Whether Ollie and Max cried more because they missed Mutti or because the sudden change from breast milk to Mellin’s and real food upset their bellies, she wasn’t sure. But there was nothing she could do about it, anyway. Maybe they sensed that their lives, like hers, had been horribly and forever changed. Maybe they were getting sick. No. She refused to think that way. If they hadn’t caught the flu by now, she convinced herself, they probably wouldn’t. Besides, they couldn’t get sick. She wouldn’t let them. And yet, when she picked them up to change or feed or comfort them, she held her breath, terrified she’d feel the same thing she felt when she touched Mutti the day before she died. So far she’d felt nothing worrisome, but the fear sat like a boulder in her stomach, heavy and solid and unmoving.
If only she could send a telegram to her aunt and uncle in New York. Maybe they would come to Philadelphia to get them. She doubted anyone on Shunk Alley owned a telephone, and she wasn’t sure where the nearest one might be. But her aunt and uncle probably didn’t have one anyway, and she didn’t know their number if they did. Their return address was on letters sent to Mutti and Vater, but she didn’t dare go to the post office twenty blocks away. She couldn’t leave the boys that long, and she couldn’t take them with her. If the post office was even open.
When the eggs and fresh vegetables ran out on the sixth day, she fed Ollie and Max old bread soaked in water and canned applesauce from apples bought at the farmer’s market last fall. Two days later, she gave them the last of the porridge for breakfast, then sat on the bed to watch them nap, fighting against the weight of despair. Even in sleep, misery pinched the twins’ faces and furrowed the smooth skin of their small brows. Their eyes darted back and forth beneath their lids, chasing bad dreams. Seeing them that way broke her heart—struggling to find comfort, not knowing or understanding why their stomachs hurt or where their mother had gone. She missed Mutti too, more than she would ever have thought possible. She could almost feel her brothers’ pain, their intense aching for Mutti’s gentle snuggles and warm kisses, her lavender-and-lye-scented skin, her soft hair that always smelled of baking bread. Grief twisted in Pia’s chest and she hung her head.
Through everything their family had endured, the move from Germany when she was four, the seemingly endless journey across the Atlantic Ocean—which Pia barely remembered—the transition into a new country and new home, the worry of Vater working in the mines and going off to war, it was Mutti who was the constant source of comfort. No matter where they were or what was happening, she was the thread to everything familiar and normal, from food in their stomachs to clean clothes and warm baths. Certainly Vater worked hard to take care of them while still making sure he had time for fun—he took her swimming in the creek back in Hazleton in the summer, taught her how to whistle and skip rocks across the culm ponds, and showed her how to identify edible mushrooms in the woods—but Mutti was the one who put soap on beestings and scraped knees, the one who sat on the edge of the bed when Pia couldn’t sleep, and traced a gentle finger across her forehead and cheeks to help her relax, the one who put bonnets on the twins to protect them from the sun. Mutti was the one who knew when they were hungry and tired, or just needed an extra hug.
According to Vater, Mutti even calmed his fears about following his brother to America after the construction company he worked for in Germany collapsed, and convinced him they’d be fine when they found out they had two more mouths to feed so soon after they started their new life in Philadelphia. She kept the family organized and strong, while always making sure they knew they were loved. How would Pia ever survive without her? Who was going to help her get through the ups and downs of life? Who was going to teach her about being a woman and a wife? If Pia lived that long.
One of Mutti’s favorite sayings was, “We may not have it all together, but together we have it all.” Except they weren’t all together anymore. And now they never would be. Mutti was gone, and Pia had no idea if, or when, Vater would come back. Between that and everyone dying of the flu, the world felt like it was coming to an end. Everything Pia knew and relied on had disappeared. What was she supposed to do now? She was only thirteen. How was she going to take care of the twins when, and if, this nightmare was over? How would she keep them safe and fed until Vater returned? She had no job. No money. Then she remembered what Mutti always said whenever she felt confused or unsure, “Just do the next thing.” Whether it was getting dressed in the morning or doing chores and homework, the best way to move through a complicated situation was to decide what needed to be done next and just do it.
