The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she cringed. If Mrs. Duffy was punished for her sins, what about me? What did I do to deserve losing my husband and son? She gripped the staircase railing to keep from falling and went down the dark steps, around and around and around, like the dizzying notions inside her head. She was a moral woman and loving mother. She was fair-minded and kind, and she had been a virtuous wife to her husband. She hadn’t done anything to deserve losing him or Wallis. The flu took whomever it wanted. By the time she reached the bottom floor, she was woozy and breathless, and one of her headaches had started. She stopped in the foyer and rubbed her temples, trying to focus on the task at hand. She needed to find out why Pia had left her building, and if the twins were still alive. She wasn’t sure what she would do if the babies were dead from the flu, but she had to know one way or another. Then she had another thought. What if Mrs. Lange answered the door and wanted to know what she was doing there? How would she explain herself? Anger churned at the bottom of her rib cage again. If Mrs. Lange was there, Bernice would let her know in no uncertain terms that she was crazy and careless for letting her daughter outside at a time like this. If Pia were her child, she’d have kept her home, where she was safe.

  Crossing the foyer, she grabbed the handle of the front door, ready to march across the street and give Mrs. Lange a piece of her mind. Then she hesitated. She needed to make sure the coast was clear and Pia wasn’t on her way back. She opened the front door a crack and peered out, checking left and right. The streets were empty. She hurried down the steps, across the cobblestones, and up the steps of the Langes’ building. Their rooms were in the front of the house, to the left of the fire escape. She knew because she’d seen Mrs. Lange hanging blankets and pillows over the sill. Germans were always hanging things outside—rugs, curtains, clothes—even in the winter. She didn’t understand it.

  When she stepped inside the foyer, she clamped a hand over her mouth and nose. The Langes’ row house smelled worse than hers, as if it’d been closed up for years. But there was no time to waste wondering why. She climbed the stairs as quickly as possible, rapped her knuckles on the Langes’ door, and looked up and down the hallway. She was vibrating with nerves, every sense on high alert. If she heard someone coming into the building and up the stairs, she would scurry into the shadows at the end of the hall, then wait and see who it was. If it turned out to be Pia, she’d go home and try to forget about the twins. If she could.

  She knocked again, leaned close to the door, and said as loudly as she dared, “Mrs. Lange? Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  “Mrs. Lange?”

  No sound came from the other side. No talking or banging dishes. No radio played. She put an ear to the wood and held her breath, listening. And then she heard it.

  Babies crying.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PIA

  Originally, Pia had planned on searching for food in her own building first, to ask the neighbors if they could spare a few potatoes or one or two eggs, hoping she could remember who had seemed friendly, who hadn’t scowled at Mutti or told the police they were German. Because the closer to her apartment she stayed, the sooner she could return home. But after hearing Ollie start to fuss before she left, she knew if she stayed in her building, no matter what floor she was on or how far away, she would hear her brothers cry. And if she could hear them cry, she’d go back. She’d go back, take them out of the cubby, and promise never to leave them again. And that was something she couldn’t do. Not until she found what they needed. Not until she could bring Ollie and Max something to eat and drink. She had to be strong. There was no other choice.

  Now, she stood in the first-floor hallway of the row house next door, trying to decide where to start. Inky shadows filled the halls, growing darker toward the back of the building. Crepe ribbons—some gray, some white, some black—hung from all but one door. Maybe she’d picked the wrong building to begin her search. She went up the first flight of steps to check the second floor. No crepe hung in the hall. She stopped at the apartment nearest the staircase. If no one answered, she would see if it was locked. If the handle turned and the door opened, she would go inside. It would be all right to enter if the apartment was unlocked. And take food if no one was home. That’s what she told herself, anyway. She knocked on the peeling wood and waited. Hushed voices and muffled movements filtered through the door, and someone shushed everyone to be quiet. She tilted her head, trying to listen.

  “Hello?” she said. “I’m looking for food for my brothers. They’re babies, only a few months old. Do you have anything to spare?”

