City of Orphans Read online

  “Come on, Willa,” says Maks, “this city, people always dying. Last year, in our building, seven people died. Kids, a mother, a father. Agnes’s school told her it’s bad water, bad milk, bad dirt, bad smoke. Ain’t nothing you done bad.”

  He waits for her to say something, but she don’t. Just stands there, smearing tears away. In her hands her stick is twitchy. As far as Maks is concerned, she may be standing right there, but she looks lost.

  He’s wishing he knew what to say but can only mumble, “Sorry.”

  When he realizes Willa ain’t gonna say no more, he says, “Gotta get to the prison.”

  They start walking again, neither talking. As they go, Maks keeps glancing at Willa, feeling sad for her, same time holding on to Emma’s food while keeping a lookout, hoping, hoping they’ll meet his sister coming home.

  In his head he’s thinking, Papa’s right. Times are hard.

  24

  Now, this jail, what they call “The Tombs,” it takes up a whole city block. Built of stones so huge and heavy, it’s partly sunk into soft ground. Means you have to walk down a slope to get to the main entrance steps. Fact, people say going to The Tombs is like taking the first steps to Hell.

  Lots of folks think they call it The Tombs ’cause it’s a place for people getting buried. Sort of. But it actually got its moniker from looking like a temple in a country named Egypt.

  Has these up-front gigantic windows, but you can’t see through ’em. Too dark. So you never know what’s going on in there. Creepy.

  Okay. Now, when Maks and Willa get near the front doors, policemen are on guard, letting only a few people in. These mugs are all swell stiffs, white-haired gents, dressed in black suits, shiny top hats, and gray gloves. Got turkey faces and big mustaches, muttonchop whiskers, trimmed beards. Some even have canes with silver handles. Looking at ’em, Maks thinks, These guys wouldn’t share spit.

  When these men arrive—brought by hansom cabs with fancy-dan horses, snooty drivers up and behind—the cops salute ’em.

  Maks supposes some of these guys are judges. Or police chiefs. Maybe even the famous City Chief Detective Byrnes. Or they could be, he thinks, what people call “bosses,” them political crooks who really run the city. People like Joe Gorker, whose picture is always plastered all over The World.

  Maks wonders if any of ’em are lawyers. They look greased enough. He keeps spinning thoughts that detectives might cost less.

  ’Course, him and Willa ain’t the only ones waiting for doors to open. Lots of women, men, and tons of kids. Maks wonders if he looks like these kids: pale and nervous and frightened.

  Some of the people have paper bags or packages, with food and clothing for prisoners. Though he knows it ain’t much, Maks is glad he’s brought something for Emma.

  He goes up to a kid. “Hey, pal, what time they open the doors?”

  “Ten thirty.”

  “What time is it now?”

  The boy points ’cross the way, to City Hall, which has a clock on its tower. It’s almost nine thirty.

  “Hey, you know if there are any lawyers here?”

  “You off your trolley?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Always vultures round here,” says the boy, pointing to a man standing not far off.

  Maks looks. What he’s seeing is this short, squat, bald-headed guy, with more chins than three people could use, plus side-whiskers that look like weeds gone wild. He’s wearing a dark, lumpy, patched coat that reaches the tops of his dirty boots.

  Two large books—stuffed with papers—are tucked under each of his arms. Other papers stick out of bulging coat pockets. Little eyeglasses perch on his big, blue-veined nose. Around his neck something that, to Maks, looks like a dead snake. As Maks studies him, the guy suddenly turns and— as if he don’t want anyone looking at him—glowers at Maks.

  Maks turns away fast, thinking, Whatever this mug is, he sure ain’t rich.

  “We’ve got some time,” he tells Willa. “Wanna talk to my friend Chimmie.”

  They head over to Chatham Street, the other side of City Hall. What’s there is a row of large buildings, factories for writing and printing newspapers. People call it “Newspaper Row.”

  “See that building with a dome?” Maks brags to Willa. “Print The World there. Twenty-six stories. Biggest office building in the city. They say The World has a lot of power.”

  “What kind of power?”

  Maks grins. “If my paper don’t like you, you get it in your chops.”

