“Sì, Padre,” she said. But she wasn’t contrite, and she would do it over again if she could save her sister. She’d lie again to protect herself. She’d do what she had to do to make her way in a world that too often felt against her. And that was the truth of it.
She shifted on her kneeler. What kind of Catholic didn’t feel sorry for their sins? Was she sorry she had taken the immigrant’s money? She imagined the woman’s expression as she counted the bills in her purse at Ellis Island, the surprise and horror. How she would search her cot and peer at each face in distrust and fury, all the while a pit formed in her stomach because she knew she would never see the money again. This, perhaps, was something for which Francesca was truly sorry.
But she had needed the money more, and the woman had plenty. The stubborn thought asserted itself, quieting her guilt.
“Miss Ricci, are you still there?” Father asked softly.
“I want the things my employer has,” she replied. “The silver spoons and silk gowns, and the pretty little boxes she puts out for decoration.”
“My child, we always want what doesn’t belong to us. Don’t be fooled by Satan’s trap. He lures us with riches, but we’re most content when we are grateful for what we have. When we learn to love what is around us. Now, say ten rosaries for your penance, and reflect on your choices, Francesca.”
She muttered the prayers she knew by heart, but she felt their emptiness. She wasn’t sorry. Not for wanting Mrs. Lancaster’s beautiful things. Francesca would never be sorry for wishing she had more. She was grateful for her job and a place to sleep—she liked it even—but she had dreams beyond it. She didn’t want to rely on the charity of others forever. In their charity, she felt the weight of their command over her. She wanted her own family and home, perhaps her own restaurant one day. Things she hadn’t dared to dream of until she’d landed safely on American soil. Was wanting more so wrong? It lit a fire in her belly. It gave her hope.
Yet as a wave of nausea hit her like a reprimand, her dreams seemed as distant as the horizon.
34
As the Ellis Island ferry chugged across the churning waters of the bay, Alma perched at the railing, gazing out at a sunset that painted the sky in a rainbow of fire. She marveled at its beauty, the way the world seemed to glow beneath its brilliance. Opposite her, the Statue of Liberty was poised and regal, framed by a golden halo. When Francesca had explained how she’d felt sailing into the harbor—the shock of hope as Lady Liberty and her beacon came into view—Alma was struck with understanding that day. She’d never known a sense of desperation the way Francesca had, and Alma had felt, for the first time in her life, the real meaning of gratitude.
She felt it again as she peered out at the beautiful colossus that every immigrant longed to see. Working at Ellis Island had turned Alma’s perspective like a child’s spinning top, and she knew she’d never again be the person she was before, for better or worse. As the ferry drew closer to Ellis Island, she wondered what else lay ahead. The trajectory of her life might be in her parents’ hands at the moment, but not for much longer. In spite of the fact that they’d all but sold her to a man she hardly knew, the thought was a little comforting.
She turned her face to the sun. The warmth of the afternoon hadn’t yet faded, and she wanted to relish every moment she wasn’t inside the immigration center. It would be a long night—her first night shift. She’d held Mrs. Keller off as long as possible with excuses of helping her mother at the bierhaus, but it was Alma’s turn. She envisioned wandering the halls for hours like a ghost, listening to the sounds of the janitors and the night watchmen, and the rattle of the wind against the windowpanes. Shuddering, Alma stepped off the ferry, already counting down the hours until dawn.
Inside, she put away her handbag and watched the matrons who’d worked the day shift gather their things.
“Alma, come here,” Mrs. Keller called as she pulled on a dowdy brown pelisse that did nothing for her pale complexion and graying hair. “Geraldine still has that wretched cold, so I told her to stay home. You’re to report directly to Williams tonight.”
“To the commissioner?” Alma asked in surprise. He usually worked the day shift. And frankly, the thought of being on the island with her boss all night was worse than cavorting with the so-called spirits that haunted the island. He might try to corner her again and pry for information.
“Yes,” Mrs. Keller’s tone was snippy. “He’s assessing the night routines this week. Has to have his hand in everything. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Turning abruptly, her supervisor dashed out the door to make the ferry before Alma had a chance to ask her what she was supposed to do all night.
As it happened, she spent most of the evening assisting the infirmary staff until she grew tired and went in search of a cup of coffee. She left the hospital and began the short walk outdoors to the main building on Island One. The moon beamed from an ebony sky, casting a celestial glow over the landscape and a glittering path of pale light across the water. It was beautiful, if a little eerie. The immigration center loomed large on her left, blocking the view of the sprawling city behind it, across the bay. She listened as the water lapped against the shore in a steady but irregular rhythm. She felt a strange sense of isolation. Knowing the island’s sordid history, she’d been afraid to walk the grounds, but the night brought a silent, enchanting beauty she hadn’t expected.
Best of all, being outdoors meant avoiding the commissioner.
Inside, Alma filled a cup of coffee to the brim, grateful someone on the staff had just brewed it. The rich smell alone invigorated her. As she sipped from her steaming cup, she envisioned life as a married woman with John Lambert in Hoboken. Far from the few friends she possessed, away from Fritz and her family. But perhaps it wasn’t all bad. Maybe she’d enjoy having a family of her own. She liked children immensely, after all. John might be very different from her stepfather and embrace her need for learning. Or maybe she was weaving a fairy tale to placate herself.
After finishing the last of her coffee, she threaded through the baggage room where watchmen stood by the belongings of the detainees, up the stairs to the second floor, and through the halls to the matron’s office. She should check in with the matrons stationed at the detainees’ quarters, but first, maybe she’d sneak in an hour of studying. No one would be the wiser, given how quiet the place was. She’d learned not to leave home without her journal her first week of work, so she might add new phrases to it. Perhaps the night shift wasn’t so bad after all. No one bothered her, the roar of voices had all but disappeared, and the heart-wrenching stories to which she was exposed every day were virtually absent.
As she neared the matron’s office, footsteps echoed behind her and she turned to see who was there. Mr. Williams gave her a short wave.