“That’s where I was headed,” she replied.
“Why don’t I deliver them for you? I caused the mess, after all.”
He was kind and friendly. And he clearly had a keen mind if he knew all of those languages. She studied his face an instant and then continued sorting through the letter F. “Are you sure?”
“I insist. But only if you tell me your name.”
She couldn’t help but return his smile. “I’m Alma Brauer.”
“Good then, Alma Brauer. Glad to meet you.”
As they sifted through the last of the papers, she wanted to tell him she enjoyed linguistics, too. That she spent all of her free time studying, even on Sundays after church and at the family picnic, and longed to learn more. But they hardly knew each other, and she felt her familiar timidity creep over her.
“That’s the last of it.” Alma gave Jeremy Q through Z. “I should be going. My supervisor is probably wondering what’s keeping me.” In fact, Mrs. Keller was probably purple in the face by now.
He smiled. “Well then, have a fine day. Perhaps I will see you again soon, Alma Brauer.”
She stood and in Russian said, “Good day, Jeremy Kerrigan.”
When his eyebrows arched in surprise, she suppressed a smile, turned on her heel, and walked away.
8
Though the day dawned bright and cold, the days were growing longer and soon spring would arrive, thawing the ground and painting the landscape with color. Alma wondered if she’d make it through spring at Ellis Island. She’d spent the last two weeks learning the various positions, but she didn’t feel less overwhelmed. She’d worked hard all day, helped her mother and sisters in the evenings, and after, stayed up late into the night to study. Working in a shoe factory where she didn’t have to deal with people all day was beginning to look more appealing. Her head throbbed and a light nausea swept over her from lack of sleep. Someday soon, she’d have to negotiate with Mama about giving her time to herself, the way Fritz had when he’d started work on the subway. It was only fair. Alma was exhausted and deserved a break.
That morning, everyone moved about deliberately and methodically at the immigration center as always, like the well-oiled gears of a clock. Alma had been running around, trying to keep up with Mrs. Keller’s demands. As she walked back to the matron’s office in search of her supervisor, she stopped outside the library. A small boy lay on the floor beside the door, kicking and wailing and doing his best to coerce his mother into giving him what he wanted. The woman bent over him, cajoling and pleading, and likely promising him treats she might never be able to deliver, judging by the looks of her ragged dress and dingy hat. The child cried louder, rolled into a ball, and gave his mother his back. Several people had now gathered, waiting for them to move so they could use the library.
“You need to control your child, ma’am,” Alma blurted out, clinging to her last threads of patience. “If he doesn’t stop this behavior, you’ll have to go to the detainees’ quarters, or outside, until he calms down. A library is meant to be quiet.”
“Why don’t you try to control him?” the woman replied, scowling at Alma. She scooped up her son and led him away while he screamed over his mother’s shoulder.
Those waiting entered the library without so much as a look of gratitude thrown Alma’s way.
She exhaled slowly to control her temper. She was tired of Mrs. Keller ordering her about like a child and interrupting her every task. Tired of the starving and needy who filled the center day after day. Tired of people in general. Alma rubbed her face with her hands. She craved silence. Outside the matron’s office, she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. She just needed a minute to herself.
“Alma, you’re just the person I was looking for.” Mrs. Keller breezed through the door. “I need you in the hospital. There’s a larger load than usual today, and they could use our help. Hop to it. I’ll be right behind you with a group who are allowed to visit their relatives today.” She shooed Alma with her hands.
The day wasn’t off to a good start and now this—working in the hospital, her least favorite post. She groaned inwardly, remembering the stench of the sick and the medicines, the way the patients turned restlessly in their beds. She felt so helpless among the ill and dying that it made her anxious.
She headed outdoors, across the land bridge to the hospital, pausing briefly to peer at the bay and at Lady Liberty, framed by a blue sky. At least it was a sunny day. As she entered the building, the odor she’d remembered hit her nose and the brilliant blue sky faded from her mind.
Nurses zipped about from patient to patient, at times trailing a doctor. Alma imagined all the work they must do on the doctor’s behalf—likely most of it. She thought she had it bad as a matron. At least her duties didn’t entail changing bedpans and swabbing wounds or pustules. Shuddering, she continued through the room, nearly bumping into Amy Terrine, the rude matron she’d been avoiding since the day she’d met her.
Alma did her best to ignore Amy and checked in with each of the doctors to see if they needed help with translations or anything else. She assisted a Prussian woman and also a nurse distributing a pile of clean bandages to each of the stations. When she reached the station nearest Maria Ricci, Alma looked down at the young woman, who lay very still in her bed. Her skin was waxen, her eyes ringed deeply with purple and blue, and though her chest rose and fell, Alma could hear the rattling in her lungs with each breath.
She definitely wasn’t better. Alma felt a tinge of regret for Francesca.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Amy called over Alma’s shoulder. “We aren’t supposed to fraternize with the patients.”
Alma wanted to tell Amy to stick it in her ear. Instead, she smiled at her and in a sarcastic tone said, “Thanks, Amy. I didn’t know that.”
Amy returned an equally sweet smile. “Nurse Rose asked if we’d help clean the medicine trays.” She pointed to a series of carts laden with a variety of bottles and medical utensils.
Alma began at the front of the room with a rag and a bucket of soapy water. When the trays were clean, she dried them and replaced the bottles. Those that were empty she set aside so the nurses knew which needed to be refilled.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Amy demanded. “I told you to clean the trays! Now you’ve gone and mixed up which bottles belonged at which station.”
“I thought they’d like to know which needed filling—”