The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  A little girl carrying a rag doll came over to the steps and smiled up at her with tired eyes. She looked to be about four years old, with dark hair that fell around her thin face in uneven curls. “Halo,” she said in a tiny voice.

  Pia thought she’d said hello, but with an accent, or in a different language. Forcing herself to return the smile, she wished the little girl would go away. She was homesick and scared and sick to her stomach, and didn’t feel like making friends. The only thing she wanted was to find a way out of there. She looked out over the playground, pretending to be busy watching the other children. But before she knew what was happening, the little girl climbed up the steps and crawled into her lap. Pia held up her hands, partly in surprise, mostly because she didn’t want to touch her. The problem was, some of the others had turned to watch so she didn’t want to tell the girl no or push her away. Making enemies within minutes of her arrival was the last thing she needed. She held her breath until the little girl got settled, then put her hands on the steps. One of the girl’s bare legs rested against hers, but to Pia’s relief, she felt nothing.

  Proudly holding up her rag doll to show Pia, the little girl grinned again. Pia forced another smile and nodded. The girl patted the doll’s worn head with a dirty hand, then clutched it to her chest, leaned against Pia’s shoulder, and closed her eyes. Pia swallowed, bewildered. What was she supposed to do now? Hold her while she napped? Cuddle her? Clearly the little girl longed for affection and, for some reason, trusted Pia to give it to her. Just like Ollie and Max had trusted her. Overwhelmed with fear and misery and love, Pia’s eyes filled and she wrapped her arms around the girl, rocking her back and forth, and trying not to cry. She had failed her brothers; she didn’t have to fail this little girl. A hug was a small gesture that didn’t cost a thing. Before long the girl was asleep, her small pink mouth hanging partway open. Looking down at her pale, dirty face, Pia couldn’t help wondering how she’d come to be in the orphanage. Had her parents died? Abandoned her? Just thinking about it made her chest ache.

  An older girl with short, mousy braids strolled across the playground toward the steps. Pia wiped her eyes. She didn’t want anyone to think she was weak. Being bullied again was the last thing she needed. The girl climbed up the steps and sat next to her, pulling her threadbare dress over her bony knees. A sprinkle of light freckles dotted her nose and checks. “Hi, I’m Jenny,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Pia.”

  Jenny pointed at the little girl. “That’s Gigi,” she said. “We don’t know her real name so we made one up.”

  Pia gave Jenny a weak smile, hoping she looked friendly.

  Jenny pointed at another girl on the playground, this one with curly hair and long, knobby-kneed legs. “We call her Colette. She doesn’t speak English either, but we knew what she meant when she said her name.” She indicated several other children, girls and boys alike, and said the same thing about them speaking other languages. “And see that older, dark-haired girl over there, the one standing in the corner with the pinecone in her hands?”

  Pia nodded.

  “That’s Iris. She’s blind. Everyone says she came from another orphanage a long time ago, but she wasn’t blind when she got there.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Guess they were doing some kind of medical experiments on her, something to do with tuberculosis.”

  “Who was doing experiments on her?”

  “One of the doctors at the other orphanage.”

  Pia’s stomach turned over. She thought orphanages were supposed to keep children safe. “Do you think it’s true?”

  “Yeah, I believe it,” Jenny said. “We’re throwaways. They can do whatever they want to us. You’ll see.”

  “What do you mean, I’ll see? What about the nuns? I thought they were supposed to love and care about everyone.”

  “Just try to stay out of trouble,” Jenny said. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  Pia’s eyes filled again. She felt like she was trapped in a nightmare, doomed to never wake up. If the people running St. Vincent’s thought she and the other children were disposable, they’d probably think her brothers were disposable too. Why would they care about helping her find them?

  “So what happened to your parents?” Jenny said, pulling Pia from her thoughts. “Did they catch the purple death?”

  “The purple death?”

