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                                "New York: The Novel"
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                                        "Ellis Island"
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                                        "1901"
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                                        "S"
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                                        "ALVATORE CARUSO WAS"
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                                " five years old when he came to Ellis Island. It was New Year’s Day, 1901. The day was icy cold but clear, and over the snowy landscape all around the wide waters of the harbor, the sky was crystal blue."
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                                "The Caruso family had been fortunate. From Naples they’d taken the "
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                                        "Hohenzollern"
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                                "—the German ships were best, his father said—and they’d crossed the Atlantic in less than ten days. It had been crowded, down in steerage. The smell of the latrines almost made him throw up, and the throbbing of the engines, his mother said, was a punishment sent by God. But there had been no storms during the crossing, and they were allowed up on deck to get the fresh air for an hour every day. His mother had brought food—ham and salami, olives, dried fruit, even bread, tightly wrapped in napkins—that had lasted through the voyage. Each evening Uncle Luigi had led the singing of Neapolitan songs, like “Finiculi, Finicula,” in his soft tenor voice."
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                                "There were eight of them altogether: his parents, his mother’s brother, Uncle Luigi, and the five children. Giuseppe was the eldest, fifteen years old, strongly built like his father, a good worker. All the children looked up to Giuseppe, but being so much older, he was somewhat apart. Two other little boys had not been so strong, and died in infancy. So the next in line was Anna. She was nine. Then came Paolo, Salvatore, and little Maria, who was just three."
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                                "As the ship passed through the narrows into the waters of New York "
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                                "harbor, the deck was crowded. Everyone was excited. And little Salvatore would have been happy too, if he hadn’t discovered a terrible secret."
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                                "His mother was holding little Maria by the hand. Until Maria came along, Salvatore had been the baby of the family. But now he had someone to look up to him, and it was his job to protect her. He liked to play with his baby sister and to show her things."
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                                "His mother was wearing a black coat against the cold. Most of the women had their heads covered with a white shawl, but despite the winter weather, his mother had put on her best hat. It was black also, with a tattered little veil and a limp artificial flower on the brim. Salvatore had heard that once there had been two flowers, but this was before he was born. He understood that she was wearing her hat now so that the Americans should see that the family were people of some standing."
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                                "Concetta Caruso was short and dark and fiercely proud. She knew that the people of her village were superior to the people of the neighboring villages, and that the Italian south, the Mezzogiorno, was finer than all the other lands of the world, whatever they might be. She did not know what people of other nations ate, and did not care. For Italian food was best."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "“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."
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                                "“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.”"
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                                "“We can’t get dollars in Naples?”"
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                                "“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.”"
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                                "“Is it true,” Salvatore had asked, “that everyone in America is happy, and you can do whatever you want?”"
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                                "But before his father could reply, his mother had cut in."
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                                "“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.”"
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                                "“Yes, Concetta, of course,” his father began. He was not so religious. But Concetta was implacable."
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                                "“Only bandits do what they want, Salvatore. "
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                                        "Camorristi"
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                                ". And God will punish them. Obey your parents, work hard, look after your family. It is enough.”"
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                                "“There are still choices,” Uncle Luigi had said gently."
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                                "“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.”"
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                                "“Yes, Mama,” he’d said."
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                                "Next to his mother, holding little Maria’s other hand, was Uncle Luigi."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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 would have agreed—was to raise their social position. Indeed, for a married woman of her class and time, blessed, or cursed, with ambition, there wasn’t much else one could do."
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                                "The question before her was by no means simple. There were many things to calculate, opportunities to seize, social pitfalls to avoid. And the further up the social scale one went, the more one’s freedom of choice was restricted."
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                                "Where was the family going to live?"
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                                "Not in the summer, of course; that was settled long ago. They’d always be at the cottage."
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                                "Every family needed a cottage. By “cottage,” of course, one meant a summer house on the coast. It might be modest or it might be a mansion, but that’s where mothers and children spent the summer months, and one’s husband, assuming he had work to do in the city, came for weekends. And the truly fashionable had cottages in Newport, Rhode Island."
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                                "Newport had been chosen for good reason. As the British and French had discovered in centuries past, its harbor was deep, sheltered and magnificent. The New York Yacht Club, which now trounced Britain’s elite Royal Yacht Squadron in the America’s Cup every year, had its home there. Newport’s many miles of unspoiled shoreline provided space for all the cottages that society might need—indeed, more than enough, for Newport society was exclusive. Once one belonged in Newport society, one had reached the top."
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                                "Naturally, presence was required. A couple of years ago, when her husband had taken her to London for the season, she had still insisted that she be back in Newport by the second week in July. Of course, with dozens of American heiresses already married into the English aristocracy, and a regular American colony now enjoying the British capital, some fashionable folk—the “steamer set”—preferred to winter in New York and summer in London. But Rose liked to be seen in Newport. “Otherwise,” she informed her husband, “people might think we’ve fallen off the end of the Earth.”"
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                                "Newport was perfect for the summer. The problem was New York."
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                                "The family was well represented in the city. William’s grandmother, old Hetty Master, was still in isolated splendor at Gramercy Park. His father Tom had recently bought the late Mr. Sean O’Donnell’s splendid house on Lower Fifth, after he died on a return voyage from England. And for the last few years, William and Rose had been renting a fine place, further up the avenue. But now the owner wanted it back, and it was time to buy a place of their own."
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                                "“You’d better decide where we go, Rose,” William had genially remarked. “Brooklyn or Queens, Manhattan or the Bronx. Staten Island if you like. So long as it’s in the city.”"
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                                "Technically, of course, all the outlandish places he mentioned were part of the city now. Just before the new century began, these surrounding areas—Brooklyn and Queens County on Long Island, part of the old Dutch Bronx estate above Manhattan to the north, and rural Staten Island across the harbor to the south—had all been incorporated within the expanded City of New York. Brooklyn, proudly independent, had only just been persuaded to join. But the resulting Five Boroughs of New York made the metropolis, after London, the most populous city in the world."
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                                "And there were splendid houses, and pleasant parks, and delightful open country in any one of those five boroughs. But Rose Master wasn’t free to choose them. The family could only live in Manhattan, and not in many places there."
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                                "Lower Manhattan was out. The area of the old city was all commercial now. Even the pleasant areas around Greenwich Village or Chelsea, a little to the north and west, had been overrun with immigrants, and turned into tenements mostly. Respectable New York had moved gradually north, and kept on moving. The fine old Broadway stores, like Tiffany’s "
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                                "the jewelers, had moved uptown with their customers. Lord & Taylor, and Brooks Brothers, both fashionable now, were already in the Twenties."
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                                "Then there was the question of noise. After the terrible blizzard of 1888 had brought the city to a standstill, everyone had agreed that the telegraph wires should be buried underground. This was easy to do, and it had improved the look of the place. Many people also argued for underground transport, which would be out of sight, and impervious to weather. But this was taking much longer. So for the time being, the El trains, with their noise and smoke, and tracks running past everyone’s windows, were still puffing and clattering up the avenues on the East Side of the island, and up parts of the West Side too."
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                                "As fashionable New York advanced northward, therefore, it avoided the smoke and noise, and hugged the quieter center. Fifth and Madison avenues, and the streets close to them, were the best residential quarters."
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                                "“What about Park Avenue?” William had suggested."
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                                "“Park?” she had cried, before she’d realized he was teasing her. “Nobody lives on Park.”"
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                                "The trouble with Park Avenue went back thirty years, to when old Commodore Vanderbilt had erected a big railroad shed on Fourth Avenue at Forty-second Street, to act as a kind of terminal. Fourth had changed its name to Park Avenue these days, which sounded well enough. But the terminal was a mess, and the railroad yards spread in a hideous swathe for a dozen blocks to the north of it. Even above Fifty-sixth Street, where the tracks narrowed and were covered over, the noise and smoke rising from the center of the avenue indicated that the infernal regions were only just below."
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                                "“What about the West Side then?” he’d said. “It’s better value there.”"
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                                "She knew he was gently teasing her. Not that the West Side was to be despised; gone already were the days when the Dakota was in the wilderness. The West Side was quieter and land prices were lower; the big family houses in the side streets were often larger than their equivalents on the East Side, and some real mansions were arising there too."
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                                "J. P. Morgan didn’t live up there. Pierpont Morgan’s mansion was on the east side of Madison, down at Thirty-sixth Street. Mr. Morgan had openly stated his opinion that some of the mansions going up on Fifth were vulgar monstrosities. And one couldn’t deny that he had a point. Most of those mansions were being built by new money. Very new money indeed. Morgan’s great fortune might only derive from his father Junius, but it had come from banking in London, in the grandest manner. The Morgans, besides, had been well-to-do in Connecticut since the seventeenth century. Compared to all but the oldest Dutch families, they were old money."
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                                "So this was the delicate balance she needed to think about this afternoon. How close could she—should she—live to those ostentatious palaces which, secretly, her heart desired? Or how far should she maintain a staid and distant attitude? If she could play her cards right, she would "
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                                "William had given her the pearl choker for their third wedding anniversary. It was just like the one that Alexandra, the Princess of Wales, always wore in the society photographs from London, and it meant more to Rose than any other piece of jewelry she possessed. She 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."
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                                "“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.”"
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "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."
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                                "“But it’s true—I know what happens, I spoke with a man who has been there. It’s not only your chest and eyes they inspect—they have special doctors there to spot the ones who are crazy. They chalk a cross on their chest and they make them sit on a bench, and then they talk to them. And in a minute …” he made a gesture—“it’s over. They can always tell. They are specialists, from the finest lunatic asylums in America. So they will understand at once that your brother is crazy, and they will send him back to Italy. "
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                                "It took an hour before they were let off the ship. His father, Giuseppe and Uncle Luigi each carried a heavy suitcase. Uncle Luigi’s case was made of rattan, and it looked as if it might burst open at any moment. There was also a wooden trunk which was taken across on a trolley. The steerage passengers were led straight along the wharf to where a barge was waiting. His father made them hurry, to be near the front. He had talked to men who’d come back to Italy from America, so he knew exactly how things were done."
