July 20th, 1930


    On the Island of Sicily


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    My name is Mario Lucchese. I''m the husband of Maria Lucchese and the father of two, Nunzia and Salvatore. But above all else, I''m poor. Seriously poor. Back in ''29, I bought some American and French stock. I put a lot of money in that stock, believing that my family and I could move to Naples when I sold it. Then the world economy crashed, and everything went south after that. Poverty soared, businesses closed, and the republics and empires of Europe and North America were in disarray. They still are to this day. I believe the Americans and British are calling this the Depression.


    Well, ever since then, our farm has been the only source of income we have. We sell lemons and whatever animal trespasses on our property. We''ve had to take rations on our food to make any money or sometimes to break even. I''ve had to watch my little Nunzia grow skinny and pale from the lack of food we eat. Maria attempts to hide the fact our daughter is malnourished from the rest of town by covering her in thick clothing, but I can tell the others can see right through her shotty disguise.


    But now it''s gotten much worse. This past week my little brother, Antonio, got arrested by the Black Shirts during an anti-nationalist protest. I had no money to bail him out of jail. Instead, I went to see the only person who could, Don Russo. Don Russo is one of the Sicilian Mafia bosses throughout the country—a man who would exchange money for favors down the road. I went to him asking for 2,000 lira to bail him out. Don Russo agreed as long as I paid him back. I used only 1,000 of the lira to bail out my brother and planned to use the other thousand to make some more money to pay him back with interest.


    One day, I headed into a tavern on the outskirts of town. I entered the old tavern, the smell of wood resin and alcohol immediately assaulting my sense of smell. I sat down and asked for a fine brandy. They gave me expired whiskey instead, but I was too stressed out at the time to care. Alcohol is alcohol. As I drank the horrid glass, I overheard a conversation.


    "They got him," said a young man in a light grey suit and coat.


    "Got who? said an older man in suspenders and an olive shirt.


    "Russo," the young man spoke. "The Black Shirts arrested him this morning. Public execution they''re giving him. They''re going to whip and skin him, then cut his head off!" I put my glass down and stopped drinking. Now they have my full attention.


    "''Skin him?'' Shit, that''s bad."


    "What''s worse is Russo accidentally left a paper trail before they got him, meaning they''ll be onto us soon." That can''t lead to me, can it?


    "Are you fucking serious right now! Goddamn idiot and his money!" the old man yelled. He then sighed in frustration. "Who was his last client?"


    The young man answered. "I don''t know. Some low-life farmer named Mario asking for bail money." Dread fills my soul. It can lead to me.


    "Right then. Find his clients and make them keep quiet. It will give us time to escape to Spain." The men then walk past me. I pretended to be blackout drunk during the whole conversation. When they leave, I make a dash to my home. After I aggressively knocked on the door and Maria opened it, I first thing I say is, "Maria, pack your bags. We''re leaving for North America."


    There was confusion at first. Maria and the children kept asking why. Why? Why must we leave our home, our country, for the Americans? Why must we leave our farm for the crowds of industrial New York? Why did Antonio get arrested? Why are we moving so suddenly? Why am I acting so fearful? Why is there a knock at the door?


    A knock on the door? Yes, a knock on the door.


    Maria is quicker to answer the door than I am. The moment she does, all her questions now suddenly have answers. Two men in black uniforms, handsome and tall, stern and strong, stand just outside the mouth of the door. They raised her hats down to their chests.


    "Good evening, sir and madam. My name is Captain Dante Salvini, and this is Lieutenant Faviano Perazzo. We are with the Voluntary Militia for National Security. May we step inside?" He said, already having taken a step on the welcome rug. Fear has now entered my very soul, and I order the children back to their room.


    "Salvatore, Nunzia, go to your rooms. Adults are talking." The children do as I asked. I and Maria look to the captain, a joyful grin on his face.


    "Oh, I remember when I was a child. You know I used to play in the dirt quite often in my youth. My father would yell at me for ruining my clothes. Hard to believe that little mischievous boy has risen to gain the respect of the duce. Make me wonder what the babies of others will grow up to be," he said, still smiling like the devil.


    "Unfortunately, we aren''t here to discuss the future of your children. No, we''re here to discuss some money loaned out from a mister Don Russo. Apparently, the money we followed leads here. You wouldn''t happen to know anything about that, would you?" I fain ignorance. I don''t remember what I even told him or what he asked. I just started talking, talking, and talking like my life depended on it, because it did. In the end, I was able to convince the two Black Shirts we weren''t the Lucchese family, and they both left. I''ve never felt a stress like that before in my life.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    We packed our bags and headed for the nearest port the next morning. We didn''t even bother selling our property.


