City of Orphans Read online

  “Perhaps. Do as I tell you and you’ll avoid working the stone quarry at Sing Sing prison for ten years.”

  “I can leave town.”

  The man smiles. “Bruno, there are police everywhere. And they cooperate. I can make copies of the photo. Send them anywhere you might go.”

  Bruno says nothing, but the muscles on the side of his face tighten.

  The man leans forward. “That a welt on your cheek? Looks like you walked into a wall.”

  Bruno mutters, “Something like.”

  “Anyone I know?” says the man.

  “Only if yous knows a lot of walls.”

  “My dear Bruno, do what I ask and you won’t have to see the walls that should worry you the most. Prison walls. If not . . .”

  “Just don’t go thinking you’re better than me,” says Bruno.

  “But I am better,” the man throws back. “Smarter, too. And I have powerful friends.”

  “Who’s your boss? Tammany Democrat? Republicans?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “A swell mobsman, that’s all yous are,” Bruno says with a sneer. “Where do yous come from?”

  “I was born here.”

  “Yeah. But all yous got is a pistol. And connections.”

  The man nods. “And a photo of you.”

  Bruno, feeling hatred, clenches his fists.

  “I don’t care if you like me or not,” the man says. “Just keep doing what I’ve told you to do. And if you don’t . . .” He spreads his jacket, revealing the pistol.

  “Aw, never mind,” says Bruno, wishing, not for the first time, he had that pistol and the photo in his own hands.

  “Good,” says the man. “Now, how did things go today?”

  “Fine,” Bruno says. Reaches down, sets a small sack on the table. Coins clink. “From four newsies.”

  “Four is a sad number, Bruno. You need to work harder,” says the man. “Faster.”

  “Don’t know why yous bother,” says Bruno. “Shagging pennies from mugs.”

  “I don’t care about pennies. The point is, newspapers in this city are powerful. They have a lot of influence. Don’t they?”

  “I don’t know. I just like the Sunday funny pages.”

  “But to get their influence, they must sell the papers to people, correct?”

  “Suppose.”

  “How do they sell them?”

  “Newsies.”

  “Hundreds of them.”

  “So what?”

  “Bruno, for once, think,” says the man. “If someone could control those newsboys, keep them from buying and selling papers, that person would control that newspaper.”

  “What you’re always saying.”

  “Because you don’t seem to grasp it. That boss of mine, the man I work for, wants to control The World and what it says about him. It’s as simple as that. So, Bruno, we start by controlling those boys. I’ve made sure the police won’t interfere. So just harass those boys. Hound them. Make them fear you. Don’t let them slip from your grasp.”

  “They never does,” says Bruno, grinning.

  “Except when you run into walls,” says the man. “Never mind. Keep the pennies. I don’t need them.” He stands up. “It’s late. I must go home.”

  Bruno squints at the man. “How come yous never tells me where yous live?”

  “Because you and I live in different worlds,” says the man. “We have no trouble meeting, do we? Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Here. Make sure you’re on time. Ten o’clock.”

  “Hey,” says Bruno, “if yous don’t like me, how come yous wants me to do your work?”

  The man leans over Bruno and grasps his shoulder hard. “Because you’re dumb. Just make sure not one newsie escapes you,” he says. “Not one. Remember: You answer to this.” He pats the pocket where he keeps his pistol.

  Releasing Bruno’s shoulder, the man snaps the welt mark on the young man’s face.

  Bruno, wincing with pain, turns away.

  The man plucks up the still-burning cigar from the table and offers it to Bruno. “I’m done with it,” he says. “You can have it.”

  Bruno, fighting tears, takes it.

  Grinning, the man walks off. Once outside on the sidewalk, he hails the first hansom cab in the waiting row.

  “Where to, mister?”

  “Waldorf Hotel.”

  “Sure.”

  The man climbs into the cab. The driver shakes the reins. The horse moves forward at a brisk trot.

  Bruno, on the curb, watches from a distance. Someday, he thinks, I’m gonna fix that mug for good. I swears I will.

  22

  Okay, now it’s the next day—Tuesday. Six o’clock in the morning. In the flat on Birmingham Street it’s mostly dark.

