The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  She turned to Edith. “If I’m still—” she said, then stopped. She’d almost said, “If I’m still here this summer,” but remembered she hadn’t told Edith she’d be leaving.

  She couldn’t count the number of times she’d asked Sister Agnes if Mother Joe had mentioned releasing her, but she hadn’t confided in anyone else yet because she didn’t want to jinx it. Plus, it seemed like Edith had finally warmed up to her, and she didn’t want that to change either. If she knew Pia was leaving, Edith might grow distant again. Then again, Pia wasn’t sure it mattered anyway, because Sister Agnes’s answer was always the same: When Mother Joe made up her mind to let her go, Pia would be the first to know.

  She cleared her throat and started again. “When it gets warmer,” she said to Edith, “maybe we can bring the babies outside for some fresh air. It would do them good to get out of that stuffy ward.”

  “They’re only allowed outside on the hottest days,” Edith said. “Because that’s when the baby ward turns into an oven. And you know we can’t open the windows.”

  Pia sighed. “Of course we can’t.”

  We can’t do anything, she thought.

  “Hey,” Edith said. “Who’s that sitting on the swings? I’ve never seen him before.”

  Pia turned toward the yard.

  It was an older boy, maybe aged fourteen or fifteen, with his head down, the heel of his shoe striking the slush and scraping it back into a wet pile, over and over again.

  Pia gasped.

  It couldn’t be.

  She started toward the swings, then stopped, squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them again. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She squinted and studied the boy again. No. It wasn’t him. The hair was too long and stringy, the face too thin. Maybe the stress of losing her family and being locked in an orphanage was making her see things that weren’t there. Then he lifted his head and she knew. She ran over to him, her heart racing in her chest.

  “Finn?” she said.

  He looked up at her, misery darkening his features. Then his eyes went wide and he jumped to his feet. “Pia?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  Her legs nearly gave out. His voice was unmistakable, the accent, the way he said her name. “You’re alive?” she said.

  “I am,” he said. “And I’m happy to see ye are too.” He stared at her with that mischievous one-sided grin and those familiar hazel eyes. Yet despite his smile, sorrow lined his features, aging him beyond his years.

  “But all this time,” she said. “I thought you were dead!”

  “Nay,” he said. “Not yet.”

  She put her hand to her trembling mouth. “I can’t believe this.”

  “It’s me, lass. And I have to say, I can’t believe it either. But I’m mighty glad to see ye.”

  She laughed and threw her arms around him, not caring what she might feel when they touched. The only thing that mattered was that he was alive. He hugged her back, his cheek against hers, his warm, quick breath on her skin. Thankfully she felt nothing but joy at seeing him alive, and the genuine depth of his warmth and affection. No weight on her chest or ache in her bones. No discomfort in her throat or head. His clothes and hair smelled like the city streets—automobile fuel and vegetable stands, wet cobblestones and electric trolleys. Unlike her and everyone else at St. Vincent’s, he hadn’t been in the orphanage long enough to absorb the cloying odor of old wood and cold porridge, or the ever-present stench of sorrow and fear. Afraid to find she was dreaming, she didn’t want to let go. Tears sprang in her eyes. Then she realized Mutti was the last person she’d hugged. And even though she normally didn’t want to be touched, embracing Finn felt like being covered with a warm blanket after months of being cold. She felt like she’d been wandering lost and alone for an eternity and now, finally, someone else was holding her up.

  Then a strange sound, like a yelp, drew their attention toward the orphanage.

  It was Sister Ernestine, thundering toward them, waving her arms and scowling. “Get away from her,” she shrieked. “Move apart from each other this instant!”

  Finn stepped back and put his hands in his pockets, and Pia let go of him, her empty arms aching.

  When Sister Ernestine reached them, she was out of breath, her wattled chin quivering like wet cheese. “What on God’s earth is going on here, Miss Lange? You know close contact with the opposite sex is not allowed!”

  Pia braced herself for another chiding, or worse. Beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip. “Nothing’s going on, Sister Ernestine,” she said. “He’s an old friend and we were surprised to see each other, that’s all.”

