The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Pulling a ring of keys from beneath her habit, the nun unlocked the door and held it open. Miss O’Malley exited, went down a set of stone steps into a narrow alley between the parish house and another building, then turned and waited.

  “Good day, Miss O’Malley,” the nun said. “Bless you for helping in this hour of need. May the good Lord watch over and keep you.”

  Miss O’Malley nodded. “Yer welcome, Sister.”

  Pia wrapped her arms around herself and followed her down the steps. A light frost covered the cobblestones and iced the vines carpeting the wall of the other building. Despite the cold, the fresh air felt wonderful on her skin. She looked up and down the alley, trying to get her bearings.

  On one end, a trio of clay pipes climbed up the side of the parish house, jutting out into the alley like an afterthought. Between that and a decorative outcropping of brick on the adjacent building, it was impossible to see what lay beyond. At the other end of the alley, a faint slice of sunlight lit up the stone façade of St. Peter’s bell tower across the road. Pia’s breathing grew shallow. Home was only blocks away. But she had to wait. She couldn’t run yet.

  “I’ll pray for you, my child,” the nun said to her. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be fine. May God bless and be with you.”

  Pia nodded and started in the direction of the church, ignoring the pinch of her too-small boots and the fact that Miss O’Malley hadn’t said which way they were going.

  “Come back here,” Miss O’Malley snapped. “You’re going the wrong way. I’ve got a driver and carriage waiting out back. Now hurry up.” She started in the other direction.

  Pia stopped and looked back to see if the nun was still at the top of the stairs. The parish door clunked shut and the key turned in the lock. She turned and started toward Miss O’Malley, moving slow, her head down to hide her anxious eyes. Miss O’Malley glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was coming, then slipped between the clay pipes and the bricks on the adjacent building, slapping away the frost-covered vines that brushed against her face. Pia thought about turning and running then, but Miss O’Malley had stopped on the other side of the opening and stood waiting for her to come through.

  Had she just missed her only opportunity to escape? No. She had to have a plan. She couldn’t just run off. Not yet anyway. She went through the narrow opening, trying to think. If she got into the wagon with Miss O’Malley, who knew how far it would take her from home? She clenched her fists and followed her out of the alley into the street, blinking against the bright sky. It seemed like forever since she’d been outside. A barrel-chested driver in a ragged coat slouched in the front seat of a square-boxed buggy, a cigar in his mouth, the horse’s reins at his feet. When he saw Miss O’Malley, he sat up, snuffed the cigar out on the top of his boot, pulled his mask up over his mouth, and picked up the reins, the axles creaking with his every move.

  Miss O’Malley climbed into the wagon beside the driver, eyed Pia, and jerked her head toward the back. “What are ye waitin’ for?” she said. “Get in.”

  A knot of fear snarled in Pia’s stomach. Her legs refused to budge, and her feet felt rooted to the sidewalk. She stared at Miss O’Malley, her breath coming faster and faster.

  When Miss O’Malley realized what Pia was about to do, her eyes went wide. Before she could react, Pia spun around and bolted back through the opening into the alley. Miss O’Malley yelped like a strangled dog, then yelled at the driver, “Don’t just sit there! Get after her!”

  Pia kept going without looking back. Had Miss O’Malley clambered down from the wagon to give chase, her legs tangling in her skirt, her face white, or had she stayed seated beside the driver?

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver said. “Giddyup!”

  A whip cracked, axles squealed, and hooves pounded on the cobblestones.

  Racing to the other end of the alley as fast as her still-weak legs could carry her, her lungs throbbing in protest, the frigid air whistling in her throat, Pia started to cough. But she kept going—across the cobblestone street and the frosty grass of the churchyard, around the piles of coffins next to the cemetery and into the next road. A colored woman in a blue scarf scurried toward her along the narrow sidewalk, clasping a lumpy flour sack to her chest. When she saw Pia, she turned and went in the other direction. The clatter of wagon wheels and horse hooves echoed through the maze of buildings and empty thoroughfares, getting closer and closer.

