City of Orphans Page 3

  Now, you need to know about this Birmingham Street, where Maks lives. It’s like a lot of old downtown city streets. Short, narrow, with cobblestone on the street, both street sides lined with soot-dark brick tenements, each of ’em twenty-five feet wide, five or six stories high. Couple of the buildings have them newfangled iron fire escapes, already draped with drying clothes that look like old drippy wax. Each floor has four windows across, so at night you can see burning candles or oil lamps behind sooty windows.

  Hate to say it, but piles of garbage everywhere. Sure, cleaners come, maybe once a month.

  At the far end of the street, Eliscue’s horse stables. If the wind blows north, you smell ’em. At the other street end, Zunser’s tiny Hebrew printing shop, which smells of ink. Actually, Maks likes that smell.

  Mid-block—right across from Maks’s building—there’s an electric streetlamp. Though it’s a cold night, a bunch of kids—Maks knows ’em all by name—are playing hopscotch in its puddle of light.

  “Here’s my place,” Maks announces, stopping before a five-step stoop.

  Glad to be home, Maks looks up and down the street to see if they’ve been followed.

  No Bruno.

  “We’re not supposed to go down there,” Maks says, nodding toward one side of the stoop where, just below street level, there’s a small saloon. “Calls itself The Vineyard,” says Maks. “Run by Mr. Cicolone.”

  A concertina is playing and someone’s singing a sad Italian song.

  “Does good business afternoons and nights,” Maks says. “Guess what? Agnes once told me—she heard it at her school—fifteen thousand saloons in the city. She’s always telling us stuff like that.

  “Over there,” says Maks, pointing toward the other side of the stoop, “that’s Tyrone’s fish store. Opens early, but stinks all the time.”

  Maks nods down the street. “In daylight,” he says, “you can see Brooklyn Bridge. Papa says we’ll walk it one of these days. Come on.”

  Maks climbs the stoop steps to his house only to realize that Willa is staying on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, ain’t you coming?”

  Even as Willa stands there, her stomach gurgles so loud, Maks hears it. He grins. “Guess you do want some food.”

  Willa, pressing her lips together, just keeps staring up at him.

  “Hey, you nervous ’bout coming?”

  She don’t answer.

  “When’s the last time you ate?”

  Willa gives a small shoulder shrug.

  “Let’s go,” says Maks.

  Willa, one foot on the first step, her stick in her hands, says, “You sure your mother won’t mind?”

  “Naw,” says Maks, though he’s sorry now he had promised this girl anything ’cause he’s pretty sure his mother will mind.

  Figuring he owes her one more try, he says, “Hey, Mama makes bread. Be a lot better than your breadline bread.”

  Willa comes up the stoop.

  Maks, wishing he hadn’t said that, starts to push open the front door, only to stop. “Any blood on my face? My jacket? Mama don’t like brawling.”

  Willa looks him over. “You’re okay. That what you call her—Mama?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right to take my stick?”

  Maks, remembering Bruno, and that Willa will be going out again after eating, says, “Better keep it.”

  “You sure my coming is okay?”

  “Hey, everybody’s gonna love you,” Maks lies, wanting nothing more than to get this girl in and out—fast.

  9

  It may be dark on the street, but it’s even darker inside the building’s narrow entrance hall. Cracked linoleum on the floor. Ceiling covered with pressed tin, bulging in a few places. Walls painted ugly brown. Everything smelling of dirt, old fish, sour beer. And, sorry to say, sometimes mugs from the saloon use the hall as a privy.

  The kids come inside, Maks getting more nervous. “Just so you understand,” he says, “my folks are glad to be in America. Just once in a while they want it more like where they came from. You know, old-fashioned.”

  Willa turns back to the door. “I’ll visit another time.”

  “No, honest, it’ll be fine,” Maks says, grabbing her arm and realizing how thin it is. “I promise, you’re gonna get something good to eat. Just hold on to my jacket. We’re top floor and ain’t no light. But there’s one good thing with being top.”

  “What?”

  “Steps that go to the roof. In the summer, easy to get up there for sleeping. A lot cooler. Mr. Floy—third floor, back—he’s nuts ’bout birds. Keeps pigeons up there. Chickens in the backyard. Once he gave me an egg. Mama cooked it. Not bad. Come on.”

