Orphan Train

medicine cabinet and clean towels in the hall closet.
     Every two years, Mr. Nielsen tells me, he trades in his car for a new model.
    On Sunday morning we go to church. Grace Lutheran is different from any place of worship
     I’ve ever seen: a simple white building with a steeple, Gothic arched windows, oak
     pews, and a spare altar. I find the rituals comforting—the tried-and-true hymns, sermons
     by the mild-mannered, slope-shouldered reverend that emphasize decency and good manners.
     Mr. Nielsen and other parishioners grumble about the organist, who either plays so
     fast that we jumble the words or so slow that the songs become dirges, and he can’t
     seem to take his foot off the pedal. But nobody actually protests—they just raise
     their eyebrows at each other midsong and shrug.
    I like the assumption that everyone is trying his best, and we should all just be
     kind to each other. I like the coffee hour with almond cake and snickerdoodles in
     the vestry. And I like being associated with the Nielsens, who seem to be generally
     regarded as fine, upstanding citizens. For the first time in my life, the glow of
     other people’s approval extends to, and envelops, me.
    L IFE WITH THE N IELSENS IS CALM AND ORDERLY . E ACH MORNING AT five thirty, six days a week, Mrs. Nielsen makes breakfast for her husband, usually
     fried eggs and toast, and he leaves for the store to open for the farmers at six.
     I get ready for school and leave the house at seven forty-five for the ten-minute
     walk to the schoolhouse, a brick building that holds sixty children, separated into
     grades.
    On my first day in this new school, the fifth-grade teacher, Miss Buschkowsky, asks
     the twelve of us in her class to introduce ourselves and list one or two of our hobbies.
    I’ve never heard of a “hobby.” But the boy before me says playing stick-ball, and
     the girl before him says stamp collecting, so when the question comes to me, I say
     sewing.
    “Lovely, Dorothy!” Miss Buschkowsky says. “What do you like to sew?”
    “Clothes, mostly,” I tell the class.
    Miss Buschkowsky smiles encouragingly. “For your dolls?”
    “No, for ladies.”
    “Well, isn’t that nice!” she says in a too-bright voice, and in that way it becomes
     clear to me that most ten-year-olds probably don’t sew clothes for ladies.
    And so I begin to adjust. The kids know I’ve come from somewhere else, but as time
     passes, and with careful effort, I lose any trace of an accent. I note what the girls
     my age are wearing and the style of their hair and the subject of their conversations,
     and I work hard to banish my foreignness, to make friends, to fit in.
    After school, at three o’clock, I walk directly to the store. Nielsen’s is a large
     open space divided into aisles, with a pharmacy in the back, a candy section up front,
     clothes, books, and magazines, shampoo, milk, and produce. My job is to stack shelves
     and help with inventory. When it’s busy, I help out at the cash register.
    From my place at the counter I see longing in the faces of certain children—the ones
     who sidle into the store and linger in the candy aisle, eyeing the hard striped sticks
     with a fierce hunger I remember only too well. I ask Mr. Nielsen if I can use my own
     earnings to give a child a stick of penny candy now and then, and he laughs. “Use
     your discretion, Dorothy. I won’t take it out of your wages.”
    Mrs. Nielsen leaves the store at five to start dinner; sometimes I go home with her,
     and sometimes I stay and help Mr. Nielsen close up. He always leaves at six. At dinner
     we talk about the weather and my homework and the store. Mr. Nielsen is a member of
     the chamber of commerce, and conversations often include discussion of initiatives
     and plans for stimulating business in this “unruly” economy, as he calls it. Late
     at night, Mr. Nielsen sits in the parlor at his rolltop desk, going over the store
     ledgers, while Mrs. Nielsen prepares our lunches for the next day, tidies the kitchen,
     takes care of household tasks. I help wash the dishes, sweep the floor. When chores
     are done, we play checkers or hearts and listen to the radio. Mrs. Nielsen teaches
     me to needlepoint; while she’s making intricately detailed pillows for the sofa, I
     work on the floral cover for a stool.
    One of my first tasks at the store is to help decorate for Christmas. Mrs. Nielsen
     and I bring boxes filled with glass balls and china ornaments and