The Girl in the Torch

by Robert Sharenow

  “Mama, wake up! We’re here. We’re finally here!”

  Her mother’s skin burned, but her eyes fluttered open and she muttered, “Thank God. Thank God.”

  The other passengers began to trickle back belowdecks to pack up their belongings and discuss plans for their arrival. One woman, another mother, who traveled with her husband and two children, walked up to Sarah. It was the first time in days that anyone besides her mother had talked to her.

  “You must try to make your mother look well,” the woman said.

  “What do you mean?” said Sarah.

  “They don’t let in the sick. If you don’t make her look well, they won’t let her in.”

  Make her look well? But how? Sarah wet a cloth and wiped her mother’s face, her neck, and under her arms, which revived her a bit. Sarah combed her hair and straightened her clothes as best she could. Eventually she was able to get her to stand and coaxed her up the ladder.

  A sharp orange sun had risen into the cloudless sky, and they both had to squint as they came up onto the deck. Sarah led her to the railing.

  “Look, Mama. There she is.”

  Now just a few hundred yards away, the Lady’s face beamed down at them, silent and strong. Sarah’s mother smiled and whispered, “Thank the Lord.”

  The ship sailed deeper into the harbor, until the Lady loomed over them and Sarah could see scores of people milling around at her base and up inside her torch and crown. She gasped in wonder, longing to be on the island, to explore inside the Lady and see the view from the windows of the crown and the walkway of the torch.

  As they moved beyond the statue, Sarah saw New York City come into focus, the tip of Manhattan packed with buildings more tightly than she had ever thought possible, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see. It was as if someone had stacked hundreds of villages on top of one another. Boats of all shapes and sizes moved around the island.

  “Isn’t it incredible, Mama?” Sarah asked.

  But her mother didn’t respond. Her eyes were glazed over and she seemed to be staring at nothing in particular.

  The ship banked sharply to the left and docked at a small island behind the Lady. A large building that looked like a castle or fortress dominated the shoreline. The main building had four towers with rounded roofs that looked like onions.

  The passengers gathered their belongings, all jostling to be the first to disembark. A line of men waited for them on the dock. They wore uniforms with stiff round blue hats and badges.

  Sarah struggled to carry their few belongings and to help her mother off the ship. Once on shore, they lined up to enter the main building, and Sarah felt a pinch of disappointment as she saw that the entry door was not actually made of gold, but was wooden like any other door. She reached out and ran her finger along the dull surface. What other disappointments would she find here? Sarah wondered.

  They waited outside for a half hour, and Sarah and the other passengers’ excitement turned to impatience.

  “It’s nice to know that some things are the same as the old country,” one man joked. “I guess all governments are good at making people wait in lines.”

  A few of the others laughed, but as the minutes ticked by, the tension rose and the crowd fell quiet. Her mother sat on one of their bags, holding her head in her hands. Finally, an official came out to usher them inside. Sarah hoisted her mother to her feet and they stepped into the building.

  Sarah gasped and stopped short.

  Quarantine

  THEY ENTERED A MASSIVE main hall filled with hundreds of people just like the passengers from her ship, waiting in several different lines that snaked through the room. The lines were separated by a series of rigid metal posts and ropes just like the rows of cattle pens in the slaughterhouse on the outskirts of her village.

  The air vibrated with the sound of dozens of languages being spoken all at once. Sarah looked up and down the lines. She could hardly believe that human beings could come in so many different shapes and sizes. Short, tall, fat, skinny, ugly, beautiful, old, young, crippled, strong, brown haired, black haired, blond haired, even some redheads like her.

  Some men wore beards while others were completely clean-shaven and looked more like boys than men. Some dressed in Old World clothes with baggy pants tucked into high socks, white shirts with puffy white sleeves, and strange hats shaped like large red cups. Still others wore neat modern three-piece suits and bowler hats. Some women had their hair tucked under kerchiefs and wore long, plain, heavy black dresses. Others had their hair piled up in fancy arrangements held together by jeweled pins and wore bright dresses, with corsets pulling in their waists and pushing up their bosoms so that they indelicately spilled over the tops of their blouses.

  Sarah was also transfixed by the men in uniform and the other people working in the building. Beneath their similar dress, there was an amazing array of skin tones, from the palest white to the darkest brown and everything in between. Nearly everyone at home had looked the same, with dark hair and dark eyes and similar clothes.

  Sarah and the other passengers were led to the medical examination area, where groups of doctors and officials carrying clipboards and chalk made quick evaluations of the immigrants on line.

  “Who are they?” a woman asked her husband.

  “I think it must be the medical people. I heard they examine everyone as soon as they come ashore to make sure everyone’s healthy.”

  Sarah’s entire body tightened with concern as she watched the exams from a distance. The doctors made very quick judgments. Most people were allowed to pass, although several were marked with a letter in chalk on their clothing and led away.

  The jagged line of passengers from Sarah’s ship chattered excitedly to one another. Sarah and her mother stood at the very end, a few yards away from the next-to-last person. Sarah nervously shuffled in place, measuring the distance the others were keeping from them and worrying that the officials would notice and assume the worst.

