Читать книгу The Orphan Collector - Ellen Marie Wiseman - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

BERNICE

Keeping an eye on the front door of the row house next to the Langes’, Bernice watched to see if Pia would come back out. If she’d gone to a neighbor’s to pick up something, more than likely she’d be quick about it. But what could possibly be important enough for Pia to leave the safety of her home? And if it was something for the babies, how could Mrs. Lange think it was acceptable to risk one child’s life for another? Bernice wondered again if Mrs. Lange was dead. And if so, who was taking care of those precious twin boys?

After what felt like forever, Pia was nowhere to be seen. Bernice couldn’t take it any longer. She had to know why Pia left and, most of all, if the twins were all right. She just had to. Without giving it another thought, she spun around, grabbed her coat, and hurried out of the apartment.

Squinting in the dank hallway, she walked as fast as she could without running. The aroma of fried onions filled the dim corridor, along with an underlying stench of something that reminded her of rotten meat. She nearly tripped over a rusted bucket, then gave a wide berth to a lumpy seed sack crumpled against one wall. It was tied shut at one end and covered in maggots and flies. She couldn’t imagine what was inside. Two black ribbons hung from the door handle of the apartment at the top of the stairs, the rooms that belonged to the widow, Mrs. Duffy, and her sons.

That’s what you get for being a know-nothing drunkard, she thought. You should have stuck with your own kind, instead of coming here to cause trouble with the rest of the bog-jumpers. Her thoughts were unchristian, but she didn’t care. Mrs. Duffy was lazy and trying. She let her sons yell out the windows, and she sang loud, strange songs in the hallways in her heavy Irish brogue, using words no one understood. She showed too much cleavage and came home late at night, her face flush with alcohol, her hair a mess. Bernice couldn’t count the number of times she’d peeked out her door after midnight to watch Mrs. Duffy fumble with her key in the hall, mumbling and unaware she was being watched. It wasn’t right for a mother to behave that way. Bernice wasn’t sure who the ribbons on the Duffys’ door were for, but one thing was clear: Mrs. Duffy had paid for her sins.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she cringed. If Mrs. Duffy was punished for her sins, what about me? What did I do to deserve losing my husband and son? She gripped the staircase railing to keep from falling and went down the dark steps, around and around and around, like the dizzying notions inside her head. She was a moral woman and loving mother. She was fair-minded and kind, and she had been a virtuous wife to her husband. She hadn’t done anything to deserve losing him or Wallis. The flu took whomever it wanted. By the time she reached the bottom floor, she was woozy and breathless, and one of her headaches had started. She stopped in the foyer and rubbed her temples, trying to focus on the task at hand. She needed to find out why Pia had left her building, and if the twins were still alive. She wasn’t sure what she would do if the babies were dead from the flu, but she had to know one way or another. Then she had another thought. What if Mrs. Lange answered the door and wanted to know what she was doing there? How would she explain herself? Anger churned at the bottom of her rib cage again. If Mrs. Lange was there, Bernice would let her know in no uncertain terms that she was crazy and careless for letting her daughter outside at a time like this. If Pia were her child, she’d have kept her home, where she was safe.

Crossing the foyer, she grabbed the handle of the front door, ready to march across the street and give Mrs. Lange a piece of her mind. Then she hesitated. She needed to make sure the coast was clear and Pia wasn’t on her way back. She opened the 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.