  Mama, her breath misty in the cold air, is up first. She lights the kitchen lamp, starts the coal stove by shaking down old ashes. Using matches, twists of paper, and wood scraps, she gets the coal burning. Finding wood bits on the streets—that’s one of Eric’s and Ryker’s jobs.

  Since Willa and Maks are sleeping in the kitchen, they get up too.

  Right off, Maks sneaks into the front room to see if Bruno is on the street. He’s not, which makes Maks feel a whole lot better.

  He comes back, grabs the pot of cold, gray ashes and the two water buckets from under the sink. As he does, he looks at Mama.

  Her long hair, yellow and gray, hangs down her back. Her eyes are dark, deep, and sad. Maks guesses she didn’t sleep too much with so much worry.

  Like him.

  Lit candle in hand, he goes down the stairs, meeting and passing neighbors going to work, to the water pumps, or to the privies. In the day’s early shadow, people seem just half there. A few mumbled greetings, not much more.

  On the second floor one of the Palbeck kids is sleeping in the hallway. He’s sucking his thumb.

  Once outside, Maks dumps the ashes atop the high pile of street curb garbage, then goes back through his building to the yard. He has to wait on line. First it’s to use a privy—twelve people before him. Then it’s to get to the pump. As the chickens cluck round him, he blows out the candle and puts the stub in his pocket.

  Shivering, Maks gazes at the patch of graying sky above and notices it’s the same color as ashes. Least it don’t look or feel like rain.

  Standing there, knowing he’s gonna visit Emma in The Tombs, makes him tense. He’s hoping that when he gets there, they’ll have decided arresting her was a mistake. Be a lark meeting Emma on the street coming home.

  With a heavy pail in each hand, plus the empty ash pot, Maks trudges back upstairs, trying not to spill any water.

  The Palbeck kid is still sleeping in the hall.

  On the third floor Mrs. Tinglist is quiet.

  On the fourth floor the Vershinski family is already making brooms, trying to get their mother from Poland.

  Maks leaves the buckets in the kitchen, takes up the tin milk can, and rushes out round the corner, to the tiny, crowded grocery store that belongs to Mrs. Vograd. Maks can never figure out how so many things can fit in such a small space.

  As Maks dips his pan into the milk barrel, Mrs. Vograd makes a mark in her ledger and calls, “A good morning to your mother! Be so good—thank you—as to tell the lovely lady that family accounts are due Friday. Cash only!”

  Maks hurries home with the milk.

  When he gets back to his stoop, Mr. Tyrone’s fish store has opened. A barrel of herring is on the sidewalk. At the end of the block Mr. Eliscue is leading out one of his horses hauling his ice-block wagon. The white-bearded printer, Mr. Zunser, stooped and slow-moving, puts a hand-lettered OPEN sign on the door of his shop and waits for business.

  As Maks walks through the door of his flat, he announces, “Mrs. Vograd says accounts are due Friday.”

  He don’t know if Mama even hears him.

  While he’s been gone, Mama gave Willa a shirtwaist dress. One of Emma’s old ones, it’s short for Willa. Makes h
er seem taller. But it’s a lot cleaner than what she was wearing.

  Mama gave Willa shoes, too. If there’s one thing the family has—’cause of where Papa and Agnes work—it’s shoes. Usually they have something wrong with ’em—cut or badly sewn—or they wouldn’t get ’em. But they are shoes.

  When Willa sees Maks, she says, “Do I look better?” She offers a small, shy smile. Maks hasn’t seen one of them from her before.

  He says, “Like Queen Louise.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Maks points to the picture on the wall. “The queen of Denmark.”

  Even Mama smiles.

  Papa comes out of the back room. He’s looking no better than Mama—maybe worse—his face pale, full of worry lines.

  After a few moments Agnes follows, her blond hair looped in careful braids. She’s coughing. The rims of her eyes are red.

  Willa watches her intently.

  Papa and Agnes are dressed for work—Papa in boots, trousers, cotton shirt, canvas jacket—same as yesterday. He needs a shave, but he only does that on Sundays.