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                                "Checking their names against the manifest, he smiled. “Caruso. At least the ship’s purser could get your name right. Sometimes they mangle them terribly.” He grinned. “We have to follow what’s on the ship’s manifest, you know. Are you all here?”"
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                                "them must say that he had a job, or the men at Ellis Island would send him back. There were two reasons for this strange rule, he explained. The first was that the United States wanted men who were anxious to take any job they could find. The second was to discourage an illicit trade. For there were "
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                                "They passed through a turnstile, down a flight of stairs, and then into the baggage room. Here they were given a box lunch and a bag of fresh fruit. They found their suitcases and the big wooden trunk. Nothing had been stolen. Salvatore watched as his father and Giuseppe started to put the trunk and cases on a trolley. They were told that they could have them delivered free to any address in the city, but Concetta was so relieved that they hadn’t already been stolen that she wouldn’t let them out of her sight again."
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                                "“Luigi! Luigi! We’re here. Over here.” She was waving excitedly. And sure enough, at the far end of the room, Salvatore saw his uncle coming toward them. He was smiling."
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                                "“Uncle Luigi!” Salvatore started running toward him. His uncle was carrying his suitcase. He scooped Salvatore up in his free arm and carried him back to his sister."
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                                "Uncle Luigi put Salvatore down. “I came through before you. I’ve been waiting here ten minutes.”"
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                                "“Thanks be to God,” she cried."
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                                "“Certainly they let me in. Why shouldn’t they let me in?”"
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                                "“Because you’re crazy. They send all the lunatics back.”"
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                                "“What’s this? You’re calling me a lunatic?” His uncle slapped Salvatore’s face. “Is this a way to talk to your uncle?” He turned to Concetta. “Is this how you bring your children up?”"
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                                "“Salvatore!” cried his mother. “What are you saying?”"
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                                "Hot tears came to Salvatore’s eyes. “It’s true. They put a cross on the lunatics, and the doctors from the madhouse question them, and send them home,” he protested."
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                                "“Enough,” said his mother, while Salvatore buried his face in her skirt. “Luigi, help Giovanni with the suitcases. As if we hadn’t enough troubles in the world. "
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                                "Minutes later, when Salvatore was beside his father, he whimpered, “Uncle Luigi hit me.”"
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                                "“It’s your own fault,” he said. “That will teach you to keep a secret.”"
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                                "It was just before noon on October 17 when the telephone rang. The butler answered. Then he came to inform Rose that her husband needed to speak to her."
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                                "“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” she said. She was fastening her pearl choker. It looked elegant with her gray silk dress."
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                                "Much as she loved William, she’d rather that he hadn’t called just then. He ought to have remembered she’d be busy. For this was the day of the month when she took his grandmother out for a drive."
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                                "Taking old Hetty Master out once a month might be a duty, but Rose also found it a pleasure. Hetty was almost ninety now, but her mind was still sharp as a razor. She sometimes went out in her own carriage, but she liked to be taken out too, and there was never any shortage of things to talk about. She read the newspapers every day, and once Rose had brought her up to date with the latest doings of the children, Hetty would be sure to ask her sharp questions about the relative views of the Pulitzer newspapers or those of Mr. Hearst, which Rose often had some trouble in answering."
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                                "Sometimes, on the pretext that it might entertain the old lady, she would bring society friends with her on these monthly expeditions. Then the friends, having seen inside the fine old house on Gramercy Park, could not only marvel at how sharp Mrs. Master was—which reminded them that Rose’s own children inherited good brains from every side—but also, at Rose’s gentle prompting, hear the old lady reminisce about the days when the opera was still just down the street on Irving Place and the Master family had one of the few boxes there. Newer money hadn’t been able to get those boxes, despite the huge sums it was ready to pay. Vanderbilts, Jay Gould, even J. P. Morgan himself, had all been unsuccessful—which had caused them to set up the new Metropolitan Opera House where everyone went now. But the Masters had always had a box at Irving Place. That told you everything."
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                                "“And didn’t your husband leave the Union Club?” Rose would prompt."
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                                "“They said it was letting in too many of the wrong sort,” Rose would remind her. “That’s when they set up the Knickerbocker Club,” she’d explain to her guests, “where my father-in-law’s a member now.”"
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                                "There had been some anxious days that spring. After a period of easy credit, it had suddenly emerged that several significant companies were in trouble. Then an earthquake had hit California, there had been panic selling in the market, and credit had become tight. The trouble had subsided, but all through the summer while she and the children were at Newport, rumbles had come up from the city as the market went up and down uncertainly."
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                                "She was wearing a hat with an ostrich feather round the brim, and a coat trimmed with fox fur as she stepped out of the house on Fifty-fourth Street. She had done very well in finding that house. It stood between Fifth and Madison, a little closer to the latter, just a few blocks below Central Park therefore, and close to the great mansions of the Vanderbilts on Fifth. But as it happened, the side streets here were even better than the avenue."
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                                "Hotels. The St. Regis and the Gotham. Splendid hotels, to be sure, but hotels all the same, on Fifth at Fifty-fifth. Now a commercial building was going up on the block above. Rumor said that Cartier, the Paris jewelry firm, intended to be there. Nothing could be more elegant, but it was not a private house. The side streets were another matter, though; they would remain as residences."
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                                "“They tell me he lives in a castle now,” Hetty Master remarked. It was quite true. He’d bought Hever Castle, in Kent, the childhood home of Anne Boleyn. “Perhaps he’ll write another novel there,” she added."
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                                "The Rolls-Royce passed into the Forties. The old reservoir was no longer in use now, and they were building a magnificent new public library on the site. Everyone in the family knew that this was where Frank had proposed to Hetty, and Rose maintained a reverent silence while Hetty gazed at it as they passed. Soon St. Patrick’s loomed ahead on their right. As they reached the Fifties, and the new hotels rose into the sky by the Vanderbilt mansions, Hetty observed that everything in the city seemed to be getting very tall. “I’m surprised you like living up here with all these hotels,” she said."
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                                "“Rolls-Royce?” He was looking straight at her. His eyes were very blue, intense. “Which model?”"
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                                "“The Silver Ghost? That’s just been tested? Side valve? Six cylinders, three and three? A trembler coil with a magneto as well?” He had almost jumped up from his desk. “A masterpiece. However did you get it so soon? Oh, I should love to see that. May I see it?”"
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                                "Ten minutes later, they were down in the street. To the great amusement of the two old ladies, Mr. Keller even had the chauffeur open the hood so he could inspect the engine. Once he had finished, he beamed at them all, before saying farewell."
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                                "“Now, the next time you come to see your father, you must promise to look in to see me, too,” Hetty told him. “It’s only up the street.”"
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                                "“Now, dear,” the old lady turned to Rose, “you’d better give Mr. Keller your card so that he can call upon you too. I’m sure William would be delighted to take him out in the car. They can talk about the engine.”"
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                                "Rose’s face turned to stone. No doubt you would, she thought. But if Edmund Keller with his socialist ideas supposed he was going to insinuate himself into her house, he was mistaken."
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                                "“Don’t worry,” said Hetty. From her small handbag, she took one of her own cards, together with a little silver pencil, and wrote Rose’s address on the back. “It’s easy to find. Just around the corner from the Gotham Hotel.”"
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                                "Early that evening, when William got home, Rose told him all about it. He listened and nodded, but seemed preoccupied. Then he told the butler to bring him a large whiskey."
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                                "Of course, gambling with only your own money was unlikely to get you very far. You needed to borrow huge sums. Borrow a million, make ten percent, return it with a little interest, and you’d just made nearly a hundred thousand. And all the transactions that you might undertake, the complex bets that you placed on the future price of this or that, the "
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                                "head, and, on a dark cloth, a collection of gemstones—sapphires, rubies and opals—that glowed softly in the lamplight. Open in the middle of the table was an illuminated medieval manuscript that the great man had just been inspecting."
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                                "What did Morgan look like, William wondered: an ogre in his den? A pirate surrounded by his treasure? A Renaissance prince, a Medici? Or something more Celtic, rich and strange: Merlin the magician, perhaps?"
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                                "“It’s beautiful, sir.” He’d heard that Morgan spent a good part of the bank’s huge profits buying such things."
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                                "“It is,” Morgan murmured, then turned his attention away from the treasure to his guest. “We’ll sit down.” He motioned William toward a pair of leather armchairs by the fire. As soon as they were seated he began. “Your father tells me you like machines.”"
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                                "“I like machines more than numbers.”"
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                                "“What else do you like?”"
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                                "“He did? That’s splendid, William. Splendid.”"
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                                "Several of his friends had been going into brokerage houses, others into trusts. “If Morgan takes you, he’ll work you to death,” they warned him. And in any case, he’d known in his heart that Morgan wouldn’t take him. There was no reason why he should."
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                                "Trusts were a way to make a lot of money. Originally, they were set up to take care of the funds for old-money families like the Masters. When grandfather made a will, with a nice big trust, the money would be managed for the family until it was all paid out. Depending on the terms of the trust, that could be many years. So trust companies were sound, conservative—trustworthy, in other words. At least, that was the idea."
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                                "But then some bright young fellows discovered that there was a legal loophole in these arrangements. The trust companies could also take in money, and invest it as they liked. Behaving like a bank, but without any of the rules that restrained a proper bank, they would pay high interest rates to attract the extra funds, and then undertake the wildest speculations. In short, despite their respectable-sounding names, most of them were pirates. Proper bankers, men like his father, were suspicious of the trusts."
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                                "“What sort of cash balances do you fellows keep?” Tom Master had once asked him."
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                                "“Oh, quite enough,” he’d said, which of course meant next to none."
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                                "“I met Pierpont Morgan at a reception the other day,” his father had continued. “I asked him what advice he’d give to a young man in a trust. You know what he said? ‘Get out.’”"
