The Girl in the Torch

by Robert Sharenow

  The word snapped Sarah back to the present.

  “What will happen to me?”

  “We’re still trying to find your relatives in Brooklyn,” the official said. “We put notices in the Brooklyn newspapers, but it might take some time.”

  The official said this with an air of confidence that made Sarah think that they dealt with girls in her situation all the time.

  “What if you can’t find them?”

  The woman looked at the nurse.

  “Let’s give it some more time,” she said. “Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  The woman and the nurse walked away.

  Sarah looked at the cinnamon bun in her hand. The idea of food made her feel sick. She tried to imagine what her mother might say to calm her down, but she couldn’t even remember what her voice had sounded like.

  The only memory that formed in Sarah’s mind was of her mother standing at their table chopping vegetables with a distinct rhythm, chop, chop, chop, chop, one, two, three, four, chop, chop, chop, chop, one, two, three, four, in a steady beat. Her mother would hum or make up a tune along with the rhythm of the chopping. She must have made up hundreds, maybe thousands of funny little songs while she cooked. Yet Sarah couldn’t recall a single one.

  How could a person who just days before had been so solid and sure become just a cloudy image, just a wisp of a song?

  That night Sarah stared into the high-beamed ceiling of the darkened dormitory and tried to see through it to the sky. She imagined her mother’s spirit in the moonlit clouds, ascending to the other world where her father would be waiting.

  Before closing her eyes, Sarah prayed for her mother’s safe delivery to heaven. But she prayed even harder for the officials to find her relatives, or for them to find her.

  Uncle Jossel

  SEVERAL DAYS PASSED AND still no word came about her aunt in Brooklyn. Everyone in the dormitory who Sarah had arrived with had departed. Weighed down by the sadness of losing her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to return to the roof garden to assist Miss O’Connell. She spent most of her time wandering the grounds alone, watching people come and go, worrying and waiting.

  Each day, one of the friendly officials would give her his newspaper when he was done, so she could practice her English. She would sit on a bench outside and read every word, from cover to cover, soaking up as much news of America as she could, to prepare for when the Cohens would take her to live with them in Brooklyn.

  One afternoon, after a full week of waiting, Sarah was resting on her bed when the woman in the blue skirt came to visit with a male official.

  “I’m afraid we weren’t able to find your family,” the woman said.

  “What do you mean, you couldn’t find them?”

  “We tracked down their last known address, but the landlord of the building said they moved a year ago.”

  “A year ago?” Sarah repeated, panic rising in her chest. “Can’t you keep looking?”

  “He said they moved somewhere out in the western part of the country. He didn’t even know the state. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Sarah asked.

  “Our records indicate that you have an uncle back in your old country. Your mother’s brother.”

  “Uncle Jossel?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t know him very well.”

  “That’s okay.” The woman nodded reassuringly. “A blood relation is a blood relation.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure exactly what the woman meant, but her heart sank. Her uncle was a bachelor who lived in a nearby village. He was very heavyset and wore glasses and had a long bushy beard with gray curls. Whenever he visited, he refused to directly address her, or her mother for that matter.

  “Tell the girl to fetch us some water from the well,” he would call to her mother without giving either of them a glance. Then later, “Tell the girl to come clear our cups. And be quick about it.”

  “He doesn’t even look at me when he gives orders,” she said to her mother. “It’s like I’m not even there.”

  “My brother believes that men have their world, and women and girls have theirs. And he likes to keep it that way.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Sarah said.

  The memory made Sarah feel sick to her stomach. How could she remember the details of her detested uncle and hear his deep, wheezy voice more clearly than she could her own mother?

  “Isn’t there any way I could stay?” Sarah asked the official.

  “With no relatives, you’d be a public charge,” the man said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means the state would have to pay to support you, and you’d likely be sent to an orphanage. It’s better if you go back. I’m sure your uncle will be more than happy to take you in,” the official said.

  Sarah knew he would not be. “Has anyone written to my uncle to see if he wants me?”

  “Someone in your country will help track him down for you,” the man said.

  “But he doesn’t like children or girls,” Sarah pleaded. She had to make them understand. “What if he doesn’t want to take me?”

  “I’m sure he will,” the woman answered.

  “But what if he doesn’t?”

  “I’m sure they’ll be able to take care of you in your own country.”

  My own country? Sarah thought. That place isn’t my country. My people aren’t welcome there. Our village was attacked. That’s why we came here in the first place.

  But her jaw tightened shut.

  The official explained that her passage had been booked on a ship that left that very evening. Sarah watched them walk away and pass beneath the American flag that hung over the door. She stared at the flag’s rich red stripes and the blue square covered with stars, the reality sinking in. They were Americans. She was not. She would never step through the golden door.

  Salt Water

  THE NIGHT WAS COOL AND CLEAR as the ship pulled out into New York harbor. A chilling October breeze blew Sarah’s red hair as she stood on the back deck of the ship staring at the yellow lights of Manhattan passing behind her like a glittering fantasyland that would now only exist in stories for her, no different from a fairy-tale kingdom. She thought of the thousands of people rushing around on that island, thousands of families, but none who belonged to her. Sarah sat cross-legged, looking between the bars of the railing into the black water below. The other passengers were belowdecks, settling in for the late-night voyage, so she was alone.