  He leads the way behind The World building. There’s an open space where the downtown newsies pick up their papers round two in the afternoon. The World don’t mind if they hang round and wait.

  Though it’s hours ’fore the newsies can buy their bundles, a couple hundred boys—and a few girls—are milling round, not doing much. Some dressed pretty good, others raggedy, with no shoes. Some are playing toss-penny, dice, cards. Others sleeping on the ground.

  “They always here?” asks Willa.

  “Some lives in regular homes. Or, like you, don’t have no parents. They stay here or on the streets. Some sleep in those newsboys’ lodging houses. There are five of ’em. One for girls. Hey, I know a couple of mugs who use old sewer pipe for homes. Some even live in rope houses.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rooms with ropes stretched ’cross. For two cents, you can hang your arms over the ropes, stand there, and sleep. Got a roof, don’t it? In the mornings they just untie the ropes.”

  With Willa by his side, Maks stands by a group playing cards.

  “Hey, Maks,” a kid called Toby shouts. “Who’s the lady?”

  “Name’s Willa.”

  “She your best girl?” says a kid Maks knows as Isaac. Heads turn, all grinning and smirking.

  Maks says, “Don’t laugh. She got me away from the Plug Uglies last night.”

  “Bruno’s gang?” says a kid they call Blink, ’cause he’s blind in one eye.

  “Yeah.”

  “That true?”

  “Said it, didn’t I?”

  The grinning fades. These guys know Bruno and the Plug Uglies. The gang has caught, beat up, and stolen money from many. Some, like Maks, got away. A lot not. For a moment the playing cards are put down as they look at Willa and Maks—but mostly at Willa.

  “How’d she do that?” someone asks.

  Maks grabs Willa’s stick and holds it up. “This.”

  “What happened?” Toby says.

  Maks tells the story. When he’s done, they’re all studying Willa. Maks can’t tell if she likes it or not.

  “Hey, Joan of Arc,” Blink calls out, “anytime yous want to be my best girl, okay with me. Just bring that stick.”

  Some laugh, but nothing mean. Then the guys start swapping Bruno stories. No question: They hate the mug.

  “Someday,” a kid named Rufus says, “we gonna have to get Bruno. Bash him plenty.”

  The others agree, but they go back to playing cards.

  “Anyone see Chimmie?” Maks asks. “Got to talk to him.”

  “Playing ball.”

  Maks looks. On the street some kids are playing some kind of game with a stick and a ball made of wrapped-up string.

  Maks spots Chimmie. He’s a big kid and fast runner who’s always talking baseball. Roots for the Giants and his hero, Shorts Fuller, the Giants’ shortstop.

  “Hey, Chimmie!” Maks yells. “Got to talk to you! Right now!”

  Chimmie comes over. “What’s going?”

  Maks says, “Hey, remember telling me ’bout some private detective you know?”

  “Bartleby Donck? The mug who finds missing husbands?”

  “That all he do?”

  “Tracks crooks, gets stolen things back for people. Works with the cops too. Helps people find evidence, all that stuff that shows if a person did or didn’t do no crookery.”

  “He expensive?”

  Chimmie shrugs. “Lives near me.”

  “W
here’s that?”

  “Delancey Street. Got an office next to our building. Number six twenty-four. Sign in the window. Yous need a detective?”

  “Naw.”

  “I bet,” says Chimmie. “Who’s yer pretty gal?” he asks, nodding toward Willa.

  “Friend of mine,” says Maks. “Thanks. See you paper time.”

  When Willa and Maks get back to The Tombs, the doors are open.

  Halfway up the steps, Willa stops.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She says, “You need to see your sister without me.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s not going to be happy,” Willa says. “And she doesn’t know me. Don’t worry. I won’t disappear.”

  Maks, thinking Willa is probably right, says “Okay.” Clutching Emma’s food tightly, he goes on up to the entry. Don’t be there! he’s wishing for his sister. Don’t be there.

  25

  So many people trying to get into The Tombs, Maks has to stand in line. The bags and bundles people have brought are unwrapped and inspected. Maks is standing behind a lady carrying a baby—they even check the baby.

