. The full boats eased away from the ships, packed with waving people, baggage and children; these moved closer to the island in turns.

At the Island docks Molly could see ferriesdocked at a covered walkway, the area around its already teeming with people. It appeared they were lining up in a long cue, one that snaked around the walkway and up to the majestic main hall. Molly's grandfather appeared at her elbow. Smoking his pipe, Patrick looked up at the young Sicilian man standing behind his granddaughter. Luigi saw this look and stepped away, tipping his hat.

“Quite a sight, isn't it?” Patrick asked of his grandaughter, looking toward Ellis Island. Molly smiled at the aging weaver and rose up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“It is, sir,” she said, her eyes shining. “Thank you, for bringing us here, grandfather.” She put her arms around his neck, holding him close for a moment. Patrick patted her head and looked at her with pride.

“You'll have a better life here, lass,” he said, soberly. “Tis what your ma and da wanted for ye.” Molly nodded, quickly wiping away a tear.

Looking at the white-haired weaver's face, the young woman saw her grandfather was spent with the music and exciting hours on the deck; taking his arm, she walked by his side towards the stairs upward. Something made her turn and look back. Luigi met her gaze and tipped his hat at her, with a grin. Molly gave him a tiny smile and turned her head away so he may not see her blush.

“The lad got in a kiss,” her grandfather said, as they moved away. Molly's surprised expression made the elderly man chuckle. “I were watchin',” he said plaintively. “'Twas the perfect moment for a young man to do so, while everyone is looking elsewhere.” Molly's face turned bright red. Her grandfather lit his pipe, smiling to himself.

They walked more slowly and stopped a few times, so the white-haired weaver could catch his breath. The coughs were deep and strong; Molly forgot her excitement and helped her grandfather climb the stairs to the second-class deck. She found an empty deck-chair and led him over to it.

“Please sit and rest yourself,” she said, putting a rug over Patrick's legs as he leaned back. “I'll go to the cabin and pack our things.” Her grandfather nodded, holding his fiddle case close. As she walked away down the deck, Molly could hear him coughing into his handkerchief. She hoped doctors in New York were not too expensive.

The Cedric and its passengers waited many hours for a ferry from the island; it was reported that due to large number of emigrants on the many ships, the ferry from Ellis Island would arrive at their boat the following morning. Molly found herself unpacking their things again but she was glad her grandfather would have a chance to rest. After seeing him to his berth, the young woman went looking for a nurse or a doctor. At home, she had heard of camphor or a similar plant that helped the sick breathe easier.

Hopefully, they would have something like that on this ship.

A serving woman directed her to the sick bay a small, white-washed room with three railed berths and two portholes. A rather stern-faced doctor stood within; he listened to Molly's description of her grandfather's symptoms with little expression but surprised her by insisting he accompany her to the cabin.

Molly could hear coughing as she opened the door to the tiny room. The doctor lightly touched Patrick's forehead, his brow creased.

“Mr. Callahan... I'd like to bring you to the sick bay,” the man said, his tone slightly less stern.

“Looks as though you've a touch of pneumonia. We'll want to get you somewhat recovered before embarking the vessel, otherwise you'll go to Ellis Island hospital to convalesce. Your granddaughter will have to accompany you there, if she's no other escort.” Molly's grandfather nodded at this; he let them help him from the berth.

Though she was assured he'd be well taken care of, Molly refused to leave her grandfather's side.

The doctor seemed annoyed by this but had a diner plate brought for her anyway, along with hot soup for the white-haired weaver. The nurses put camphor compresses on Patrick's chest and boiled a kettle with long, dried leaves in it; they said it would help his breathing. Sitting by his side, Molly took out the burnished fiddle; touching the bow to the strings, she played the low, sweet melodies he had played for her on so many occasions. The sound calmed both the patient and the player with thoughts of home.

Luigi waited for Molly to come with one final bag of food; she did not show. An hour after dinner was over, the young man saw his uncle come down the stairs to him.

“Louie...” Vito said, walking over to him. He handed the young man a small piece of paper. “This is the apartment Cousin Marco holds for us; we will go there and wait. You just knock and the landlady lets you in; it is on the third story.” Nodding, Luigi put the paper away in his coat.

“Have the Irishman and his granddaughter left the ship already?” he asked, suddenly feeling alarmed. Vito shrugged.

“Maybe...” he said, lighting a cigar. “We did not see them at dinner.” Luigi smoked for a minute in somber silence.

“I would have liked to see Molly again,” he said, more to himself than anyone. Vito heard it, however and scowled at his nephew.

“There are plenty of fish in the sea, Louie,” he said, gesturing with one hand. “We can have a bride sent over for you...” Luigi snorted.

“Why would I go fishing when I have caught one already?” he said, his hands mimicking his

uncles'. “She is like no other woman I've ever met. No one from Sicily has a wife like her.”

“Minchioneria!” Vito said, throwing his hands up. “Essiri sempri lu santu fora la chiesa! Always you are like the statue outside, away from the church...”

Luigi let out an exasperated breath; he dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with this boot.

“I'd rather be on the outside of the church than like the traditional relics within,” he said; the young man turned and walked down the deck, out of sight. Vito snorted a little, then smiled; leaning against the wall the older man blew smoke rings into the chilly night sky.

On the other side of the boat, Luigi stopped. He stood awhile at the rail, looking at the skyline of the great city. Though it was a striking sight with its lamp lights streaming out over the waters of the upper bay, the young man could not help feeling bereft. Molly's company, though brief had come to be the highlight of each day. Thoughts of her sweet smile came to him, how her hair looked in the sunlight, how her face turned pink when he'd kissed her earlier that day. Taking out another cigarette, Luigi lit it and leaned on the rail, staring dismally at the many, tiny lights of New York.

“Father… let me see her again,” he prayed, aloud. “If I do, I will not let her go.”

The following morning, an immigration official did indeed come up to first class to inspect the passengers; carefully, he checked names and information against the ships manifest; by the time he'd come down to second class, it was well into the afternoon. Patrick Callahan's condition had not improved; the doctor spoke with the immigration agent outside the sick bay. After a few moments, the man beckoned for Molly to come out as well. A man dress smartly in a black emigration uniform with a badge on it stood there with the white-coated doctor. A black, brimmed cap stood on his head, like that of a policeman, a shiny badge upon it as well.

“Miss Callahan.” the doctor said, in a tone softer than the normal one he used. “I am

recommending that your grandfather be moved to the Ellis Island Hospital.” Molly's face fell at his words.

“A hospital?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is he that ill?” The doctor nodded.

“The elderly are always more susceptible,” he said. “They take longer to recover. Ellis Island Hospital is one of the best in the area. They will take excellent care of him; do not worry.”

“You will need to accompany him, Miss,” the official said, kindly. “Since you are in second class, it is not necessary to process you further, but you will be detained at the main hall until your grandfather recovers or a relative comes to collect you. There are strict policies forbidding un-escorted women to leave the island.” Molly nodded, concern flooding her. The agent took out his copy of the ships manifest and had her re-verify all the information written there.

“I'll take you and your grandfather over myself in a longboat,” the agent told her, kindly. “The ferry's no place for him.” He stamped her papers with his inspection seal and nodded to the doctor.

Crewmen helped bring Patrick down on a stretcher; Molly watched fearfully as they lowered him down by ropes to the bobbing longboat. Molly tucked blankets around her grandfather to protect him from the cold wind and the salty spray of the waves. He seemed to be resting well in spite of the rather bumpy journey and the pitch of the boat; no and then he'd give a deep cough into his kerchief. A myriad of concerns flooded Molly’s mind, of the white-haired weaver growing sicker, or how they were to wait, how was she to contact the relatives and of their crate below decks. She did not feel the waves nor fear the water; her grandfather's pale face filled her mind so that nothing else seemed to matter, not even coming to America. The inspection agent was concerned and helpful; he promised their crate would be located and loaded onto the island soon.

The longboat crewmen rowed them away from the ship and the ferries, across the churning, gray water to a small dock on one side of a large, square brick building. The agent informed the young woman that this was the hospital and pointed out the main hall where she'd be waiting. Before they lifted her grandfather from the boat, the agent pinned his papers and information to his overcoat. Putting the stretcher on a rolling gurney, the crewmen let the agent take over; white-jacketed orderlies came out from the doors of the hospital with a doctor; he spoke with the official for a few moments then whisked Patrick away inside.

Taking Molly's arm, the agent walked her over to the main hall to wait.

Eight

Luigi DiMattio waited on the ferry, crowded in with the others from steerage. The wind was very cold, blowing through the open sides of the double-decker ferry with no obstruction. As they disembarked, each traveler carried their bags and satchels or trunks in a long line off the ferry. Some were so glad to be off they stopped and kissed the ground, smiling and hugging their families. His feet finally on American soil, Luigi took in a long breath of fresh air and joined the slowly moving line of people as they headed towards the towering main hall.

Among the crowd, volunteer women in crisp, white shirts, long pressed skirt and smart jackets bore trays of milk in cups, others with trays stacked high with raised donuts. These they gave to each and every person whom came off the ferry as they waited in line. It tasted delicious, especially after the long wait on the ferry with nothing to eat. The volunteers handing them out smiled and said 'welcome to America'; the children clapped and jumped happily at the treats and milk.

The line of emigrants was very long; it wound around the island from the ferry, going directly into the covered front doors of the main hall. Patiently the travelers waited in the icy wind, shuffling forward a few steps as the line moved. After what seemed like hours, finally Luigi stood just outside the wide-open doors of the immigration building.

“It looks like a palace!” one aged woman said, in Italian. She stood just in front of Luigi. Her husband shook his head, eying the building with suspicion.

“It looks like a big police station,” he grimly told his wife.

Just inside the large, double set of doors was a small room full of stacked suitcases, trunks and satchels of every kind, size and shape. Four officials were forming people into three lines, and telling them they must leave their belongings here. Many passengers looked horrified by this and those whom did not speak English seemed to have a difficult time comprehending that they would indeed see their things again. To their credit, the officials were able to quickly summon translators in many of the various languages to explain that it was alright to leave the tagged bags and crates there, and go inside for further processing.

The main hall was filled with a riot of voices, much like the ship... yet added ot this noise was the rustling of papers and the even voices of the various officials. The large room was divided into sections and corridors by metal wire mesh partitions, like those one would use to keep cattle in. The hall was simply packed, almost to overflowing; the sir inside was almost stiflingly warm. People of all kinds, sizes and shapes filled the room, moving along in the separate lines. Luigi kept pace, inching forward along with all the rest.

The line of people filing in from the front doors moved past a whole line of somber-looking men in black, proper suits; badges gleamed on their lapels and upon their shiny caps, marking them as health inspectors. Each one of these men looked carefully at the line of emigrants moving past them; every once in awhile one would take a blue piece of chalk and make a mark on someone's lapel or collar. Many immigrants looked at these men with a mixture of fear and awe, dazed by the noise of voices and by the grand building around them. As they moved forward, the ones marked in chalk were separated out. This proved a bit of a problem if a family member was taken out while the others were approved to move forward. Once again, the officials seemed prepared with neatly-dressed translators to explain that this was merely a formality for safety’s sake.

The main process seemed to be categorizing the emigrants into several groups; first those whom could understand English and speak it were separated from the others, then men went in one line and women in another. After a thorough medical examination in separate rooms, they re-dressed and joined the crowd in a massive waiting room full of benches. People jockeyed for seats on the benches, or simply sat on the floor in groups around the edges of the room. Now and then an official would come down a set of stairs, contemplate a list in his hand and call a family to follow him.

Luigi saw that the wait was long in this room; mothers had children asleep on their laps, some had playing cards out or simply talked with anyone whom spoke their language. Luigi found a corner to stand in, there not being any seats left on the benches. The moment someone was called, people standing would hurry forward to get the seat. Looking around, Luigi studied the faces, shaking his head at the sheer number of people in one room from so many places, speaking so many different languages.

All at once a large chattering family stood up nearby, following a beckoning official. They left a large area of a sitting bench empty, but Luigi's attention was caught elsewhere. Next to where the family had been sat a familiar-looking young woman in a green bonnet. Luigi stared, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. The girl did not look up or around; she seemed to stare at the ground, her shoulders slumped forwards a little. Pushing gently through the crowd, Luigi moved along the bench to where the young woman sat, his cap in his hand.

It was indeed Molly Callahan; Luigi felt he would know her slender anywhere; the red-gold curls of her hair peeped out from under the green bonnet. Sitting down next to her, Luigi leaned forward and tried to look at her face.

“Hello,” he said, simply. At the sound of his voice, the young woman looked over at him. Luigi was flattered at the sudden smile that spread over Molly's face.

“Luigi...” she said; relief dressed her face. “Oh, how good it is to see you, sir.”

The young Sicilian smiled, a little.

“Yes, it is also good to see you.” he told her. “So many people I do not know are here, but for you. Where is your... eh... grandfather?” Molly's smile faded.

“He's very ill,” she explained, quietly. “He began coughing badly last night on the ship; the doctor put him in the sick bay and the agent came out saying we could not go with the others in second class, but had to come here. They put him in the hospital on the other side of the island. No one seems to know how he is doing; they won't let me go see him.”

Mulling over her words, Luigi nodded, slowly.

“And you? You wait here for him?” he asked, after a moment. Molly nodded, sighing.

“They have a rule here,” she said. “I am cleared to go on to New York City but I cannot go by myself. I must have an escort.”

“Your family here in New York, yes? They will come for you?” Luigi inquired, concern beginning to show on his features. Molly shook her head, no.

“A little while ago, they brought a letter from my grandfather's cousin,” she said, quietly. “They've moved to Chicago; they invited us to join them there but it is… hundreds of miles away, so the agent here tells me.” She paused and bit her bottom lip. “If my grandfather does not get well and no one comes to escort me off the island, they said I will be deported... sent back to Ireland, by myself.”

Looking at the floor, Luigi spent some moments in thoughtful silence. Reaching over, he patted the top of Molly's gloved hand. Looking up, the young woman gave him a grateful look; her green eyes looked sad, though. More than anything, Luigi anted to see her eyes full of the self same humor he'd observed many times, while on the ship. Across the room was the entrance to the large dining hall; Luigi could see men and women in immigration uniforms grouping people into numbers of fifty or so and taking them in shifts to eat.

“We will eat soon,” he said, pointing. “You are hungry?” His own stomach rumbled; it was some time since he'd eaten anything. Molly looked up at him and nodded, slightly.

“I am,” she replied. “I did not eat today.”

“You could eat with me,” Luigi offered. “The food may not be good.” Molly laughed, softly at this suggestion.