  “That’s what the nuns call the flu,” Jenny said. “Because it turns people’s skin purple. A bunch of us caught it and three girls died. Two of the nuns taking care of us did too. And I heard there’s still some kids in the sick hall.”

  Pia’s mouth went dry. For some reason, she’d thought isolated places like orphanages and asylums and jails would be safe from the flu. Knowing they weren’t made her even more uneasy. Thinking about a deadly illness getting into a place with no escape made her skin crawl. “My mother had it,” she said. “But my father is in the army, fighting in the war.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  Pia shrugged, her throat getting tight. Even if Vater came back, he’d never find her there. “Why were you sent here?”

  Jenny gazed at the autumn clouds as if searching for something that wasn’t there. “All I remember is my mother dressing my little brother and me in our Sunday clothes and dropping us off here. She used to visit sometimes and tell us she’d be back to get us. But then she stopped coming. That was two years ago.”

  Pia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How could a mother abandon her children on purpose? Then an image of Ollie and Max in the cubby flashed in her mind and she nearly cried out in agony and shame. Who was she to judge what any mother had done? Something cold and hard twisted in her stomach and she thought she was going to be sick. She clenched her teeth and took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm down. One thing was becoming more and more certain—she deserved to be punished.

  “Pia?” Jenny said. “Did you hear me?”

  Pia blinked and looked at her. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. I’m sorry your mother never came back to get you. That’s awful.”

  Jenny shrugged. “Yeah, I just wish I knew why. I don’t know if something happened to her, or if she stopped coming because she didn’t want us anymore.”

  Pia scanned the other orphans in the yard. “Which one is your brother?”

  “He’s not here,” Jenny said. “After my mother stopped coming, he disappeared. Every day for months I asked the nuns where he was. Then Mother Joe told me to stop bothering the staff. I still don’t know what happened to him.”

  Pia’s heart squeezed in her chest. If they wouldn’t tell Jenny what happened to her brother, they probably wouldn’t tell her even if Ollie and Max were here. She almost told Jenny she understood how it felt to miss her brother, then stopped, cringing inside. Jenny didn’t know what happened to her brother because of someone else’s actions, but whatever happened to Ollie and Max was Pia’s fault. She couldn’t tell Jenny or anyone else at the orphanage what she’d done. They’d think she was a monster. And they’d be right.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, because she didn’t know what else to say. Then she had another thought. Jenny had been at St. Vincent’s for two years; she had to know her way around. “Do you know if there are any babies here?”

  “Of course there are,” Jenny said.

  Pia drew in a silent, sharp breath. “Where?”

  Jenny shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them.”

  “Then how do you know they’re here?”

  “Because sometimes at night I hear them crying.”

  Goose bumps rose on Pia’s arms. Before she could ask more questions, a nun opened the door behind them and clapped her hands, making her jump.

  “Come inside, girls,” the nun shouted. “It’s time for supper!”

  The girls on the playground turned away from what they were doing or got to their feet and started toward the steps, moving in what
seemed like slow motion. As they neared the building, they stared at Pia with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Pia dropped her eyes and stood, Gigi still asleep in her arms, then moved toward the doorway. The nun stepped outside, intentionally blocking her way.

  “Put her down,” the nun said. She was the tallest woman Pia had ever seen, with angry eyes burning in a hard-bitten face. Her wattled chin hung over the neck of her coif like flesh-colored cheese.

  “I can carry her,” Pia said. “She’s sound asleep.”

  “And I suppose you’re hoping to steal her supper?” the nun said.

  Pia shook her head. “No, I—”

  Without warning the nun yanked Gigi from Pia’s arms, then set her on her feet and pushed her into the building, stumbling and disoriented. “What’s your name, girl?” she said to Pia.

  “Pia.”

  “Pia what?”

  “Pia Lange.”

  “Well, Miss Lange, from now on you’ll do as you’re told. Trust me when I say it will make your time here a lot more pleasant.”

  Pia glanced at Jenny, who shook her head ever so slightly in warning. Pia looked back at the nun. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  “Yes, Sister Ernestine,” the nun corrected her.

