The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Pia struggled to speak without retching. “They’re... they’re in my parents’ bedroom. We ran out of food and I... I left to find them something to eat. I put them... I put them...” A sob escaped her throat and she couldn’t finish.

  The nurse’s eyes widened slightly, but her expression remained calm and professional. “Try not to worry. I’m sure someone found them.”

  Pia buried her face in her hands, shoulders convulsing. Why hadn’t she taken Ollie and Max with her when she went to look for food? Why hadn’t she put them in their buggy or strapped them to her hips with a scarf or blanket—anything to keep them safe? Then, when she collapsed, the undertakers would have found them and at least they would be alive. No matter what happened after that, or where they were taken, at least they wouldn’t have starved to death in a dark cubby, cold and alone and terrified.

  Oh God! What have I done?

  She dragged her hands from her face and gaped at the nurse, more desperate than she’d ever felt in her life. If something happened to Ollie and Max, she’d never forgive herself. “Do you think there’s a chance they’re still alive? After six days? Do you think they might have survived? Please, I’m begging you. Tell me yes. Please.”

  The shadow of understanding darkened the nurse’s features, but she kept her composure. “Like I said, I’m sure they’re fine,” she said. “Someone is probably taking good care of them as we speak.”

  “Can you send someone to 408 Shunk Alley, apartment 4C?” Pia reached under the blanket with trembling fingers, searching for her dress pocket. “I’ll give you the key. Please, you have to help them.” But her pocket was gone. Then she remembered she was in a nightdress.

  “Where’s my dress?” she cried. “What did you do with it?”

  “We had to get rid of it. I’m sorry, but it was filthy and—”

  “But the key. It was in my pocket. How will anyone get inside without the...” Then she remembered. She’d run out the door because her brothers had been crying. She’d run out the door. And she never locked it. Her head started spinning again. She moaned and fell back on the bed. “The door is unlocked,” she said. “Please, send someone, anyone. I need to know if... if...”

  “Everything is going to be all right,” the nurse said. “Don’t you see? It’s a good thing the door was unlocked so one of your neighbors could go in and get your brothers.”

  “No, please. They won’t know where to look. You have to send someone. You have to tell them—”

  “All right, all right,” the nurse said. “I’ll see what I can do. If I can’t find anyone to go, I’ll do it myself when my shift is over. But please, in the meantime you need to rest.”

  “You . . . you would do that for me?”

  “Of course,” the nurse said, giving her a slight smile. “I have a little brother too. His name is Johnny.”

  Pia tried to return the smile to show her gratitude but felt herself slipping away, her strength and emotions spent. “Thank you,” she said in a weak voice.

  “You’re welcome,” the nurse said. “Now get some sleep. It’s the best thing for you.”

  Pia closed her eyes, but didn’t think she could sleep. Part of her wanted to lose consciousness, to tumble into complete unawareness, to escape the mind-numbing horror of what she’d done. The other part begged God for the strength to get up and run home, to save her brothers before it was too late. Then she had another thought. What if the nurse had told her what she wanted to hear so she’d stop begging for help? What if she said she’d send someone to check on the twins just so she’d rest? More than anything, Pia wanted to make her promise she’d go to the apartment, but she couldn’t find the will to ask.

  “If they move you into recovery and I’m not there when you wake up,” the nurse said in a soft voice, “my name’s Carla. Carla Miller.” Then she put a hand on Pia’s forearm and gave it a little squeeze.

  This time, Pia’s chest constricted at the woman’s touch, but it was hard to tell if the pain was coming from the nurse or her own struggling lungs. Then Carla removed her hand and the sensation disappeared.

  If she was going to help Ollie and Max, she had to do it soon.

  * * *

  Red and yellow leaves swirled against the backdrop of a baby-blue sky outside the window, falling past the glass in what seemed like slow motion. Relief fell over Pia like a soft blanket, and she closed her eyes again. She was home in bed, tucked under the window in her family’s snug rooms. It had been nothing but a bad dream—chasing Mutti through the crowded sidewalks at the Liberty Loan parade, losing her to the flu, leaving the twins. Then bits and pieces flickered in her mind like a slow-motion picture show—vague memories of sponge baths and people standing over her, of nurses wiping her brow and spoonfuls of broth, of fevers and toe tags and blood. She opened her eyes again and looked down at herself, her heart racing. She was still wearing a hospital gown, and a white blanket covered her from the waist down. The stench of human sweat, urine, and vomit filled her nostrils. She bolted upright and looked around.

