The Next Ship Home: A Novel of Ellis Island

“Yes,” he said. “But we’re very near home.”

They raced along the street, putting more distance between them and the gang. When they reached a large red building, Alma and Fritz bounded down a set of stairs abruptly, leading to a door below street level. Francesca ducked after them, trying to catch her breath.

Just as they opened the door, the prattle of gunshots rang out in the night.

Fritz shoved Francesca and Alma inside and locked the door behind them.

Alma gasped in a breath, and Francesca clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.

“Well, that was lucky,” Fritz said, “We got here just in time.”

A stout woman as tall as Alma met them at the door and fired off something in German. Francesca was beginning to recognize the alternating guttural sounds and decisive finish, and the sharpness so unlike like the undulating music of her native tongue.

“They had a gun,” Fritz said in English. He removed his hat and coat and hung them on an already-full coatrack by the door. “Can I take your coat?”

As Francesca removed her coat, Alma said, “Mama, this is Francesca Ricci.”

Mrs. Brauer stared baldly at Francesca. “I’m Johanna Brauer.”

“Mrs. Brauer, hello.”

Alma switched to German, and Francesca tried not to stare at them as their voices escalated, but she could hear the anger in Signora Brauer’s voice. She watched Alma hunch forward as if she were a child being scolded. After another exchange of heated words, Alma’s mother rushed to the counter and filled a large mug with beer. She handed it to Fritz, who accepted it gratefully and disappeared into a back room.

Francesca had the distinct feeling she wasn’t exactly welcome.

Alma noticed Francesca’s expression and patted her on the shoulder. “It’s all right. Let me show you our bierhaus.”

Two long tables ran the length of the room. A dozen or more customers ate, talked, and sipped heartily from their mugs, and a warm glow emanated from the hearth. The rich scent of sausages made her stomach rumble. The bierhaus was clean but cozy, cheery even, and for the first time, she relaxed a little. Behind the counter, a young woman refilled empty beer steins. A much younger girl helped wash dishes.

“That’s my sister Greta,” Alma said. “She’s the next oldest, and Else is our youngest. My brother Klaus is twelve. He’s probably in the back with Fritz, my father, and the rest of Fritz’s friends.”

Francesca smiled at the children. Greta was beautiful, if a little aloof, with her golden hair and fine bone structure, and Else was a round-faced little sprite with missing front teeth and long brown plaits down her back.

“We brew most of the beer ourselves, but we also carry two of the popular brews from Germany,” Alma explained in Italian. “I used to prepare the food every morning, but now that I work at Ellis Island, Greta helps with the cooking chores, and my other siblings help with the cleaning.”

“A big family.”

Alma smiled. “And we all pitch in to make things run smoothly.”

“Please speak English,” Francesca said. “I must learn.”

“This is the main room, and in the back is a private room,” Alma continued in English as Francesca had requested. “Fritz often hosts his friends here.” She pushed the door open and several men peered back at them. Fritz sat at the head of the table, devouring his dinner as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“Are you hungry?” Alma turned to Francesca.

“A little,” she replied, realizing she hadn’t eaten all day. She’d been far too nervous, and with the inspector—she quickly shuttered the image of him. “Yes, very.”

Alma dished up two plates of sausages, potatoes, and a thick slice of bread, and they joined Fritz. The others spoke German, and though Francesca didn’t understand, she didn’t care. She was far too hungry—and too relieved to be here, in the city, in America.

As she drank deeply from her glass, she met Fritz’s eyes over the rim.

He chuckled.

Self-conscious, she put her napkin to her mouth, imagining a giant smear of meat fat across her cheek or a chunk of potato on her chin. She dug into her food again, happy to have such a flavorful meal that was also cooked well. She hesitated before she reached for more bread.

“Please help yourself, Miss Ricci,” Fritz said, amusement etched into his features.

She pointed to his almost-empty plate. “I eat fast before you eat everything.”

He looked at her an instant in surprise and then laughed heartily. “That’s fair. I suppose I’m hungry, too.”

She smiled, pleased he understood her humor.

Alma dug her elbow into her brother’s side. “Can you blame her? She’s been eating in that cafeteria every day.”

“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks,” Francesca said in Italian and started in on a mound of potatoes.

“What did she say?” Fritz asked.

Alma switched to English. He replied to Francesca, and Alma slapped him on the arm. He said something else, and they dissolved into laughter.

Francesca frowned at her plate. Were they talking about her? She hated not understanding.

Alma flashed a smile. “My brother is embarrassed his joke didn’t translate.”

Francesca met Fritz’s eye and said, “You are not funny.”

He roared with laughter.

She warmed to the happy sound and smiled.

“This is true. I’m not funny.” He replied slowly to ensure Francesca understood him.

They finished their meal all the while sharing a little about their family and their lives. Francesca talked about Maria, Sister Alberta, and the seaside village where she grew up, though she carefully avoided any mention of her father and her reasons for coming to America. Fritz might think less of her somehow, and for a reason she couldn’t explain, that mattered to her. Alma translated only what was necessary.

Mrs. Brauer paused at their table with several empty plates leveraged expertly in her arms. “That’s enough fun for now, you three. I need some help.”

“We’ll be right there.” Alma stood, and Francesca followed.

“I’m going to talk to the men for a few minutes, but I’ll help you clean the pots in a bit,” Fritz said, sliding into a seat next to a friend already deep in conversation.

“Are you sick?” Alma glanced from Fritz to Francesca. “You’ve never offered to help me with the pots before.”

He winked and joined the others in their conversation.

Francesca followed her friend around the main room of the bierhaus, collecting dirty plates from customers. After they had scrubbed most of the dishes, she broached the awkward subject on her mind. “Your mother didn’t approve of me staying with you. I can go. Is there some place nearby I might stay?”