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                                "Well, Pierpont Morgan was semiretired now. He spent a good deal of time supporting the Episcopal Church and its liturgy. He’d built a magnificent library next to his house to keep his fabulous collection of books and gems. Every year he went on his travels to Europe and returned with priceless treasures—old masters, Greek and Egyptian antiquities, medieval gold. Often as not, he just gave it straight to the Metropolitan Museum. His son Jack Morgan, a first-rate banker, but not so terrifying, was running the bank day to day."
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                                "The great man might despise him, but at least, William had been able to reflect, he had managed to prosper pretty well in recent years. The market had mostly been rising. The trust had made a fortune; the brokerage house, too. If you were making money, then you must be doing something right. They took in ever more money, pledged against the value of the stocks they held, and speculated some more with that. The higher you could build the house of cards, the better you did. Obviously."
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                                "He’d still been riding high when he read about the new Rolls-Royce. But even then, the cracks in the system had begun to appear. That spring, when the market had been shaken and credit had been tight, a number of the biggest men in American industry had come together to discuss the situation. Coal was represented by Frick, railroads by Harriman, oil by Rockefeller, banking by Schiff and the Morgans. They’d wanted to form a consortium to support the market. Jack Morgan had agreed, but old Pierpont had not, and the proposal had come to nothing."
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                                "All through the summer, William had watched as the market dithered, hoping it would strengthen, or at least send him a sign. Wasn’t the market supposed to be wise? So people said, but William wasn’t so sure. Sometimes, it seemed to him, the market was nothing more than an aggregate of individuals, like a great school of fish, feeding upon small hopes until some fright causes them all to swerve together. Amid all this doubt, the thought of the Rolls-Royce on its way to him had kept his spirits up. And when it was delivered, the solid magnificence of the thing seemed to say: No man who owns a Rolls-Royce can be in trouble."
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                                "How ironic then that the rotten timber that was about to bring the whole market crashing down should be the one with the most splendid name."
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                                "The Knickerbocker Trust. By the sound of its name, you’d have thought it was as solid as a rock. Knickerbocker meant tradition, his father’s club, old money, old values. Well, by noon today, the word on the street was that the Knickerbocker was in trouble."
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                                "“If the Knickerbocker goes, it’ll start a panic. Everyone’ll want their money. The trusts will start going down like ninepins. Ours included.” And that would only be the start of things."
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                                "really wasn’t sure, but more than he had. And what was he going to do about it? Nothing he could do."
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                                "That weekend, on Saturday, William Master took his wife and children out in the Rolls. They drove up into Westchester County. It was quite warm, and with the fall leaves turning to red and gold, it was a beautiful drive. They went up to Bedford, and had a picnic there. A perfect day."
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                                "On Sunday, of course, they all went to church. The service was all right. A bit insipid. The vicar was away, down at a liturgical conference in Virginia with the great men of the Episcopal Church, including J. P. Morgan. The curate gave a sermon on Hope."
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                                "That evening, he read to his children. For no particular reason, he chose the tale of Rip Van Winkle. As they came to the place where the ghostly Dutchmen play ninepins in the mountains over the Hudson, he could not help thinking of the terrible crash of financial ninepins that was probably coming on Wall Street, but his face gave nothing away. Let his family remember one last, happy weekend."
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                                "And that night, when Rose remarked that two of the wives she’d met at church had whispered that there was likely to be big trouble ahead in the market that week, he smiled and said: “I dare say it’ll get sorted out.”"
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                                "Sometimes William wondered if all things in the world were connected. But he hadn’t thought about Alaska. He was in the brokerage house the next morning when he saw the message on the wires. It looked innocent enough. The Guggenheims, the mighty German Jewish mining family, were going to develop huge copper reserves in Alaska. A good thing, one might think. But when William saw it, he cried out: “It’s all over.”"
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                                "It was some time since a small group of speculators had decided to corner the copper market. He knew the men. The copper supply was limited, and the price was soaring. There hadn’t been a word about these damned Alaska mines. To buy the copper, they’d borrowed a fortune from the Knickerbocker Trust; but with huge new supplies from the Guggenheims in prospect, copper prices would fall through the floor. The corner, and the speculators, were surely bust."
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                                "It took just two hours for the price of copper to collapse. William went over to the trust offices. He’d no sooner walked through the door when one of the directors whispered to him, “Knickerbocker just asked for a loan, and was refused.” This was it, then. Knickerbocker’s credit was gone."
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                                "It was mid-afternoon when one of his partners came in with unexpected news."
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                                "“Morgan’s going to try to save the trusts.”"
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                                "“Jack Morgan’s away in London,” William pointed out. “Hard to see what he can do from there.”"
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                                "“Not Jack. Old Pierpont. He took a private train up from Virginia. He’s been here since last night.”"
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                                "On Tuesday morning, a crowd formed outside the offices of the Knickerbocker Trust. Soon they had to be formed into an orderly line by a policeman. They wanted news. They wanted reassurance. They wanted their money. Inside, Morgan’s men were going through the books."
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                                "grandmother would do something for them, too. But it wouldn’t be easy. Most of her money was in a trust that went to Tom. Tom’s two sisters were expecting their share of any inheritance, too. The Rolls-Royce would be gone. His wife’s pearls. God knows what sort of address they’d be living at."
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                                "Well, there was one way out. Maybe, when he’d tidied up his affairs as best he could, he’d go to the White Star Line and buy a passage to London. Say he was going on business. It needn’t even be a first-class ticket. No one would know. Then, somewhere out in the Atlantic, when it was dark, he’d quietly jump off the ship. Not such a bad way to go. Wouldn’t give anyone any trouble."
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                                "as slowly as possible. When he walked into his office, it was already under way. They would probably get through the afternoon, but after that? He had no idea. He watched the line. It was moving slowly but inexorably, like a river. Not even Pierpont Morgan could stop a river."
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                                "The next day, people were camping outside the trust offices by dawn, hoping to get their money out before the rest. Meanwhile, the trust partners were looking for cash. The moment they opened for business, they went to the brokers, calling in all their loans. When he walked into his brokerage house, his partners there told him: “We’ll be lucky to get through the day. By tomorrow we’ll be gone.”"
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                                "William went outside. There was nothing more to be done. He gazed sadly up at the sky. It was hard, and terrible. He turned, to walk to Bowling Green again, wanting to be alone."
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                                "But he had only gone a short way when one of the clerks from the trust caught up with him. The man was looking excited."
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                                "President Theodore Roosevelt had reason to be suspicious of New York City. A decade ago, he’d labored to reform its corrupt police. He’d also witnessed the mighty industrial combinations that J. P. Morgan was building up—and he didn’t like what he saw. Too much economic power was in too few hands, he believed. Elected governor of New York State, then chosen as vice president, the assassination of President McKinley had unexpectedly brought him, at the age of only forty-two, to the White House, where he had continued to speak against the might of Wall Street. For Pierpont Morgan himself, however, Roosevelt had a high regard."
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                                "twenty-five million dollars into the hands of Pierpont Morgan, with only one request:"
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                                "When William Master looked back on those days, it was like remembering a great battle: periods of waiting; moments of sudden excitement and confusion; and a few haunting images that would never leave his mind again. Using the government money, and raising even greater private sums by the sheer force of his personality, old Pierpont Morgan went to work. On that Wednesday, he began saving trusts. The next day he saved the brokerage houses on the New York Stock Exchange. On Friday, when Europe started withdrawing funds, and credit became so tight that Wall Street came to a halt, Morgan strode in person up to the Clearing House and had it issue its own scrip currency, so that money could flow. Yet perhaps the truest measure of his authority was seen that evening, when he summoned the clergy of New York to his house and told them: “You’ll be preaching on Sunday. Here’s what you have to say.”"
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                                "But the abiding image that remained in the mind of William Master came from Wall Street itself. It was on that first Friday. He was walking westward as he came to the street’s main intersection. On his left, on the corner, number 23, the House of Morgan. Across from it, the splendid facade of the New York Stock Exchange. On his right, Federal Hall and, a short way up Nassau Street, the Clearing House. Ahead, only a hundred yards or so, was Broadway and Trinity Church. Here was the very center of American finance. This week, at least, it was the cockpit of the world."
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                                "considered too vulgar to mix with, but who had cheered his name to the roof of the Exchange when he saved them. There were trust men, whom he despised, but who camped outside his door to beg for favors. All manner of Wall Street fellows filled the narrow financial forum as the tall, burly banker in his high top hat strode out of his temple."
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                                "Jupiter looked neither right nor left. His eyes glowered as though lit by volcanic fires. His swollen, bulbous nose bulged from his face like a mountain from which his mustaches spread down like silver lava flows. Did Vulcan fashion his thunderbolts in there? Quite likely."
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                                "As he strode rapidly down the street, the crowds parted in front of him, as mortals before a deity. And so they should, thought William. Morgan might support his church, and like to sit with bishops, but when he descended into Wall Street from banking’s Mount Olympus, he was above mortal men. Then, truly, Morgan was Jupiter, king of all the gods."
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                                "But alas, he was still a man. In the months that followed, one question was often asked: “Morgan will not always be with us. What’ll we do then?”"
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                                "“I suppose if all the trusts had failed, Rose, then we should have failed too. But we were never really in trouble.” It seemed to comfort her so much that, after a while, he almost believed it himself."
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                                "If the panic of 1907 was to change the life of young Salvatore Caruso, it was a small event the month before that he always remembered."
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                                "He might be going to his first communion. But to everyone, except his mother, at least, the meeting today was more important even than that. So he was anxious to complete the errand as quickly as possible."
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                                ". It is enough. Leave them be.”"
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                                "The priest seemed delighted with his mother’s gift, and told Salvatore to thank her."
