Kane & Abel (1979) (28 page)

‘Did you fuck her?’ was George’s first question on Wladek’s return.

Yes.’

‘Was it good?’

‘Not bad,’ said Wladek, ‘but I’ve had better.’

In the morning they were awakened by the noise of other passengers already celebrating their last day on board the
Black Arrow.
Some of them had been on deck long before sunrise, hoping to catch the first sight of land.

Wladek packed his few belongings in his suitcase, put on his only suit and cap, and joined Zaphia and George on deck. The three of them peered into the distance, waiting in silence for their first glimpse of the United States of America.

‘There it is!’ shouted a passenger from a deck above them, and cheering broke out as more and more passengers spotted the grey strip of Long Island on the horizon.

A little tug bustled up to the side of the
Black Arrow
and guided her between Brooklyn and Staten Island and on into New York Harbor. The Statue of Liberty seemed to welcome them, her lamp lifted high into the early morning sky. Wladek gazed in awe at the emerging skyline of Manhattan.

Finally they moored near the turreted and spired red brick buildings of Ellis Island. The first- and second-class passengers who had private cabins and their own separate decks disembarked first. Wladek hadn’t caught a glimpse of them until that morning. Their bags were carried for them by porters, and they were greeted by smiling faces at the dockside. Wladek knew there would be no smiling faces to greet him.

After the favoured few had disembarked, the captain announced over the loudspeaker that the rest of the passengers would not be leaving the ship for several hours. A groan of disappointment went up as the message was translated into various languages. Zaphia sat down on the deck and burst into tears. Wladek tried to comfort her. Eventually an immigration official came around with numbered labels which he hung round the passengers’ necks. Wladek’s was B.127; it reminded him of the last time he was a number. Would America turn out to be even worse than the Russian camps?

In the middle of the afternoon - they had been offered no food, nor further information - an announcement over a loudspeaker told them they could disembark. Wladek, George and Zaphia joined the others as they shuffled slowly down the gangplank to set foot on American soil for the first time. Immediately the men were separated from the women and sent off to a different shed. Wladek kissed Zaphia and didn’t want to let her go, holding up the line. An official parted them.

‘All right, let’s get moving,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able to meet up on the other side.’ Wladek lost sight of Zaphia as he and George were pushed forward.

They spent their first night in America in a damp shed. They were unable to sleep as interpreters moved among the crowded rows of bunks, offering assistance to the bewildered immigrants.

In the morning they were lined up for medical examinations. Wladek was told to climb a steep flight of stairs, an exercise the blue-uniformed doctor made him repeat twice, observing his limp carefully. Wladek tried very hard to minimize it, until finally the doctor was satisfied. Wladek was next made to remove his cap and his stiff collar so that his face, eyes, hair, hands and neck could be examined carefully. The man standing behind him had a harelip; the doctor stopped him immediately, put a chalk cross on his right shoulder and sent him to the other end of the shed.

After the physical was over, Wladek joined George to stand in another long line outside the Public Examination room, where each person was interviewed for about five minutes. Wladek could only wonder what they were being asked.

It was three more hours before George was ushered into the tiny cubicle. When he came out, he grinned at Wladek. ‘Easy,’ he said, ‘even for someone as dumb as you.’

Wladek could feel the palms of his hands sweating as he stepped forward and followed an official into a small, undecorated cubicle. There were two examiners seated behind a desk, writing furiously on what looked like official papers.

‘Do you speak English?’ asked the first.

‘Yes, sir, I do quite good,’ replied Wladek, wishing he had practised his English more on the voyage.

‘What is your name?’

‘Wladek Koskiewicz, sir.’

The second man passed him a big black book. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘Yes, sir, the Bible.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Put your hand on the Bible and swear that you will answer our questions truthfully.’

Wladek placed his right hand on the Bible and said, ‘I promise I tell the truth.’

‘What is your nationality?’

‘Polish.’

‘Who paid for your passage?’

‘I paid from my money that I earn in Polish consulate in Constantinople.’

The first official studied Wladek’s papers, nodded and then asked, ‘Do you have a home to go to?’

‘Yes, sir. I go stay at Mr Peter Novak. He my friend’s uncle. He live in New York.’

‘Good. Do you have a job to go to?’

‘Yes, sir. I go work in bakery of Mr Novak.’

‘Have you ever been arrested?’ asked the other man.

Russia flashed through Wladek’s mind. That couldn’t count. Turkey - he wasn’t going to mention that.

‘No, sir, never.’

‘Are you an anarchist?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Are you a communist?’

‘No, sir. I hate communists - they kill my sister.’

‘Are you willing to abide by the laws of the United States of America?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you any money?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘May we see it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Wladek placed a bundle of bills and a few coins on the table.

‘Thank you,’ said the examiner. ‘You may put the money back in your pocket.’

‘What is twenty-one plus twenty-four?’ the second examiner asked.

‘Forty-five,’ said Wladek without hesitation.

‘How many legs does a cow have?’

Wladek could not believe his ears. ‘Four, sir,’ he said, wondering if it was a trick question.