With that thought, Pia noticed how dirty her dress was, stained with formula and baby spit and something that looked like gravy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d changed. Or even what day it was. Before the flu, she used to put on a clean outfit every Monday, unless she’d spilled something on the one she was wearing or somehow got a tear. Not that she had a lot of dresses to choose from—two made from flour sacks and one made out of a printed sheet, along with two skirts and a cotton blouse—but everything was always clean and in good repair, even her leggings and undergarments. And to think she’d been sleeping in her clothes.
She glanced around the room, the beginnings of panic shuddering in her chest. Empty Mellin’s jars littered the counter next to a bowl filled with moldy potato and carrot peels. A half-dozen soiled diapers floated in the washtub with the last of the Borax, like gray islands in a muddy sea. A kettle crusted with soup sat on the stove, which was splattered with bits of dried food and baby formula, and the coal bucket stood empty. Stacks of dirty bowls and cups sat on the table, leaning this way and that. She’d stopped washing dishes three days ago, too exhausted to keep fetching water. Mutti would have been appalled.
Between the horrible odor coming out of the bedroom and the stench of dirty diapers and old soup, she felt like she was suffocating. She climbed on a chair and searched the shelves for something to help cover the smell. Maybe she’d find some herbs from Mrs. Schmidt, a leftover sprig of lavender or sage she could crush and spread around the room. She felt in the jars and cups, looked behind plates and bowls and pots, but found nothing.
Then her fingers landed on something long and hard behind the mantel clock. She pulled it out. It was one of Vater’s cigars. She got down from the chair, grabbed the box of matches next to the stove, put the cigar in a saucer on the table, and lit one end. Smoke curled from the brown paper and the cigar started to burn, filling the air with the familiar smell of tobacco and reminders of Vater. Tears filled her eyes. What would he think if he knew what his family was going through? That his wife was dead and his daughter was trying to keep his sons alive? Surely he would curse himself for leaving.
She took a deep breath and tried to think. What should she do next? Her father wasn’t going to return in time to help. She didn’t even know if he was alive. It was up to her to save Ollie and Max. But the last of the Mellin’s Infant Food was already in their bottles, the bread and eggs had been used up, the last jar of applesauce was nearly empty, and the potatoes and carrots had been cooked and eaten. The coal stove stood empty, the last embers nothing but gray ash. Everything was gone.
She went to the end of the bed to look out the window. Dark clouds scuttled across the gray morning sky, and her note to Finn still hung on the clothesline, shuddering in the breeze. No one walked in the alley below, but four more bodies covered in bloody sheets had appeared sometime during the night. Hunger cramped her stomach and she gritted her teeth. She had to find food. It was either that or they’d starve. She’d steal if she had to—anything to keep them alive. But the twins had to stay here. It wasn’t safe for them out there, not to mention she wouldn’t be able to carry much food if she had to carry them too, and she couldn’t push a baby pram up and down the stairs. She wouldn’t go far, just to the neighbors to see if they could spare anything. If that didn’t work, she’d try the next row house. The problem was that Ollie and Max were starting to push themselves up on their kn
ees and getting ready to crawl.
She looked around the room and imagined all sorts of accidents waiting to happen if she left—Ollie pulling himself up on the table leg and toppling it over, or pulling the tablecloth off along with the dishes on top. Max getting his head stuck between a chair and the bed. She couldn’t leave them on her bed because they might fall off. If only there were some place small and safe to put them, like a crate or a crib with a lid. Then she remembered the cubby in her parents’ bedroom, where they hid money beneath a loose floorboard. Ollie and Max would be safe in there, and they wouldn’t be able to open the door. She could put blankets inside and leave bottles too, even though they were only just starting to hold them. They might cry, but at least they wouldn’t be able to crawl around and get hurt. It would be scary for them to be shut in such a small, dark space, even for a few minutes, but it was better than letting them starve. And they’d have each other. She tried to think back to when she was their age, if she could remember anything unpleasant. She couldn’t recall anything—scary or otherwise. They wouldn’t remember being shut in a cubby. And she wouldn’t be gone long.