“I would be honored to eat with you,” she said, shyly. “I am glad to eat anything, whether it is good or not.” Luigi nodded, looking briefly into his small tin of cigarettes; he had enough of them to last a little while.

The Ellis Island dining hall was large, usable room painted a pleasing shade of brown, with white tile on the bottom half of the walls and floors. Long tables, covered with cloth, dominated the space, wooden benches pulled up alongside. Filing forward in a long, winding line, Molly and Luigi walked in slow pace; mimicking the others ahead they picked up a white soup-plate from a stack and walked forward.

A partition wall separated the dining room from the kitchen; here, openings had been made in the wall and a server would reach out with a ladle, putting food into the bowls as diners walked by. Luigi was glad to see familiar-looking macaroni noodles being scooped into plates, along with a red, meaty sauce; the welcome smell of garlic and cooked onions hung in the air. A third server handed out oblong shaped bread rolls. Leaning forward, he called to the cook.

“Cheese?” he asked, with a smile. “Cheese for the macaronis?” A heavy-set woman by the long stove glared at the speaker over her shoulder before turning back to the bubbling, steaming pots.

Molly looked down at the food in her bowl, smelling it judiciously. It smelled good, though unlike any food she'd ever seen.

“There is a seat,” Luigi said, taking her arm; he led her over to a vacant space on a bench at the far table, closest to the waiting hall door. Voices and pleased chatter filled the space; children ate with gusto, though some of the adults looked at the food suspiciously. Sitting down, Molly took up the metal fork and gently speared a sauce-covered macaroni; she glanced sideways at Luigi. The young Sicilian man inhaled the smell and nodded several times to himself.

“Is good,” he said, looking at Molly. Crossing himself, Luigi bowed his head. “Bless this food, good father.” Molly likewise bowed her head and murmured her agreement. Looking up, Luigi pointed to her fork. “Bon apetit,” he said, with a smile. “Eat.”

Molly did so; used to more bland foods, she chewed thoughtfully for several moments, and then smiled. It tasted spicy with garlic but the taste mingled well with the rich tomato sauce.

“It is good,” she said, getting another forkful. “Delicious.” Her hunger returning in droves, she ate all her food, mimicking Luigi as he used the bread to sop up the sauce. They had cups of milk to drink; Molly lifted her glass in response to Luigi's salute with his. The young woman noted his deliberate manner of eating; to him meals appeared to be an enjoyable ritual, not merely nourishment.

Seated by Molly's side, Luigi was impressed that the young Irish woman did not complain or treat the food with disdain. Some more northern European emigrants at the table did not seem to care for the Mediterranean flavor but ate the food anyway; some flatly refused to eat it and ate the bread only.

“They do not like,” Luigi said, aside to Molly. The young woman looked up and followed his gaze. A married couple on the other side of the table sniffed the food and made faces of disgust; their children however were already halfway through eating. Their manner of dress was unknown to her.

“Where are they from, do you think?” Molly asked quietly of her companion; she leaned a little towards Luigi in order to speak more privately in the noisy room. Looking at the family judiciously, Luigi leaned down towards the young woman at his side.

“Russia,” he said, with a nod. “Or... Poland, maybe.” Molly nodded at this, trying not to smile at the funny expression on their faces; they appeared disgusted. To her, the food was very good, though different. Certainly, it had filled her empty stomach. Following Luigi to the door, Molly placed her dirty dishes on the carts provided and re-entered the waiting hall.

There were no seats available on the benches; Luigi and Molly stood by the wall by many others, watching for someone to stand up and leave. Having nothing else to do, they watched and discussed the people in the room, where they were from and how they acted.

“That one there... he is no good,” Luigi told her, looking at one individual. “He hides from someone... look at his eyes.” Molly followed his gaze and saw a dark-haired man standing in the corner most filled with shadows. The man indeed seemed fidgety and kept darting glances around as if he felt threatened.

“He cannot keep still,” she said, looking up at Luigi. The young man nodded, watching the man.

“Yes. Here there is nothing to fear, unless you are running from trouble, or going to cause some.” Molly thought about this and nodded.

Studying Luigi's face for a moment, she mulle dover his keen observation and perception of character. She felt quite flattered that he sought out her company.

“There must be something he likes about me,” she thought. “Why else would he bother comforting me?” The notion appealed to the young owman greatly.

Whatever the young Sicilian had to say, Molly leanerd forward to listen. As the hours passed, his accent grew less difficult to navigate; it sounded pleasant to her ears, like deep music almost. Likewise, Luigi found he liked sitting or standing by the red-haired young woman; her green eyes kept his as he spoke, as if she wished to understand him fully. She did not laugh at his faltering English nor did she behave immodestly. This young girl from Ireland made him wish to never leave her side; this he had never felt, for anyone.

Soon, no more people entered the huge waiting room. The officials called up the last family late in the day; the rest of the people in the waiting room were informed that they would be spending the night in bunk rooms. The bunk rooms were segregated in three groups: families, single men and unaccompanied women. Molly found herself saying 'good night' to Luigi a few minutes later.

“I hope to see you for breakfast, sir,” she said, shyly. Luigi smiled down at her for a moment.

“Please do not say 'sir',” he requested, kindly. “I do not like that.” Molly returned his smile.

“Good evening to you, Luigi,” she said. The young Sicilian man scooped up her hand and quickly brought it to his lips.

“I will see you tomorrow, Molly,” he returned. The young woman in front of him turned pink and nodded, turning away. After she was out of sight the Luigi moved towards the single men bunk room.

It seemed natural that there would be a line for a warm shower; after an entire day standing in line or waiting to get into a line, Molly was resigned to it. A semi-warm bath and soap seemed worth the trouble, however. Like all the other women and young girls, Molly's bags were in the luggage area and she had to re-dress in the clothes she'd worn all day. One of the chaperon matrons informed them that they'd be able to collect their clothing bags in the morning.

After a minute of searching, Molly found an empty bunk and hung up her coat and bonnet, grateful just to be able to lay down on a clean bed. Drawing a woolen blanket over her, Molly closed her eyes. At night, her grandfather would always pray before retiring; it was murmured low but still audible through the thin walls of their home. Thinking of the kindly, white-haired man, Molly could not help letting a few tears slip from her eyes.

“Father, if it be your will... please let him recover. I don't want to be left alone in this world.” The prayer was silent but meant with every fiber of her being.

Nine

The dining hall and kitchen must have been accustomed to complaints about the food; questions or suggestions were met with a long-suffering gaze and a shrug from the cook or assistants. The breakfast of oatmeal was very bland but hearty. Molly did not mind; it was an everyday food for the Irish. Many in the hall thought the hot mush with milk and a little sugar on it was a welcome sight.

Luigi poked at the white mass in his bowl with a spoon.

“What is this?” he asked of Molly; encoutering his suspicious expresison, the red-haired young woman bit back a laugh.

“Oatmeal mush,” she explained, smiling. “’Tis a bit bland, but it fills the stomach. We eat something like this in Ireland, only much better. We put honey on it and berries, when they can be had.” Dubious, Luigi lifted a dripping spoonful up to his mouth. His face twisted as he slowly swallowed it.

“It has no taste!” he said, scowling down at the bowl. “How can you eat this?” Molly found his expression highly amusing and giggled into her hands.

“Many hungry people would love to eat that,” she said, smiling. Luigi pointed at his bowl of oatmeal.

“They are welcome to it,” he said, gravely. Still smiling, Molly offered him the half and apple she'd received. Luigi held up his hand and shook his head; silently he ate the food in front of him. Pushing the bowl away, he mumbled something in his own language.

In the waiting room they managed to find an empty portion of a bench. Sitting by Luigi, Molly felt a sense of protection envelope her. No men tried to bother her while the strong-looking young man was by her side. Luigi conversed with her readily, pointing out different people and cultures around them. Despite the waiting, such a room full of people from around the world was a sight to behold.

After awhile, the sounds of hushed sobbing came to Molly’s ears. Looking over her shoulder, she behled a woman seated behind them with three children; she quietly cried with halting breaths, holding her little ones close. Luigi looked at them as well; he could see from her dress and face that the woman was Italian. Her softly spoken words seemed to be a mainland dialect, perhaps from someplace near Rome. Galncign at Molly, Luiggi saw that the women’as misery had a profound effect on her; her clear, green eyes misted over in sympathy.

“Is she alright?” came Molly's whispered words; she'd leaned in a little closer towards the young man next to him, without realizing it. Listening to the sadly uttered words from behind them, Luigi took in a long breath. Molly’s hair smelled very good, very clean... almost like sunshine.

“She is saying for her children not to worry,” he said, studying Molly's face. “Their papa will join them soon. She says... they will wait here, in this room, for him to join them. Then, they will never be apart again.”

The emotion in the Italian woman's voice as she spoke to her children of her husband casued an odd feeling to well up in Luigi. How nice it would be to have someone feel that way about him, to be missed in such a way, with such feeling… to be so cherished. In his mind, Luigi knew that this his time in this room waiting by Molly's side was limited. Any moment his name could be called; the sheer number of emigrants being processed was the only thing delaying his approval. If the young woman's grandfather did not improve, she would be her a long while, possibly even sent back across the sea, away from him.

These things plagued Luigi through the morning and as they sat down to supper in the dining hall. Sitittng in solemn conteplation, he did not hear the noise, nor eat much of the food on his plate. Molly observed that something heavy weighed upon her companion; his normally animated conversation waned. His eyes held a pensive expression as he stared at the tabletop. Gathering her courage, she lightly touched the back of his sun-tanned hand.

“Do you feel ill, Luigi?” she asked. The young Sicilian seemed to shake himself from daze.

“No... I am thinking of a... something of... great meaning,” he said, haltingly.

“Important?” Molly offered, politely. Luigi gave her a small smile.

“Yes,” he said nodding. “Important.” He said no more for awhile; Molly ate her food, wondering what it was that Luigi was so worried over.

The main waiting hall had a few, red-silled windows along one wall; waiting for an empty seat, Luigi and Molly stood by a window, looking out over a brick area outside, dotted with ringed trees. White areas appeared on the ground; great, white flakes of frozen water fell from the sky. Luigi had heard of snow before but had never seen it fall; on the boat, it was mixed with rain and froze one's skin. This snow was different... and beautiful.

Molly stood a few inches away, watching the snow fall with bright eyes. Looking down at her lovely face, the young Sicilian felt the moment was upon him, to be grasped now, or let go forever.

“Molly...” he inquired, quietly. “You have no engagement?” A little surprised by the question, Molly looked puzzled for a moment; her face turned a little pink as she caught the meaning of his words.

“Er... no,” she stammered, looking up at the young man in front of her. “I am not engaged.” Luigi stepped forward, a little.

“Would you be my wife?” he asked, frankly. “I would like that.” Molly was momentarily stunned and thought he was joking with her. The intense look in Luigi's eyes, however, told her that he was not.

Several things passed through her mind in the seconds that followed; Molly immediately liked the idea and then felt appalled, at herself, for thinking along such lines. This man was a stranger to her, mostly. Yet, she could not help thinking that he was a steady, caring sort of man; he helped others when they needed it. She liked his company, more than anyone else she'd ever met; she also wondered if she should say anything at all in response. What would her grandfather say?

“Yes, I would,” Molly found herself saying; the confession surprised both herself and Luigi. The young Sicilian half-expected the young woman to laugh, or to be shocked. “But I... cannot marry without my grandfather's approval,” she finished, finally allowing herself to breathe.

Luigi's reaction gave Molly little doubt that he was pleased. A huge smile spread over his face; he picked her up in his arms and spun her around briefly, before setting her feet back on the floor.

“I will make a good life for you,” he said, earnestly, taking hold of her hands; he looked down into her eyesand helf her gaze. “I give you my promise.” Feeling a little giddy, Molly returned his radiant smile.

“And... I promise not to make you oatmeal mush,” she said, shyly. Luigi chuckled a little and nodded.

“Good,” he said, looking at her fondly. “Good. Your grandfather is in hospital?” Sobering, Molly nodded; she pointed through the window, over at a group of buildings a little ways away.

“Yes, but yhey will not let me see him,” she said, biting her bottom lip a little. “I cannot even find out if he is recovering or not.” Luigi brought one of her hands to his lips.

“I must go now,” he said. “I will be gone many days.” The red-haired young woman looked at him in consternation.

“You're leaving?” she asked. “Have you been processed out already?” Luigi smiled and kissed her other hand.

“I will come back for you, Molly,” he said. Though she did not want to be in this place alone, something in the young man's eyes eased the feelings of uncertainly within her mind. He was certain of himself and his intentions to come back for her. Nodding, Molly gave Luigi a small smile.

“It is likely I will be right here when you do,” she said, with a little humor. Luigi smiled and nodded at her.

Looking around, he saw an immigration health inspector standing by the wall on the far side of the room, barely visible through the throngs of people. Taking once more glance at Molly Callahan, Luigi released her hands and walked away, heading towards the official. The young woman watched him go, feeling the loss of his company acutely. A smile lingered on her lips, however; the young man she thought of so highly had just asked her to be his wife.

“Now, I have engagement,” she said, quietly. Smiling, she turned to the window as Luigi

disappeared in the crowd.

In a nearby group of waiting people, offical volunteers handed out hot cups of weak coffee, pouring the steaming, brown liquid into tin cups from tall, enamel pitchers. Taking one of these, Luigi thanked the server and walked away a little ways. Facing the wall, he held the cup to his forehead, standing along the wall. The heat made his skin very uncomfortable but he moved it slowly until beads of sweat began to show on his forehead. Quickly he drank the hot liquid down and put the cup back on the tray.

As he neared the inspector, he began coughing with force, holding his chest with one hand, his cap in the other.

“Sir, I am feeling with sickness...” he said, as he neared the inspector. “Do you have doctor?” The health inspector's eyes widened as the young Italian in front of him coughed deeply; several nearby mothers moved away quickly, ushering their children ahead of them. Leaning closer, the inspector looked at Luigi's face; he observed the tiny beads of sweat and the pink tinge of man's skin.

“Yes, of course,” the man said, quickly. “Follow me.” Luigi nodded, coughing again.

The inspector led the young Sicilian man out of the building, and stepped quickly across the way to the hospital; immediately, the oprderlies inside had the new patient disrobe and get into an antiseptic bath. Sitting on a bench wrapped in a wool blanket, Luigi ‘coughed’ a great deal while observing his surroundings. The hospital was very clean, the staff bustling about in white coats, the nurses in crisp white shirts and caps; the walls of the wards were painted a light gray, with red-silled windows, white metal beds in rows and white, tiled floors.

Eventually, a doctor came into the room and spoke with the health inspector who'd brought Luigi in; the doctor examined the young man much the same as the health inspector had, with a cursory eye.