  Willa says, “You ever stop talking?”

  Maks grins. “Only if you tells me.”

  They start climbing.

  Now, in tenements like these, each floor has four flats, two on each side, front and back. A flat has three rooms: front room, kitchen, plus small back room. Walls so thin, you hear what people are saying on the other side.

  You can smell the foods people are eating too. Bacon on the second floor. Bread on the third. Potatoes on the fourth. Get it? The higher the floor, the cheaper the eats. Same for rents.

  On the second floor the Palbeck kids—from the back flat—are playing jacks in the dim hallway. They can’t be bothered to look at Maks and Willa as they go by.

  On the third, the door is partly open. Someone is shouting.

  “Mrs. Tinglist,” Maks says. “Hates America. Drinks a lot. Always shouting at her husband and kids.”

  On the fourth floor the door is wide open. A family—all seven of them—seated at a table, working.

  “The Vershinskis,” Maks tells Willa. “Speak Polish. All they do is make brooms. One of their kids told me they get ten cents a broom. Takes ’em an hour for each. Trying to get enough money to buy a ticket for their mother to come here from that Poland.

  “My parents speak Danish. So does Emma. I can’t. Not really. Anyway, my sister Agnes makes us speak American. Warn you, she can be bossy.”

  Just as they near the last flight of steps, farther up, a door slams. Next moment, a big guy holding a lit lantern comes thumping down the steps. Maks sees his high-domed helmet, the double row of gleaming brass buttons on his coat, his silver badge.

  A cop.

  To let him pass, Willa and Maks have to flatten themselves ’gainst the wall.

  “Why’s a policeman here?” Willa whispers when he’s gone.

  “Don’t know,” says Maks. Suddenly uneasy, he bolts up the rest of the way. On the top floor he rushes to the front of the building and shoves the door open.

  There’s enough light from the oil lamp on the kitchen table to show Maks’s mama—Mrs. Geless—standing in the middle of the room. She’s a small woman with her arms wrapped round her chest, as if to keep herself in one piece. Though strands of hair are covering part of her face, Maks can see her eyes, and they’re full of fright. Maks’s three young brothers are clinging to her, crying.

  “What is it?” Maks cries. “What’s happened?”

  Mama opens her mouth. No words come. She keeps swallowing, gasping for air. Tears slide down her face.

  “Tell me!”

  “It’s . . . Emma. She’s been arrested.”

  10

  “Arrested? What do you mean?”

  Mama struggles to speak. “They put her in that jail. The one over by City Hall.”

  “The Tombs?” cries Maks.

  Mama bobs her head and smears tears from her face with the heels of her small, red hands.

  “But . . . why?” Maks says, slamming the front door to keep the news inside.

  Mama says, “A policeman was just here. He said that”— she takes a breath—“Emma stole a watch.”

  Maks, mouth wide open, can’t believe what he’s hearing.

  “At her hotel,” Mama explains, with a frantic gesture. “They arrested her.”

  “Emma would nev
er steal,” says Maks. “She wouldn’t!”

  “The policeman says she did.” Mama’s voice is miserable, her face pinched. “They don’t lie.”

  “Yes they do!” Maks is so upset, he’s almost choking. Shoving aside his younger brothers—Eric, Jacob, and Ryker—he takes Mama’s arm and leads her to one of the three chairs by the kitchen table. “You better sit.”

  Mama sits and uses her white apron to wipe away tears. “It’s terrible,” she says as much to herself as to anyone in the room. “Frygtelig,” she adds in Danish.

  Maks, not sure what to do, stands over her. His brothers—frightened—stay huddled in a corner, staring at him and Mama.

  “Does Papa know?” Maks says. “Does Agnes?”

  “Not home from work.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “The politistyrke said—” She shakes her head. “The policeman—”

  “Don’t care what the policeman said!” Maks shouts. He heads for the door. “Gonna get her.”

  Mama, her face blotchy, looks up. “You can’t. Not till morning.”

  Maks, hand on the doorknob, says, “Why?”