  Agnes is also wearing what she wore the day before: a blue gingham shirtwaist, black boots that are too big for her.

  Not much talking this morning.

  Mama gives them breakfast: coffee in bowls and a roll each. Papa eats and drinks quickly. Agnes drinks too, but she puts her roll in a pocket for later.

  Mama hands Papa his lunch pail. “Just bread,” she says. “I’m sending the meat to Emma.”

  “That’s good,” says Papa. “Maks, understand? Come to the factory right after you see her.”

  “I know.”

  “And in case they don’t know arresting her was a mistake,” he adds, fussing with his mustache, “I’ll ask about a lawyer. Make sure you tell Emma we’re doing everything to help.”

  Maks is thinking they’re not doing much, but he don’t say it.

  Papa bends over Mama and says something in Danish into her ear. Not something he often does. Mama hugs him back, eyes full of tears.

  Agnes looks over at Maks. He knows what she’s telling him: that while he’s with Emma, she’ll be trying to find a lawyer.

  Just as they’re leaving, Monsieur Zulot comes from the front room. He’s dressed for work in his suit, overcoat, and tie. The whole family thinks he times his coming to get a glimpse of Agnes.

  As Papa and Agnes go out the door, he bows. Maks sees Agnes dart a forced smile at Zulot over her shoulder.

  Mama gives Zulot his breakfast—also coffee and a roll. He bows to her, saying, as always, “Merci, Madam Geless. I wish you an excellent day.” He goes off.

  That’s when Maks routs out his brothers and makes sure they’re dressed right. Mama scrubs their faces with a cloth—regular baths are Saturday nights—and sends them to the privies. When they get back, she gives each of ’em milk with coffee and a roll. Offers the same to Willa and Maks.

  “I’m supposed to take the boys to school,” Maks tells Willa.

  “I’ll go with you, if you want,” she says, not comfortable under Mama’s gaze.

  But all Mama says is, “Maks, when you see Emma, tell her what Papa said: We’re doing everything to help. Give her lots of love. After seeing her, go right to Papa. Then come home so I know everything too.”

  She gives the young boys a kiss on their foreheads, tells them to be good, to mind their teachers, to learn a lot. They hug her.

  To Mama, Willa says, “Thank you for letting me stay. And for the food, dress, and shoes.”

  Mama seems ’bout to speak, but all she says is, “You’re most welcome.”

  “Maks,” says his mother, “here’s food for Emma. A sausage and roll wrapped in a piece of paper.”

  The three brothers head out the door with Willa, who has her stick in hand. Maks is wearing his jacket and cap. Just as he’s leaving, Mama suddenly calls, “Maks!”

  He looks to her.

  She beckons for him to come back. Maks, not knowing what’s the matter, does as she asks.

  “Shut the door,” Mama whispers. Hands pressed together, she says, “Should I go with you to the jail?”

  Maks, not wanting to deal with his mother’s upset, says, “Naw. Bet you anything they already let her out. You’ll see. Be all a mistake.”

  Mama’s face brightens. “Do you really think so?”

  “Mama, she didn’t steal nothing.”

  “No, no. Of course not. But—”

  “I gotta go,” says Maks.

  “Maks!”

  He stops.

  Mama says, “I . . . I want you to bring that girl—Willa.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. It’s not right for a girl to live on the street alone. And winter’s coming.”

  Surprised, Maks says, “You mean . . . live here?”

  Mama nods.

  Maks says, “Told me she likes living alone.”

  Mama shakes her head. “I won’t feel right unless you ask.”

  “You want to tell her?”

  “She’s your friend.”

  “You sure?”

  Mama nods.

  “Okay.”

  Maks goes into the hall, where the others are waiting. Willa gives him one of her question looks, but Maks decides he’s gotta get the boys to school ’fore telling her what Mama said. He does say, “Bruno’s not there.”

  “Who’s Bruno?” Jacob says.

  “No one.”

  “How come you got your stick?” Eric asks Willa.

  “I’m going to my home.”

  “You ever coming back?” Ryker says.

  Willa, lips pressed tight, shakes her head.

