All for a Sister (18 page)

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t believe he watches us?”

He shook his head. “Not like this. Not from this kind of distance. How could anybody out there call and be heard? How can we see from here any need or pain?”

“That’s just it. I think, sometimes, he doesn’t. If he could see me or hear me, how could he have just
left
me there in that place?”

“I was a filmmaker before the war.” He spoke out to the city. “And during, too, though mostly a photographer. Easier to capture and hold an image at a time. When you photograph the dead—young men, motionless . . . They tell their own story. It
was hard, then, to imagine God looking down and allowing such atrocities to take place.”

“That must have been awful,” she said, aware of how petulant she must sound in comparison. “And I don’t mean to imply any doubt.”

“I know.” Then, somehow, her hand was encased in his, and he brought it to his lips. She felt the brush of his faint whiskers against her skin, reminding her of a peach she’d had one time, and her mouth filled with the remembered sweetness of it. He laid her palm flat against his chest, pressing it to the point that she felt the sharp corners of his onyx buttons digging into the heel of her palm, and the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. “I think God sees us from here. That somehow he watches the world for its own sake, but for us—for you and me—he watches from within. So he knows our fears, and calms them.”

Once again, she couldn’t breathe, but it was different from before. Not the panic that constricted her throat back at the theater, but a lifting of a burden. Moments before they’d shared a thought, and now it seemed they shared a pulse.

“There were times,” he continued, “when I would be on a barren field, sitting beside a young man whose lifeblood stained the earth, and I would find myself looking at him through the eyes of God. I would feel God inside of me, stronger than I myself could ever hope to be. There must have been times when you felt that too.”

She swallowed, feeling silly for her testimony of self-pity. “There were.”

“Tell me.”

The night’s breeze was chilly—more so, it seemed, than when they were driving—and she shivered against it. Werner kissed her hand again, then released it to shrug out of his fine jacket, which
he draped across her shoulders before leading her to once again sit down in the seat. Though warmer, Dana drew the lapels close around her, delighting in the weight of the wool, but also thankful to tuck herself away from his touch. She leaned her head back and looked into the vastness of the night, more sky than she’d seen in her lifetime, and let her words drift to the stars.

EXTERIOR:
The walls are eight feet tall, solid brick, and continuous save for one break spanned by scrolled-iron gates. Within, children play at makeshift matches, running in a vicious game of tag in which victims are tackled to the ground and buried under piles of flailing arms, only to be separated by the thickset matron who seems more concerned with restoring order than saving skin. No comfort is given to the littlest one under the pile as the matron unceremoniously yanks it to its feet and sends it back into the teeming fold.

CUT TO:
In one corner, outside the matron’s line of sight, a group of boys pass around a single cigarette.

CUT TO:
Two little girls whisper secrets while a third seems poised to slug it out of them.

CUT TO:
Dana, hardly a girl at all, but a young woman sitting quietly alone. She wears her hair in a single, thick braid tied with a scrap of cloth at the end. The sleeves of her dress stop well above her wrists, though the fabric hangs on her thin frame. Her stockings are riddled with holes, and a scrap identical to that which adorns her braid is wrapped around one of her shoes, holding the sole in place. She has a wooden cigar box on her lap, which she uses as a makeshift desk. Her brow is furrowed, her face twisted in concentration as she wields a stub of pencil and writes.

CLOSE-UP—LETTER:
To the Honorable Judge Stevens. Dear Sir, I have written twenty letters to you with no response. . . .

1908

The shrill sound of the whistle pulled Dana’s attention away from her writing. She looked up, thinking her ears must be playing a trick on her. Perhaps what she’d heard was an overzealous bird, as eager as the children to greet the spring. But no, there was Mrs. Karistin, striding across the courtyard, waving her arms and charging at the smoking boys as though to bowl them right into the bricks.

With a sigh, Dana placed the paper and pencil in the box and closed the lid. By the second tweet, the children were lined up along the wall, roughly by size and age, the littlest one on the end not more than five years old. He’d arrived three days ago, after planting his boot squarely in the shin of a police officer in the process of arresting his father.

Mrs. Karistin slowly strode the length of them, touching a bamboo rod to the top of each head, counting, One to Seventeen, Seventeen to One.

“Ready to lead us in, then, are you, Little Kicker?”

He gave her a comical salute, and with measured, shuffling steps, the children filed inside. Mrs. Karistin’s bamboo stick created a slender but impenetrable barricade across the doorway. Wordlessly, Dana handed the box over.

“Nothing for the post?”

Dana kept her eyes trained on the massive, gray-clad shoulder in front of her. “I didn’t get to finish. Might I have more time tomorrow?”

“You know my rules by now, Baby Killer. First Tuesday of the month, you get to write your letter.”

Before she could stop herself, Dana protested. “But you blew the whistle early.”

Thwack!
And the bamboo pole struck her square across the shoulders. Mrs. Karistin could move with catlike speed when she wanted to.

