The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Suddenly a woman in a Lady Liberty costume pushed between Pia and her mother, jarring her from her thoughts. When the woman’s bare forearm brushed her hand, Pia held her breath, waiting for the strange sensations to start. But to her relief, she felt nothing. She relaxed her tight shoulders and exhaled, trying to calm down. She only had to get through the next hour or so. That was it. Then she could go home, to their rooms on Shunk Alley in the Fifth Ward, where no one but her loved ones could reach her.

  Then Mutti stopped to talk to a woman from the greengrocers’ and a pair of clammy hands clamped over Pia’s eyes. Someone snickered in her ear. A sharp pain instantly twisted near her rib cage, making her hot and dizzy. She yanked the hands away from her face and spun around. It was Tommy Costa, the freckle-faced boy who teased her during school recess, and two of his friends, Angelo DiPrizzi and Skip Turner. They laughed and stuck out their tongues at her, then ran away. The discomfort in her ribs went with them.

  By the time Mutti chose a spot to watch the parade, Pia was shaking. She’d begged her mother to let her stay home, even promising to straighten up their two-room apartment while she and the twins were gone. But despite knowing how Pia felt about large gatherings, Mutti insisted.

  “Going to the parade is the only way to prove we are loyal Americans,” Mutti said in heavily accented English. “It’s hard enough after President Wilson said all German citizens are alien enemies. I follow the new laws. I sign the papers they want me to sign refusing my German citizenship. I do the fingerprinting. But I have no money to buy Liberty loans or make a donation to the Red Cross. I have to feed you and your brothers. So we must go to the parade. All of us. Even your father fighting in the war is not enough to keep the neighbors happy.”

  “But it won’t matter if I’m with you or not,” Pia said. “Everyone will see you there, and the twins will enjoy it. I could make dinner and have it ready when you return.”

  “Nein,” her mother said. As soon as the word came out of her mouth, worry flickered across her face. “I mean, no. You must come with us. The radio and newspapers tell everyone to be watchful of their German-American neighbors and to report to the authorities. Before your father left, a woman shouted at me, saying he stole a real American’s job. She spit and said to go back where I came from. I am not leaving you home alone.”

  Pia knew Mutti was right; she’d suffered enough bullying at school to know everything she said was true. Rumors were flying that German spies were poisoning food, and German-Americans were secretly hoarding arms. Some Germans had even been sent to jail or internment camps. The city was plastered with posters showing Germans standing over dead bodies and ads directing people to buy war bonds to “Beat back the Hun!” Churches with German congregations had been painted yellow, German-language newspapers were shut down, and schoolchildren were forced to sign pledges promising not to use any foreign language whatsoever. As if that weren’t enough, a special police group called the Home Guard, originally formed to patrol the streets with guns to ensure adequate protection of important points in the city—the Water Works and pumping station, the electric light distributing plant, the telephone service, and various power stations at manufacturing plants—now also patrolled the south end of the city to keep an eye on German immigrants. Some companies refused to employ Germans, so Mutti lost her job at the textile mill. And because she needed a permit to withdraw money from the bank, what little cash they had left was kept under a floorboard inside a bedroom cubby. Even sauerkraut and hamburgers were renamed “liberty cabbage” and “liberty sandwiches.”

  But knowing Mutti was right didn’t make going to the parade any easier.

  * * *

  Three days after the parade, while her schoolmates laughed and played hopscotch and jump rope during recess, Pia sat alone in her usual spot, on a flat rock near the back fence of the schoolyard, pretending to read. The air was pale, as gray as smoke, and the breeze carried a slight chill. Luckily, she’d remembered to bring her sweater, especially since the school windows were being kept open to ward off the grippe. Her three-quarter-length dress had long sleeves and her cotton stockings were thick, but the flour-sack material of her skirt and bodice was worn and thin. She put the book down, pulled her sleeves over her fists, and tried to stop shivering. Was she trembling because of the cold, or because she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d seen and heard since the Liberty Loan parade?

  Mrs. Schmidt had told Mutti that within seventy-two hours of the parade, every bed in each of the city’s thirty-one hospitals was filled with victims of a new illness called the Spanish influenza, and the hospitals were starting to refuse patients. By day four, the illness had infected over six hundred Philadelphians, and killed well over a hundred in one day. Pia overheard the teachers talking about a shortage of doctors and nurses because of the war, and that poorhouses and churches were being used as temporary hospitals. More posters went up that read “Spitting Equals Death,” and the police arrested anyone who disobeyed. Another poster showed a man in a suit standing next to the outline of a clawed demon rising from what appeared to be a pool of saliva on the sidewalk, with the words “Halt the Epidemic! Stop Spitting, Everybody!” And because everyone was wearing pouches of garlic or camphor balls in cheesecloth around their necks, the streets were filled with a foul, peculiar odor that she couldn’t help thinking was the smell of death. Most frightening of all, she heard that those who fell sick were often dead by nightfall; their faces turned black and blue, blood gushing from their mouth, nose, ears, and even their eyes.