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                                "Salvatore was so anxious not to be late that he ran all the way back. Crossing the Bowery into the Italian quarter, he went three blocks before turning left into Mulberry Street, where his family lived. They were waiting in the street already, dressed up for the great occasion. His parents and Giuseppe, his brother Paolo, his face scrubbed. His older sister Anna was still doing little Maria’s hair."
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                                "“At last,” said his father, as Salvatore arrived, “we can go.”"
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                                "“But where is Angelo?” cried his mother, while his father made a sign of impatience. “Anna, where is Angelo?” As the eldest daughter, expected to help her mother, Anna was in charge of Angelo most of the time."
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                                "“Mama, I’m doing Maria’s hair,” said Anna plaintively."
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                                "“Salvatore will find him,” said his mother. “Quickly, Toto, get your brother Angelo.”"
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                                "“We did not know it,” his father liked to say, “but when we arrived at Ellis Island, Angelo was already one of the family.” He’d been born eight months later. Angelo was six now, though still the baby of the family. They all loved the little boy, but his father couldn’t help being impatient with him sometimes. He was small for his age and rather frail. And he was "
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                                "so dreamy. “He’s like his Uncle Luigi,” Giovanni Caruso would sigh. Anna used to defend Angelo. “He is sensitive and clever,” she would declare. But it didn’t impress anyone much."
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                                "Salvatore ran into the house. It was a typical tenement house of the Lower East Side. Originally it had been a five-story row house with steps up to the door. But long ago, the owner had realized that he could double the small rents he received by a simple expedient. Building out as cheaply as possible into the small yard behind, he had been able, for no great outlay, to double his rentable space. And since both the owners of the house next door and of the house in the next street that backed onto his had done the same thing, the only ventilation for the back part of the house now came from two sources: a narrow air shaft between this house and the one beside it, and the tiny yard remaining at the very back, where a pair of latrines served the needs of all the tenant families."
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                                "When their cousins had first shown them the place, the day after they’d come through Ellis Island, Giovanni and Concetta Caruso had been disgusted. Soon they discovered they were lucky. They had three rooms on the top floor, at the front. True, you had to climb up the stinking stairwell to get there, but there was fresh air from the street, and you could go onto the roof above, where the washing was hung out to dry."
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                                "Angelo was standing in the back room when Salvatore burst in. He had his shirt on, but he had not tucked it in. And he was looking down at his feet miserably."
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                                "“You’re six years old and you still can’t tie up your bootlaces?” Salvatore cried impatiently."
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                                "“I was trying.”"
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                                "“Keep still.” He’d have dragged his little brother down the stairs as he was, but Angelo would have been sure to trip. Hurriedly, he started to tie them for him. “You know who we’re going to see?” he asked."
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                                "“No, I’ve forgotten.”"
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                                "“Idiot! We’re going to see the greatest Italian in the world.”"
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                                "He did not say the greatest Italian who ever lived. That was Columbus. After him, for northern Italians, came Garibaldi, the Patriot, the unifier of Italy, who’d only died a quarter-century ago. But for the southern Italians of New York, there was only one great hero, a living hero too, who had come to dwell among them."
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                                "“Caruso,” Salvatore cried. “The great Caruso, who shares our own name. We are going to see Caruso! How can you forget?”"
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                                "To their father, Enrico Caruso was a god. In America, the opera might be the preserve of the rich, but the Italian community followed the career of the great tenor and his performances as closely as they would have followed that of a great general and his battles."
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                                "“He has sung all over the world,” their father would say. “Naples, Milan, London, St. Petersburg, Buenos Aires, San Francisco … He has sung with Melba. Now he sings with Geraldine Farrar. Toscanini conducts him. And what did the great Puccini himself say, when he first heard Caruso sing? ‘Who sent you to me? God Himself?’” Not just Italian, but born in Naples, and he even shared their name. “We are related,” his father declared, though when Salvatore asked him to explain the relationship, his father had only shrugged, as if the question were foolish, and answered: “Who could know such a thing?”"
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                                "It was thanks to Uncle Luigi. He had found work in a restaurant nearby. Not a grand one—this, after all, was the poor Italian quarter. The richer, northern Italians, the doctors, the businessmen, the men of education who looked down upon their fellow countrymen from the south—regarded them as animals almost—they lived in other parts of town—Greenwich Village was favored—and they had fine restaurants over there."
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                                "But Caruso never forgot the poor home in Naples he came from. He liked to eat down in Little Italy, and recently, he’d come to dine in the restaurant where Uncle Luigi worked, and Uncle Luigi had asked him if he might present his family the next time Caruso came, and the great man had said certainly, because that was his noble character. He was having his midday meal there today."
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                                "Salvatore had just got Angelo downstairs when his brother said he had to go pee-pee. With a cry of frustration, Salvatore took him to the door of the backyard, so that he could go out to the latrines. “Hurry,” he told him, while he waited irritably by the door. After a few moments, Angelo came out. “Hurry,” he cried again."
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                                "Then he’d cried out once more. Too late."
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                                "Despite the fact that the communal latrines were there, the people above the yard continually threw their refuse out of the window to be cleaned up later. The journey to and from the latrines was always perilous, therefore. Everybody knew to look up when they moved through the yard. Everybody except Angelo."
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                                "The sheet of dirty water from above came from a pail someone had "
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                                "used while mopping the floor. It was black. Little Angelo looked up just in time to get the contents full in the face. He fell down. His shirt was soaked and filthy. For a moment he sat in a black puddle, too shocked to speak. Then he began to wail."
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                                        "“Stupido!"
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                                " Idiot!” screamed Salvatore. “Look at your shirt. You disgrace us.” He seized his little brother by the hair and dragged him weeping along the corridor and out into the street, where the family greeted him with cries of vexation."
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                                "His father threw up his hands, and started to blame Salvatore. But Salvatore started shouting that it wasn’t fair. Was it his fault his brother couldn’t tie up his shoes or look out for himself when he went to the latrines? His father made an impatient gesture, but he didn’t disagree. Meanwhile, his mother had taken Angelo inside."
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                                "“Let him stay at home,” Salvatore complained, “instead of disgracing us.” But in a few minutes, looking contrite, his little brother was back again, his head scrubbed and wearing a shirt that was clean, though much older than the first. Then they all set off up Mulberry Street."
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                                "The Italian streets were almost as crowded as the nearby Jewish quarter, but there were differences. Small trees gave shade along some of them. Here and there, a handsome Catholic church, sometimes with a walled churchyard, would break up the line of houses. Each street, moreover, had its particular character. People from the Neapolitan region mostly lived on Mulberry, the Calabrians on Mott, the Sicilians on Elizabeth, with each major town taking a particular section. They re-created their homeland as best they could."
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                                "Not that Concetta ever felt at home. How could she, when all the life she’d known before had been in the warm Italian south? They might have been poor, but they had their land, their village, the ancient beauty of the Mediterranean shore and the mountains. All she had here was the roar and clatter of narrow streets, set on the edge of an endless, untamed wilderness. This place called itself a city, yet where were the piazzas, the places to sit and talk, and be seen? Where was its center?"
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                                "True, at the bottom of Mulberry Street, where the city authorities had finally pulled down a group of tenements so foul that they rivaled the neighboring Five Points, there was now a small park, overlooked by the Church of the Transfiguration. People went there, yes, but it didn’t feel like a proper Italian space."
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                                "“Everything here is ugliness,” she would sigh."
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                                "As for the crowded house, with its narrow staircase, its flickering gaslight, peeling wallpaper and stink, her spirits sank every time she entered it. Whenever she could, she would go up on the roof, where the women from the nearby houses liked to meet and gossip. Sometimes she’d sit and darn clothes, or make tomato paste. In summer, she slept up there with the smaller children, while Giuseppe and Anna slept out on the fire escape. Anything to escape the airless little tenement rooms."
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                                "But if America was terrible, it gave you money. A generation ago, strong Irish newcomers had labored on the building sites, dug the canals, built railways and cleaned the streets. But many of those Irish families had moved on. They were policemen, firemen, even professional men now. It was the turn of the new Italian arrivals to take on the heavy work now. It was not well paid—only black people were paid less—but Giovanni Caruso and his son Giuseppe were strong and worked hard. And with Anna taking in piecework too, the family was still able, like most Italian families, to save something. Every month, Giovanni Caruso went to the Stabile Bank on the corner of Mulberry and Grand streets and sent dollars back to his sisters in Italy. He was also able to put away a little for himself. In a few years, he hoped to have enough saved to open a small business, or buy a house, maybe. That was a dream that would make the long years of hardship worthwhile. Meanwhile, to please his wife, he had even kept Paolo and Salvatore in school—although thirteen-year-old Paolo was quite old enough, he reminded her, to be earning his living."
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                                "Another few years. Especially with the help of Signor Rossi."
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                                "Like everyone else in Little Italy, Signor Rossi had come there because he had to. But he was a "
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                                ", a man of distinction. “My father was a lawyer,” he would say with a shrug, “and but for his untimely death before my education was completed, I’d be living in a fine house in Naples.” Nonetheless, Signor Rossi was a kindly man with knowledge. Above all, he spoke good English."
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                                "Even after six years in New York, Giovanni Caruso spoke only the most broken English. Concetta spoke none at all. Most of their neighbors, their friends, even their cousins who had come to America long before them, were in the same situation. They had re-created Italy, as best they could, in their own quarter; but the great American world outside was still strange to them. So if help was needed in negotiating with the city authorities, or understanding the meaning of a contract, Signor Rossi could explain things like a notary. He was always dressed in a well-tailored "
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                                "suit; he had a quiet presence that reassured doubtful Americans, and he was glad to speak to people on your behalf. For these services he would never take any payment. But if he came into any little grocery, or needed work done in his house, the money he offered was always refused with a smile. His business, however, was to help you look after your savings."
