Lady of the Bronx- Newsies

Prolouge

The ship always smelled like three things. Sickness, rotting fish, and despair. Trying to explain the first two is easy.

It smelled of sickness due to all of us, cramped in the bottom of the boat. People's stomachs at that point adapted to the tipping of the boat, going back and forth, back and forth. Still, the smell of the throw up lingered. And being so cramped meant illness spreads like a wildfire. There were at least a quarter more of us when we boarded third class. Now, they've been tossed into the raging waters of the ocean. Dead as a doornail.

The smell of rotten fish was also easy to explain. Those on top of the ship got all the good foods, we got the leftovers. The soiled milk, the hard bread, the molded fruit.

But the last smell was harder to explain. But as a ten year old heading to America, it made sense back then. The smell of mold, the fish, the throw up, the smell of human waste and oder, I lived in filth for three months. With no shower to wash my greased hair. With the sound of muffled sobs, with the groans of those about to be thrown into the ocean. The smell, the sounds, the memories, all dripped in dread. Dripped in despair. We were heading to a world of opportunity, but not all of us would survive the voyage there.

I remember some nights so vidily, and others like a distant memory.

My father, and my two older brothers left when I was three. Seven whole years ahead of my Mother, my sister, my twin, and I. They wanted to make some money before we came, in hopes of getting a head start.

I hardly remember my Father or older brothers from our home land, Italy. Mother told us their names though.

My father's name was Antonio.

My eldest brother's name was Matteo.

My other brother's name was Giovanni.

Matteo was eight years older than me, and Giovanni was six years older than me. Father was twenty eight when he had my twin and I. Mother was Twenty six.

Nonetheless, the three of them left us in Italy.

Mother, my sister Angela, and my twin Riccardo and I went to follow them later.

Four of us went on that ship, two of us got to America. Mother died at sea, and Angela was kept at Ellis island.

But I remember them so sharply, so painfully. I can remember how Angela was the only one in our family with blonde hair. I remember the way Mother hacked and coughed on the boat. I remember the way they said my name, Bambina.

I remember the way the three of us Bianchi children would sneak up to the docks at night. The way we held our tattered blankets from Italy tight, wrapped around us to keep us warm.

Fourteen year old Angela, Riccardo and I huddled around each other, as I whispered stories to them.

Stories of the land we were going to, stories about princes and knights. Stories of princesses and dragons. Of ogres and shadows.They loved my stories. We loved sneaking up at dusk, getting a taste of the fresh, salty air. And getting a break from the despair of below deck.

The night Mother died at sea was the night my stories dried out. The night my imagination stopped short. The night I realized I had to grow up very quickly if I wanted to make it in America. Even if I was the youngest of the bunch.

At Ellis island, Riccardo and I stayed for a week before passing through, by some miracle. We were ten, and most orphaned children got taken by what Missy called the uncles; she was a girl we met at Ellis Island.

Missy was our age when Riccardo and I met her at the Island.Maybe a year or two older. She quickly told us not to trust anyone who called themselves uncles.

"They'll take you with them, work you to the bone, and take the money you made from it." She hastily explained to us in Italian, her voice thick with a Irish accent. Apparently she learned Italian and English.

We made it through, yes. But Angela was not so lucky. She was shipped back to Italy, due to some growth in her eye.One that was heavily contagious. She must have caught it on the ship here. And by the time she made it home, she would be blind.

Riccardo begged for stories every night, and every night I was out of words. Missy wanted to hear them too. I learned in Ireland, stories were strong there. Her Mother, Father, and brother all told them. But she didn't understand, all four of them made it through Ellis.

Riccardo and I were the only Bianchi's we could find when we got out.

It's been five years, and I still haven't found Father, or Matteo or Giovani. It's been five years and I'm still sleeping on the streets of the Bronx. Five years and I'm still working as a newsie.

Five years since my twin ran away from me, too.

For girls, it's hard to find work. But for boys...You can work at factories, at stores, or, like Riccardo wanted to, as a Newsie.

He could barely make enough for himself, let alone me. He knew it, I knew it. So, a week after we managed to get here, I woke up in our cardboard box alone. Alone, with no Mother, or Father, no Angela and no twin. I left our box in Manhattan as soon as my tears dried out. And I ran. I ran as far as my ten year old legs would carry me, all the way to the Bronx. Where I still am now. A girl who lost her family, who lost her tears,who lost her stories she used to tell, who lost her old name... Knowing how rough it was to work as a girl, I went undercover, as a boy. My name was once Bambina Bianchi. But now, I work as a Bronx Newsie. And the name I had to take was simply Deer.

The ringleader of our Newsies group, Pete, found me and took me in. I was lucky enough to be found by someone who knew Italian.He and the Newsies are my makeshift family. I got the name Deer because Pete says when he first found me, he noticed how large my eyes were.

"Like a deer in the headlights, Bambina.

"You'se looked so scared."

Now fifteen, I remember three new things. Things that aren't smells on a ship. I remember three rules.

To not let anyone other than the Bronx Newsies know I'm a girl.

If I see anyone I knew before being in the Bronx, to turn around and leave.

And last, to save enough money to get a ticket to Italy, and get the hell out of America.