Alma watched the exchange between the sisters, a stone in her throat. She hated this job. Watching sisters be separated, sending people home as their hopes were destroyed. How was she to stomach it day after day? This was her new life, and her stepfather’s doing. He’d banished her here, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to change it.
Per Mrs. Keller’s instructions, she led the sickly Maria Ricci to the new hospital, though she didn’t know what to do from there. She’d have to make things up as she went.
They exited the main building, wrapping their overcoats tightly around their shoulders against the cold, and walked the distance to the narrow land bridge that connected newly constructed Island Two to the main island. Much of the area was still under construction, and Alma had heard plans were already in place to build a third island. When she’d learned the original hospital was a ferry permanently docked at the entrance to the main building, she’d been horrified. The ship must have rocked on the waves, day in and day out, making the terribly ill passengers worse. At least now there was a proper facility where the sick could recover.
As they walked around a mound of dirt, Maria stumbled on a loose rock. Alma caught her arm and steadied her, supporting the bulk of her weight. “Are you all right?”
Maria grunted and paused to catch her breath. “My sister. Where are they taking her?”
“It’s all right, Miss Ricci. Your sister is being shown to her sleeping quarters. There’s no need to worry about her.”
Maria’s hollow gaze met hers. “They won’t send her away, will they? Back to Italy?”
“I think it’s best you focus on getting well,” Alma replied, not willing to commit one way or the other. In truth, she didn’t know if Francesca would be sent home.
“Please, help my sister,” Maria implored her. “Without me, she has no one.”
“But she has you,” Alma replied lightly. And how was she supposed to help this woman anyway? Francesca Ricci was one of hundreds Alma had met only that morning, never mind the thousands she would meet flowing through the door each week. It was an impossible request, and she was not prepared to bend the rules, especially as a new employee. Especially for an immigrant.
When Maria said nothing, Alma added, “She has your uncle in Chicago, too.”
“Yes, my uncle,” Maria said, voice flat.
Alma’s brow raised at her tone. She wondered if there really was an uncle. She cast a sidelong glance at Maria, taking in her pallid skin and withering frame, and wondered how this young woman on the edge of death still worried more for her sister’s welfare than her own.
When they reached the hospital, a nurse met them at the door and shifted Maria into her arms. Relieved, Alma gave the nurse what limited information she had from the inspection.
“Miss Brauer”—Maria lay a bony hand on Alma’s shoulder—“do you have a sister or brother? What would you do for them, if they needed you? If you were all they had in the world. I’m begging you, please help Cesca get to New York.”
Alma thought of Fritz and petite Else, of teaching Klaus how to play cards, and even Greta and their constant bickering. Should something happen to any of them—should Fritz be hurt on the job site—pain tore through her at the very idea. She nodded grimly. She would try to help, if she could. But only if it didn’t interfere with her work.
Relief passed over Maria’s face, and she allowed the nurse to take her inside.
Despite the wind blowing off the water and the damp cold of a winter afternoon on the verge of spring, Alma walked slowly back to the registry office, Maria Ricci’s skeletal face lodged firmly in her mind.
*
Alma survived her first few days of work and tried to adapt to the frenetic rhythm of her new routine. She learned quickly that the immigration center was nothing more than a long rectangle. The two largest rooms and the majority of the building spanned the middle of the rectangle, and the remaining rooms were tucked into pockets at either end of the building and along its sides. The first floor was primarily the baggage room and a train ticket counter, a currency exchange booth for those who needed American dollars and coins, and a handful of food vendors selling sandwiches and other smaller, easy-to-carry items. The second floor housed the registry room where immigrants were accounted for; the detainees’ quarters, where they bathed and slept; and also many offices for clerks, interpreters, and medical examinations.
As she’d learned while escorting Maria, the hospital and laundry buildings sat apart on Island Two. Alma had been assigned to the hospital wing only once so far, and she was glad of it. She’d watched the sick struggle for breath or battle aches in their limbs and felt, for the first time in her life, completely helpless, smaller even than the quiet, plain barmaid she’d been raised to be. The sight of the ill and dying had followed her home that night and crept into her dreams, and she’d awoken with one thing on her mind—the Ricci sisters.
Alma rubbed her tired eyes and peered across the bay through the ferry window. After her conversation with Maria, Alma knew Francesca was lying when she’d said she had an uncle in Chicago. The sisters were alone. Alma decided she had nothing to gain by trying to help these women, no matter what she’d agreed to. Maria’s health had not improved—Alma had seen it for herself in the infirmary yesterday—and if she were to…not make it, Francesca would be deported immediately after her sister’s passing.