A guard joined him, and the two forced the immigrant aboard.
A titter went through the crowd, and the fear in the air grew denser, more palpable. The message was clear: should the passenger receive an X on their tag, they were finished. Not everyone would be admitted to America, even if the ship captains had given them passage. They’d be detained at Ellis Island until they were to take the next ship home.
Francesca flinched as the man howled one last time before he disappeared from view. She wondered how he’d managed to get as far as he had. Now he would be sent back to Napoli at the ship captain’s expense. One would think the captain might be more discerning, but as she glanced at her very pale, very ill sister, she was glad he wasn’t.
The line inched closer, and at last, they reached the front.
“Name, nationality, and number,” the inspector barked at her.
Before Francesca could answer, Maria began to cough, a deep rattling inside her lungs that went on for what felt like an eternity. When she caught her breath, she wiped her mouth, and the moisture streaming from her eyes, with her sleeve.
Not daring to meet the inspector’s eye, Francesca patted her sister’s back softly and offered her the water canteen.
Virgin Mother, per favore, don’t let them send Maria home, she chanted in her head. If Maria was sent away, she’d have to go, too. She would never abandon Maria, not for all the world.
After a deep drink, her sister caught her breath and forced a limp smile. Francesca rested her hand lightly on her sister’s back for support.
“Someone needs a doctor, I see.” The inspector’s meaty face scrunched into a scowl, but his eyes were kind.
“Yes.” Francesca forced a playful grin. “She has small cold. She be better soon.”
His eyes roamed over Francesca’s face, full lips, and the swathe of dark curls swept atop her head. As he looked her over, she sensed, as she often did with men, that he found her attractive and it melted his defenses, even if only slightly.
“Name, nationality, and number,” he repeated.
“Francesca and Maria Ricci, Sicily. 472 and 473.”
The guard cross-checked the numbers with the ship registry and wrote their information on tags before attaching one to each of their coats.
“Go on.” He waved them forward.
“Thank you.” Francesca fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“You handled him nicely,” Maria said as they stepped aboard.
Francesca laughed softly, and it felt good for a change. They had passed the next gateway between them and their new home, but it was not yet time to feel relief. She knew the hardest part was yet to come.
After a short ferry ride across the bay, they docked at the small island, and Francesca helped her sister disembark.
“Brave face, cara mia,” she said.
Maria produced a small smile and squeezed her hand.
The building’s dozens of windows, red brick, and large spires topped with copper domes gave it a formidable appearance, like an imperious guard standing watch over the bay and the city beyond, ever prepared to defend its shores. The rumors Francesca had heard about Ellis Island had frightened her and Maria so much that they’d almost abandoned their travel plans. But these were just rumors, she had convinced her sister, and people enjoyed nothing more than telling a good story. Yet as they joined a line that snaked toward the immigration center, the island’s nickname flashed through her mind.
L’Isola delle Lacrime. Island of Tears.
A gust of wind tore over them, and Francesca wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself. As if the building weren’t inhospitable enough, the weather did its best to rattle them, too.
As they made their way toward the entrance, throngs of men and women clogged the walkway and fanned across the lawn, waving signs and thrusting pamphlets into their faces in a swirl of confusion. Peddlers on boats cruised the shore selling all sorts of foodstuffs. One offered a strange yellow food that curved like a letter c. Francesca had never seen it before, and judging by the short line to purchase it, she wasn’t the only one. She took in the clusters of people spread out across the front walk and the lawn near the entrance, the signs, the unsmiling faces in the crowd. The chaotic flurry of activity and noise. Exhaustion settled over her like a fog.
“It feels like we’re on exhibition,” Maria said softly.
“I know,” she said, stroking her sister’s hand.
As they inched nearer to the door, a group of nuns spotted them and swooped upon them like a flock of seagulls. The tallest sister held a sign that read MISSIONE DI DAMA DI MOUNT CARMEL.
“Miei amici, have you come to America alone?” a round nun with cherry cheeks asked in Italian.
“I… Yes, we have,” Francesca replied, grateful to hear her native tongue. “We’re sisters.”
“Is a relative going to greet you on the island?” Concern flickered in the nun’s eyes.
Francesca paused, uncertain she should share their plans so openly with a stranger, nun or no. She glanced at Maria. Her sister seemed to read her thoughts and shrugged—and promptly fell into another coughing fit.
Registering their hesitation, the nun pressed a pamphlet into Francesca’s hand. “We are here to help you. If you need anything, I visit each Tuesday. My name is Sister Elena.”
“Grazie, Sorella Elena. But I’m hopeful all will be well.”
The tallest nun looked at her then, a hawkish expression in her close-set eyes. “Hope can be a foolish sentiment, signorina. Be smart instead.” She tapped her temple with her fingertip. “See us immediately if you have any trouble. Don’t give your money to anyone for any reason, and ignore any untoward advances. Immigrants—especially women—make good targets.”
Francesca swallowed hard and looked at Sister Elena again, hoping to find something soothing in her expression or some reason to discount the harsher nun’s words.
Sister Elena smiled warmly as her wimple flapped in the wind. “Don’t be afraid, be smart, as Sister Claretta so kindly said.” She flicked a chastising look at her companion. “And remember, we’re here on Tuesdays.”
Francesca nodded, though the tall nun’s advice sounded like a warning bell in her head.
“The line is finally moving.” Maria’s voice was thick with fatigue.
Francesca led them up the crowded walk and entered the ominous building.
Missionary accused of intimidating women at Ellis Island, acting as boardinghouse runner
James Mackle reports. Manhattan Chronicle.
March 10, 1902—Lutheran pastor J. R. Wagner of the Lutheran Immigrant Home was denied access to Ellis Island Friday morning. Mr. Wagner was called in on charges of forcing young women into places of employment against their will. In a detailed report, the minister was accused of accepting funds to funnel ignorant foreign women into “good Christian homes” as servants, as well as running an unsanitary boardinghouse.