  She took Ivan out of her pocket and set him up on the deck next to her so he could see New York City one last time.

  “Say good-bye, little friend,” she whispered.

  As the Lady came into view, Sarah turned to the front of the ship. The light of the torch shone through the darkness, no longer a signal of welcome but just a warning to passing ships to avoid smashing onto the rocks of the island. She took out the postcard of the Lady and held it up against the horizon line just as she had on the journey over.

  Looking at the postcard triggered something in Sarah. The image of her mother standing on deck during their voyage rushed into her mind—her face, her posture, the sound of her voice. Memories came back to Sarah all at once, from their journey to America, her childhood, from her entire life. Hundreds of distinct little moments, gestures, expressions, and songs that pricked her like pins: tying a dark-green ribbon in Sarah’s hair, trimming her father’s beard, washing her arms and neck in their metal basin, milking the family goat in the backyard, singing lullabies at night.

  A single word rose up from Sarah’s belly and escaped her lips.

  “Mama . . .”

  The sound was instantly swallowed by the noise of the water and the ship. A deep wound throbbed inside her where the word had come from, where her mother’s presence had been ripped away. She closed her eyes to stop the memories, but they only came faster. Tears broke from beneath Sarah’s lids, running down her face and into the sea,
salt water mixing with salt water.

  But then her sadness gave way as anger bubbled up inside her. She was angry at the immigration officials for sending her home, at her relatives for moving west without telling anyone, at her uncle for being so awful. Even at her parents for leaving her alone in the world.

  In a burst of frustration, Sarah tore the postcard in half, shocking herself that she could destroy something that had once been so precious. She ripped the two halves into smaller pieces, tossing them into the water below. She leaned forward, trying to see them, but couldn’t make out anything in the choppy black sea.

  “Good-bye, America,” she whispered.

  Staring into the darkness, Sarah realized that she had nothing left. No family. No hopes. Nothing. Everything good she possibly could think of was in her past. The golden door had been permanently shut.

  Then she glanced back up at the Lady, her face so strong and beautiful. Sarah and her mother had looked at the postcard so many times, dreaming of seeing her in person, and of the life they would lead in America.

  Sarah felt a small spark inside her at the memory.

  She balled her hands into tight fists.

  “We can’t go back there,” she muttered, gripping Ivan. “We won’t go back.”

  Sarah gazed at Manhattan.

  When she was a little girl, Sarah’s father taught her to swim in a small pond near their village. Like reading and writing, learning how to swim was unusual for a girl in her village, but her father had always insisted that she learn whatever he could teach.

  “If I could teach you to fly, I’d do that too,” he explained. “But I haven’t perfected that myself . . . yet.”

  He laughed a big laugh. Her mother thought they were both crazy and sang the same song every time they headed out for a lesson.

  My husband has the strangest wish

  To turn our daughter to a fish.

  Every day I hear him shout,

  “Look, there goes my little trout.”

  Sarah’s eyes focused on the glittering lights of the promised land in the distance. She had never attempted to swim anywhere near that far. Could I make it? she wondered.

  She had to try.

  Sarah stood up, shoved the toy bear back into her pocket, and glanced around the deck. There was no one in sight. She climbed up onto the railing and hoisted herself over the top, perching on the outer edge, just barely dangling above the water below. She had no idea how far down the water was, but she tried to measure how many of her body lengths it was and stopped counting when she reached seven, which meant that it was nearly forty feet.

  Sarah stared at the Lady, trying to gather her courage.

  Finally she closed her eyes.

  One. Two. Three!

  Sarah let go of the railing and stepped off into the night. She held her breath tightly, and her body fell through the air for what seemed like an eternity. She was just running out of breath and about to open her mouth for another when she hit the surface with a hard slap.

  She plunged feetfirst into the cold black water, her entire body stinging from the icy impact, her mouth and nose filling with the ocean. Her body convulsed as the water struck the back of her nose, her throat, her lungs. She coughed an angry mouthful of bubbles into the dense blackness. The voice of her father flooded into her head, as loud and clear as any memory had ever been.

  “Never try to breathe underwater. You’re not a herring, little one.”

  Sarah frantically pulled herself up, pumping her arms and kicking her legs with all the energy she could muster. Her lungs ached and she felt her mouth and nose struggling to resist the instinct to open and take something in. One more breath of salt water would fill her lungs and drag her down.

  Despite the freezing water, her insides started to burn and her head tingled as her stomach and chest muscles contracted to squeeze out any remaining oxygen. Just as she felt that she couldn’t make it another inch, she broke the surface and gulped a huge breath of night air. She coughed and spit seawater, which kept slapping in and out of her mouth in small waves that moved around her.

  Sarah bobbed on the surface, trying to get her bearings. The ship loomed above her, a huge black shadow against the night sky, quickly moving farther out toward the open sea. The violent force of a wave caused by the vessel’s massive propellers pushed her back and down. She held her breath as she was pulled underwater in the great churn.

