May God forgive you for what you’ve done.
Pia dropped the note. The room spun and she swayed and started to crumble. The woman took her by the elbow and backed her toward a chair. Reaching blindly for the seat, Pia lowered herself into it. She leaned forward and put her head in her hands, struggling to make sense of it all. Someone had found Ollie and Max. But who? And when? Before it was too late? Or after? One thing was certain, it wasn’t the strangers who had taken over her family’s apartment. It was someone who spoke English.
The woman cleared her throat, and Pia took her hands away from her face. The woman picked up the note, pointed at the bedroom and the note, over and over again.
Pia nodded. “You found it in the cubby,” she said. “Yes. I know.”
The woman smiled and tried to say more, using small words and gesturing, but Pia still didn’t understand.
Pia made a writing motion, then lifted her hands, palms up, and shrugged. “But who wrote it?”
The woman frowned and shook her head. Pia had no idea if she understood.
She stood and headed toward the front door, one hand on the wall to keep from collapsing. The woman followed, shaking the note and saying something incomprehensible. Pia stopped and looked around at what used to be her home. It all seemed like a bad dream. Her home was gone. Her family was gone. And she had no idea how to find Ollie and Max, or if they were even alive. She didn’t know where to go or what she would do when she walked out the door, but one way or another, she had to find out what happened to her brothers.
Then she had an idea. She pointed at the note in the woman’s hand and made a writing motion. The woman furrowed her brow again. Pia pointed at herself and made the writing motion again. The woman smiled, held up a finger, went to the shelves beside the stove, and rummaged around behind a nutmeg-colored creamer and matching sugar bowl. When she found what she was looking for, she went back to Pia and handed her a stubby pencil. Pia took it and wrote on the back of the note.
Dear Vater, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mutti passed away from the flu. I tried to take care of Ollie and Max, but I got sick too. I’m looking for them now. Please wait for me. I’ll be back, I promise. Love, Pia
After handing the paper and pencil back to the woman, she patted her heart and held her hand above her head to indicate someone tall. Then she pointed at the note and pretended to give it to someone. She repeated the gestures again, hoping the woman would understand. Finally, the woman nodded. But then she held up a finger again, as if telling Pia to wait. Pia had no idea why but did as she was asked.
The woman went over to a wicker basket at the foot of the bed, removed something from it, returned to Pia, and held it out. Pia gasped.
It was a homemade rattle.
Pia took it and examined the handle. On the bottom was a perfectly carved O.
A burning lump formed in her throat. “This was Ollie’s,” she said, her voice high and tight. “Where did you find it?” She pointed toward the bedroom. “In the cubby?”
The woman nodded.
“Only one?” Pia said. She pointed at the rattle and held up one finger, then did it again and held up two.
The woman held up one finger and nodded.
Pia clasped the rattle to her chest, a fresh flood of tears filling her eyes. Was the rattle left behind by mistake, or because it didn’t matter?
The woman gave her a sad smile, her head tilted to one side. Then she pretended to eat something and gestured toward the stove.
Pia shook her head. “Thank you,” she said. “But I have to go.” She started toward the door, but the woman rushed over to the stove, grabbed something from a cast-iron pan, and brought it back to her. It looked like a miniature loaf of bread, folded over, the edges pinched together. Pia wasn’t sure she could eat anything, but she was feeling weaker by the minute. She couldn’t collapse again. Maybe a little food would help her feel better. Trying to smile to show her gratitude, she took the bread. It was warm and crusty, topped with pepper and dark seeds. She took a bite and her mouth watered for more. Ground meat, spices, and some kind of cheese filled the inside. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything so delicious.
“It’s wonderful,” Pia said. “Thank you.”
The woman clasped her hands together and raised her chin proudly. “Pogaca,” she said.
While Pia ate the meat-filled bun, the woman brought her a mug of warm tea. Pia took several sips, then drank it down. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, her mouth and throat parched. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. But I really need to go. Please give the note to my father if he comes here.”