  Halfway down the next block, Pia ducked into a dim alley and kept running. She tripped and fell twice, her strength nearly spent, but scrambled to her feet and kept going. Pain flared briefly in her ankle, but she ignored it and hobbled a few steps before finding her stride again. After what seemed like forever, the alley opened up and she nearly fell, bursting into a cluster of yards behind a block of row houses. She stopped to catch her breath, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Panic bristled along her body. She was trapped. She glanced over her shoulder. Maybe she should turn back. No—Miss O’Malley and the driver could be waiting at the other end of the alley. She had to find a way out.

  She scanned the houses for an open door or window, or an entrance to another alley. There were none.

  Across the way, in a muddy courtyard, a woman with a long braid and ragged coat pumped water into a bucket, her breath billowing out in the cold. Pia raced toward her, climbing over fences and trampling through gardens, stumbling through backyards and wet chicken runs. When the woman saw her, she startled, grabbed her bucket, and ran into the back door of a row house.

  At the water pump, Pia fell to her knees, panting. She worked the handle once and put her mouth under the faucet, the icy water soothing her irritated throat. She wiped her chin on her sleeve, then stood on trembling, mud-covered legs and glanced over her shoulder. No one was coming out of the alley. No one had followed her into the yards. She eyed the back door of the row house, praying the woman had left it unlocked. If her guesses were right, the front of the building came out on Delancey Street, and her building would be on the next block over. But she would need to cross Third Street to get there. Then she’d be six houses away from home. Six houses away from Ollie and Max. Six houses away from finding out if... if...

  Her knees went weak and she grabbed the water pump to stay upright. She had to stop thinking and keep going. She had to put one foot in front of the other and get home. Maybe Nurse Carla had sent someone to check on her brothers before she died and they’d been taken to a hospital or orphanage. Maybe Vater had returned and was taking care of them. She had to believe it was one or the other. Otherwise she wouldn’t have the strength to go on.

  When she let go of the water pump, the cold metal pulled at her skin. Swearing under her breath, she shook her hand to numb the pain, then hurried to the back of the row house and tried the door. To her relief, the latch clicked and the door came loose of its frame. She slowly opened it and slipped inside.

  Darkness permeated the first-floor hall, inky shadows veiling the far corners. The sound of her blood rushing through her veins filled her ears. She waited for her eyes to adjust, then edged forward, her shoulders hunched, ready to run if someone came out of their rooms. A weak light at the other end led her to the front door.

  Bracing herself, she opened the front door a crack and peered out. A horse-drawn wagon driven by an old man moved along the edge of the road in the other direction. Miss O’Malley and the driver were nowhere to be seen, and no one else was on the road. No other horses, no wagons, no motorcars, no people. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was right; it was Delancey Street.

  She started out the door, then froze. Hooves pounded along cobblestones on what sounded like the next street over. It was impossible to tell if they were getting closer or moving farther away. She shut the door, crouched in the shrouded hall, and tried to listen, but all she could hear was her thudding heartbeat and labored breathing. Maybe if she opened the door a crack, she’d be able to hear better. She stood and grabbed the handle.

  Behin
d her, another door creaked. She turned and peered into the darkness. A dim light spilled out of an apartment, and a man in a ripped undershirt and dirty trousers came into the hall, cursing under his breath. When he saw Pia, he staggered toward her and grinned. His gray, crooked teeth were too big for his mouth.

  “Who’s there?” he said in a raspy voice.

  Pia started to open the door, then stopped. Miss O’Malley and the driver could be out front. She edged toward a corner of the hall, dusty cobwebs brushing across her face.

  “Are you lost?” the man said.

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” He gestured toward his door. “Why don’t you come inside and I’ll fix you somethin’ to eat. I could use the company.”

  “I’m waiting for my father,” she said. “He’ll be here any minute.”

  He moved closer. “Your father, eh?”

  She nodded.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were lying to me. Now, why do you suppose that is?”

  “I don’t know,” Pia said, moving toward the front door.