  Sister Ernestine pushed them farther apart and eyed them up and down. “That better be all,” she said. “Thirteen-year-old girls are perfectly capable of getting themselves into a delicate situation with boys, Miss Lange, so you have permission to talk, but no physical contact.” She glared at Finn. “Keep your hands to yourself, understand, young man?”

  Finn nodded.

  Sister Ernestine stood there for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not to take further action, her narrowed eyes darting back and forth between their faces. Then, finally, she turned and marched back to her post near the doorway.

  When she was gone, Pia let out a trembling sigh of relief.

  “Holy Mother of Mary,” Finn said. “She’s a disagreeable one. And she’s got a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb.”

  As usual, he was trying to make her laugh, and she loved him for it. “You have no idea,” she said. “She’s got a leather strap hidden under her habit and she likes to use it.”

  “Aye, that’s no surprise,” he said. “She looks like she rules with an iron fist.” Then he gazed at her, his face serious. “So tell me, how’d you end up in this bloody awful place?”

  She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, trying to seem stoic. “You first,” she said. “Where have you been, and how did you end up here?”

  He let out a long sigh. “Remember the last day I saw ye, when me mam called me inside?”

  She nodded, dread tightening her throat.

  “Me brother had started coughing that morning. We took him to the hospital straightaway, but we couldn’t get in. We waited and waited, but by midnight, he was dead.”

  “Oh no,” Pia said. She wanted to hug him again, to let him know how much she cared, but Sister Ernestine was watching. “I’m so sorry.”

  “And before his worn-out body was even cold,” Finn continued, “me mam and granddad insisted we leave the city to get away from the flu. I wanted to tell ye, to go back to Shunk Alley and make sure ye were all right, but Mam refused to let me go. Somehow my granddad secured a horse and wagon, and we left from the hospital that very night to go to my uncle’s house on the Jersey Shore. By the time we crossed the state line, my granddad had died on the wagon. We left his body in front of a church, to save me, Mam said. The problem was, we took the damn flu with us. Everyone in the house was sick within a few days but me. Some of the neighbors caught it too.”

  “And your mother?”

  Finn dropped his gaze and kicked the wet ground with the toe of his boot. When he looked up again, his eyes were glassy. “She didn’t make it. Same as my uncle and his wife.”

  Pia’s eyes filled too. “Oh no. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry, Finn.”

  “What about your mam?” he said in a gentle voice. His tightly creased brow made it clear he already knew.

  She bit her trembling lip and nodded. “She’s gone.” It was the first time she’d shared the news with someone who wasn’t a stranger, and the past few months of grief and loneliness suddenly overwhelmed her, making her dizzy. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to stand steady. “I sent you a note,” she said. “Like we used to on the clothesline, remember? You must have already left.” Thinking about it now, sending a note seemed foolish. She should have done more. She should have done mountains more.

  He shook his head, miserable
, and started to reach for her, then stopped. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “What about your brothers?” he said. “Wee Ollie and Max?”

  She shook her head, the swift return of guilt and grief devastating and raw. For a second she thought she might collapse. How could she tell him what she had done? That her brothers might be dead because of her reckless decision? She turned away to hide her face.

  “Oh God,” he said. “I’m so sorry, lass. I wish I could do something to make it all go away.”

  She swallowed her sobs and turned back to him, praying he wouldn’t read the truth in her eyes. She wasn’t ready to confess everything, not yet. “Tell me how you got back to Philadelphia,” she said.

  He put his hands in his pockets as if to keep from hugging her and sighed again. “I stayed at my uncle’s as long as I was able, but when the landlord realized everyone else was dead, he kicked me out. I had nowhere to go, so I jumped a train and came back home. The first thing I did was look for you, but... I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s someone else living in your apartment.”

  “I know,” she said. “Keep going. What happened next? Where have you been living?”

  “On the streets. And I was getting along right well until yesterday, when the cops caught me stealing. Guess the lockup was full ’cause they sent me here instead.” He lowered his gaze briefly, then fixed soft eyes on her. “I thought you were gone too, lass. Can’t tell you how glad I am to find out you survived.”