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                                "“Money in the bank is good, my friend,” he would explain, “but money that grows is better. The Americans make their money grow, so why shouldn’t we share in their good fortune?” Over the years, Signor Rossi had become quite a successful "
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                                ". He knew how to invest, and dozens of families had been grateful to put their savings in his hands. Each month, Giovanni Caruso would add a little more to the savings he had placed with Signor Rossi, and each month Rossi would give him a brief account of how his little fortune was growing. “Be patient,” he would counsel. “If you invest wisely in this country, you will prosper.”"
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                                "The family walked proudly up the street. Giovanni with his grown-up son, then Concetta with little Angelo, Anna with Maria, while Salvatore and Paolo brought up the rear, talking and laughing as usual."
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                                "The little restaurant was not yet crowded. In the middle, Uncle Luigi, with a napkin over his arm, was serving beside a large table at which a single man was sitting. He was a thickset, Neapolitan fellow, not unlike their father, but in his eyes there was a special gleam. As they entered, and Uncle Luigi gestured for them to approach, the man at the table beamed at them and, opening his arms expansively, invited them to sit at table with him."
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                                "“Welcome,” he cried, “the family of Caruso.”"
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                                "Salvatore would never forget that meal. He had never seen so much food in his life."
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                                "Not that the food in the Italian quarter was bad. Even his mother would grudgingly admit that, in America, you ate more meat than you did in the Mezzogiorno, and pasta too. No thick peasant bread, either. In America, you ate light white bread, like the rich."
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                                "But of course, the great tenor, who was paid thousands of dollars a week, could have all the food he wanted, and soon the table was groaning with Italian pasta, American "
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                                ", a huge bowl of salad, jugs of olive oil, piles of olives, bottles of Chianti—and Lacryma Christi also, from the base of Vesuvius, in honor of the Naples region—baskets of breads, plates of salami and cheeses … And over it all, a wonderful, rich smell of tomato, pepper and oil. "
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                                ", eat,” he urged, as he pushed the food "
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                                "toward them, and he insisted that a "
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                                "From the great Caruso, also, there exuded an aura of warmth and generosity that seemed to fill the whole room. “Italy in America,” he remarked to Giovanni Caruso with a grin, “it’s even better than Italy in Italy.” He patted his growing stomach. “This is where we Italians come to grow fat.” For indeed, even in the stinking tenements of the Lower East Side, the thin immigrants from the Mezzogiorno would nearly always put on weight after a year or two."
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                                "To Concetta Caruso, he was charming. He knew her village, even one of her relations. Soon, she was beaming. As for Giovanni Caruso, who knew very well the tenor’s legendary generosity, he was anxious to make sure that Caruso should not think they had come there looking for charity."
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                                "“We do well,” he told him. “Already I have savings. A few years more and I shall buy my own house.”"
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                                "“Bravo,” said Caruso. “Let us drink to the land of opportunity.”"
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                                "“But you, Signor Caruso,” his father added respectfully, “have brought honor to our name. You have raised us all.”"
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                                "Like a tribal chief, Caruso acknowledged this tribute. “Let us raise our glasses, my friends, to the name of Caruso.”"
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                                "During the meal, he spoke to each of the family in turn. He congratulated Giuseppe on helping his father, and Concetta on raising such a fine family. Anna, he saw at once, was the family’s second mother. Paolo admitted that he wanted to be a fireman, and when it came to Salvatore’s turn, he asked him about his school."
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                                "The Church of the Transfiguration stood between Mott and Mulberry streets, on the small rise overlooking the little park. When the Carusos had first arrived there, an Irish priest ministered to an Irish congregation in the main church, while an Italian priest conducted a service for the Italian congregation, in their own language, down in the crypt below. But since then, the Italians and their priest had moved upstairs, a signal that it was they who had taken charge of the area now. Beside the church was the school which the Caruso children attended."
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                                "“You must learn all you can,” the great man told Salvatore. “Too many of our southern Italians despise education. They say, ‘Why should a son know more than his father?’ But they are wrong. Work hard at school and you will get ahead in America. You understand?”"
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                                "Salvatore had no love of school, so he was not pleased to hear this, but he bowed his head respectfully."
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                                "“And this young man,” Caruso turned to little Angelo, “do you learn things at school?”"
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                                "Angelo might be dreamy, but he did well at school. In fact, he could already read better than his elder brothers. He also had a talent for drawing. He was too shy to say anything, so his mother informed the great man of these facts, while Salvatore, who couldn’t see that Angelo’s talents did him any good, made a conspiratorial face at Paolo. So he was a bit taken aback by the next question."
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                                "“And your brother Salvatore, is he kind to you?”"
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                                "There was a pregnant silence. Then Angelo burst into life."
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                                "“No,” he cried loudly, “my brother is not kind to me.”"
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                                "Paolo thought this was funny, but Caruso did not, and he rounded upon Salvatore."
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                                "“Shame on you.”"
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                                "“Anna looks after Angelo,” his mother interceded, not wanting the great man to think that her youngest child was neglected. But though he nodded, Caruso’s attention remained on Salvatore."
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                                "“Your brother is a dreamer, Salvatore. He is not so strong as you. But who knows, he may be a thinker, a priest, a great artist. You are his big brother. You should protect him. Promise me you will be kind to your brother.”"
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                                "At that moment, Salvatore was ready to give Angelo a beating, but all the same he felt himself go very red, and promise, “Yes, Signor Caruso.”"
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                                "“Good.” From nowhere, the great man produced a chocolate and gave it to Salvatore. “This is for you only, Salvatore, so that you remember you have promised me to be kind to your brother.” He held out his hand, so that Salvatore had to shake it. "
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                                "And Salvatore looked at little Angelo, whose eyes were now very round, and at the tenor, and at his family, and secretly cursed his fate. Now what was he going to do?"
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                                "It did not take long for the news to travel. Within a day, the whole of Little Italy seemed to know that the Carusos had had a family meal with the great tenor. Giovanni Caruso was wise, though. When people said to him, "
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                                "“So the great Caruso is your relation?” he only laughed and said: “There are many Carusos. We are a tribe, not a family.” In this way, people were soon saying: “Giovanni Caruso does not admit that they are related, yet Caruso himself treats him like a brother. No smoke without fire.” By half denying the relationship, therefore, he made people suspect it existed. Even their landlord, seeing him in the street one day, stopped Giovanni with a smile and asked him to be sure to let him know if there was any little favor he could do him."
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                                "As for Salvatore, he felt obliged to be kind to little Angelo. To Paolo, of course, this was an opportunity for harmless fun. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t persecute Angelo by taking an apple away from him, or stealing one of his boots, and gleefully telling the little boy: “Don’t worry, your brother Salvatore will get it back for you.” Angelo had to fight him several times."
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                                "He was scarcely aware of the financial panic on Wall Street the following month. Such things had nothing to do with the poor folk on the Lower East Side. Then Uncle Luigi came by and said that one of the "
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                                " who dined frequently at the restaurant had lost a lot of money, his own and his clients’. “I hope your Signor Rossi is all right,” he had said. “Signor Rossi is far too clever to make any mistakes,” Giovanni Caruso had answered. But later that day Salvatore had seen his father looking worried."
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                                ". When he returned, his face was ashen. He went up on the roof to talk alone to Concetta, and Salvatore heard his mother scream. When the family was all together in the little apartment that evening, Giovanni broke it to them."
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                                "“Signor Rossi has lost everything. All his clients’ money. It is very complicated, and many others are in the same situation, but our savings are gone. We must start again.”"
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                                "“It’s a lie,” cried their mother. “Money can’t disappear like that. He has stolen it.”"
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                                "“No, Concetta, I assure you. Rossi has lost most of his own money as well. He told me, he hardly knows how he will eat.”"
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                                "“You believe him? Don’t you see, Giovanni, what he is doing? He will wait a while, then he will disappear with all the money. He is laughing at you, Giovanni, behind your back.”"
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                                "“You do not understand these things, Concetta. Signor Rossi is a man of honor.”"
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                                "“Honor? You men are fools. Any woman can see what he is doing.”"
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                                "Salvatore had never heard his mother speak to his father with such disrespect. He wondered what would happen. But his father chose to ignore it, the business was too terrible already to worry about anything else."
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                                "“Paolo and Salvatore must go to work now,” their father said quietly. “It is time for them to help us, as Anna does. There is plenty of work. Maria and Angelo will stay in school for the present. In a few years, we shall recover, and there will be better times.”"
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                                "For Salvatore, the change of circumstances was a distinct improvement. He didn’t have to go to school, and he was exempt, therefore, from the great Caruso’s instruction that he should study. And he and Paolo were so busy out in the streets that it was easy enough to be nice to little Angelo when he saw him. They found plenty of ways to earn money in the streets, but mostly he and Paolo plied their trade as bootblacks. They would go across to Greenwich Village and shine the shoes of Italian men who were lunching there. They found an Italian enterprise where they were allowed to enter the office and shine the boots of the men who worked there. Working together, they would take turns to put on polish and shine, although even Paolo had to admit that Salvatore could get a better shine on any shoe than he could. “It must be something in your spit that I didn’t inherit,” he would say regretfully."
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                                "For his mother, the loss of their savings meant a change of regime. A sewing machine was installed in the best lit of their three small rooms, close to the window. There, she and Anna would take turns to do piecework by the hour. It paid poorly, but they could remain in the house, look after the smallest children and feed the family while they also worked. After her original outburst over Signor Rossi, Concetta had never said anything more about it, but Salvatore knew she could not be happy. One evening he heard his parents talking quietly up on the roof. His father’s voice was gentle, persuasive, though Salvatore could not hear exactly what he was saying. But he heard his mother’s words."
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                                "“No more children, Giovanni. Not like this. I beg you.”"
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                                "It was toward the end of the year, and he was walking down Mulberry Street with his father, when Uncle Luigi suddenly came running out of his restaurant after them. They must come at once, he told them. The great Caruso was eating inside and wanted to speak to them."
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                                "give my respects to your wife,” he told Giovanni, who promised he would. Were they doing well? he asked."
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                                        "“Assolutamente,”"
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                                " Giovanni assured him. “Everything goes well.”"