  When he finally gets through the big main doors, two policemen, one on either side, stop him. They’re big coppers with large, turned-down mustaches, making them look fierce. Their dome helmets remind Maks of sky-scrapers.

  “State your business,” one of them demands. He’s holding a pack of papers.

  Maks, heart thumping, says, “Please, sir, I want to find out if my sister is here.”

  “Name?”

  “Emma.”

  “Emma what?”

  When Maks don’t answer right away, the policeman shouts, “You hear me, kid? Your sister’s last name! Or don’t she got no father?”

  Maks winces. “Geless. Emma Geless.”

  As the cop flips through his papers, Maks holds his breath.

  “Yeah. She’s here. Arrested for larceny.”

  Maks’s stomach churns. “What’s . . . larceny?”

  “She’s a thief. How old?”

  “Me?”

  “Your sister!”

  “Six—sixteen.”

  “In the women’s prison. Not the kids’. Keep going.”

  Maks looks round to see if anyone has heard. If they did, they don’t seem to care.

  He follows the woman who’s carrying her baby. A few steps along, the lady is told to go into a side room where women are being searched. Maks stays put, and another policeman—standing next to a barrel—pats him down, yanks the candle out of his pocket, studies it, frowns, flips it into the barrel. Maks grimaces: Candles cost two for a penny.

  The cop opens Maks’s newspaper-wrapped parcel, sniffs the food, makes an ugly face, gives it back, and hands Maks a ticket.

  “What’s this?”

  “Admittance ticket. Gets you in. Gets you out. ’Less you want to stay here, kid, make sure you hold on to it. Keep going.”

  Clutching ticket and food tightly, Maks goes forward.

  Most everything—floor, walls, ceiling—is made of stone. The echo-bouncing walls have gas jets stuck in them, the light dull yellow. The cold air smells of sewer.

  “Keep moving!” a policeman shouts, and shoves Maks forward.

  A few steps on he’s stopped by another cop. “Ticket?” demands the cop.

  Fumbling, Maks shows it.

  “Who you seeing?”

  “Emma Geless.”

  The policeman checks his list. “Women’s prison,” he says, pointing.

  Along with other visitors, Maks walks down a long, narrow corridor lit by dreary light that seeps through high, dirty windows. No talk. The only sound is shuffling feet. It’s clammy, colder than outside, giving Maks the shivers. His stomach hurts.

  At the end of the corridor there’s an open gate where men and women guards are standing around. Maks joins another line. When he reaches the gate, he’s asked, “Where’s your ticket, kid? Who you here for?”

  “Emma Geless,” says Maks, showing his crumpled slip.

  A guard runs a stubby pointer finger down a list on the wall. “Emma Geless!” he shouts. “Top level! Cell four!” He spits into a spittoon.

  Maks hates him.

  Once through the gate, Maks is met by a fat woman guard in a long, dark skirt and jacket. She holds a billy club. “What’s in your hand, kid?”

  “Food.”

  She grins and gives him a poke. “This way.”

  Maks steps into a huge, high hall. One wall is dull red brick with large dirty windows set so high that no tall person could reach ’em. Or look out.

  Two squat iron stoves sit on the stone-paved floor like fat, ugly toads oozing a bit of heat. In the middle of the hall, there’s a long wooden bench and a set of washing basins.

  Opposite the brick wall are four long rows of prisoner cells, one atop the other. Fifteen cells on each level. The highest row is eighty feet above the ground. On the side facing into the room, the cells have crisscrossing iron bars.

  Maks thinks ’bout animal cages he once saw in a Ninth Avenue circus parade.

  At the far end of the hall, steps lead up.

  On the lower level, where Maks stands gawking, some cell doors are open, so prisoners are walking in and out. Plenty of people selling things: bread, apples, jars of water, cigars. Though it’s the women’s section, men are wandering up and down calling, “Anyone want out? . . . Get you out for bail money! . . . Lawyer! Who wants a lawyer?” Hester Street in jail.

  In fact, the main floor is so crowded, Maks can’t tell who are the prisoners, who aren’t.