‘And a horse?’

‘Four, sir,’ said Wladek, still in disbelief.

‘Which would you throw overboard if you were out at sea in a small boat which needed to be lightened, bread or money?’

‘The money, sir,’ said Wladek.

‘Good.’ The examiner picked up a card marked ‘Admitted’ and handed it to Wladek. ‘After you’ve changed your money for dollars, show this card to the Immigration Officer. Tell him your full name and he will give you a registration card. You will then be given an entry certificate. If you do not commit a crime for five years, then pass a simple reading and writing examination in English and agree to obey the Constitution, you will be allowed to apply for full United States citizenship. Good luck, Wladek.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

At the money-exchange counter Wladek handed in a year’s worth of Turkish savings along with three 50-rouble notes. He was given $47 and 20 cents in exchange for the Turkish money, but was told the roubles were worthless. He thought of Dr Dubien and his fifteen years of diligent saving.

The final step was to see the Immigration Officer, who was seated behind a counter near the exit barrier, directly under a picture of President Harding. Wladek and George walked across and stood in front of him.

‘Full name?’ the officer asked George.

‘George Novak,’ came the firm reply. The officer wrote the name on a card.

‘And your address?’ he asked.

‘286 Broome Street, New York.’

The officer passed George a card. ‘This is your immigration certificate: MDL21871707 - George Novak. Welcome to the United States, George. I’m from Poland too. I have a feeling you’ll do well in America. Many congratulations, and good luck, George.’

George smiled and shook hands with the officer, then stood to one side and waited for his friend. The official turned his attention to Wladek, who passed over the card marked ‘Admitted.’

‘Full name?’ asked the officer.

Wladek hesitated.

‘What’s your name?’ repeated the man, a little louder.

Wladek couldn’t get the words out. How he hated that peasant name.

‘For the last time, what’s your name?’ the man insisted.

George was staring at Wladek. So were several others who were waiting in line behind him. Wladek still didn’t speak. The officer reached across and grabbed his wrist, looked closely at the inscription on the silver band, wrote something down on a card and passed it to Wladek.

‘This is your immigration certificate, MDL21871708 - Baron Abel Rosnovski. Welcome to the United States. Many congratulations, and good luck, Abel.’

I
N
S
EPTEMBER
1923 William was elected president of the senior class of St Paul’s, exactly thirty-three years after his father had held the same office.

William did not win the election by virtue of being the finest athlete or the most popular boy in the school. Matthew Lester, his closest friend, would undoubtedly have won any contest based on those criteria. It was simply that William was the most impressive boy in the school and for that reason Matthew could not be persuaded to run against him.

St Paul’s also entered William’s name as its candidate for the Hamilton Memorial Mathematics Scholarship to Harvard, and William worked single-mindedly towards that goal every waking hour.

When he returned to the Red House for Christmas, he was looking forward to an uninterrupted period in which to get to grips with
Principia Mathematica.
But it was not to be, as there were several invitations to parties and balls awaiting his arrival. To most of them he was able to reply with a tactful message of regret, but one was absolutely inescapable. The grandmothers had arranged a ball, to be held at the Red House. William wondered how old he would have to be before he could defend his home against invasion from the two great ladies, and decided that time had not yet come. He had few close friends in Boston, but that did not inhibit the grandmothers in their compilation of a formidable guest list.

To mark the occasion they presented William with his first tuxedo, in the latest double-breasted style; he received the gift with a pretence of indifference, but later swaggered around his bedroom, admiring his image in the mirror.

The next day he put through a long-distance call to New York and asked Matthew to join him for the ‘ghastly affair’. Matthew’s sister wanted to come as well, but her mother didn’t think it would be ‘suitable’ unless she was accompanied by a chaperone.

William was standing on the platform when Matthew stepped off the train.

‘Come to think of it,’ said Matthew as the chauffeur drove them to Beacon Hill, ‘isn’t it time you got yourself laid, William? There must be one girl in Boston with absolutely no taste.’

‘Why, have you had a girl, Matthew?’

‘Sure, last December in New York.’

‘What was I doing at the time?’

‘Probably touching up Bertrand Russell.’

‘You never told me about her.’

‘Nothing much to tell. It all happened at the bank’s Christmas staff party. Actually, to put the incident in its proper perspective, I was taken advantage of by one of the directors’ secretaries, a comely lady called Cynthia with large breasts that wobbled when …’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure Cynthia did. She was far too drunk to realize I was there at the time. Still, you have to begin somewhere, and she was willing to give the boss’s son a helping hand.’

A vision of Alan Lloyd’s prim, middle-aged secretary flashed across William’s mind.

‘I don’t think my chances of initiation by the chairman’s secretary are all that promising,’ he mused.

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Matthew knowingly. ‘The ones who go around with their legs clamped together are often the ones who can’t wait to get them apart.’

‘Matthew, on the basis of one drunken experience, you are hardly entitled to consider yourself an oracle,’ said William, as the car drew up outside the Red House.