I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.
But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.
In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails
Cattle Call
A guard had shoved a piece of paper in her hand mere moments before.
743.
Now holding it clutched in one damp, trembling hand, Elsa joined the line of immigrants shuffling in a seemingly never-ending line.
She looked at the number on her paper over and over again.
743.
It meant nothing at all.
It had no relevance to her.
But at that moment, it was all she was.
And she was afraid.
But she thought of Massimo and his unwavering confidence and belief in her and she steeled herself.
And held her head high.
"This way! This way, please! Step quickly! Let's go!"
Shouting.
In English.
The uniformed officers were shouting at them.
Hundreds of immigrants, tired and weary from the long and tiresome voyage.
Elsa understood the shouting men because she had been listening to as much radio English as possible and learning from Massimo as well.
But what about those other poor souls who were simply hearing loud voices and seeing stern, unforgiving faces?
They were scared and unsure, it was obvious by their walled expressions. The way they clung to crying, wide-eyed children and shuffled along with their heads down.
They were herded like so much cattle, dragging and carrying all their worldly possessions, toward a large red brick building.
The Baggage Room.
Once there, their worldly belongings, all they owned, were taken from them and left on the floor in heaps to be gathered up again later.
So that those tired, weary men and women and children could begin the hours long inspection process.
Some confused souls sought to hold tight to their bags and boxes.
And were detained peacefully by the armed guards.
Which encouraged others to drop their possessions as quickly as possible upon entry.
Off to one side of the room was a stand selling sandwiches and cups of drinks.
How very cruel for people who have not the funds for extra food after such a long, tiresome journey.
Those passengers choose to adhere to protocol were then directed upstairs to the Registry Room for processing.
And so went Elsa.
She was exhausted. And frustrated.
And had only barely begun the processing procedure.
The stairs were steep and tall.
Men in uniforms stood at intervals, closely observing the people as they slowly ascended.
Those who stumbled or appeared to struggle for breathe were pulled aside for medical inspection.
And Elsa was tired.
Her body weary of lifting Massimo's finely crafted wooden legs.
But she had heard that those who seemed sickly or weak would be detained further.
And possibly sent back across the Atlantic.
And though part of her desired to flee back to the familiarity of Germany, she did not know how to find Massimo.
And that was what made her keep climbing that eternal staircase.
The room was enormous, tall and vast.
So aptly named the Great Hall.
And filled with lines and lines of tired, worn men, women, and children shambling between long rows of metal rails.
Red, white, and blue flags of the United States hung along the walls, the only bursts of color in the grey existence.
The clamor was deafening, so many voices in so many languages all mixed together and amplified by the architecture of the massive space.
And Elsa was developing a headache.
She was so very grateful to see the sitting benches. To reach them and gain reprieve.
They were hard and creaky and uncomfortable.
And divine.
"Visa? Affidavit of support?"
Elsa started as the voice cut through her haze.
A man in uniform was talking to her.
"Ma'am? Speak English?"
She looked up, a little disorientated after so long in a haze of limbo.
He was younger than she, his eyes blue and slightly reddened by a long day's work.
"English? Speak English?"
She nodded, clearing her throat to speak. But he didn't give her the time.
"Do you have a visa?"
She shook her head.
"An affidavit of support?"
Again a silent answer in the negative.
He sighed and pointed.
"That line, please."
And so she went.
"Name?"
Another official, sitting at a long counter, papers before him.
And she, weak with hunger and exhaustion, her lovely blond curls wilting, perched on a stool before him.
Suddenly blank and lost in the world of too many words and loud noises.
"Name, please?"
The man looked up, impatient with her lack of response.
"Elsa," she managed. "My name is Elsa."
He narrowed his eyes at her tremulous response and even more so at her heavy German accent.
"Last name?"
Last name, last name.
It had been so long since she'd had a last name.
And it was never mine in the first place, was it? It was my father's.