But she had to do it now, before she changed her mind.
She went over to the table and picked up the cigar. The paper had stopped burning, and the tobacco was going out. Remembering how Vater used to smoke, she put it to her lips and inhaled to get it going again. The harsh smoke burned her throat and she coughed, the gritty taste of ash coating her tongue and cheeks. She clamped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake the boys, trying not to cough too loud. When she finally stopped choking, she closed her eyes, held her breath, and waved the smoke toward her hair and dress, covering herself in the smell. Then she put the cigar down and pulled the diapers and rags out from underneath the bedroom door. She hadn’t been in there in days—how many she wasn’t sure—but the stench was worse than ever, even on this side of the door.
On shaking legs, she took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the floor, then rushed into the bedroom, hurried past the bed, and knelt in front of the cubby. She opened the door and took the money out from under the loose floorboard, then examined the walls, floor, and ceiling of the cubby for splinters or nails. The wood was smooth and sliver-free. Her lungs felt ready to burst, so she exhaled, put her hands over her nose and mouth, and, trying not to gag, took another deep breath. Then she got up to rummage in the closet for Mutti’s winter coat, which would hang on her like a tent—it was too big on Mutti—but had deep pockets to carry food. When she found the coat, she held part of it over her nose and mouth and, powerless to stop herself, turned to look at the bed. Mutti’s body had deflated, the bloat mostly gone. Bloody green blotches covered her skin, and her tongue protruded from her yawning mouth.
Bile surged in the back of Pia’s throat and she ran out of the room, shut the door, and put the diapers and rags back under it, gagging and trying not to throw up. Now she understood why people were putting their loved ones out on the street. She laid the coat over a chair and wiped her arm across her mouth, trying to control her roiling stomach. Sweat broke out on her forehead. When she could breathe again without gagging, she pulled the money from her pocket and counted it. Three dollars. More than likely the markets and vendor stands were closed too, and the nearest one was ten blocks away anyway, but maybe she could buy food from one of her neighbors.
Trying not to wake the twins, she pulled two grocery sacks from a wicker basket beneath the table and put them in the coat pockets. Then she took the pillow from her bed, picked up the boys’ rattles and bottles, and stood looking at Ollie and Max, dreading what she had to do next. Just the thought of it nauseated her. She took Mutti’s red scarf from the hook next to the front door, held it over the burning cigar for a minute, then tied it over her nose and mouth. It wasn’t perfect, but it would help.
She held the pillow in the cigar smoke too, then took a deep breath, went back into the bedroom, and put it on the floor of the cubby, pushing it down along the edges and the corners to make a soft bed. After leaving the bottles and rattles on the pillow, she went to get the boys, trying to decide which one to move first. Max slept more soundly, but Ollie usually slept longer.
Moving slowly, she swaddled Ollie’s blanket around him, lifted him from the bed, lowered the scarf from over her mouth, and lightly kissed his tiny, soft head. He squirmed and started to wake, then whimpered and went back to sleep, snuggling against her chest. She carried him into the bedroom and carefully laid him on the pillow inside the cubby.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
He took up more room than she’d thought. Maybe the twins wouldn’t fit in there together. For a second, she wavered, but then her stomach cramped again and she knew. She had to do it. A few hours of discomfort was better than letting her brothers starve to death.
Moving as fast as she could without running, she tiptoed back into the other room and picked up Max. His legs were pedaling and he was starting to wake. She swaddled him tighter in his blanket, kissed his forehead, and rocked him back and forth, humming softly. After a few moments, he quieted and went back to sleep. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way she could put the boys in the cubby if they were awake. She just couldn’t. It would be too hard.
