Orphan #8

by Kim van Alkemade

  “No, not now, that’s what I’m telling you. The ladies will want to spend time with the children in the playroom before their committee meeting. I couldn’t possibly take a new child all the way to Isolation at this moment. Maybe you could bring her there? It’s down this hallway and up the back stairs. All the new children start in Isolation.” Again the receptionist whispered. “We’ve had a terrible problem trying to contain the spread of measles, you know.” She looked at Rachel as if she might be infectious.

  Miss Ferster thought of the taxi idling outside, its meter running. She had been anxious to return to the agency before Sam was taken to the orphanage, but there seemed no alternative. “I’ll bring her then. Do you want her file?”

  At that moment, a gaggle of women entered the lobby. Miss Ferster noticed the gleam in their mink stoles, the shine of their fine shoes, the iridescent feathers fixed to their hats. She smoothed her own cotton dress and wondered what it would be like to have all of Macy’s at one’s disposal.

  “Bring the file with you, the Isolation nurse will take it.” The receptionist stood and approached the women. “Good morning, ladies. Right this way.”

  “And who do we have here?” One of the women bent over Rachel, reaching out with a gloved hand for the girl’s chin.

  “Mrs. Hess, please don’t. The child might be contagious.” The woman straightened up and backed away. “She’s being taken to Isolation now.” The receptionist pointed at Miss Ferster, who grabbed Rachel’s hand and hurried her down the hallway.

  “What’s contagious?” Rachel asked.

  “It means catching,” Miss Ferster said.

  “Like catching a ball?”

  “Don’t worry yourself about it, dear.”

  Up the back stairs, Miss Ferster pushed open a door off the first landing, saying, “This must be it.”

  They entered a long room brightly lit by a bank of tall windows. Across from the windows was a series of glass-walled cubicles, each transparent room just big enough for a small table and a bassinet. Inside each bassinet lay a swaddled infant. Miss Ferster stopped, arrested by the strange sight, wondering if this was what the receptionist meant by Isolation.

  “I want to see.” Rachel raised her arms to be picked up. Miss Ferster lifted her off the floor, and together they gazed through the glass at one of the babies. It looked to Rachel like a toy, so listless and still. Then the baby kicked and yawned, startling her. “The doll moved!”

  “They’re not dolls, Rachel dear, they’re babies.” Miss Ferster could see clear through a dozen cubicles to the end of the large room, one baby after another, no adult in sight.

  “Why are they all alone?” Rachel asked.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  From the far end of the room a nurse appeared. “You’re not allowed to be here.” She swept toward them, her white apron swaying from side to side, the white hat on her head fluttering like the birds over the river. “Please go before you disturb the babies.” Some of the infants turned their faces toward the movement outside their glass compartments. One began to cry. “See what you’ve done?” The nurse stopped outside the crying baby’s cubicle and began to wash her hands in a basin. “What are you doing here?”

  “The receptionist directed me to bring this child to Isolation. I’m from the agency.”

  With a horrified look, the nurse said, “You mean she’s from outside? Hasn’t been in Isolation yet? Do you have any idea what diseases she might be carrying? Please, step back.” She twisted her hands vigorously. “That’s why Dr. Hess developed this method, to prevent the spread of infection. None of these babies has been sick a single day since they were placed here.”

  Miss Ferster looked through the glass at the crying infant. She guessed it to be eight or nine months old. Her own little niece had begun crawling at that age. She thought of visits to her sister’s family, how they passed the baby from lap to lap, each family member fondling the little fingers and toes, the older children cooing at their tiny sister. “Are they always by themselves like that?”

  The nurse was drying her hands. “Of course. It’s how we guarantee their health.”

  “Can we play with one?” Rachel said, a silly question to which the nurse did not respond but which prompted Miss Ferster to ask, “How often do you handle them?”

  “As infrequently as possible. Please, go back out to the stairwell. That door’s supposed to be locked. The Isolation ward is on the next floor.” The nurse waited until Rachel and Miss Ferster had retraced their steps before going into the baby’s glass room.

  Miss Ferster carried Rachel upstairs to the next closed door that confronted them. Cautious now, she knocked until a nurse came to open it. “I’m Miss Ferster, from the agency. This is Rachel Rabinowitz. I was asked to bring her to Isolation?”

