“Goodness me,” Sister Agnes said. “I’ve upset you again. I’m sorry. I thought—”
Pia looked at her. “Do you know anything about Miss O’Malley?”
Sister Agnes’s brows rose in surprise. “Miss O’Malley?”
“The woman who brought me here,” Pia said. “Do you know her?” The baby whimpered and laid his head against her shoulder. She rubbed his back with a gentle hand, surprised that he already seemed to trust her. Then tears stung her eyes. She could feel his small shoulder blades and tiny ribs through his skin. And there was something else too, something shuddering and twitching inside his thin torso.
“No,” Sister Agnes said. “I’ve never seen her before. Mother Joe had never met her either, until this horrible sickness took hold of the city and she began dropping off children.”
“Do you know if she’s dropped off children anywhere else?”
“I have no idea.”
“Can you find out?”
“Whatever for?” Sister Agnes said.
“I’m wondering if she knows anything about my brothers. Maybe she took them somewhere, to a different orphanage or something.”
Edith trudged past her with another baby girl and went over to the changing table. More babies started to wail.
“I suppose I can try,” Sister Agnes said. “But I’m afraid we’ve got more urgent matters to attend to at the moment.”
Pia looked around at the frightened faces and small hands reaching out between the metal bars, and the horrible ache in her chest grew heavier.
Edith went by her again. “Are you here to help or just look around and feel bad?” she said.
Pia wanted to hold the baby boy longer, to give him what small measure of comfort she could provide, but the others needed to be looked after too. She handed him to Sister Agnes. “There’s something wrong with him,” she said. “He needs a doctor.”
Sister Agnes took the baby and put him back in his crib. “I’m sure he does,” she said. “They all do. But people are still dying from the flu. And there aren’t any doctors to check on orphans right now. The only thing we can do is ask our sisters in the sick hall to examine him. And pray God will take care of his precious soul.”
* * *
Weak shafts of sunlight filtered in through the three narrow windows in the baby ward, cutting through the dimness but doing little to ward off the chill. Pia sat in a rocking chair feeding a bottle to a frail baby girl, wishing she had a warm blanket to cover them both up, and that there was a cushion on the hard seat. Ever since getting lashed with the leather strap on her first day at St. Vincent’s ten days ago, she slept on the floor between Gigi’s bed and the window, making sure to get up before Sister Ernestine came in to wake them. Gigi gave her their pillow, but the wood floor was hard, making her hips ache, and she shivered every night from the cold. In the wee hours when she couldn’t sleep, she listened to the sounds coming from elsewhere in the orphanage, drifting up through the splintered planks—wailing voices, singing voices, frightened voices, young voices crying into the night. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if she was awake or dreaming.
She set the bottle down, put the infant on her shoulder to burp her, and watched Edith move along the rows of iron cribs. One by one, Edith lifted babies out of their cribs, put them in with others, turned over their soiled mattresses, then put the babies back again. She worked like a machine, never stopping to comfort the crying children or smile at others who begged for attention with pleading eyes. Pia didn’t understand how she could ignore them. Maybe she’d been working there so long her heart had turned to stone. Either that or her indifference was a means of survival. Hopefully Pia wouldn’t be there long enough to find out.
Sister Agnes entered the baby ward and marched toward Pia, her chin high, the skirt of her habit twisting around her legs.
“Good morning, dear,” she said. “I have news.” She smiled, absentmindedly rubbing the birthmark on her cheek.
Pia sat up straighter and tried to reply, but the words froze in her mouth. Was the nun about to tell her what happened to her brothers?
“I wanted to let you know Mother Joe spoke with the nun who took care of you at St. Peter’s parish,” Sister Agnes said.
Pia nodded. Maybe she should hand the baby to Sister Agnes before she said another word. If Ollie and Max were dead, she wasn’t sure what would happen. She might faint. Or fall over. Or drop dead. She pressed her elbows into the arms of the chair, bracing herself.