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                                        "“Bene. Bene,”"
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                                " said Caruso. “And are you being kind to your brother?” he demanded, turning to Salvatore."
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                                "“And you are studying hard at school?”"
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                                "“He studies as never before,” his father cut in, before Salvatore could reply. Salvatore saw his Uncle Luigi stare in surprise, but Caruso was not looking that way, so he did not observe it. Instead, he drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Giovanni."
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                                "“Two tickets to the opera, for you and your wife.” He beamed. “You will come?”"
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                                "“Of course.” Giovanni Caruso stumbled to convey his thanks."
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                                "They had walked a little way down the street after this interview when his father turned to Salvatore."
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                                "“I could not tell him about our misfortune, Toto,” he said awkwardly. “I could not let him know you were no longer in school.”"
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                                "“I know, Papa,” said Salvatore."
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                                " A loss of face. Italian pride. Salvatore understood. He even dared to squeeze his father’s hand."
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                                "On the day that she was to go to the opera, however, his mother said she did not feel well."
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                                "“Take one of the children with you,” she told her husband. “Anna can go.” But his father, after thinking for a minute, said that since Salvatore was with him when Caruso gave the tickets, it was he who should go."
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                                "How proudly Salvatore walked beside his father as they approached the opera house on Broadway that evening. The big square-faced building that took up the whole block between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth Streets looked to Salvatore like a department store. But there was no doubt about the elegance of the people in evening dress who were entering it. He even noticed a silver Rolls-Royce gliding to rest near its entrance."
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                                "As they went inside, Salvatore gasped. The vast auditorium with its mighty chandelier was like a celestial palace. A massive curtain of gold damask hung across the stage, and on the huge curved proscenium, he saw the names of great composers. Beethoven he’d heard of, Wagner he hadn’t. But there, for all to see, was the name to make every Italian swell with pride: Verdi. And it was Verdi’s "
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                                "He soon realized that Caruso, sensibly, had not given them expensive seats, where everyone would be in evening dress. They were both in suits and clean shirts, of course—his father had even put on a tie—but as they made their way through the throng, Salvatore couldn’t help noticing that the patrons of the opera were looking at them strangely. When he blacked the boots of the rich businessmen by day, they were friendly enough. But now that he was invading their home territory, several of the men gave him and his father cold glances. A woman quickly pulled her gown away, lest it be contaminated by their touch, while her husband muttered, “Damn Italian wops.”"
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                                "When they found their seats, they could see that their neighbors were simple Italians like themselves, perhaps also the recipients of Caruso’s generosity. His father began to chat to them, but Salvatore was thinking about the way the rich people had looked at them. And he continued to brood about it until the curtain went up."
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                                "Anna was happy. The Triangle Shirtwaist Company, as it was called, occupied the top three of the ten floors of the big square building. The factory mostly made the ankle-length skirts and the white, narrow-waisted, Gibson Girl blouses, called “shirtwaists,” that were fashionable for working girls and women. Most of the work was arranged at long tables where rows of sewing machines were driven by a single electric engine. It was a lot more efficient than the pedal machine their mother used at home. Many of the employees were men, some of them employed in teams under a subcontractor, though there were plenty of girls too. Most of the workers were Jews, maybe a third related in some way or other to the owners, Mr. Blanck and Mr. Harris, but there were some Italian girls too. Everyone complained about the pay and the hours."
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                                "“Hello, Rose. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Elizabeth Marbury was wearing a dark coat and skirt, with a small black hat on her head. She always filled any room she was in. It wasn’t just that she was broad in the beam; it was her presence. Literary agent to Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw and many others, she went where she pleased. Having taken up the cause of the women strikers, she’d brought support from the acting profession, and money from the wealthy Shubert family. She’d even hosted a lunch for a group of the strikers within the sacred portals of the ladies’ Colony Club."
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                                "“Are you going to Carnegie Hall tonight?” Mary asked. “I feel I ought to go with Hetty—she’s quite determined to be there. But if you or William took her,” she added hopefully, “I could stay at home.”"
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                                "Anna Caruso glanced down at Salvatore. She’d only agreed to come if her brother was there to protect her. “Just tell your story simply, the way you told it to me,” Rose had said. But faced with all these people, in this big house, and the fact that she knew her English still wasn’t so good, she couldn’t help being nervous."
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                                "“Did he employ new girls to work at the factory?”"
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                                "“Are they mostly Italian, Catholic, respectable girls, like you?”"
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                                "“The girls who lost their jobs, who have joined the WTU, are they mostly Jews?”"
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                                "“Thank you, dear. You can sit down.” Rose turned to the assembled ladies. “I think everyone here can see that this is an honest young woman,” she declared. “And I’m sure there are grievances at some of the factories which need to be addressed. But I think we need to be careful. What is it the Jewish girls want that Anna here does not? Are they really striking for better conditions, or is their object political? How many of these Russians are socialists?” She gazed round in triumph. “I believe it’s a question we need to ask.”"
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                                "Rose enjoyed the silence that followed. In the first place, she’d brought a little common sense to the place. The people in the room would have been even more surprised had they seen the little press story that gave an account of how, at a luncheon at old Mrs. Master’s house, members of the Master family who were well acquainted with the true conditions of the workers, not all of whom were on strike, had questioned the motives of some of the socialist agitators behind it. Old Hetty could still have her moment of glory—her luncheon would be remembered—just not in quite the way she had planned. And the family’s reputation would be saved. The story would be printed in several papers that evening."
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                                "In the silence that followed, Hetty stared. She couldn’t believe it. Her own grandson’s wife had come here to ruin her party, in this act of public disloyalty. Her reaction was instant and natural. No doubt Rose knew the trust funds would flow down to William anyway, but if she thought that anything from this house was coming to her, she could forget it."
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                                "Hetty looked round for someone to save the day. Her eye alighted on Edmund Keller. It was worth a chance."
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                                "“Well, Mr. Keller,” she asked, “will you be our knight in shining armor?”"
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                                "Edmund Keller paused. He liked old Hetty Master, and he would be glad to oblige her. But even more important for him was the cause of truth. And truth was more complex than Rose was making it out to be."
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                                "He understood the city well enough to know that the Russian immigrants, having suffered political and religious persecution, were determined to fight anything that looked like oppression in their new home. The Italians, on the other hand, were only fleeing poverty. They sent money back to Italy; many of them didn’t even plan to stay in America—sometimes at the docks there were more Italians returning home than arriving. They had less reason to cause trouble, or to enter the political process, therefore. And they might put up with bad treatment when they shouldn’t. But even having said that, the situation wasn’t straightforward. And if there was one thing, as an academic, that Edmund Keller hated, it was people who simplified evidence until it was misleading."
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                                "“Are there picket lines outside the Triangle Factory?” he asked Anna."
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                                "“Yes, sir.”"
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                                "“Are there Jewish girls in the picket lines?”"
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                                "“Yes, sir.”"
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                                "“Are there also Italian girls in the picket lines?”"
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                                "“Yes, sir.”"
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                                "“Are, I don’t know, maybe a quarter of the picketing girls Italian?”"
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                                "“I think so.”"
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                                "“Why do you not stand in the picket line?”"
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                                "Anna hesitated. She remembered the day the woman from the WTU had accosted her as she went into work, demanding to know why she was betraying all the other girls. She had felt so guilty. But when she had talked to her parents about it that night, her father had ordered her never to raise the subject again."
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                                "“My family does not wish it, sir.”"
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                                "There was a murmur round the room. Keller turned to Rose Master."
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                                "“I think we need to be careful here,” he said. “The factory owners would no doubt like us to think that this is entirely a Jewish strike, a socialist strike perhaps. But they may be misleading us.” He didn’t mean to be rude. He just wanted to be accurate."
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                                "Old Hetty was beaming. Rose’s face was a mask."
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                                "But it was then that Edmund Keller made a great mistake."
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                                "did not entirely grasp that for the powerful ladies of New York—or London or Paris for that matter—politics was a social game, to demonstrate who had the most influence. He supposed that, behind all these activities, there was actually a search for truth. So he didn’t realize that in setting the record straight, he was humiliating Rose."
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                                "“Of course,” he continued casually, “one can see why this girl’s family wouldn’t want her to join the WTU. But in fairness, European history shows that factory workers were nearly always exploited until a powerful union or a government intervened.”"
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                                "If the ladies had been holding a historical seminar, a balancing argument like this might have been a point to raise. But they weren’t. And he had just given Rose her opening to strike back."
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                                "“European history? You’d know all about that, Mr. Keller, I’m sure. And isn’t it true Europe is full of socialists? And don’t you know that when innocent Italian girls are bullied or deceived into supporting the unions, they’re being used by Russian socialists? But you know all about socialists, Mr. Keller, from what I hear. Since you, Mr. Keller, I have it upon good authority, are a socialist.”"
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                                "Keller hadn’t particularly studied the socialist question. Nor had he the least idea that the president of Columbia, disliking his somewhat liberal views, had told Rose that he was a socialist. He stared at her in great surprise, therefore, which she, naturally, took to be guilt."
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                                "“Aha,” she said, triumphantly."
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                                "“Well,” said Hetty, seeing that things weren’t going at all as they should, “this is all very interesting, I must say.” Which even Edmund Keller realized was a signal, in these circles, that the discussion should end at once."
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                                "Anna was very nervous. “I hope she’ll take us away now,” she whispered to Salvatore when the meal ended. But Rose Master was busy talking, and so they were left standing alone."
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                                "Had she said the wrong thing about the Italian girls on the picket line? Would the lady tell Mr. Harris at the factory, and get her into trouble?"
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                                "They had been standing together for a minute or two when the old lady who owned the house came across. She was with another lady, not quite so old."
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                                "“I’m Mrs. Master,” the old lady said. “I just wanted to thank you for coming.” She was very polite. “This is my friend Miss O’Donnell,” she added."
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                                "You could see the other old lady was very rich, but she seemed kindly, and asked where they lived."
