“She says you have golden eyes,” translated Sister Mary Augustin.
Anna smiled. “My eyes are brown and green, and sometimes they look golden depending on the light.”
This time Mr. Mezzanotte stepped in and translated for Anna.
Lia shook her head, firm in her opinion. “D’oro.”
“Well, then,” Anna said. “Let me use my gold eyes to make sure you’re healthy. Can you take a deep breath and hold it?”
When Mr. Mezzanotte leaned over to explain, Lia drew in a breath so fiercely and with such drama that her eyes crossed. She was healthy, and Anna was relieved. What she didn’t know and couldn’t tell was more complicated: did the child not know her mother was dead, or did she simply not understand what the word meant?
Finally Anna turned to Rosa Russo, who presented herself and her infant brother with an expression that was meant to be composed.
Anna said, “May I hold your brother while I examine him?”
“Mama says, no. Mama says—” She paused. “Mama said you will take him away from us, and we must stay together.”
Anna considered, and then she leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“My mother died on the day I turned three, and my father a few weeks later. Every day I think about them, and what they would have expected of me.”
The girl’s eyes focused on Anna’s face, looking for something specific there, some answer. “Did you have brothers and sisters to care for you?”
“A much older brother, who was away at school. Too young to raise a little girl. So an aunt brought me here to raise with her family.”
“Your brother let you go?” Her expression was torn between shock and disdain. “Why would he give you away?”
“It was a difficult time,” Anna said, her voice catching. “Much like this time is for you all.”
“There is no excuse,” said the girl. “He should not have let you go. Where is he now?”
“He died,” Anna said. “In the war.”
“He should not have left you,” Rosa said, almost incensed. “He failed you, but I will not fail my sister and brothers.”
Sister Mary Augustin cleared her throat, ready to speak up in defense of a brother many years in his grave, someone she had never known and could not imagine.
Anna said, “Rosa, I hope you are right. I hope you can do for your sister and brothers what my brother couldn’t do for me.”
? ? ?
BY MIDAFTERNOON ANNA was back on the ferry with the sisters and the healthier orphans, half of whom had had their hair cut almost to the scalp to stop the spread of lice. The children who were ill—a possible case of tuberculosis and another of measles—had been left in New Jersey to be cared for, though no one could tell Anna exactly what that meant, to her disquiet. Also absent was Santino Bacigalup. Mr. Mezzanotte had arranged work for him on a farm somewhere in the countryside.
When Father Moreno returned, he voiced the same objections to this arrangement that Anna had heard from Sister Ignatia, in a tone only slightly less irritated. The pledge of a significant contribution to the poor box finally swayed him.
The priest looked at her suspiciously. “Are you trying to buy forgiveness for some sin? The Church no longer sells indulgences, Dr. Savard.”
“I’m not Catholic, Father Moreno. I would guess my idea of sin isn’t much like yours.”
She blotted the bank draft she had written out on his desk and handed it to him.
“And Sister Ignatia? Who will explain this to her?”
“I suppose it will fall to me,” Anna said. “I hope that will count as sufficient penance.”
The priest’s mouth quirked, stopping just short of a smile.
“The boy needs to be vaccinated,” Anna said. “Before he goes to his new employer. That is possible, I trust?”
Father Moreno said, “It will be arranged.”
As she was leaving he called to her, and Anna paused in the doorway.
“I don’t doubt that your concerns for these children are real and your intentions good,” he said. “But you are more like Sister Ignatia than you might like to admit.”
? ? ?
ON THE FERRY, surrounded by the children and the other passengers, Sister Ignatia did not hesitate to raise the issue of the Bacigalup boy. “You interfere,” said the older nun. “You interfere in ways that could have terrible consequences.”
“Doing nothing has terrible consequences, too,” Anna said calmly.
“Do not congratulate yourself. This is not a charitable act.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Anna said.
Sister Ignatia pulled back a little, surprised.
“No one ever does anything out of charity,” Anna went on. “Every choice we make benefits ourselves directly or indirectly. Even if it looks like a sacrifice, the alternative would be unbearable in some way. If I hadn’t helped I wouldn’t sleep well, and I need my sleep.”
Gray eyes moved over her face, looking for some clue that would account for such an odd and disturbing philosophy. “Such cynicism is unattractive in a young woman.”