“The nun informed Miss O’Malley that you’d lost your family because you cried out for them in your sleep while you were recovering,” Sister Agnes said. “She said you called for your mother and father, and for Ollie and Max, who you said over and over were only babies. No one has proof one way or another what happened to them. So you see, it was only a matter of hearsay. The nun at the parish told Miss O’Malley what she believed, and Miss O’Malley told Mother Joe.”
Pia slumped back in the chair, weak with relief. The baby in her trembling arms suddenly weighed as much as a ten-year-old, but she kept patting her back, unable to do anything else. “Thank you, Sister Agnes,” she managed.
“You’re welcome, dear,” Sister Agnes said, and turned to leave.
Pia sat up again. “Wait,” she said. “Do you think Mother Joe would be willing to help me find out what happened to my brothers?”
Sister Agnes frowned sympathetically. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “St. Vincent’s can barely keep up with the care of the children we have now, let alone spare the time or resources to look for more. Besides, we wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What about letting me leave so I can look for them?”
“Heavens no,” Sister Agnes said. She shook her head so hard her cheeks jiggled. “Like it or not, dear, it’s up to us to keep you safe now. And Mother Joe takes her job, and the reputation of St. Vincent’s, very seriously. She’d never let you loose on the streets of Philadelphia, where there are all manner of ways a young girl could find herself in serious trouble, not to mention people are still dying from the purple death.”
“Do you think she could find out if my father has returned from the war?”
Sister Agnes put her hands on her ample hips. “Look around you, dear. Do you believe we have the time or resources to search for the parents of any of these poor children?”
Pia’s cheeks grew warm. “No, Sister Agnes,” she said. “I suppose not.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PIA
Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Pia stood at the narrow, mullioned window on the fourth-floor room of ward number six, looking out over the Delaware River outside St. Vincent’s Orphan Asylum. It was a late Sunday afternoon, a few minutes before suppertime, and a gathering of gray clouds hung low and ominous in the sky. It had been raining all day, and the swollen river churned swift and deep, the bare trees on the opposite shore like black fingers reaching out of the rocky banks. Upstream, a stone bridge crossed the water into a jumble of brick buildings and towering smokestacks. The orphanage play yard stretched out toward the water, the brown, fenced-in lawn filled with gray puddles and soggy grass, the empty iron swing sets and slide like the skeleton of some half-buried beast. Despite the dreary weather, she would have given anything to open the locked window, to rid the room of the stench of fear, loneliness, and urine that seemed as thick as the paneling on the walls. She wondered if the other eighteen girls, talking and whispering on the ten beds behind her, felt the same way. She would have asked, but they probably wouldn’t answer.
Had she known what their reaction was going to be, she never would have admitted she didn’t like touching people when one of the girls asked her to braid her hair a few days ago. She would have lied and said she didn’t know how. Instead she’d told the truth, and now they watched her from the corners of their eyes and kept the younger girls—including Gigi—away from her, as if she were someone to be feared. Even Jenny avoided her. It felt like school all over again. She told herself sh
e didn’t care, that she was used to being shunned and the only thing she cared about was leaving, but it hurt more than expected. Maybe because they all had something in common, being unwilling prisoners of this place, and she’d thought that would make a difference. But she was wrong.
Every day she wondered how many people were still dying in the city, and if Ollie, Max, and Vater were out there somewhere. She’d overheard the nuns talking about the end of the war a few days earlier; how, despite the lingering threat of flu, thousands of Philadelphians had gathered around the replica of the Statue of Liberty on Broad Street to celebrate. Fear and grief had kept many people home, but those who attended stood shoulder to shoulder, most still wearing masks, and cheered nonstop as flags flew from buildings and bands played. Since then, every time the ward door opened, and even though she knew it would take a miracle for him to find her in the orphanage, she prayed it was Vater coming home from the war. It never was.
