Alma waved at the little boy, who smiled shyly and tucked his face into the fold of his mother’s skirt. His mother didn’t notice and yanked him forward as the line moved.
Alma circled back along the male line again, studying the passengers silently and trying to guess from which country they hailed. A man with long curls on either side of his ears clasped his hands and unclasped them several times. Shuffled his feet. For a brief instant, he met Alma’s curious eye. Something flickered across his face and then his gaze darted back to the inspectors’ desks, a muscle flexing along his jaw.
Alma paused, a realization dawning. They were afraid. The immigrants clutched their children and belongings like someone might snatch them from them. Fear painted lines across their foreheads, deepened the grooves around their mouths, and their nervous sweat permeated the air. She considered their predicament: abandoning their homes, their loved ones and friends, and perhaps fleeing some unmentionable atrocity. God knew what they had been through before they had decided to sail for America. Here, at Ellis Island, all of their fright, courage, and—most of all—hope funneled into this one moment: passing through the registry office to the stairwell, the exit to their freedom, and to possibilities of which they could only dream before now.
An unexpected wave of sympathy washed over her. She’d been so nervous all morning, she hadn’t considered what the immigrants must feel, or even considered them at all. Why should she? She wound back toward the female line. One woman wept openly against another’s shoulder. Alma chewed her lip, wondering what she could possibly do about it. But her job was to help, wasn’t it?
“Can I help you with something, miss?” she asked.
The elder of the two women wrapped her arm around the other. “My sister left ’er gentl’man behind in London.” Her British accent was so thick it could have almost been another language. “She’s gutt-ed. But there’ll be other blokes. American ones.” The woman grinned, revealing a mouth crowded with crooked teeth.
“Not like my Peter.” The weeping woman blew her nose into a handkerchief.
“Will you stay in the city?” Alma asked.
The older sister shook her head. “Soon as we meet our bro-ver at the train, we’re off to Boston. Away from the barmy man who—” She stopped short as if she realized she might be saying something she shouldn’t. “We’re happy to be here is all, miss. Free to do as we please.”
“Well, good luck.” Alma moved along the line, her mind churning.
Free to do as they pleased. Freedom.
She hadn’t given the word much thought before. What freedom was there in working in a factory—or a brothel—living with too many people cramped inside a very small apartment, scraping by on meager wages? There might be opportunities in America, but there were no guarantees. Alma wondered if she would risk so much, give up her home, possibly even her family, for the chance at a dream. It was an intriguing thought.
“Alma! Come here!” Mrs. Keller screeched, motioning her to a line where the doctors were conducting their initial exams.
Relieved to see her supervisor at last, she maneuvered swiftly through the crowd. “Yes, Mrs. Keller?”
“Show these women to the holding room. They’ve been flagged and need a thorough medical exam before inspection.”
“Yes, Mrs. Keller,” she said, regarding the two young women, both with dark eyes and curls and olive skin. Pretty if poor, and too thin. One of the sisters looked as if she was about to lose the contents of her stomach. Alma touched the woman’s arm gently. “I’m Alma Brauer. Follow me.”
The sister who seemed well nodded and slipped an arm around the other’s waist.
Things didn’t look good for them. Alma hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to tell them the bad news.
6
Inside the immigration center, a blast of warm air enveloped Francesca. She breathed a sigh of relief. Maria’s hands had turned icy, and she looked weaker by the minute. Francesca slipped her free arm around her sister and watched the crowd amassing inside a large open room. Some joined a line that wound up the staircase while others filed to a podium where watchmen collected trunks and larger baggage. Still others loitered near food stalls on the back wall.
A burly guard pushed his way through the throngs and waved his arms overhead.
“Everyone must have a medical exam!” he shouted, shepherding them forward. “Leave any large baggage on the first floor, and follow the line upstairs to the registry room. Women and children, join the line on the left, men on the right.”
Francesca put together enough of what he’d said to get the gist and joined her sister in the queue leading upstairs. “Ave Maria, look at all of the people.”
Her sister grimaced and brought a hand to her forehead. “I’ll never make it, Cesca. I need to sit down.”
She squeezed Maria’s hand. “Just a little further and I’ll see about a doctor, I promise. You can do this.”
Francesca didn’t voice her fear: bringing too much attention to Maria’s illness might give others cause to deem them unfit to enter the country. Her thoughts and worries twisted and turned over until she felt as if she’d go mad. If only the line would move faster.
When they reached the second floor two hours later, she heaved a sigh of exasperated relief. At last they could see the inspection stations. She stared at the enormous arched ceiling and the rows of benches, every last seat filled by someone waiting for their turn. A great cacophony of excitement and fatigue, and a palpable tension flowed around her. They all wondered if they’d be able to enter the country or instead, be packed up and shipped off. She turned her focus to Maria’s grip to keep her grounded.
Ahead, a group of doctors skirted along each line, stopping to inspect every immigrant who entered the hall. When it was their turn, Francesca held her breath.
“Hello, I’m Doctor Smith. Your name?”
“Francesca Ricci, and this is my sister, Maria.”
The doctor did a quick examination of Francesca’s scalp, hands, and skin. “Stand very still.” He leaned in, extending a metal rod with a hook on the end toward her. “I’m going to look into your eyes.”
He touched her cheek with cold fingers.
She flinched.
“Do not move.” In a swift movement, he pinched her eyelid between his thumb and forefinger, tucked the edge of his tool beneath the lip of her eye, and flipped up the flap of flesh to look inside.
“Oh!” She pulled away, shocked by both the pinch and the nearness of the doctor.
He conducted the same tests with Maria’s scalp and skin, her eyes, studying Maria’s movements closely. “Now, turn to your left.” He used his finger to indicate the motion.
Maria turned—and swooned, crashing backward into Francesca.
Francesca caught her and cradled her sister’s head against her shoulder. “She has a cold. She needs bed for some days, but she—”
“I can see that,” he interrupted.
His steely tone sent her stomach plummeting. He rattled off some instructions, all the while frowning and motioning to a woman who stood in the wings.