  At last it was their turn. One of the men in uniform spoke some Yiddish and Russian and asked them their names and where they came from. Her mother attempted to answer the questions as best she could, while the doctor examined Sarah.

  Sarah gagged as he roughly pressed down her tongue with a dry wooden stick. He poked and prodded her body with his hands and medical instruments. Finally he took out a small metal buttonhook and reached it toward her eye. Sarah flinched and tried to turn away.

  “Hold still,” he commanded as he pulled back the skin of her eye with the instrument and examined each eyeball.

  “She looks fine,” he said.

  As soon as the doctor turned his attention to her mother, though, his expression changed. He stared into her eyes, clearly not liking what he saw in their glassy yellow reflection. He took her mother’s temperature and pulse; and then the men stepped away to confer for a moment. Sarah’s mother slumped against the girl’s shoulder.

  Finally the Yiddish-speaking official returned and abruptly drew a large letter P on her mother’s coat near the shoulder with a thick piece of chalk.

  “What is this about?” Sarah’s mother asked.

  “I’m afraid you’re not well. The P stands for physical and lungs. We think you have some sort of physical illness or infection,” the man said. “We’re going to have to take you for treatment at our hospital while your daughter proceeds to the processing center.”

  “But I need to get to the United States,” her mother said.

  “It’s in the United States,” the man said. “It’s just in another area of the facility.”

  “Why can’t we stay together?” her mother asked.

  “Your daughter is healthy. We need to keep you quarantined so you don’t get anyone else sick, including her. She’ll be perfectly safe.”

  The word quarantined sent a chill down Sarah’s spine, even though she wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have any choice in the matter. We h
ave a wonderful hospital, and I’m sure you will get better and be on your way in no time.”

  He turned away to deal with the other passengers on line, and another official gestured for Sarah’s mother to come with him.

  Sarah’s throat went dry.

  “Mama . . .”

  “We don’t have a choice, little one,” she said, shaking her head.

  “But I can’t be alone.”

  “Let’s move it along,” the official said.

  “One minute,” Sarah’s mother told him.

  Mustering her remaining strength, her mother knelt before Sarah.

  “You will be fine,” she said. “We both will be. You are my brave, beautiful girl. American doctors are the best in the world. They will make me well, and then we will enter the New World together. Promise me you’ll be strong.”

  Sarah just stared at her.

  “Promise me,” her mother insisted.

  “I promise,” Sarah finally said, wishing she believed it.

  Sarah’s mother kissed her on the head one final time and then was led away. She turned and waved to Sarah, barely able to find the strength to hold up her arm, then blew her a final kiss. Then she rounded a corner and was gone. Sarah was alone.

  Sarah’s anxiety rose as she waited for another hour until she finally made it to the front of the next line and approached a man in uniform, sitting in an elevated booth.

  “How old are you?” he asked in Yiddish.

  “Twelve,” she replied.

  “Twelve? I would’ve guessed you were at least fifteen. I have a sixteen-year-old girl, and she’s much younger looking than you. But I guess that’s a good thing, because she can’t push me around as easily.”

  He chuckled. It made Sarah feel good that the official thought she was older.

  “Do you know a trade?” he asked.

  “My mother and I are both buttonhole makers,” Sarah said.

  He nodded. “It’s good to have a skill.”

  Sarah’s father had taught both of them the basic skills of buttonhole making, although they didn’t possess anywhere near his expertise. She did have his one pair of fine professional scissors, the most valuable possession they had carried with them from the old country. Her mother had sewn a special pocket for them inside Sarah’s jacket.

  “Now, we’re going to have to hold you here in the dormitory while your mother gets well. That is, unless you have American relations who can come pick you up. Do you have relatives here?”

  “My father’s sister and her family.”

  Sarah had never met her aunt, whose family had moved to Germany before settling in the United States.

  “And are they in New York?” the man asked.

  “They live somewhere called Brook-a-lin.”

  “Brooklyn is a part of New York.” He smiled.

  “I have their name and address here.” She handed the man the piece of paper that her mother had given her to hold. It said:

  Cohen. Brookalin. New York. United State.

  The official gave her back the piece of paper.

  “There are hundreds, maybe thousands of families named Cohen in Brooklyn,” he said. “Do you have any more information?”

  “My aunt’s name is Rivka.”

  “Okay. It’s not much to go on, but we’ll try to contact them.”

  “May I visit my mother now?” Sarah asked hopefully.

  The man’s expression turned more serious.

  “She has to be given a clean bill of health before she can see anyone, but don’t worry. She’ll be well taken care of, and you’ll be in a nice safe place until she’s better.”

  Sarah was led to a dormitory building and given a bed in a large room filled with other women and girls who were also being detained for one reason or another. Most of the others were groups: mothers and daughters, sets of sisters, or just friends who had made the journey together. Scanning the room, she realized she was one of the few who were alone.