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                                "“I used to live not far from you, just the other side of the Bowery,” she said. Anna looked at her in disbelief. She couldn’t imagine the rich lady had ever lived anywhere near the Lower East Side in her life, but she didn’t like to say so. The old lady saw the look on her face and smiled. “I used to have to walk past Five Points every day.”"
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                                "“You mean you lived in a tenement like us?” Anna finally ventured."
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                                "“I did.” Mary O’Donnell paused, as if remembering. Then she glanced at Hetty Master and smiled. “Actually, my father was drunk most of the time, and didn’t even work. As for our lodgings …” She shook her head at the memory. “I had to walk out in the end.” She turned back to Anna and Salvatore. “Your father sounds a good man. Whatever you do, keep your family together. That’s the most important thing in the world.”"
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                                "Just then, Rose appeared. Fortunately, she seemed quite pleased about everything, and she took them away. So Anna never found out how the rich lady got out of the Lower East Side."
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                                "At Hetty’s request, Mary O’Donnell remained after everyone else had gone. Mary knew it was nice to have someone to discuss a party with, when it was over."
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                                "“It went well,” she told Hetty. “Everyone will remember it. And the conversations certainly made everybody think.”"
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                                "“I am not pleased with Rose,” said Hetty."
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                                "“Mr. Keller did quite well.”"
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                                "“I suppose we must forgive,” said Mary."
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                                "“The Italian girl was sweet,” said Mary."
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                                "“That reminds me,” said Hetty. “Why did you tell her that your father was a drunk who didn’t work? Your father was a perfectly respectable man. He was a friend of the Kellers. I remember very well the day that Gretchen told me all about you.”"
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                                "“When I saw that girl and her brother,” she confessed, “and heard about how they were living, it all suddenly came back to me. I don’t know what made me blurt it out, though.”"
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                                "Hetty eyed her. “Are you telling me, Mary O’Donnell, after all these years, that you came to work here under false pretenses? That you weren’t from a respectable family at all?”"
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                                "“I don’t think I could have done it. But Gretchen could. She was my friend.” Mary smiled, affectionately. “I’m afraid she told you the most dreadful lies.”"
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                                "Edmund Keller spent a pleasant evening with his father. It wasn’t until the next morning that he heard what had happened at the meeting at Carnegie Hall."
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                                "And what a night it had been. The radicals had produced a splendid speaker, Morris Hillquit the socialist. With soaring oratory, he told the packed hall that the factory owners and the magistrates who had fined them were nothing more than the mailed fists of oppression. “Sisters,” he cried, “your cause is just, and you will be victorious.” Not only that, he assured them, the garment women’s strike was the beginning of something altogether more wonderful. Through the union, they could lead the great socialist cause of a class struggle that would soon transform not only the factories of the Lower East Side, but the entire city, and even the whole of America. It was a thrilling speech, and they cheered him to the rafters."
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                                "True, he was followed by a moderate lawyer who counseled restraint and a legal battle instead. But his speech was so boring that the crowd grew restless. And when Leonora O’Reilly of the WTU spoke next, and chided the lawyer, and told the women that their strike had done more for the union movement than all the preaching of the last ten years, they cheered her too. No wonder they were in high spirits."
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                                "But not everyone was happy. Tammany Hall liked political power, not revolution. The conservative leaders of America’s big unions, men like Sam Gompers, didn’t think that preaching revolution was a good strategy either. From that evening, support in the smoke-filled rooms of the labor movement began to fade. And something else began to ebb away rapidly. Money."
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                                "Had Rose’s intervention at old Hetty’s lunch made an impression? Who knew? But one thing was certain. When Anne Morgan attended the Carnegie Hall meeting, she didn’t like what she heard. The very next day she let everyone know that she’d support the garment women’s rights, but not socialism. She wasn’t giving money to start a revolution. Other wealthy donors followed her lead."
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                                "It wasn’t until early February that the strike wound down. The women got a shorter working week, down to only fifty-two hours; they were even allowed to join a union. But the Triangle and the other factories could employ whomever they liked, union member or not."
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                                "Edmund Keller supposed that Rose must be pleased about that. He’d been puzzled that she thought he was a socialist, but since he wasn’t, he’d shrugged the accusation off as made in the excitement of the moment."
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                                "The year 1910 was a happy one for Salvatore. He was fourteen years old now, and starting to feel himself a young man. It was also the year that he and Anna decided they were going to make little Angelo stronger. Anna’s method was to give him more food. Each day when they went home together from the Triangle Factory, they would stop at the restaurant where Uncle Luigi worked, and the owner would give them a little bag of leftovers. “For the sickly one,” he’d say."
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                                "Salvatore’s method was more robust. He made some little weights, and forced his nine-year-old brother to work with them in front of him each day. “I’m building up his muscles,” he told everybody. In the summer, he started taking him to the East River where, although it was illegal, the boys of the area used to swim. When Anna found out, she had a fit. “The water’s filthy. You’ll make him sick,” she cried. As the months passed, however, Angelo did seem to become sturdier. He stayed just as dreamy, though."
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                                "As for Anna, at eighteen she had filled out into a young woman, but she was still almost as slim as she had been when she was a young girl. Men turned to look after her in the street; she had no young man though, and said she wasn’t interested. Salvatore was sure of one thing. “If any young man comes calling for you, he won’t just have to get past Father,” "
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                                "At the start of December it was Anna’s birthday, and on the fifth, Uncle Luigi took the whole family out to the theater. They went to the American Music Hall on Forty-second Street, to see a show called "
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                                " given by a British troupe on tour from London. The star was a talented young English actor named Charles Chaplin. They had a wonderful time. The next week, Anna told them that she’d got a raise at work. She was already making $12 a week; now she’d get an extra dollar. So the year ended well."
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                                "It was one bright morning in October when Paolo suddenly told Salvatore that he should go on alone because he had some other business to attend to. “I’ll meet you on Broadway and Fulton at four o’clock,” he said, and before Salvatore could ask him anything, he was gone."
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                                "That afternoon, he told Salvatore that he mustn’t speak of his absence. “There’s a man I’m doing some work for,” he said. “That’s all.” He produced some money, about what he’d have made shining shoes, but Salvatore had a feeling that his brother had more in his pocket."
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                                "One day the next week, the same thing happened. Soon it became a regular occurrence. At Christmas, he gave presents to all the members of the family. He said he’d secretly been saving up to do so. Everyone was pleased. Salvatore got a pocket watch; Anna a lovely shawl. But Concetta looked worried. Just before the new year she questioned Salvatore about his brother’s movements. Salvatore lied as Paolo had told him to, but he could see that his mother didn’t believe him."
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                                " she said. By that she meant any sort of bad person. “Or maybe worse. Maybe the "
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                                " The Black Hand. It wasn’t really an organization. Any gang wanting to extort money—usually from the richer Italians in their own community—would seek to increase their victim’s fear by using the dreaded symbol of the Black Hand."
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                                "“No,” said Salvatore."
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                                "started an Italian squad. But its chief had been killed on a visit to Sicily by a gangster named Don Vito, and the squad had become insignificant after that. So long as Italian crime remained within the Italian quarter, the New York police didn’t interfere too much."
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                                "That evening, she accosted Paolo and accused him of being a criminal. But he denied it all, and became very angry; and in the end their father said the matter was not to be spoken of again."
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                                "The young man appeared in March 1911. Salvatore, Angelo and Anna had called in at the restaurant where Uncle Luigi worked one evening. They’d been made to wait a few moments, during which time Salvatore had noticed a good-looking young man watching them with interest. But he’d soon forgotten about it. The next day, however, as he was walking up the street, he’d met Uncle Luigi, who was eager to speak."
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                                " him,” Uncle Luigi suggested with a wink, “then it would be natural for him to meet Anna one day.”"
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                                "“And if I don’t like him, then Anna doesn’t get to meet him?” Salvatore asked, pointedly."
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                                "Salvatore was rather pleased with his new role. He looked forward to Saturday with some anticipation. He wondered how much to tell Anna."
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                                "On Saturday, March 25, 1911, Anna went to work as usual. It was a fine day. Saturday was the shortest working day at the Triangle Factory. Work "
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                                "began at nine in the morning and finished at 4:45 p.m., with a forty-five-minute break for lunch. By the time she arrived, there was a crowd outside waiting to go in."
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                                "Although it was the Jewish Sabbath, and both the owners and most of the workers were Jewish, only a handful of the people at the Triangle Factory observed the Shabbat, and there would be nearly five hundred people working there today."
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                                "There were two entrances to the building, one on Washington Place, the other round the corner on Greene Street. She went in at the Washington Place entrance and took the stairs. The elevator was for the management and visitors."
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                                "The Triangle Factory occupied the three top floors of the building, the eighth, ninth and tenth. On the stairs, she met Yetta, a Jewish girl who worked on the eighth floor, and she went onto that floor to finish their conversation. As well as the lines of work tables and sewing machines, the eighth floor contained the cutting tables, under which there were big boxes that would soon fill with discarded scraps of cotton as the cutters toiled. Beside one of the tables, Yetta showed Anna the steps of a new dance called the turkey trot. They both liked to dance, but a stern look from one of the foremen soon put a stop to that, and Anna made her way up to the ninth floor, where she worked."
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                                "The morning passed uneventfully. Not long ago the ninth floor had been refurbished with better washrooms and a nice wooden floor that caught the sunlight. At lunchtime, she went outside and walked about in Washington Square Park. She thought of the dance steps her friend had shown her. She wondered if Pasquale liked to dance."
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                                "It hadn’t taken her long to find out about Pasquale. As soon as Salvatore casually mentioned that they might be meeting a friend of his at the restaurant, she’d guessed he was up to something. As for Salvatore’s pathetic attempts to deny it, she’d soon dealt with that. When he confessed, she pretended to be angry. What she didn’t tell her brother was that she’d already noticed the young man looking at her, and she didn’t mind meeting him at all. But she told Salvatore that she didn’t know if she’d come with him or not, just to give him grief. She was smiling to herself as she went back into the building at the start of the afternoon."
