The Girl in the Torch (3 page)

T
HAT 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.

T
HE 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.

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.

S
EVERAL 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.

T
HE 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.