  She’d been having nightmares too, filled with ghastly images of the parade spectators flashing in her mind like the jerky moving pictures in a penny arcade—each face with black lips and purple cheeks, and blood coming from their mouths and eyes. Every time it happened she woke up in a sweat, her arms and legs tangled in the sheets, her stomach and chest sore and aching. Just thinking about it made her queasy. The stench wafting up from the garlic tied around her neck didn’t help.

  She took the putrid necklace off and laid it in the grass, then lifted her chin and took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of fall—a mixture of moist earth, sunburnt leaves, and chimney smoke. But despite the fact that the air smelled significantly better than the strong odor of garlic, it still reminded her of her first dreadful day in her new school last year. She could still hear the voices of her mother and new teacher.

  “Did you see the letter I send in to school, Mrs. Derry?” Mutti had said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lange, I received the note. But I’m not sure I understand it.”

  “Forgive me, I only wish to make sure...” Mutti said, hesitating. “My Pia is, how do you say, delicate? She does not like crowds, or anyone touching her. I am not sure why....” Her mother started wringing her hands. “But she is a normal girl and smart. Please. Can you be sure the other children—”

  “Mrs. Lange, I don’t see how—”

  “Pia needs to learn. She needs to be at school. I don’t want her to . . .”

  “All right, Mrs. Lange,” Mrs. Derry said. “Yes, I’ll do my best. But children come into contact with each other while playing all the time, especially during recess. It’s part of learning. Sometimes I won’t be able to stop it from happening.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Mutti said. “But if Pia doesn’t want... if one of the other children does not know to leave her alone . . . please...”

  Mrs. Derry put a hand on her mother’s arm, looked at her with pity-filled eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. And I’ll let the other teachers know too.”

  Mutti nodded and gave her a tired smile, then said goodbye to Pia and left.

  After that first day, for the most part, Mrs. Derry and the rest of the teachers had done little to look out for Pia. And the memory of that encounter—her mother wringing her hands and trying to communicate her odd concerns to a confused Mrs. Derry while Pia cringed at her side and the other kids watched—recurred to her every time she stepped
foot in the classroom. While the other children played Duck, Duck, Goose or Ring-Around-the-Rosy, Pia stood off to the side, sad and relieved at the same time. Inevitably, when the teachers weren’t looking, some of the kids taunted and poked her, calling her names like freak girl or scaredy-cat. And now, because of the war, they called her a Hun.

  Thankfully she’d met Finn before school started, while he could form his own opinion without the influence of the other kids. It was the day after she and her family had moved in, when Mutti sent her out to sit on the stoop with strict instructions not to wander off while she and Vater talked—about what, Pia wasn’t sure. She’d been homesick and near tears, frightened to discover that the jumble of trash-strewn alleys and cobblestone streets and closely built row houses made her feel trapped, and wondering how she’d ever get used to living there, when he approached from across the alley. She tried to ignore him, hoping he was headed for the entrance behind her, but he stopped at the bottom of the steps, swept his copper-colored bangs out of his eyes, and gave her a friendly grin.

  “Yer a new lass around here, aren’t ye?” he said in a heavy Irish brogue. “I’m Finn Duffy, your neighbor from across the way.” He pointed at the shabby building across from hers, a four-story brick with narrow windows and a black fire escape.

  She nodded and forced a smile. She didn’t feel like talking but didn’t want to be rude either. “Yes,” she said. “We moved in yesterday.”

  “Nice to meet you, um... What did you say yer name was?”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I’m Pia Lange.”

  “Well, nice to meet ye, Pia Lange. Can I interest you in a game of marbles?” He pulled a cloth sack from the pocket of his threadbare trousers.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Would ye mind if I sit with you, then?” he said. “You look rather lonesome, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  She thought about telling him she wanted to be left alone, but didn’t want to start off by making enemies. Instead she nodded and moved over to make room, gathering her pleated skirt beneath her legs and sitting on her hands. He smiled and sat beside her, a polite distance away. To her relief, he kept quiet, almost as if he knew she didn’t feel like making conversation. Together they sat lost in their own thoughts, watching three colored girls with braids and pigtails play hopscotch across the way. One held a rag doll under her arm, the doll’s limp head flopping up and down with every jump. A group of ruddy-cheeked boys in patched pants and worn shoes kicked a can along the cobblestones, shouting at each other to pass the can their way. Snippets of laughter, conversation, and the tinny music of a phonograph drifted down from open windows, along with the smell of fried onions and baking bread. Line after line of laundry hung damp and unmoving in the humid air above their heads, crisscrossing the row of buildings like layers of circus flags. People of all colors and ages and sizes spilled out onto the fire escapes, some sitting on overturned washtubs and kettles, all looking for relief from the heat.

  An old colored woman in a dirty scarf and laceless boots limped past, humming and pulling a wooden cart filled with rags and old bottles. She skirted around two boys of about seven or eight playing cards on their knees in front of a stone building three doors down. One of the boys glanced over his shoulder at her, then jumped to his feet, grabbed something from her cart, and ran, laughing, back to his friend. The old woman kept going, oblivious to the fact that she had been robbed. The second boy gathered up the cards and did the same; then they both started to run away.