She pulled her blanket off the bed and took Max into the bedroom, relieved to find Ollie still asleep. She knelt and laid Max beside him, placing them back-to-back. Ollie squirmed and she reached in and patted his side, holding her breath and praying he wouldn’t wake up. Finally, he put his thumb in his mouth and settled. She took her arm out of the cubby, put her hand on the door, and stared into the gloomy space, tears blurring her vision.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I promise, I’ll be right back.” She started closing the door, watching the twins until the last second. “Just keep sleeping and you’ll never even know I was gone.” Then the latch clicked shut and she sat frozen on her knees, her heart thumping in her chest, waiting to see what would happen. If one of the boys woke up, she wasn’t sure what she would do. But no crying came from inside the cubby, no whimpering or wailing or panicked shrieks. Ollie and Max were still sleeping. They would be all right. They had to be.
With tears streaming down her face, she stood and looked at her mother on the bed, praying she’d understand why she had to do this. Surely Mutti would’ve done the same thing if it meant life or death for her children.
“I’ll be back,” Pia whispered. “I promise. Keep them safe for me.”
Swallowing her sobs, she bit her lip and rushed out of the bedroom. She had to leave before she changed her mind. Not only because she felt terrible about putting her brothers in the cubby, but also because she was scared—terrified really—of what she might find outside their safe rooms, where everyone seemed to be dead or dying. She took off the scarf, then realized she needed a mask, like the ones the policemen and other people had been wearing the day the schools and churches closed, and retied the scarf around her nose and mouth. It would have to do. She put on her mother’s oversize coat, thrust her arms into the wool sleeves, and tied the belt around her waist. The bottom hem hung to her ankles and the sleeves hung past her wrists, but between its large pockets and the grocery sacks, she’d be able to carry home plenty of food. She went to the front door and started to turn the knob. Then she heard it.
A baby’s soft cry.
She stared at the bedroom door, trying not to breathe. The only thing she heard was the sound of her blood rushing through her veins and her pulse slamming inside her temples. Maybe she had imagined it. Then the cry grew louder. Pia cringed. It sounded like Ollie. Tears flooded her eyes and her heart thrashed in her chest. She yanked open the door and ran out of the apartment.
CHAPTER FOUR
BERNICE
Keeping an eye on the front door of the row house next to the Langes’, Bernice watched to see if Pia would come back out. If she’d gone to a neighbor’s to pick up something, more than likely she’d be quick about it. But what could possibly be im
portant enough for Pia to leave the safety of her home? And if it was something for the babies, how could Mrs. Lange think it was acceptable to risk one child’s life for another? Bernice wondered again if Mrs. Lange was dead. And if so, who was taking care of those precious twin boys?
After what felt like forever, Pia was nowhere to be seen. Bernice couldn’t take it any longer. She had to know why Pia left and, most of all, if the twins were all right. She just had to. Without giving it another thought, she spun around, grabbed her coat, and hurried out of the apartment.
Squinting in the dank hallway, she walked as fast as she could without running. The aroma of fried onions filled the dim corridor, along with an underlying stench of something that reminded her of rotten meat. She nearly tripped over a rusted bucket, then gave a wide berth to a lumpy seed sack crumpled against one wall. It was tied shut at one end and covered in maggots and flies. She couldn’t imagine what was inside. Two black ribbons hung from the door handle of the apartment at the top of the stairs, the rooms that belonged to the widow, Mrs. Duffy, and her sons.
That’s what you get for being a know-nothing drunkard, she thought. You should have stuck with your own kind, instead of coming here to cause trouble with the rest of the bog-jumpers. Her thoughts were unchristian, but she didn’t care. Mrs. Duffy was lazy and trying. She let her sons yell out the windows, and she sang loud, strange songs in the hallways in her heavy Irish brogue, using words no one understood. She showed too much cleavage and came home late at night, her face flush with alcohol, her hair a mess. Bernice couldn’t count the number of times she’d peeked out her door after midnight to watch Mrs. Duffy fumble with her key in the hall, mumbling and unaware she was being watched. It wasn’t right for a mother to behave that way. Bernice wasn’t sure who the ribbons on the Duffys’ door were for, but one thing was clear: Mrs. Duffy had paid for her sins.
The Orphan Collector Page 8