  She hung her head. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t,” she said.

  He lifted her chin with a gentle hand. “Don’t say that,” he said. “I know you’ve suffered greatly and sometimes you feel like you won’t make it another day. Trust me, I feel the same way.” Then he gave her a half grin and jerked his chin toward Sister Ernestine. “But ye wouldn’t want to leave me here all alone with Sister Congeniality, would you?”

  She tried to smile, but her mouth twisted and her face folded in on itself.

  “Oh, don’t cry,” he said. “Go on now, tell me what happened.”

  She swallowed the thickness in her throat and tried to find her voice, knowing she had to tell him the truth, praying he wouldn’t think differently of her. “I came down with the flu too,” she said. “But someone found me and took me to the...” She hesitated, not sure she could go on. He waited patiently, watching her with haunted eyes. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then, in halting words that burned her mouth and shattered her heart, she told him what happened. When she got to the part where the bedroom cubby was empty, her knees went weak and she had to sit on the slush-covered ground.

  Finn swore under his breath and knelt beside her, a safe distance away.

  “It’s my fault,” she wailed.

  “The bloody hell it is,” he said. “Ye were doing what you thought was best. I would have done the same thing. You couldn’t let your brothers starve. You didn’t know you were getting sick. And you sure as hell had no way of knowin’ some nasty clod would go in and take them.”

  “But... I... I forgot to lock the door!”

  He shook his head vehemently. “Doesn’t matter. Whoever took the lads, if they were trying to help, they should have left a note saying where they were.”

  “They did leave a note,” she cried. “It said, May God forgive you for what you’ve done.”

  “Ah, Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, lass. That’s just downright vile.”

  “But what if... what if they died in there?”

  “Don’t cut yourself up like that. Were they sick when you left them?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so... but even if they weren’t, I was... I was gone for so long,” she said in between sobs.

  “Aye, but you don’t know when they were found, right? Might have been the day you left, for all you know.”

  “I have to find out what happened to them. I just have to.”

  “Ye will,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

  She wiped her eyes with trembling hands and gaped at him. “How? How are we going to do anything when we’re locked up in here? Mother Joe said she’d release me when she thought it was safe, but I’m starting to think she only said that to make me behave.”

  He grinned and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Aye, lassie,” he said. “I thought you knew me better than that. Ye ought to know they can’t keep Finn Duffy locked up for long.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BERNICE

  Bernice stood in the doorway of a stone Colonial in an upper-class neighborhood on the north end of the city, at a loss for words. Seeing the dark-haired boy wearing a yarmulke next to the white woman in the foyer had taken her by surprise, and she didn’t know what to say or do. If the boy were only visiting, why would he come to the door too, and in his stockinged feet? He looked to be around six years old and was holding a tin spinning top in one hand. The woman, in a stylish, high-waisted dress the color of peaches, stared at her, one manicured hand on the door, waiting to hear what she wanted. The boy stared too.

  “I’m with the Red Cross,” Bernice finally said. “And I’m collecting. . .” Then she suddenly remembered the Red Cross had asked true American women to take in children orphaned by the flu. That had to be why the boy was there. What other explanation could there be? She pulled herself together and gave the woman a warm smile. “I’m sorry. I’m so used to saying the same thing over and over, I nearly forgot what I was here for.”

  “I’ve already made a donation,” the woman said. “And no one is sick in our home, so I’m not sure why you’re here either.”

  Bernice glanced at the mailbox, desperate for a name. GRAHAM, it said, in copper letters. “I assume you’re Mrs. Graham?”

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham. Please forgive me for the confusion. I’ve visited so many houses and have repeated my speech so many times it’s become automatic. But I’m here today to thank you for taking such good care of this unfortunate child who found himself without a home during the flu.”

  Mrs. Graham glanced down at the boy. “Oh,” she said. “Well, it’s been no problem at all. He’s been a delight.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” Bernice said. “I’m glad it’s been going so well. Your help has been very much appreciated. But the main reason I’m here is because I have some very good news. We’ve found a member of the boy’s family, and they’re willing to take him in.”