  She was on a low cot in a dim, stone-walled room lined with bookshelves and framed photographs of priests, churches, and groups of smiling nuns. A wooden cross hung between a second window and an arched door with a wrought-iron latch. Scattered around the room like playing cards, men, women, and children lay on cots beneath white sheets, either asleep or unconscious, she couldn’t tell which. An elderly man with a grizzled beard snored next to her on his cot, his thin-lipped mouth open wide. Opposite her, a boy of about fifteen rested on his side with his hands tucked beneath his pillow. On the other side of the boy, a woman with snarled hair and black rings under her eyes wept in a fetal position, her sheet bunched in her hands.

  A cold eddy of fear opened up in Pia’s chest. How much time had passed since she’d woken up in the box pew and asked Nurse Carla to help Ollie and Max? Had it been ten minutes or ten days? She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, wrapped the sheet around her shoulders, and pushed herself up. Her ribs were sore from coughing, but she could breathe without pain. She took a small step, testing her legs. Her muscles felt weak, but they held her up.

  She started to take another step, but the door latch rattled and clunked, and a nun wearing a mask came into the room. Pia went back to her cot and sat down. The nun pushed the door shut, then surveyed the patients, a ring of iron keys dangling from her hand. When she saw Pia sitting up, she made her way toward her, winding her way through the cots. Pia’s heart beat faster. Maybe the nun had news about her brothers.

  The woman with the snarled hair grabbed the nun’s habit as she passed. “Help me,” she cried. “Please!”

  The nun stopped and turned toward her, gently pulling her habit from the woman’s grip. “What is it, dear?” she said. “What do you need?”

  “I can’t find my daughter,” the woman said. “I brought her here with a fever. Then I got sick and now I don’t know where she is.”

  The nun looked around. “She’s not in this room?”

  The woman shook her head violently. “No,” she wailed. “I’ve already lost my mother, my sister, and two nieces. My daughter is all I have left. You have to help me find her!”

  The nun crossed herself and put a hand on the woman’s head. “I’m sorry, dear, but only those recovering are being kept here in the parish house.”

  The woman screamed and collapsed back on the bed, her fingers like claws over her face.

  The nun crossed herself again. “May the Lord give you strength, dear,” she said, “and bless and keep you. I’m sure there’s a special jeweled crown waiting for your family in heaven. I’ll pray for you. And your daughter too.” Then she left the sobbing woman and approached Pia. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, my child. How are you feeling?” Her brown eyes looked weary above her mask.

  Pia swallowed and tried to find her voice. “Much better. I’m sure I’m strong enough to go home now.”

  “That’s good to hear,” the nun said. “Because we’d a
lready decided you were probably well enough to leave. Truth be told, we need to make room for more patients.”

  One of the other patients stirred and moaned, the white sheet over their cot flailing like a restless ghost. The boy opposite her opened his eyes and blinked, then gazed at her and the nun, watching silently, his face pale and drawn. He reminded her of Finn. And Ollie and Max. Her chest tightened.

  “How long have I been here?” she said.

  “Two days,” the nun said.

  Pia gripped the edge of the cot, bile surging in her throat. Eight days. Ollie and Max never could have survived eight days without food and water. She clenched her jaw, trying to control the dizzying wave of nausea that swept over her. If the nun thought she was still sick, she might make her stay longer.

  “There was a nurse,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “Her name was Carla. She promised to check on someone for me.”

  The nun furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, my child,” she said. “But Nurse Carla, bless her sweet soul, went to be with our Lord two days ago.”

  Pia blinked back a flood of tears. “Do you know if she found my brothers?”