  Maks is standing in place, not sure where to go, when another lady guard shouts, “Lower floor, lunatics and convicted. Second floor, murderers and arsonists. Third, burglars. Top, small-time thieves. Who you seeing, kid? Your mother? Grandma?”

  “Sister.”

  “What she do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then she wouldn’t be here, would she?”

  Maks feels as if the guards are hitting him again and again. He forces himself to say, “They say she stole something.”

  “What? Money? Drink? Food?”

  “A watch.”

  “Forked a super, eh?” the grinning guard says. “Top row.”

  The guard leads Maks along the bottom cell row. Though each cell has a small, high window, they’re all dark and murky. Eight or ten women prisoners in each cell. A few women dressed well. Most not. Some are sleeping on the floor. Others sit on skinny benches, heads bowed. Others pace. One lady, on her knees, is praying. Children in the cells too, not just babies. Everything smells and looks sour, sick, sad.

  Following the guard, Maks climbs the steps to the top level. As they go up, he notices that the higher the cells, the smaller they are, and the more crowded. When they reach the top level, they walk along an iron balcony.

  “How come no doors are open here?” Maks asks.

  “Too many suicides.”

  Maks hears moaning and crying. Women press against the bars, stretching out their hands. “Help me! . . . Would you run a message to home? . . . Have you come for me, boy? Hey, boy! Take me home!”

  The guard stops in the front of a cell, bangs the bars with her billy club. “Emma Geless!” she shouts. “Emma Geless! Someone seeing Emma Geless!”

  Maks peers into the dim room. At the far back someone lifts herself from the floor. Takes a few moments for him to realize it’s Emma.

  26

  Emma’s face is not only smeared with grime, her hair’s a tangle, her eyes bloodshot, and the blue hotel uniform she’s still wearing is dirty.

  Emma is in such a rush to get to him, she stumbles over bodies. When she reaches the front of the cell, she shoves her hands through the bars and grabs him, pulling so hard, it hurts. Her questions tumble: “Maks, thank God you’re here. Where’s Mama? Is Papa here? What are they doing to help me? Are you gonna get me out?”

  “We’re trying to help,” Maks says, squeezing her hands back. “How
come they put you here? You gotta tell me what happened.”

  “At the hotel . . . a man said . . .” Emma struggles so hard to talk, she’s gulping. “He said I stole a . . . gold watch.”

  “What man?”

  “The hotel detective. But I didn’t take no watch, Maks. I didn’t. You know I wouldn’t. I never would.”

  “Why’d they think you did?”

  “First they told us girls that someone took a fancy watch from a guest’s room. Then they searched our dormitory where we sleep.” She pauses. “They found a watch chain under my pillow.”

  Maks’s mouth opens, but he can’t speak.

  “But I don’t know how it got there,” Emma says quickly. “I swear to God, I don’t.” She’s gasping and sobbing. “I didn’t take it, Maks.”

  “I believe you.”

  “They took me to the manager’s office, and that hotel detective tried to make me confess. Said he’d go easy on me if I gave the watch back. But I couldn’t ’cause I didn’t know nothing ’bout it.”

  Maks says, “You got any idea who put the chain there? Someone mad at you? Something like that? Anything you can remember?”

  Emma bites her lower lip. Rubs a reddish eye. Tries to smooth her hair. “I can’t think of anything,” she says. “When I got here, they took me to a judge. Some kind of court. All these awful people. That hotel detective was there, said he had proof I took the watch. A policeman swore he saw the proof, but I never seen him before. Not at the hotel.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “The chain under my pillow. Then the judge sent me here. Said I’d have to go to trial. Then be sent to that Blackwell’s prison. On the island in the middle of the East River. For a year! Maybe more. I don’t know where that watch is. You gotta help me, Maks. I just want to come home.”

  He keeps telling her he’s trying. That the whole family knows she didn’t do nothing wrong, that they’re gonna make sure she gets free. “Agnes is finding a lawyer. Look, Mama sent you some food.”

  Emma rips the package open and gulps it all down right then.

  “Ain’t they feeding you nothing?”

  “You have to buy food.”