“Get him in a bed,” he instructed an orderly. “Give him vitamin powders, plenty of water and a hot compress on his chest. Let me know if his fever increases.” With a nod, the doctor walked off down the polished corridor.

Coughing occasionally, Luigi allowed the bitter powder to be emptied onto his tongue from a little paper; he dutifully drank water and stayed still as the orderly put a hot water bottle on his chest, strapped into place with strips of cloth. He lay back in the bed, impressed with the cleanliness and staff of this American hospital. Back home in Messina, an old doctor down the street took care of everyone; the gray-haired, stooping man had set his broken arm as a child and believed that a little coffee or a little garlic could cure just about anything. At the very least, the sick in this place knew they were being cared for well.

After several hours, the day staff left, leaving just a few orderlies to walk the floor. Listening at the door, Luigi walked quietly through the ward, looking at each face in the twilit rooms. Many in the beds slept, some coughed or tossed feverishly. Finally, he saw a bed with a familiar, white-haired figure reposing in it. Standing by the bed in the thin hospital gown and stockings, Luigi looked around for a chair. He found one and brought it closer to the bedside of Molly's grandfather.

The noise woke Patrick Callahan from his slumber; with a deep cough, the elderly man turned bleary eyes toward the figure sitting at his side.

“Doctor?” he wheezed, blinking. Luigi shook his head.

“Not the doctor,” he said, politely. “I am Luigi DiMattio, eh... from the boat.” The elderly man struggled to sit up a little in bed; standing up, Luigi helped him lean up against the pillow a little better.

“I thank you, lad,” the white-haired weaver said, watching as Luigi sat back down. “Fallen ill have you?” The young man grinned and shook his head.

“Molly does not hear about you,” he said. “She, eh... wants to know if you are well. I cough and they bring me in here.” Patrick looked at the young man for several moments.

“You pretended to be sick… to find me for my granddaughter?” he asked, at length. Luigi shook his head, still grinning.

“I want to ask you for your blessing,” he told the white-haired weaver.

“My blessing?” Patrick repeated, puzzled. Luigi nodded.

“She says yes, she will be my wife...” the young man said, frankly, “... but then she says I must have, eh... permission, from you. It is the same in Messina, to ask this.”

Patrick blinked and then he coughed, hard. Luigi felt his palms grow a little sweaty, especially as Molly's grandfather looked at him with a searching expression. “I can take care of her,” he continued, slowly. “I am carpenter. I build houses.” At this, the aging weaver cleared his throat to hide a smile. The young Sicilian man sitting before him looked a bit nervous, much as he, himself, msut have appeared to his own father-in-law many, many years ago.

“So, you want to marry me granddaughter,” he said. Luigi nodded, looking a little uncertain; the old man in the hospital bed had an unreadable expression on his face. “And, what would your family think of that?” Luigi considered this for a moment, matching the aging weaver's gaze.

“They want me to send for a bride from Sicily,” he answered. Patrick nodded a little.

“I gather you do nae want that,” he stated. Luigi tilted his head a little to one side.

“If Molly was in Sicily, I would send for her,” he replied. At this, Patrick smiled.

“I see,” the aging man said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

A coughing spasm overtook the elderly man for some moments. As the Irishman sank back against the pillow Luigi saw a few spots of blood shown out on the handkerchief grasped in his pale fingers. Patrick followed his gaze and saw it as well.

“The doctors here... tell me I may not recover,” the white-haired man said, after a moment. “I can feel I am growin' weaker by the day.” He looked at Luigi for several moments, his breath making slight, wheezing noises. “Yes, you both have my blessing to marry,” he said, quietly. Before Luigi could smile to thank him, Patrick fixed the young man with a stern look. “Take good care of her, lad, or I shall come back from the grave and give ye what for...”

Blinking, Luigi nodded, and then he smiled. The whitehaired weaver smiled as well, holding out a thin hand to him. Clasping it, Luigi shook hands and nodded.

“How do you plan to take care of my Molly?” Patrick inquired, clearing his throat.

“I save my money in Messina.” Luigi told him, seriously. “Work was good there. I save, eh… gold coins, and I have some silver jewelry from my mother. I will find a home in New York City and pay for it. I will work hard for her.” The aging weaver nodded, slowly.

“Good,” he returned, sounding tired. “Good....”

An orderly entered the ward; immediately, he spied the young Italian man on a chair, sitting by the bedside of an aging white-haired man. They appeared to be discussing something of some import. He exited the room without a sound. A minute later, the man returned, accompanied by the on-duty doctor.

“You should not be up, young man,” the doctor said, striding up to Patrick Callahan's bed. “All patients must be in bed.”

Luigi nodded and stood up, feeling a bit ridiculous in the hospital gown and stockings. The doctor looked at the young man's face. “What is he suffering from?” he inquired of the orderly. The white-uniformed man took a look at a tag pinned to Luigi's shirt.

“Lung spasms and fever. Possible pneumonia,” the orderly answered, looking at Luigi's face. The doctor's expression was grim.

“You seem vastly recovered, young man,” he stated. “And quickly, it seems.” Luigi looked thoughtful.

“I do not feel sick,” he said, truthfully.

“Lying about illness will force us to deport you,” the orderly told him, his expresison darkening.

Patrick cleared his throat.

“If I may...” the aging weaver wheezed. “This young man likely may be the picture of health... but he braved being bathed and examined in order to ask me… for my granddaughter's hand in marriage. Since I am allowed no visitors... ‘tis the only way he could ask me.” The doctor looked from Patrick's earnest face to the young Italian man standing nearby.

“I see,” the white-coated man stated, addressing Patrick. “And, did this foolish ruse succeed?” Patrick coughed, nodding a little.

“He's a fine young man,” the white-haired weaver said, with what conviction he could muster. “T''would be a shame to deport him for love.” Hearing this, Luigi grinned, nodding once towards Molly's grandfather.

The doctor gave a small cough into his fist; it appeared to Luigi that the man was trying to hide a smile.

“I will recommend he not be deported,” he said. “However, it is likely the officials will hasten his departure from the Island, to New York.” At this information Luigi nodded, a look of relief crossing his features.

“Good,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have much to do. Where are my clothes?” A weak chuckle drifted up from Patrick as he lay back on the bed.

“The man knows what he wants,” he said. “Remember what I said, now.” This he said to Luigi; the young man returned his gaze and nodded, a serious expression on his face.

“I will,” he replied. “May God go with you.” The white-haired weaver nodded at this.

“He does, lad,” he stated. “The good Lord has never left me.” Lifting his hand in farewell, Luigi followed the orderly from the ward to his own, his brow furrowing in thought.

When the young man was gone from sight, Patrick turned to the doctor; the man soberly listened to the man's chest severla moments with his stethoscope.

“Your long look says it all,” the patient wheezed. “Ah know I'm not long for this world. More than anything, I would with my granddaughter again.” The doctor straightened up, his face grave.

“It is not usually permitted, Mr Callahan,” he told the aging weaver. “However, we have made exceptions before. I'll see what I can do.”

“I thank you, sir,” Patrick said, with minor difficulty. “Molly Callahan. She'd be alone.” The doctor nodded, walking from the room.

Molly was brushing out her hair when a stout-looking woman in a black skirt and white blouse came into the single woman's bunk room.

“Molly Callahan?” she called out, looking around the rows of bunks. Surprised at hearing her name, Molly hesitantly stood, raising one hand up a little. “Come with me, please.” the woman stated, heading to the door. Slipping on her boots and coat, Molly hastily braided her long hair as she followed the woman out of the room. They walked quietly down the dark, quiet corridor; carrying her bonnet, Molly let the woman lead her out into the night air. Fresh snow lay on the ground and more was falling. The cold, clean air stung her nostrils but Molly breathed deep; it had been some days since she was outside.

In the hospital, a smart orderly led her down a hall with the stout woman following behind. Outside a ward door, a white-coated doctor waited.

“Miss Callahan...” he said, nodding in greeting. “I've been overseeing your grandfather's progress. Honestly, miss, he is very ill.” The serious words flew right into Molly's very soul; tears sprang to her eyes but she forced herself to remain calm.

“Is he... will be recover, sir?” she managed to ask. The doctor pressed his lips together for a moment.

“I would be surprised if he made it through the night, miss,” the man said, slowly. “I'm so sorry.” Molly nodded, a tear spilling over her cheek. “He asked specifically to see you. You can go in, but just a few minutes.”

Opening the ward door, the doctor walked ahead into the long, large room filled with white-metal beds. Only a few were occupied and most the patients were asleep, or coughing. Her grandfather's face was a welcome sight to the young woman's eyes, though it was pale and drawn.

“Grandfather...” she said, clasping one of his thin hands. “'Tis I, sir.” Patrick's eyes fluttered open and he smiled, a little. A slight wheezing sound could be heard as the man on the bed drew breath.

“Aye, I see you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “'Tis a sight you are... so like your mother.” Smiling, Molly pressed her grandfather's hand to one side of her face; tears ran down her face freely, though she did not notice.

Patrick saw her grief and cleared his throat. “No tears, lass,” he said, gathering his strength to speak. “You're to be a bride soon, so I hear.” Molly's eyes opened wide at his words; a smile spread over Patrick's aged face. “Your Luigi pretended to be ill... just to ask me for your hand,” he informed her. “Risked being deported, he did... but it is alright... they will process him off the Island tomorrow. He'll be in New York by breakfast, most like.”

A spasm shook him and he curled up a bit in bed; while her grandfather coughed into his handkerchief, Molly patted his hand and thought his words over in stunned silence.

“Then, you approve of him?” she asked, at length. Patrick nodded, breathing slowly to calm his lungs.

“Aye,” he said. “A good man, that. He said he's some things t' take care of.” The white-haired weaver opened one eyes, regarding the young woman at his side. “You'll be a good wife for him, I know. Remember to take along our crate, when you leave this place.” The words were spoken forcefully, in spite of their weak volume. Molly knew her grandfather was trying hard to his affairs in order, in what small ways he could.

“I won’t, sir,” she said, swallowing her sorrow; putting on a brave smile, she kissed the back of Patrick's hand, trying to stop her tears. Patrick nodded, closing his eyes again.

“Good lass,” he said. “Now off with you. Soon you'll have a husband to comfort you and bairns to love.”

“Perhaps Luigi... would not mind if one is named Patrick,” she said, smiling through her tears.

“Aye,” her grandfather said; a ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. “Go now. You have my blessing; fulfill the role which God has given you, and be happy.” Her throat tight with emotion, Molly only nodded in answer; she gently squeezed her grandfather’s hand one last time and let the doctor lead her from the ward.

Ten

Along the crowded street of wooden carts and chilly, noisy people Luigi walked, his satchel along over his shoulder; his bag of tools dangled from one hand, his fingers clasping the handle tightly. Now and then the young man stepped aside to avoid groups outside store-front windows; he looked around the busy, snow-banked sidewalk. In Little Italy, merchants found willing buyers for almost any kind of produce or gadget, even in winter. Covered carts were pulled close to the curb, piled high with pink and white turnips, lumpy-looking carrots, potatoes and heads of cabbage; nearby the sellers haggled while simultaneously handing over the merchandise. Stores along the curb sold hardware, kitchen pots and clothing; the lines of shops seemed to offer everything anyone would need for sale. Jewelers, milliners, tailors, canned goods stores, little restaurants and butchers shops lines the sidewalk, with people coming and going quickly in the snowy air.

Though Luigi had grown up in a bustling city, this New York was so much grander in scale and people. The buildings were like mountains of stone, towering overhead. So many people walking places and buying things and talking; many automobiles and utility trucks slid and sloshed in the snow, as city workers shoveled it quickly from the gutters of the streets.

The large amount of poor also caught the young Sicilian's eye; even here in rich America, there were beggars aplenty. Their plight did not seem hopeless, however; many gave to the poor as they passed. Even shop keepers would hand out food and a blanket where they could. Groups of coated woman with charitable patches sewn onto their clothes, or the black-cloaked nuns walked down the sidewalk occasionally, soliciting donations for poorhouses and orphanages.

Looking at a small slip of paper in his hand, the young Sicilian eventually located the building his uncle had written down directions for. A stern-faced woman opened the door at his ring, inquiring in sharp Italian who he was. Learning his name the lady smiled, a little, and let him in. Stepping up to the 3rd floor, Luigi found a particular door and knocked, loudly. Donata opened it after a moment.

“Louie!” his aunt cried, happily; she embraced the young man for a moment then kissed him on both cheeks and stepped back for her husband. Gino smiled at the young man, clapped him on the shoulder and practically dragged him into the apartment.

“So you escaped, eh?” Gino said, in his own language; he kissed his nephew on the face as his wife had done, grinning broadly. Luigi nodded, spying his uncle Vito across the room.

“They decided to let me in,” the young man explained, gravely. “You have never seen so many people; every country, every language, I heard it there in that hall.” Vito came over, greetings Luigi as the others had.

“At least you are in one piece,” the older man said, nodding to himself. “Come... we have a room for you here. There is so much to tell you.”

Luigi held up a hand, though he smiled; his happiness was impossible to contain, especially around these his family.

“I thank you, uncle, but... I must find my own place to stay,” he said, evenly. His uncles and aunt exchanged a glance.

“Why, Louie?” Donata asked, stepping closer. “That is far more costly.” Luigi grinned at his relatives.

“I need a home of my own; I am engaged to be married,” he told them.

The effect of this announcement on his uncles and aunt was varied; the atmosphere in the little apartment changed rapidly from utter shock to celebration. Vito clapped Luigi on the shoulder and chuckled shaking his head.

“The red-haired Irish girl, from the ship?” Gino hazarded, taking out a cigar. Luigi nodded, causing Donata to smile and clap her hands.

“Thank you, God,” Donata said, looking up with her hands raised.

“She is not ‘the Irish girl’ anymore,” the young man told them, smiling. “Her name is Molly.”

“Wine!” Vito called out, with vigor. “We will drink to Luigi and his intended! Your mother would have cried with joy to hear it… your father would have been relieved that some girl would have you.” With purpose, the man walked over to a small cabinet and drew out two bottles; wiping them off, Vito wound a clean cloth around one and opened it with a 'pop' of the cork. Gino accepted a glass of the bubbly wine and lifted it towards Luigi; Donata and Vito did the same.

“May your wife make you as happy as a Sicilian woman would,” Vito said, smiling. Luigi lifted one brow at this but smiled all the same. His uncle Gino cleared his throat.

“May your Molly make you much happier than a Sicilian woman would,” he said, gravely. Donata made a face and smacked her husband playfully on the shoulder.