  Mrs. Graham drew in a sharp breath, placing a hand over her middle as if suddenly ill. “Oh my,” she said. “I see. Well, that is good news. But I have to say it’s a bit of a surprise. I didn’t think it would happen so fast, if at all.” She looked down at the boy again and gave him a warm smile. “Did you hear that, Tobia? You’re going to have a new home soon.” The boy frowned and moved closer to her. When she lifted her gaze and regarded Bernice again, moisture glazed her eyes. “I must ask. Have you met them? This person who claims to be his family?”

  “Of course,” Bernice said. “It’s his great-aunt. She’s perfectly lovely and she’s looking forward to seeing him.”

  “Then why didn’t she come with you?”

  Bernice’s cheeks grew warm. She hadn’t expected to find the boy here, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity. And she thought she’d handled it well. So why was this woman questioning her? Why did she care what happened to a little Jewish boy? “She didn’t come because she lives in New Jersey,” she said. “I’ll be taking him to her by train.”

  “When?” Mrs. Graham said.

  “Why, now, of course,” Bernice said.

  Tears welled on the rims of Mrs. Graham’s eyes, reflecting the light from the late-afternoon sun. “But he’s not ready,” she said. “I’d need time to pack his things and . . .”

  “That’s fine,” Bernice said. “I’ll wait.”

  Mrs. Graham bit her
lip and gazed down at the boy again, blinking back her tears. He watched her with worried eyes. She knelt in front of him and straightened his collar. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We talked about this, remember? That you might have to leave someday? But you’re going to be really brave, remember?”

  The boy nodded, his chin starting to tremble.

  Mrs. Graham hugged him hard, then straightened and regarded Bernice. “I tried to prepare him for this,” she said. “But unfortunately I think I forgot to prepare myself.”

  “I understand,” Bernice said. “These things are never easy. But try to take comfort in the fact that he’ll be better off, you know, with his own... family.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Graham pulled a cotton handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her nose. “Yes, of course. You’re right.” She glanced over her shoulder, as if unsure about what to do next. “He only had the clothes on his back when he came, so I bought him a few new outfits and some books and toys. It should only take a few minutes to get everything together.” Then she turned to Tobia. “Put your on shoes, all right, sweetheart?”

  Tobia nodded again, then gave Mrs. Graham the spinning top and did what he was told.

  When he was finished putting on his shoes, Mrs. Graham took him by the hand. “I’m just going to let him say goodbye to everyone,” she said to Bernice. “Then we’ll be back with his things.” She sniffed and started out of the foyer, Tobia by her side.

  “All right,” Bernice said. “I’ll wait here.”

  When Mrs. Graham and Tobia were gone, she checked her watch. If Mrs. Graham didn’t take too long packing the boy’s things and Bernice hurried, she could make it to the station in time to put Tobia on the train to Virginia.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PIA

  January 1919

  The days following Finn’s arrival at St. Vincent’s were cold and dreary, with sleet or snow every day and every night. The nuns said it was the longest storm they’d seen in years. No one was allowed outside, and the ward windows were coated with thin sheets of ice, making the orphans shiver even harder in their beds. Pia saw Finn only during free time, when she sat cross-legged on the plank floor in a corner of the recreation room, pretending to read or do cross-stitch while he sat a few feet away, drawing or playing solitaire. They spent the entire time whispering back and forth, trying to come up with a plan to escape. Edith glanced at them every now and then from the other side of the room, her face a blank slate. She’d become distant again since Finn’s arrival, and Pia couldn’t blame her. After all, they used to play cards during recess, or sit together reading books while the other girls whispered behind their hands and laughed at them. Now Pia spent all her time talking to Finn. She tried to convince Edith she still wanted to be friends, but she couldn’t tell her the truth—that they were planning a getaway. It was too big a risk. Not that Edith would tell on them—Pia was certain she wouldn’t—but she might ask to come too, and that would only make the planning more complicated. It wasn’t like Pia wanted to leave just to be free. She was doing it for her brothers. Keeping the secret had cost Pia her friendship with Edith and made working together more difficult, but there was no other choice. Hopefully she’d have the chance to explain and say goodbye before she left.