As the ferry pulled into port, Alma overheard a nurse say that not only had a steamship already docked in Manhattan in the evening after the center had closed and was forced to hold all passengers aboard until morning, but they were expecting a second ship later that day. Alma sighed. One day, she hoped she would acclimate to the fatigue and the noise, to the endless stream of starving, desperate people, but today wasn’t that day. She ached for silence and the peace of home. She’d never considered her home quiet—far from it, in fact—but now it felt like a haven. Wearily, she headed inside, climbed a flight of stairs, and walked past the registry room to the matron’s office. She lined up with the other matrons for their morning check-in and, after, headed to her post. Alma had learned not to become too comfortable in one position. Mrs. Keller rarely let her remain in a post for long.
As the passengers flooded inside, Alma stared at the sea of humanity, overwhelmed. Their voices and coughs, the shuffling of feet and the scrape of their baggage on the floor—it all combined into one great roar against the rafters. The crush of bodies warmed the drafty building until a light haze of hot breath and body odor enveloped them. And this was only one shipload of people. Day after day they came, an endless stream like a faucet left on by accident. She imagined where they might travel to after they left Ellis Island. Another city, or to the country? Philadelphia or Boston? New Jersey? The West? Ruminating on these thoughts, Alma prepared a tray of milk cups and crackers for the children and carried the precarious contents up the stairs to the registry room.
“Excuse me!” She projected her voice, but her words dissipated instantly in the din of hundreds of people moving through the building. Balancing the tray with care, she angled her body away from the crowd. If someone bumped her, she’d make a terrific mess. She was already a bumbler; the last thing she needed was a little help in that direction.
She made a turn through the room, distributing the snacks. As she neared a poor mother with five children, she realized the two older boys were shouting at each other and their mother hissed threats in what sounded like Russian. The older boy ignored her and shoved his younger brother, both crashing into a man behind them. Frustrated, their mother jerked one boy away from the other, but the older son wrenched out of her grasp. The sudden movement knocked the mother off-kilter and she stumbled sideways, hitting Alma’s arm.
Alma lurched forward. Milk sloshed over the rims of each cup and pooled in the bottom of her tray, but she managed not to dump the entire load on the floor or herself. She breathed a sigh of relief.
The mother scolded her sons and boxed them on the ears.
Alma concentrated on the woman’s speech, listening intently to its cadence and trying to pick out some word or phrase in Russian she recognized. She noticed the way the syllables clawed at the back of the throat and rolled into a sensual growl. When she heard the word for children, she smiled broadly. She’d understood something! Proud of herself and excited by the prospect of tuning her ear to a new language, she vowed to add an hour of Russian to her Italian studies in the evenings.
The mother looked at Alma, her eyes contrite, and said something unintelligible.
“Do not worry,” Alma said in Russian. It was a phrase she’d learned from Mr. Chernov, who ran the deli on Delancey Street.
Something like relief crossed the woman’s face. She’d been embarrassed by her children’s behavior. As she unleashed another stream of Russian, Alma stared at her blankly, not understanding a word. Instead, she shrugged and held up a cup of milk.
The mother smiled weakly and nodded in thanks as Alma gave each child milk and crackers. She’d scarcely finished when the nasal shriek she was coming to recognize sliced across the room.
“Alma!” Mrs. Keller staggered toward her, arms loaded with ledgers and a stack of paper. “I need a hand here. Helene can pass out the crackers and milk.”
Helene, the friendly blond matron, made a face behind Mrs. Keller’s back as she took the tray.
Alma bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Perhaps she’d made a new friend.
“Here, run these to the clerk and see them filed.” Mrs. Keller dumped the stack of ledgers and papers in Alma’s arms. “When you’re finished, I’ll need your help with an Austrian family in the game room.”
“Yes, Mrs. Keller.” Alma huffed under the weight of the bundle. Would her supervisor interrupt every task today? Alma had been running all morning, leaving a half-finished trail behind her.
“Don’t dawdle,” Mrs. Keller barked, rushing off in another direction.
Helene smiled. “Would you like to have lunch later?”
“Yes,” Alma said, relieved to have someone to show her around who didn’t feel the need to shout orders or sneer at her. “That would be nice.”
“Great. But you’d better get going or the dragon lady will come after you.” Helene nodded in Mrs. Keller’s direction.
Alma smiled. “I guess I’d better. See you at lunch.”
Helene winked and melted into the crowd.
Alma hurried in the direction of the clerk’s office, weaving around people playing marbles in the halls, a man staring listlessly at a photo in his hand, and a pack of children gathered around a spinning top. Other staff rushed to their destinations as if their feet were on fire. “No time to waste, too much to do” was the silent mantra that seemed to fuel them all.
She turned the corner leading to the clerk’s office—and promptly crashed into someone. The papers took flight and fluttered to the floor.
“No!” she cried, imagining Mrs. Keller’s face. She would have to realphabetize them all. She groaned as she set upon the pages, hating her constant clumsiness.
“I’m so sorry.” A man in a neat dark suit bent to the floor to help.
Noting instantly he was Irish by his accent, Alma glanced at him. A pair of bright-blue eyes looked back at her.
“I can manage, thank you,” she said, sighing.
He ignored her cool dismissal and bent to help her anyway. “It’s all right, miss. I never mind helping a lady in trouble.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. She wouldn’t exactly call herself a lady in trouble.
His ears burned bright red at her laughter. “Please, let me help.” He shuffled the papers into an even stack and began to sort through them. “You look too young to be working here. You must be new.”
“I am, yes.” She made a stack of the letter A’s. “Though I am not quite as young as you think.” She gave him the ghost of a smile. “I’ll be twenty-two soon.”
“You need a cane, do you? Why, you’re practically an old maid.”
Alma giggled. It had been ages since she’d had anything to laugh about. She’d forgotten how good it felt, the warmth bubbling up inside her and the lightness of spirit that followed. She was grateful for it today, even if it was with an Irishman.
“I’m Jeremy Kerrigan,” he offered. “An interpreter in the office behind you, just there.”
An interpreter? But he was Irish. The Irish didn’t care about school and learning as far as she knew. They were tough more than intelligent. Bawdy more than refined. She studied his face more closely. His eyes shone with good humor, his ivory skin was dotted with freckles, and dark waves framed his face. He looked older than her, perhaps around thirty years old or so.
“What languages do you speak?” she asked, trying to keep the surprise from her voice.
“Russian, Croatian, and Bulgarian. English, o’ course. Also a little Chinese.”
He spoke five languages! She should be so lucky. Forgetting her assumptions about him, she felt the first inklings of excitement. “Do you work with the clerks as well?”
“I do,” he said, handing her the letters G through M.