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    August 1st, 1930


    Ellis Island, New York City


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    It took 12 days of open sea to reach the American harbor. In the distance, Salvatore spotted the smokestacks and tall skyscrapers of New York City. We arrive off the steamboat and onto an island with hundreds of people. I look around and see what feels like a million different races and cultures. I see dark-skinned Africans and white-colored French, formally dressed British and thick-accented Russians, blue-eyed Germans and full-bearded Hebrews, and so many more. They all are speaking different languages and the sound of one voice I can''t discern from another, creating a cacophony of noise I can''t understand.


    We get in line, or what I believe is supposed to be a line, with our immigration papers. American military men surround us on all sides. I walked up to the man in the booth. "Ez u ka la papa ur regi nation, plass" he says in English. "What?" I say in Italian. "Ez u ka la papa ur regi nation, plass" he says again, more sternly. I don''t understand what he''s saying, so I attempt to tell him. In truth, it sounded more like "Ehh, angle ish I no understando." He then reaches under his desk and presses a button, and holds up a finger to me, I believe telling me to wait.


    Nunzia is starting to cry. She''s never been in a place full of strangers before, let alone those who look and sound different than her. Maria goes to comfort her while Salvatore grabs hold of my leg. A group of men then came and ushered us forward, rather aggressively, to a different booth. Here the language is written in Italian and not English, along with an Italian-speaking secretary.


    "Take this and stay with it," he says giving us a paper item. It''s a numbered card, with strange bureaucratic inscriptions written in ink that I don''t understand. All of a sudden, each of us is separated from each other by officers and taken to different areas. "Maria! Salvatore!" I yell in confusion. "Stop! Where are you taking me?!" I worry I made a mistake. That somehow the Black Shirts or the Mafia had followed me and planned an ambush. But the fear only lasts for a moment.


    Black Shirts do take me to meet my death, but instead, I''m put in an exam room. The lights here are blinding and irritating to my eyes. The floor is somehow both clinical and dirty at the same time. The seat I''m put in is uneven, uncomfortable, and worn down. A man in a white coat then enters--a doctor.


    "What is your name?" he says in Italian.


    "I, uh, Mario. Mario Lucchese."


    "Age and occupation?"


    "34 years and a former lemon farmer."


    "How long have you been a farmer?"


    I don''t know. Uh, since the age of 9, I suppose. Listen, what''s going on? Where did you take my wife and children?"


    He doesn''t answer. "Can you read English?"


    "I...No...Where are my children?"


    "Sir, please calm down and answer my questions."


    "No, no, no, you need to tell me what''s going on," I demand. "You whisked me and my wife away from our children and refuse to answer my questions. No, of course I don''t speak or read English. Now tell whe-"


    "Sir, as I have stated before, please calm down and answer my questions. Your wife and children are safe and going through the same exam you''re going through now. This includes questions eligibly for work, literacy tests, background, and how well you score for American citizenship. Now may I continue?" the doctor says.


    I''m initially relieved to hear they''re safe. I comply with the rest of the procedure, though I frustratingly say, "Could''ve fucking said that from the start, you know?"


    "Standard procedure, sir"


    "Right, ''standard.''"


    The rest of the exam follows: the doctor asks a question, and I answer. In between that, he examines my body proportions and health. I go through eye exams, strength exams, literacy exams, and a test for tuberculous. They give an average passing on the scores and grant me civilian status. They say I need to at least be able to read English to take the citizenship test. I leave with my papers stamped and approved.


    I wait outside for the others. A guard then comes out and hands off my son and daughter. "Oh, there you are!" I say in relief. Maria hasn''t arrived yet, so I assume she''s still taking her tests. An hour passes before concern starts to take hold. "Where Mommy?" asks Nunzia. "I don''t know," I answer. "Let me check."


    I walk up to the building and ask around. Most people don''t understand me until I reach the doctor from earlier. "She failed her tests. She''s not coming with you."


    "What!"


    "Says here she has pneumonia. Honestly, it''s impressive she can speak at all."


    That''s bullshit. That''s bullshit! Maria doesn''t have pneumonia. I know that because she was cured of it as a young adult. She''s never had it since.


    "There must be some mistake. Maria had pneumonia early in her life but she''s been cured of it. I know for sure she doesn''t have it now. Did...did you look inside her throat and guess?"


    The doctor stares at me in a way that implies he did but doesn''t want to admit it. "It doesn''t matter. She failed her English and work tests. She''s being sent back to your home country now," he says carelessly.


    I rush back into the main building to find her, only not to find her anywhere and a steamboat leaving the harbor. She''s gone.


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    September 4th, 1931


    New York City, United States of America


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    In New York, I work in a factory making car parts. The process is tiring and monotonous, and I earn very little. The workers and employers look at me with suspicious scowls. I don''t scowl back for fear of having a worse wage. The only thing on my mind right now is caring for Salvatore and Nunzia. It''s been more than a year since we came to the United States. Antonio has told me in letters he is to remain in Italy to fight for the anti-fascist liberation movement, but he claims no knowledge of Maria''s whereabouts.


    In a sense, I''m still grieving, but I''ve had to force that down and focus on what is important: my children.