While the Locust Slept. Peter Razor

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      A private children’s hospital had recovery and isolation wards and an operating room for general surgery, such as removing a child’s tonsils or appendix. The hospital admitted all patients needing bed rest, including those with headaches or minor fevers. Cottages, numbered one to sixteen, separately housed boys and girls who transferred, as they grew, to cottages for older children.

      In the cottages, away from public view, white-uniformed matrons reigned supreme. They lived full-time in apartments in the cottage and were called house mothers by the office. Assistants to the matrons wore colored uniforms specific to their positions and worked twenty-four hours on, then had twenty-four hours off. While on duty, they ate with the children and slept in small private rooms.

      The school is closed now. Little remains but these buildings, and a cemetery at the southwest corner of the former campus. Nearly two hundred children who died of disease, accident, or other causes lie there. Those three years old or younger suffered a higher death rate than the older children—death from general debility or simply wasted away, the records say. Those without family were buried without ceremony. Children died on farm indenture and other placements, too. According to mortality statistics over one ten-year period, as many children died on placement as those on the school grounds.

      State officials disagreed about how the school would affect children. About 1900, one officially recorded his concern: I fear we have created a penal institution for innocent children. But there were few advocates for children then, and their voices were lost in the din of politics. To pacify their critics, state social services declared they would keep a child no longer than three months. It will be a way station for children, until we place them into loving homes, they wrote.

      For the good of the child, a family that had a child taken away lost all rights except visitation. If the child ran away from the institution and returned home, the family was obliged, under penalty of law, to return their son or daughter to the state.

      Families selecting children would review office files and be guided by staff before meeting a child. Adoption and procedures for taking foster children required more than one visit, but I did not meet my farmer before he came to get me. I had no choice, was told nothing of how to act, nor what to expect. In an early discussion about my suitability for farm placement, Miss Borsch said flatly, Peter can take care of himself. Staff commented often how Dale and I ran away at age fourteen, were gone over a week, and that seemed to set the stage to hand us over to farmers.

      Most adoptive couples looked at race, intelligence, character, and their perception of physical perfection. Most farmers were interested in docility and durability. The bottom line of my last physical, which John Schauls would have seen, read, Peter Razor is a sturdy very athletic 15 year old. At the time I was five feet six inches tall and weighed 130 pounds.

      An institutional state ward for fifteen years, I would now be a farm-indentured state ward. The state would not be responsible any more for my room, board, or clothing. Now they would only pay for major medical expenses or burial costs.

      Midwinter 1944 at the State Public School, Dr. Yager, child psychologist at the school, posed a very strange question to me, “Do you think you could call anyone Mother or Father?”

      I mumbled, “I wouldn’t know what to do in a family.”

      “It’s hard to find a family for an Indian boy, and we have no Indian families listed,” Dr. Yager continued. “And you’ve been here a long time.”

      “How long?” I asked, without really caring.

      “Fifteen years,” Dr. Yager replied.

      For the first fourteen years of my life, I knew Dr. Yager only as the one who sat blandly behind a desk pointing at tests with assurances that no matter how I did on them, was all right. I worked the tests at another table while he remained at his desk. Dr. Yager loved climbing into the minds of children. It was more than his job, it was his life. Every child had to be somewhere in his text book or he became obsessed with exposing their peculiarity. He recorded that I was very quiet and, before the age of twelve, basically untestable. He might have suspected that cottage life was at least partially responsible for, what he wrote, my sullen and withdrawn demeanor, but probably knew little of my experiences with a few employees.

      Weeks or a month after Dr. Yager’s strange questions about family life, I was interviewed by Mr. Doleman, a social worker under Superintendent Vevle.

      “You told Dr. Yager that you would not feel comfortable in a regular family,” Mr. Doleman said.

      “Well … I said maybe I didn’t know what it meant to be in a family.”

      “Perhaps that was it,” Mr. Doleman said. “Do you think you would like to work on a farm?”

      “The work might be all right,” I replied, then mumbled, “Heard it was dangerous. Being on a farm, I mean.” Shifting uneasily on my chair, I glanced at documents on the wall, which said collectively that Mr. Doleman was very wise, indeed. I knew he stared at me, into me, and, uneasy, I looked around at the floor.

      After a long silence, Mr. Doleman spoke, sounding like a preacher, “Everyone has to work for a living.”

      “A guy died on a farm last year, they said,” I persisted. “The farmer beat him up or something.” When stubborn, I pursed my mouth while staring at the floor near my shoes.

      Mr. Doleman straightened in his chair. “You don’t know that for sure,” he said. He leaned back, slowly tapping his fingertips together in front of his face. “Unfortunate things might have happened in the past, but we watch things today.” He seemed mildly irked.

      Who watched Kruger and Beaty or Monson? I wanted to ask, but instead I mumbled, “Do I have to go to a farm?”

      “Please understand … if you’re not placed soon … well, you have to go somewhere.” Mr. Doleman spoke softly, but I heard his threat.

      “Why couldn’t I go to relatives up north?” I asked. I squinted at the floor near my shoes. “If I can work for a farmer, I can work for relatives, can’t I … or myself?”

      “You’re not old enough to be on your own,” Mr. Doleman insisted. “Can’t you see? If I remember correctly, you were quite run down and filthy when I picked you up in St. Paul. Miss Klein”—the C-16 assistant—“also mentioned how terrible you and Dale looked.”

      Shrugging, I whispered almost to myself, “You made me come back.” Then louder, “The State School, I mean.”

      Mr. Doleman pushed away from his desk. “We’ll talk again,” he said with a sigh of disappointment. “You may return to Cottage Sixteen.”

      Called to the office in early July, I was ushered before Miss Borsch for the first time. She was young and vivacious, smiled nonstop, and her eyes were warm friendly things. Mr. Doleman had called up the big guns. Having no experience with girls or doting women, I’d be a pushover.

      “Good morning, Peter. My, isn’t the weather simply grand?” Miss Borsch breathed. Her right arm was elevated toward the window, her upturned palm sagged off the wrist with two fingers languidly extended. I watched her hand and reeled from her brilliant smile.

      “How have you been?” Her charm was in full gallop.

      “All right, СКАЧАТЬ