The woman moved toward them swiftly. “Yes, sir, can I help?”
The doctor fired off more instructions to the young woman, who nodded and replied.
Francesca’s heart thumped wildly. What was happening? When Maria began to cough again, this time the doctor covered his face with a handkerchief.
“Sir, I do not understand,” Francesca said.
The woman beside him touched Maria’s arm lightly. Her milky-white skin was sprayed with freckles, and she wore a set of flag pins attached to her blouse. “Hello, I’m Alma Brauer.” Her gaze flicked to Francesca. “You are her sister?”
Francesca nodded, relieved by the woman’s gentle nature.
“Follow me.”
“Alma!” A stout, older woman in the same uniform shouted several things across the room. She waved her arm about and looked furious.
As confusion swirled around her, Francesca tried desperately to remain calm and met her sister’s frightened eyes. She encircled Maria’s waist with her arm. “It’s all right, cara,” she whispered.
The screeching older woman joined them, her blue eyes locked on Francesca like a hawk on its prey. “Are you both ill?”
Francesca shook her head. “My sister is ill.”
The woman assessed Francesca quickly, and she spoke in rapid English, not bothering to try to make herself understood. She said something to Alma Brauer who stood awkwardly beside her.
“Do you know what she’s saying?” Francesca whispered in her sister’s ear.
Maria frowned. “All I caught was the word ‘problem.’”
Francesca forced a smile for the older woman’s benefit, hoping to soften her, but when her steely gaze didn’t waver, Francesca’s stomach tumbled like a rock over a cliff.
“Follow Miss Brauer,” the woman barked. “She will show you what to do.”
“Where we go?” Francesca asked.
“This way,” Alma said, leading them swiftly down the hall, farther and farther away from the registry office.
Francesca blinked away the tears stinging her eyes. She had to be strong for Maria, no matter what. She couldn’t show her fear.
They joined a crowd of female immigrants corralled into a room at the end of the hall where they waited until the older woman from before joined them. She shouted instructions to the others dressed in identical aprons and gray skirts. Francesca stared at their tidy hair and dress, their folded hands. There was no room for error here, no mercy for those waiting to be released. Her stomach churned as she glanced at Alma Brauer on the supervisor’s right. She seemed as afraid of the head matron as the immigrants were, judging by the expression on her face.
“I am Mrs. Keller, supervisor here,” the woman barked. “Take a seat.” She motioned to the immigrants to be seated on the benches along the back wall.
They moved sluggishly to the benches, pulling their children or mothers and sisters with them. One by one, Mrs. Keller asked them questions, scratched something on her notebook, and directed them to a woman on her staff.
“Your names?”
Francesca replied and the woman marked her paper.
When Mrs. Keller said something else, Maria replied weakly. “We no understand. Siamo Italianas.”
“Alma,” the supervisor said, motioning to the freckled matron with the flag pins. “Help me with this.”
“Parli italiano?” Alma asked.
“You speak Italian,” Francesca replied, a flood of relief washing over her. “What’s happening? My sister has a little cold, but I’m not sick.”
“I’m going to take you to the medical examination room. It’s required when an immigrant is ill. Follow me, please.”
Her Italian was stilted and her tone unnatural, but all that mattered was Francesca understood—they were going to examine Maria further, and there was no denying how sick she was. Heart in her throat, Francesca tugged Maria along, stumbling after Alma as they walked through the hall. They joined another smaller group of women who waited in a line along the wall outside what must be the examination room.
One at a time, the immigrants were called inside.
An inspector passing in the hallway stopped to assess the mass of women and made his way over to Alma. They spoke, but Francesca noticed the way he looked past her at the women in line and then at Francesca, far longer than she liked. She met his eye with a hard stare and grabbed Maria’s hand in solidarity.
The examination room door opened and a man called, “Next!”
“You’ll enter together since you’re family, and don’t worry, I’ll translate for you,” Alma said, ushering them inside.
The inspector in the hall slipped in behind them and stood at the back of the room, where two other men clutched a pen and pad of paper.
The room was cold and nondescript with bare walls. Several large cabinets with glass doors and shelving ran along the wall and were filled with metal instruments of some kind. A long, flat table sat in the middle of the room, and two desks flanked it. Heart pounding against her rib cage, Francesca stood beside her sister awkwardly, awaiting instruction.
She squeezed Maria’s hand, and as she did, her sister’s terrible cough reemerged.
One of the doctors strode toward them and touched Maria’s forehead. He frowned, pulled an instrument Francesca had never seen before from around his neck, put it in his ears, and placed a metal disk to her sister’s back. “Breathe deeply, please.”
Alma translated and Maria tried to do as she was told, but she couldn’t inhale without coughing.
The doctor tried listening to her chest again. “There’s fluid in your lungs.” After feeling along her throat and looking in Maria’s ears, he conferred with the other men at the desk, who scribbled furiously, taking down all he said.
“Miss Ricci, I’ll need you to open your blouse.”
When Alma explained, Maria’s eyes widened in surprise. “Cesca?” she rasped. “They want me to undress, in a room full of men?” Another terrible cough followed.
“This is indecent!” Francesca protested in Italian. “My sister has never been exposed.”
Alma placed a hand on Maria’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, they’re all doctors.” Though her actions were mollifying, her expression was not. The matron’s skin had paled even more, if that were possible, and she seemed as shocked as they were.
Francesca shook her head. “No, I’m not going to ask my sister to do something she doesn’t want to do.”
Miss Brauer translated for the doctors.
“If they won’t do what we tell them to do, they’ll be deported,” the inspector chimed in without waiting for Francesca to reply.
Francesca flinched at the word she understood too well: deported. The rumors she’d heard about this wretched place raced through her mind, and her hands began to shake. They must do what was asked of them or be deported, indecent or not.
“What’s it to be?” the doctor pressed. “We’re very busy, as you can see.”