New York - The Novel

let her fingers play over it now, as in her mind she went up and down Fifth and Madison, street by street, thinking about who lived on each block and whether, should she find the perfect social territory, there might be a house, or a building lot for sale there.

    “There it is, Toto.” Anna was pointing. The bridge of the ship had obscured the great monument from view, but now the passengers were all pressing toward the port side to get a better look as it approached. “The Statue of Liberty.”
    There was hardly any need to move to the rail. The mighty statue towered over them. Its upraised arm, torch in hand, seemed to scrape the sky. Salvatore gazed up in silence. So this was America.
    Salvatore didn’t know much about America. He knew it was big, and that the people there spoke English, of which Uncle Luigi spoke a few words, and that when you worked, they gave you dollars to send home. He had never heard of the Anglo-Saxon Puritans or the Dutch settlers, or the God-fearing farmers of New England. His family had never spoken of the Boston Tea Party, or Ben Franklin, or even George Washington. Nor, gazing at the Statue of Liberty, could he have derived any clue as to the existence of such a Christian or democratic tradition.
    Yet instinctively, as the Mediterranean boy looked up, he understood what he saw.
    Power. The colossal, pale green, pagan god rose alone on its huge pedestal above the waters. Hundreds of feet up, under its mighty diadem, the blank, heroic face stared with Olympian indifference across the clear blue sky, while its upraised arm signaled: Victory. If the statue bade him any welcome at all, the little boy sensed, it was to an empire like that of his ancestors. Only one thing puzzled him.
    “Is it a man,” he whispered to Anna, “or a woman?”
    She also gazed, uncertain. The huge face seemed to belong to a malegod, yet the massive drapery that fell over the statue’s body might have suggested a stately Roman matron. Anna tugged at Uncle Luigi’s arm, to ask him.
    “She is a woman,” said Uncle Luigi. “The French gave her to the Americans.”
    Had Uncle Luigi known it, he could have added that the sculptor came from Alsace, on the Franco-German border, had studied in Egypt as well, and that therefore it was not so surprising if this monument to Liberty, timeless as the pyramids, should also echo that modern version of the classical spirit, the French Second Empire—with a hint, perhaps, of German power as well.
    They sailed straight past Ellis Island. The first- and second-class passengers, the people with cabins, did not have to pass though that ordeal. They had already been given a brief and courteous inspection on board before the ship entered the harbor, and were free to disembark at their leisure.
    On the starboard side, the ship passed Governor’s Island, then the tip of Manhattan with its little fort and park. Beyond, in the East River, both the funnels of steamships and the huge masts of sailing ships graced the waters. On the port side, Salvatore saw the high cliffs of the Palisades up the Hudson. Then, moments later, the ship began to make its slow turn toward the Hoboken piers on the New Jersey side, where the German liners docked.
    Across the river, New York stretched for miles. Street after street of brick and brownstone houses; here and there, clumps of office buildings, several stories higher. Nearby, the dark spire of Trinity, Wall Street, and further off, the Gothic towers of the Brooklyn Bridge rose into the sky. Even more dramatically, nearly a dozen tall skyscrapers, each over three hundred feet high, soared into the heavens above them all. But while everyone gazed eagerly at the city, Salvatore started thinking of something else.
    It had been at the turn of the metal stairs going up to the deck. That’s where he’d heard his father say it. The other children didn’t hear, because they’d already turned the corner above.
    His parents had been arguing about Uncle Luigi just before. His father was complaining about something Uncle Luigi had done, and his mother was defending him, which wasn’t unusual. Salvatore hadn’t really been listening. But then his father had turned to his mother and announced:“You know what’s going to happen at Ellis Island? They are going to send your brother back.”
    “Do not say such a thing, Giovanni.” His mother had sounded shocked.
    “But it’s true—I know what happens, I spoke with a man who has been there. It’s