Forgive Me

I once thought the beginning of my journey was boarding. But now I realize that wasn't true. It begins with the fire. -1/18/1920 The sky was bruised violet, like someone had struck it across the face. Its reflection on the untamed sea burned the water the color of canned meat. The unsettling day, masked with the constant rocking of our steamboat, churned the contents of my stomach and made my eyes pop. Three months I had spent on this ship, sandwiched between hundreds of immigrants from impoverished cities, and I had lost all the fat in my body in that time. I was nothing but skin and bones when we finally reached the harbor-- my cheekbones sunk into me like deep wounds-- and my body had finally learned to suffer the terrible food. On good days, we each received a slab of stale bread and a bowl of cold soup. On bad days, there was nothing, not even crumbs. For readers who are inept with history, the first world war was officially ended with the Treaty of Versailles, signed in the summer of 1919. Italy chose to cut its ties with the Central Powers and join the Allies in the war, angering many of its residents, and spent many of those years both fighting outside the country and inside. Poverty had strung its least fortunate by the throat and many fled to economically rich lands in the United States. Too did destruction of the individual develop with Mussolini's National Fascist Party, bringing more Italians to their knees and the brilliant country into darkness. It was good I left when I did; if I had waited only a year later, the violence would have targeted everything and everyone I ever loved. Politics and wars often had little effect on me and I choose not to disclose my personal opinions in fear of death; however, with the rise of the preliminary World War ll state in Europe, I cowered into the protection of America. Before we left, I had never been on a boat before and I spent most of my first days vomiting over the side. It took weeks for me to develop sea legs-- those weeks involving nothing but tossing in my cot with a bucket beside me-- and when I finally did, it was no better. The build of our ship was wobbly and tiresome, like the bones of an ancient whale, and I still trembled after those many days. In my pale hand I held the waist of my daughter, who looked out at the oncoming island with hope in her one eye. She was so unlike what I had pictured her: white flesh clinging to her bones, black locks drooping from her scalp, skin shivering in her scarf. My mother had once told me June reminded her of a starving rat scampering through a garbage fire, flesh burning down its neck but still searching. And maybe I could see that in her-- the ugly mark of hunger scorching her cheeks. The mere thought made my heart ache. As we slowly bobbed toward the dock, I gathered up my small sack of belongings and my Alien Identification Cards. I handed one to June and she took it in her gloved hands, tugging against the wind with tight fingers. A buzz of whispers traveled around the ship as the immigrants began to congregate outside, anticipation coating the air like honey. I spoke to no one, only gave my daughter's hand a small squeeze and packed into the sea of people. Second-to-last in line I went and last in line came just seconds after. Lars, whose face seemed to had caved in on itself, came to my right and set his briefcase down. I never considered him an attractive man, especially not when his eye sockets stretched down to his nose and his large hands were always sweaty, but his face disappeared when we spoke. He wasn't much of a conversationalist but we had stuck together since the beginning, protecting one another from the twisting branches of insanity that had graced so many of our friends. "A ogni uccello il suo nido è bello," he muttered-- the English equivalent of 'home sweet home'. I nodded, though a spike of worry had planted itself into my throat. English was our second language and we had spent much of our time on the ship perfecting it, knowing the Americans disliked aliens who could not speak their language. Italian was dangerous now that we were so close to that new soil; many of the immigrants turned to look at him, eyes bulging out of their starving skulls. The Americans were unfamiliar creatures to me, though I had certainly heard much about them in daily papers and empty classrooms. My preschool teacher was once American-- from a small town in Florida, I'm told-- and taught us many of their odd customs and habits. She talked of flying machines called zeppelins with names of brands plastered onto their soft shell and colorful pieces of modern art that often meant nothing at all. Since then, I had read many classic American tales such as The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Jungle, and The Great Gatsby. Only one gave me an understanding of what this country may be like, and I hoped to God it wasn't at all like Sinclair described. I took June by the chest and hoisted her up into my arms, planting a kiss on her soft cheek. She clung to me with her thin arms and rested her head on my neck. "There it is," I breathed. I said this quietly; intensity was in the atmosphere and suffocating our foreign lungs. "New York is just beyond there." "And beyond that?" Lars said. "I don't know. Home, perhaps." "Where is home?" "Several centuries back, many of the Begum family traveled here. I plan to house with any living