Orphan Train(19)

The sun is so bright that I have to squint, so hot that I edge to the middle seat, out of the glare of the window, scooping Carmine onto my lap. As we go under bridges and pull through stations the light flickers and Carmine makes a shadow game of moving his hand across my white pinafore.

“You should make out all right,” Dutchy says in a low voice. “At least you won’t be breaking your back doing farm work.”

“You don’t know that I won’t,” I say. “And you don’t know that you will.”





Milwaukee Road Depot, Minneapolis, 1929


The train pulls into the station with a high-pitched squealing of brakes and a great gust of steam. Carmine is quiet, gaping at the buildings and wires and people outside the window, after hundreds of miles of fields and trees.

We stand and begin to gather our belongings. Dutchy reaches up for our bags and sets them in the aisle. Out the window I can see Mrs. Scatcherd and Mr. Curran on the platform talking to two men in suits and ties and black fedoras, with several policemen behind them. Mr. Curran shakes their hands, then sweeps his hand toward us as we step off the train.

I want to say something to Dutchy, but I can’t think of what. My hands are clammy. It’s a terrible kind of anticipation, not knowing what we’re walking into. The last time I felt this way I was in the waiting rooms at Ellis Island. We were tired, and Mam wasn’t well, and we didn’t know where we were going or what kind of life we would have. But now I can see all I took for granted: I had a family. I believed that whatever happened, we’d be together.

A policeman blows a whistle and holds his arm in the air, and we understand that we’re to line up. The solid weight of Carmine is in my arms, his hot breath, slightly sour and sticky from his morning milk, on my cheek. Dutchy carries our bags.

“Quickly, children,” Mrs. Scatcherd says. “In two straight lines. That’s good.” Her tone is softer than usual, and I wonder if it’s because we’re around other adults or because she knows what’s next. “This way.” We proceed behind her up a wide stone staircase, the clatter of our hard-soled shoes on the steps echoing like a drumroll. At the top of the stairs we make our way down a corridor lit by glowing gas lamps, and into the main waiting room of the station—not as majestic as the one in Chicago, but impressive nonetheless. It’s big and bright, with large, multipaned windows. Up ahead, Mrs. Scatcherd’s black robe billows behind her like a sail.

People point and whisper, and I wonder if they know why we’re here. And then I spot a broadside affixed to a column. In black block letters on white papers, it reads:

WANTED

HOMES FOR ORPHAN CHILDREN

A COMPANY OF HOMELESS CHILDREN FROM THE EAST WILL

ARRIVE AT

MILWAUKEE ROAD DEPOT, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 18.

DISTRIBUTION WILL TAKE PLACE AT 10 A.M.

THESE CHILDREN ARE OF VARIOUS AGES AND BOTH SEXES, HAVING BEEN THROWN FRIENDLESS UPON THE WORLD . . .



“What did I say?” Dutchy says, following my glance. “Pig slops.”

“You can read?” I ask with surprise, and he grins.

As if someone has turned a crank in my back, I am propelled forward, one foot in front of the other. The cacophony of the station becomes a dull roar in my ears. I smell something sweet—candy apples?—as we pass a vendor’s cart. The hair on my neck is limp, and I feel a trickle of sweat down my back. Carmine is impossibly heavy. How strange, I think—that I am in a place my parents have never been and will never see. How strange that I am here and they are gone.

I touch the claddagh cross around my neck.

The older boys no longer seem so rough. Their masks have slipped; I see fear on their faces. Some of the children are sniffling, but most are trying very hard to be quiet, to do what’s expected of them.

Ahead of us, Mrs. Scatcherd stands beside a large oak door, hands clasped in front of her. When we reach her, we gather around in a semicircle, the older girls holding babies and the younger children holding hands, the boys’ hands stuffed in their pockets.

Mrs. Scatcherd bows her head. “Mary, Mother of God, we beseech you to cast a benevolent eye over these children, to guide them and bless them as they make their way in the world. We are your humble servants in His name. Amen.”

“Amen,” the pious few say quickly, and the rest of us follow.

Mrs. Scatcherd takes off her glasses. “We have reached our destination. From here, the Lord willing, you will disperse to families who need you and want you.” She clears her throat. “Now remember, not everyone will find a match right away. This is to be expected, and nothing to worry about. If you do not match now you will simply board the train with Mr. Curran and me, and we will travel to another station about an hour from here. And if you do not find placement there, you will come with us to the next town.”

The children around me move like a skittish herd. My stomach is hollow and trembly.

Mrs. Scatcherd nods. “All right, Mr. Curran, are we ready?”

“We are, Mrs. Scatcherd,” he says, and leans against the large door with his shoulder, pushing it open.


WE’RE AT THE BACK OF A LARGE, WOOD-PANELED ROOM WITH NO windows, filled with people milling about and rows of empty chairs. As Mrs. Scatcherd leads us down the center aisle toward a low stage at the front, a hush falls over the crowd, and then a swelling murmur. People in the aisle move aside to let us pass.