The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman

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СКАЧАТЬ the sound of a woman sobbing floated down from an open window.

      Finn glanced up at the window, then gazed at her, his forehead furrowed. Clearly he was wondering the same thing. Had the flu already reached Shunk Alley? He opened his mouth to say something when his mother yelled down from the fire escape outside their apartment.

      “Finn, come quick! It’s yer brother!”

      He shot Pia a worried look, then turned to leave. “I’ll see ye later, lass,” he said over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, all right?”

      Before she could respond, he sprinted across the street and went inside. She fixed her eyes on the door after it closed, shivering. His parting words felt weighed down with apprehension and misery, like an omen or a warning. Would she ever see him again? Dread fell over her shoulders like a heavy blanket. She suddenly wished she had told him what happened with Tommy Costa and Mary Helen, how she had felt something strange when they touched her. He couldn’t have done anything to help, but maybe sharing her secret would have made her feel less alone.

      Behind her, someone called her name. She jumped and spun around, almost dropping her books. Mutti stood in the open doorway of their building, scrubbing a calloused hand on her apron, the telltale sign that she was worried. Pia had seen her do it a thousand times—every day when Vater left to work in the mines; when the Black Maria came into the village carrying the injured and dead after a mining accident; when Vater said they were moving to Philadelphia; when she thought she might miscarry the twins the same way she’d miscarried three other babies; when Vater left for the war.

      “Hurry, Pia,” Mutti said, gesturing frantically. “Come inside.”

      Pia’s heart skipped a beat. Had something happened to Vater? Or the twins? No. That wasn’t it. Fear darkened her mother’s eyes, not sorrow.

      “What is it?” Pia said, running up the steps and hurrying inside. “What’s wrong?”

      Mutti closed the door behind her, giving it a little extra push after it was shut, as if trying to keep something from slipping inside. “The churches and schools are to be closed,” she said. “All places for gathering, even the factories and moving picture houses, will not be open. No funerals are to be allowed either. Many people are getting sick, so everyone is to stay home.” She moved across the dim foyer, scrubbing her hand on her apron. Pia followed.

      “How do you know everything is being closed?” Pia said. “Who told you?” They didn’t own a radio and hadn’t gotten the newspaper since Vater left because Mutti couldn’t read.

      “Frau Metzger heard it at the butcher shop,” Mutti said. “And Mrs. Schmidt heard it on the radio.” She stopped and pointed toward the front door, her face a curious mixture of anger and fear. “Those mothers still letting their children outside? They are Verruckt!” She spun her finger near her temple. “You must stay inside until this is over, you understand?”

      Pia nodded and put a finger to her lips.

      “What?” Mutti said. “Why are you shushing me?”

      “You were speaking German,” Pia whispered.

      Mutti gasped and put a hand over her mouth. Then she glanced at Pia’s neck and her eyes went wide. “Where is your garlic?”

      Pia felt for the rank necklace, only then remembering she had taken it off and laid it on the grass during recess, like she’d done the day before when Mary Helen came over to pick a fight. “I must have lost it,” she said.

      “You must be more careful, Pia,” Mutti said. “Mrs. Schmidt was very kind to give us the garlic and I have no more.”

      “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

      Mutti threw her hands up in exasperation, then started down the hall toward the back of the building. “Come help with the water, bitte,” she said, too upset to realize she was speaking German again. “The twins will wake up again soon.”

      Pia followed her mother down the hall, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the deepening gloom. Except for the front apartments on each floor, which had the only windows in the building, the hallways and the rest of the rooms were shrouded in darkness, even in the middle of the day. She tried not to think about their little shack back in Hazleton, with windows on three walls to let in the sunshine and mountain breezes. Thankfully, though, her family lived in one of the front apartments, with a window in the main room to let in natural light. She couldn’t imagine what it was like living in the back and middle of the row house, where the only light came from candles or lanterns. Not to mention no fresh air to ward off the flu. With that thought, frightening images formed in her mind of the people in the back apartments, sick and dying in the dark, where no one would find them for days.

      Clenching her jaw, she pushed the gruesome thoughts away and followed Mutti through the back door and outside, into the fenced backyard that housed the water pump and outhouse. Mutti picked up one of two buckets and put it beneath the cast-iron spout. Pia set her books on the back step and pumped the handle, grateful to be getting water now instead of being sent to fetch it after supper. She hated coming down to the backyard alone, especially to use the outhouse. Sharing outhouses and water pumps with other families was nothing new—they had done it in the mining village—but the fences and closeness of the surrounding buildings made her feel like a pig in a pen, vulnerable to whomever else was in there at the same time. Like Mrs. Nagy, who kept asking questions in Hungarian, then stared at her waiting for an answer, as if Pia could speak the language. And especially old Mr. Hill, who rattled the outhouse handle when it was occupied and started pulling down his pants before shutting the door when it was his turn. Sometimes he talked to her until she came out of the outhouse, then grinned like they were best friends. He always shook his head and chuckled, making excuses about being old and senile, but she could see the cunning in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing.

      When they finished filling the two buckets, Pia picked up her books and helped Mutti carry the water inside, down the shadowy hallway and up the narrow stairs, their hard-soled shoes crunching on dirt and plaster. What seemed like a hundred thick odors layered the floors of the row house—boiled cabbage, fried potatoes, warm curry, simmered tomatoes, sautéed sausage, roasted garlic, baked bread—each one more fragrant than the one before. Despite her fear and unease, Pia’s stomach growled with hunger. It had been over six hours since her breakfast of rye bread and hot tea, and there hadn’t been enough food to pack a lunch.

      On the third floor, Mrs. Ferrelli was outside her door, tying a piece of black crepe to the handle, her face red, her cheeks wet with tears. Dark streaks and maroon blotches stained the front of her yellow dress, striping the swell of her pregnant belly.

      No, Pia thought. Not Mr. Ferrelli. He was too young and too strong, a broad-shouldered brick mason who filled the halls with laughter and had been hoping to see the birth of his first child before reporting for the draft. Not to mention he and his wife were one of their few English-speaking neighbors who weren’t afraid to be friends with Germans. How could the flu kill someone like him?

      Mutti came to a halt and Pia stopped beside her, not knowing what to do or say. The bucket handle dug into her fingers. She felt awful for Mrs. Ferrelli and her baby, but more than anything, she wanted to keep going, to get to the safety of their rooms.

      “I’m very sorry for you,” Mutti said.

      “I’m sorry too,” Pia said.

      Mrs. Ferrelli murmured a quiet thank you.

      “Was СКАЧАТЬ