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                                "final orders completed. As finishing time approached, the pay packets were given out. You couldn’t go before the final bell, of course, but some of the girls who had young men waiting for them were getting ready to make a speedy exit. As the bell went, and the power to the machines was cut off, everybody rose. But Anna wasn’t in a hurry. She took a little mirror out of her bag. Might as well make herself look nice before meeting the mystery man. She attended to this while the girls started moving toward the door. She was still sitting there when she heard something strange. Someone was shouting."
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                                "From the statue of Garibaldi, there was a good view across to Washington Place. In summer, the leaves on the trees obscured it. But as Salvatore looked now, he could see the higher floors of the building clearly, and the sign—a triangle in a circle—that hung from the corner. He glanced at the watch Paolo had given him for Christmas."
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                                "“It’s time,” he remarked to Angelo."
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                                "“Sure.” Salvatore looked across at the building. Any moment now, the first girls would start coming out of the door. A young man strolled by, paused for a moment, to look in the same direction."
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                                "And just then, a curious thing happened. There was a little popping sound. Nothing much, just a pop, from one of the windows up on the eighth floor. An instant later, a little puff of smoke came out of the window, and a tiny tinkle of glass could be heard from the street below. A horse standing there suddenly bolted with its cart. From above, smoke began to drift out of the broken window. A man ran across the street."
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                                "The fellow who’d paused beside the statue set off quickly toward the scene, leaving Salvatore and Angelo standing there. Moments later, whistles sounded from a fire station. Then a cop on horseback clattered down the street and ran into the building. People were spilling out onto the sidewalks, and from the far side of the park, a fire wagon came clanging into view."
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                                "They weren’t letting anyone go in. All Salvatore could do was rush from one entrance to another, trying to get whatever information he could from the girls coming out, or chance words he heard from the firemen."
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                                "The building’s own water hoses weren’t working, he’d heard, but the pressure in the hydrants was good. The fire had started on the eighth floor, which was now engulfed in flames, and the firemen couldn’t get past it. Somebody said there was a fire escape that went down the well in the center of the block. But it had collapsed. Some girls had managed to reach lower floors that way, but others were on it when it fell. Smoke and flames were pouring out of the upper windows now, on the Greene Street side."
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                                "a faint flickering of light in the cavernous space behind them. The flames must have reached that floor."
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                            Text {
                                "Why were the girls by the windows? Couldn’t they get out? It must be getting hot in there. Very hot."
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                        ]
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                    Element {
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                                "The girl stepped out onto the window ledge. Above the ninth floor, a heavy cornice ran round the building, jutting out a foot or two. The girl looked up at it. Perhaps she was wondering if she could get up there and work her way round to safety. Perhaps she didn’t know that the fire was already on the tenth floor above. But the floors of the building were twelve feet high; there was no way she could get up there anyway."
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                                "Other windows were opening now, and other girls edging out onto the ledges. A young man stepped out, too. They were looking down; the street was a hundred feet below. You could see the flames behind them now. Obviously they couldn’t stand the heat inside any more."
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                                "The firemen saw them and trained one of the hoses up there. The arc of water shot skyward, but by the time it got to a hundred feet high, it broke into a sprinkle. They started to run a fire wagon ladder up the side of the building, but that was no good—it couldn’t reach within thirty feet. The ladder rested there, tempting but useless. They were opening nets now, above the sidewalk. The people on the ledges were looking down at them. Would the nets hold if they jumped? It was an awfully long way down. The firemen didn’t seem to be telling them to jump. They hesitated."
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                                "Then Salvatore saw that Anna was looking toward them. She could see the statue of Garibaldi from up there, for sure, and she must be trying to find him and Angelo. With the water from the hoses and the smoke from the floor below, though, it mightn’t be so easy to make them out. He waved. Beside him, little Angelo waved too. But Anna didn’t wave back."
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                                "“Are we waving at Anna?” Angelo asked. “Can you see her?”"
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                    Element {
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "Salvatore didn’t answer. One of the girls had jumped. The young man jumped after her. Then Anna jumped."
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                                "Angelo didn’t see."
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                            Text {
                                "“Wait here,” Salvatore cried, and ran toward the building."
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                            Text {
                                "The nets were useless, of course. The firemen had only put them there as a last resort. By the time Salvatore got there, the fire chief was already telling his men to take them down again."
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                            Text {
                                "The young man who jumped had gone straight through the net. Anna "
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                                "and the other girls who’d followed her had hardly been slowed at all before they hit the sidewalk. Amazingly, Anna’s face was quite preserved, though the back of her head was entirely crushed. He didn’t need the fireman to tell him she was dead."
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                    }
                    Element {
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“That’s my sister,” he told the fireman, and gave him his name. “I have to take my little brother home, then I’ll be back.” He was amazed how composed he was."
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "He got back to the statue."
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                    Element {
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                            Text {
                                "“Did Anna jump?” Angelo asked."
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
                        tag_name: "p"
                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Yes. She’s all right, but she’s hurt her leg, so they may take her to the hospital. She told me to take you home, and tell Mama. Then we’ll all go to see her later.”"
                            }
                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“I want to see her now.”"
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“No, she told us to go straight home.”"
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Are you sure she’s all right?”"
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“She’s fine.”"
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                        ]
                    }
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                        children: [
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                            Text {
                                "On May 23, 1911, no less a person than the President of the United States was in the City of New York for an important ceremony. On the site of the old fortress-like reservoir, the big library on Fifth Avenue was finally opening for business."
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                    }
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                            Text {
                                "The collection, based on the amalgamation of the Astor and Lenox libraries, was huge. Backed with bequests from Watts and Tilden, the splendid new beaux arts building, designed by Carrère & Hastings, stretched across the two blocks from Fortieth Street to Forty-second. It might have taken an inordinate time to build, but it was worth it. The marbled facade and broad steps, flanked by two lions, could hardly be more magnificent, yet the place was also welcoming. Thanks to a huge donation from Andrew Carnegie, the New York Public Library system was among the most generous free institutions in the world."
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                                "Though the building would not be open to the general public until the following day, there was quite a crowd of the city’s richest and most important folk looking round after President Taft had done the honors."
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                            Text {
                                "Old Hetty Master moved rather slowly."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“I’m so glad,” she said to Mary O’Donnell, “that I’ve got you to go round with me.”"
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                            Text {
                                "The last year had seen rather a decline in Hetty, which was only to be expected at her age. As they moved through the great marble entrance hall, however, she insisted on walking up the stairs."
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                            Text {
                                "“It’s two floors up,” Mary warned her. And the floors were terribly high."
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                                "“I can walk,” the old lady insisted. “And I want to see this Reading Room they keep talking about.” The Reading Room on the third floor spanned the entire length of the building, almost a hundred yards. “I remember coming here when they had the Crystal Palace just behind it,” she remarked."
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                        ]
                    }
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“I know,” said Mary."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "It took time, but they got to the Reading Room, and when they did, they were impressed. It stretched away like one of the vast corridors in the Vatican."
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                    Element {
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Well,” said Hetty, “it’s certainly large.”"
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                        ]
                    }
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“It is,” said Mary."
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                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“I hope,” said Hetty, as she gazed at the rows of tables, “that they can find that many people who want to read. I always fall asleep in libraries, don’t you?”"
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“I hardly use them,” Mary confessed."
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Plenty of room to sleep in here,” said Hetty. “Let’s go down.”"
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                        ]
                    }
                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "It was a bright day outside as they came slowly down the steps onto Fifth Avenue."
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                    Element {
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                        attributes: [
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“I’m pleased I saw it,” said Hetty, “but I’ll be glad to go home. I feel a little tired.” She paused while Mary looked out for a cab. “Did I tell you,” she said, “that my husband proposed to me right here, when they’d just built the reservoir?”"
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                                "“Yes,” said Mary, with a smile."
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                            Text {
                                "“That was a wonderful day,” said Hetty."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“It must have been,” said Mary."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "Then Hetty suddenly said, “Oh.”"
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“What is it?” said Mary."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "But Hetty didn’t say anything. She staggered, as if she’d suddenly been struck."
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                    Element {
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Are you all right?” said Mary. But before she finished the question, Hetty started to fall. Mary tried to hold her, but she couldn’t, and Hetty crashed to the ground."
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                        ]
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                        tag_name: "p"
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "It was quite a piece of luck that a shoeshine boy should have been passing "
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                            Text {
                                "right beside them just then. He put down his things and helped them right away. He propped Hetty up, and while Mary held her, he hailed a taxi, and then, since Hetty seemed to be unconscious, he helped Mary get her into the taxi and asked if he should come with her to the house. “Oh,” said Mary, “that would be so kind.”"
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                    Element {
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                                "So the boy put his things on the floor of the taxi, and Mary told the taxi to go down Fifth, and in no time they were on their way. Hetty’s mouth had fallen open; she seemed to shudder. The boy leaned forward and propped her up, awkwardly, in the corner of the seat."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Gramercy Park,” said the boy to the driver."
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                    Element {
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“How do you know that?” asked Mary."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Been to the house,” said the boy."
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                    Element {
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                        children: [
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                                "Then Mary realized she had seen him before."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "“Why, you’re the brother of the Italian girl who came to lunch a few months back,” she said. “Your sister works at the Triangle Factory.”"
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "The boy said nothing. And Mary remembered the terrible tragedy that had happened there in March. That awful fire. It was a huge scandal—one hundred and forty people had died, mostly the Jewish girls who worked there."
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                                "“I hope your sister was all right,” she said anxiously."
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                        children: [
                            Text {
                                "For a moment, Salvatore Caruso did not reply. He was looking at the older woman. He realized, which Mary still did not, that Hetty Master had just died. That would be enough for this nice lady to worry about today."
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                                "“She’s fine,” he said."
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