  “Yes, the receptionist just called to tell me a new child was on the way. I’m Nurse Shapiro. Come in here.” She led them into a small room with metal furniture and tiled walls. “Put her down here so I can process her. I’ll take her file.”

  Miss Ferster set Rachel on a steel table. “There you go, dear. This nice nurse will take care of you now.”

  Rachel studied Nurse Shapiro, who seemed anything but nice: her face pinched, her eyebrows knit together, her large hands red and rough. “What’s going to happen to me now?”

  Miss Ferster looked to the nurse, who, with an impatient sigh, explained. “The process is the same for all new children. I’ll cut off her hair so it and her clothes can be burned. Then I’ll give her a bath and check her head for lice. When she’s all clean, Dr. Hess will come in to examine her.” She frowned at Rachel. “You look healthy enough to me, so I doubt he’ll want you for one of his studies. I’ll probably have you settled in the Isolation ward in time for lunch.”

  “And after Isolation?” Miss Ferster asked.

  “That’s a month, to make sure they aren’t infectious. After that it’s down to one of the children’s wards in the Infant Home. There’s a playroom for the toddlers. They even started a kindergarten for the older ones.”

  Miss Ferster seemed satisfied. “That sounds nice, doesn’t it, Rachel? I’m still going to try to find a foster placement for you and Sam, so you be good for Nurse Shapiro until you see me again. Is there anything you want me to tell Sam when I get back to the agency?”

  Rachel’s face paled. The one person who connected her to her brother, and by extension to everything she had ever known, was about to leave her in this strange place. All she could think of to say, in a voice shrill with panic, was, “I forgot what comes after one hundred!”

  “One hundred and one, dear.” Knowing it was best to do these things quickly, Miss Ferster gave the girl a pinch on the cheek and was gone.

  “ONE HUNDRED AND one hundred and,” Rachel chanted as Nurse Shapiro stripped off her carefully mended clothes and tossed them into a bin like so much scrap. Then the nurse picked up a pair of shears. Rachel felt a series of tugs as her hair was cut off. She sifted her fingers through the dark strands gathering on her lap.

  “Over here now.” Nurse Shapiro dropped Rachel into a deep sink filled with warm water and scrubbed her with harsh soap and a bristle brush until her skin was almost as red as the nurse’s rough hands. Wrapped in a scratchy towel, Rachel, shivering, was weighed and measured then perched back on the edge of the table.

  Keeping one hand on Rachel, as if she might try to escape, Nurse Shapiro stretched to reach the door handle. “Ready for you, Dr. Hess,” she called out. A man in a white coat came in. His smooth face and bald forehead made Rachel think of her papa’s boiled eggs. He flashed a light into Rachel’s eyes, depressed her tongue while peering down her throat, held a stethoscope to her chest, pressed his fingers along the sides of her neck and into her belly. While his strange hands walked across Rachel’s body, he spoke words over his shoulder to Nurse Shapiro, who wrote them down on a clipboard.

  “Lungs sound clear, no signs of pertussis or pneumonia. No conjunctivitis. No obvious
signs of rickets or scurvy. No indication of measles. Get a diphtheria swab of the back of her throat, would you? I’ll take a closer look in the lab.” Dr. Hess folded his stethoscope. “We’ll see where we stand after the isolation period.”

  When the doctor left, Nurse Shapiro pinched Rachel’s chin, pulling down on her jaw. Rachel gagged as a swab was poked down her throat. “There now, all done.” The nurse dropped a white gown over Rachel’s head, pulled knit stockings up her legs, buckled soft shoes on her feet. Her rough hands squeezed Rachel’s ribs as she lifted the child to the floor. “Come with me,” she said, steering Rachel out of the tiled room and into Isolation.

  The ward was as big as the shirtwaist factory, but instead of noisy machines it was filled with mewling children. White metal cribs lined all four walls; in the middle, children Rachel’s size and smaller sat in tiny chairs at a low table. Every one of them, boys and girls, had shorn hair and wore a white gown. For a moment Rachel thought it must be school like Sam went to, but there was no teacher, only nurses putting down and picking up plates. Rachel was placed in a chair. Of the food in front of her, she managed to eat only the bread.