  “The policeman said the prison’s locked. Won’t open until morning.”

  “But—”

  “Said she’ll stay there ’less she has a lawyer.”

  “What’s a lawyer gonna do?”

  “I don’t know!” Mama shouts, bursting into full tears.

  “Then I’m getting a lawyer,” Maks says, pulling the door open while trying to remember where he’s seen lawyer signs round the neighborhood.

  “Maks! Please! Wait for Papa.”

  Frightened, Maks stands there.

  Only then does Mama notice Willa. Maks had forgotten her too. The girl’s standing ’gainst the wall, tense, fingering her stick.

  “Who is this . . . girl?” says Mama. “Why is she here?”

  Maks’s brothers also stare at Willa.

  Maks don’t know what to say. With his mother there, he’s seeing how bad Willa really looks. The ragged clothes, the bare feet. Her smell. All he can manage is, “She’s a friend.”

  “Friend?” says Mama, wrinkling her nose. “What . . . what kind of friend? Why does she have that stick?”

  Willa’s jaw tightens. She wants to get out of there, but Maks is blocking the door.

  “Why is she here?” Mama repeats.

  “Saved me from getting a beating,” Maks says. “I wanted to thank her. Give her some food.”

  Mama looks at Willa as if she’d done the beating. She turns to Maks, “Is that blood on your face?”

  “From that Plug Ugly Gang,” says Maks. He’s almost crying. “I told you ’bout ’em! They’re hounding newsies. They was coming after me and”—he gestures toward Willa—“she beat ’em off.”

  “But she’s so . . . dirty.”

  “Come on, Mama,” cries Maks. “Dirt ain’t people. I was the one who asked for help. She hadn’t given it, I wouldn’t have my money. And her name is Willa.”

  “Willa?”

  “German name.”

  “German,” his mother echoes.

  Maks, suddenly remembering his mother don’t like Germans, quickly adds, “Born in America. That’s more than me.”

  Wanting to turn Mama’s talk from Willa, Maks scoops his pennies from his pocket and dumps them on the table.

  “See,” he says. “Sold all my papers. Made my share.”

  Mama barely looks at the coins.

  “You should thank her,” Maks says as he divides the coins into two piles—what he needs for the next day’s paper buy, and his own eleven-cent profit. Grabbing a cigar box from the shelf over the stove, he shovels in most of the pennies.

  Mama turns back toward Willa and gives a nod. “I’m sorry if I sounded so—” She stops, interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

  “It’s Agnes and Papa,” says Mama. “Dear God. The news will kill him.” She puts out a hand toward Maks, whispers, “Help me stand.”

  Maks helps Mama pull herself up. Once standing, she faces the doorway, trying to dry her eyes and shove back hair that keeps falling over her face while smoothing her faded blue dress—all at the same time. Then, as the steps draw closer, she squeezes her hands together as if praying.

  Maks’s brothers stay in the corner.

  Willa presses herself against the far shadowy wall, trying to make herself small.

  As for Maks, he just stares at the door, hoping his father will tell ’em what to do.

  11

  The first one to come in the door is Agnes—thin, pale, large eyes rimmed with pink. Got a shawl round her head.

  Papa comes right behind. He’s slightly stooped, bald, with a shaggy, tobacco-stained mustache, all of which make him look older than he is. In his hand he’s got a tin lunch pail.

  Everyone in the room stares at him. Takes him only a second to know something’s wrong.

  “What is it?” he says. “What’s happened?”

  Mama twists her hands. “Emma.”

  “Emma!”

  “She . . .”

  “She what?” Papa cries.

  Mama tries to speak but can’t. ’Stead, she drops back into the chair, lifts her apron, covers her face. Shoulders shaking, she cries.

  Agnes looks to Maks. “Maks!” she says. “What is it?”

  Papa also turns to him.

  Maks says, “Emma’s . . . Emma’s been . . . arrested.”

  It’s as if Papa has been struck in the chest. Goes all cream-faced. Takes a step back. Drops his lunch pail with a clatter.

  Agnes stares. She can’t speak.

  In the corner the boys start crying again.

  “Arrested?” Papa gasps. “But why?”

  Though it’s hard to say it, Maks gets out what Mama said.

