by Pam Lewis
Whether Sander liked these two or not, he couldn’t say no to the offer of help, and he put them to work right away. All that afternoon and into the weeks ahead, Minke and Cassian could hear their jokes and laughter carrying through the courtyard. Cassian’s leg was healing. Although still in its cast, it lay flat on the bed and not strung up by wires. His bruises were gone, and his mood had improved in spite of the returning winter with its constant howling of wind. Zef had found that he could pull himself up and hold on to things with his fat little fists and then make his way about the room to Cassian, where he would bounce in delight.
In July Cassian’s cast was chipped off with a pick and hammer; afterward, bits of plaster lay on the floor like drifted snow. The leg was so white it seemed blue, but the worst surprise was the way the bone had set. Mended, yes, but bent so that when Cassian stood, his left thigh bowed, and he had no feeling in the foot.
He was, as usual, more concerned with Minke than with himself. The baby was due in only ten weeks, and she was still too thin. He could hear the baby’s heartbeat through his stethoscope, but still, he said, she must have rest, and when she insisted on staying to look after him, he insisted back. Doctor’s orders, no two ways about it.
IT WAS IN fact lovely to be in the house during the day again. She was so tired and slept side by side with Zef during his naps. She kept the fire in the stove going, and the little house was warm enough that she could sit at the window and watch the snow swirl outside. She drank the cream. It made her gag, but she thought of the baby growing inside her and swallowed.
Every afternoon, just before their nap, she bundled Zef and took him down to the water, as she had on summer nights. In winter the sun shone only during the few hours at midday. By the time they went, the sky was darkening and the sea was violent, with great black waves breaking along the shore, boiling with white foam. It was splendid. The wind swirled snow along the sand.
Men on horseback often raced up and down the beach, the hooves churning up rooster tails of ice and sand. Zef looked for them each time, his small head swiveling to find them. He always saw them before Minke did. She didn’t know who they were. She told Sander about them, and he said gauchos. But she knew differently. The horses weren’t fine enough, the bridles were too plain, and the riders allowed the horses to work up a white sweat on cold days, something a gaucho would not do.
13
THE DAY WAS abnormal. A thaw had left the air irresistibly warm after weeks of cold; the sky was a milky blue at high noon, and the light lingered past two o’clock. When Zef woke from his nap, Minke put a fresh diaper on him and took him outdoors. It was much too nice to stay inside. She held out her hands, found she could comfortably be without gloves, and walked with him down the path to the beach. They didn’t bother with coats. “You can smell it, can’t you, Zef?” she asked him. “Doesn’t the air smell different? The warmth is unlocking the smell of things today.”
At the beach, she lowered him to the sand. He held on to her leg at first, then let go, took some steps on his own, and plopped down on his bottom. He laughed, tipped forward, righted himself, and tried again, this time supporting himself, with one hand against the seawall.
She wasn’t paying attention. She was wrapped up in the day, and while Zef amused himself with trying to walk, she held her arms out and spun, her face tipped to the sun. She reveled in the feeling, ran down to the water’s edge, and stood looking out to sea. If she concentrated, she could pretend to be on the prow of a boat and not on land at all. She laid her hands on her belly and spoke to the baby inside her about the sun and the sea—the place she would be born into. Minke was sure the new baby would be a girl.
She felt the vibration of approaching horses through her feet and squinted into the dimming light to see. “Zef! Sweetheart!” She pointed north into the direction from which the horses always came. He’d been pounding his fists against the sand, rolling it about in his chubby fingers, but stopped what he was doing. The horsemen were just boys, she thought, racing along the beach for the fun of it, free and fast. One day that would be Zef. They often came at lightning speed but veered to the left, up the bank, before reaching her and Zef. Recently, they had kept coming, and the excitement was awesome. They would thunder toward her and Zef, then swerve right, galloping through the surf and sending up sand, ice, and water. They had never once uttered a sound.