  Volunteering

  THAT NIGHT, SARAH TRIED to sleep, but after so many days at sea it felt as if the building was moving like the ship. With Ivan tucked beneath the blanket beside her, Sarah stared at the high-beamed ceiling and listened to everyone breathing in the darkness. I guess everyone snores in the same language, she thought.

  Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for her mother, hoping that she would be able to share everything with her tomorrow.

  Yet for the next two days the officials told her that her mother was still being treated at the hospital. On the third day, she found her way to the roof garden, a large, fenced-in outdoor area on top of the dormitory building that buzzed with activity.

  In one corner little children climbed all over a set of swings, a seesaw, and a pair of slides. Sarah had never seen a playground before, so she was shocked to watch the children bouncing, sliding, and flying through the air. Even though most of them spoke different languages, they played together easily, joining into groups, laughing and chasing each other.

  On the opposite side of the roof, several American women were leading classes for older immigrant children. One group was being instructed on the basics of how to sew and the other was being given a rudimentary English lesson.

  A woman with thick brown hair arranged in a bun stood before a chalkboard and wrote out the alphabet, explaining the pronunciation of each letter.

  “This is the letter B,” the woman explained. “It’s pronounced bee. Say it after me: B.”

  The class repeated the letter. Sarah inched closer until the teacher noticed her.

  “Would you like to join one of the classes?”

  “Oh, I know how to speak and write English and sew,” Sarah said with some pride.

  “I suppose you do,” the woman said, impressed. “I’m Miss O’Connell. Maybe you’d like to help our other volunteers with the younger children.” She gestured toward the other side of the roof, where a few young women were helping to organize the children into games. “They could use an extra set of hands.”

  Sarah nodded.

  Sarah spent the morning assisting the other women as they corralled the small children into races and games of tag and ring-around-the-rosy. At noon she helped lead them to the cafeteria and fed some of the littlest ones in between eating her own sandwich. Sarah liked working with the children and blending in with the other volunteers, and the hours flew by.

  At the end of the day, Miss O’Connell had each child line up and shake hands and say thank you to all the volunteers. When the final child was gone, Sarah helped to clean up.

  “Thanks for your help,” Miss O’Connell said to Sarah. “Maybe you can come back and help me again sometime.”

  “I’m waiting for my mother to get out of the hospital, so I will not be here much longer.”

  Sarah tried to say this with confidence, but she couldn’t help but feel a gnawing sense of doubt.

  “Of course,” Miss O’Connell said. “Good luck to you.”

  As Sarah returned to the dormitory, her mind raced with excited thoughts about the future. Maybe she would be a teacher instead of a buttonhole maker. Or maybe she’d become something else, something she hadn’t yet imagined. America seemed filled with possibilities.

  Passed

  THE NEXT MORNING, A NURSE ARRIVED at Sarah’s bedside, accompanied by another woman wearing a plain blue skirt and blouse. The nurse carried a cinnamon bun with powdered sugar sprinkled on top and her face wore a serious, sad expression. Sarah’s stomach dropped.

  The woman in the blue skirt sat down on Sarah’s cot and handed her the bun. The nurse stood above them both.

  “I’m afraid that I have some bad news,” the woman said. “The doctors tried as best they could to help your mother. But there was nothing they could do. She passed in the night.”

  “Passed?”

  At first, Sarah didn’t fully understand what the woman was saying. Passed where? Or passed what? Had she passed the medical examination that would allow them to leave? Had she
passed on to New York City without her?

  “Her fever wouldn’t break. And she didn’t respond to the medicine. They tried everything. But the illness had progressed too far.”

  Sarah tried to catch up with the dark, unfamiliar words.

  “She had to be buried right away, because of her disease, to keep it from spreading.”

  “Buried,” Sarah repeated.

  “Yes,” the official confirmed. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  She continued talking, but Sarah could no longer hear her. All of the woman’s words seemed to scramble and blend into a low hum. Her body felt heavy and numb, sinking into the cloth of the cot as if it were quicksand. Her breath pulsed out of her mouth in desperate little heaves.

  Until the quarantine, not a day of Sarah’s life had passed by without seeing her mother, without spending most of every waking hour beside her. And now, she was gone.

  Sarah tried to picture her, but it was as if all her memories had floated up to heaven along with her mother’s spirit. She could more easily imagine her father’s face, his red hair and beard, the deep crow’s-feet that formed around his eyes whenever he was pleased about something. She imagined her mother’s long thin legs, her brown hair, the faded freckles over the bridge of her nose, but they refused to come together to form a distinct whole.

  “Mama?”

  “She’s gone, dear.”

  “Mama?” Her voice rose in pitch.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mama!” Sarah called again, knowing it would go unanswered. The nurse sat beside her and tried to lay a consoling hand on her back, but Sarah recoiled and curled into herself, hugging her legs.

  Suddenly a word came into her head that was so terrifying, it blotted out everything else. Orphan. Growing up, she had heard horrible stories about orphanages, where children without parents were forced to work at hard labor all day to earn their keep, and those who didn’t were starved or beaten to death.