Sitting down, Vito drank the small glass of wine; as he re-filled the glass, Luigi’s uncle rubbed his chin in thought.

“I heard of a place just come vacant...” said he, “Our landlady Mrs. Poddelli has a brother whom owns a building on Elizabeth Avenue, just one street over. It may need some work, but... it would be cheaper so.” Listening, Luigi nodded; he drank the last of the wine in his glass and set it down on the table.

“You would be close by, then,” Donata said, smiling; her eyes were bright. A wedding in the family would be a welcome start to their strange, new life here in this wonderful country.

“I will speak to the landlady then about this place,” Luigi said, taking up his satchel again. “I have much to prepare.” The uncles nodded at this.

Donata cleared her throat.

“Does she have a dress?” she inquired, her hands on her hips. Her nephew looked baffled at this suggestion. His aunt rolled her eyes. “A dress to marry you in,” she enlightened him. “A white dress, you know... and a ring... do you have a ring?”

“Leave the boy alone, Donata!” Gino said, sitting down. “It is just one day. Forget the dress... she marries our Luigi; she will not care.” His wife huffed at his words.

“Did I not wear a white dress on our wedding day?” she inquired, tapping her foot. “If I had not, there would have been talk, more than there already was... you know that. Molly is a good girl; she should look like a bride if she is to be one.”

“Talk?” Gino demanded. “What talk? There was talk?”

“Yes... I remember...” Vito said, puffing his cigar. “There was that boy from the north of the island… the farmer’s son. He talked about you, said you stole his girl. Said you were a no-good swindler that got Donata with child.”

“No one told me of this...” Gino said emphatically, his brow drawn. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Because you would have blown a cork, like you are doing now!” Donata said, pouring more wine into Gino's glass. Vito chuckled at his brother.

“Do not let it bother you, Gino,” he said, smiling. “Myself, and a few of the cousins, we took care of it. The boy went back home and you got married.”

Luigi only half-listened while his uncles argued; he looked towards the one window in the apartment, deep in thought.

“I will get her a dress… but what would I get?” he asked. “I saw shops along the street, but…” Seeing that her nephew understood her point, Donata calmed down.

“She is little, like me; a small size would do; something pretty, but not too fancy,” she said, matter-of-factly. “She is not that way.” Luigi seemed to find this information frustrating. “I will go into the shop, if you like,” Donata told him, with a smile. “What would you do in a dress shop, anyway? You would come out with a blue coat instead.” Luigi snorted, though he nodded as well.

“Grazie,” he said. “I will buy rings for us.” Taking out a small money bag, he drew out a few gold coins and put them in Donata's hand. “For the dress,” he said, looking at her. “And whatever else a bride would need. I will need these things soon.”

His uncle Gino sat forward, waving away the money.

“No... no...” he said, gravely. “Put away your money, Louie. It is our gift, yes?”

“I want to buy my wife her things,” Luigi said, stubbornly.

“Then buy her a ring!” Gino insisted. “It is a gift! Donata, go get the dress!”

“I will wake Gina and take her with me,” Donata said, smiling. “I will get something very nice for her.” Nodding at her, Luigi turned back to his uncles. They were seated at the table once again, regarding him with thoughtful expressions.

Vito reached forward and poured all three men another glass of wine.

“Sit down, Louie...” the man said. “Did I tell you, we have found a shop?” Luigi sat at the kitchen table, his uncles across from him.

“Good,” Luigi said, taking out a cigarette. “How is the rent?” Gino bent down and lit his cigar. His brother made a discerning face and tilted his hand back and forth in the air.

“Not so bad,” Vito said. Gino snorted.

“Not so good, either,” he remarked. “But, we do what we must.”

“We have put in the equipment we brought and bought some used things,” Vito continued. “There is fresh beef to buy by the side. It comes delivered from the slaughter house by utility... a good, Italian company. Already people come by the shop and it is not even open yet; they come around the back for whatever we have on hand. They pay very well for Messina prosciutto.”

“There is a lot of work to do,” Gino said, looking at his nephew. “We could use another pair of hands, Louie.” Luigi set his glass down on the table.

“Thank you, uncle,” he said, nodding his head once towards Gino. “But, I am no butcher. I will look for work in building tomorrow.” Gino nodded back, understandingly. Donata came out of the back room, Gina in tow. The little girl gave her uncle an excited hug and a smile before Donata whisked her out of the apartment.

Once they were gone, Vito turned to Luigi with a grin.

“So... how did you meet her again, this red-haired girl of yours?” he asked, leaning back comfortably in the wooden chair. “Did not they go off the boat as we did?” Luigi shook his head.

“Her grandfather became too sick to be passed by the inspector,” the young Sicilian said, gravely. “They would not let Molly go by herself to New York, so they took them to Ellis Island, along with all of steerage. Her grandfather was in the hospital, while Molly waited in the main hall.

She sits in a big room all day, with no word about her grandfather. That is where I saw her.” His uncles listened to all this with sobered faces and keenly bright eyes; as the young man spoke, they twisted their cigars thoughtfully and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Luigi told his uncles how he'd asked the young woman to marry him, and how he obtained her grandfather's blessing.

After a moment, Gino spoke.

“Will the Irishman recover?” he inquired. Luigi shook his head.

“His life is being drawn from him,” he told them. “Molly knows this, I think; she is... very sad and alone.” Gino nodded, letting out a long sigh.

“A good man,” he said, quietly. “God go with him.” His brother Vito nodded as well, rubbing his chin.

“If her grandfather dies, will they let her off the island?” the man asked, looking at Luigi.

“No,” the young Sicilian said. “If no one comes to get her, they will send her back, over the sea.”

He fixed his older uncle with a narrow gaze. “Before you say it, I am not marrying her to help her. I want her for my wife.”

Vito grinned at his nephew and nodded slowly.

“I see,” he said, leaning forward. “You care for her. She said yes; so, marry her. Be happy.” Luigi smiled.

“I will,” he said, gladly. “Thank you. I must go, now... to get the apartment.” As the young man stood to go, Vito held up his hand.

“Eh... not so fast, Louie.” the older man said, smiling. “Your father is not here to speak with you, so it is up to us to make certain you know how to keep your new wife well...”

Donata returned alone some hours later to find her husband and his brother joking and laughing over a game of Pinochle at the table; her nephew was absent and the wine bottle stood empty.

“Gina wanted to go play with her friends down the hall. They will bring her by later. Did Louie go to get the apartment?” she asked, setting down several large bundles and a hatbox. She stood up, making a face and holding her nose. “What died in here?” she demanded. “What a smell!” Gino nodded his eyes bright with mirth.

“Yes... Louie left not long ago.” he told his wife. “You know what wine does to the stomach.” He let out a loud laugh, slapping the tabletop. His brother nodded, laughing hard; he passed wind again with a loud noise, causing more laughter.

“The wine is good,” Vito said, wheezing. “It cleans everything out.” Eventually their laughter subsided, in order to draw breath. Donata stood by, her hands on her hips.

“I hope you did not horrify him too much.” she said, with narrowed eyes. A smile passed over her mouth, in spite of herself. “Marriage is not so bad, eh Gino?” She said, her voice softening. Her husband smiled up at her, then rose to his feet.

“Not all the time,” he said, with amused eyes. “Sometimes it can be good. Perhaps you need to be reminded of this as well?” Vito cleared his throat and stood up.

“I will go check on the shop,” he said, grinning. Gino nodded, clasping his brother's hand.

“We need more wine, too,” he told Vito. “… and some salami.” His older brother snorted and held up his hands before taking up his coat and leaving the apartment.

Elizabeth Avenue crossed the very heart of Little Italy; Luigi trudged down the snowy, sanded sidewalk with many others, his coat buttoned up snugly. All along the street buildings flew bright, red, white and green flags; shops were open in spite of the weather. As the doors of restaurants and delicatessens opened, familiar melodies drifted out. Smiling, Luigi felt more at home since he'd left Messina; indeed, since before the earthquake. This place even smelled like home, if not for the cold. He exchanged nods and greetings in his own language, looking for the building of his uncle's landlady's brother-in-law. Luigi grinned at the directions in his hand; some things did not change. Even in Messina everyone had known someone who knew someone who had that which was being sought.

The building landlord himself answered the door; learning who'd sent him, the man shook Luigi's hand and let him in.

“My name is Roberto Anglini,” he said in very good English, nodding at the young man in the building's corridor. “My sister sends you here, but I have only a place for two at least. There are three rooms, with a lavatory inside. It is far too big for just one person.” Luigi smiled and took off his cap.

“I am getting married in a few days,” he said. “We hope to have a family.” At this, his face flushed... just a little; he rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. Mr. Anglini saw this and smiled back, clapping the young man on the back.

“Good,” he said, turning to the stairs. “This way.” Up on the second floor, the landlord walked down a long hallway and stopped at the last door. “It is on the corner,” he said, taking out a ring of keys.

“Three rooms and a lavatory inside; it has many windows… you are lucky, some have openings just to the central shaft, no fresh air at all. This place, it needs work... so I let you have it for less.”

The apartment did indeed need work. Luigi looked high and low, at the ceilings, the floors, everything... his face impassive. It was a nice, open place with higher ceilings than his uncle's place, but many things needed work. Paint hung off the walls in shards, window sills needed to be replaced and some of the floor boards creaked terribly.

“I must do much work to this place before my bride can come here,” he said, looking at Mr. Anglini. The man cleared his throat and wrinkled his brow, apparently thinking deeply. It was an old ruse; facial expressions, drama and shrewd haggling were all part of the game of bargaining… an ancient Mediterranean custom.

“I suppose I could give you half rent... but only for a month!” the man said, trying to appear stern.

Luigi smiled; he held up both hands.

“Ten months,” he said, calmly. The landlord huffed.

“It is big! It has windows! Five months...” he said, with scorn. Luigi held out his hand.

“Done,” the young Sicilian said, with a grin. He held up a money sack and took out a few coins. Mr. Anglini bit one then nodded, pocketing the money.

“Good, good...” he said, taking off the key from the ring. “A blessing to your wedding.” Luigi thanked the man then followed him out of the apartment; he securely locked the door, placing his new key in his inner coat pocket. Walking with purpose, Luigi went back out into the cold air, many plans in his head.

Several hours later, he returned to his new place, dragging a long package of boards, parcels and food all wrapped in a new blanket and lengths of rope. Walking downstairs again, Luigi borrowed a broom from the landlord and spent several minutes sweeping out the entire apartment, taking down the cobwebs and opening the windows. With cold air nipping at his face, Luigi took out his tools from his satchel and untied the leather straps. Laying aside his coat, the young man took out a marked measuring tape and held it up to the window sill. His eyes drifted to the view below, of the busy street, coated in white snow, with the colorful flags waving above, the people walking by below. Smiling, Luigi bent his head to his work, marking the wood carefully with a bit of coal.

Eleven

Vito and Gino's family were grouped about their kitchen table, enjoying a hot breakfast when a knock came at the door. Donata answered, relieved to find Luigi standing there. She smiled, and then hit the young man on the shoulder.

“You had me worried!” she scolded, closing the door. “Someone had killed you... I was certain of it!” Luigi smiled and kissed her face on both cheeks.

“I am alive,” he said. “I got the apartment and was working on it until very late. Much more work to do... but I will be done maybe tomorrow, or the next day.” He looked towards the table, gazing at the food with eager eyes. Donata smiled and pointed to the table.

“So, sit. Eat,” she said, walking back to the kitchen. Luigi clasped hands with his uncles and sat; he answered their questions about the apartment, the new landlord and the repairs.

After he ate, Luigi looked at the things Donata had purchased for Molly the day before.

“Her gown you cannot see, but it is very good,” the woman said, firmly. “This is a bonnet, very pretty and these are also things you cannot see... well, not until later.” Luigi snorted, folding his arms in front of him. “What can I see?” he inquired. Donata smiled and handed him three wrapped parcels.

“Things any bride must have,” she said. One parcel contained stacked dishes and cups, plain white but quite good in quality. There were towels and linen bed sheets, as well as a parcel of newly dipped candles, with matches and a brass snuffer. Luigi was very pleased with these things and thanked his aunt heartily.

“It is nothing, Louie,” she said, still smiling. “These things I get when I am married, too. Be certain to get feather pillows and a bed. You will need blankets, too.”

“The boy can think for himself, Donata!” Gino called from across the room. His wife sniffed; her chin lifted up a little.

“I does not hurt to remind him,” she said, stirring a pot on the little stove. Gina sat by Luigi, looking at all the new things with wide eyes.

“You will marry the lady with the pretty hair?” the little girl asked of her uncle. Luigi looked down at her with a smile.

“Yes,” he said, packing the new things away again. “You like her?” The little girl nodded vigorously. Luigi chuckled and ruffled her hair a little. “Good. I like her as well.”

One street over, Luigi worked all day and late into the night. He scraped the walls thoroughly and gave them several coats of white-wash, his handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth. Thoughts of Molly dominated his thoughts and the work went quickly with such soft recalling. The young man smiled under the handkerchief as he painted on the white, smelly liquid. It was almost a pleasure to work, knowing the young woman waiting for him would soon be here to enjoy the end result. Though it was very cold, Luigi left the windows open as he slept, to let out the noxious vapors.

The next day was spent repairing the floors, cleaning the lavatory and the coal-burning stoves; he hung the curtain rods over the window with care. Mr. Anglini walked in while he was hanging the last, using a small wooden level to make certain it was straight.

“You work well,” the landlord said, folding his arms; he looked around with an impressed expression. Luigi set down his tools, smiling.

“I want it nice for my Molly,” he said, looking around at his work. “I will go get her soon.” Mr. Anglini seemed to find this interesting and scrutinized the young Sicilian's face.

“Molly?” he repeated. “That is an Irish name.” Luigi grinned, and nodded.

“She is Irish,” he acknowledged. “I met her on the ship that brought us here.” He fixed the landlord with a sober look. “I hope she will be as welcome here as I am,” he stated, his hands resting on the new window sill. Mr. Anglini nodded, slowly.

“Your wife will be welcome,” he said, returning Luigi's look. “Do you need a table?” Taken aback at the quick offer, Luigi looked around the main room; it did indeed lack a table. “A tenant moved out and did not take it with them. I cannot use it, so... you take it. You may need one.” The man gestured off in the corridor. Nodding, Luigi grinned at the man and followed him out to collect the table.

The next morning, Vito and Gino insisted on accompanying Luigi over to his house. Donata found out and came as well, with Gina. The relatives were introduced to the landlord and his wife.

“Luigi says you did not cheat him; this is good,” Vito said, shaking Mr. Anglini's hand. The landlord came up with them as Luigi led the way to his new home. Donata was well pleased with it, smiling and looking at the fresh, white walls.

