“Yes, Mrs. Keller.”
The more Alma learned, the more she wanted to leave. But complaining, or dwelling on the negative, wouldn’t help the work go any faster, and it certainly wouldn’t make her any friends—not that she expected to have many. She’d never been very good at it. She’d let her duties at home and her studies fill her time; it was far easier than the risk of being called too dull, not pretty enough, or too strange for being disinterested in the local gossip or who was courting whom. Emma had been one of her few friends, and even then, they’d drifted apart in recent months.
“Today you’ll work with me in the registry office,” Mrs. Keller continued. “We’ll give out snacks to the children, help with inspections, and assist immigrants who need to be detained. The inspectors ask questions, review papers. They’re trying to find reasons to deport the immigrants, you see. It’s often a tense situation and very emotional for the passengers, so you need to follow instructions. We aren’t here to make friends. We are here to keep our country safe from the worst kinds of people. We detain those who do not meet our standards for further questioning or until the next steamer is ready, and send them home immediately. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Keller.”
“Commissioner Fitchie runs the show here. And Alma”—Mrs. Keller leaned in—“stay out of Fitchie’s way. In fact, avoid him if you can. There are a few others you should avoid, but you’ll learn that, in time, on your own.” Her blue eyes clouded in warning.
Alma blinked. What did that mean? “I… Yes, Mrs. Keller.”
“Get dressed in the toilets and meet me in the registry office in fifteen minutes.” The matron didn’t wait for a reply and shot off down the hallway.
Alma exhaled a breath. It was time to get to work.
5
Alma shifted from one foot to the other, trying to decide where to stand. She watched the inspectors diverge and go in all directions, shuffle papers, and verify their fountain pens and stamps had ink. Mrs. Keller had hurled a list of responsibilities at her, led her to the registry office, and promptly abandoned her to tend to some emergency. Alma glanced at the clock. At any moment, the immigrants would arrive, and what should she do then? Her gaze traveled the room once more and rested on John Lambert. He’d seemed a pleasant sort of man at the bierhaus, always had a kind word for her mother, and he’d been friendly with Alma that morning. Well, she would work hard to gain his favor, and perhaps he’d have something nice to report to her parents.
The sudden clamor of people entering the building arose from the baggage room on the floor below. She took in a steadying breath. She wished fervently Mrs. Keller’s stout form would appear on the staircase, and a matron did appear—the woman with mousy-brown hair who had glared at her during the morning lineup. She spotted Alma and headed in her direction.
“What are you doing here?” the woman asked sharply.
Alma frowned. For some reason, this matron had taken an instant dislike to her and she didn’t know why. Or perhaps she was the unhappy sort who took out her life’s frustrations on anyone standing in her path.
“I’m sorry… I’m not sure what to do, or where to stand.”
“You’ll float through this room much of the day and take orders from the inspectors or Mrs. Keller. I’ll be working in here today, too. Oh, and don’t flirt with the inspectors.”
“I would never—”
“Some can be very charming,” she cut in.
Alma frowned. Flirting with another employee couldn’t be further from her mind.
“I’m Amy Terrine, by the way.”
“Alma Brauer.”
“Yes, I know.” Without another word, Amy headed to the other side of the room and loitered near one of the inspector’s desks.
Speaking of flirting. If Alma didn’t know any better, she’d say Amy was flirting with the tall inspector near the doorway.
The sound of voices grew louder until it boomed against the vast ceiling, and in a matter of minutes, hundreds of immigrants flooded the hall. Europeans from various countries packed inside, wearing ornate garb with vivid colors made of hemp and dyed wool, headscarves, suspenders, and all manner of native dress. They wore hats with furry earflaps and leather vests and tall boots, or threadbare dresses covered by shawls and tattered cloaks. Face after face, nationality after nationality. Yet it wasn’t the sight of the human faces in every shape, size, and color, or even their bizarre clothing, that struck Alma first—she was used to seeing such things in her own neighborhood—it was the stench. She choked on the smell of greasy hair and the ripe tang a body could acquire only after many days without bathing. But there was another scent, too, so strong and pungent it could only be attributed to one thing: the heady odor of garlic. It permeated the air as if it oozed from their pores.
She coughed into her sleeve, a fresh wave of irritation rippling through her. How could her parents send her to work in such a place? Among these people! She peered at the foreigners who queued in front of the inspectors’ desks. Though the vast majority of the immigrants were men, there was also a line of women and children. A handful of women traveled alone. She remembered the brothels she’d passed that morning at Chatham Square, the way the prostitutes showed their breasts for coin. She wondered if some of these women would find themselves in the same situation. That’s what she’d always heard about female immigrants from her gossiping neighbors—and her parents.
Noise echoed from the rafters and against the tiled floors. Every sound, every movement, and the hundreds of voices and crying children became deafening with nothing to absorb them. The benches in the registry office filled quickly, and the remaining immigrants waited in a long queue. Unsure of what she should be doing, Alma walked slowly along the line to see if anyone needed her. Many of the men stared back at her boldly, but she forced herself to hold her head high, never making eye contact. She heard Lambert’s words echo in her mind. She was the one in a position of authority working for the government, even if her heart skipped wildly in her chest.
At the front of the line, a dark-haired woman gripped her son’s hand and trained her eyes on the inspector’s desk ahead. The little boy’s pants stopped a few inches below his knees and several buttons had gone missing from his jacket, leaving gaping holes between his undershirt and vest. The child must be freezing, and the mother looked cold as well, without a woolen overcoat or proper gloves. Her eyes darted from the row of inspectors to Alma’s face and back again, determined, focused.