Today they did not veer off. Zef sat like a little statue, transfixed. They approached thunderously, three of them, all with scarves over their faces. The one in front brought his horse up short. The horse reared and whinnied. The other two caught up and stopped.
“I worried you hadn’t seen us,” Minke shouted with relief, breathing again. She’d been afraid that if she tried to run to Zef, she would be trampled.
The horses circled, snorting. The riders said nothing.
“Hello!” she said.
But she was invisible to them, inaudible. She made a move to go around them, to get to Zef, who was all alone on their other side, but it was all confusion, with the horses jockeying, their hindquarters swinging dangerously around, and it was difficult to separate the men from the moving horses; she had to jump back or be kicked. The men slid down from their horses. “Hello,” she said again, the slick of fear rising like bile in her throat. “I need to get to my baby.”
One of the riders held his horse deliberately in her way.
“Zef?” she screamed. She couldn’t see him. “Cuidado con el bebé,” she cried. Don’t hurt the baby. She made a dash for him around the horses, but they blocked her again. “Cuidado con el bebé,” she screamed. She couldn’t see him. She charged forward again, flailing with her fists, and there was the uproar of horses rearing, hooves pawing at the air, and then they all raced off down the beach. She was left in total silence.
“Zef?” she whispered. No sound returned. He wasn’t where he’d been. “Zef?” Had he scrambled out of their way, frightened by all the commotion? She ran up and back, looking for him.
“Zef!” she screamed, giving herself a moment to listen. She screamed again.
He was gone.
PART THREE
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
* * *
April 1914
14
THE DECK WAS jammed with people as the steamship Maceió entered New York harbor on a bitterly cold Sunday. Ice blocks lined the shore, and the railings held a cold slick. Several hundred people, all quiet as mice, stood in awe. It was the same reverent pall that had fallen over the Frisia the day Minke had left Amsterdam harbor for Comodoro.
“Looks just like its pictures,” Minke whispered to Cassian. Tall concrete buildings rose hundreds of feet high. Other buildings were as wide as ten buildings in Amsterdam. The skyline was impossibly jagged, as if a draftsman had gone berserk with his pen, drawing in thousands of tiny windows and doors.
“¡Estatua de la Libertad!” someone shouted, and she turned to see Liberty swathed in her metal gown and holding a torch over her head. Minke clutched Elly’s little hand. Elly took in the scene with her usual baleful expression, as if, after all she’d seen in her little life, this was nothing.
Beyond Liberty, an exotic structure rose from the water, like a European castle with four turrets, bright red brickwork, windows lined in white, and soaring arches in the front over three doors. One look made Minke’s heart flutter with excitement and fear. Ellis Island. Sander. She could barely contain herself at the thought of seeing him again after so much time, of lying in his arms that very night, introducing his new baby daughter. For the first time since Zef’s disappearance, she felt the luxury of hope.
But between this moment and the moment when she was in Sander’s arms would come the ordeal. A woman onboard the Maceió had told terrifying stories of what happened on Ellis Island. Madame Gil reminded Minke of Tessa Dietz in the way she spoke with a great flourish of the hand, only without the parrot and with a somewhat more compassionate disposition. She sat at the head of the long wooden table w
here they took their meals. People listened to her as though she were the messiah because she’d gone through Ellis Island once before. Rumors were rampant about what went on there—painful medical tests and trick questions. Madame said, “They do what they can to turn people away. They want only the strong, the healthy, and the rich in America. And you.” She pointed a finger at Cassian. “With that limp, you’ll be back on the high seas before you’ve taken a single American breath! You must not limp inside Ellis Island. You must start practicing immediately, because there are spies. They watch us all.”
With Minke and Madame’s help, Cassian practiced ascending the ship’s stairs without limping. He had to keep his good leg slightly bent to match the length of his bad leg. The process exhausted him, and he barely made it up a few stairs the first time he tried. But Minke was a taskmaster. She made him do it over and over until both legs grew stronger. Finally, he was able to ascend the full twenty stairs as though he was almost normal.
