The Orphan Collector. Ellen Marie Wiseman
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Mutti who was the constant source of comfort. No matter where they were or what was happening, she was the thread to everything familiar and normal, from food in their stomachs to clean clothes and warm baths. Certainly Vater worked hard to take care of them while still making sure he had time for fun—he took her swimming in the creek back in Hazleton in the summer, taught her how to whistle and skip rocks across the culm ponds, and showed her how to identify edible mushrooms in the woods—but Mutti was the one who put soap on beestings and scraped knees, the one who sat on the edge of the bed when Pia couldn’t sleep, and traced a gentle finger across her forehead and cheeks to help her relax, the one who put bonnets on the twins to protect them from the sun. Mutti was the one who knew when they were hungry and tired, or just needed an extra hug.
According to Vater, Mutti even calmed his fears about following his brother to America after the construction company he worked for in Germany collapsed, and convinced him they’d be fine when they found out they had two more mouths to feed so soon after they started their new life in Philadelphia. She kept the family organized and strong, while always making sure they knew they were loved. How would Pia ever survive without her? Who was going to help her get through the ups and downs of life? Who was going to teach her about being a woman and a wife? If Pia lived that long.
One of Mutti’s favorite sayings was, “We may not have it all together, but together we have it all.” Except they weren’t all together anymore. And now they never would be. Mutti was gone, and Pia had no idea if, or when, Vater would come back. Between that and everyone dying of the flu, the world felt like it was coming to an end. Everything Pia knew and relied on had disappeared. What was she supposed to do now? She was only thirteen. How was she going to take care of the twins when, and if, this nightmare was over? How would she keep them safe and fed until Vater returned? She had no job. No money. Then she remembered what Mutti always said whenever she felt confused or unsure, “Just do the next thing.” Whether it was getting dressed in the morning or doing chores and homework, the best way to move through a complicated situation was to decide what needed to be done next and just do it.
With that thought, Pia noticed how dirty her dress was, stained with formula and baby spit and something that looked like gravy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d changed. Or even what day it was. Before the flu, she used to put on a clean outfit every Monday, unless she’d spilled something on the one she was wearing or somehow got a tear. Not that she had a lot of dresses to choose from—two made from flour sacks and one made out of a printed sheet, along with two skirts and a cotton blouse—but everything was always clean and in good repair, even her leggings and undergarments. And to think she’d been sleeping in her clothes.
She glanced around the room, the beginnings of panic shuddering in her chest. Empty Mellin’s jars littered the counter next to a bowl filled with moldy potato and carrot peels. A half-dozen soiled diapers floated in the washtub with the last of the Borax, like gray islands in a muddy sea. A kettle crusted with soup sat on the stove, which was splattered with bits of dried food and baby formula, and the coal bucket stood empty. Stacks of dirty bowls and cups sat on the table, leaning this way and that. She’d stopped washing dishes three days ago, too exhausted to keep fetching water. Mutti would have been appalled.
Between the horrible odor coming out of the bedroom and the stench of dirty diapers and old soup, she felt like she was suffocating. She climbed on a chair and searched the shelves for something to help cover the smell. Maybe she’d find some herbs from Mrs. Schmidt, a leftover sprig of lavender or sage she could crush and spread around the room. She felt in the jars and cups, looked behind plates and bowls and pots, but found nothing.
Then her fingers landed on something long and hard behind the mantel clock. She pulled it out. It was one of Vater’s cigars. She got down from the chair, grabbed the box of matches next to the stove, put the cigar in a saucer on the table, and lit one end. Smoke curled from the brown paper and the cigar started to burn, filling the air with the familiar smell of tobacco and reminders of Vater. Tears filled her eyes. What would he think if he knew what his family was going through? That his wife was dead and his daughter was trying to keep his sons alive? Surely he would curse himself for leaving.
She took a deep breath and tried to think. What should she do next? Her father wasn’t going to return in time to help. She didn’t even know if he was alive. It was up to her to save Ollie and Max. But the last of the Mellin’s Infant Food was already in their bottles, the bread and eggs had been used up, the last jar of applesauce was nearly empty, and the potatoes and carrots had been cooked and eaten. The coal stove stood empty, the last embers nothing but gray ash. Everything was gone.
She went to the end of the bed to look out the window. Dark clouds scuttled across the gray morning sky, and her note to Finn still hung on the clothesline, shuddering in the breeze. No one walked in the alley below, but four more bodies covered in bloody sheets had appeared sometime during the night. Hunger cramped her stomach and she gritted her teeth. She had to find food. It was either that or they’d starve. She’d steal if she had to—anything to keep them alive. But the twins had to stay here. It wasn’t safe for them out there, not to mention she wouldn’t be able to carry much food if she had to carry them too, and she couldn’t push a baby pram up and down the stairs. She wouldn’t go far, just to the neighbors to see if they could spare anything. If that didn’t work, she’d try the next row house. The problem was that Ollie and Max were starting to push themselves up on their knees and getting ready to crawl.
She looked around the room and imagined all sorts of accidents waiting to happen if she left—Ollie pulling himself up on the table leg and toppling it over, or pulling the tablecloth off along with the dishes on top. Max getting his head stuck between a chair and the bed. She couldn’t leave them on her bed because they might fall off. If only there were some place small and safe to put them, like a crate or a crib with a lid. Then she remembered the cubby in her parents’ bedroom, where they hid money beneath a loose floorboard. Ollie and Max would be safe in there, and they wouldn’t be able to open the door. She could put blankets inside and leave bottles too, even though they were only just starting to hold them. They might cry, but at least they wouldn’t be able to crawl around and get hurt. It would be scary for them to be shut in such a small, dark space, even for a few minutes, but it was better than letting them starve. And they’d have each other. She tried to think back to when she was their age, if she could remember anything unpleasant. She couldn’t recall anything—scary or otherwise. They wouldn’t remember being shut in a cubby. And she wouldn’t be gone long.
But she had to do it now, before she changed her mind.
She went over to the table and picked up the cigar. The paper had stopped burning, and the tobacco was going out. Remembering how Vater used to smoke, she put it to her lips and inhaled to get it going again. The harsh smoke burned her throat and she coughed, the gritty taste of ash coating her tongue and cheeks. She clamped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake the boys, trying not to cough too loud. When she finally stopped choking, she closed her eyes, held her breath, and waved the smoke toward her hair and dress, covering herself in the smell. Then she put the cigar down and pulled the diapers and rags out from underneath the bedroom door. She hadn’t been in there in days—how many she wasn’t sure—but the stench was worse than ever, even on this side of the door.
On shaking legs, she took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the floor, then rushed into the bedroom, hurried past the bed, and knelt in front of the cubby. She opened the door and took the money out from under the loose floorboard, then examined the walls, floor, and ceiling of the cubby for splinters or nails. The wood was smooth and sliver-free. Her lungs felt ready to burst, so she exhaled, put her hands over her nose and mouth, and, trying not to gag, took another deep breath. Then she got up to rummage in the closet for Mutti’s winter coat, which would hang on her like a tent—it was too big on Mutti—but had deep pockets to carry food. When she found the coat, she held part of it over her nose and mouth and, powerless to stop herself, turned to look at the bed. Mutti’s body had deflated, the bloat mostly gone. Bloody green blotches covered her skin, and her tongue protruded from her yawning mouth.
Bile surged in the back of Pia’s throat and she ran out of the room, shut the door, and put the diapers and rags back under it, gagging and trying not to throw up. Now