Legacy Of The Doomed

Hurricane

For most tourists arriving in New York by ship, the Statue of Liberty was the first thing to look at, to take photos of and to remember when thinking of a symbol representing the USA. Not many of them stayed on deck after the big cruise ships had passed Liberty Island, going back down into their cabins or to breakfast, later bragging about all the photos they had taken. So none of them ever noticed the bigger island in the shadows of the Statue of Liberty.

No one noticed the tall building made of red brick that held so much more history than most of the city's sights. Of course, the New Yorkers knew very well what this building was. But still, not many of them had ever visited the American immigration museum and even who had had never seen more of the island than the north side. Not that this was possible, everyone knew that the south side was closed for visitors, shut of from the public with a high metal fence and a sign that read do not enter!.

Behind the fence laid another building. It was tall and ominous, already halfway fallen apart and nothing anyone wanted to visit anyway. It's history was full of tears, hopelessness and death, still looming over this part of the island like a ghosts that sometimes, at clear, moonless nights, would come back and fill the building with all the broken souls that had once found themselves behind these cold walls.

Now the building was empty. No broken souls or tears anymore, no hopelessness or death, only the howling of the wind. The once always full hospital, buzzing with life at every time of day, broken souls or not, was now silent. All of the immigrants had gone away, had found a better life here in America or had been sent back to their home countries years ago. Nothing remained of them on this part of the island.

Of course, the hospital wasn't far from the museum but hidden behind a long fence, hidden from the public, hidden from curious eyes, hidden from everyone who visited the island. It was supposed to be restored but no one ever saw the workers that should enter the building or hear the machines that should be used. No one really cared.

So it was no wonder that no one noticed the figure sneaking out of the main building of the Ellis Island Immigration Hospital shortly after midnight.

It was quiet on the island that night. How is that possible, you may ask. It's never quiet in New York. But it is on Ellis Island. At least that night it was. The man climbed down the stairs, trying to make no sound, clutching the package he held in his arms even closer to his chest. His breath was going quick and unsteady, his heart was pounding against his chest and if one looked closely, it was clear to see that he was shaking.

He was afraid.

And still, he didn't run, didn't rush down the stairs or hid behind a bush. He walked slowly, his head raised to the sky as if he was searching for the stars that had already fled from New York City years ago. Maybe he should do the same. Maybe he should just go, drop his bundle and run. But he didn't. His eyes were still scanning the grey sky when he reached the end of the stairs so it was impossible that he had seen the sea that was splashing against the shore just a few steps away.

And still, he stopped. For a moment he just stood there, staring at the sky, until he finally walked to the old, wooden boat hidden in the darkness. It jumped up and down in the dirty brown water of the Upper Bay as if it was waiting for its owner to appear. There was no rope that connected it to the island, nothing that held it in place and yet, it stayed until the man was close enough to jump into it. He searched for something in the black cloak before putting on the hood, muttering some strange words as he sat down. The boat was equipped with a pair of rudders but he didn't even have to touch them for the boat to move forwards, gliding over the water as if the flow didn't even exist. A small smile hushed over the man's face as he looked down onto the package he was still holding.