“You had to make it so good, eh?” Gino whispered to Luigi. “Now your aunt will demand this of me!” Chuckling, Luigi leaned against one wall and watched his relatives wander about the apartment.

“You need curtains,” Donata said, touching the chilly glass of the windows. “And coal for the stove. Do you have a cookpot?” Luigi let out a long breath.

“I will see to these things after I bring Molly here,” he said, exasperated. “I need to go get her, before they send her back on the ship, eh? I will worry about a cook-pot later. I also need to find work.”

“What kind of work?” Mr. Anglini asked, suddenly interested.

“Luigi built houses in Messina,” Vito said, helpfully. “Though, nothing as big as these homes and buildings here.” Luigi shot his uncle a dark look.

“I can build anything, or learn how,” he said, to Mr. Anglini. “I need work.” His landlord rubbed his chin, his dark eyes squinting.

“My cousin works on the new building downtown, eh... carpenters, masons. I will ask if he needs a new man. I can see you work well, so, he would be wise to hire you.” Thanking him, Luigi let his aunt make several more recommendations about the rooms, while his uncles looked around.

“Look... his lavatory is in his apartment, not out in the hall...” Vito said, impressed. “I should see if it works...” Luigi laughed, nodding his head; his uncle disappeared inside the small room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Donata stood by her nephew, holding Gina.

“She will be very happy here, Louie,” she said, smiling a little. “As a woman, I can say this. You must think very well of her to do all this work.” Luigi nodded, looking at the window nearest to him.

“I do,” he said, his eyes softening. Light poured through the glass onto the shined floorboards; he could imagine Molly standing by the window with sunlight shining on her hair. Smiling, Luigi wondered if his fiancée was thinking of him at that moment. Sighing, the young Sicilian followed everyone out and locked the front door tightly.

On a bench in the corner of the vast hall, Molly waited; each day ran into the next as she strove not to break out weeping. Her grandfather's funeral was very brief. White-uniformed orderlies wheeled his covered body out in back of the hospital on a long gurney; the doctor whom had been kind to him let her come out to say goodbye. A black-clad minister came out walking alongside the gurney and said calm and even words. The doctor's normally stern demeanor altered when he saw the young girl's face; with red eyes, Molly looked down at the still form on the gurney. Tears flowing unchecked, she lightly touched the white sheet lying over her grandfather.

“I'm so sorry, Miss Callahan,” the doctor said, gently. “We did all we could.”

Molly looked up at the man in the white coast.

“I know, sir,” she said, managing a weak smile. “He was such a man as would have demanded more of ye, had ye not.”

The doctor smiled a little in return, leading her back to the main hall. Three days later, she was yet waiting. Each day, she strained to hear her name called, to hear that Luigi had come to rescue her from this place. She ate little at the meals, sometimes skipping them altogether; she felt forgotten and tried desperately not imagine if anything had happened to the brown-eyed young man she thought so highly of.

On the fifth day after her grandfather's death Molly felt more despondent than ever. An immigration official told her frankly that if someone did not come to collect her by the morrow, she would be sent back to Liverpool.

“My fiancé is coming for me, sir,” she told the man; her voice was brave though she did not feel it.

“I am certain of it. He would not leave me here.” Her chin lifted in slight defiance; she stood as tall as possible in front of the official in his trim uniform. The official smiled.

“Indeed, miss,” he said, allowing his eyes to show amusement. “I cannot imagine any man alive not coming to collect you. Perhaps he has been... delayed.” Molly drew breath, grateful that someone at least believed her.

“I sincerely hope that is the case, sir,” she said, sitting down. “I would gladly wait here for him, even if it were a year.” Again the official smiled and tipped his hat as he walked away. An old couple nearby heard the conversation and smiled at each other.

“Come sit with us, lassie,” the old man said, kindly. Molly looked around, and then spied the couple. They beckoned to her, smiling encouragingly. “Sit. Talk will pass the time and the young men won't bother ye with us sitting by.” Smiling back, Molly did so.

“I thank you,” said she.

The couple had come from Dublin; their children had sent money to bring them over.

“My son works for the railroad,” the old man said, proudly. “Foreman he is, for a maintenance crew. We expect him and his family soon.”

“I've not seen me grandbabies in so long,” the woman said, leaning forward; her eager face filled Molly with a glad serenity. “One even we've not met yet, ‘tis but a wee one, only a year old,” the aging woman continued. Her husband patted his wife's hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling with joy.

“May they grow up strong and blessed,” Molly said, touched by the affection of these people. They wished to know her story and Molly saw no harm in telling them; her slender hands held the fiddle case tightly as she spoke of her grandfather's passing.

The aging woman patted her hand gently.

“My dear, you have suffered much,” she said; her voice was soft as she spoke. “But, it seems God has given you a good man to care for you. May you have many years with him and many sweet babies.” In spite of her tears, Molly gave a soft.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling oddly comforted by the presence of these two fellow travelers. Their words fueled a small amount of bravery smoldering within her soul. “I won't despair,” she thought, looking towards the window. White flakes fell, adding to the drifts outside. It looked peaceful, all of the sudden, not bleak and cold as it had before. Smiling, she thought of Luigi's warm brown eyes, and his wonderful smile. His stolen kiss on the ship came to mind, causing a pink tinge to creep over her features.

The couple sitting by her saw this and exchanged a pleased grin. One could change their country, travel across the sea and be immersed in strangers, yet some things remained the same.

Twelve

The jeweler looked up from his work as the doorbell rang out. Over his spectacles the bearded man watched a young, dark-haired man come in the shop.

“Can I help you?” he asked, standing up. Luigi looked at the man with a pleasant grin and took off his cap.

“I am looking for a man named Moshe Ruben, the jeweler,” he said, amiably. “I was told he was here.” The bearded man looked him up and down with narrowed eyes.

“The rebbe is here,” he said, quietly. “Give me your name and I will tell him.”

“Luigi Dimattio,” the young man said. “He will know who it is.” The man nodded and left; in his absence, Luigi looked around. The shop was a higher-end one, in the more upscale part of the Jewish quarter, on the corner of Hester Street and Orchard. Glass and metal display cases stood in the room, bolted to the floor; men sat behind desks, working busily on bits of bright finery.

Of the rings laying on the costly fabric displays, Luigi saw none he liked. Some were studded with many gems, of all colors, but they were too fancy and gaudy for his bride. He looked through all the cases, feeling all the while eyes watching him. Rabbi Ruben himself came out, looking for the young man of whom his employee had spoken; he spied Luigi by one of the cases, apparently searching for something.

“You know this young goy?” the bearded jeweler asked his rabbi. The older man nodded, smiling.

“He is the one God sent to us on the ship,” the man said gravely. “He brought us kosher food, or else we would have eaten almost nothing. He took no payment for this.” The man beside him nodded slowly at these words, looking at Luigi with new respect.

The rabbi walked forward, his prayer-belt swishing against his black suit as he stepped.

“I have not forgotten your name, Luigi Dimattio,” the man said, smiling. Luigi turned and smiled back, clasping the rabbi's hand warmly.

“I hope your family is well,” the young man said, nodding. The rabbi nodded, clasping his hands behind his back.

“They are; thank you for inquiring,” the white-haired rabbi said. “What can I do for you?”

“I am getting married,” Luigi said, soberly. “I want to buy a ring. A good one.” He glanced down at the display cases. “These are too fancy. I need something for a young woman's hand; she is small, about this high, eh... my aunt wrote down her own ring size; they are… how you say… similar in size.” He handed the rabbi a piece of paper.

Looking at it, the rabbi thought for a moment, stroking his beard with this thumb.

“Come back with me, if you will,” the man said, turning towards the back. “We have more things back here.” Luigi went through the low, wooden gate and followed the rabbi back. Several tables and men working with the large magnifying glasses and special tools sat here and there. The rabbi threaded his way between the worktables, back to his own desk. Opening a drawer, the white-bearded jeweler took out a low, wooden box. Blowing the dust off, the rabbi opened it and took something out.

“It is not so big, but good for a young bride to wear,” the man said, holding out a ring to Luigi.

Taking it, the young Sicilian smiled; it was a pretty ring, with a small, clear diamond upon it, set elegantly in a white-gold ring, forged with intricate scrolling engraving on the sides. Luigi looked up at the rabbi and nodded.

“It is very good,” he said. The rabbi nodded, looking pleased.

“My grandmother was married with that ring,” he said. “My mother had a better one, so she did not want it; my son made his own ring, so he did not want it. So, it went here in this box. Take it... it is my gift to you.” Surprised, Luigi looked at the man and held the ring back out.

“I will not take it if you will not let me pay,” he said, gravely. “I have money to buy it. I will owe no man anything.” The rabbi smiled.

“Ah... I see that you have read the Scriptures,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement; he could see the young man before him was determined. “Done,” he said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I will accept payment, at cost. Let me find a box for you to keep it in, and a ring for you to wear. A simple one, but you must have a ring, to let everyone know you are a husband, as she is your wife.”

Once the rings were in a strong, little box of cloth-covered wood, Luigi paid the rabbi a month's wages for the rings. The rabbi walked him out of the back room and out into the shop.

“Do you have a… someone to marry you... eh... a priest?” the white-bearded man inquired, looking sideways at the young man walking beside him. Luigi shrugged.

“I have seen many priests today,” the young Sicilian man said. “I have yet to find one willing to come out to the island with me. We must be married there, Monday… or I cannot take her off the island.”

The rabbi looked interested in this and rubbed his beard thoughtfully as he paused by the shop’s front doors.

“I may know someone that could help you,” the white-breaded man said, soberly. “My nephew, whom I no longer recognize, came here five years before me. He became... Christian; he has a church now, eh... a few blocks down Hester, right by the park. You will see it easily, I think; it is above the furniture shop.” Luigi smiled, shaking the man's hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Luigi said, respectfully. “The ring will be cherished… I know this.” The rabbi nodded, waving the young man off.

“God bless your marriage and your family, Luigi,” he said. “Our God cares for the gentile, too… from time to time.”

The church of the Rabbi’s Christian nephew was not easy to find; they parishioners met above a furniture store where the minister worked; in the Jewish quarter Christians were shunned by most; the man inside the furniture store was eager to help Luigi.

“Minister Ruben is not here at the moment,” the parishioner said. “He is preaching on the other side of the park. Just across the way. You will not miss him.” Luigi thanked the man and set off to find this elusive minister.

He spied the minister right away. In the throngs of families and pedestrians, a dark-haired man stood where the park paths crossed, wearing a large sandwich sign, with words on it in an unfamiliar language to Luigi, though below it was English, with six-pointed stars of folded paper pinned to it. It read: “Jesus said to them, verily I say to you, before Abraham was, I Am. John 8:58” The man with the sign seemed to be a few years older than Luigi and dressed neatly, handing out papers to those whom would accept one. Small, ragged children and other poor folk came closer to the man as he spoke; a woman standing by the minister passed them little packets of food and gave smiles to the children. As people passed by, the minister called out to the crowds.

“...He shall see the travail of his soul and shall be satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for he shall bear their iniquities...”

Luigi stepped up to the woman handing out the food, taking off his cap.

“Pardon me, madam,” he said, above the noise. “I am looking for Moshe Ruben's nephew, the minister.” The woman looked up at Luigi in surprise and then nodded, slowly. Turning to the man with the sign, she tapped him on the shoulder and spoke to him on her own language. The minister looked at Luigi with interest.

“Does my uncle yet live?” the man asked, with a half smile. Luigi grinned, nodding.

“He sent me to you,” he explained. “I need a minister to perform marriage on Ellis Island; I can pay for your services.” The minister appeared to think this over; he handed out another piece of paper to a passer-by.

“You are the groom?” he asked, glancing at Luigi. The young Sicilian nodded. “When does this marriage take place?”

“Tomorrow,” Luigi said, gravely. “I must get her before they send her back. Her grandfather died in the hospital there and she is alone.”

“I see,” the minister said, handing out more papers. “Well... keep your money. Since my uncle sent you to me, I will not charge you... but I have conditions.”

About to protest, Luigi was forestalled by a passer-by in Hassidic dress; the man stood with other glaring at the minister with an angry expression.

“How can you say these things?” the newcomer demanded. “Do not you know the Christian God ran us out of Russia?”

“God did not run you out… men did,” the minister said, looking the man in the eye. “Do you think those men fear God, eh?”

“What about our traditions?” the man said, excitedly; more men in similar dress grouped about, muttering loudly. “What about the law?”

“Christ fulfilled the law,” the minister said, with complete sincerity. “The messiah is the reason we have traditions in the first place!” At this, the men threw up their hands and moved away, saying sharp things in their own language.

The minister shook his head and sighed. He glanced at Luigi, whom still stood nearby. “Are you a Christian, young man?” the minister asked, looking at Luigi keenly.

“Eh, my mother she was Catholic and my father was a Protestant,” he told the man. “I am neither; God took them both in the great earthquake.” The minister nodded, soberly.

“I see,” he said. “However, do you understand that the vows of marriage are a covenant before God... and that such vows must be kept until death?”

“Yes,” Luigi said, with conviction. “My father told me that marriage is a... eh, symbol of our covenant with God, to be kept holy. I believe this.” The minister seemed pleased with his answer.

“What you have said is correct,” he stated. “I will perform the marriage on the island. I am Mattias Ruben, but call me Matthew.” Luigi shook his hand with a nod.

“Luigi Dimattio,” he said. “Call me Louie. My uncles and Aunt will be with me, on the morning ferry to the island.” The minister nodded at this, turning to continue handing out his pamphlets to the passing crowd.

Luigi walked away, pausing to look back at the minister; the man stood unmoving on the corner, passing out papers and calling out scriptures from the Holy Book to anyone who would listen. Smiling to himself, the young Sicilian continued on his quest. There were yet many things to gather and prepare.

Thirteen

Despite the frigid cold, Luigi paced back and forth on the ferry deck; the air was relatively still, which was a mercy. It would be even colder if the wind began to blow. Bundled in his new coat and hat, the young Sicilian looked very well. Bathed and clean, his hair combed and shoes shined... his worried expression seemed out of place in comparison. The ferry contained few people, mostly family members going to collect their relatives on the island.

“Sit, Louie,” came the stern voice of his uncle; Vito spoke in his native language. “You must calm yourself.” Luigi snorted, turning to pace the other direction.

“I do not want to sit,” he said, firmly. “I am not calm, nor will I pretend to be.” Vito scowled at his young nephew.

“You will get sweaty, pacing like that,” he remarked. “Then how will your bride like you then, eh? Would she like you to smell bad?”

