New York - The Novel

not care. For Italian food was best.
    She knew also that, whichever of the saints she asked to help her, God saw all the sins of the world, and that He would decide whether any mercy was to be shown.
    That was fate. It was inescapable, as certain as the blue dome of the sky over the Earth. Going to America wasn’t going to change that.
    “Why are we going to America?” Salvatore had asked, as they sat in the cart, on their way from the family’s little farm into Naples.
    “Because there is money in America, Toto,” his father had answered. “A heap of dollars to send to your grandmother and your aunts, so they can keep the farm.”
    “We can’t get dollars in Naples?”
    “In Naples? No.” His father had smiled. “You will like America. Your Uncle Francesco is there, and all your cousins that you have never met, and all waiting to greet you.”
    “Is it true,” Salvatore had asked, “that everyone in America is happy, and you can do whatever you want?”
    But before his father could reply, his mother had cut in.
    “It is not for you to think of being happy, Salvatore,” she said firmly. “God will decide if you deserve to be happy. Be grateful that you are alive.”
    “Yes, Concetta, of course,” his father began. He was not so religious. But Concetta was implacable.
    “Only bandits do what they want, Salvatore.
Camorristi
. And God will punish them. Obey your parents, work hard, look after your family. It is enough.”
    “There are still choices,” Uncle Luigi had said gently.
    “No,” Concetta had flared up, “there is no choice.” She’d gazed down at her little son. “You are a good boy, Salvatore,” she said in a softer voice, “but you must not hope for too much, or God will punish you. Always remember that.”
    “Yes, Mama,” he’d said.
    Next to his mother, holding little Maria’s other hand, was Uncle Luigi.
    Uncle Luigi was small. He had a round head, and the strands of hair he plastered across it could not conceal the fact that he was bald. He was not powerful like Salvatore’s father, who only tolerated him. He had worked in a store; he could also read and write, and liked to go to church with his sister, neither of which impressed the other men in the family. “Reading and writing is a waste of time,” Salvatore’s father would say. “And the priests are all rogues.” Uncle Luigi was a little strange. Sometimes he would hum to himself, and gaze out into space, as though in a dream. But the children all loved him, and Concetta protected him.
    Salvatore had been put between Anna and Paolo. Anna was slim and serious. Though she was only nine, she was the eldest daughter, and she helped her mother in all things. She and Paolo didn’t always get along, but Salvatore liked Anna, because she used to take him out for walks into the woods when he was little, and give him chocolate.
    As for Paolo, he wasn’t even two years older than Salvatore. Paolo was his best friend; they did everything together. During the voyage, Paolo had been sick, and he kept coughing, but he seemed better now, and Uncle Luigi said the fresh air would put him right.
    Salvatore loved his family. He could not imagine life without them. And now they had all crossed the ocean safely, and Ellis Island lay just ahead of them. There, he knew, they would all be inspected before being allowed into America.
    And that was the terrible secret he had heard his father tell his mother, not an hour before. One of the family wasn’t going to make it.

    Rose Vandyck Master stared at the picture. It was a charming watercolor of her cottage at Newport, and she had been so pleased with it that she had hung it on the wall in her boudoir, over the little French bureau where she liked to write letters. Her husband William was at work, and the children were out, so she could concentrate in peace. She had just put on her pearl choker. For some reason, she always seemed to think best when she was wearing her pearls. And she needed to think clearly, for she was facing one of the most difficult decisions of her life.
    The life of Rose Master was privileged, and she knew it. She was a loyal wife and a loving mother, and she ran her houses to perfection. But she hadn’t come by all this good fortune without hard work and calculation. And having got so far, it was hardly surprising that she meant to go further. If her husband was working to increase the family fortune, then her task, as she saw it—and most women she knew