The woman smiled and nodded, and Pia went out the door, closing it behind her.
Out in the hall, she took a deep breath, leaned against the wall, and tried to think logically. First, she’d check with the neighbors to see if anyone had found Ollie and Max, or if they knew what happened. She’d stop at every apartment in every building on Shunk Alley if she had to, until she found out the truth. If she could get people to talk to her.
With the rattle clenched in her fist, she went to the neighbor’s door, knocked, and waited, chewing on her lip. When no one answered, she knocked again, harder this time.
“Mrs. Anderson?” she shouted. “It’s me, Pia Lange. Please answer. I need help.” Tilting her head toward the door, she listened for movement and voices. No sounds came from the other side.
Maybe Mrs. Anderson and her daughters and cousins were dead too. Maybe some other family had already taken over their apartment. She raised her hand to knock again when she heard footsteps running up the stairs. Praying it was someone she knew, or Vater returning home at long last, she ran to the stairwell and looked over the railing. Then she gasped and stepped back, a cold twist of panic tightening in her chest.
It was Miss O’Malley and the driver.
CHAPTER TEN
PIA
Struggling to break free of the rope binding her wrists to the sideboard, Pia sat cross-legged in the back of Miss O’Malley’s wagon, the wooden wheels banging along the cobblestones, the splintered bed bouncing and shuddering, throwing her this way and that. The setting sun cast long shadows of buildings and lampposts across the empty thoroughfares and turned alleys into dark tunnels. Here and there, curtains pulled to one side, pale faces looked out, and the curtains dropped again. Pia shouted for help as loudly as she could, but Miss O’Malley hit her with a riding crop and told her to shut up.
With every passing mile, Pia berated herself for being so careless. If only she’d taken a minute to see who was coming up the stairs, instead of assuming it was someone she knew. If only she’d been more vigilant and not shouted at Mrs. Anderson’s door, she might have gotten away. When Miss O’Malley and the driver rushed up the steps and cornered her in the hallway, she’d kicked and screamed and fought back like a wild animal, but it was no use. The driver was too strong. The scraggly bearded Hungarian in her family’s apartment looked out to see what the commotion was, but the driver threatened him with a balled fist and he closed the door. She tried to jab the driver in the face with the rattle, but Miss O’Malley ripped it from her grasp, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it with one heel, fracturing the wood and breaking the twine. The bells fell off and scattered along the hall like marbles, jingling as they rolled. Pia cried out and tried to pick up the broken rattle, but the driver grabbed her again and put a sweaty hand over her mouth. Then he dragged her down the stairs, threw her in the back of the wagon, and tied her wrists to the sideboard.
Now there was nothing she could do but try to escape again. And apologize to the twins over and over in her head.
When two masked policemen appeared on a corner, she got up on her knees and yelled for help. Miss O’Malley whacked her with the riding crop and told her to be still. One of the policemen stepped into the street and raised a gloved hand. The driver pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon while Miss O’Malley cursed under her breath. The police
men came around the horse to talk to them, one eyeing Pia with concern.
“What’s going on?” he said to Miss O’Malley. “Who’s the girl?”
“Please,” Pia shouted. “You have to help me!”
“Shut your bloody pie hole,” Miss O’Malley hissed at her. Then to the policeman, she said, “The sisters at St. Peter’s hired us to take her to St. Vincent’s Orphan Asylum. As you can tell by her hollerin’, she ain’t keen on the idea.”
“I’m not an orphan,” Pia shouted. “My father is looking for me and my brothers.”
One of the policemen held up a hand to quiet her, his eyes on Miss O’Malley. “Do you know where her father is?” he said.
“He’s a soldier,” Pia yelled.
“Well, if the nuns knew the answer to that, Officer,” Miss O’Malley said, “I’d imagine they’d send her to him instead of an orphanage. He could be off on a bender for all I know.”