  Papa turns to Mama. “Is that true?”

  Mama, crying, nods.

  “Tell me!” Papa shouts.

  Mama starts speaking in Danish.

  “No Danish, Mama,” Agnes pleads. “American!”

  Mama gulps, swallows, tries again. “A policeman came here and—”

  “Here?” cries Papa. “A policeman?”

  “Said Emma stole.”

  “Great God!” cries Papa. “Why would Emma do such a thing?”

  “Emma didn’t steal!” Maks shouts.

  Papa looks to Mama. “Did she or didn’t she?”

  Mama nods.

  All Papa can do is stand there and pull at his mustache.

  Agnes, coughing, shuts the door. Yanks off her shawl, so her blond braids tumble. Clearing her throat, she sits on one of the kitchen chairs, takes up Mama’s hands, squeezes them.

  Papa hasn’t moved. He can’t.

  Maks says, “Papa?”

  “What?”

  “We gotta find a lawyer.”

  “What will a lawyer do?”

  “Get Emma out of jail.”

  “Is . . . is she in jail?”

  “The Tombs.”

  Papa looks at Mama. “That gigantic prison?”

  Mama nods.

  “Papa,” Maks pleads, “we gotta do something.”

  Papa suddenly lifts a fist over his head.

  Frightened, Maks steps back. Mama calls out something in Danish. Papa’s body sags. His hand opens. Drops by his side. His body seems to shrink. In a ragged voice he cries, “Dear God! I don’t know how things work here. How we going to help her?” He looks round at his family’s faces. “Maybe Emma just picked up something by mistake. Or maybe something fell into her pocket. Without her knowing. These things happen. Terrible mistakes get made.”

  “Papa!” Maks shouts again. “Emma didn’t steal!”

  “No, of course not,” says Papa. “I didn’t mean—not for a moment. But . . .” He stands still, his breathing ragged, words sputtering. “Dear God. These are . . . hard times. Just today . . . we were told the factory will be closing for a time.”

  “How come?” says Maks.

  Agnes says,
“They say we’re making too many shoes. Can only sell them for two dollars.”

  “What’s wrong with cheap?”

  “They can’t make a profit,” Agnes says. “When we closed last fall, we were off for two weeks. It could be worse this time. In school we learned that capitalism needs profits to—”

  “Stop that talk!” Papa shouts. “Nothing to do with anything! Lots of factories are closing. It’s what I said. Hard times.” He makes a vague gesture. “The panic . . .”

  The room is full of silence.

  Papa takes a deep breath. Says, “I got to pay the land-lord the key money this week. Merciful God, we have money. For now. But with Emma . . . Agnes and me, we can’t miss any work. We’ll need every penny.” He looks to Mama. “Mama, you’ll go to the prison and—”

  “No!” Mama cries. “I can’t. I know nothing of prisons. I’ll be afraid. I . . . I forget English when I’m upset.” She looks round. “What if I do something wrong? They might . . . they might keep me there.”

  “Mama,” says Agnes, “they wouldn’t dare.”

  No one speaks.

  That’s when Maks says, “I’ll go to The Tombs.”

  12

  “Good, Maks,” says Papa, and Maks hears relief in his voice. “Yes. You’ll go.”

  “Will they let him?” says Mama. “Won’t he be too young?”

  “Don’t care,” Maks says. “I’m going. In the morning. Soon as the jail opens.”

  “There,” says Papa. “Emma will like that. You and her, you’re good friends. And tomorrow I’ll speak to that friend of mine, you know, Mr. Strande. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Papa,” says Agnes, “Mr. Strande was a lawyer in Copenhagen. Here he’s just in an insurance office.”

  “Fine,” says Papa. “Then you and me will ask people at the factory if they know a lawyer. Someone will. Though I suppose lawyers are expensive.

  “Never mind,” he hurries on. “Mama, you’ll find food for Maks to bring to Emma. Maks, when you go, you must ask her what happened.”

  The three boys, crying less, look on.

  “There,” says Papa, looking round the room, his eyes full of tears. “Yes,” says Papa, letting a breath out. “My poor, beautiful child. But see, we’re all working together.”