Her sister shrugged, her frail shoulders rising and falling. “I’ll do what I can.”
Sweat beaded on Maria’s brow as she focused on standing upright. The determination in her clenched jaw, the quiet sadness in her eyes reminded Francesca of another time, another world in their bedroom in Capo Mulini. Their father had returned home from the docks one night, reeking of alcohol. He’d raised one fist to Maria and knocked her across the room. She’d smacked her head against a cabinet, and it had taken all of her strength to get up, but she’d risen, managed to stand on wobbly legs, and walked to their bedroom before collapsing on the bed. Tears had streamed down her face, and blood, too, but she hadn’t uttered a word to him. Not even a whimper of complaint. Within moments, she had passed out, blood pooling on her pillow.
Francesca had felt a fury she didn’t know she was capable of that day. She’d wanted to hurt her father savagely, hear him cry out for mercy, but she knew what he would do should she act out her revenge. He would go at Maria again instead of her—out of spite. He knew Francesca loved her younger sister almost more than she loved herself. Instead, Francesca had locked them both in their bedroom and pulled their bed in front of the door to keep her father from barging in again. They’d listened to him crash around the house for a short while, knocking things over and swearing until, at last, all went silent.
Francesca had longed for her mother that night with a kind of desperation that left her hollow. She would always wonder what had happened to Mamma. Perhaps she had simply grown tired of the abuse and poverty and had left them all behind, or maybe something more sinister had happened. The town had been rife with gossip for nearly a year after she disappeared. Maria had been inconsolable with grief. Panicked as she’d watched her sister grow thin as a whisper, disappearing into a dark corner of her mind, Francesca had distracted her with a gift of a stray kitten, instructing her to give the animal a home in the outbuilding of Sister Alberta’s yard. Maria had loved the little gray animal with all her might. Francesca knew their father would have killed the kitten, had they brought it home. It was as if he hadn’t wanted them to love anything, the way he hadn’t and couldn’t.
Francesca led Maria to the deck, her limbs tingling as she took in the commotion of hundreds of immigrants stepping from the ship onto dry land, Manhattan Island at last. The rumble of boat engines and voices mixed with the sharp whistle of a winter wind. Seagulls swooped above the docks in search of scraps, and a fine mist hung around the building tops like a lacy shawl. Buildings that touched the sky. Francesca gaped at their enormity—and their number—and at the city noise that roared like ocean waves in the distance.
As the masses disembarked, the first and second class passengers, who had the luxury of being accounted for and verified on the ship, rushed away, their forms slowly fading from view until they were swallowed by the city. Third-class passengers weren’t so lucky and were funneled into a line to board a ferry that would take them a short ride across the bay to Ellis Island. Francesca lugged their single travel case with one hand and slipped the other hand into Maria’s. She was glad they’d had so few things to bring with them—one spare dress each, a sleeping gown, hair combs, a rosary, a few odd personal trinkets, and, of course, her precious medallion. Less to carry meant less to lose, should something happen. And things always had a way of happening.
She squeezed Maria’s hand gently. “How are you feeling?”
Maria tilted her chin. “Like a shiny new coin.”
Francesca smiled, grateful her sister still possessed her sense of humor. “Soon, we’ll look back on all of this and barely remember the journey. We’ll begin our new lives together. That’s all that matters. Sempre famiglia, sempre sorelle.”
Maria managed a wan smile. “You mean always sisters, always in trouble.”
Francesca giggled and kissed Maria on the cheek. “Not this time. Our luck is about to change.”
Face as gray as the sky, her sister looked like she might faint. “I hope so.”
An icy gale sliced through Francesca’s too-thin coat and dress, and she flinched at the intensity of a cold she hadn’t known existed. It didn’t help Maria one bit to be exposed to the elements. Francesca glanced overhead at an ambivalent sky; the sun played coy as it slipped behind a dark curtain of clouds before sharing its golden face again.
She breathed deeply, trying to calm her fear and put worrisome scenarios out of her mind. Determined not to let her nerves show, she focused her gaze on the front of the line.
A man in a dark uniform with shiny brass buttons and hat shouted, “Next!”
The line moved forward little by little; immigrants met the inspector, answered a question, and boarded the ferry. After a half an hour of waiting, the sound of loud voices came from the back of the line. Many passengers turned to locate the source of the disturbance.
Curious, Francesca followed suit. Her eyes widened.
A guard directed an immigrant man to the front of the queue. “Herold, we’ve got a live one!” he called.
The immigrant yanked his arm away, and his dark eyes shifted back and forth like a trapped rabbit’s.
Francesca pulled Maria closer as they passed.
“Let’s get you accounted for, fella.” The inspector at the front of the line extended his hand to attach a tag to the man’s coat inscribed with a large X.
The immigrant blocked the inspector’s hand. He shouted something in a foreign language and wrapped his arms tightly around his travel bag.
“Sir, everyone has to wear a tag.” The inspector planted his feet several inches apart, as if he was bracing himself for impact. “Do you understand?”
The man shouted again, his eyes darting from the inspector to the other guards gathering around him. Sweat ran down the man’s temples in spite of the frigid air. His clothes hung in rags from his gaunt frame, and an unwieldy black beard covered much of his face. He didn’t seem stable, or perhaps he was simply afraid, starving, and exhausted. Like the rest of them.
“What’s he doing?” Maria asked, exasperation filling her voice. “I need to lie down.”
“Lui è pazzo,” Francesca whispered.
Maria nodded. “You’re right. He does look crazy.”
Cautiously, the inspector attempted to affix the tag one more time.
This time the immigrant threw a punch.
The inspector was faster. He grabbed the man’s hand midswing and twisted it behind his back.
As a cry tore from the passenger’s lips, the three guards standing by pounced on him. He kicked and screeched, at last biting someone, and nearly got away. Swiftly, the largest inspector caught the immigrant around his waist with one muscular arm and dragged him toward the ferry.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” the inspector shouted as he held fast to the man. “But I’ll need another guard to stand by.”