  Suddenly he was in front of her, grabbing her wrist. The metallic tang of whiskey and the ashy musk of cigarettes filled her nostrils. And then she felt it—a stabbing pain beneath her rib cage. She nearly doubled over in agony. Whatever was wrong with him, it didn’t feel like the flu. She yanked her arm from his grasp, tore open the front door, looked up and down the street, and ran out of the row house. When she reached the opposite side, she stopped and leaned against a brick building, listening for the wagon she’d heard earlier and trying to catch her breath. She peered around the corner, down Third Street. A block away, Miss O’Malley leaned out of the wagon to talk to a person on the sidewalk. The wagon was facing the other direction. The person shook their head, Miss O’Malley straightened, and the wagon started moving again. Pia dashed across Third Street and didn’t stop running until she reached Shunk Alley. When she turned down it, she slowed.

  Laundry hung here and there on clotheslines above her head, but no children played on the cobblestones. No mothers pushed bundled babies in prams. No men smoked on stoops. She started walking faster, her heart about to burst. She was almost there. Almost home. An image of Vater flashed in her mind, Ollie and Max swaddled in his arms. He was smiling, but his eyes were glassy and sad.

  A sudden falling sensation swept over her and she nearly stumbled. She gritted her teeth and trudged forward, stopping every now and then to remind herself to breathe. The cobblestones and gray sky reeled in front of her. Nausea churned in her stomach. Maybe she should turn around. Maybe she should go back and turn herself in to Miss O’Malley. Maybe going to an orphanage was what she deserved. No, she had to face what she’d done, no matter what. She owed it to Ollie and Max. Then she was there. In front of her house. She looked up, hoping to see someone in the window. No one looked out. She glanced over at Finn’s apartment. Her note was still there, soggy and limp and torn, dangling from the empty clothesline.

  She walked up the front steps and into the dim foyer on watery legs. In what felt like slow motion, she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The smell of boiled cabbage and fried onions filled the halls, giving her a tiny measure of hope that some of her neighbors were still alive. Maybe one of them had heard her brothers’ cries and saved them. Maybe Nurse Carla had been right. Maybe it was a good thing she’d left the door unlocked.

  She went down the familiar hall and stopped in front of her door, realizing for the first time that she’d thought she’d never see it again. Certain she was going to collapse, she took a deep breath, grabbed the handle, and turned it.

  The door was locked.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Unless... unless . . .

  She pounded on the door. “Vater?” she cried. “It’s me, Pia! Let me in!”

  No sound came from the other side. No footsteps or shuffling feet. No babies crying or laughing. She pounded harder and rattled the handle, tears flooding her eyes.

  “Vater, please! Let me in! If you’re sleeping, you have to wake up!”

  She put her forehead against the wood and rested her palms on the door, breathing hard. If no one would answer, she’d break it down. It was her only choice. She couldn’t wait another second. She dropped her hands and started to step backward, bracing herself and getting ready to shove her shoulder into the door. Then the handle turned. The hinges creaked and the door inched open. A wedge of pale cheek became visible, a brown eye looking out through the dark crack. A child.

  “Who are you?” Pia said. “And what are you doing in our apartment?”

  The door opened wider. A black-haired boy blinked up at her with wide chestnut eyes. He looked to be around six years old, with milky cheeks and an innocent smile. For a second, she thought she’d knocked on the wrong door. She glanced down the hall and checked the number again. Yes, this was right. This was 4C, her family’s apartment.

  “What are you doing in there?” she said again.

  No response.

  She brushed past him into the apartment. Then she froze, shocked by what she was seeing. A dark-haired woman in a yellow dress and worn apron gaped at her from the coal stove, a wooden spoon in her hand, a startled look on her face. A thin man with a scraggy beard sat on her bed in his undershirt and drawers, his bare feet hanging over the edge. On the mattress beside him, a baby held a cloth doll to its mouth.

  Ollie!

  She raced over to the bed, then stopped in her tracks. The baby was older than the twins. And it was a girl. Pia looked frantically around the apartment. Had she stopped at the wrong house? The wrong floor? A ratty blanket hung over the window, casting murky shadows across the room. A straw mattress lay on the floor next to the table, which was shoved in a corner, not centered on the wall, where Mutti liked it. Then lantern light flickered off Mutti’s blue vase in the middle of Oma’s embroidered tablecloth and she knew. She was right. This was her home.

