The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman

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      And somehow, even though she was inside the apartment now, the babies’ cries still sounded distant and muffled, like they were coming from somewhere else. Had she broken into the wrong place? She held her breath and listened, unable to tell now if it was one baby or two. Maybe it was a neighbor’s baby and she’d imagined the entire thing. Then she noticed the diapers and rags stuffed under the door to the other room, and her heart sank.

      No. God. Please. Not the twins.

      She moved toward the door, her stomach twisting. She clenched her jaw, turned the handle, and slowly pushed the door open.

      A weak shaft of light revealed a plank wall and two framed black-and-white photographs above a leaning dresser. The photographs were of Mr. and Mrs. Lange, smiling on their wedding day, him in a dark suit and her in a lace veil and simple white gown. Bernice held her breath and edged inside, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. What was left of Mrs. Lange lay on the bed, a gray blanket pulled up to her chin, a blood-spattered pillow beneath her head. Flies and maggots crawled on her eyes and in her nostrils. Bernice gasped and looked away, then forced herself to look again, to see if the twins lay beside her. A half circle of paper flowers surrounded Mrs. Lange’s hair, and something that looked like baby powder covered the blanket and pillow. But no dead boys lay with her. No infant corpses with their eyes swollen shut. She scanned the cramped space to see if the twins were in the bedroom at all. Somewhere, the babies went on crying.

      The idea that she was hearing things crossed her mind, and she considered for a brief moment that she had gone insane. Her headache pounded with every beat of her heart, as if there were a sledgehammer inside her brain. She glanced at Mrs. Lange again. Did she hear the cries too? Did she, as she lay lost in death, hear her sons calling out for her, desperate for her loving arms and milky breasts? Was her poor soul being tortured, unable to understand why she couldn’t see or find her boys? Maybe her ghost was in this room, feeling helpless and confused and lost, searching frantically for her babies.

      Bernice swayed on watery legs. She knew exactly how Mrs. Lange felt. But for the first time, she was grateful Wallis had left this earth before her. If she had died first, there would have been no one to look after him, no one to love him like she did. And he might have starved in their rooms all alone. Then she had another thought. Maybe the twins really were dead and she was hearing their ghosts. Or maybe the agony of losing Wallis had driven her over the edge. She shook her head. No, the cries were real. She was certain of it. If the boys had passed, they would have been in this room, in bed with their mother. She squinted at the mattress again, studying the blanket. It lay flat on both sides of Mrs. Lange’s corpse. Nothing moved beneath it. She went to the open closet, her hand over her mouth and nose, and reached blindly between worn sweaters, dresses, trousers, and a ratty jacket. She knelt to search the bottom of the closet. A pair of women’s boots sat on the floor, and two hatboxes leaned against the back wall. Finding nothing there, she peered under the bed frame. No babies lay crying and squirming beneath the mattress. No hungry boys in diapers and cotton bonnets gazed back with frightened eyes. Still on her knees, she looked under the dresser, under the washstand, under the legs of a chair. Then she saw it.

      A small, squat door between the bed and closet.

      The door was the same dark color as the walls, except for the small, round doorknob and latch, which were painted red. Bernice scrambled over to it on her hands and knees, grabbed the doorknob with shaking fingers, and yanked it open. If she had been standing when she saw what was inside, she would have sunk to the floor in disbelief.

      One of the twins lay on top of a blanket and pillow, howling and kicking and shaking his tiny fists. The other was wedged in a corner, half sitting, half lying down, his red face wet with tears. Both wore long-sleeved nightdresses, sweaters, bonnets, and booties. Two bottles lay leaking on the blanket beside two wooden rattles. Bernice pulled out the first baby and hugged him to her chest.

      “Oh my God,” she cried. “Oh my God. You poor things.”

      The baby whimpered and shuddered against her, his crying momentarily quieted. His skin felt clammy, and his diaper felt heavy and wet, the stench of it filling her nose. With her free hand, she reached in for the other twin. She didn’t want to put the first one down, but couldn’t get enough leverage to bring the other one out without hurting him. Trying not to panic, she wiped her flooding eyes so she could see better, then gently tugged the blanket out from beneath his bottom, quickly wrapped it around the first baby, and laid him on the floor. As soon as she reached in with both hands for the second twin, the first one started howling again.

      “Shhh,” she said. “Don’t cry. I’m right here.”

      With the second baby safely out of the cubby, she scooped the first one into her arms and stood on wobbly legs, both boys clutched to her chest. They whimpered and cried, exhausted and trembling, while she quaked with rage, unable to grasp how Pia could do such a horrible thing. And to her own brothers, no less! She knew people had abandoned sick family members during the epidemic because they didn’t know what else to do, but other than being hungry and dirty and scared, the twins looked fairly healthy, considering what they’d endured. Leaving them alone was unforgivable. Apparently what everyone said about Germans being heartless was true.

      She bounced the boys gently up and down, holding them close to her chest. “There, there,” she said, her voice quivering. “No need to cry. You’re all right now. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      PIA

      After discovering two more corpses in the row house next door, and more apartments either locked or occupied by people who told her to go away or refused to answer, Pia decided to try more prosperous neighborhoods, where people had extra to begin with. Maybe she’d discover an open market or street peddler along the way. One thing was certain—leaving her brothers was torture and she didn’t want to do it again until absolutely necessary. She needed to find enough food to last until Vater came home or this nightmare was over. If it was ever over. And the food she’d found so far—the jar of Mellin’s, a can of black-eyed peas, and two slices of bread—wasn’t nearly enough. As much as she dreaded wandering farther away from home, she wouldn’t find what she was looking for among the poorest of the poor.

      After leaving Shunk Alley, she moved west on Delancey, then turned north, walking fast. No motorcars or wagons traveled along the cobblestones. No one walked along the sidewalks. A trolley rattled by, but only a few masked passengers rode in the seats, sitting far away from one another. The feeling that she and her brothers were some of the last people alive in the city grew stronger with every step. Normally the thoroughfares were so crowded she couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into shoppers or children or businessmen or bicyclists. Now crepe ribbons hung from doors, silent and swirling in the morning breeze, and sheet-wrapped corpses lay outside what seemed like every other building. The only sounds were her shoes on the cobblestones and the tinny voice of a radio somewhere, floating out into the empty streets. The farther she walked, the harder a cold slab of fear pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

      She’d planned on staying on the sidewalks, close to front doors and banisters in case she needed to hide—from whom, she wasn’t sure—but the stench of dead bodies was unbearable. Instead she walked in the middle of the road, trying not to think about what was under the bloody sheets, or Mutti, or the blond woman with maggots on her face. She tried not to think about the fact that only days ago those people had been watching a grand parade, celebrating and having fun with their spouses and children and friends, unaware that death was waiting right around the corner. Now they were covered with flies and rotting on the sidewalk, like the fish sold at the seaport, and the dead pigs hanging behind the butcher’s shop. At least the fish were on ice. And the pigs СКАЧАТЬ