Like the rest of the girls, her days consisted of making the beds and sweeping the floors, then prayer, meals, and work. Free time was spent in the fenced yard or, during inclement weather, in a large recreation room in the north wing. On Sundays, everyone attended church in a chapel in the back of the building and had a period of rest before dinner in the afternoon.
Pia worked in the baby ward seven days a week, with time off for sleep, meals, and an hour of recreation after supper. Edith was the only girl who would talk to her, and she hardly talked at all, other than what needed to be said while caring for the babies. Pia had to admit Edith scared her a little bit, like a tight lid on a simmering kettle, ready to explode at any second. One minute she was brooding silently, the next she was cussing out the girls from the laundry if they didn’t put the basket of clean diapers in the right spot. Pia didn’t want to get on her bad side, so she kept quiet and worked hard.
New babies came in nearly every week, some from the city, and others—with bottles of breast milk—from St. Vincent’s Home for Unwed Mothers, which was next door. Sister Agnes once brought in an infant in a wicker basket with a note attached that read: This infant was found on the sidewalk between 50th and 51st Streets.
Another baby, a newborn, arrived with a letter that read: Dear Madam, Knowing my little infant will get better care in your institution than I am able to give it, I for the present leave it in your charge. Born Monday 7 a.m. She has not been christened. I call her Mary. Yours ever truly, a poor mother.
With every child that came in, Pia prayed it would be one of her brothers. It never was.
Now, blinking back tears as she stood at the window, she couldn’t help thinking about last Thanksgiving, when Mutti was pregnant and her father hadn’t enlisted yet. They had all been certain the war would be over soon, and life had seemed full of hope and possibility. They couldn’t afford a turkey, but in an effort to fit in, Mutti had allowed Pia to join Finn as a Thanksgiving masker, which meant dressing up like a ragamuffin to “scramble for pennies” in the street and go door to door “begging” for treats. It was all in good fun, especially since everyone on Shunk Alley had so little to share, and no one cared if they got treats or not. But she and Finn tossed newspaper confetti in the air and followed the other kids, some in papier-mâché masks or giant hands, others wearing mops on their heads or their parents’ oversize clothes. Pia and Finn didn’t have masks, but they drew on their faces with coal and beet juice, and for those few hours, no one cared that she was German. It was the most fun she’d ever had, and she made Finn promise they’d do it every year, as long as they were able.
Now they were all gone. Mutti. Ollie and Max. Finn. Maybe Vater too.
And she was being kept in an orphanage.
How was it possible for life to turn into a nightmare so fast?
It was a Sunday when she tried to escape St. Vincent’s after noticing a window slightly open behind the altar during Communion. She let everyone go ahead while they filed out of the chapel after the service was over, then looked around to make sure no one was watching and crawled under a pew to hide. Once the room was empty and quiet, she rolled out, ran behind the altar, and tried to open the window all the way. If she got out, she wasn’t sure how she’d get through the fence surrounding the grounds, but she had to try. At first the window wouldn’t budge, as if it were locked or painted shut; but she took a deep breath and tried again, grunting with the effort. Finally, it slid up partway, the swollen wood screeching against the frame.
Certain someone must have heard the noise, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming, then tried to open it farther. It was no use. There was no moving it. She bent over and started climbing out, hands ready to brace her fall into the bushes below. It was going to be a tight fit, but she could make it. Her head and torso were out, her hips squeezing under the pane, when suddenly someone grabbed her ankles and yanked her back inside. Her chin bumped against the sill, her arms scraped along the wood, and she hit the floor hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. Gulping for air, she turned over and looked up, her heart like a train in her chest.
It was Mother Joe.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, Miss Lange?” she said, her voice shrill.
“I... um... I...” Pia said.
“Stand up this instant!”