  “Yes, Sister Ernestine,” Pia repeated.

  Sister Ernestine gave her another scowl, then turned on her heels and went back inside to wait. The girls lined up against one wall, silent and obedient, all facing the same way, their eyes straight ahead. Sister Ernestine and two other nuns split them into three groups, then Sister Ernestine took a lantern from one of the other nuns and ordered the first group, including Pia and Jenny, to follow her. Together they shuffled along the dim hall, Sister Ernestine’s shadow marching along the ceiling like a giant bat. At the end of the hall, they clambered down a steep set of wooden stairs, planting their hands on the walls to keep from tumbling forward.

  “Where are we going?” Pia whispered to Jenny, who was two girls in front of her.

  “To the dining hall,” Jenny whispered back.

  “In the cellar?”

  “Shhh,” Jenny hissed over her shoulder.

  At the bottom of the steps, they passed a coal bin as big as a trolley, then entered a long, narrow room with ductwork and rusty pipes running the length of the close ceiling. Something that looked like wet soot dripped down the brick walls, and the wooden floor was scuffed and worn. The air smelled like spoiled milk and cabbage. Metal bowls and spoons lined a long table surrounded by wooden stools. The girls sat down in an orderly fashion, Pia next to Jenny, then waited silently while a sweaty-faced nun ladled something that looked like runny stew into their bowls. Brown clots of the stew dripped from the ladle onto the floor, the stools, the table, the girls’ shoulders and heads. No one seemed to notice.

  “‘Bless us, oh Lord, for these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ Our Lord, amen,’” the sweaty-faced nun repeated over and over. Each girl said “Amen” after her bowl was filled.

  Another nun followed the first with thin slices of bread. As soon as Pia’s bread fell into her bowl, the girl opposite her snatched it away. Pia looked at Jenny, wondering what she should do, but Jenny was hunched over her bowl, already eating. Pia glanced down the line of girls to see if any of them saw what happened. Lantern light flickered off their weary faces and haunted eyes as they devoured their meager supper like a pack of hungry wolves. No one paid attention to anything other than the food. She had no appetite but knew she needed to eat and drink. She scooped up a spoonful of the stew and put it to her lips. It was runny and lukewarm and tasted like stale water mixed with a few mushy pieces of carrot, potato, and some kind of meat—either pork or chicken, it was hard to tell. It was all she could do not to gag when she put it in her mouth.

  While the girls ate, Sister Ernestine walked up and down the table, telling them to hurry up so the next group could come in. A young girl with curly hair sat pouting and staring at her food, her arms crossed over her middle. Sister Ernestine came up behind her and pinched her nose shut. When the girl opened her mouth so she could breathe, Sister Ernestine shoveled a spoonful of stew in and let go of her nose. The girl gagged and the food came back out again, streams of stew and vomit dripping down her chin. Sister Ernestine held the girl’s nose shut and force-fed her again.

  “This will teach you to be ungrateful,” she snarled.

  Pia dropped her spoon and started to get up. She had to make the nun stop.

  “Don’t,” Jenny hissed.

  Several of the other girls shot her a warning look, their eyes wide with alarm. Pia sat back down, breathing hard, nauseated by anger and fear and disgust. Sister Ernestine repeated the process while the girl cried and gagged.

  Pia’s eyes filled. She didn’t think she could finish eating. But she didn’t dare stop. The other girls kept their heads down and did the same.

  In a matter of minutes, everyone was done, with a few girls scraping their bowls, desperate to get every last drop. When another nun led the second group into the dining hall, Sister Ernestine ordered the first girls to put down their utensils and get up. Then she led them up two narrow flights of stairs to a room lined with what seemed like a hundred washbasins. The washroom was cold and damp, the wooden floor wet and slippery-looking. Next to each washbasin, a thin towel hung on a hook. Sister Ernestine grabbed a threadbare nightdress from a shelf and handed it to Pia.