Luigi sat, though not without a pointed look in his uncle's direction. Vito chuckled and took out a cigar. The older Sicilian was dressed in his best black suit, with a wine-red embroidered vest from the old country. Beside him sat Gino, Donata and Gina, all dressed in their best clothes. Luigi sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees; he took off his new hat and turned it over and over in his hands.

“What if she has been sent back?” he said, suddenly, in Sicilian. “Perhaps I have waited too long.”

“Would you go after her?” Gino interrupted, leaning out past his brother, in order to glare at his nephew. Luigi glared back at him.

“Yes,” he stated, slapping his hat against his free hand.

“Then stop your worrying,” his uncle demanded. “I tire of hearing it.” Luigi snorted again, putting on his hat with more force than was necessary. Vito chuckled openly at the young man, causing a smile to spread over Gino's face.

Snowflakes drifted down on the deck of the ferry; little Gina chased the fluffy specks gleefully, trying to catch them in her mittens. Luigi let out a long breath, glancing above the rail at the approaching island. The main hall stood impressively in the morning sun; as he watched the building slowly grow in size, Luigi thought it resembled a prison, holding his pretty Molly inside its walls. The young Sicilian resolved to get her out, whatever it cost him. Thinking of the young, red-haired woman, Luigi glanced at the minister seated nearby. Leaning back in his seat, he smiled; soon Molly would be his wife.

Molly finished her breakfast in a far better mood than the previous day. The sweet, older couple from Dublin had been a great boon to her during the long hours for waiting. The young woman felt rejuvenated by their simple discourse, especially when memories of Ireland were shared and savored. Upon much pressing, Molly finally opened the fiddle box and played one of her favorite tunes for them; several tears spilled out onto her pale face as Molly drew the bow across the strings. The soft, clear notes made the room grow quieter. Many waiting families and people looked over at the sound and moved closer, smiling. Molly did not see them; in her mind she saw only the work-worn fingers of her grandfather clasping the bow, cradling the fiddle in his shoulder like a precious infant... of his twinkling eyes as he played the merry gigs... his serene expression while winding out the low, sweet ballads.

It took all of the young woman's strength to refrain from weeping openly. Laying the fiddle down on her lap, she quickly wiped away a tear amid clapping and calls for more.

“They want another song, lass,” the old man from Dublin told her, happily smoking his pipe. As much as she wanted to put the fiddle away and cry, Molly knew her grandfather would have loved such a request, and gladly complied.

Setting the bow to string once again, Molly played a livelier tune, seeing it gave pleasure to the people waiting. In such a manner hours passed by unnoticed, until at last Molly put away the fiddle. The old man and his wife were called to come to downstairs, to the golden door. Their family was waiting downstairs for them. Molly accepted an embrace from the old woman and wished them both blessings and health. She'd watched them go, feeling a little better for having met them. Sitting again on the bench alone,

Molly felt bereft of their company; she could not fault their eagerness to see their kin.

“I hope I am as useful to others as they,” she thought, smiling.

“Molly Callahan?” came an official's voice, calling above the noise of the room.

Molly stood up slowly, her face paling. A man in a dark suit was looking around for her; beside him a stern-looking immigration official. Filled with dread, Molly stepped around people waiting around the edges of the room, moving towards the two agents.

“I am Molly Callahan,” she said, her voice trembling a little. The suited official looked at her, then at the card pinned to her coat.

“You... er... are acquainted with a Luigi Dimattio?” the man asked, looked at her uncertainly. Molly's answering smile could have lit all the darkened streets of New York.

“He's here?” she whispered; her voice held such gladness even the gruff-looking official felt inclined to smile.

“Yes. I will take you downstairs to him,” the man said, nodding. His voice was thick with a Mediterranean accent, like Luigi's. “Come... Miss Callahan.” The other man wrote something on her card and stamped it, as well as the file in his hand; he waved them onward, indicating the large double doors Molly had seen so many people disappear through.

Beyond the door was a large corridor, with a staircase heading down. The official accompanying her indicated the stairs and walked beside the uncertain young woman. As she descended, Molly's view was obscured by the ceiling until nearly halfway down the long stairs. Brick columns came into view, as well as a long, low room with many people in it, families re-uniting, children hugging their long-lost parents, wives kissing their husbands and many smiles and talking.

In the midst of it all, a solitary figure caught her eye; by a brick column a tall, young man with dark hair and brown eyes stood, looking around... for her.

“Luigi!” she called, happily. The young man turned to her at once, his smile instant and bright. Molly felt like sobbing and laughing at once but did neither; instead she walked quickly to meet her fiancé as he strode closer to her. Molly saw distinct gladness in Luigi's eyes; for a moment it seemed that no one else existed in the world, only the young man who'd won the right to call her his own.

Luigi put his arms Molly, holding her close to him. Closing his eyes, he pressed his face against her hair.

“I am so glad they did not send you away,” he said, after a moment. Molly sniffled a little, unable to stop tears from flowing down her face. Nearby, Donata was wiping tears from her own face for the scene was a tender one. The young Irish girl looked so relieved, as if a great sadness was lifted from her. One of the girl’s slender hands clutched the handle of the burnished fiddle box; its presence silently proclaimed the absence of the former owner.

Standing a little ways away, Vito brought out a handkerchief and blew his nose, his face in a deep scowl. Gino also looked a little emotional but hid it better than his brother. The immigration official coughed.

“This man is your fiancée, Miss Callahan?” he asked, evenly. Molly looked up at Luigi, her face wet with tears; Luigi looked at her fondly. The young woman's smile was every bit as sweet and bright as he remembered it to be.

“He is,” Molly said, her voice trembling. “I am so glad you came.” She drew back, her eyes straying to the fiddle box she carried. Luigi saw it as well and understood; he embraced her again, kissing her face several times, with feeling.

“I am so sorry, Molly,” he said, sincerely. “I am sorry you were alone. I promise you will not be alone, not ever again.” Molly let out a relieved breath, putting her arms around Luigi's neck.

“I believe you,” she whispered. Unable to restrain himself, Luigi kissed her mouth with passion.

Stepping closer, the official cleared his throat again.

“I suppose that minister is here just in time,” the man said, with a smile. Luigi drew back from his fiancée’s lips and grinned at the man. A little breathless, Molly looked over Luigi's shoulder in surprise.

Indeed, next to Vito stood a minister dressed in a black suit; he wore the small skullcap of a Jew as well as a prayer-belt. The man was smiling at the happy pair kindly, a small Bible in his hands. The young woman looked up at Luigi in wonderment.

“I see why my grandfather gave you his blessing,” she said, smiling. “You have a noble character.”

Luigi grinned down at her.

“Maybe,” he said, amused. “Or... maybe I do not want to wait even one more day for you.” At this, Molly blushed and bit her lip, looking at the floor. Luigi's uncles looked at each other and grinned.

The immigration official smiled at the couple as well.

“This column here, it is called the Kissing Post,” he said, pointing at the wide, brick column at the base of the stairs. “People always kiss here in greeting; it has become a tradition.” At this, Luigi smiled down at his bride and kissed her face again.

Donata strode forward and took Molly's hand; the Sicilian woman held a large parcel on one arm.

“Come... she must dress,” the woman said, firmly. “There is a room over here, yes?” Molly looked at her, confused. “You cannot get married in that,” Donata explained, smiling. “Come!” Molly looked over at Luigi; he smiled and nodded at her, as if to say 'go on'. The young woman did so, though not without several glances back at the groom. The minister watched her go; he grinned at Luigi.

“A pretty girl,” he said, approvingly. “I can see she cares for you. May God shine his face upon your marriage.” Luigi nodded, his smile unfading. Turning to the immigration official, he introduced himself.

“Agent Bellasario,” the man said, nodding back. “Many blessings to you this day, and your bride.

She did not complain to us at all, but... when we told her we must send her back, she said that she would wait a year for you to come.” At this Luigi beamed, glancing over at the door Molly and Donata had gone through.

In the powder room, Donata found an unoccupied corner and set down the parcel she carried. Gina carried another smaller parcel, smiling at Molly with her little, white teeth.

“Come, hurry... we must get you dressed. Did you bathe this morning?” Donata was businesslike in tone, but her smile was bright. Molly nodded, taking off her coat. There were changing rooms with a curtain along one wall; a few were empty. “Here...” Donata continued, handing her a large parcel. “Every bride should have a pretty dress. There are undergarments in there, too and shoes. Quick... change! You keep your groom waiting, you know.” Molly gave the woman a grateful embrace and hurried over to the changing space.

Having never owned a white dress, Molly gave a little gasp as she opened the parcel. Donata had chosen well, for this dress was neither impractical nor fancy. Molly touched the layers white linen with awe. “My wedding dress,” she whispered, blushing. It looked so beautiful, with white ribbon and white satin-covered buttons. Long ago, she'd seen a wedding with a bride dressed so, standing in the stone church in their town. The girl had been smiling, her face aglow with happiness.

Molly undressed quickly, eager to put on the lovely gown. Grateful for the clean undergarments and stockings, she pulled them on, and then unbuttoned the front of the gown's bodice. Slipping it over her head, Molly buttoned it back up; she smoothed the fabric and admired the flowing, layered skirt, which just touched the tops of the new, beige boots. Peeking out of the brown paper a small bottle caught her eye; uncorking it, Molly inhaled a sweet scent of flowers, such as would grow in springtime. Putting a little of the oil under her arms and on her neck, she closed the bottle, smiling all the while.

Donata beamed at her when she came out, as did most of the women in the room.

Many of them came over and admired her gown, with sighs and nods; the dress looked very well on the young woman, with its pretty neckline and ribbons. Most of the women did not speak English, but Molly smiled and nodded at them anyway. It was not hard to accept well-wishes on one's wedding day, no matter in what language they were uttered. Little Gina looked up at Molly with a shy smile, giving her a little embrace with her short arms. Molly bent down and kissed the little girl's forehead and smiled at her benevolently.

Well satisfied with her work, Donata took out a smaller parcel and opened it, holding up a precious wreath of twisted vines and white flowers, intertwined with a few green leaves. Molly felt a tear slip down her face at the sight of it. Fresh flowers in winter were unheard of; the care and expense of all this was not long on the young woman.

“You are a great lady, to bring me these things,” she said, sincerely. Donata waved this idea away, but smiled nonetheless.

“A wedding shows all that is good about life,” said she, looking critically at Molly's hair. “You are a sweet girl, which is good. Sweet girls make lovely brides. Perhaps you let me help you with your hair?”

Smiling, Molly nodded; she bent down to locate her hairbrush within her satchel.

Luigi stood outside the room in the lower hall, talking with his uncles; he tried not to look at the door but could not help glancing at it often. His uncles ribbed him a good deal but he bore it well, his smile present at all moments. The minister and Agent Bellasario stood nearby engaged in similar conversation. In the midst of a joke, Luigi's uncle Gino looked over Luigi's shoulder at the door of the powder room.

“I think your Molly likes her dress,” he said, smiling.

Turning, Luigi felt his breath leave him, for a moment. Molly looked every bit a bride, her face flushed and lovely. Luigi immediately saw the wisdom of having a white dress for her; amid all the other people in the room, she stood out like a lily. Her hair was caught up in front in a flowered wreath, the rest tumbling down her back and shoulders in red-gold curls, as a bride is allowed. Everyone in the room saw her and smiled, nodding at each other in some kind of universal approval. Each society has a marriage ceremony of some kind, and each considered it an honorable thing.

Luigi took Molly's hands in his.

“You are so pretty,” he said, in a low voice. The young bride had no doubt his words were sincere; her groom's brown eyes were bright and warm.

“Thank you,” she said, shyly. “You look very well, yourself, sir.” Her fiancé smiled at her.

“No more sir... you remember?” he said, jokingly. Molly stood on her tiptoes and kissed his face.

“Luigi,” she said, softly. Her green eyes looked into his with clear admiration. Luigi cleared his throat; he pointed towards the double doors, past the lines of people at the ticketing office, money exchange counter and the concession stand.

“It will be nicer outside,” he said, letting his eyes roam over his bride's face. “The sun is coming out.” Molly smiled, nodding; she took his arm and let him lead her towards the doors.

A large crowd of approved immigrants stood without, waiting in a long, wide line to get on the ferries. The sight of a young girl in white and a groom, with a minister caught much attention. Outside the doors a small area of bare trees stood, the ground beneath newly covered in fresh snow. A simple, wooden arch had been placed there; colorful ribbons had been tied to it, their ends fluttering lighting in the chilly breeze. Molly looked up a Luigi with a pleased smile; she did not feel the cold. The sun peered through the clouds, shining down on the snow with glorious light.

The minister stood with them under the arch, the immigration agent to one side, Vito, Gino and Donata on the other, with Gina standing close to her mother.

“We come today to hear this man and this woman vow fidelity to one another,” the minister said, his face calm and serious. “These vows are not to be taken lightly, nor are they to be forsaken. It is before God you make these vows, and keep them.” The minister looked at Molly.

“Your name, miss?” he asked, with a smile.

“Molly Elizabeth Callahan, sir,” the bride replied, softly. The minister looked at Luigi, expectantly.

“Luigi Angelo Dimattio,” he replied, with a grin. Mattias Ruben chuckled a little then opened his book.

“What God has put together, let no man put asunder,” he said, reading. “Do you

Molly Elizabeth, take Luigi to be your husband, in health or in illness, in good times and bad, to help him and work alongside him, through sorrows or joys... all the days of your life?” Molly looked up into Luigi's eyes and nodded.

“I will,” she said, without hesitation. Luigi felt gladness spread through him at her words; they were so simply spoken, with nothing held back and with all the unspoken hopes of a young maiden. The minister asked of him the same thing.

“I will,” said the young Sicilian man, calmly. “With all my heart, I will.” Molly's eyes glistened, though she smiled. The minister smiled openly at them, closing the books in his hands.

“Have you rings to put on?” he asked. Luigi nodded, digging in his pocket for the small box. Molly looked on in pleased surprise; she did not think she'd get to wear so costly a thing. Luigi took out the small circle of gold and smiled as he slipped it onto her fair hand. Looking down at it, Molly swallowed and smiled up at her groom. “The ring is a visual symbol of your vows,” the minister said, soberly. “Wear them in fidelity and honor of your promise.” Molly's hand trembled a little as she put Luigi's gold band on his finger. He smiled at her encouragingly.

“In the sight of God and these witnesses here, you are man and wife,” Mattias said with a nod.

“Please feel free to kiss your bride. You seem to feel this freedom already, but...” The minister did not finish his sentence and shrugged. Luigi chuckled, leaning down to Molly's lips once more. His uncles’ cheers were joined and enhanced by those in the crowd nearby.