  23

  Like most days, people—kids and adults—are swarming the streets, their eyes half shut with sleep. Mostly, they’re going to jobs, though a few kids are heading to school.

  As Maks, Willa, and the boys pass through the streets, stores, stalls, and pushcarts are opening for business. Calls are heard: “Hot corn! Here’s your hot corn! . . . Mend your pots and pans! . . . Fresh fish!” The knife grinder sings: “Sharpen your scissors and knives. Make them sharp for your wives!”

  Newsies are on every corner, crying the headlines: “Extra! Extra! ‘Awful Railroad Wreck in Canada! Nineteen Persons Killed!’ Read it in The Times.”

  Sandwich board men have begun to wander, though most can’t even read what’s written on their signs.

  Bootblacks are lugging shoe boxes as they head up or downtown, all the while yelling, “Shine! Shine! Bright boots gets the loot! Shine ’em up!”

  Girl peddlers are out too, offering ribbons, bread, and handkerchiefs. “Look pretty! Eat nice!” they cry in high, piping voices.

  Midst ’em all, beggars picking through the early garbage in search of food.

  Maks herds his brothers—along with Willa—to school. When they arrive, crowds of kids are waiting by the fenced-in entrance for doors to open. Some parents are there, but mostly older girls—“little mothers” they call ’em, the girls taking care of younger sisters and brothers while mothers work.

  Maks gathers his brothers, puts his arms round ’em, leans in. “Remember: No telling no one nothing ’bout Emma. Nothing!”

  They promise they won’t.

  “She gonna be home when we get back?” asks Eric.

  “Sure,” says Maks, shoving them toward the school.

  “Hey, Maks,” says Ryker, “guess what happens Friday?”

  “What?”

  “Friday the thirteenth.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Eric turns back, grins, and calls, “Good-bye, Waddah!”

  “Come on,” Maks says to Willa.

  They head for The Tombs.

  For a while they don’t talk. Then Maks says, “You ever go to school?”

  Willa shakes her head.

  “When I went,” Maks says, “a hundred kids in my class. So noisy, half the time I couldn’t hear what teacher’s saying. Got so restless, she kept sending me out of the room. I’d just go p
lay on the streets.”

  Willa says nothing.

  They go on, not talking. Maks, not sure how he feels about it, is trying to decide when he should tell her what Mama told him. It’s five minutes before he says, “Guess what Mama said when we left?”

  Willa shakes her head.

  “Said that when I come home, I should bring you. That you shouldn’t be living alone.”

  Willa stops short. Looks at Maks with hard eyes, mouth clamped tight. To Maks’s surprise, she seems angry.

  “Honest,” he says, trying to understand what she’s thinking, why she’s looking so mad. “What she said.”

  Willa starts walking again, fast, as if trying to get away.

  Maks catches up to her. “What’s the matter?”

  Willa shakes her head.

  After a couple of blocks Willa stops. Not looking at Maks, she says, “Did your mother really say that?”

  “Honest,” he says, wishing he knew what’s bothering her.

  “You mean,” she says, “live with your family?”

  “I guess.”

  Willa stares at Maks as if searching for something. Same time, she’s smoothing down her dress. Then she shifts away, looking elsewhere. Maks don’t know what’s happening.

  “Hey,” he says, “don’t worry. I told Mama you probably wouldn’t.”

  She swings toward him. Tears are welling in her eyes. “Why did you say that?” she cries.

  “Thought you told me you liked being alone.”

  Willa stands there, breathing fast. Without looking at Maks, she says, “I didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Willa tries to find her breath, then says, “My mother died.”

  “Thought you said she was . . . gone.”

  “Can’t be any more gone than dead, can you?” Willa says, her voice wobbly. She’s still not looking at Maks. “And . . . and later on, my father . . .” She can’t talk.

  “Your father . . . what?”

  “He died too, I think.”

  “Just think?”

  “Sometimes,” she says, “I think . . . I think he didn’t die. That he just . . . went away.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe . . . because of something . . . I did.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Willa says again, her voice a shambles. Tears run down her cheeks. She wipes them away furiously.