  A gruff voice called out, “Go away!”

  “Please,” she said. “I can pay. I have money. Just a loaf of bread or tin of broth is all I need.”

  “No!” the voice called out again. “Leave us alone!”

  Pia sighed and moved down the hall, her shoulders bunched, her jaw clenched. She stopped in front of another door and listened. No sounds came from the other side, no whispering or crying or talking. She knocked and waited. Still nothing. She knocked again and tried the handle. It was locked.

  “Is anyone there?” she said.

  No answer.

  A sudden image flashed in her mind: the people inside dead and rotting, sitting and lying in their chairs and beds, the table set for dinner, the coal stove empty and cold. A chill passed through her and she shivered. Why else would they not answer the door? They wouldn’t be out and about in the city at a time like this. Unless they were doing the same thing she was doing, searching for food and supplies. But they wouldn’t all leave at the same time, would they?

  She pushed the gruesome images from her head and moved toward an apartment at the back of the building. If no one answered and it was unlocked, she would go inside, but the rooms had no windows, meaning it would be dark and hard to see. Still, she had to try. She knocked on the door, berating herself for not bringing a lantern. Then she reminded herself that a lantern would have been one more thing to carry. And with all the horrible things that had been going on—her mother dying; taking care of the twins alone; so many other people passing away all at once, maybe even Finn—she could barely remember what day it was, let alone remember to bring a lantern.

  No one answered. She tried the handle. It was locked. Maybe she was wasting her time. Maybe she should search somewhere beside the Fifth Ward, where everyone had so little to begin with, let alone anything to spare. Not to mention it seemed like people were too scared to answer their doors. She couldn’t blame them. But the longer she looked for help where she wouldn’t find it, the longer her brothers would be shut in the cubby. Maybe the flu hadn’t spread to other parts of the city yet. Or maybe the churches were handing out food.

  Refusing to give up completely before leaving, she decided to try a different floor. She climbed the second staircase and stopped at an apartment toward the front of the building, where the rooms had windows. She knocked and waited. No one answered or shuffled toward the other side of the door. No one yelled at her to go away. She knocked again, harder this time, then turned the knob. It was unlocked. She gave the door a gentle push. It swung open and a swirl of rank air sent a piece of crumpled paper over the cracked threshold. She clamped a hand over her scarf, instantly recognizing the stench of decaying flesh.

  A weak shaft of daylight reached across the floor, illuminating the gloomy interior of a room nearly identical to her home, from the coal stove to the rough-hewn shelves filled with dishes to the bedroom door. Taking a step inside, she had to fight the urge to run into the back room and look for her brothers, to kiss them and hug them and make sure they were all right. Even the narrow iron bed under the window looked the same.

  The only things missing were Mutti’s vase and Oma’s tablecloth. Her heartbeat picked up speed. Had someone taken their things? What if Ollie and Max were gone too? She shook her head. No. This wasn’t home. The table was bigger, with wooden stools around it instead of chairs. And a
fringed rug with a strange design covered the floor, not layers of threadbare throw rugs.

  Trying to remind herself where she was and what she was doing there, she struggled to stay calm. She was in the row house next door, searching for food for her brothers. She needed to keep going so she could get back to them as soon as possible. Then the room seemed to rotate and she put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Confusion and panic jittered inside her head. Except for the fear of finding dead bodies and the guilt over leaving Ollie and Max, she had felt fine a minute ago. Maybe that, combined with the worry of not finding food, was too overwhelming. Then her stomach clenched with hunger and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. When, or if, she found food, she needed to eat something straightaway. She wouldn’t be able to take anything back to Ollie and Max if she passed out from hunger. Gritting her teeth, she waited for her head to stop spinning.

  Dead bodies or no dead bodies, she had to search the apartment for food. She had no choice. She edged in farther, ready to run if anyone appeared. And then she saw a pair of brown buckle boots on the floor, one pointed up, the other flopped on its side. Above the boots, beige stockings covered a pair of swollen ankles.