“Be vigilant, Dr. Tredegar. You must not let them see that limp.” Madame Gil lowered her voice and addressed the whole table. “You see, the real test begins at the stairs that lead up to the grand hall. Immigration police are everywhere, but you won’t know which ones they are because they look like everybody else; their job is to watch from above and below every single person who climbs the stairs. Sometimes thousands go through in a single day. Believe me, they know what they’re looking for. Don’t pause to catch a breath even if you need to. One little show of weakness and they’ll put a big L on your shoulder in white chalk.” Madame made a big L in the air with her finger. “It means your lungs are bad, and you’ll be turned away. Don’t cough. Swallow it. If they see that limp, you’re done for. You’ll get an LL on your coat, meaning ‘left leg.’
“Worst is an X,” she announced. She tapped her head with a finger. “It means you’re cuckoo.” Everyone at the table had to be feeling as hopeless as Minke. It seemed you had to be perfect to be allowed into America. She thought of Fenna with her strapping build, of Sander with his good looks and charm. The two must have breezed through easily. She and Cassian were pitiful compared to them.
“Eye infections are the worst,” Madame intoned. “You can’t hide those; the doctor examines every single person’s eyes through a magnifying glass.” Everyone sneaked a look at everyone else, checking for signs of disease.
“And just answer their questions. Don’t volunteer anything. Like this.” Madame turned to Minke. “What is your name?” she asked in a quick businesslike voice.
Minke was startled at the abrupt change. “Um,” she said.
“Not quick enough!”
“Minke Johanna van Aisma DeVries,” Minke shouted.
“Where are you going?”
Minke swallowed. “America,” she said, as if to say, Of course.
“Everybody on this ship is going to America,” Madame said. “Where in America?”
“I don’t know. My husband meets me at the ship, and then I will know.”
“Say New York, then,” Madame said.
“I’m going to New York.”
“Just answer the question. All you say is ‘New York.’ Not ‘I’m going to New York.’ ”
“New York.”
Madame leaned over so she was nose to nose with Minke. “Are you an anarchist?”
“Of course not! What a terrible thing to ask.”
“Just answer the question.”
“No,” Minke said.
“They always ask that,” Madame said with great satisfaction. “If you answer oddly, they’ll think you’re lying and send you away. They don’t want anarchists in America.”
A few people at the table laughed.
“Don’t laugh!” Madame scolded. “It’s a real question. Say no. Don’t make any jokes. Don’t smile. Any questions?”
“When do we see our loved ones?” Minke asked.
“At the very end. You will go down the stairs of separation. Freedom is to the left and right. May God be with you that you will not be sent down the middle. Those people are detained or sent home. Your loved ones will meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”
“My husband will be at the bottom of the stairs, then?” Minke asked.
“What did I just say?”
“But can I see him from the top?”
Madame threw up her hands. “If he’s there, of course.”
ON THE DAY she arrived in America, Minke was wearing a black wool dress that she had fashioned in Comodoro to wear during her pregnancy. It was much too large and hung like a great tent on her, but she had been grateful for it on the voyage for the warmth it provided.
All Madame’s information swam in her head. Do this, do that. The ship settled at the dock in front of the beautiful building. She clung to Elly in the lovely sling she had made from fabrics Bertinat had provided as a parting gift. “The colors of Comodoro,” he had said, and indeed they were—the blue-green of the ocean, the brilliant cerulean sky, and shades of gray and brown for the landscape, all dressed up with bright ocher ribbons woven through.
With her other hand, she clung to Cassian. They descended the gangway. All around them, people were weighed down by their earthly belongings. They carried enormous bundles wrapped in hopsacking, as well as suitcases and trunks. The rule, she knew, was that you could bring into the country only what you could carry yourself. She carried nothing but Elly. Cassian carried their small valise of things they would need for the journey. Sander and Fenna, who’d gone before, had brought the bulk of their belongings.
