“Ah, yes, Robert’s daughter,” he replied in German. “It’s nice to see you again, Alma.” He eyed her closely, taking in her form and face, curiosity in his eyes. She squirmed beneath his gaze, knowing her plain appearance didn’t add up to much.
Noticing her discomfort, he smiled, transforming his features to something vaguely attractive. “You’ll be joining the matrons. Mrs. Keller will be your direct supervisor, then me of course, and Commissioner Fitchie.”
“Thank you, for the opportunity, sir. My family is grateful.” Even if she wasn’t.
“Not at all. We need the help. The crowds are large and many of them are needy, as you will soon see. You’ll barely have a moment to think, but the pay is reasonable, especially for a young woman.”
Large crowds and barely a moment to think? It was all she could do not to groan audibly.
When John noticed her expression, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Alma. It’ll be fine. Just remember one thing. The immigrants aren’t the brightest of human beings. Keep them in their place. You work for the U.S. government now, so you are their superior.”
Her mouth went dry. Good God, he made them sound like ruffians.
“Now let’s get you to where you need to be before the steamer arrives. Follow me.”
As they walked rapidly to a room in the eastern wing, Alma clutched her handbag at her side, her stomach as tumultuous as ever.
When they reached the matron’s office, he nodded. “Here we are. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. Good luck.”
She felt a wave of gratitude at his kind offer of help and thanked him. With a last glance at the only familiar person in the building, she joined the stalwart woman with rigid posture standing in the middle of the room.
“Stand with the others.” The matron gestured to a group of women in a line facing forward, awaiting instruction.
Alma looked quickly from one face to the next, taking inventory of who was there, what they wore, the way they stood erect, shoulders back. All ignored her but a pretty blond with dark eyes whose lips twitched into a trace of a smile. It was Helene, from earlier! Grateful there was at least one friendly face in the bunch, Alma felt her shoulders relax a fraction. She wished she’d been more open with the young woman on the ferry ride.
“Smith, O’Malley, Schmidt.” The supervisor scanned her list. “You’ll take the baggage room this week. Jansen, De Vries, and Baker, you’ll take the medical inspections rooms. The rest of you will rotate between the registry office and the detainees’ quarters.”
Mrs. Keller reminded Alma a bit of her mother, both in stature and manner. She wore an apron tied securely over her full figure, not a single dark hair appeared out of place, and her bearing matched that of a militiaman. A well-worn track of worry lines furrowed the skin on her forehead, and a cross dangled from a chain around her neck. She looked just the sort who would spend hours praying to atone for sins—real and imagined.
“I’ll take the registry office this week with our new hire,” she barked. “And you are?”
“Alma Brauer, ma’am,” she said. “Mr. Lambert sent me.”
Her head jerked up sharply. “Mr. Lambert, you say? It wasn’t the Immigration Bureau?”
“He knows my father, ma’am.”
“I see.” The lines on her supervisor’s forehead deepened. “And do you know him well?”
Alma glanced at the girls in line. Every face presented a careful mask of disinterest, except a young woman with mousy-brown hair and a petite frame who glared openly at her. Alma flinched at the unexpected hostility.
“I don’t know him well,” she replied.
“Very good.” Mrs. Keller clapped her hands sharply. “Ladies, hop to it. I’ll see you at lunch.” She motioned to Alma. “Let’s find a uniform for you.”
Alma struggled to keep pace with her supervisor as they darted down the hall.
“You’re to report to me each morning at precisely seven forty-five for your day shifts,” the woman called over her shoulder. “You’ll work night shifts as well, once I put together a schedule. We work in rotation to make it fair for my girls. For the evening shifts, you’re to report to me promptly at six thirty.”
Alma’s steps faltered. Night shifts? She would be spending nights on this godforsaken island? She swallowed a rush of panic and tried to focus on Mrs. Keller’s instructions.
They turned the corner and stopped abruptly. Mrs. Keller unlocked a storage closet and rummaged around inside, producing a simple gray dress, apron, and cap. “This looks like it should fit. If not, I hope you know how to sew. It’s the best we can do.” She thrust the clothing into Alma’s hands.
“Should I change now?” she asked.
“Of course, but let me give you a few quick instructions first. The rest you will have to learn as you go. Are you American born?”
Alma nodded, bewildered by the question. “I have lived here all my life.”
The woman nodded curtly. “Good. Do you speak languages other than English? It isn’t required, but it’s one of the most helpful tools here, as you’ll soon see.”
Alma brightened. “Yes!”
The matron flinched at her enthusiasm. “There’s no reason to shout.”
“I’m sorry.” She smiled for the first time all morning. “I speak German and English, as well as some Italian, and I understand a few Russian words and phrases.”
The matron’s brow lifted in surprise. “You’ll use plenty of Italian and learn Russian quickly. They’re sailing in by the thousands.”
“I’ll practice as often as I can,” Alma said, breathless. “I love speaking in another language. It’s like speaking in code. Like I get to be someone else. Languages fascinate me and—”
Her supervisor crossed her arms. “Are you quite through?”
Heat swept across Alma’s cheeks. Why had she gone on like that?
“I’m sorry.”
“As I was saying, your knowledge of foreign languages will come in handy.” She took Alma’s hand roughly and dropped three flag pins—German, Italian, and Russian—into her palm. “Pin these to your uniform. Matrons have many duties and they vary widely, depending on the day. We are explicitly responsible for helping female immigrants and their children and, at times, their entire families. Do not try to play the hero. You’re not to take any chances, do you understand?”
She wondered what the woman meant by “taking chances,” but instead of irritating her further, Alma nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We take lunch in the dining hall on the ground level between noon and one o’clock, if you have time, that is. There isn’t much time to take breaks. We work very hard here. This is not a job for the weak-minded, or for silly girls, do you understand? Oh, and you may address me as Mrs. Keller.”