  After lunch, the children were led into a small room with toilets along the wall. The other children her size lifted their gowns and sat down right in front of everyone. At home, Visha had taught Rachel to always close the door when she used the toilet. Alone in the stall, she’d watch Sam’s shadow passing in front of the frosted glass while he waited for her, or she’d listen to Mr. Giovanni in the next stall, humming a song and rustling his newspaper.

  “You shouldn’t need help, a big girl like you,” Nurse Shapiro said as she picked Rachel up and perched her on the cold porcelain, but Rachel was too shy to go. After the children washed their hands, they were herded back into the ward. Someone announced naptime. Rachel looked around for a couch where she could lie down, but instead one of the nurses dropped her into a crib. Standing, her eyes peered over the top of the bars. Rachel wanted to tell someone she wasn’t a baby to be put in a crib—she could sort buttons and earn a penny and recite all the letters of the alphabet.

  Rachel swiveled her head, looking around the ward. The other children had curled themselves up, thumbs tucked into mouths. Some of them were quiet, even limp; others whimpered until they fell asleep, snot smeared across their faces. Rachel wanted to go home, wanted Sam to come get her. She sat down in the crib and closed her eyes. She tried not to think about how much she needed to pee. Carefully, she counted to one hundred and one, making sure not to miss a single number. When she opened her eyes, she looked through the bars toward the door, expecting it to open.

  The door stayed shut. Rachel could no longer avoid the terrifying idea that she’d been left there, forgotten. How would Sam ever find her? Her bottom lip pouted and trembled. Her belly tightened and churned. She tasted salty tears.

  She screamed.

  The child’s wail was so high and sustained, Nurse Shapiro rushed over to examine her for some injury. Finding none, she took Rachel firmly by the shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with you, child. You best quiet down now.”

  Rachel managed to form five words, each one carried by a wail. “I. Want. To. Go. Home.”

  “This is your home now, and you’ll find these hysterics do you no good here.” She turned and walked away. “That one’s going to try my nerves,” she said to the other nurse on duty.

  Panic squeezed Rachel’s body. Her breath came out in gasping shrieks that hurt her own ears. Some of the other children, agitated by her cries, chorused their voices with hers. She wet herself, scrambling to a corner of the crib to escape the cooling puddle. Light-headed, she feared she’d never take a full breath again. The hiccupping sobs felt like drowning. The store of tears from which she drew seemed bottomless as a barrel of brine.

  Finally, exhausted, the fit ebbed. The nurses took deep breaths and congratulated each other when the new child silently pulled the blanket over her head. “You see?” Nurse Shapiro said. “They all cry themselves to sleep eventually if you leave them alone long enough.”

  In the secret darkness under the blanket, Rachel intertwined her fingers and pretended she was holding her brother’s hand. It seemed like only a second later that she was jolted awake by a dream of a baby doll come to life, black buttons sewn on with coarse thread where its eyes should have been.

  THE NEXT MONTH, Miss Ferster was back at the Hebrew Infant Home, explaining to the receptionist that she’d come to reclaim Rachel Rabinowitz. She had promised herself not to forget about these two children, and when a foster placement finally became available, she’d been proud of her dedication. A Jewish couple in Harlem, honest working people who lived above their shoe repair shop, willing to take both the boy and the girl. Maybe Sam could pick up the trade—there was always good work in repairing shoes—and for that dear little girl there would be a kind woman’s care. Miss Ferster couldn’t wait to see the look on Rachel’s face when she told her she’d be reunited with her brother. Impatiently she interrupted the receptionist, who was sifting through index cards. “I only brought her a few weeks ago, so I imagine she’s still in Isolation. I can find my own way there if you prefer.”

  Climbing the back stairs, Miss Ferster hurried up past the door that led to the room of glassed-in babies. Entering Isolation, she recognized Nurse Shapiro and asked her to get the Rabinowitz child.

  “I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to take her. She was moved last week from Isolation to the hospital wing. She’s in the Measles Ward.”