  The nun shook her head. “I’m afraid she didn’t say anything about that. Her passing was rather sudden, as happens in some cases. Now, please, lie down and rest. You’ve got to keep up your strength for the days ahead.”

  Pia’s vision began to close in on her, like a curtain being drawn. Fighting against it, she struggled to stay upright, again wishing the flu had taken her so she wouldn’t have to face this horror. Maybe surviving was her punishment. She wanted to scream and throw up and die, but she couldn’t let the nun see her distress. She had to go home to Ollie and Max, to see if they were... if they were... She couldn’t finish the thought. It was too horrible, too dreadful to even consider. She had to get back to them. She had to hold them in her arms. She had to kiss their small faces. If her worst fears were true, she had to make sure that their bodies, and Mutti’s, were taken care of properly. She owed them that much, at least. After that, she didn’t care what happened to her.

  “Mother Joe has sent someone to collect you,” the nun continued. “I must say, it’s not an easy feat to find someone willing to travel about the city these days. And because a number of our nuns have gone to the West Philadelphia Home for Backward Children to care for the youngsters there after the staff fled, we don’t have anyone to spare. But as usual, with God’s help, Mother Joe seems to manage the impossible.”

  Pia wiped her brow with a trembling hand. “I don’t need anyone to pick me up,” she said. “I know my way home.”

  The nun frowned, her mask crinkling below pity-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, my child,” she said. “But you’re not going home. We’re sending you to St. Vincent’s Orphan Asylum. The city’s orphanages have been flooded since the outbreak, so you should thank the good Lord they’re willing to take you in.”

  The blood drained from Pia’s face. “No,” she said. “I’m not going there. I’m going home. I have to go home.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the nun said. “Before she passed, Nurse Carla made a note about your mother succumbing to the flu and your father being overseas. You have our deepest sympathies, dear, but you can’t go home.”

  “But my father might have returned while I was here,” Pia said. “He’s probably looking for me right now. And...” She dropped her eyes to the floor, her chin trembling. What if Vater had found Ollie and Max? What if they were alive and well, wondering what had happened to her? Or what if he opened the cubby and found them... She couldn’t say it. Either way, how would she ever face him again? He’d never forgive her for what she’d done. And she wouldn’t blame him. “Please, I’m begging you. Let me go home. My brothers need me.”

  “I’m sorry, but the decision has been made,” the nun said. “I’m sure someone is looking after your brothers, a neighbor perhaps, and there’s no telling when, or if, your father will return. We can’t let you end up on the streets. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “But I have relatives in New York,” Pia said. “If you send them a telegram, I’m sure they’ll take me in.” She wasn’t sure of anything, but she had to try.

  “Do you know their address?”

  Pia tried to picture the return address on the envelopes from her aunt and uncle. It had been a while since they’d heard from them, so only part of it came to her. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Hugi Lange, Orchard Street, New York, New York.”

  The nun creased her brow. “I don’t think that’s enough information, but I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll bring you something to eat. Then, like it or not, you’ll be sent to St. Vincent’s straightaway.”

  “Don’t you need to write it down?” Pia said.

  “Write what down, my child?”

  “The address.”

  “Oh. Yes. I mean, no, I’ll remember it.”

  Pia didn’t believe her, and she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t more willing to help. “I’m their niece. I’m sure they’ll take me in.”

  The nun suddenly seemed very tall, a black statue in the murky room with her veil adding a few inches to her height. She stared down at her, rolling the key ring back and forth between her finger and thumb. “Being sent to St. Vincent’s is going to be difficult,” she said. “But it’s for the best. It might not feel that way right now, but some day you’ll thank us. They’ll take good care of you there. And I’ll pray for you, my child. May the Lord give you strength, and bless you and keep you.” Before Pia could respond, she turned and left the room, locking the massive door behind her.

