My last entry was, I presume, incredibly disparaging and equally unhelpful. I had no real interest in conferring with ghosts then, though some part of me still felt the need to give what little update I ended up giving. It was the most important news of the day, truthfully, however I told you nothing of what has happened to the Duvals in the last few weeks, nor the circumstances surrounding them, and indeed I still haven’t. I’ll get right to it.

We boarded our ship uneventfully. The dock was no busier than any other day, just as I had suspected. We began our voyage days before any news would have truly broken, but I can imagine the chaos of the dock later on that week, long after we had gone. Before finding our ship I stood looking out at the boards as many hundreds of boots walked them, straining my mind to picture what it would look like with twenty times that number, all forty times as frantic, once the Germans broadcast their victory across the country.

I do not pretend to be ignorant of the fact that we are extraordinarily lucky to be out of France, let alone alive. I must remember to pray sometime soon. I’m sure the conversation will have a bit of give and take to it. Not all prayers, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, are for thanks or requests. Some - most, for certain people - come in the form of an interrogation. I will have many questions the next time I speak privately with you, Lord, and this time I expect some answers. I’ve done more than enough to earn them.

My parents, the Hugos and I all landed on Ellis Island on November the 7th to a surprising lack of disarray. Despite the fact we had beaten the rush behind us, I expected their receiving area to be one of complete chaos. I had known the news of Paris’ fall would’ve arrived before us - I was correct - and so assumed their facilities would already be braced for the worst. From what I gathered in our two days there, ours was to be just about the last ship before the largest mass exodus in modern western history, so they all believed (this, too, was correct). I am now of the opinion that our ship represented the last of the old Ellis Island. I’ve heard stories of that place in the days following our departure: a cafeteria filled cheek to cheek with no room to move, even while standing; parents throwing their children through security in desperate attempts to free them; later on, starvation. On average there are 5000 people in and out of Ellis Island every day, up until our group. On the seventh, our arrival day, there were just 4000. On the tenth, the day after we left, a little over 50,000. The day after that, 100,000. The death toll being publicly released stands at just 200. The real number can’t be less than 10,000. I’d bet my life on it.

The national guard were brought in - they were there when we left - but president Wilson called in the army and navy on the tenth after a line of guardsmen were killed in a firebomb. That afternoon, after the army had landed, shots were heard clearly from the mainland. Uncountable shots. There’s been no official report of it, but something terrible has happened, and it keeps getting worse. Ships dock, passengers unload, they enter the facilities, yet none ever come out. Two weeks passed before a ship carrying passengers left Ellis Island, and they were all in boxes. After that, 65 ships came ashore, all full of people too emaciated to be alive, too scared to speak, being pushed around by army men with no patience for stragglers. 65 ships, 2000 people each, which leaves 130,000 coming out and 150,000 going in. 20,000 disappeared in two weeks. More ships come in every day, but now it’s Spanish boats, dozens of them, and God, today even one flying the Union Jack. I’d be surprised if a single Englishman left that island. I’d be surprised if any Englishman ever set foot in America ever again, I’d just as soon see a dragon.

The Hugos and Duvals were set up with a small apartment in Manhattan - God knows how - where we live in close proximity with some of the 130,000. We live next door to a family of twelve, the Deschampses, who have told us all they know from their time on the island. Jean-Pierre, the father, a greying man of dark eyes and broad shoulders, saw the national guard being firebombed mere feet from his children after the staff announced there was no food left on the island, this after a tenth of the people there had eaten. The remaining guardsmen fired on the cafeteria crowd, killing at least a hundred men, women, and children. The fact that the Deschampses, with their ten children, are all still alive is a miracle beyond miracles.

I don’t know what will happen to us in the following months. Of course, I want us to leave for San Francisco as soon as possible, but this city has infected my poor mother’s lungs. She’s been coughing horrifically since we landed in Manhattan, and has been bed-ridden since we got this apartment. She doesn’t have the strength to travel, and none of us can stand to leave her. I would sooner die to an American bullet than leave her behind, her last son, the one who brought her here. I cannot leave her. We peer across the water to the island, hoping for some sign that things are turning for the better, but I can’t say I’d recognize it even if it came. There is a chance we in Manhattan are the last of the French.

John Ashcroft and his ilk are doing more than conquer our country. Jean-Pierre says those who escaped by ship escaped with their lives, chased out of Paris, Orléans, Le Mans with guns to their backs. The Germans didn’t stop, even when the French army was gone. Whatever fire Otto lit on the south bank of the Aisne that day still burned in their souls as they ransacked these people’s homes, not leaving anything or anyone unbroken. They will pay, of this I am sure. I am unsure only of whether there will be other Frenchmen to celebrate their deaths when the time comes. New York City is flooded with bodies tagged Ashcroft. They are all his. I am not.