Amy placed her hands on her hips. “So you thought you’d take it upon yourself to make a decision that isn’t yours to make? What if they used the wrong bottle on the wrong patient? You think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you. I knew that the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re so aloof. Speak all of those languages like you’re some kind prodigy or something. You talk down to the rest of us.”
Alma frowned. She talked as if she read a lot of books, with proper vocabulary, was all. She couldn’t help it if this woman felt insecure about that. Alma thought of the suitors her parents had brought around the house. They’d always been threatened by a woman who knew too many things, who could speak to a wide variety of topics. Frustrated, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you talking about? I’ve never spoken to you outside of the most basic communication for our duties.”
“It’s the way you look at us. You never talk to any of us.”
Alma’s stomach clenched. Did the others feel this way, too? Did Helene? Alma didn’t think so; Helene had always approached her first. Regardless, Alma had never intentionally given anyone the cold shoulder. She was just a little timid and quiet-natured, and completely inundated by the sheer number of people with whom she came into contact each day. Perhaps she needed to put in more of an effort to be friendly. The thought only exhausted her more. “That wasn’t my intention. I—”
“I really don’t care,” Amy said. “Just return the bottles to their rightful place or you’ll be in for it.”
Flustered, Alma gathered the bottles she’d set aside and began putting them back on what she hoped were the right tray. She reddened as she realized Amy was right. She couldn’t remember which bottles went where.
Amy, meanwhile, stood with her arms crossed, glaring at Alma.
When Alma reached for the last bottle, she stared at it a moment, trying to remember where it had come from, and at last set it down on the tray stationed beside bed number three. That was it then. She blew out a breath and reached for the bucket of soapy water.
“Now, empty the bucket and clean it out.” Amy gave her a light shove toward the sink.
Water slopped over the edge onto the front of Alma’s dress and ran down her legs, soaking her hosiery.
Something inside her snapped. She dropped the bucket, whirled around, and shoved Amy back.
The matron’s eyes widened as she stumbled backward, knocking into a large bottle of iodine behind her.
Alma watched in horror as the bottle tipped and crashed to the floor, shattering to pieces. The brown liquid that had once been inside it oozed over the tiles.
“Good going!” Amy hissed.
“You pushed me first,” Alma protested—and cringed. She sounded like her brother Klaus after he’d just whopped Else on the arm. She looked past Amy and saw that Mrs. Keller had arrived, escorting a group of immigrants from the detainees’ quarters for visitation. Worse still, Francesca Ricci had slipped in sometime before them without permission and had gone unnoticed, but now, she stared at Alma. She’d seen Alma’s terrible behavior.
Alma ducked her head, her anger draining away. Where had that come from? She should have ignored Amy, who seemed generally grumpy all the time. Quarreling with that woman wasn’t worth getting into trouble.
As Amy clambered to her feet, she started in on a barrage of insults but not before Mrs. Keller and a nurse made a beeline toward them.
“What is going on here!” Mrs. Keller said, crossing her arms. “Amy, go to the registry office at once.”
Amy tossed a scathing look at Alma and headed straight for the door.
When the matron had disappeared from view, Mrs. Keller took Alma by the arm. “You’ll only get a couple of warnings, and this is one of them. Do you hear me? I can’t have my girls destroying property and wasting the medical staff’s time. And the very last thing I need is to have my girls bickering amongst themselves. We have work to do! Is that clear?”
Alma blinked rapidly against the tears pricking her eyes. She wanted to hide in her bedroom, under the covers, away from this infernal place.
“Pardon me, signora—madam.” Francesca stood at Alma’s elbow. “Miss Brauer did not break medicine. I did, and they shout at each other. I’m very sorry.”
Alma’s mouth fell open and she started to protest, but Francesca shook her head slightly, silencing her.
“Well then,” Mrs. Keller snapped. “You’d better watch yourself in the hospital, or you won’t be permitted to return. The medicine is very expensive.”
“Yes, I am sorry.” Francesca’s tone was contrite, but her eyes were steely. She didn’t like Mrs. Keller much, that was clear.
Alma didn’t understand. Why would Francesca help her? She had nothing to gain by it but scorn.
A doctor motioned for Mrs. Keller to join him, and she skated quickly to his side, the incident of the iodine bottle forgotten, at least for the time being.
Francesca looked at Alma, her dark eyes turning soft, but said nothing.
“Thank you,” Alma whispered. “I’m so tired, and I—I don’t know what came over me. I… Why did you lie for me?”
In Italian, Francesca replied, “Sometimes we need a little help, sì? And you were kind to my sister.”
Alma hadn’t been kind, she’d been matter-of-fact, efficient like always, and as she looked upon this immigrant woman who had sailed so far from home with so little, and who still put herself at risk for another person she hardly knew, Alma felt ashamed of her own behavior from the morning and over the last weeks. At her lack of compassion for what the immigrants must endure, both in their own countries and here, at the center and beyond. The tears she’d managed to hold back all morning filled her eyes.
“I’d like some time with Maria,” Francesca said softly.
“Of course.” She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
While Alma cleaned up the mess she’d made, she watched Francesca Ricci dab her sister’s brow with a cloth and pray beside her bed, from a distance.
9
Francesca slept poorly in the detainees’ quarters, just as she had on the ship. Women packed into row after row of metal bunks suspended over each other that squeaked with every movement. But she didn’t complain. At least she had a warm, dry place to sleep, even if she was being held against her will, trapped at the border in some in-between existence while Maria recovered. Only, her sister’s health didn’t appear to be improving. In fact, the last time Francesca saw her, it had taken all of her self-control not to weep. She scrubbed her face in the communal sink and pulled on her cloak. She’d have another chance to visit Maria that morning, but she dreaded what she would find.
She trudged through the center and made her way outdoors to the hospital, a matron at her side. She weaved through the hospital beds, her legs filled with lead. When she reached Maria’s bedside, she sat and stared bleakly at her sister’s ravaged frame. How could everything have gone so wrong? The voyage across the ocean was perilous for Maria’s health, the medical exam humiliating, and now Francesca wasn’t sure the inspectors would allow them to enter the country after Maria’s recovery. Francesca rested her forehead against her sister’s arm. But Maria’s health came first, above all else. If Francesca lost her—