The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman

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СКАЧАТЬ she closed her eyes, held her breath, and waved the smoke toward her hair and dress, covering herself in the smell. Then she put the cigar down and pulled the diapers and rags out from underneath the bedroom door. She hadn’t been in there in days—how many she wasn’t sure—but the stench was worse than ever, even on this side of the door.

      On shaking legs, she took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the floor, then rushed into the bedroom, hurried past the bed, and knelt in front of the cubby. She opened the door and took the money out from under the loose floorboard, then examined the walls, floor, and ceiling of the cubby for splinters or nails. The wood was smooth and sliver-free. Her lungs felt ready to burst, so she exhaled, put her hands over her nose and mouth, and, trying not to gag, took another deep breath. Then she got up to rummage in the closet for Mutti’s winter coat, which would hang on her like a tent—it was too big on Mutti—but had deep pockets to carry food. When she found the coat, she held part of it over her nose and mouth and, powerless to stop herself, turned to look at the bed. Mutti’s body had deflated, the bloat mostly gone. Bloody green blotches covered her skin, and her tongue protruded from her yawning mouth.

      Bile surged in the back of Pia’s throat and she ran out of the room, shut the door, and put the diapers and rags back under it, gagging and trying not to throw up. Now she understood why people were putting their loved ones out on the street. She laid the coat over a chair and wiped her arm across her mouth, trying to control her roiling stomach. Sweat broke out on her forehead. When she could breathe again without gagging, she pulled the money from her pocket and counted it. Three dollars. More than likely the markets and vendor stands were closed too, and the nearest one was ten blocks away anyway, but maybe she could buy food from one of her neighbors.

      Trying not to wake the twins, she pulled two grocery sacks from a wicker basket beneath the table and put them in the coat pockets. Then she took the pillow from her bed, picked up the boys’ rattles and bottles, and stood looking at Ollie and Max, dreading what she had to do next. Just the thought of it nauseated her. She took Mutti’s red scarf from the hook next to the front door, held it over the burning cigar for a minute, then tied it over her nose and mouth. It wasn’t perfect, but it would help.

      She held the pillow in the cigar smoke too, then took a deep breath, went back into the bedroom, and put it on the floor of the cubby, pushing it down along the edges and the corners to make a soft bed. After leaving the bottles and rattles on the pillow, she went to get the boys, trying to decide which one to move first. Max slept more soundly, but Ollie usually slept longer.

      Moving slowly, she swaddled Ollie’s blanket around him, lifted him from the bed, lowered the scarf from over her mouth, and lightly kissed his tiny, soft head. He squirmed and started to wake, then whimpered and went back to sleep, snuggling against her chest. She carried him into the bedroom and carefully laid him on the pillow inside the cubby.

      “Damn it,” she whispered.

      He took up more room than she’d thought. Maybe the twins wouldn’t fit in there together. For a second, she wavered, but then her stomach cramped again and she knew. She had to do it. A few hours of discomfort was better than letting her brothers starve to death.

      Moving as fast as she could without running, she tiptoed back into the other room and picked up Max. His legs were pedaling and he was starting to wake. She swaddled him tighter in his blanket, kissed his forehead, and rocked him back and forth, humming softly. After a few moments, he quieted and went back to sleep. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way she could put the boys in the cubby if they were awake. She just couldn’t. It would be too hard.

      She pulled her blanket off the bed and took Max into the bedroom, relieved to find Ollie still asleep. She knelt and laid Max beside him, placing them back-to-back. Ollie squirmed and she reached in and patted his side, holding her breath and praying he wouldn’t wake up. Finally, he put his thumb in his mouth and settled. She took her arm out of the cubby, put her hand on the door, and stared into the gloomy space, tears blurring her vision.

      “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I promise, I’ll be right back.” She started closing the door, watching the twins until the last second. “Just keep sleeping and you’ll never even know I was gone.” Then the latch clicked shut and she sat frozen on her knees, her heart thumping in her chest, waiting to see what would happen. If one of the boys woke up, she wasn’t sure what she would do. But no crying came from inside the cubby, no whimpering or wailing or panicked shrieks. Ollie and Max were still sleeping. They would be all right. They had to be.

      With tears streaming down her face, she stood and looked at her mother on the bed, praying she’d understand why she had to do this. Surely Mutti would’ve done the same thing if it meant life or death for her children.

      “I’ll be back,” Pia whispered. “I promise. Keep them safe for me.”

      Swallowing her sobs, she bit her lip and rushed out of the bedroom. She had to leave before she changed her mind. Not only because she felt terrible about putting her brothers in the cubby, but also because she was scared—terrified really—of what she might find outside their safe rooms, where everyone seemed to be dead or dying. She took off the scarf, then realized she needed a mask, like the ones the policemen and other people had been wearing the day the schools and churches closed, and retied the scarf around her nose and mouth. It would have to do. She put on her mother’s oversize coat, thrust her arms into the wool sleeves, and tied the belt around her waist. The bottom hem hung to her ankles and the sleeves hung past her wrists, but between its large pockets and the grocery sacks, she’d be able to carry home plenty of food. She went to the front door and started to turn the knob. Then she heard it.

      A baby’s soft cry.

      She stared at the bedroom door, trying not to breathe. The only thing she heard was the sound of her blood rushing through her veins and her pulse slamming inside her temples. Maybe she had imagined it. Then the cry grew louder. Pia cringed. It sounded like Ollie. Tears flooded her eyes and her heart thrashed in her chest. She yanked open the door and ran out of the apartment.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      BERNICE

      Keeping an eye on the front door of the row house next to the Langes’, Bernice watched to see if Pia would come back out. If she’d gone to a neighbor’s to pick up something, more than likely she’d be quick about it. But what could possibly be important enough for Pia to leave the safety of her home? And if it was something for the babies, how could Mrs. Lange think it was acceptable to risk one child’s life for another? Bernice wondered again if Mrs. Lange was dead. And if so, who was taking care of those precious twin boys?

      After what felt like forever, Pia was nowhere to be seen. Bernice couldn’t take it any longer. She had to know why Pia left and, most of all, if the twins were all right. She just had to. Without giving it another thought, she spun around, grabbed her coat, and hurried out of the apartment.

      Squinting in the dank hallway, she walked as fast as she could without running. The aroma of fried onions filled the dim corridor, along with an underlying stench of something that reminded her of rotten meat. She nearly tripped over a rusted bucket, then gave a wide berth to a lumpy seed sack crumpled against one wall. It was tied shut at one end and covered in maggots and flies. She couldn’t imagine what was inside. Two black ribbons hung from the door handle of the apartment at the top of the stairs, the rooms that belonged to the widow, Mrs. Duffy, and her sons.

      That’s what you get for being a know-nothing drunkard, she thought. You should have stuck with your own kind, instead of coming here to cause trouble with the rest of the bog-jumpers. Her thoughts were unchristian, but she didn’t care. Mrs. Duffy was lazy and trying. She let her sons yell out the windows, and she sang loud, strange СКАЧАТЬ