During the sixty-odd years Ellis Island was open for business, more than 15 million immigrants passed through its doors. By the early 1950s, the number of people entering the United States had dwindled to the point where the General Services Administration declared Ellis Island was “surplus to the needs of the federal government” and closed the facility.

For more than twenty years, the island’s structures lay fallow. Roofs leaked, pipes burst, machinery and furniture rusted in place, plaster ceilings collapsed, and vandals made off with copper pipes and decorative details. Various schemes to develop the island were floated, but Ellis Island’s future remained in limbo until 1982, when Lee Iacocca - whose parents had passed through the island - was chosen to head the Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation.

Funded by private donations, the Ellis Island Immigration Museum opened in 1990. When Clive learned an immigrant’s name could be memorialized on the Wall of Honor for a donation of $150, he added Eric Cussler’s name to the list. Today, the wall, with more than 700,000 names, is one of the museum’s most popular exhibits.

In 2004, Clive was in New York for a meeting with his publisher. Finding he had an afternoon free, he decided to visit Ellis Island. While searching for his father’s name on the Wall of Honor, Clive struck up a conversation with a National Park Service employee. After Clive told him the story how his father conned his way into America by pretending to be a piano player, the young fellow suggested he should stop by the museum director’s office because he was always interested in personal recollections.

After hearing Clive’s story, the director thanked him for stopping by and suggested Clive would be remiss if he left without visiting one of the displays on the second floor. Clive climbed the stairs, walked down the hall and entered a room filled with artifacts, including a battered upright piano encased in glass. “I realized why the director sent me up there,” Clive says. “That piano was the same one my father played in 1924. I’ve always wondered what kind of courage, or terror - probably equal parts of each - it took to pull that off. I stood there, crying like a baby.”

A few minutes later, Clive turned and walked out of the hall, leaving behind the faded melody of a long forgotten German marching song.