Getting stranded at snowbound O'Hare for the night is one thing. You call home, maybe knock down a couple of martinis, then grab a blanket. A century ago, being quarantined at Ellis Island for eight months because you were, say, a part-time anarchist from Campobasso with a big mustache and a little case of scarlet fever was a far more serious business. Your very life was in the hands of... More >>>