Alina

 

"Alina Jurek?"

 

The voice calling my name is hoarse and ragged, like the voice of a man speaking just before letting out the rough cough of a smoker. By instinct, I rise, looking around the dingy interior of the immigration office, the low lighting casting the other girls around me in a thin, fluorescent glow that makes their skin look wan and pallid. It strikes me as strange that the only other people here are girls like me, but I don't think too much about it.

 

The girls are all like me: young, thin, pretty, but tired-looking, their uniformly big, blue eyes looking up at me as I stand. None of them speak, as they all learned quickly after being rushed into this room that they didn't share a common language. Only I speak English with any proficiency.

 

I look over at the small office area, which is a large, concrete space boxed into the corner of the building. A rectangular window on the side frames a man sitting in a folding chair at one side of a cheap-looking plastic table. My stomach tightens as my eyes fall upon him; he's the immigration officer who's going to let me know if I'll be allowed to come to America, or if my journey across the sea—the journey that I paid my last bit of money for—was all in vain.

 

"You Alina?" says the man, a short, rat-faced government agent with greasy brown hair, a leather jacket too big for his short frame, and an immigration officer badge hanging from the pocket of his jeans.

 

"Yes, that's me," I respond.

 

"First of all," says the man. “Keep your eyes in front of you. Don't make eye contact with the agent unless he specifically gives you permission."

 

"Yes, of course," I say, flicking my eyes down to the black, concrete ground; this all strikes me as strange for an immigration office.

 

"That's better."

 

I see him step over to the door to the office and open it.

 

"You ready for the next one?" he asks into the room; I don't hear the answer.

 

"Okay, get in there," he says.

 

I take little steps past him, the dirty tennis shoes on my feet pattering on the concrete. Soon, I'm within the lighting of the office, which is orange and thick. I cast a glance up at the man sitting at the table. He's tall, stocky, and balding, with a horseshoe of brown hair curving around a span of shiny bald scalp. His face is pudgy, with narrow brown eyes, a fat thumb of a nose, and thin lips, all set amongst soft, baby-smooth flesh. His eyes scan me up and down in a way he's probably looked over hundreds, if not thousands of other girls. But I can feel his eyes linger on my body in a way that makes me immediately uncomfortable and self-conscious.

 

"Go ahead and sit," he says, his voice that rough Brooklyn accent that I've heard from the American cop shows my father used to watch.

 

I slide into the seat, my arms wrapped around my body, trying to make myself as small as possible. My eyes are fixed on the dirty plastic of the table in front of me, occasionally flicking over to the immigration services posters on the otherwise bare walls of the office.

 

"Well, you've got the look, that's for damn sure," the man says.

 

Though I'm not meeting his gaze, I can feel his eyes on me. The feeling makes my stomach turn. I wonder what he means by this statement.

 

"You can look at me," the man says.

 

My eyes dart from one side of the spare, empty room to the other before moving up and settling on the man. Now that I'm looking at him, I can see that he's dressed in a flashy, button-up shirt, the kind that have designs on them that look like sailor's tattoos. A heavy, gold watch droops from his wrist. He reminds me of the teenage gangsters that I knew back in Poland—the types who spend all of their money on tacky, garish clothing as soon as their first drug deal pays off. But this man isn't a teen; he looks to me to be in his late thirties.

 

"First of all, welcome to America," he says, looking down at a clipboard with information that I assume is about me.

 

"Thank you," I say, not sure if I should make my voice sound full and confident or small and meek. I settle on something between the two.

 

"Here from …Poland? Krakow, it looks like."

 

"Yes, that's right," I say, my mind flashing back to the streets of the neighborhood where I grew up.

 

"And what brings you to our, ah, humble, little country?"

 

I clear my throat in preparation to launch into a speech that I've already given a few times.

 

"I want to make a better life for myself. America is the land of opportunity, where anyone can make their dreams come true, if only they're willing to work for it. It's a place of freedom and justice—a place that I hope one day to call my home."

 

A snort escapes the nose of the agent.

 

Who is this man? I find myself wondering. I've long known that government agents tend to be a certain type, but he strikes me as the sort of man from a small town back in Poland—the policeman who'd pull you over for the sole purpose of hoping to get a bribe to let you off.

 

"Good English," he says, his eyes still on the clipboard. "Where'd you learn it?"

 

"In Poland it's common to learn English. We all start from a young age."

 

"Yeah," he says. "But yours is almost perfect. You barely got an accent."

 

"My …father was a professor of English literature. He admired your culture very much."

 

"Admired?" the man says, placing special emphasis on the past tense of the word.

 

"Yes. My parents are dead."

 

A moment passes.

 

"Sorry to hear that," says the man, his tone not suggesting anything like sympathy. He still did not take his eyes off of the clipboard. "What happened?"

 

I was shocked that he'd ask such a specific question. Wasn't it enough that I simply told him that my parents had passed? Why did he need to know the details?

