Francesca noted the softness in the young woman’s blue eyes. Alma Brauer was the first person in America who didn’t treat Francesca like she was beneath her.
“Grazie. I—” Francesca bit her lip, trying to decide if she should reveal the truth. Soon, the inspectors would discover there was no uncle, but Alma might help her. What did she have to lose now? Everything in the world that mattered to her was gone.
“I lied.”
“I’m sorry?” Alma’s fair brow puckered.
“I don’t have an uncle in Chicago. But I can’t go back to Sicilia. I have to try to find a way to stay…” Her throat closed again.
“Signorina Ricci—”
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Francesca, per favore.”
Alma’s face twisted into a pained expression. She sat on the edge of the bed, resting her hands on her lap. “But you don’t have a choice. Without a male relative—”
“I’ll show you why I can’t go back,” Francesca said. She glanced around the room and decided it didn’t matter if a few sick female patients and a handful of nurses saw her bared shoulders and back. She unbuttoned the collar of her dress and the front panel. Slipping the dress over her shoulders, she turned, giving Alma a view of her back.
Alma gasped.
“My father burned my skin with the rod he used to stir the fire. He set his sights on Maria one evening, so I shoved him as hard as I could. He hit his head on the counter, and blood dripped into his eyes. He didn’t like that.” Her hands began to tremble at the memory, how he’d hurt Maria so often. Francesca wondered if he would be glad her sister was gone, or if he’d regret not having such an easy target. He’d despised Maria’s gentle nature, the way she’d give in to anything seemed to make him all the more furious.
But no one could ever hurt her again, said a voice in her head.
“How could a father be so vicious?” Alma whispered as she looked at the scar twisting over the plane of Francesca’s back. “You were brave. To leave, I mean. I admire your courage.”
Francesca averted her eyes, buttoning her dress quickly. She couldn’t stand to see pity painted so plainly on the young woman’s face. It would be Francesca’s undoing, break her into pieces, steal the last of her bravado and then fling it out to sea. Sister Alberta had been so good at caring for her and Maria, swiftly and tenderly without a word about the wounds at their father’s hand. Within minutes, Sister would tend to the cuts and bruises—the blood—dry their tears, and have them stuffed with sugared lemon peels. Somehow, the nun sensed she shouldn’t discuss the horrible acts. To say them aloud made their father’s behavior more real and gave the sisters’ pain too much power.
“If I return, one day he will kill me.” Francesca’s tone was flat, matter-of-fact.
Alma fiddled with the sash on her apron, chewed her nail, and began to pace. She paused a moment and began to pace again. “I shouldn’t do this. I could lose… Well, never mind that.” She met Francesca’s eye and said, “I’ll try to find a way to get you through inspections somehow. If you will trust me. Can you do that?”
Francesca studied the matron’s face, her skin as white as milk except the freckles dotting her nose. Alma Brauer couldn’t be any more different from her, and perhaps the young woman didn’t even like her, but none of that mattered. Not when Francesca had so few options, so little hope.
She fastened the buttons on her dress, stood, and slowly nodded her consent. “I can do that.”
She had no choice but to take this stranger at her word.
11
The following morning, Alma stalked across the lawn of the immigration center with purpose. She was eager to speak with the Catholic missionaries on Francesca’s behalf but had little time before reporting to Mrs. Keller. Alma didn’t know what she was thinking, offering to help an immigrant break the law. Break the law! She was an employee of the government, yet she was helping a woman enter the country illegally! An Italian, no less. She could be fired—or worse. But Francesca Ricci had put herself in harm’s way, lying for Alma that day in the hospital when she’d pushed Amy, and Francesca had had nothing to gain but more grief. Never mind that the poor woman deserved a little good fortune. Alma had thought of nothing but the terrible scar all evening. She’d awoken convinced she must help Francesca in whatever way she could; Alma couldn’t condemn her to that life.
On the lawn, many groups waved signs to offer the immigrants their services, forming an impenetrable wall of people. She recognized Margaret Ellis of the WCTU and knew a little about the YMCA, the Salvation Army, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, and the Daughters of the American Revolution, but she didn’t know anything about the other groups who helped direct the immigrants upon arrival. Though help was a dubious word. Some truly did wish to help the immigrants, while others were there merely to champion their own causes or prey on the immigrants’ desperation and ignorance. Alma pushed past them, imagining how the immigrants must feel at seeing the hordes rushing around them, speaking in a language they didn’t understand.
At last she spotted a shivering mass of black-and-white-clad women, the tallest nun waving a large sign with uneven block lettering: MISSIONE DI DAMA DI MOUNT CARMEL. She started in their direction as another gust of wind rushed over the crowd. The sign’s too-large face caught the wind, knocking the nun who held it off her feet. The sisters gathered around her, their black habits fluttering in the breeze. They looked like a flock of crows around a fallen bird. Alma watched as they promptly hoisted the nun to her feet and plucked at her clothing, her limbs, and readjusted her head covering. When they decided all was well, they turned their attention to a ferry pulling into the dock. A new load of immigrants had arrived.
She ran the rest of the way, eager to complete her errand before they were all too busy.
“Good morning,” she said, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
“I wouldn’t call it good,” the tall nun who held the sign grumbled. “Spring should be here already.”
“Sister Claretta!” A rounder nun with cherry cheeks glared at the other. “I’ll give you the weather isn’t agreeable, but remember your gratitude. And your manners.”
Sister Claretta huffed, a cloud of warm breath forming instantly in the air. “I’ll remember my gratitude when I’ve had some hot coffee.”
The round nun proffered a smile. “I’m Sister Elena. What can we do for you, dear?”
“I’ve come on behalf of a young woman named Francesca Ricci,” Alma said. “She’s from Sicily, speaks some English. Her sister has just died.”
Sister Claretta’s scowl softened. “Here on the island?”
Alma nodded, remembering Francesca’s hollow eyes.
“God rest her soul,” Sister Elena said, making the sign of the cross. “Does she need us to say prayers over the body?”
“A priest was called and the body will be buried soon. Truthfully, I’m here to ask about how I might help Francesca enter the country.”