The Orphan Collector - Ellen Marie Wiseman

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front door a crack and peered out, checking left and right. The streets were empty. She hurried down the steps, across the cobblestones, and up the steps of the Langes’ building. Their rooms were in the front of the house, to the left of the fire escape. She knew because she’d seen Mrs. Lange hanging blankets and pillows over the sill. Germans were always hanging things outside—rugs, curtains, clothes—even in the winter. She didn’t understand it.

      When she stepped inside the foyer, she clamped a hand over her mouth and nose. The Langes’ row house smelled worse than hers, as if it’d been closed up for years. But there was no time to waste wondering why. She climbed the stairs as quickly as possible, rapped her knuckles on the Langes’ door, and looked up and down the hallway. She was vibrating with nerves, every sense on high alert. If she heard someone coming into the building and up the stairs, she would scurry into the shadows at the end of the hall, then wait and see who it was. If it turned out to be Pia, she’d go home and try to forget about the twins. If she could.

      She knocked again, leaned close to the door, and said as loudly as she dared, “Mrs. Lange? Are you in there?”

      No answer.

      “Mrs. Lange?”

      No sound came from the other side. No talking or banging dishes. No radio played. She put an ear to the wood and held her breath, listening. And then she heard it.

      Babies crying.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      PIA

      Originally, Pia had planned on searching for food in her own building first, to ask the neighbors if they could spare a few potatoes or one or two eggs, hoping she could remember who had seemed friendly, who hadn’t scowled at Mutti or told the police they were German. Because the closer to her apartment she stayed, the sooner she could return home. But after hearing Ollie start to fuss before she left, she knew if she stayed in her building, no matter what floor she was on or how far away, she would hear her brothers cry. And if she could hear them cry, she’d go back. She’d go back, take them out of the cubby, and promise never to leave them again. And that was something she couldn’t do. Not until she found what they needed. Not until she could bring Ollie and Max something to eat and drink. She had to be strong. There was no other choice.

      Now, she stood in the first-floor hallway of the row house next door, trying to decide where to start. Inky shadows filled the halls, growing darker toward the back of the building. Crepe ribbons—some gray, some white, some black—hung from all but one door. Maybe she’d picked the wrong building to begin her search. She went up the first flight of steps to check the second floor. No crepe hung in the hall. She stopped at the apartment nearest the staircase. If no one answered, she would see if it was locked. If the handle turned and the door opened, she would go inside. It would be all right to enter if the apartment was unlocked. And take food if no one was home. That’s what she told herself, anyway. She knocked on the peeling wood and waited. Hushed voices and muffled movements filtered through the door, and someone shushed everyone to be quiet. She tilted her head, trying to listen.

      “Hello?” she said. “I’m looking for food for my brothers. They’re babies, only a few months old. Do you have anything to spare?”

      A gruff voice called out, “Go away!”

      “Please,” she said. “I can pay. I have money. Just a loaf of bread or tin of broth is all I need.”

      “No!” the voice called out again. “Leave us alone!”

      Pia sighed and moved down the hall, her shoulders bunched, her jaw clenched. She stopped in front of another door and listened. No sounds came from the other side, no whispering or crying or talking. She knocked and waited. Still nothing. She knocked again and tried the handle. It was locked.

      “Is anyone there?” she said.

      No answer.

      A sudden image flashed in her mind: the people inside dead and rotting, sitting and lying in their chairs and beds, the table set for dinner, the coal stove empty and cold. A chill passed through her and she shivered. Why else would they not answer the door? They wouldn’t be out and about in the city at a time like this. Unless they were doing the same thing she was doing, searching for food and supplies. But they wouldn’t all leave at the same time, would they?

      She pushed the gruesome images from her head and moved toward an apartment at the back of the building. If no one answered and it was unlocked, she would go inside, but the rooms had no windows, meaning it would be dark and hard to see. Still, she had to try. She knocked on the door, berating herself for not bringing a lantern. Then she reminded herself that a lantern would have been one more thing to carry. And with all the horrible things that had been going on—her mother dying; taking care of the twins alone; so many other people passing away all at once, maybe even Finn—she could barely remember what day it was, let alone remember to bring a lantern.

      No one answered. She tried the handle. It was locked. Maybe she was wasting her time. Maybe she should search somewhere beside the Fifth Ward, where everyone had so little to begin with, let alone anything to spare. Not to mention it seemed like people were too scared to answer their doors. She couldn’t blame them. But the longer she looked for help where she wouldn’t find it, the longer her brothers would be shut in the cubby. Maybe the flu hadn’t spread to other parts of the city yet. Or maybe the churches were handing out food.

      Refusing to give up completely before leaving, she decided to try a different floor. She climbed the second staircase and stopped at an apartment toward the front of the building, where the rooms had windows. She knocked and waited. No one answered or shuffled toward the other side of the door. No one yelled at her to go away. She knocked again, harder this time, then turned the knob. It was unlocked. She gave the door a gentle push. It swung open and a swirl of rank air sent a piece of crumpled paper over the cracked threshold. She clamped a hand over her scarf, instantly recognizing the stench of decaying flesh.

      A weak shaft of daylight reached across the floor, illuminating the gloomy interior of a room nearly identical to her home, from the coal stove to the rough-hewn shelves filled with dishes to the bedroom door. Taking a step inside, she had to fight the urge to run into the back room and look for her brothers, to kiss them and hug them and make sure they were all right. Even the narrow iron bed under the window looked the same.

      The only things missing were Mutti’s vase and Oma’s tablecloth. Her heartbeat picked up speed. Had someone taken their things? What if Ollie and Max were gone too? She shook her head. No. This wasn’t home. The table was bigger, with wooden stools around it instead of chairs. And a fringed rug with a strange design covered the floor, not layers of threadbare throw rugs.

      Trying to remind herself where she was and what she was doing there, she struggled to stay calm. She was in the row house next door, searching for food for her brothers. She needed to keep going so she could get back to them as soon as possible. Then the room seemed to rotate and she put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Confusion and panic jittered inside her head. Except for the fear of finding dead bodies and the guilt over leaving Ollie and Max, she had felt fine a minute ago. Maybe that, combined with the worry of not finding food, was too overwhelming. Then her stomach clenched with hunger and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. When, or if, she found food, she needed to eat something straightaway. She wouldn’t be able to take anything back to Ollie and Max if she passed out from hunger. Gritting her teeth, she waited for her head to stop spinning.

      Dead bodies or no dead bodies, she had to search the apartment for food. She had no choice. She edged in farther, ready to run if anyone appeared. And then she saw a pair of brown buckle boots on the floor, one pointed up, the other flopped on its side. Above the boots, beige stockings covered a pair of swollen ankles.

      Pia chewed her lip. A clear path led to the kitchen area. If she kept her eyes straight ahead, she’d be fine. She could make it past whoever lay on the floor. She steeled herself and moved forward, her arms and hands tight to her body. Except. Except. She had to look.

      The remains of a blond woman lay shriveled on

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