In the crowd of waiting immigrants that stood about, several women wiped away tears and held sentimental looks. Young girls looked at Molly with sighs and wonderings. Single men in the crowd regarded Luigi with a mixture of envy and admiration. A blast from an approaching ferry distracted them from the little ceremony, and the people lined up by the docks once more. Luigi drew back from his bride a little, touching her face gently.

“Molly Dimattio,” he said, stated. His bride smiled back, her eyes bright as stars.

“'Tis a beautiful name,” said she, her fair skin flushed in the chilly air. Looking down at her hand, she smiled at the pretty, sparkling ring on her hand. “And, this ring is so lovely,” she continued. Luigi kissed her face and smiled at his bride.

“I am glad,” he said. “It fits you well.” Turning, Luigi looked back at his aunt; the woman carried Molly's satchel and coat. Taking it, he thanked the older woman and helped Molly put on her coat. The sun warmed the air a little, lifting the mood still further. Gina helped her mother untie the ribbons from the arch; Vito and Gino carried it with them, complaining only mildly at its weight. Standing in line with all the others, Molly looked over the waters of the bay, at the New York skyline, her new home.

Looking back at the main hall, she felt the presence of loneliness leave her. Glancing up at her groom, she took in his profile as he looked out over the bay. Leaning her head on Luigi's shoulder, Molly held his arm with a joy that simply could not be expressed in words. Her new husband seemed to understand this keenly; leaning down, Luigi kissed the top of her head, pausing to smell the flowers adorning her hair.

“Congratulations, lassie,” came a familiar voice. Ahead of in line stood the old couple from Dublin.

“Twas the prettiest wedding I've seen in some time. Certainly a bright spot in the winter.” Molly smiled at the aging Irishwoman and thanked her. Luigi nodded at them as well, with a charming smile. He knew that perhaps many people would not like an Italian marrying an Irish girl but such things did not matter to him.

No longer was Molly merely an ‘Irish girl’ traveling on a ship and waiting alone in a room; she was his wife.

Sensing her man's eyes upon her face, Molly met his gaze, only to be treated to a warm smile and another kiss. A pink hue stole over her fair features and she smiled down at the snowy walkway, slowly moving forward with the hundreds of people gathered at the waterfront.

A few volunteers, well muffled-against the cold, walked by giving each person in line a paper red, white and blue flag on a slender stick… with a smiling 'Welcome to America'. Molly held the small flag, smiling at the children in the crowd waving them excitedly about. So many happy faces there were, shining as if freedom itself had given them a glow. The approaching ferry inched forward, coming to take them all onward to a new life.

Fourteen

Luigi took great pride in unlocking the door of the new apartment. His relatives waited down the stairs, allowing the young couple to be the first to view the place… together.

“I hope you like it,” the young man said, to his bride. “It is all clean, for you.” Molly's eyes grew wide as Luigi led her forward into the main room. It was about the size of her grandfather's weaving shop.

The clean, white walls reflected the light from the large windows well; the swept floors were wooden and bore a plain, dark-red rug. A wooden table stood here with two chairs, candles in holders on its buffed surface, waiting to be used. A small, black heating stove stood in one corner of the room, its pipe disappearing into the wall. Doors to other rooms stood on either side of the room. By the windows hung light curtains, perfectly straight.

“Oh my...” Molly whispered. “Is this our home?” The young man next to her smiled; his bride's face was almost awed. He kissed the back of her hand and pulled her gently forward towards the window.

“It has a view...” he told her, pulling the curtains aside. “Some places look at a shaft, but this has many windows.”

Molly looked out of the window, down into the snowy street. Her green eyes drifted over the walking people below, up the buildings to the waving flags, then over at her husband.

“It is lovely,” she said, softly. “Tis the most beautiful place I have ever lived in.” Luigi smiled very wide. The work he'd done seemed well worth the look on his bride's face; no one would ever be able to say he had not taken care of this young woman, his wife. Reaching up, he touched Molly's face; her skin felt as soft as rose petals.

“We have had enough sadness,” he said, looking into her eyes. “We will start a new life here, yes?” Molly smiled at him, her face full of trust; Luigi thought her the loveliest woman he'd ever seen.

Vito and Gino came through the door, carrying a large, wooden crate between them. Setting it down, they saw Luigi kissing his bride by the window and grinned.

“Louie!” Vito called, loudly, “A little assistance? Time for that later, eh?” Molly drew away from Luigi, her face pink. Luigi smiled at her then went over to help his uncles with the crate. Together they set it on the main room floor, with a thud.

“Whew!” Gino said, taking off his cap; he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “It grew heavier as we came up the stairs.” Donata came in, with Gina, and the landlord Mr. Anglini, as well as his rosy-cheeked wife. Molly smiled at everyone and stepped forward, offering to take their coats. Luigi saw this and led her over to the wall by the door; many metal hooks were placed high on the wall, for just such a use.

They hung the coats together, sharing a few smiles while the others grouped around the crate.

“What is in it?” Luigi asked Molly, taking her hand. Seeing the writing on the top and sides of the crate made Molly's eyes mist a little.

“My grandfather packed it,” she told her husband, looking up into his face. “Our cook-pots and utensils, most like, and blankets. We washed everything well before it was packed.” She fingered the silver locket around her neck, looking down at the crate with fondness. Glancing at her face, Luigi fetched his tool bag and brought a slender crowbar and a hammer. Molly stepped back, her face alight; she was glad to see some familiar things in this new place; the old cook pots and spoons would grace her new home well.

The lid came off after a little persuasion. Molly smiled and lifted off three woolen blankets, all packed with dried sprigs of lavender flowers. Luigi nodded at them approvingly suddenly glad he had waited to purchase many things for his house. Seeing the bridal couple would be busy for awhile, Gino and Vito left, to fetch a few items from their shop. Donata helped Molly take out the two cook-pots, a baking pan, stone bowls, eating utensils and many folded cloths for cleaning. Luigi led the way into the kitchen.

The white-washed room was every bit as pleasant as the main room, with a window of its own. A cook-stove stood in the middle of the room, a little larger than the one in the main room. Molly smiled at it and peered into it as Luigi explained how to light it. One wall was devoted to pantry shelves; already a few glass jars of canned fruit adorned them, as well as some empty metal containers, waiting to receive things like flour and sugar. Luigi watched her face, smiling to himself; he could see Molly would like cooking in this place.

The crate contained a few more things, such as would be needed to fill a home: a bundle of lavender stalks, some bay leaves, a tin of tea leaves, paper twists of salt, a well-wrapped packet of dried currant berries, several small, hard turnips and a sack of oatmeal grains. Luigi made a face at this, causing his bride to laugh.

“It is not the same as what they served on the island,” she promised. “But, I said I would not make it for you.” Luigi grinned at her and took the bag.

“We will use it,” he said; he took it into the kitchen and placed it on a shelf by the cornmeal. A parcel of woolen yarn came out next along with Molly's knitting needles.

“I can make good stockings for us, and sweaters,” she told Luigi; he fingered the yarn and nodded. As if to prove her words, his bride handed him a warm blue sweater which had lain in the crate all those weeks. It smelled quite good, because of the herbs packed with it. “It will fit you, I think,” Molly said, shyly. “If you like it; I made it myself.”

“I like it,” he said, feeling the softness of the blue yarn. “I will be glad of this, it is so cold here.” Pleased, Molly turned her attention back to the crate. A large, quilted blankets lay on the bottom of the crate; Molly's eyes opened wide when she saw it. Lifting it out, she smiled and held it by her face. Donata smiled at the young woman's expression.

“My mother made this,” Molly said, after a moment; she smoothed her hand over its colorful surface. The Sicilian woman patted her hand. Molly smiled at her and bent down a little to let Gina look at the pretty, crafted blanket.

“That would look good on our bed,” came Luigi's voice. Molly stood up, the quilt in her arms.

“It would,” she said, her face a little pink. “It is very warm.”

Luigi smiled and took her hand; walking to the other door in the main room, he opened it and gestured at the bed inside. A simple, wooden bedstead stood within the small, white room; it was a large bed, big enough for both of them to lie down comfortably. White linen sheets adorned the fluffy mattress, and there were feather pillows. Light from a single window lit the space, giving it an ethereal appearance.

Luigi found himself embraced by his new bride; Molly buried her face in his chest and smiled, trying not to cry.

“It is all so beautiful,” she managed to say. Luigi caressed her hair and smiled, liking the place himself. It was clean and bright, as a home should be.

“Here, we will put it on, yes?” he said, taking the blanket from her. Smiling, Molly took two corners and helped him spread out the pleasant, thick blanket on their bed. “It looks good,” Luigi said, touching the fabric lightly. “You brought good things to our house, Molly.” He smiled proudly at his bride; she returned it. To him, Molly seemed very happy to have a small piece of her country here, with her.

They returned to the main room together. Donata stood, looking at the crate as it sat on the floor with the top off.

“If you turn it over and push it to the wall, it could be a bench,” she said, nodding to herself. Luigi seemed to like this idea and started to turn the crate over. A scraping sound, followed by a thud, stopped him; looking under the crate, Luigi pulled out a false-bottom and a long, flat packet, wrapped in brown paper. Molly was surprised to see it; Luigi looked at her with raised eyebrows. His bride nodded at him, curious to see inside the mystery parcel. As the paper was torn away, a stack of white, linen tablecloths came into view. Leaning down, she touched them with reverence and smiled.

“Oh... my grandfather wove these,” she said, smiling. “'Twas his trade. I did not know he kept any.” Donata was impressed.

“They are very fine,” the woman said, her eyebrows rising. “They will fetch a good price.” Lifting them up from the paper, Molly saw several coins roll down, falling from the folded linen. The bride laughed, shaking her head.

“He did set by some coins, but I thought they were all spent on the ship tickets.” she said, picking them up; she counted seventy-three. Holding them in her hands, Molly took them to her husband and looked up shyly at him. “It appears I do not come empty-handed to you,” she said in a soft voice. Luigi looked as if he wished to answer this sweet statement but did not want to in the present company. Instead, he kissed Molly's face and smiled at her, putting the coins in his pocket.

“When everyone is gone, we will talk,” he told her, quietly. Molly nodded, feeling a bit overwhelmed with her good fortune.

The new ‘bench’ looked well along the wall, and seemed to be placed there just in time; Vito and Gino returned, as well as the landlord and his wife and several other people Molly had never met; the building was home to many Italian families. They all seemed to feel a kind of natural camaraderie between them and they felt quite connected to each other, especially when there was a wedding to celebrate. As people came in, they bore boxes of food, containers of food or bottles of wine. There were hearty greetings and hand shaking, introductions and cheerful noise.

Smiling, Luigi gave benevolent nods as he stood by his bride, enjoying the spectacle. Molly likewise did not want to leave his side but welcomed everyone with a smile. Soon, their wooden table was covered in plates of bread, cheese, apples, olives and wine, along with some hard, cured pork sausage the like Molly had never seen before; it was fashioned into white, brine-covered logs. When Molly asked her groom what it was, Luigi called it 'salami'. Slicing off a piece, he gave it Molly to try. Tasting the strange food, the young woman smiled, broadly; it was delicious. Vito saw this reaction and proclaimed a long sentence in their beautiful language, pointing at Molly. Many people smiled and lifted glasses towards the young bride.

A glass of wine found its way into the hands of the groom. He drank from it and gave it to Molly; the dark-red liquid was unfamiliar to the young bride but she sipped it politely. Kissing her cheek, Luigi took the glass back and drank from it again. Several people in the room lifted glasses and spoke; each time the room would quiet until the speaker was done, and all the persons in the room would call out 'Salud' and lift the glasses high. Though she did not understand most of the words being spoken, Molly felt blessed; every once in awhile, Luigi would lean down and translate for her, above the noise.

Another new couple appeared at the door an hour or so later; Molly looked up and saw the minister who'd married him. Luigi smiled at him and beckoned the man inside.

“Please, come in...” he said, jovially. A riot of greetings ensued, causing the minister to smile.

Mattias Ruben entered the room, a kindly eyed woman following after.

“My wife, Joanna,” the minister said. The woman gave everyone a bright smile; she held a paper wrapped parcel in her arms. Spying the young bride, the woman came up to her and gave the gift to her; it weighed a bit more than expected. Molly nodded at her and let Luigi take it from her arms.

“A blessing to your marriage,” Mrs. Ruben said her smile unfading. Luigi looked at the gift then back at the minister.

“You gave us the marriage,” he said, protesting. “That was a good gift.” Mattias Ruben smiled, wryly.

“It is from my uncle, I think,” he said, his voice holding amusement. “It appeared on my doorstep this morning with a note on top that it was to be delivered to Luigi DiMattio and his bride.” The young Sicilian man looked at the parcel with interest. Donata gave the newcomers a plate and greeted them with a smile.

Taking off the paper, Luigi and Molly un-wrapped the gift while the other guests looked on. A shiny copper cook-pot glinted at the assembled party; inside were sacks of flour, sugar and salt and several fresh eggs. A small bag sat on top, tied with a ribbon. Luigi opened this, making a face at the contents. His frown faded after a moment; he looked at the minister.

“Your uncle is a shrewd man,” he said, holding up the bag. “He wanted to give me the rings but I say no, I pay him. But, here is my money back.” Mattias Ruben chuckled, shaking his head.

“My uncle is as stubborn as a mule,” he said. “Perhaps God used him to bless you.” Vito lifted up his glass to this and smiled.

“A blessing to the jeweler...” he said, with conviction; other voices joined him and another toast followed. The minister smiled and accepted some food on his plate.

Molly cleared away the food and dishes to the kitchen, with Donata's help. A few of the women, including Mrs. Ruben, came in as well. Having never lit a coal stove before, Molly was schooled in the elusive art by the exuberant helpers. Chattering, the women boiled water and got out pans for washing.

They would not let Molly do one thing but stand back where her pretty dress would not be dirtied. In the main room, the men smoked, conversed while some played on the small mandolins and concertinas. The bride stood by the window, smiling as kindly women bustled about her kitchen. Outside, snow fell in great, soft flakes. The wind was still and the street lamps outside cast a warm glow in small circles below. Dishes were washed quickly with so many hands and put away on the newly painted shelves; Molly was consulted where she wanted things placed. Keeping her smiles to herself, she nodded her approval to the neat stacks of bowls and plates, and the respective organization of the food shelves. These women had been keepers of their homes longer than she; Molly felt it only right to learn from their experience.

Sometime later the last, unknown guest left. Some had brought with them gifts, mostly of food, but one of them Molly was particularly grateful for, a large, long washtub. It could be used for clothes and for a bath. Vito and Gino took up the empty bottles and clapped Luigi on the back, heading towards the door. Donata followed, carrying Gina; the sleeping girl's eyes were demurely closed, her little mouth slightly open.

