Alma had slept poorly in her steamy tenement apartment the last few weeks. The blazing sun had baked the muddy streets until they were cracked and dusty, and every fetid odor imaginable—from rotting garbage to horse manure—mixed with the thick summer air. It was nearly unbearable, until a wind blew in off the water and scrubbed the air clean. The warmer temperatures also brought more ships, packed to the bow with immigrants, steaming across the bay to Ellis Island. They came in droves without reprieve, sometimes numbering up to two thousand people or more in a single day. Alma and the staff moved through their days at lightning speed. When, at last, there was a quick moment for a break one afternoon, Alma tucked her journal under her arm and took a cup of tea outdoors.
She passed the children’s playground and merry-go-round, saw a group of young men about Fritz’s age playing a game of soccer on the wide expanse of lawn, and walked to a quiet bench. She had only a few minutes before she had to get back to work, but she would take whatever ounce of peace she could.
It wasn’t her work alone that had kept her busy, her mind agitated. She replayed Francesca’s encouragement in her mind many times, knowing it sounded right, but Alma couldn’t work up the nerve to end the engagement. It all seemed impossible. For one, her parents would be furious with her. She couldn’t imagine going back on their word in such a way or the damage it would do to their reputation. And she also worked with John—which complicated things tremendously. How could she face him day in and day out, after everyone learned their engagement was broken? It was all a mess, and she let days and then weeks pass without making a move.
Frustrated, she looked out at the water glistening in the afternoon sun. Gulls surfed on invisible wind currents, and beyond them, clouds drifted in clumps of snow-white fluff over the city skyline across the bay, the lowest of them disappearing behind a building face and reappearing as they continued their lazy journey across the sky. She took in a calming breath, pushing the troublesome thoughts from her mind, and flipped through her notes from the morning, studying the new phrases she’d learned. “Hungry” in Russian, “train” in Czech, and “stop it at once” in French. Her Italian had grown quite good, her Russian far better, and she’d begun putting together a little French. Each new series of words, each language, seemed to open a pathway in her brain, and she felt reinvented, as if a new piece of herself had emerged.
Jeremy had marveled at the way her mind seemed to take photographs of the text and, after, perfectly reproduce what she’d seen. But to her, it was more than text or a photograph. Languages were a kind of music. The more she practiced the song, the more lyrics she knew and understood, as well as the people who sang them. To understand them was to help them, and if she could help the immigrants find their way, she could rest easier at night with some satisfaction that how she was spending her busy days was worthwhile. She’d never had a job that held any sort of meaning before, even in small ways. Serving sausages and beer hardly constituted a good deed. She was proud of herself for perhaps the first time in her life. Proud that her hard work brought a paycheck, too.
She gulped down her tea, eager for the rush of a stimulant in her veins.
Her thoughts drifted to Fritz. The way he’d looked at Francesca last Sunday. She knew he was completely smitten with her friend, and Alma could see why. With proper rest, a good home, and friends, Francesca had blossomed from merely pretty to a stunning woman with mischief in her eye and a smile that could derail a locomotive. More than her looks, Francesca was generous and kind, and as her language skills grew, her humor had begun to show. Alma only wished her friend would tell her what was troubling her. She could sense something wasn’t right; she’d seen a haunted look in Francesca’s eyes and was keenly aware of her sudden departure from the picnic a few weeks ago. In fact, Francesca hadn’t returned since. Alma decided after missing her again last week to visit her at the Lancasters’ instead.
A gull landed just beyond her reach. He hopped toward her, looking for a scrap of something tasty. “I don’t have anything for you,” she cooed. “You’re better off near the vendors, Mr. Gull.”
His head tilted as if he understood her, and one gleaming black eye fixed on her face for a moment before he flapped his wings and rose into the air.
“I need to leave, too,” she said, sighing. She’d promised to relieve another matron from her duties in one of the inspection rooms.
She found her way back to the holding room, crowded with women and children. The space was sweltering, and the salty tang of sweat hovered in the air. Alma scanned the crowd for Amy Terrine, the grouchy matron she disliked. They’d worked together all morning, orbiting around each other without having to interact much, thankfully, but Alma could still feel waves of disapproval rolling off of the woman. Commissioner Williams made things worse by floating in and out of the room with his notebook, putting them both on edge.
Alma spotted Amy in the back of the room and headed in her direction. The matron looked like she hadn’t slept well or had a day off in ages. Alma knew she’d made a point to work extra hours to pay for her husband’s medical bills, so Alma had tried to put aside the rude comments flung her way, but it wasn’t easy.
A Russian woman stepped into Alma’s path and bombarded her with questions. Alma held up a finger to signal she’d be with her in one moment when a shriek tore through the air. She glanced at Amy and saw a stout woman with a blue headscarf waving her arms frantically in the matron’s face.
“I told you that isn’t possible!” Amy shouted over the woman in English as if, somehow, the volume would help her understand.
Confused and frustrated, the immigrant began to cry and held up her hand to keep the matron out of her face. Furious at the rebuff, Amy shouted louder. When the woman’s response was to sob harder, Amy slapped the woman—hard.
The immigrant stumbled backward, clutching her cheek.
Alma’s jaw dropped. “Amy!” she said, pushing her way through the rest of the crowd. “What are you doing!”
“Stay out of this, Alma,” the matron hissed. “The only way I could get her to understand was to give her a good whack.”
“You’re abusing this woman!”
Amy’s dark eyes flashed. “I’m not the first one who has had to use force to make a point. You’d do the same.”
“I would never hit someone unless they attacked me!”
“You’re so much better than me, aren’t you?” Amy spat out. “That’s only because you haven’t had to put up with the stupid cattle that come through these halls as long as the rest of us have.”