Are you involved in the labor movement?
On the last question, Alma had written anarchist in parentheses. The immigrants had learned quickly to deny they were anarchists, and though it wasn’t illegal to enter the country as an anarchist—yet—there was talk President Roosevelt might soon institute new laws. Now that Commissioner Williams was here, it was only a matter of time.
The husband and wife exchanged looks, and Alma repeated the final question.
“Why aren’t they answering you?” The inspector looked past the family at the long line behind them. “Let’s get moving, or we’ll be here until midnight.”
“Give them a minute,” Alma replied. “They may not understand, or I may have used the wrong word.” She listened intently as the couple spoke to each other, catching a word or two she recognized but nothing more.
The inspector took off his spectacles, threw them on the desk, and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “What are they saying?”
“I asked them about the labor movement, and that’s when they started arguing.”
The inspector’s eyes narrowed. “If they can’t answer the question, then they’re out.” To them, he said, “I’m sorry, but you are denied.”
They looked at the inspector blankly.
“Shouldn’t we let them answer the question?” Alma asked, exasperated. “Let me try again.”
“I don’t care what their answers are. They’re denied. Next!” he yelled.
“Please, that seems absurd not to let them answer the question.”
“I said, denied! Next!”
A man behind them moved around the family to the inspector’s desk and held out a paper. The inspector snatched it from his hand and read it quickly, the Russian family forgotten.
With the help of her notes, Alma explained the situation as best she could to the family, who now appeared even more rattled than before by the inspector’s behavior.
The young wife burst into tears. The husband’s face went red with fury, and in a mixture of very poor English and Russian, he said, “I’m in the labor movement, but she isn’t. Let her pass. My brother lives in Brooklyn and works on the railroad. He will take care of her.”
“Sir,” Alma called to the inspector after he’d waved the single man through. “Won’t you let the wife and child enter?” She encouraged the husband to repeat his reply.
“No,” the inspector said, after he’d heard the man’s explanation. Ignoring their pleas and their tears, he wrote something in his ledger. “Miss Brauer, assist them with their steamship tickets and take them to the detainees’ quarters. They’re to go home on the next ship.”
“Sir, the woman, and clearly the child, aren’t a part of the labor movement,” Alma protested. “It’s only her husband. Her brother-in-law has employment and lives in the city. He’ll come for them. And might I remind you, sir, that being an anarchist isn’t illegal.”
The inspector’s voice went cold. “Miss Brauer, you know how dangerous the anarchists are. If there’s even a chance…”
She knew full well that some were and many were not, but now wasn’t the time for a political debate.
“The child will starve if you send them home,” she interrupted him. “Look at her.”
The inspector glanced at the little girl, whose dress swallowed her frame, and sighed heavily, marking an adjustment in his ledger. “Fine. But the husband will stay for more questioning.”
The woman and child wailed, and even the husband looked as if he might shed a tear. They had a terrible decision to make: return to the wretched poverty where they might all starve to death, or separate and possibly never see each other again, should the man not be admitted. As the husband consoled his wife Alma felt a twinge in her chest. Since she’d started at Ellis Island, her usual logic and beliefs were flipped and spun and turned inside out until she couldn’t understand who she was before she’d been there.
She couldn’t believe the way she’d swallowed her parents’ opinions and ideals whole, and adopted them as her own. Not anymore. Not ever again. Alma saw the same desires and needs as her own painted on the faces of those who swept through these halls. When she felt she could do nothing, tears threatened or melancholy settled over her, and she found herself lamenting a system—and a life—that was profoundly unfair. She wondered how her country could preach about justice and equality when even God had created no such thing.
Alma thought again of Inspector Miller. Perhaps he would have admitted this Russian family for a little money, and would that have been so terrible? She couldn’t help but think there were more important things to consider than anarchism when denying someone entry. She watched the tearful couple hold each other fiercely. Turning away those who were willing to work hard as laborers, something the economy desperately needed according to Fritz, seemed shortsighted.
She contemplated her change of heart toward the immigrants as she tended to her duties. Though she felt some sympathy toward them, she had to admit, the issue was complex. The staff couldn’t very well allow every immigrant who arrived on their shores into the country, so how did they decide who could stay? For the first time in her life, she realized things weren’t black and white, not even the laws of the land. That nearly anything could be justified, given the right circumstances.
She mused over these thoughts for the rest of the afternoon. When at last the arduous day drew to a close, she trudged toward the matrons’ room to collect her things. Mrs. Keller didn’t bother to greet her as she pulled on her coat; she was too busy briefing those who were working the night shift. Alma watched the others flowing into the room, their eyes tired, while she waited for Helene.
“How was your day?” Alma followed Helene to the door.
Her friend sighed heavily and turned a weary pair of brown eyes on Alma. “I guess it was my turn to deal with crazy.”
Alma made a sympathetic groan. “I had to split up a family today. It was horrible. I almost cried myself.”
“Those are the worst,” Helene grumbled, rubbing her neck. “And I have to go to my aunt’s house for dinner tonight.” Her family was German, too, though her relatives had immigrated several generations before. Most of the Bachs had moved uptown to Yorkville long ago, away from the tenements, just as Alma’s family planned to do.
As they walked to the ferry, Alma fell into step beside her. “If you saw an inspector breaking a rule, would you turn him in?”
Helene cocked an inquisitive brow at her. “Who was it?”
Alma recounted the story. When she finished, she was surprised by Helene’s sardonic smile.
“My advice is to ignore it,” Helene said. “We have to do the best we can, pick the lesser of the evils. Have you seen Commissioner Williams cornering employees? He’s on a manhunt because Roosevelt is on his back, but no one is talking. And if you want life to be easier for you, you won’t either.”