The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman

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 were cut up and cooked before maggots crawled on their faces. The gorge rose in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around herself, blinking back tears and trying not to be sick.

      Announcements with black lettering on buildings and telephone poles read: ALL SHOWS AND CHURCHES ARE ORDERED CLOSED TO FIGHT THE EPIDEMIC. CASES IN THE STATE 100,000. STATE AND CITY HEALTH BOARDS MAY TAKE MORE DRASTIC STEPS—COMPLAIN THAT FAILURE OF PHYSICIANS TO REPORT CASES HANDICAPS THEM IN THEIR WORK—DEMAND FOR PHYSICIANS GREATLY EXCEEDS THE SUPPLY.

      Ignoring the screaming voice in her head telling her to turn around and go home, she made her way toward Third Street looking for a sign to point her in the right direction. Every now and then a moving curtain caught her eye, but when she looked up at the window, the curtain dropped back into place. On one hand, she worried someone might try to rob her—not that she had anything worth stealing, but people were desperate. She knew because she was too. On the other hand, seeing moving curtains gave her a small measure of comfort. At least she wasn’t alone. Other people were hiding in their apartments too, trying to survive. She thought about going inside one of the houses to ask for help, but knew she’d likely be turned away. And she needed to stop wasting time in the poor sections of Philadelphia. If she knocked on the right doors in a different part of the city, maybe some rich woman, after hearing her story, would offer a loaf of bread or jar of fruit. Maybe a caring mother would share a tin of cow’s milk or a jar of Mellin’s Infant Food. She prayed someone would, anyway.

      Then she came to Pine Street and slowed. Men with guns guarded what looked like hundreds of homemade coffins stacked outside the fence around the cemetery of St. Peter’s Church. Next to the coffins beneath a row of sycamore trees, haphazard piles of bloody corpses lay beneath dirty sheets and swarms of flies. More men, in masks and filthy clothes, picked up the bodies and carried them into the cemetery, where another group was digging what looked like a massive grave. Some of the men were wearing what looked like prison uniforms, while others were wearing school vests and trousers. Another wave of nausea washed over Pia, making her dizzy. Hoping no one noticed her, she dropped her eyes and kept going.

      When she reached the end of the block it started to rain, a dreary gray drizzle pitting the greasy tops of brown puddles. The wind picked up, carrying with it the chill of the coming winter. She blinked against the cold and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly freezing despite Mutti’s heavy winter coat. She was quickly becoming exhausted too, as if her legs had turned to cement. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that everything she’d been seeing and feeling and doing was starting to wear her out, that trying to stay strong for the boys and refusing to give in to panic was tiring. But how much fear and worry was someone her age supposed to bear? And who was going to take care of her when, or if, this was over? As soon as the thoughts crossed her mind, she scolded herself for being selfish. Finding food for Ollie and Max was all that mattered. Not how she felt. Not how scared she was. Not how much she missed her parents. Only a few more blocks and she’d be nearing South Street, the much-traveled route that, along with the Schuylkill River, claimed to separate the city’s rich from the poor.

      By the time she reached Lombard Street, a thin sheen of sweat had