  Finn shot to his feet and chased after them, cutting them off before they disappeared down a side alley. He yelled something Pia couldn’t make out, then grabbed them by the ears and dragged them back to the old woman. After returning her things to the cart, the boys hurried away, rubbing their ears and scowling back at him, muttering under their breath. The old woman stopped and looked around, finally aware that something was amiss. When she saw Finn, she shooed him away and swatted at him with a thin, gnarled hand. He laughed and made his way back to Pia, shrugging and lifting his palms in the air.

  Pia couldn’t help but smile. “Do you know her?” she said.

  “I don’t,” he said, catching his breath. He sat back on the stoop beside her and wiped the sweat from his brow. “But I see her every day, selling rags and bottles on the corner. I know the lads, though, and they’re always causin’ a ruckus.”

  “They didn’t look very happy with you,” she said.

  “I suppose they’re not,” he said. “But they won’t cause trouble for me.”

  “Well,” she said. “It was very nice of you to stop them and make them return what they took.”

  He gave her a sideways grin. “Why, isn’t that grand? Ye think I’m nice. Thank you, Pia Lange.”

  Heat crawled up her face. She nodded because she didn’t know what to say, then went back to watching the girls play hopscotch. Did he really think what she said was grand, or was he making fun of her? His smile made her think he appreciated the compliment, so she told herself that was the case. Not that it mattered. Once he found out she was German he’d probably never speak to her again.

  He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and watched the girls play hopscotch too. “We came from Ireland three years ago,” he said. “How long have you been in the States?”

  “Since I was four,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “That long?”

  She nodded.

  “Livin’ here in Philly the entire time?”

  She shook her head. “We came here from Hazleton, Pennsylvania. Vater... I mean, my father worked in the coal mines.”

  He forced a hard breath between his teeth. “That’s a bloody hard way to make a living.”

  She nodded. At least he didn’t react to the German word. Or maybe he didn’t notice.

  “This city can be a mite overwhelming when you first arrive,” he said. “But you’ll get used to it. My da was the one who wanted to come, but he never got to see it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t survive the voyage.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Aye, I appreciate it. My mam has been having a hard time of it since then, so my older brothers and I have been taking care of her and my granddad. Then the army took one of my brothers six months ago, and my other brother had to start working double shifts at the textile mill. I’m ready to take a job, but Mam insists I finish my schoolin’ first. Things were hard in Dublin, but I’m not sure they’re much better here. It makes ye long for home, even when you know leaving was the right thing to do.”

  She really looked at him then, at his kind face and hazel eyes. It was almost as if he were reading her mind.

  From that day on, they were fast friends. He didn’t care that she and her family were German, or ask her to explain why she didn’t want to play cat’s cradle or any other game that might involve close contact. After he sent her a note on the clothesline between their fourth-floor apartments that said, ’Twas nice to meet ye, lass! they started sending each other messages on Sunday nights when the line was empty—but only if the windows weren’t frozen shut and they were able to find scraps of paper not set aside for the war effort. The notes were silly and meaningless, just hello or a funny joke or a drawing, but it was their little secret. One of the few things Pia didn’t have to share with anyone else.

  Once school started and they discovered they were in the same classroom despite him being a grade ahead, he offered to sit with her at recess, but she said she’d rather not have the added attention. While he played kickball and marbles with the other boys, he always looked over to offer a smile or a wave. And that small gesture made everything easier.

  Most days she didn’t mind sitting alone. But today was different. She wished he’d stop playing ball and come sit with her, even if it was just for a few minutes. Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about the flu, and was constantly distracted by an overwhelming feeling of worr
y and dread. When a group of girls skipping rope began to chant a new rhyme, chills shivered up her spine.

  There was a little girl, and she had a little bird,

  And she called it by the pretty name of Enza;

  But one day it flew away, but it didn’t go to stay,

  For when she raised the window, in-flu-enza.

  “What are you staring at, scaredy-cat?”

  Pia looked up to see who had spoken, unaware she’d been staring. A thin girl with brown pigtails glared down at her, a disgusted look on her face. It was Mary Helen Burrows, the girl everyone liked or feared, depending on which day you asked, and whether or not Mary Helen was within earshot. No one had ever seen her get into an actual brawl, but permanent anger knitted her brows, and bruises marked her arms and legs. Two other girls stood behind her, Beverly Hansom and Selma Jones, their arms crossed over their chests.

  “I wasn’t staring at anything,” Pia said, reaching for her book.

  “I’m telling you, Mary Helen,” Beverly said. “She was staring at us, like she was coming up with some nasty German scheme or somethin’.”

  Mary Helen knocked the book out of Pia’s hand. “You spying on us?”

  Pia shook her head. “No, I was just—”

  “What’s going on?” someone said. “Are you all right, Pia?” It was Finn. He was out of breath, his face red and his hair disheveled.

  “Your girlfriend was giving us the stink-eye,” Mary Helen said.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Finn said.

  “Shut up, Mary Helen,” Pia said.