  “Oh, the poor thing.” Miss Ferster recalled when her nephew caught measles last summer, the long nights her sister spent beside him, soothing the boy with damp towels and spooning cool pudding into his sore throat. “How long until she’s recovered do you think?”

  “Dr. Hess confirmed the diagnoses through a blood test last week. I imagine she’s covered in rash by now. She’ll be infectious until her skin is clear, but even after the rash subsides there could be other complications. Conjunctivitis is common, and we have to watch for pneumonia. I wouldn’t expect her to be released until next month at the earliest, and then only if she doesn’t contract anything else.”

  Miss Ferster’s shoulders sagged. She’d been so excited about the foster placement that she’d asked Miriam to notify the Orphaned Hebrews Home to prepare Sam for transfer. She imagined his disappointment at having to wait another month, maybe more, before seeing his sister. “Could I visit her before I go? I wouldn’t be susceptible, I had measles as a child.”

  “It’s impossible for you to enter the Measles Ward. I shouldn’t even let you into the hospital wing.”

  “Is there no way for me to at least see the child? I’ve come all this way.”

  Nurse Shapiro considered the request. It was nearly lunchtime in Isolation, with no new admissions to process. A walk to the hospital wing would be a welcome change in her routine. “If you insist, but only if I accompany you. There’s a window in the door of the Measles Ward. I’ll ask the nurse to wheel her crib over for you to have a peek.”

  “I’d be so grateful. I have a foster family waiting to take her, and I want to be able to tell them how she is.”

  To reach the hospital wing, Nurse Shapiro led Miss Ferster down the back staircase and across the lobby. They climbed toward the turret’s skylight then turned down a wide corridor. They passed the various contagious disease wards: measles, pertussis, diphtheria, pneumonia. Knocking on the door to the Measles Ward, Nurse Shapiro explained their mission to the nurse, who went to find the Rabinowitz girl. While they waited, Miss Fertser looked around. Noticing the label on a nearby door, she asked Nurse Shapiro, “Isn’t scurvy a nutritional deficiency? It’s not contagious, is it?”

  “No, but Dr. Hess is making a special study of scurvy. It helps his research to keep all the children together in one ward.”

  A knock drew their attention. “That’ll be the child,” Nurse Shapiro said, waving the ward nurse to step back. Would Rachel be able to he
ar her, Miss Ferster wondered, if she said a foster home was waiting as soon as she got well? The news would give the girl some hope. Her face close to the glass window, Miss Ferster looked into the crib that had been brought to the door.

  The child in it was unrecognizable. Naked to avoid irritating the rash, her skin was the deep red of a bad burn, mottled and leathery. Her face was like a painted mask, the shorn hair plastered to her skull with sweat. Her hands were tied with strips of cloth to the bars of the crib, a necessary measure to prevent scratching and infection, Nurse Shapiro explained, but still piteous to see. When Rachel looked up, Miss Ferster took in a sharp breath. Conjunctivitis had reddened the whites of Rachel’s eyes so they glowed with menace. Yellow pus stuck to the black lashes, giving the child a devilish look. Then the girl’s eyes focused on Miss Ferster’s face through the glass.

  There she was, the agency lady, finally come to take her away from this place and back to Sam. The weeks since Rachel had been left here were an eternity of sadness and pain, but now it was over. She tried to reach out to the woman, but her tied hands were held back. She began to cry, great, gasping sobs of relief, a release of all the fear and hurt she’d kept bottled up since that first day at the Infant Home.

  Miss Ferster looked at the hysterical child, so unlike the lovely, brave little girl she’d described to the foster parents—her terrible skin, those infected eyes, the gaping throat, that swollen, quavering tongue. She turned away from the sight, shaking her head. Nurse Shapiro waved the ward nurse to take the crib away. As the window receded, Rachel screamed desperately, further disfiguring her appearance. Choking on her tears, she coughed and retched. The ward nurse noted the potential development of pertussis on her chart. In her crib, Rachel thrashed and cried until, defeated, she crumpled to the mattress, tied hands sliding down the bars.

  Miss Ferster followed Nurse Shapiro back to the receptionist’s alcove in the lobby. “Thank you for bringing me to see the poor thing.” She extended her hand, around which the nurse wrapped her own chapped fingers.