Francesca nodded at Maria. “We don’t have a choice, cara.”
With effort, Maria unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a worn corset barely able to do its job. With her breasts exposed, the doctor placed his instrument on her heart. She startled at his touch and looked as if she might swoon again. The doctor held her arm to steady her.
“It’s all right,” Francesca said. “I’m here.” She glanced at Alma, whose cheeks blushed as red as cherries.
The doctors spoke rapidly, wrote a few things down, and at last, Maria was given the order to get dressed.
“We’ll have a look at you next, miss,” the doctor said to Francesca, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper from his notebook.
When Alma translated, Francesca stepped backward. This was absurd. She wasn’t even sick! She glanced at each of the men and met the eye of the inspector, who bared the smallest hint of a smile. He wanted to send her back to Italy, the bastard. Furious that she had no choice, she hastily unbuttoned her blouse. It wasn’t the first time she’d been naked in front of a man, but she had chosen when to trade her body for something she wanted. It had happened only twice before and she had no regrets. She’d learned a few things in the process, and knowledge was something she was beginning to respect.
As the doctor went through the same series of tests, she willed her face to go blank. To trade a horrible life for a new one was worth it. This moment was inconsequential in the end. She looked from one doctor at the table to the other, and finally the inspector. He was the only person who would meet her eye. He studied her so intently he seemed to be considering her character. Perhaps that was something inspectors must do: decide if the immigrant was worthy of entering their country, based on the shape and size of their breasts. Based upon their reactions to indecent probing. She felt like a zoo animal on display.
Before being given permission, she swatted the doctor away and buttoned her blouse. “I am well.”
He regarded her sternly but didn’t protest. After writing a few more things, he gave the paper to Alma.
The matron visibly relaxed and led them out of the room. “We’ll need to check in with Mrs. Keller again, now that the examination is finished. This way.”
The muscles in Francesca’s shoulders eased a fraction even as Maria leaned heavily on her. They took slow, measured steps back to the holding room. As they entered, the supervisor took the sheet from Alma, glancing briefly from Francesca to her sister, and wrote something down on her list.
“I just have a few more questions for you,” Mrs. Keller said. “Why did you come to America?”
“We must leave Capo Mulini,” Francesca replied. “Leave Sicilia.”
The matron nodded. “And why is it you had to leave?”
“My father… I… Family problems. We go to America, far from Sicilia.”
“Are you waiting for a male relative to meet you? A brother or uncle, a fiancé perhaps?”
“No.”
The woman asked something else.
Francesca frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Another immigrant waiting for inspection snickered, and in Italian she said, “She wants to know if you’re a whore.”
Francesca blushed hotly. “No!”
Mrs. Keller nodded. “Very good.” As she continued too quickly in English, Francesca looked to Alma to translate.
When the questions were finished, the woman nodded. “Well then, I’m afraid we’ll have to send you home, Miss Ricci. You can’t enter the country without either a male family member to greet you or an employment letter.”
Francesca felt her insides sliding like jars on an uneven shelf. She glanced at Maria, eyes wide, no longer trying to cover her panic. Her sister’s graceful features crumpled and she began to weep.
Francesca couldn’t bear Maria’s anguish. She bit her lip, holding back her own tears. There had to be another way.
“We have uncle in Chicago.” Francesca spit out the lie before it fully formed in her mind. She hadn’t the slightest idea how far away the city was and how much time it would buy her. The only thing she knew about Chicago was that other than New York, many Sicilians had emigrated there. “Nico Ricci is my uncle,” she continued. “I send letter so he meet us.”
“You should contact him immediately,” Alma replied.
“Send a telegram today,” the supervisor demanded.
In Italian, Alma added, “Better be quick about it. It may take some time for your uncle to travel here to meet you.”
“Thank you.” Francesca swallowed her panic. It would buy her time to think of something else, some other means to stay in the country.
Mrs. Keller said something to Alma, who glanced from Maria to Francesca, uncertain. The reply to Alma’s hesitation was sharp, and the young matron’s face drained of color. She scurried quickly to Maria’s side, joining another matron, each taking one of Maria’s elbows.
In an instant, they shepherded her sister toward the door.
“Where you take her?” Francesca shrieked and raced to catch up with them.
“Cesca!” Maria called over her shoulder. “What are they doing?”
“Where my sister go?” Francesca demanded, fear seizing her chest. “Where she go, I go!”
Hands gripped Francesca’s shoulders. When she shook them off, a second matron joined in, dragging Francesca backward.
“Maria!” she cried, attempting to wrestle away. “I’m coming! I’ll find you!” They wouldn’t send her sister home to Italy without telling her, would they? The thought was all the impetus she needed. With all her strength, Francesca shoved the women off and dashed after her.
Maria’s sobs echoed in the corridor. “Cesca!”
Pain tore at Francesca’s heart. “I’m here. I’m coming!”
When only an arm’s length between them remained, hands closed over Francesca’s arms on either side once again.
“Calm yourself!” a matron said in Italian, wrenching Francesca toward the holding room. “Your sister is going to the infirmary, where she’ll get proper care. You’ll have a chance to visit. We need to limit contagion. This is for your safety, too.”
Tears gathered in Francesca’s throat. “But I can’t leave her. She needs me.”
She didn’t voice aloud a terrible thought worming its way into her head—that she didn’t know how they would treat Maria once out of her sight.
“We’ll take good care of her,” the woman replied. “Now, follow Mrs. Edgars. She’ll get you set up in the detainees’ quarters, where you can rest.”
Francesca cast a look over her shoulder at Maria’s retreating form and imagined her sister’s forlorn pleas, the fear in her eyes. She couldn’t bear it. She stumbled blindly as she was led away, trying to get a hold of herself, but it was no use.
Not knowing when she’d see Maria again, or how long they had before they’d be thrown out of the country like garbage, Francesca felt her tears, at last, broke free.
7