“Shouldn’t she be wearing a mask?” the second policeman said.
“She already had the grippe,” Miss O’Malley said. “That’s why she was at St. Peter’s.”
“And while I was sick my father came back from the war,” Pia shouted. “The nuns didn’t even try to find him. They just sent me away.”
“Is that true?” the policeman said.
“Now, Officer,” Miss O’Malley said. “Who are you inclined to believe? The good nuns at St. Peter’s, or this wretched waif? I’m sure the sisters did the best they could. They were running out of room at the parish and they knew you didn’t need another street urchin on your hands.”
The policemen looked at each other and one of them shrugged. The one who had stopped the wagon addressed Pia. “Seems to me you’ll be better off letting the nuns do what they think is best, darlin’,” he said. “You’re lucky you’ve got people willing to look after you.”
She shook her head furiously. “No,” she cried. “You can’t let them take me. Please! I have to get back to my brothers! They’re just babies. They need me.”
“I’m sure someone’s taking good care of them too,” the policeman said. Then he patted the wagon and waved the driver on. “On your way.”
“No,” Pia cried. “Please. You have to help me!” She yanked on the ropes with all her might, trying to break free. It was no use.
The policemen started walking away. The driver slapped the reins across the horse’s back and the wagon jerked forward, throwing her off balance. Her wrists twisted inside the rope and she fell back; her forearms felt wrenched from her elbows. Lying crumpled on her side, tears of frustration and pain filled her eyes. But she struggled upright again. She needed to pay attention to where they were going, needed to remember the names of streets and memorize buildings and other landmarks. That way, when she escaped the orphanage, she’d be able to find her way home.
After what seemed like forever, they reached the less populated area of the city and turned down what looked like a deserted country road. Eventually the wagon slowed, then traveled alongside a high iron fence topped with spear-shaped finials and copper ball caps. A brick four-story building with a bell tower and extensive wings sat inside the fence, centered in a vast yard lined with pine trees and willows. The driver steered the horse and wagon through the gate and up the long driveway. The building looked like a mansion at first, until they drew closer and the peeling window frames and broken porch spindles came into view. Lights came on behind the curtainless windows, and short figures moved behind the glass. When the wagon reached the sidewalk to the front entrance, the driver stopped the horse and secured the reins, then jumped out to help Miss O’Malley climb down.
Despair and anger twisted in Pia’s stomach, and she started to tremble. “Please,” she said. “You can’t leave me here.”
Miss O’Malley ignored her and marched up the steps. The driver untied Pia and waited for her to get down from the wagon, then grabbed her arm and dragged her up the sidewalk. Swallowing the sour taste of fear in the back of her throat, she rubbed her sore wrists and looked up at the orphanage. The pale faces of children drew close to the windows and peered out. Tall figures in black shooed them away from the glass, herding them backwards into the rooms. The front door opened and a nun appeared on the porch, her pale, wiry hands clasped in front of her habit, a heavy-looking cross dangling from a thick rosary around her waist. She peered at Pia over the top of round glasses, then addressed Miss O’Malley.
“Have you come from St. Peter’s?” she said.
“We have,” Miss O’Malley said.
“And you’re positive this girl is no longer ill?”
Miss O’Malley shrugged. “That’s what they said.”
“Well, the good Lord knows we’ve had our share of the grippe here at St. Vincent’s. We can’t afford to take on any more sick children.” The nun turned to Pia. “How are you feeling, child?” A thin smile stretched across her face, but her watery blue eyes seemed wary and cold.
“I’m fine, ma’am,” Pia said. “But I shouldn’t be here. I—”
“My name is Mother Josephina,” the nun said. “You can call me Mother Joe. And you are here. So God had a reason to send you to us. Our job at St. Vincent’s is to shelter those in need, not to understand the reason behind that need. The sisters at St. Peter’s have sent you here and that’s that. Now behave yourself and don’t complain.” She directed her attention back to Miss O’Malley. “Thank you for delivering her. You’re free to go.” Then she turned, opened the door, and held it for Pia.