“A good wedding,” Vito said; standing nearby, Gino nodded in agreement.

“Yes, blessings to you both,” he said, smiling. Taking Gina from his wife, he led the way outside.

Vito stayed behind a moment. Leaning down, he kissed Molly on first one cheek, then the other, and clapped Luigi on the back. Closing the door behind him, Vito Giovanni smiled at the quiet corridor and made his way slowly downstairs.

Alone in the apartment, Molly took hold of Luigi's hand.

“Have you looked out the window?” she asked, shyly. “’Tis snowing again.” Smiling down at his bride, Luigi shook his head. Together they walked to the windows; standing behind Molly, he put his arms around her and watched the snow fall. The white flakes swirled slowly; the wind was calm and the glow of the street lamps gave the quiet scene warmth despite the chilly temperatures.

“Beautiful,” Luigi said, quietly. Molly held her breath a moment, then relaxed back against her groom. There was comfort in his embrace, and warmth. “Do you... eh... do you feel tired?” her new husband asked; his voice held a slight undertone of muted eagerness. “I am tired.”

Realizing what he meant, Molly blushed.

“I am.” She replied, shyly. “It has been a long day, sir.” she said. “The bed looks… very comfortable.” Luigi grinned; his bride's voice sounded a little uncertain. Leaning down, he smelled her hair; the flower in her hair gave off their sweet perfume in wisps.

“Bella,” he said, closing his eyes. Reaching up, Molly closed the curtain; her face felt warm, despite the cold weather. As they walked past the table, Luigi leaned down and blew out the remaining candles.

Fifteen

Molly awoke in the white bedroom; the sunlight was weak but what light came through the curtain lit the space within very well. Turning her head, the young bride smiled her face hued a rosy shade of pink.

Luigi was yet asleep, lying on his stomach next to her, one arm protectively around her waist. Wondering if she should try to get up, Molly lay there a moment, listening to the sound of her husband’s breathing. It sounded wonderful, so deep and even; the man beside her was full of life and energy… and yet, he slept well. Smiling, Molly thought on her own sleep, deep and refreshing. It had been some time since she was gifted with such rest.

The sound breathing halted; Luigi made a sleepy sound somewhere between a grunt and a cough; he turned over onto his other side. A slightly louder sound began emanating from his lips, like mild snoring. Molly hid her laughter, though her smile was very wide. She thought it sounded adorable. Getting up as quietly as possible, Molly dressed in her blue working gown and warm stockings; glancing at her husband’s sleeping form, she tied the strings of her apron. Closing the bedroom door behind her, Molly tiptoed to the kitchen through the cold room; in spite of the chill, her smile remained bright.

Opening the curtains, she looked out at the cold, windy morn; snow was piling up fast; it clung to the eaves and lines of the buildings, even stacking up on the ridges of the many windows. Down in the street, city workers shoveled snow along with shop owners. Smiling at the scene, Molly walked to the kitchen door and opened it. The air still smelled of clean, bright whitewash; opening the curtains for light, Molly used her newly gained knowledge to light the fire in the cook-stove. The warm flames crackled merrily within the black, iron stove.

“The first meal cooked in my own kitchen,” she whispered, looking around her kitchen. Sorely tempted to make oatmeal, Molly smiled and chuckled a little. Rolling up her sleeves, she found her mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, preparing to make a breakfast fit for her husband.

Delicious smells drifted under the bedroom door, up over the bedstead to hover over Luigi’s sleeping head. The Sicilian’s eyes fluttered open; as he rubbed sleep from his face, Luigi looked over at the place where Molly slept. She was not there. Sitting up a little, Luigi could distinctly smells food… good food. Little noises could be heard, coming from the other room. Smiling, Luigi sank back into bed; it was warm in the covers and the air in the room was frigid. Letting out a long sigh, Luigi got threw back the covers and unwillingly vacated the warm bed. Quickly, he pulled on his trousers and stockings, buttoning up his shirt with habitual swiftness. Pulling on a sweater, Luigi opened the door of his bedroom, a smile once again dressing his face. It smelled even better in the main room; Luigi walked forward, looking for his wife. He saw the table already set with two tin plates and forks, and cloth napkins, folded neatly.

Beaming, he opened the kitchen door. The room felt quite warm in contrast to the rest of the apartment. Molly stood by the large cook stove, humming to herself. There was not much sun. What light came through the windows glanced off her bright hair; a few curls of it had worked loose from her braid and danced about her neck as she worked. Luigi grinned and cleared his throat, loudly. Molly jumped a little, looking over at him in surprise. Her apprehension faded away at the sight of her smiling husband, standing in the doorway.

“You scared me,” she said, holding back a smile. Luigi’s grin remained.

“Apologies,” he said, with humor. Molly shook her head, unable to stop the corners of her lips from curling upward. Her husband was very handsome this morning; it was hard to hold teasing against him. The warm, brown eyes he possessed radiated warmth; the very air was rendered far more pleasant by his presence.

Stepping up behind his wife, Luigi put his arms around her waist and kissed her face. Molly let out a soft laugh.

“Good morning, Luigi,” she said, gently.

“It is a good morning,” Luigi said, kissing her ear. “I have a good sleep, I have my wife… and the food smells good.” He sniffed the air in a very satisfied way. A little red of face, Molly found she had no answer to this. Luigi saw her turn pink; his smile said he was pleased. A big slice of cured ham was frying on the stove in its little pan; the woman of the house turned it over, showing the crackling-brown underside. The smell of it caused Luigi’s stomach to rumble. Two eggs boiled nearby; Molly fished them out with a spoon and put them into two, small cups.

“Are you not going to eat?” Luigi asked, puzzled. “This is only enough for me...” His red-haired bride laughed, quietly and turned to face him.

“There is more,” she said, smiling. “I may not know how to cook food like you ate in Messina but I know men like to eat... and that a goodly amount.” Luigi looked dubious, something which amused Molly very much. Grabbing a folded cloth, she leaned down to the small oven door; opening it, she drew out a large baking pan filled with a puffy kind of sweet bread. Luigi leaned over it as Molly put it on the counter to cool; it smelled very good. The top was dotted with oats and dried berries.

“Hmm...” Luigi said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I must taste, to see if it is good.” His bride gave a sweet laugh at this, nodding her head.

“Of course, sir,” she said, with a little curtsy. Luigi snorted at the formal address but smiled anyway; his wife appeared very pretty with her bright eyes filled with amusement. Taking a knife, the man of the house cut himself a slice of the hot bread; he blew on it several seconds before taking a bite. It proved tasty with the sugar and just a hint of salt; he especially liked the flavor of the darkly-sweet berries.

“It is good,” he said, nodding his approval. “Very good... better than oatmeal mush.” His bride nodded in agreement, still chuckling softly. Luigi licked his fingers, eying the bread again. “You make this at your home, on your island?” he asked.

Molly nodded, feeling her throat catch a little. Suddenly, Ireland seemed very far away, but she did not feel sad anymore.

“Only on special days,” she said. “My mother would make it for times of celebration; she taught me how.” The bride looked up into her husband’s face as she spoke; Luigi found his attention re-directed to her eyes; the clear green depths of them were filled with earnest emotion. “Ireland may be where I grew up,” she said, quietly, “...but my home is here, with you.” Fearing she’d cry, Molly put her arms around Luigi’s waist, her face hidden in his sweater. Reaching up, Luigi caressed his bride's soft hair; he was more than a little touched by her words. Lifting her chin, he looked into her eyes for a moment. In them he did not see

uncertainly; none at all.

“Do not cry,” he said, gently. “You have a soul of beauty; I like this in you.” Smiling up at him, Molly bride wiped away a little tear and turned back to her cooking. Nothing more needed to be said. Even over Ireland, she loved the man that she had married. Glancing over at him, she saw him surreptitiously cut a little more from the sweet loaf of bread.

Hearing his Molly softly laugh at him, Luigi donned a wounded air.

“What?” he asked, his hands open. “I am hungry! You torture me with the smell of good food…” He took a big bite of his pilfered bread, as if you punctuate his sentence.

Molly giggled quietly at him, taking the platter of ham from the cook stove to the counter.

“You are allowed anything in this house,” she said, after a moment. “It is your house, and the things in it are yours.” Luigi leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

“Ours,” He said, drawing back with a fond look. “This home is yours, and mine.” With this, he helped her bring the food to the table, insisting on bringing the tasty bread, himself. Molly smiled, glad to be able to bring Luigi a small measure of comfort with her cooking.

Enjoying their first meal alone, the young couple discussed this particular area of the city.

“I will walk to market with you,” Luigi told his wife, taking a bite of the currant bread. “It is a good market, but it is not safe to go alone.” Molly nodded, considering this information.

“I would very much like to know what food you like to eat,” she said, after a few minutes. “I must admit, I would not know how to make food from your country.” Luigi nodded, slowly chewing the delicious bite.

“You make good bread,” he said, wiping his mouth on a napkin. “I like best of all the… er, sauce… with onions… garlic and little olives, many tomatoes, cooked very slow… with the fried sausage and macaronis.”

This was a Greek to Molly; her baffled face provoked a hearty laugh from her husband. “I will show you, Molly,” Luigi said, fondly. “I will cook with you, yes?” His bride nodded, clearly relieved.

“I would love to learn,” she responded; her eyes were alight with anticipation. “The food we ate last night tasted excellent. Very… full of flavor.” Hearing this description, her husband smiled.

“Yes, in Messina we like food to be bold.” he said, nodding. “But, this…” he indicated the bread she’d made. “This is good for the morning. But, with a little more sugar, on top?” Luigi moved his hand over the bread in a mimed action. Molly smiled, nodding her head in agreement. It was very easy to guess what this man liked; his hands and face expressed well what halting words did not.

“When we make this… sauce, should we invite over your uncles and aunt?” she asked, taking a bite of her own breakfast. Luigi leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully.

“Si,” He said, nodding. “Yes. That is a good thought.” Molly smiled into her plate, enjoying the smell and taste of the food before her; sun light streamed through the windows, into her own home, on her own table with her husband seated nearby.

“We cook this very slow…” Luigi said, pointing into the bubbling pot. Standing next to him, Molly nodded. Two pots stood on the cook-stove’s hot surface, spice-laden steam lifting from them. Luigi stirred one pot with a long, wooden spoon, then the other one; he did not stop stirring, Molly noticed.

“Do you stir it all the time?” she asked. Her husband nodded.

“It will burn, if we do not,” he told her. “The tomatoes cook in here, with green olives, bay leaves and pepper… the onions and sausage in here. After a little while, we will put them together to cook.” Molly nodded, looking at the contents of the nearest pot; the bubbling mass inside certainly smelled good.

Glancing out the window, Molly wondered what time it was. The sky was overcast; Luigi had already been out to invite his family over for the evening meal. They would arrive at sundown. Her eye drifted down to a third pot standing nearby on the counter, half-filled with salted water.

“When do we put this on?” she inquired, pointing to it.

“When the sauce is almost ready, we take it off the stove,” Luigi said, looking down at her with a smile. “It sits for an hour, cooling. Then we put on the water, for the macaronis.” Puzzled, Molly looked at her kitchen shelves.

“I do not know what macaronis are….” she said, biting her lip. “But, I am fairly certain we do not have any.” Luigi laughed, a little. Leaning down, he kissed Molly’s face.

“We will make them,” he informed her; his eyes were bright with humor. He kissed her once more on her ear. Molly blushed at this and walked to her shelves to a retrieve a mixing bowl.

“Please tell me how,” she offered. “You can tell me if I do anything wrong.” As much as she found this type of cuisine complex, Molly wanted to learn all she could of what her new husband liked to eat. He seemed to enjoy his food with vigor, as if it were a great source of happiness.

Smiling, Luigi directed her in how much flour to put in her bowl, also of the eggs, salt, water and a little of the precious olive oil. Mixing it with her hands, Molly inhaled the clean, bright smell of the oil and flour. It was a little sticky, but Luigi told her it was better to mix it by hand.

“It has to feel right, yes?” he said, judiciously touching the sticky dough. “A little more flour.” Molly complied, enjoying this cooking lesson. It was very private, here in their home. Far away they could hear a baby crying and the low murmurs of talking voices, but for the most part the air was calm. Molly watched with interest as Luigi took the large pot of sauce off the counter and stoked up the fire a little more. He put on the other pot of water to boil and washed his hands. With care, he rolled out the dough on a floured cutting board; he did so many times, until it was very thin. With a practiced hand he cut the dough in very thin strips, laying them carefully over a broom handle that was propped up between two counters. Once the water was boiling, he dropped the slightly dried ‘macaronis’ into the salted water, stirring them every so often.

While they cooked, Molly stirred up more bread, this time adding no sugar and stirring a finely chopped onion into the dough. It baked with a wonderful aroma that Luigi approved of, as well as the relatives. Vito, Gino, Donata and Gina called out greetings as they walked in. Luigi welcomed them, with Molly at his side. The table was made up with many plates and cutlery, and candles, with one of Molly’s special linen cloths upon its flat surface. Going to her bench, Molly retrieved a small package and handed it to Donata.

“A cloth for your table,” she said, shyly. “For your kindness to me.” The Sicilian woman was surprised at this but very pleased; she smiled widely and kissed Molly on both cheeks.

Vito sniffed the air.

“You have not forgotten how to cook, Louie,” he said, approvingly. Gino snorted, a little.

“It smells good, yes,” the man said, looking narrowly at the kitchen. “I hope it tastes good.” Luigi snorted, glaring at his uncle. The two exchanged a few words in their own language, something which caused Luigi’s older uncle to throw back his head and laugh. The small table held them all, though it was slightly cramped. In spite of this, conversation was hearty and food was dished out with vigor. The heady scent of the sauce and the good smell of fresh bread mingled harmoniously in the air. Looking around her table, her eyes shone with pride. Molly felt her hand swept up. Turning, she saw Luigi standing close by; he pressed his bride’s hand to his lips.

“We cook well together,” he said, quietly. Molly felt the warmth of his gaze upon her face and smiled.

“Yes, we do,” she replied, matching his gaze. Her voice held joy, such as made Luigi’s heart fill with gladness. Leaning down, he fondly kissed her face. Molly could see pride in his eyes as he looked at her. Whatever island she was from, this man of Messina was happy to call her his wife. Sitting a little closer to him, Molly sighed. It was the sound of happiness.

The End of Book One

Coming Soon... Book Two in the America Series: the story of Luigi & Molly's new life in New York of raising a family and the joys and hardships that faced turn-of-the-century immigrants.

Email the authors: greene@belatorbooks.com