  Pia chewed her lip. A clear path led to the kitchen area. If she kept her eyes straight ahead, she’d be fine. She could make it past whoever lay on the floor. She steeled herself and moved forward, her arms and hands tight to her body. Except. Except. She had to look.

  The remains of a blond woman lay shriveled on the rug, her head propped crookedly against a coal bucket. Black blood caked her hands and face, and her eyes had sunken into her skull. Maggots crawled around her swollen mouth and nose. Pia looked away, toward the kitchen, but it was too late. She pulled the scarf down from her face, bent over, and threw up what little she had in her stomach, then dry-heaved until there was nothing left but bile. When she could breathe again without gagging, she wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve, put the scarf back up, and stumbled toward the stove, praying she would find something, anything, to eat.

  Moving dishes and plates out of the way, she searched the shelves for a jar of applesauce or can of beans, trying not to make too much noise. More than anything, she needed to find some Mellin’s Infant Food. Suddenly another wave of dizziness swept over her. She grabbed the shelf to keep from falling and knocked off a flowered teacup. It hit the floor and shattered everywhere, tiny shards of porcelain flying over the hardwood planks. She froze, terrified someone else might be in the apartment, or a neighbor might hear and wonder what was going on. She let go of the shelf and waited, unnerved by the sudden silence.

  A faint groaning came from the other room.

  She turned toward it, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

  Another groan.

  She edged over to the door and peeked around the frame. A man lay on the bed in a fetal position, his face swollen and black, his chest rising and falling in shallow, shuddering breaths. Beside him on the floor, a baby and little girl lay on a pile of soiled blankets, both of them dead. The man locked red, weepy eyes on Pia, then moaned and lifted a blue hand, reaching out with blood-caked fingers. She started to tremble, the urge to run like fire in her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t help you.”

  Seeing the dead family, hopelessness fell over her like a shroud, weighing her down with despair. Tears filled her eyes and her lungs felt heavy, her blood like lead. Part of her wanted to give up and give in, to go home and lay down with Ollie and Max, to let the flu or starvation take them, whichever came first. Because what was the sense in surviving if everyone else was dead?

  The other part of her refused to give up, couldn’t begin to imagine letting her brothers die. She didn’t know what was going to happen to any of them, if and when this nightmare ever came to an end, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t stop fighting. She loved Ollie and Max too much. And how would she face Mutti and Vater again, in heaven or otherwise, if she didn’t try?

  She turned back to the kitchen on watery legs, desperate to find food so she could get out of there. Then she noticed a squat cupboard next to the stove, partly concealed behind a worn paisley curtain. She hurried over to it, fell to her knees, and yanked the curtain aside. A jar of Mellin’s sat on the top shelf, along with a can of black-eyed peas and something wrapped in brown paper. She put the Mellin’s and peas in her coat pocket and tore open the paper. Inside were two slices of bread. She pulled one out, lowered her scarf, and took a bite.

  The crust was stale and hard, but it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She swallowed and took another bite, then did a quick search of the rest of the kitchen. Finding nothing more, she took a wide berth around the dead woman and headed for the front door.

  In the bedroom, the man went on groaning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BERNICE

  Standing in the hallway outside the Langes’ apartment, Bernice couldn’t decide what to do. The twins were still crying inside, and no one was answering the door. She knocked a third time.

  “Mrs. Lange?” she said again. “Are you in there?”

  Still no answer.

  “It’s Bernice Groves, your neighbor from across the street. I saw your daughter leave the building and wanted to make sure you’re all right.” She hesitated and tried to think of something else to say. Flu or no flu, she was probably the last person Mrs. Lange wanted to see at her door. “I know we’ve had a few cross words between us,” she said, “but at times like this we need to look out for each other.”

  The babies’ wails seemed to grow more frantic.

