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to cover his ears when Peter went on about divine interventions. Galya’s strength, the generosity of strangers, and Peter’s wit had gotten them this far. The hard work and talent of Tato cutting the stones they sold—not miracles or grace—had fetched them steerage tickets aboard the Statendam . And it would be luck that got them to America in the huge hunk of floating steel. As grand as she was in size, her great steam tower and twin masts had grown ugly from frequent trips back and forth across the Atlantic bringing cargo after cargo of immigrants to America. Besides that, steerage practically guaranteed the boys would come down with some sort of illness; the air was thick with wet coughs, vomit from passengers suffering motion sickness, and other unsanitary filth. The two of them clambered up to the deck as often as possible for fresh air, but these opportunities were few and clogged with first- and second-class passengers.
    On the whole, the journey across the Atlantic was a blur for Jakob, whose eyes only reached the level of the filthy skirts of women and the threadbare, reeking pants of men. So many people were stuffed in with them, they could hardly move. Being stuck in one place caused Jakob’s head to fill with images of making himself as small as possible in the kitchen cupboard back home in Chudniv, but the priority of survival eventually and thankfully forced that memory from his mind. Still, he jumped at every creak and jerk of the ship, and though Peter assured him they were safe, he kept himself close against his brother, never daring to leave him. Peter never dared to leave Jakob either, even when they had to relieve themselves.
    After thirteen days on the ship, Jakob supposed he should have been happy and singing a Psalm with Peter when they steamed into New York Harbor, the enormous Lady Liberty greeting them with her torch held high and spikes upon her head. But he was not happy. His head itched, and he couldn’t help scratching until it bled, along with most of the other passengers similarly infected with lice. So many were terribly sick from the journey, coughing and aching from the cramped quarters, and pale from the horrid smells and lack of fresh food. Worse, Jakob had heard Peter talking to other passengers who were all certain the immigration authorities would find reasons to send them back to Europe. Diseased eyes, a crooked gait, whatever the reason, Jakob knew he couldn’t rest until they’d been cleared at the immigration station.
    The boys were stripped of any dignity or hope left in them before they stepped off the Statendam, as their heads were shaved and they waited naked in examination lines. Doctors probed and prodded them for eye diseases and other maladies. When they were allowed to dress again, the doctors’ assistant used a piece of chalk to write “SC” and “P” on both of their backs, the first indicating their obvious scalp infections, and the latter indicating they needed to be quarantined for possible lung infections before being granted permission to enter the streets of the city and begin the arduous search for work and a place to stay. But their sentence to two weeks in a quarantine house turned out not to be a detriment. As Peter would later say, it was the moment they met their fortune. Less than seventy-two hours before they would’ve been released and shooed into the streets of New York City, they were adopted.
    â€œCome with me,” the head caretaker in quarantine, Mrs. McGafney, said to them one day. She was a fat woman, and Jakob had been intrigued with her from the start, wondering how much a person had to eat to become that fleshy. After all, he hadn’t ever seen a fat woman, since half of Europe and all of the immigrants on the Statendam were starving. Mrs. McGafney was a redhead, and she had the patience of one, too, as she yanked Peter and Jakob from their cots by their shirt collars. Jakob had grown