  She frowned at the woman. “Who are you and what are you doing here? Where are my brothers?”

  The woman furrowed her brow. “Ki vagy te és mit csinálsz itt?”

  Pia couldn’t understand what she was saying. It sounded like Hungarian—the language Mrs. Nagy used when she cornered Pia in the backyard—but she wasn’t sure. And she didn’t care. She bolted past the woman toward the open bedroom door.

  The man jumped up and grabbed her by the arm, shaking his head. “Mit gondolsz, hová mész?”

  Pia fought to escape, but it was no use. He was too strong.

  “My brothers are in there,” she cried, trying to get away.

  The man shook his head again, harder this time. “Mit akarsz?” Fear and anger distorted his face. At the same time, sympathy flickered in his red-rimmed eyes.

  She stopped struggling and tried to catch her breath. There was no escaping his strong grasp. And she wouldn’t get anywhere by acting crazy and being aggressive. He was hurting her arm, but at least she was wearing long sleeves so she wouldn’t feel anything that might be wrong with him. “Do you speak English?” she said, panting.

  He shook his head again.

  She pointed at the bedroom door, fighting the urge to scream at him. “My brothers,” she said. Then she pointed at herself. “My baby brothers. I need to see if they’re in there.” She pointed at the door again.

  The man and woman stared at her, confused.

  She pretended to rock a baby in her arms, then pointed at the bedroom a third time, a question on her face. Finally, the man let go. He gestured toward the bedroom and shook his head again.

  Pia’s eyes filled. What was he saying? That Ollie and Max were gone? That he had no idea what she was talking about? Either way she wasn’t going to wait another second. Before he could stop her, she fled into the bedroom. Two children looked up from the bed, a boy and a pale-faced girl, their eyes wide with surprise. One had a rag doll, the other a wooden top. Mutti’s decayed corpse was gone. Pia fell to
her knees in front of the cubby and, with shaking hands and trembling fingers, undid the latch and yanked open the door.

  No babies lay inside the bedroom cubby. No rattles or milky bottles waited in the cramped, dark space. No twin skeletal bodies resting side by side. Ollie and Max were gone.

  Agony seized Pia’s chest, as if a giant hand had reached into her rib cage and yanked out her heart. She moaned and collapsed on the floor, fear and grief and horror and relief crashing over her in waves. It was all she could do not to be sick. Her limbs vibrated out of control, and violent sobs tore from her throat, each howl stealing the air from her lungs and the strength from her body. She wanted to die.

  She lay that way for what felt like forever, until she could finally breathe again without gagging. Then she pushed herself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall, her legs like water, her arms like ice. She needed to compose herself so she could figure out what to do next. She needed to find out what happened to Ollie and Max. Hopefully someone, maybe a neighbor, had found them before it was too late. Or maybe this family, these strangers living in her home, had taken her brothers’ small bodies to the morgue. Either way, one thing was certain. Whatever had happened was her fault.

  The strangers stood gaping at her from the foot of Mutti’s bed. The woman was on the verge of tears, her hand over her bosom, the baby girl on her hip. The little boy leaned against his father’s legs and stared at Pia out of the corners of his eyes, his face fraught with fear. The man looked helpless and confused.

  Pia made a rocking motion with her arms again, her chin trembling. She pointed at herself, then at the cubby, a question on her face. She made the rocking motion again, pointed at the family, and held up her palms. The man shook his head. Then, finally, understanding transformed the woman. She handed the baby to the man and disappeared into the other room. Pia got up and followed her on wobbly legs. The man and boy stepped back, giving her a wide berth. At the kitchen table, the woman riffled through the thin pages of what looked like a Bible. When she found what she was looking for, she turned, startled at first to see Pia behind her. Smiling warily, she handed her a piece of folded white paper. Pia took it with trembling fingers and opened it. In scrawling cursive it read: