The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman

hands and face, and her eyes had sunken into her skull. Maggots crawled around her swollen mouth and nose. Pia looked away, toward the kitchen, but it was too late. She pulled the scarf down from her face, bent over, and threw up what little she had in her stomach, then dry-heaved until there was nothing left but bile. When she could breathe again without gagging, she wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve, put the scarf back up, and stumbled toward the stove, praying she would find something, anything, to eat.

      Moving dishes and plates out of the way, she searched the shelves for a jar of applesauce or can of beans, trying not to make too much noise. More than anything, she needed to find some Mellin’s Infant Food. Suddenly another wave of dizziness swept over her. She grabbed the shelf to keep from falling and knocked off a flowered teacup. It hit the floor and shattered everywhere, tiny shards of porcelain flying over the hardwood planks. She froze, terrified someone else might be in the apartment, or a neighbor might hear and wonder what was going on. She let go of the shelf and waited, unnerved by the sudden silence.

      A faint groaning came from the other room.

      She turned toward it, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

      Another groan.

      She edged over to the door and peeked around the frame. A man lay on the bed in a fetal position, his face swollen and black, his chest rising and falling in shallow, shuddering breaths. Beside him on the floor, a baby and little girl lay on a pile of soiled blankets, both of them dead. The man locked red, weepy eyes on Pia, then moaned and lifted a blue hand, reaching out with blood-caked fingers. She started to tremble, the urge to run like fire in her chest.

      “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t help you.”

      Seeing the dead family, hopelessness fell over her like a shroud, weighing her down with despair. Tears filled her eyes and her lungs felt heavy, her blood like lead. Part of her wanted to give up and give in, to go home and lay down with Ollie and Max, to let the flu or starvation take them, whichever came first. Because what was the sense in surviving if everyone else was dead?

      The other part of her refused to give up, couldn’t begin to imagine letting her brothers die. She didn’t know what was going to happen to any of them, if and when this nightmare ever came to an end, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t stop fighting. She loved Ollie and Max too much. And how would she face Mutti and Vater again, in heaven or otherwise, if she didn’t try?

      She turned back to the kitchen on watery legs, desperate to find food so she could get out of there. Then she noticed a squat cupboard next to the stove, partly concealed behind a worn paisley curtain. She hurried over to it, fell to her knees, and yanked the curtain aside. A jar of Mellin’s sat on the top shelf, along with a can of black-eyed peas and something wrapped in brown paper. She put the Mellin’s and peas in her coat pocket and tore open the paper. Inside were two slices of bread. She pulled one out, lowered her scarf, and took a bite.

      The crust was stale and hard, but it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She swallowed and took another bite, then did a quick search of the rest of the kitchen. Finding nothing more, she took a wide berth around the dead woman and headed for the front door.

      In the bedroom, the man went on groaning.

      CHAPTER SIX

      BERNICE

      Standing in the hallway outside the Langes’ apartment, Bernice couldn’t decide what to do. The twins were still crying inside, and no one was answering the door. She knocked a third time.

      “Mrs. Lange?” she said again. “Are you in there?”

      Still no answer.

      “It’s Bernice Groves, your neighbor from across the street. I saw your daughter leave the building and wanted to make sure you’re all right.” She hesitated and tried to think of something else to say. Flu or no flu, she was probably the last person Mrs. Lange wanted to see at her door. “I know we’ve had a few cross words between us,” she said, “but at times like this we need to look out for each other.”

      The babies’ wails seemed to grow more frantic.

      Bernice felt like screaming. She had to get inside. Even if it meant breaking down the door. She knocked again, frustration pounding inside her head, then tried the handle. To her astonishment, it turned and the latch clicked open. She gasped, surprised and angry at the same time. What kind of mother leaves an apartment unlocked with two babies inside? Then she remembered Pia was the one who had left the building. Maybe she forgot to use her key. That, at least, would be understandable. She was just a young girl, likely frightened by the horrible things that had been happening. Bernice was a grown woman and she was horrified. And even though they were too young to understand, Pia’s brothers could probably sense something was wrong and were scared too. Thinking of the twins, a flood of maternal instinct surged through her and she pushed the door open and hurried inside.

      The smell of rotting flesh instantly filled her nostrils, making her gag. She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, and looked around the dim apartment. Flour-sack curtains swelled out from a half-open window above a crumpled bed, then blew in again when she closed the door. Baby clothes hung, haphazard and crooked, from clotheslines draped along the ceiling—clothespins clamped to a sleeve here, a leg there, the collar of a nightdress somewhere else. Dirty dishes filled the table, and a washtub full of soiled diapers sat next to the stove. Either Mrs. Lange wasn’t as hardworking and orderly as the rest of the Germans, or Pia had been living there on her own.

      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