Miss O’Malley shooed Pia forward, irritation pinching her face. Pia stood rooted to the landing. Maybe she should make a run for it. Certainly she could outrun Mother Joe, and maybe Miss O’Malley, but the driver would catch her again. Besides, even if she could get away, where would she go? She had no home. No family. No money.
Miss O’Malley jabbed a finger in her back. “It’s better than I had at yer age,” she snarled, “Now get moving.”
Pia shot her a bitter look, then gritted her teeth, stepped across the threshold, and entered the orphanage. Mother Joe started to close the door behind her, but Miss O’Malley put a hand out to stop it.
“Mother Joe?” she said. “I have a need to speak to you real quick, if I could.”
“What is it?” Mother Joe said.
Miss O’Malley eyed Pia. “I have a message from one of the sisters at St. Peter’s.”
“Excuse us for a moment,” Mother Joe said to Pia, turning her head to indicate she should move away.
Pia did as she was told, taking several steps into the high-ceilinged foyer. Mother Joe leaned out the door and closed it partway. Pia strained to hear what they were saying but couldn’t make out the words. She looked around for a way out, but there were only two other doors, both of which looked like they went farther into the building. The smell of boiled potatoes and warm wood filled the air, along with a hint of smoldering incense and burnt matches. A gold-framed painting of Jesus surrounded by children hung between gas candelabras on one flocked wall, along with crosses and other religious paintings.
After Mother Joe finished talking with Miss O’Malley, she closed the door and led Pia across the foyer, her shoes clacking along the hardwood floor. When they reached the other side, she pulled an iron key ring out from beneath her scapular and unlocked one of the doors. Then she lit one of several oil lanterns on an end table and picked it up.
“Excuse me, Mother Joe?” Pia said.
Mother Joe raised an eyebrow at her, as if surprised she’d spoken. “What is it?”
“May I ask what Miss O’Malley said to you? Did it have anything to do with me?”
Mother Joe frowned. “You may ask,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll tell you. It was official business, that’s all you need to know.”
Pia nodded and dropped her eyes to the floor. Annoying Mother Joe seemed like a bad idea.
Holding the lantern in one hand, Mother Joe opened the door and stepped over the high threshold, leading Pia into a murky corr
idor that smelled of urine and bleach. At the end of the corridor they turned down a narrow hallway, past rooms filled with rows of identical iron beds, the flickering lantern light revealing nothing but shadows inside. The place felt deserted, the air heavy, the silence as thick as a blanket. When they reached the end of a third hallway, Mother Joe opened a double door that led outside to a set of stone steps and a fenced yard.
A swing set, slide, and roundabout stood in the center of the lawn under the pink evening sky, empty except for scatterings of dry leaves and broken twigs. No orphans played on the playground. No children laughed or screeched or dashed about. Instead they sat cross-legged on the brown grass or walked the fence in quiet groups. A cluster of what looked like four- and five-year-olds sat on steps leading into another wing of the building, polishing what looked like hundreds of shoes. Other children stood around them in their socks and bare feet, waiting, all of them in ragged clothes that seemed either too big or too small. No one wore a jacket or scarf.
“Supper is in half an hour,” Mother Joe said to Pia. “The sisters will come get you.” Then she left her there.
Standing on the steps, Pia scanned the playground, hoping against hope to see Ollie and Max. Maybe whoever found them had brought them to this orphanage. Maybe it was a good thing Miss O’Malley had caught her. But to her dismay, all the children were older than the twins, the youngest being around two or three. Several of the bigger ones turned to look at her, no doubt wondering who she was, then turned back to the others. She sat down on the steps, blinking back tears, the cold stone seeping through her thin dress. The chances of her and her brothers being taken to the same orphanage were practically nonexistent. And she was a fool to think finding them would be that easy.
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