  Night Swimming

  SARAH FIERCELY KICKED HER legs to resurface. Another wave and she was smacked back down and dragged under by more violent rushes of water. She paddled and pulled herself back up into the air, gulping in as much oxygen as possible to prepare herself for another fight beneath the waves.

  But the water had calmed enough that she could ride atop the waves instead of being pulled below them. As the ship moved farther away, the waves subsided until Sarah was treading water in the normal ebb and flow of the harbor, and she was finally able to unclench her body and catch her breath. She floated on her back and gazed up into a sky filled with bright stars and shadowy clouds passing before the moon.

  In the stillness, she finally felt the soreness of her arms and legs, which had been bruised when she hit the water. Patches of skin along her shins and forearms were raised in angry red welts that were painful to the touch. She moved her limbs. Thank goodness nothing had been broken.

  Wait! Where’s Ivan?

  She patted down all her pockets. They were empty.

  “Ivan!” she called into the darkness as if he could hear. She scooped handfuls of the dark water around her, her panic rising. She looked around her but could see almost nothing clearly on the rippling surface of the water. She called out to him again.

  “Ivan!”

  She swam with her hands outstretched, searching the water around her, feeling in and around the waves. But all she touched were a few strands of slimy seaweed. Finally, off in the distance, she saw a glint of silver bobbing in the water. Could it be the paint of his hat? The glint disappeared under a wave, but Sarah dived toward it, moving her hands through the water until finally they touched something. It slipped away under another wave, but then she grabbed into the water and her hand fell around the bear. She held him tightly to her chest.

  “Don’t swim away like that again.”

  Sarah gripped Ivan in her hand and floated on her back to catch her breath. She had only been resting for a minute when an icy chill soaked her skin and sharp gooseflesh sprouted across her body.

  She had to keep moving or she’d freeze to death.

  She considered taking off her high-laced boots but feared that it would take too long to remove them. Stripping off her coat, she struggled to stay afloat as she tied it tightly around her waist so she could more easily move her arms. Sarah treaded water to get her bearings and saw New York way off in the distance. It had looked so much closer from the ship. She could never make it that far.

  Looking around her, she caught sight of the Lady’s glowing torch. The statue’s small island was just a few hundred yards away. She fixed her eyes on the torch and started to swim toward it, remembering her father’s instruction to kick her legs like a frog and move her arms like she was opening a set of curtains, over and over in a steady rhythm. Up, out, together, glide. Up, out, together, glide.

  The movement stirred her blood, fighting off the cold. It was difficult to swim with Ivan clutched in her fist, but she couldn’t risk putting him back in her pocket.

  Sarah shuddered as something slithered against her leg. A moment later, something else brushed her foot. She paddled and kicked faster, too afraid to slow down and try to swat or kick the creatures away. She tried not to think of what might be swimming with her.

  She had to rest every few minutes, only allowing herself to float until she felt the cold creeping across her flesh. She made gradual progress, always keeping the Lady and the torch in her sights.

  Her legs and arms felt heavier and heavier, and just keeping herself afloat was sappin
g all of her strength. She tried to rest by floating on her back, but whenever she did, the cold overtook her and waves lapped on top of her, soaking her face and stinging her eyes.

  Sarah was lying on her back when—thud!—something hard hit the back of her head.

  She gasped in pain.

  Spinning around in the water, Sarah discovered a large wooden pallet. It must have floated away from the mainland.

  She maneuvered the top of her body onto the pallet like it was a life raft and then used her legs to kick toward the island.

  The poem about the Lady ran through her mind, as if its lines were words of encouragement written specifically for her right now. “Give me your tired, your poor, / . . . The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.”

  Finally the shadowy outline of the island’s rocky shore came into view. Keep kicking. Just a little more, she told herself.

  When she was a few yards from shore, her knee cracked against the side of a rock. The sting was sharp and she knew the blow had broken skin. She let go of her raft and felt her way toward shore. Her hand touched another rock but slipped off.

  Reaching into the dark water, she grabbed onto the rock again and pulled herself to it. She rested, holding it for a moment, before venturing forward to the next. Sarah cautiously floated from rock to rock, feeling around with her hands, until she was able to haul herself up and out of the water and onto something dry.

  She crawled a few feet until she felt grass under her sore knees. Her heart pounded and her muscles tingled with exhaustion and relief as she flipped over onto her back and stared into the sky, her chest heaving, taking in huge mouthfuls of night air.

  Sarah rolled over onto her side and then hauled herself up and onto her knees. She had come ashore on the west side of the island, the back of the Lady towering over her. The Lady’s massive right foot stuck out of the back of her robe, as if she was striding forward, a small detail Sarah had never known existed.

  Taking a deep breath, Sarah stood up. She needed to see the Lady from the front, to come face-to-face with her. So she picked herself up, shoved Ivan into her pocket, and ran to the front of the island, until finally the Lady’s magnificent gaze fell upon her.