Orphan Train

it,” the boy says. “Or you can run away. Or maybe you’ll get
     lucky and live happily ever after. Only the good Lord knows what’s going to happen,
     and He ain’t telling.”

Union Station, Chicago, 1929
    We become an odd little family, the boy—real name Hans, I learn, called Dutchy on the street—and Carmine and I in our three-seat abode. Dutchy tells me he
     was born in New York to German parents, that his mother died of pneumonia and his
     father sent him out on the streets to earn money as a bootblack, beating him with
     a belt if he didn’t bring enough in. So one day he stopped going home. He fell in
     with a group of boys who slept on any convenient step or sidewalk during the summer,
     and in the winter months in barrels and doorways, in discarded boxes on iron gratings
     on the margin of Printing House Square, warm air and steam rising from the engines
     beneath. He taught himself piano by ear in the back room of a speakeasy, plunked out
     tunes at night for drunken patrons, saw things no twelve-year-old should see. The
     boys tried to look after one another, though if one got sick or maimed—catching pneumonia
     or falling off a streetcar or under the wheels of a truck—there wasn’t much any of
     them could do.
    A few kids from Dutchy’s gang are on the train with us—he points out Slobbery Jack,
     who has a habit of spilling on himself, and Whitey, a boy with translucent skin. They
     were lured off the street with the promise of a hot meal, and here’s where they ended
     up.
    “What about the hot meal? Did you get it?”
    “Did we ever. Roast beef and potatoes. And a clean bed. But I don’t trust it. I wager
     they’re paid by the head, the way Indians take scalps.”
    “It’s charity,” I say. “Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Scatcherd said? It’s their Christian
     duty.”
    “All I know is nobody ever did nothing for me out of Christian duty. I call tell by
     the way they’re talking I’m going to end up worked to the bone and not see a dime
     for it. You’re a girl. You might be all right, baking pies in the kitchen or taking
     care of a baby.” He squints at me. “Except for the red hair and freckles, you look
     okay. You’ll be fine and dandy sitting at the table with a napkin on your lap. Not
     me. I’m too old to be taught manners, or to follow somebody else’s rules. The only
     thing I’m good for is hard labor. Same with all of us newsies and peddlers and bill
     posters and bootblacks.” He nods toward one boy after another in the car.
    O N THE THIRD DAY WE CROSS THE I LLINOIS STATE LINE . N EAR C HICAGO , Mrs. Scatcherd stands for another lecture. “In a few minutes we will arrive at Union
     Station, whereupon we will switch trains for the next portion of our journey,” she
     tells us. “If it were up to me, I’d send you in a straight line right across the platform
     to the other train, without a minute’s worry that you’ll get yourselves into trouble.
     But we are not allowed to board for half an hour. Young men, you will wear your suit
     coats, and young ladies must put on your pinafores. Careful not to muss them now.
    “Chicago is a proud and noble city, on the edge of a great lake. The lake makes it
     windy, hence its appellation: the Windy City. You will bring your suitcases, of course,
     and your wool blanket to wrap yourself in, as we will be on the platform for at least
     an hour.
    “The good citizens of Chicago no doubt view you as ruffians, thieves, and beggars,
     hopeless sinners who have not a chance in the world of being redeemed. They are justifiably
     suspicious of your character. Your task is to prove them wrong—to behave with impeccable
     manners, and comport yourselves like the model citizens the Children’s Aid Society
     believes you can become.”
    T HE WIND ON THE PLATFORM RUSHES THROUGH MY DRESS . I WRAP my blanket tight around my shoulders, keeping a close eye on Carmine as he staggers
     around, seemingly oblivious to the cold. He wants to know the names of everything: Train. Wheel. Mrs. Scatcherd, frowning at the conductor. Mr. Curran, poring over papers with a station agent. Lights —which to Carmine’s amazement turn on while he’s gazing at them, as if by magic.
    Contrary to Mrs. Scatcherd’s expectations—or perhaps in response to her rebuke—we
     are a quiet lot, even the older boys. We huddle together, complacent as cattle, stamping
     our feet to stay warm.
    Except for Dutchy. Where did he go?
    “Psst.