  Pia felt like she was suffocating. Panic squeezed the air from her chest. The smell of urine and vomit stung her nose, and the grieving woman’s sobs grated in her ears. She gazed up at the window, her only chance for escape. A thick grid of painted wood separated the glass into separate panes, and the window was fixed into the stone wall. There was no way to open or break it. She lay down on the cot, turned toward the cold wall, and covered up with the sheet. She had to come up with a plan to get out of there, and soon. After a few minutes of coming up with impossible ideas that wouldn’t work, she turned over to look at the boy on the bed. Maybe he could help her. Maybe she could tell him her story, part of it, anyway, and when the nun came back, he could distract her so Pia could run out the door. Surely he’d understand why she didn’t want to go to an orphanage.

  She started to get up, to reach over and wake him, but the key rattled in the lock and the door opened. It was the nun again, with a curly-haired woman in a black hat and patched coat. The woman regarded Pia and the other patients with owlish eyes, one hand clasped over her gauze mask, the other carrying a gunnysack.

  The nun shut the door and locked it, slipped the key ring beneath her scapular, and started toward Pia. “There’s no need to be afraid,” she said to the woman. “Everyone here has recovered from the flu.”

  Looking around, the woman followed on high alert, as if someone might attack her at any second. When they reached Pia’s cot, she stood off to the side, several steps behind the nun. Soot and dried mud covered her boots, and the brim of her hat was ripped and ragged.

  “Miss O’Malley arrived sooner than I expected,” the nun said. “So I’m afraid we won’t have time to feed you before you go.”

  Pia didn’t care about being fed. She wouldn’t have been able to eat, anyway. “What about the telegram you were going to send to my aunt and uncle?” she said.

  “I’ll do it as soon as I’m able, my child,” the nun said. “And if I hear back from them, I’ll let Mother Joe at St. Vincent’s know. Now get up and get moving.”

  Pia rose from the cot on trembling legs. Miss O’Malley watched her with a furrowed brow, as if she were a wild animal about to lunge or run off at any second.

  The nun regarded Miss O’Malley. “I’m sure she won’t give you any trouble.” Then she looked at Pia. “Will you, my child?”

  Pia sh
ook her head.

  “I ain’t worried,” Miss O’Malley said.

  “Come along, then,” the nun said to Pia. “We can’t very well send you outdoors in your convalescing gown.” She turned and started toward the exit. Miss O’Malley and Pia followed.

  After leading them out of the room, the nun locked the door behind them and marched down a short hallway that smelled of mold and rotten wood. Near the end, she unlocked a narrow door and held it open. “You can change in here,” she said to Pia. The paneled room was small, no bigger than a closet, with a washbasin, a cushioned bench, and a simple white cross hanging on one wall.

  Miss O’Malley dropped the gunnysack at Pia’s feet. “If the clothes don’t fit ye, don’t blame me.”

  Pia picked it up, opened it, and pulled out a blue cotton dress, undergarments, and a pair of scuffed ankle boots with frayed laces. She took everything into the small room and waited for the nun to close the door.

  “Have you forgotten your manners, my child?” the nun said. “The polite thing to do would be to thank Miss O’Malley for your new clothes.”

  Pia forced a smile. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said to Miss O’Malley.

  Miss O’Malley nodded once, her face pinched.

  Inside the room, Pia pulled off her hospital gown, put on the undergarments, and slipped the dress over her head. It was stiff and scratchy, but after breathing in nothing but the rank odors of human fear, dried blood, and urine for so long, it smelled wonderful, like lilacs and laundry starch. She pushed her feet into the boots and tied the laces, the hard leather pinching her toes. After buttoning the blouse of the dress, she took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and went back out in the hall.

  “Let’s get going, then,” Miss O’Malley said. Evidently she wanted to get out of there almost as badly as Pia did.

  From the hallway, the nun led them into an octagon-shaped room with an arched roof, white walls, wrought-iron candelabras, and an oversize painting of the Last Supper. A thick red rug lay over the floor like a pool of blood, and the wet odor of damp stone, mildew, and dead flowers filled the air. From there they went through another wooden door, down a set of stone steps, and into a stone-walled passageway lined with narrow doors. The thought briefly crossed Pia’s mind that, even if she’d been able to escape, finding her way out of the parish house would have been difficult. At the other end of the hall, weak sunlight illuminated a miniature stained-glass window in another wide wooden door. Pia had to fight the urge to push past the women and run toward it.