criminal activity on some estates south of major cities.”
“What kind of criminal activity?”
“I shouldn’t have told you even that, Mrs. Ferriday. Just know we’re watching it closely so our own borders are not infected with revolution. We’re starting to see our first émigrés arrive from the fallout of it all. Whole bunch of them just made it through.” He pulled a clipboard from under a pile and ran one finger down a list. “No Streshnayvas though.”
“Where are they from in Russia?”
“Moscow mostly. But from all over Russia, and that’s one big country. They’ve been left to me, I’m afraid, and I’m at my wits’ end with what to do with them. All were rich.” He leaned in. “Bet they practically lived on caviar. But they had to escape quickly, so no money, no passports. Better English than mine, but no skills. Mostly women and children.”
“Can they sew?”
“Just fancy stuff, never used a machine, but they still may have to go to the mills. I’m not allowed to place children there, so the little ones may need to go to foster care.”
“You can’t take children from their mothers, Mr. Blandmore. Surely you can reach out to the Russian-American community here….”
“Tried that, but most of the Russians already here are poor folks driven out by the tsar—told me they call these ladies ‘White Russians’ and I should let them starve since they supported that murderer.”
“What about hotel jobs? Perhaps they could board there, too.”
“I can’t spend my day calling hotels. St. Luke’s Hospital says they’ll take them temporarily, but then they’ll go to a lodging house down on Rivington Street.”
“The Bowery, Mr. Blandmore? How could you?”
For misery, filth, and debauchery, the Lower East Side neighborhood had no equal.
“Look, Mrs. Ferriday, I didn’t invite them here.”
“May I speak to them?”
“You need to be a registered immigrant aid society.”
“Well, Mr. Blandmore, that’s just what I happen to be.”
“Name?” He pulled a pad from his drawer.
“The, well…Central Committee…for…”
“Russian Relief?”
“That’s it.”
Mr. Blandmore wrote on his pad. “Surely it’s American.”
“Of course. The American Central Committee for Russian Relief. I like to call it ACCRR.”
“Think twice before you go in there, Mrs. Ferriday. They’re a needy bunch and there’s more coming every day.”
“Let me be the judge of that, Mr. Blandmore.”
“Suit yourself. Consider yourself registered. Go talk all you want. Detention room seven, down that hall.”
I made my way to number seven, an even smaller room, folding chairs lined up against the walls. I entered to find women sitting, several with children on their laps, a neat stack of valises in the corner. They stood as I came in. Even in their rumpled traveling clothes they were a refined group.
“Pleased to meet you all. I am Eliza Ferriday—I’ve come to offer help.”
A woman with close-cropped light hair and aquamarine eyes stepped forward and held my hands in hers. “Thank you.”
Another, holding a child on her hip, came closer. “We will work. Please don’t let them take my girl.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help.”
She handed me her sleepy baby and the child lay her head on my shoulder. So close to little Max’s age.
I went from one woman to the next, murmuring gentle comforts as I hatched my plan, more than happy to throw myself into the volcano.
* * *
—
I SPENT HOURS SECURING positions for the White Russian women, happy to have a new mission. As I waited for their paperwork, Mother proposed a trip up to Bethlehem, Connecticut, to visit The Hay, thinking it would be good for Caroline. I dreaded the trip, knowing it would pour salt on the wound of losing Henry, but agreed to go. I braced for the worst, hoping it would heal the rift between my daughter and me.
The following Monday, sweet Thomas drove us five hours north of Manhattan to the old place. Mother and I sat in the backseat, Caroline and Betty Stockwell in the front, as he drove slowly along the town green.
Fall was in full color and the village of Bethlehem seemed frozen in time with its neat town green and the same sort of sensible, pre–Revolutionary War houses one sees in quaint New England towns.
“Nice town,” Thomas said, a little too brightly. “All they need’s a general store.” Was he trying to smooth over the gaping hole of Henry’s absence?
“One restaurant would be nice,” I said.
The lonely hamlet made Southampton look like Indianapolis and it needed more than a general store. The only activity came from across the green at the old Bird Tavern. Carriages came and