Pia did as she was told, gasping for air and brushing off her dress. The skin on her chin felt scraped, her elbows bruised and sore. “There was a... a bird,” she said. “A baby bird. He was stuck in the window and I—”
Mother Joe held up a bony finger. “Stop!” she said, making Pia jump. “Don’t say another word, Miss Lange.” She closed the window, then crossed her arms, pushed her gnarled hands beneath her sleeves, and regarded Pia with burning eyes. “Now I’m going to ask you some questions. And I want you to remember, God is listening.”
“Yes, Mother Joe.”
“Did you or did you not partake in the Holy Communion not less than fifteen minutes ago?”
“Yes, Mother Joe.”
“And does that not mean that you, right now at this very moment, have the body and blood of Christ in you?”
“Yes, Mother Joe.”
“And do you or do you not know that lying is a sin punishable by eternal damnation and whatever penalty I deem necessary to make sure you don’t repeat the offense?”
“Yes, Mother Joe, I do.”
“Very good, Miss Lange. Now think it through for a minute, then tell me again what you were doing hanging halfway out that window.”
Pia dropped her eyes to the red carpet, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“Miss Lange?”
“I was trying to leave,” Pia said.
Mother Joe frowned. “Why would you try to do that? Are you unhappy here? Do we not take good care of you by giving you a place to sleep and food to eat?”
“Yes, Mother Joe.”
“Then why, pray tell, didn’t you go to the baby ward after the service was over like you were supposed to? Why did you try to climb out that window?”
“Because I think my brothers might still be alive. Sister Agnes told you about them, didn’t she?”
“She did,” Mother Joe said. Then she gave Pia a cynical look. “So you want to leave and search for these brothers of yours, is that it?”
Pia nodded. “Yes, Mother Joe.”
“I see.” She sighed and looked off to the side, thinking. After what seemed like forever she continued, “I suppose something can be arranged for you to take your leave of us. But not until we’re certain the threat of flu has passed and the city has had time to recover from the resulting chaos.”
Pia blinked, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Really?” she said. “I mean, do you mean it, Mother Joe?”
“I don’t say anything I don’t mean, Miss Lange.”
Tears filled Pia’s eyes and she nearly cried out. Finally, after all this time, she was going to be free to look for Ollie and Max. She almost wanted to hug the old nun. “Thank you, Mother Joe.”
“Yes, well, in the meantime, trying to leave without permission and lying to your superiors carries its own punishment, Miss Lange. Pull yourself together and come with me.”
* * *
Pia followed Mother Joe down the steep staircase to the basement, a strange mixture of apprehension and relief twisting in her stomach. Would her punishment for trying to climb out the window be peeling potatoes or washing dishes? Scrubbing the dining room floor or cleaning urine-soaked sheets? Three lashes with a leather strap? Whatever the price, it was worth getting caught now that Mother Joe had agreed to let her leave. The only problem was, other than going home to see if Vater had gotten her note from the people who lived in her old apartment and seeing if she could find Finn, she had no idea what she’d do next or where she’d go. She had no money. No family. No home. But at least getting out of the orphanage was a start—hopefully the first step in finding out what happened to Ollie and Max.
In the basement, she and Mother Joe crossed the dining room and entered the kitchen, a brick-walled room that felt like an oven and smelled like cold dirt, spoiled milk, and raw onions. Two red-faced nuns stirred oversized kettles on a coal stove and a third sliced loaves of bread on a wooden table with the longest knife Pia had ever seen. Three boys of about five or six years old sat in a corner peeling a mountain of potatoes, their shoes nearly buried in brown skins. Another boy poured milk into mugs lined up on a bench. He glanced up at Pia and accidentally spilled milk over the edge of one mug, dripping a little on the wood. The nun slicing the bread reached over and swatted him on the ear, making him jump, and scolded him for not being more careful. After the kitchen, Pia followed Mother Joe down a narrow hall, past a room filled with piles of dirty linens and empty washtubs. Pia couldn’t imagine where Mother Joe was taking her. If washing dishes or working in the laundry wasn’t going to be her punishment, what was?
“Excuse me, Mother Joe,” she said. “But may I ask where we’re going?”
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