Dolcefino, she could say. Dolcefino, yes. She and Massimo were to be married when he arrived in a month's time, why not take the plunge now and start fresh?
Elsa Dolcefino. Lovely.
A smile flitted across her face momentarily before dying even as it was born.
Massimo was not here. She could not take his name until he spoke it.
And so now she was alone and alienated.
Again.
"Last name, ma'am?"
The man was growing ever more impatient with her lack of response. They would soon believe she was trying to formulate lies, which she was.
And then she would be put back on the boat and sent home.
Their plans would be ruined and they would be forever separated by the war, the world's evil.
And her own stupidity.
Her in this alien world.
An alien, alone.
Without friend or ally.
"Mars," she stated suddenly, the word more of an exhalation of breathe than a declaration. "My name is Elsa Mars."
The man wrote down the information.
"And you are here . . . alone?"
Massimo. Massimo should be here.
He was not.
"Yes," she replied stiffly, her jaw set and rigid.
The man frowned and scratched once more upon the paper with his stub of pencil.
Elsa felt she had answered the question wrong.
And it would cost her.
The man waved her on to the next station.
And Elsa Mars continued her lonely journey into the new world into which Massimo Dolcefino had sent her.
Alone.
Elsa felt even more like a piece of livestock as she shuffled along the medical line.
Stern-faced men holding chalk eyeballed each worn, fatigued human blankly staring ahead.
Occasionally a uniformed man would reach out and mark the clothing of an immigrant.
Then further ahead in a break in the rails people with chalk marks on their clothing were removed from line for further inspection.
Elsa's heart was pounding in her throat and she thought she might pitch forward onto the hard concrete floor in her anxiety and stress.
But she reached the end of the line unmarked and vastly relieved.
Another process worker. Another stool. Another set of questions.
And Elsa was tired.
Irritated.
Frustrated.
But she held her head high and spoke with confidence.
"Name?"
Jean Harlow.
"Elsa Mars."
He raised an eyebrow at the odd moniker.
"Where were you born?"
As if it isn't obvious.
"Germany."
Nazi defector, that is now what is in his mind.
"Are you married?"
In my heart, yes, oh yes.
"No."
"Are you here alone?"
Well, do you see my handsome Italian hovering protectively around me?
"Yes."
"What is your occupation?"
Assistant to a brilliant carpenter.
"Singer."
"Have you ever been convicted of a crime?"
By the men who cut off my legs.
"No."
"What is your destination?"
Away from you.
"New York."
And on went the questions.
And the answers.
And on and on and on.
The Isle of Hope had become the Isle of Tears for so many.
Poor physical or mental health.
Failure of legal inspection.
A woman or young child alone without contact or family.
Elsa was the third.
And so at the top of another long staircase well-named the Staircase of Separation, Elsa Mars was directed down the center aisle.
And so she must stay.
Government officials feared women alone without family would come to depend upon the charity of those more fortunate or simply live in poverty.
And such was not permissible for the country of the United States of America.
And so she stayed.
They gave her a bed in a long, open dormitory filled with rows and rows of them.
They provided her with daily portions of food and drink.
Her, along with so many other women.
She would receive a hearing within the month.
And so she was resigned to wait and wonder at her fate.
And Massimo's.
Kind of ironic that we are driving home today (finally) and picking up our son just when Elsa's been taken away from everything she knows. Bummer for her, hurrah for us :D
In my humble opinion, the similiarities between the Ellis Island and Nazi concentration camp processing procedures cannot be denied.
However, thankfully, not too similar.
So thanks to sophia10, brigid1318, GG, foreverglfan88, Grace, and Cassalyn for continuing your encouragement of this story! :)
And as far as another Elsa/Massimo tale, I will perhaps write a character study or two (maybe their thoughts during their reunions near the end of Freak Show? I love writing character studies), but as far as another full blown multi-chapter, I doubt it. And if you don't like that, hey, you could always write your own. *nudge, nudge*
Only two chapters left!