relatives but I don't know where they went." He was silent for a moment, then his lips curled upwards. "Missy, you don't have to lie for me." "I wouldn't have survived on this trip if you hadn't been there," I muttered. "I don't want to leave you." "They won't believe we're married. And even if they do, there is no certainty your relatives will allow me to stay with them too." This sentiment, of course, was ridiculously untrue. I might have said so if Lars hadn't looked so serious, despite having no reason to believe they wouldn't think we were married. They had no other way of knowing, right? "All I can do is hope. I can't tell you we'll definitely be okay. But I can do all that is in my power to make sure you're there with me." "What if I refuse?" I turned to him, quick like a pouncing cobra, and shot him a piercing glare. "You have nowhere else to go. This is your only chance." "You-" "They will deport you, Lars! And then you will have to travel all the way back to Sicily where you have no money, no home, and no family. Your future is here, and you will not get another chance." I felt a tug on my coat sleeve and looked to meet June's worried eye. "Mama?" she said, her voice fragile like a seashell. "I smell smoke." As if an alarm had been pulled, the noses of the crowd turned to the air and panic began to set. I lifted my head to the sky and smelled the thickening air. Something black and wicked crawled into my lungs and I found myself hacking up blood and soot. Lars put an arm on my back and lifted June's scarf over his nose, eyes large and terrified. From the door leading into the sleeping quarters, orange flames slithered their way around the wood and licked the faces of collapsed children. It bounded like a wild animal down the deck, sinking its fangs into our shoes and clawing at the sea. The sky bled red and the fire grew and grew, enveloping the ship within minutes in white-hot madness. June shrieked in my ear and my legs moved on their own. I abandoned my sack, took Lars by the hand, and ran toward the front of the boat. Hundreds of screaming people ran with us, knocking over one another and fighting to reach the oncoming island. An elbow swung from beside me and smashed into my nose. Stars exploded in my eyes and my knees buckled from underneath me. I tightened my arms around June, shielding her from the fall, and crumpled to the floor. A shoe knocked into my ribs and I gasped as the pain seared into my head. Everything spun around me June was crying The fire was roaring A hand was around my wrist I was on my feet God, my body ached Lars had me in his arms We were running He was yelling And the boat was tipping. The ground fell out from underneath our feet and we began to slide toward the railings. Light bodies flew past my face and landed in the horrendously cold water, shrieking for help as they went. I clutched tight to June and slammed against the bar with a puff of air escaping my lips. Somewhere out there, I imagine Death silently watched-- stone eyes masked with a thin layer of mist-- with its hands outstretched and its prayers unanswered. I sometimes pity the poor creature who must collect my soul when I pass on. In my writings, I try my best to dehumanize it but even Death must feel that knot in its stomach; even Death must lay awake at night, tormented by the past. I believe I saw Death then, cradling the frost-bitten immigrants below the water. He was gazing into my eyes like a child does the carcass of a headless rat. The ship groaned and the surface became almost unbearably difficult to stand on. Lars' arm was wrapped around my chest, digging deep into my breast, as he struggled to hold onto the railings. My arms were numb with fright; I couldn't feel June anymore. I couldn't feel June anymore. A gurgled scream and a splash. Before the terror had even hit my heart, Lars had dived into the sea after her. Hot tears streamed down my face but I couldn't speak; the adrenaline was pumping through me like someone had injected it into my veins. The boat moaned-- like someone was bending apart a sewage pipe-- and I found myself hanging by one hand. White fire nibbled at my flesh and breathed scorching breath into my skin, setting it aflame with red agitation. I bit my lip and tasted the salty tears to stop me from screaming and felt my fingers loosen. My strength was starved and my arms twig. I couldn't hold on any longer. My grip wrenched free of the bar and I tumbled into the ocean. The water's embrace was cold, like piranhas were nipping at the meat on my bones, and my limbs went stiff. I commanded them to swim up but they would not obey, choosing to instead lie useless at my sides. No air was saved in my lungs and I began to feel an excruciating flame work its way through my muscles. Now I wondered why I took oxygen for granted and prayed for Life's hand to guide me through the water like I had never prayed for anything in my life. Haze settled over my brain and I began to drift into the painful palm of Death's hand. Like a dream, I could feel my final thoughts whirring, and my final regrets. All those regrets. Then suddenly, an arm was around me and I was gasping for air on the port. Lars was at my side-- the sea in his hair like an entirely new despair-- and June in his lap, her eye wide and white. I fell back onto the wood and stared up into the sky with blurry, teary eyes. "A ogni uccello il suo nido è bello," I whispered.