 

"It was a car accident. About two years ago."

 

The memory of that day came flooding back into my mind against my will. I'd become skilled at suppressing the entire thing playing in my thoughts like some horrible movie, but the details still flashed in my mind—like the slate-gray sky and spattering of rain of that day, the truck that would crush our car looming to the side of us on the highway, and the feeling of my mother's blood on my legs….

 

I shake my head in an attempt to toss the memories out before the tears started forming as they always do.

 

"Too bad," says the man, though I can't tell if he's saying this because he feels genuinely sorry for me or if it's just because he's realizing that he's not going to get any lurid details.

 

"I'm Agent Parson," says the man. "But you can call me Ray."

 

"Hello, Ray," I say, seeing a smile form on the agent's face.

 

"You got any brothers or sisters?"

 

"No," I say. "I'm an only child."

 

"No friends or family in the country?"

 

"No."

 

A moment passes.

 

"Then how'd you get here?"

 

"I went through the proper channels, paid for a plane ticket, and flew here."

 

"So, you're just hoping that you get approved for something more than a temporary visa. No job, no family, and not even a couch to crash on."

 

His tone sounds skeptical—almost judgmental—like he's going over the reasons why my decision to come to America was perhaps foolish.

 

"There was no one for me back in Poland, either," I say, my eyes meeting his. "At least here I might be able to find some sort of opportunity.

 

"'Land of opportunity'," he says. "Everyone who comes here wants a piece of that sweet ‘opportunity.' Well, here's the cold reality of the situation: there's a good chance that you're not gonna get approved. Sorry, but that's how it works."

 

My heart sinks at hearing this. I spent my last bit of money getting here; the idea of being sent right back to Poland is too painful for me to even think about.

 

"Everyone on the planet wants to get into this country; we can't let ‘em all in. Especially a girl like you with no skills, no higher education, and no connections. A situation like that is a recipe for yet another immigrant moochin' off our welfare system."

 

"I don't want to be a …mooch," I say, the slang term unfamiliar to me, though I discern its meaning through context. "I want to be productive and to give something back to the country if it would be so kind as to let me stay here."

 

"Ain’t that sweet of you," says Ray.

 

I can't get over how …unprofessional this man seems.

 

"Well, fortunately for you, I'm in what you'd call a, ah, position of some influence."

 

He tosses the clipboard onto the table, the wood hitting the hollow plastic of the table with a thud.

 

"I'm someone who can move things along for you, if I were so inclined as to help you in that way."

 

I look up at him, my eyes wide. What is he getting at, I wonder. My arms are still wrapped around my body.

 

"We've got a little …program. The type that's tailor-made for immigrants like you—the kind that comes here with no family or friends waiting for them once they arrive. It works like this: we set you up with a little apartment—nothing fancy, just a place to get started, mind you—and a job. You check in with us on the regular, and we monitor your progress. If, after a while, you've kept that cute, little nose of yours clean, we can start talking about you getting a more permanent situation sorted out."

 

It sounds like a good deal. But it's not something I've ever heard of, and I've spent many hours going through all of the finer points of American immigration policy. At best, I was hoping for a temporary visa that would allow me to stay long enough to get enrolled in school.

 

"You give me a job, a place to live, and a visa? What do I have to do?"

 

"Be a productive citizen," says Ray. "Stay out of trouble, work hard, and be a good, little, immigrant girl. You can thank ol' Uncle Sam for his generosity; ‘give me your tired, weak, poor’—all that crap. And no offense, but you look like you check all of those boxes."

 

I'm slightly offended, but I can't argue; this last year of getting to America has sapped me of just about every last bit of strength I have.

 

"So, what do you say?" says Ray.

 

The program sounds perfect—exactly what I need. But I know that I should ask for more details, ask to speak with someone other than this seedy man, and ask for something in writing.

 

But I'm too tired. All I can say is what I say next.

 

"Yes. How do I sign up?"

 

A smile crosses Ray's face that sets off alarms in my body, alarms that I ignore.

 

"Good. Great. Well, lucky for you, we've got a place that opened up last night in Philadelphia. Some young girl like you just moved out; think she's enrolled in dental technician school or somethin' like that. Could be you someday. Anyway, we'll get you set up for the night, then hopefully get you down to Philly tomorrow. Once you're there, you have one more meeting with the …head of our little program. If he likes you, he'll clear you to get started. Sound good?"

 

It sounds good. Perfect, in fact. I almost want to cry at the idea of my journey being nearly over.

 

"One thing, Ms. Jurek. When we say ‘you stay in touch with us,' we mean it. Once you're set up in the apartment, you're expected to stay in contact with us at all times. You go off the radar, you become a criminal. Our little …arrangement is contingent on you working with us very, very closely. Got it?"

 

I nod yes.

 

"Excellent," says Ray, his little teeth set in another grin. "Then welcome to America."