  “Clean yourself up, Miss Lange,” she said. “And be quick about it.”

  The other girls had already taken off their shoes, stripped down to their undergarments, and were hastily washing their hands and faces. Pia went over to a washbasin and did the same. Searching up and down the row, she looked for Jenny but couldn’t see her. After getting cleaned up as best she could with no washcloth and a thin towel, she slipped the nightdress over her head and hung the towel back on the hook. When everyone was done, they picked up their shoes and clothes, and followed Sister Ernestine out of the washroom into a dank corridor. At the end of the corridor, they climbed another staircase and came out in what seemed like an endless hall lined with doors and ceiling arches. Everything but the floor was painted white—the ceiling, the doors, the arches, the walls—but it did little to bring light to the space. Every time Sister Ernestine passed a ceiling arch, the yellow glow of her lantern went with her, casting shadows along the walls and leaving the girls at the end of the line in near darkness. Halfway down the hall, she held the lantern high and the girls filed into a narrow, brown-paneled room filled with rows of iron beds made up with gray sheets and lumpy-looking pillows. A mullioned window on the far end was shuttered from the outside, each thick pane dulled by grime. Pia stood near the door, waiting to be told what to do. Cold seeped up through the uneven plank floor, chilling her bare feet.

  “Find your spot,” Sister Ernestine said.

  With that, the girls scrambled to the beds, some sitting two to a mattress. Pia moved down the center aisle and looked for an empty place. It was going to be hard enough being cooped up with so many other girls in one room, lying next to one would be unbearable. She didn’t need, or want, to know if they were coming down with a cold, or had a stomachache, or God forbid, the flu. Just being in this dim, drafty room with all of them she could almost feel their pain, their longing for love and a place to call home. She didn’t want to lie next to any of them when they cried at night, didn’t want to feel the heavy ache of sorrow in their hearts. Then again, maybe what felt like the gut-wrenching emotions of all the other girls was just the weight of her own sadness and fear.

  She could feel them watching her make her way down the aisle, waiting to see what she would do. No one spoke or moved. All the beds were full. Jenny was sitting on a mattress next to Colette, her head down, picking at her nails. No one wanted to be the new girl’s first friend, and she wouldn’t expect Jenny to give up her spot, anyway. On the last bed next to the window, Gigi sat smiling with her rag doll clutched to her chest. Pia turned around
to face Sister Ernestine.

  “May I sleep on the floor, Sister Ernestine?”

  One of the girls snickered. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You don’t want to sleep with a wet-the-bed?”

  The other girls laughed.

  “Hush!” Sister Ernestine hissed. Everyone fell silent. “You’ll share a bed with Gigi, Miss Lange, and you’ll be grateful for it.”

  Gigi slid over to make room and Pia climbed in next to her, thankful at least that she’d already touched Gigi and hadn’t felt anything amiss. Maybe once the rest of the girls went to sleep, she could get out of bed and lie on the floor between the bed and the window, where no one would see her.

  “Hands on top of your blankets,” Sister Ernestine said. “And no talking.”

  The girls got under the covers, making sure to rest their arms outside their blankets.

  Sister Ernestine moved along the beds, checking to make sure everyone’s hands were where she could see them, her wattled chin jiggling with every step. Once she was satisfied that everyone had obeyed, she went back to the door, turned, and said, “Who wants to tell Pia what will happen if she so much as whispers after I leave?”

  A girl of about six raised her hand. Sister Ernestine pointed at her.

  The girl gaped at Pia with frightened eyes. “The devil will come for you,” she said.

  “Say it again, louder, so everyone can hear you,” Sister Ernestine said.

  “The devil will come for you,” the girl shouted.

  A few of the older girls looked at one another and rolled their eyes. Sister Ernestine didn’t seem to notice. “That’s right,” she said. “And because all of you come from fallen parents, you’re easy prey for Satan. Remember that. Now say your prayers and go to sleep.”