“You’ll stay here,” Alma said firmly. “Don’t worry about Mama. But I must forewarn you, we have no space upstairs in the apartment. All of the beds are filled, and there is a pallet on the floor for two of my siblings. You would have to stay here, in the bierhaus. I have one extra blanket, and we can make a pillow out of towels for you. If you wear your overcoat over your nightgown, you should be warm enough.”
Francesca squeezed Alma’s sudsy hand with her own. “I don’t know how to say thank you.”
Alma beamed. “Having a new friend is thanks enough. Let’s finish up here and find that blanket.”
20
Alma was glad to see the customers in the bierhaus disperse. It was uncomfortable watching the men stare at Francesca as if she polluted the very air they breathed, and Alma didn’t quite know what to do about it. She suddenly felt responsible for Francesca—protective even—and wanted to help her ease into her new life.
Mama went upstairs to go to bed, and Robert started behind her but paused, turning on the step.
“Girl, you looked a mess with that filthy apron and your unkempt hair. Don’t forget you represent me and my establishment. I’ll not have my daughter running off customers because she’s ugly.”
Alma’s cheeks flushed hotly. He’d never come out and said she was ugly, not directly. What was worse, he’d scolded her in English instead of German, probably in the hopes Francesca would understand it. He had always done his best to embarrass her and to remind her of her place in the household—at the very bottom. He seemed to take satisfaction in exerting a sort of cruel power over her, demanding her obedience even if he directed her in a mean-spirited way. But what could she really do about it?
“Yes, Father,” she managed to say.
When he’d gone, she met Francesca’s eyes. The young woman looked away quickly, pretending not to have understood the exchange, and Alma’s flush deepened.
They didn’t go to bed right away and talked well into the night, sharing more about their families, the story of how Alma came to work at Ellis Island, and speculating about Francesca’s new employer.
The morning came too soon.
Alma prepared for work rapidly, and after a quick breakfast, she and Francesca walked with Fritz to the train. Alma, now accustomed to the ride to work, no longer needed her brother to walk with her and enjoyed the taste of freedom, the freedom of being on her own, but today, she wanted to make sure Francesca knew her way to the Lancasters’ home on Park Avenue. They rode uptown and, after, walked the remaining blocks from the station to the Lancasters’ address. As the sun rose, the city came alive. Forsythia had begun to bloom in clouds of bright yellow in the small garden plots throughout the neighborhoods, and the rare patch of grass was sprinkled with green. Alma was grateful for the color seeping back into the landscape. Winter had never felt so long.
Birds had begun to nest in the row of trees along the street, their song accompanying the sounds of the city, the hum of industry awakening to another day. Alma wondered what Francesca thought of New York and considered how different it must be from her home. Alma had never given thought to how an immigrant must feel making their way through a place like Manhattan, or beyond, into a country of which they knew little.
“I have a day off from work on Sunday,” Alma said. “Perhaps I can show you more of the city, and maybe introduce you to Father Rodolfo. He’s the priest who taught me how to speak Italian. Fritz is off work, too.”
He shot her a warning look. “We have the family picnic. And I’m meeting friends at the park, too.”
“She can join us,” Alma said, voice light. Many of the German families in their neighborhood met at Tompkins Square Park every Sunday from early spring through late fall. They brought food to share, kicked a ball or played cards or chess, and watched the world go by as they enjoyed their day of rest. The ground had thawed, in spite of the enduring cool air. Happy daffodils had already sprouted and gone, and tulips flaunted their elegant petals. By noon, the lingering nighttime chill was mostly gone. It would be a perfect weekend to begin their picnicking season.
Francesca looked hesitantly at Fritz before replying. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“You won’t be intruding,” Alma and Fritz said simultaneously. Alma glanced at her brother, eyebrow raised. He’d sure had a quick change of heart.
Francesca smiled. “Molto bene. I go to your picnic.”
“Good,” Alma replied, returning her smile. Perhaps she’d introduce Francesca to Father Rodolfo another time.
As they arrived at the train station, Alma glanced at her new friend, who stood nervously, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Alma was suddenly glad she didn’t have to work for such a wealthy family, in a new city, in a new country.
“It’ll be great,” Alma said with an encouraging smile.
“Mr. Lancaster is a real gentleman,” Fritz said. “I think you’ll like him as a boss.”
Francesca nodded, but Alma could tell her friend didn’t really grasp everything he’d said, so she translated. “Of course you can stay with us, too. We’d be happy to have you until you’re able to go to the convent.”
In German, Fritz said, “Mama is going to kill you.”
“She’s done nothing but be helpful and polite,” Alma replied. “And she slept on the floor in the bierhaus! It’s not as if she’s inconveniencing anyone. Besides, you keep staring at her. She must not be all bad.”
“I’m staring at her because she’s a stranger living in our house, Al.” He looked past her, pretending to watch a man on his bike who carted a too-large box atop his handlebars, but Alma knew better. Fritz was embarrassed she’d noticed his staring.
Alma rolled her eyes. “You’re staring at her because she’s beautiful. And friendly and spirited, too.”
“You go to work,” Francesca cut in, clearly sensing they were talking about her. “I find my way back to the bierhaus later.”
“Are you sure you can find the way?” Alma asked.
“Sì. Yes, thank you. And thank you, Fritz.” She kissed his cheek and descended the steps leading to the staff entrance of the Lancasters’ home.
Fritz froze, stunned by the show of affection.
Alma poked him in the shoulder. “It’s just an Italian goodbye. Now let’s go, handsome, or we’ll be late.”
They headed back to the train and continued their separate ways to work.
By the time the ferry docked at Ellis Island, the sun had inched higher overhead, brightening the morning sky. Alma left the beautiful spring morning behind and went to the matron’s office to put away her things.
She’d scarcely hung up her coat when Mrs. Keller clapped her hands to gain everyone’s attention.
“Ladies, line up, please!”
The matrons scurried to their places, awaiting instruction. Alma stood next to Helene, who whispered something about lunch and quickly pushed her shoulders back, her eyes forward, as Mrs. Keller made her way down the line. Their supervisor looked more haggard than usual, the grooves around her mouth and on her forehead a map of her fatigue.