As this rosy new picture began to form in her mind, she lost herself in daydreams until she felt a tap on her shoulder. Helene looked quite pretty, even in her uniform. Her iridescent blue earrings sparkled, and she wore a smile.
“Lunch today?” Helene asked. “I heard they’re serving some sort of fish. I’m not sure if it’s edible, but I’m starving.”
Alma laughed. “I’ll brave it today, too.”
“Say, did you hear about that Italian girl? She died here! On the island. Can you imagine dying here?” Helene said, leaning in. “It’s terribly sad.”
Alma felt the smile slide from her face. “Yes, I was there. She was a nice woman.”
“And her poor sister is probably going to be deported.”
Alma nodded but didn’t share anything else. She felt a loyalty to Francesca and didn’t want to talk about her as if she were another downtrodden immigrant passing through the halls that had meant nothing to anyone there. She wasn’t. Francesca’s struggles had surprisingly touched Alma in her short time here.
Feeling the warm rush of emotion spread through her chest, she changed the subject. “Did your parents take you to the concert on Sunday?”
Helene perked up. “Yes! It was fantastic. We went to Carnegie Hall, saw a classic music performance.” She detailed the pieces and the instruments—completely outside of Alma’s realm of understanding or experience—and again, she wondered why Helene worked at Ellis Island if her parents could afford concert tickets.
“Helene, do you like working here?”
She shrugged. “It’s better than having a governess beat your knuckles bloody for not doing your work. I can’t…read the letters on a page. They change shape as I’m trying to read them.” She frowned as if remembering her frustration and confusion.
Alma stared at her, bewildered. “Really? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, it happens, and I can’t seem to learn anything. So I work and it keeps me out of my mother’s hair.” Her friend looked away, and Alma realized she was embarrassed. “We can’t all be prodigies like you, Alma.”
She wasn’t a prodigy, was she? She learned quickly. Maybe faster than most, but sometimes that felt like a curse.
“You don’t want to be like me, Helene.” She smiled. “You make friends easily. I’m terrible at it.”
Helene forgot her embarrassment and grinned. “Hey, do you smell that? Smells like pickled herring.”
Alma groaned. “Not again.”
As they entered the cafeteria, Alma’s gaze fell upon a figure sitting alone hunched over a tray. Something tugged at her heart. It wasn’t Francesca but it could have been, with the woman’s dark hair and worn dress, the hollow cheeks.
It was time to tell Francesca the truth. After lunch, Alma would track her down and tell her what she’d been dreading all day. Francesca had to go home.
14
Francesca tossed her pen on the tabletop. She’d taken to spending most of her time in the Ellis Island library while Maria was in the hospital, and now it was a place of refuge.
Maria.
Her sister came to mind as often as Francesca breathed. Maria, her beloved Maria. The pain came like a firebrand, searing and intense until her body trembled with it. They’d never build a home together, or visit the places in America they’d dreamed about; there would never be cousins and holidays filled with family. Francesca wept, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands, hoping no one in the library noticed her tears. She didn’t want to explain her loss to a stranger, and though she’d seen her fair share of immigrants crumpled in sorrow during her journey, she didn’t want to be like them, felled by despair and need. She wasn’t like them. She refused to be.
She pulled herself together, forcing her attention on the English dictionary and a few loose sheets of paper. Even practicing her English was a welcome distraction. As she wrote row after row of the new words she’d learned, her thoughts turned to Sister Alberta. Her friend would be amazed by Francesca’s sudden dedication. Learning English was as difficult as she remembered, but if she wanted to be an American, she had to try. She was fortunate she knew how to read and write at all. So few in her village could.
She practiced for some time, and as each hour crawled by with no word from Alma, she thought she’d go mad. When would the matron return with news? She’d put all of her hope and trust in the matron’s hands. It was Francesca’s last chance. She had spoken to her only yesterday, but Francesca’s time at the immigration center was rapidly coming to an end.
When it was time for the midday meal, everyone headed to the cafeteria. Francesca followed, though she wasn’t the least bit hungry. Given how little she’d consumed since leaving home, she couldn’t afford to skip many more meals and decided to try. She needed her strength to face the next chapter of her journey, wherever it might lead her.
The cafeteria was crowded, as she’d expected, and overly warm from the crush of bodies. Light spilled from a row of windows on the far wall. Tables stretched across the room. Francesca watched as women stationed behind one long counter served food from gigantic pots, sweat on their brows, to a long line of hungry immigrants that snaked all the way out of the door. The line moved quickly, though, and soon she’d made her way to the front. She gathered her utensils, plate, and tray.
“Hold out your plate, miss,” a woman in the cafeteria instructed her, giving her a stern look. Francesca did as she was told and received a helping of peppered herring. “Enjoy.”
She tried not to show her disgust for the preserved fish and moved down the cafeteria line to the next person, who piled on a scoop of sweetened beans. Next came stewed prunes and a chunk of white bread and, finally, a glass of milk. If this was what they called food in America, perhaps she didn’t want to stay after all. Glumly, she found a seat and picked at her bread.
Soon, she felt eyes on her.
She looked up to see several people at the table staring at her. She glanced down and, conscious of their scrutiny, focused on chewing. When she looked up again, a stout blond man with a full beard said something to her in a language she didn’t recognize. Another man across from him waved a hand at her.
Francesca shrugged to illustrate she didn’t understand them and ate another bite of bread. The man’s volume increased. What did he want? She was minding her own business, trying to eat her lunch. She shifted in her seat and tried to remain calm.
When she didn’t respond, he frowned and pointed his finger at her, releasing another stream of unintelligible words.
Another man approached her, standing behind her with his tray. “Do you speak English?”
“A little,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at a group of people who appeared to know one another. They spoke loudly and laughed, looking almost identical to these men in their strange dress.