  Bernice felt like screaming. She had to get inside. Even if it meant breaking down the door. She knocked again, frustration pounding inside her head, then tried the handle. To her astonishment, it turned and the latch clicked open. She gasped, surprised and angry at the same time. What kind of mother leaves an apartment unlocked with two babies inside? Then she remembered Pia was the one who had left the building. Maybe she forgot to use her key. That, at least, would be understandable. She was just a young girl, likely frightened by the horrible things that had been happening. Bernice was a grown woman and she was horrified. And even though they were too young to understand, Pia’s brothers could probably sense something was wrong and were scared too. Thinking of the twins, a flood of maternal instinct surged through her and she pushed the door open and hurried inside.

  The smell of rotting flesh instantly filled her nostrils, making her gag. She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, and looked around the dim apartment. Flour-sack curtains swelled out from a half-open window above a crumpled bed, then blew in again when she closed the door. Baby clothes hung, haphazard and crooked, from clotheslines draped along the ceiling—clothespins clamped to a sleeve here, a leg there, the collar of a nightdress somewhere else. Dirty dishes filled the table, and a washtub full of soiled diapers sat next to the stove. Either Mrs. Lange wasn’t as hardworking and orderly as the rest of the Germans, or Pia had been living there on her own.

  And somehow, even though she was inside the apartment now, the babies’ cries still sounded distant and muffled, like they were coming from somewhere else. Had she broken into the wrong place? She held her breath and listened, unable to tell now if it was one baby or two. Maybe it was a neighbor’s baby and she’d imagined the entire thing. Then she noticed the diapers and rags stuffed under the door to the other room, and her heart sank.

  No. God. Please. Not the twins.

  She moved toward the door, her stomach twisting. She clenched her jaw, turned the handle, and slowly pushed the door open.

  A weak shaft of light revealed a plank wall and two framed black-and-white photographs above a leaning dresser. The photographs were of Mr. and Mrs. Lange, smiling on their wedding day, him in a dark suit and her in a lace veil and simple white gown. Bernice held her breath and edged inside, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. What was left of Mrs. Lange lay on the bed, a gray blanket pulled up to her chin, a bloo
d-spattered pillow beneath her head. Flies and maggots crawled on her eyes and in her nostrils. Bernice gasped and looked away, then forced herself to look again, to see if the twins lay beside her. A half circle of paper flowers surrounded Mrs. Lange’s hair, and something that looked like baby powder covered the blanket and pillow. But no dead boys lay with her. No infant corpses with their eyes swollen shut. She scanned the cramped space to see if the twins were in the bedroom at all. Somewhere, the babies went on crying.

  The idea that she was hearing things crossed her mind, and she considered for a brief moment that she had gone insane. Her headache pounded with every beat of her heart, as if there were a sledgehammer inside her brain. She glanced at Mrs. Lange again. Did she hear the cries too? Did she, as she lay lost in death, hear her sons calling out for her, desperate for her loving arms and milky breasts? Was her poor soul being tortured, unable to understand why she couldn’t see or find her boys? Maybe her ghost was in this room, feeling helpless and confused and lost, searching frantically for her babies.

  Bernice swayed on watery legs. She knew exactly how Mrs. Lange felt. But for the first time, she was grateful Wallis had left this earth before her. If she had died first, there would have been no one to look after him, no one to love him like she did. And he might have starved in their rooms all alone. Then she had another thought. Maybe the twins really were dead and she was hearing their ghosts. Or maybe the agony of losing Wallis had driven her over the edge. She shook her head. No, the cries were real. She was certain of it. If the boys had passed, they would have been in this room, in bed with their mother. She squinted at the mattress again, studying the blanket. It lay flat on both sides of Mrs. Lange’s corpse. Nothing moved beneath it. She went to the open closet, her hand over her mouth and nose, and reached blindly between worn sweaters, dresses, trousers, and a ratty jacket. She knelt to search the bottom of the closet. A pair of women’s boots sat on the floor, and two hatboxes leaned against the back wall. Finding nothing there, she peered under the bed frame. No babies lay crying and squirming beneath the mattress. No hungry boys in diapers and cotton bonnets gazed back with frightened eyes. Still on her knees, she looked under the dresser, under the washstand, under the legs of a chair. Then she saw it.