My Dear Sister,
It has been a month since we left France and two weeks since we left Africa. Being the only girl, William and my Father make me do chores all the time. I'm fine with doing dishes and cleaning the crew's rooms. But I hate having to go down into the bottom of the boat for chores.
They make me go down there with food. One bucket of dry oats to feed 200 people. I slowly open the hatch. I can smell the fieces and death. I can barely breathe. One of the other crew members always has to go with me in case someone tries to escape. "Hello," I say quietly. "I have food."
I walk slowly and timidly through the boat. Another job I have is to count the bodies. Today there were 4. Yesterday there were 6. Many people are ill. It is hard to walk around. It is very crammed. The floor is disgusting. I try to move my way through with my food to feed everybody. I have to give everyone so little. They are all so skinny and weak. Two days ago I tripped over the body of a dead child. Some of the oats spilled out and people scrambled and fought each other trying to eat them off the floor.
Some people just give up. They refuse to eat because they want to starve themselves to death. When this happens whatever crew member was with me has to force the food down their throat. Everyone on this ship is so violent with the people. I think the people are nice to me because I'm not violent. I just walk down there with my bucket and try to give out the food fairly. They generally leave me alone. Generally. Once time a man grabbed the food from my hand and pushed me out of the way. Father was with me then and he got into a fight with the man. I was scared.
After I get up I have to tell William how many deaths. "Four," I say. "Two women, a man, and a little baby."
"Thank you Lorraine." I nod and go up on the deck. This boat is like taking every beggar in Saint Michel and sticking them in a tiny little room. I need air. I feel like a terrible person being here. I feel like I'm taking part in something absolutely awful. I feel like this is going to send me to hell. I don't want to go to hell because I know your in heaven and I want to be with you when I die.
I watch as they throw the bodies to the sharks. I cry as they throw over the baby. A woman had died giving birth to it a few days ago. "Azelma quit it and get used to it," Father says. I didn't realize he was even behind. He has a good way of showing up places.
"Sorry Papa," I say. He puts his hand on my shoulder for five seconds, then leaves. It is hard for me to tell how much Father actually cares about me. Sometimes he tries to console me. Last week he asked me why I sleep with a hat and vest.
"They are Ponine and Vroches I told him. This seemed to upset him. He didn't quite know what to say. He picked up the vest and stared at it. Then he did the same with the hat. I thought I almost saw him cry. "Don't lose these," he told me. Then he leFt.
Other times he yells at me. "Azelma your doing it wrong! Why would you do that Azelma?" And when we're around other people "Hurry up Lorraine! Stop whining Lorraine!"
I don't want that to be my name. I think I finally got the pronunciation right, even though Father thinks I still roll my r too much.
Father created a whole story for us. Father used to live in America in his youth but when he met mother he moved to France. I was their only child. Mother died five years ago from fever.
Everyone seems to buy this story. I hate it. I hate this ship. I can't go a second without hearing people below crying in pain. If the boat ride there is this awful, what will America be like. Father keeps talk I'm about a "better life", but if America is anything like this I'd rather spend the rest of my life as a beggar in Paris.
Please be my guardian angel,
Your sister, Azelma