waited in anxious anticipation for the sound of the motor and the last leg of their journey. But nothing happened. Instead, torturous time passed while they stood rocking in the wakes of passing boats. Word filtered through the immigrants that Ellis Island was crowded.
“I told you l’America was filled up!” the man in Giovanna’s steerage compartment shouted to Luigi.
“ Boccalone! We’ll be there soon,” reprimanded Luigi.
It wasn’t soon, but six hours later the barge pulled into the dock at Ellis Island. The mood was solemn as the immigrants stepped onto land to waiting crew members who pinned a paper number to each foreigner’s clothing. Giovanna looked at her “27” upside down and wondered if they had her age wrong, but then she noticed a child with “102.”
They entered a large redbrick building where they were instructed to leave their baggage. Giovanna hesitated but let go of her belongings when she saw the fear that she felt mirrored on the faces of the other immigrants as they parted with all that they had.
The crowd moved up a staircase into a huge hall that was divided into aisles by iron railings. They were no longer being prodded by the ship’s crew but by people in uniforms who filled one aisle at a time. Instructions shouted in many languages by exasperated and overworked immigration officials echoed throughout the great room, and nervous whispers were amplified in the cavernous hall. In an attempt to understand what was happening to them, the detainees whispered messages up and down the rows.
“There are men checking people and writing on them with blue chalk,” was the first message to reach Giovanna. Writing on them? Didn’t they have paper? In the aisle next to her, the line of communication broke down at a group of Poles sandwiched in among the Italians.
Giovanna advanced far enough down the line to glimpse an inspector in a navy blue uniform outlined in braided trim holding a piece of blue chalk in his hands. From the moment someone reached the head of the line, the man scrutinized that person. Giovanna watched him order a mother carrying an older baby to put the child down and make him walk. The mother set the boy on the floor. He stared at the shiny, black knee-high boots in front of him and screamed. His nervous mother swatted his bottom, forcing him forward.
When each immigrant reached the inspector, after walking a closely observed ten feet, the inspector thumped on the foreigner’s chest, picked up their arms, lifting their sleeves to look at their skin, and then inspected their fingernails. Giovanna looked at her own fingernails. Would they not let you into l’America if you were dirty? The pungent body odors in the room convinced Giovanna that cleanliness couldn’t be the reason for checking fingernails. The smells were so strong that Giovanna was taking long breaths with her face nearly imbedded in the basil plant of the man in front of her. Various plants were clutched like gold throughout the hall, and Giovanna busied herself by identifying them.
After banging on their chests, the man in blue listened to their breathing. A few of the immigrants tried to talk to the inspectors, but the inspectors ignored them or put their fingers to their lips. For a line that moved so slowly, it all happened quickly; Giovanna counted no more than six or seven seconds for each person.
The immigrant was then guided forward a few feet to another man with shiny buttons who snapped back the immigrant’s eyelid and took a look. Sometimes he scrawled an E on their clothes. Numbered and possibly “lettered,” they moved on to an area that Giovanna couldn’t see from her place on line.
When Giovanna reached what she had thought was the front of the line, she realized it snaked around and she was nowhere near being examined. She was in a maze, never knowing what the next corner would bring and searching for an elusive and uncertain exit. Her head moving like a searchlight, she saw
“I told you l’America was filled up!” the man in Giovanna’s steerage compartment shouted to Luigi.
“ Boccalone! We’ll be there soon,” reprimanded Luigi.
It wasn’t soon, but six hours later the barge pulled into the dock at Ellis Island. The mood was solemn as the immigrants stepped onto land to waiting crew members who pinned a paper number to each foreigner’s clothing. Giovanna looked at her “27” upside down and wondered if they had her age wrong, but then she noticed a child with “102.”
They entered a large redbrick building where they were instructed to leave their baggage. Giovanna hesitated but let go of her belongings when she saw the fear that she felt mirrored on the faces of the other immigrants as they parted with all that they had.
The crowd moved up a staircase into a huge hall that was divided into aisles by iron railings. They were no longer being prodded by the ship’s crew but by people in uniforms who filled one aisle at a time. Instructions shouted in many languages by exasperated and overworked immigration officials echoed throughout the great room, and nervous whispers were amplified in the cavernous hall. In an attempt to understand what was happening to them, the detainees whispered messages up and down the rows.
“There are men checking people and writing on them with blue chalk,” was the first message to reach Giovanna. Writing on them? Didn’t they have paper? In the aisle next to her, the line of communication broke down at a group of Poles sandwiched in among the Italians.
Giovanna advanced far enough down the line to glimpse an inspector in a navy blue uniform outlined in braided trim holding a piece of blue chalk in his hands. From the moment someone reached the head of the line, the man scrutinized that person. Giovanna watched him order a mother carrying an older baby to put the child down and make him walk. The mother set the boy on the floor. He stared at the shiny, black knee-high boots in front of him and screamed. His nervous mother swatted his bottom, forcing him forward.
When each immigrant reached the inspector, after walking a closely observed ten feet, the inspector thumped on the foreigner’s chest, picked up their arms, lifting their sleeves to look at their skin, and then inspected their fingernails. Giovanna looked at her own fingernails. Would they not let you into l’America if you were dirty? The pungent body odors in the room convinced Giovanna that cleanliness couldn’t be the reason for checking fingernails. The smells were so strong that Giovanna was taking long breaths with her face nearly imbedded in the basil plant of the man in front of her. Various plants were clutched like gold throughout the hall, and Giovanna busied herself by identifying them.
After banging on their chests, the man in blue listened to their breathing. A few of the immigrants tried to talk to the inspectors, but the inspectors ignored them or put their fingers to their lips. For a line that moved so slowly, it all happened quickly; Giovanna counted no more than six or seven seconds for each person.
The immigrant was then guided forward a few feet to another man with shiny buttons who snapped back the immigrant’s eyelid and took a look. Sometimes he scrawled an E on their clothes. Numbered and possibly “lettered,” they moved on to an area that Giovanna couldn’t see from her place on line.
When Giovanna reached what she had thought was the front of the line, she realized it snaked around and she was nowhere near being examined. She was in a maze, never knowing what the next corner would bring and searching for an elusive and uncertain exit. Her head moving like a searchlight, she saw
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