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Therefore, it stood to reason that as long as everyone did what the Board of Health advised—kept their feet dry, stayed warm, ate more onions, and kept their bowels and windows open—they’d be fine.
posters on telephone poles and buildings that read: “When obliged to cough or sneeze, always place a handkerchief, paper napkin, or fabric of some kind before the face,” or “Cover your mouth! Influenza Is Spread by Droplets Sprayed from Nose and Mouth!”
The city reminded her of a clogged beehive, teeming with people instead of insects.
Even sauerkraut and hamburgers were renamed “liberty cabbage” and “liberty sandwiches.”
Line after line of laundry hung damp and unmoving in the humid air above their heads, crisscrossing the row of buildings like layers of circus flags.
it was their little secret. One of the few things Pia didn’t have to share with anyone else.
to Selma and shook her while the class watched,
“Obey the laws and wear the gauze, protect your jaws from septic paws.”
Black meant the death of an adult; gray an elderly person; white a child.
Pia needed to tell her it wasn’t a good idea to go out, not until things returned to normal.
“The churches and schools are to be closed,” she said. “All places for gathering, even the factories and moving picture houses, will not be open. No funerals are to be allowed either. Many people are getting sick, so everyone is to stay home.”
It made no sense, of course—fresh air was supposed to ward off influenza—but the urge to shut out the disease and fear-filled air everyone else was breathing outweighed any common sense. She knelt on the bed and put her hands on the sash, ready to pull it down.
Desperation was a powerful thing.
Looking out over the eerily silent Fifth Ward, a cold eddy of loneliness began to swirl inside her chest. The sun blazed on the distant horizon, casting a yellow glow over the cool fall evening, the perfect weather for a brisk walk or a rousing game of stickball. But no children played in the alley below. No delivery wagons rattled along the cobblestones. No women gossiped on the front stoops or called their children in from open windows. A hollow draft of fear swept through her. It felt like the end of the world.
The citizens of Philadelphia began whispering the word plague.
Pia stared at her mother, bile rising in the back of her throat, the babies howling in her arms. What were she and the twins going to do without her? Who was going to take care of them now? Pia wailed with her brothers, fighting the urge to scream and vomit, the black manacle of grief closing around her shattered heart and locking into place with a horrible, sickening thud.
Everything she knew to be good was gone. Everything she knew to be true and absolute and fair about the world had been destroyed.
number of them were already dead, their faces as purple as plums, their mouths and noses and eyes caked with dark blood.
Bernice could hear her father’s voice now: “This is America, they need to learn our language or go back where they came from!”
She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the flu started with them. After all, everyone knew migrants brought disease across the nation’s ports and borders—the Irish brought cholera, the Jews brought tuberculosis, the Italians brought polio, and the Chinese brought bubonic plaque. She and some of the other women in her prayer group had often discussed the personal hygiene habits, unhealthy tendencies, and questionable morals of foreign-born people. And they all agreed the “Don’t Spit” signs should have been printed in all languages, not just English.
Deep down, she knew all mothers loved their children and grieved the same way, no matter their nationality, race, or religion. And yet... and yet it seemed as though the newcomers always had three or four offspring to replace the children they lost. She only had one. And he was gone. No one was immune to getting sick. Except, it seemed, for her.
How was such a horrendous nightmare allowed? And where was the God she knew and loved? The
So far she’d felt nothing worrisome, but the fear sat like a boulder in her stomach, heavy and solid and unmoving.
She kept the family organized and strong, while always making sure they knew they were loved.
One of Mutti’s favorite sayings was, “We may not have it all together, but together we have it all.”
Between that and everyone dying of the flu, the world felt like it was coming to an end. Everything Pia knew and relied on had disappeared.
Then she remembered what Mutti always said whenever she felt confused or unsure, “Just do the next thing.”
the best way to move through a complicated situation was to decide what needed to be done next and just do it.
Everything was gone.
The flu took whomever it wanted.
Part of her wanted to give up and give in, to go home and lay down with Ollie and Max, to let the flu or starvation take them, whichever came first. Because what was the sense in surviving if everyone else was dead?
A hug was a small gesture that didn’t cost a thing.
“What happened to her?” Jenny shrugged. “Guess they were doing some kind of medical experiments on her, something to do with tuberculosis.” “Who was doing experiments on her?” “One of the doctors at the other orphanage.” Pia’s stomach turned over. She thought orphanages were supposed to keep children safe. “Do you think it’s true?” “Yeah, I believe it,” Jenny said. “We’re throwaways. They can do whatever they want to us. You’ll see.” “What do you mean,
It was a late Sunday afternoon, a few minutes before suppertime, and a gathering of gray clouds hung low and ominous in the sky. It had been raining all day, and the swollen river churned swift and deep, the bare trees on the opposite shore like black fingers reaching out of the rocky banks.
the empty iron swing sets and slide like the skeleton of some half-buried beast.
to rid the room of the stench of fear, loneliness, and urine that seemed as thick as the paneling on the walls.
How was it possible for life to turn into a nightmare so fast?
She knew exactly what Mrs. Winston was feeling; an anguish so overwhelming it felt like a giant hand had ripped out her insides.
‘The Lord helps those who help themselves.’”
she’s got a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb.”
Pia collapsed back on the bed, sinking into a pit of despair, the sharp pain in her arm throbbing with every hard beat of her broken heart.
The pain had dulled somewhat, but it was always there, like the black boulder of grief inside her heart, ready to make itself known if she moved just right or tried to lift something using that hand.
For all she knew, Mother Joe had purposely taken her out of the frying pan and put her into the fire.
case. In the meantime, instead of worrying about something she had no control over, she decided to concentrate on taking care of the Hudson children as best she could.
A few words written on a piece of paper had destroyed her last fragment of hope that her father might return.
new immigration act signed by Calvin Coolidge limiting the number of southern and eastern Europeans, Arabs, and Jews allowed into the country—the purpose of which was to preserve the American ideal of homogeneity and stabilize the ethnic composition of the population—a
The guilt of what she’d done and her failure to find out what happened to them felt like a bleeding wound inside her heart, constantly ripped open by the slightest poke or nudge.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because it was the right thing to say.
bewildered and stunned into silence by fury and despair.
She wanted to rescue them all, to steal them from this prison and take them home, to feed them and love them and let them know they weren’t alone.