The line inched slowly but steadily forward toward the three towering doors. It was so cold, with the wind blowing off the water. Minke worried Elly would get frostbite. She worried they would be turned away. She worried Sander hadn’t had word of the ship’s arrival date. She worried about everything.
“We’ll be fine,” Cassian assured her.
“Cross your fingers.” People said if you were turned away for any reason, the steamship company had to take you back where you came from.
Once inside the center door, she was overcome by the racket of dozens of languages spoken at once, the heat, and the terrible smell of fear from thousands of people all crammed into one large space. They were instructed in multiple languages to leave their belongings on the pile and walk to the staircase to their right. Minke nudged Cassian. “Those are the stairs where the medical exams are done,” she said. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Cassian said. “You?”
She shifted Elly to her other arm. “Let’s go, Uncle Cassian.”
She’d discovered that Cassian was in fact Sander’s uncle one night in their tiny cabin aboard ship. She’d been curled around the sleeping Elly, as usual, and dared to ask Cassian what she had long wanted to know. How did Elisabeth die? Cassian had been still for a long time. Finally, he said, “I ended her suffering.” In the moonlight that came through the porthole, she saw his hand drop over the side of his bunk, and she took it. The news came as a shock but not a surprise. She’d known it in her deepest self. “Sander called upon you to do it?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you always do as he says?”
Cassian squeezed her hand. “It was best for her.”
“Did Elisabeth know what was happening?”
“Perhaps.”
“Is it murder, then?”
“Of course,” Cassian said. “The taking of life is always murder.”
“How do you know Sander?”
“He’s my sister’s son. I was Elisabeth’s family’s physician. I introduced them.”
She withdrew her hand from his. Uncle and nephew! “Why did neither of you tell me?”
“It’s not so important.”
But it was. It cast a new light over everything. That Cassian had known Sander since birth, that he had ministered to Elisabeth since she was a child. Minke had known Sander only two years. Her time with him felt like her whole life, but it was insignificant compared to all that had gon
e before. She was but a bud on the tree of Sander and Cassian’s family. “If you’re related to Sander, you’re related by marriage to me and by blood to Elly.” She drew in a breath. “And Zef.”
IF THE WATCHERS were stationed here and there along the stairs at Ellis Island, Minke could not tell who they were. People hung over the rails, looking down from the second level. Others milled about the bottom of the stairs, looking up, but it was impossible to tell the immigrants from the staff. She glanced sidelong at Cassian as they began climbing. He was doing well enough, but the effort showed in his bloodless face.
“Don’t grip the rail so hard,” she said. “It looks like you’re hanging on for dear life.” She took strength from knowing the ordeal was only a matter of a minute or two. She made a show of smiling, of holding Elly up so the baby could look around. She was trying to divert attention from Cassian. She turned to him. “Smile,” she said. “Look pleased.” Cassian smiled. He had cut the remaining black from his hair, and it was now all white. He was seventy years old, he’d told her. Old enough to be her grandfather.
At the landing, the stairs took a turn. A woman had stopped and was catching her breath. Without a thought, Minke slid her free hand through the woman’s arm. “Keep moving. Don’t stop.” She didn’t know if the woman understood the words, but she ascended arm in arm with Minke. At the top of the stairs, the man who was marking people with white chalk paid no attention to Cassian, Minke, or the strange woman. They’d all passed the test.
The grand hall was a cathedral with a vaulted ceiling that seemed a hundred feet high, tiled in exquisite patterns and colors. At eye level, however, things were very different. It was a swarm of people shoulder to shoulder with crying children and smelling even fouler than on the first level. A maze of wooden fences had been set up, and they entered behind a Russian family—parents and grandparents and four small boys. The line wound up and back across the grand hall. The mother of the family smiled often at Minke and at Elly as if to say they shared something, no matter how different they were.