“What did you say to me?”

It was the woman’s favorite trap. Were Dana to say, “Nothing,” she’d be struck again for lying. If she repeated the offending phrase, she’d be struck a second time for the same offense. Dana had seen it played out time and time again.

Thwack!
“Were you running in the corridor?”

Thwack!
“Were you whistling in the breakfast line?”

Thwack!
“Did you soil your sheets again?”

Mrs. Karistin took a sinister satisfaction in the execution of the conundrum. Most children, after the first or second time, merely melted into tears at the question. Oddly enough, this often saved them from the second blow. But Dana had no tears for Mrs. Karistin or her rod. She’d learned to avoid the question altogether.

“I always have time to complete my letter, ma’am.” She dug in her heels and looked straight into the matron’s steel-blue eyes. “I write the same thing every month, and I know I don’t write any more slowly.”

Mrs. Karistin’s nostrils flared and constricted throughout Dana’s speech, and the smile she formed in response stretched thin and mirthless across her square face. She took the tip of the bamboo rod and touched it to Dana’s chin, forcing her head back, angled to look at the sky.

“You see that?” Mrs. Karistin pressed the rod harder, until Dana felt a roughened sliver pierce her skin. “Them look like sunny spring skies up there?”

“No, ma’am.” Dana kept her jaw clenched.

“Looks like storms, don’t it. And I thought it would be a good idea to get them little’uns in before the storm hits. So’s they don’t catch a chill. But I suppose you’d rather they stay out in the rain—catch their death—wouldn’t you, Baby Killer?”

For the first time in nearly a year, Dana felt the prick of tears and a more familiar burning in her stretched throat. She said nothing.

“Not enough to sneak in and kill some helpless thing in its crib. Now you want ’em all struck down with chills so you can write your precious letter.”

As if in confirmation, a single cold, wet drop landed on Dana’s upturned forehead and slid down her temple, blending with the first warm tear.

“Look at that.” One last prod, and she took the bamboo away. “Mrs. K. knows of what she speaks, don’t she? But look at your sad little face. Are you sad?” She’d developed a mincing, condescending tone. “Here.” She shoved the box back into Dana’s hands and flipped the lid open. “Go on. Stand out there. Write all you please.”

Dana took one mistrustful step after another, heading toward her vacated bench.

“Not there,” Mrs. Karistin corrected. “Right out there, middle of the courtyard. Sit yourself down.” She tapped the bamboo against her palm, leaving no doubt she’d crack it across Dana’s back should she refuse to comply.

The rain was coming down in earnest now, splashing onto her exposed paper, making her unfinished words thick and blurred. At this rate the paper would be soaked through, spoiled and swollen, but she dared not close the lid.

She cried openly, freely, her tears mixed with rain. Rivulets ran down into the back of her dress and her body shook with
sobs and chill. It had become a downpour, filling her ears with nothing beyond the sound of water pelting against the concrete benches, the windows, and newly sprung leaves on the trees. But then there was another sound, piercing and familiar. The whistle that daily sounded the end of the children’s outside play. Dana turned her head; clumped, wet strands slapped against her cheeks.

There stood Mrs. Karistin in the doorway, silver whistle trapped between compressed lips as she ushered the children one by one outside into the yard. Confusion touched each face, and while some of the more rambunctious boys ran out to splash in the puddles, the girls, especially the little ones, clung close to each other and tried to take shelter against the wall.

Dana scrambled to stand, struggling to find purchase in the wet grass, and let her letter box drop to the ground. Sodden sheets of paper spilled out, but she didn’t care.

“Go inside!” She yanked at the sleeve of a boy called simply Thief, and pushed him in the direction of the door. “Go!” Running throughout the courtyard, hunched over with her arms stretched out like goose wings, Dana attempted to herd the children, too many of whom took this to be part of a marvelous surprise game, and they ran from her, squealing, heads up to let the rain wash their dirty faces. Her dress grew heavy. Mud and water seeped through her torn shoes. She continued to scream, “Go! Inside, now!” and felt her voice growing hoarse with this new demand.

The squealing sound of laughter interlaced with the pounding rain and with Dana’s shouts, the ensuing cacophony enough to draw faces to the windows of the Bridewell. One in particular caught Dana’s attention. Third floor, in the wing opposite where the children were housed, a square of warm yellow light within the dark-soaked red brick. A small, plain man with twice as much hair above his lip as on his head. Dana knew him only by sight
and by name. She’d never had occasion to speak with him and had heard his voice only once when he came to the dormitory to certify that the nine-year-old girl in the cot next to her had coughed herself to death in the night.

Warden Webb, thumbs hooked into his vest pockets, stared down at the chaotic scene below. Under his watchful eye, Dana stopped and squared her stance.

“She won’t let us in!” Her hand was growing numb with cold, but she molded it into a single pointing finger stretching directly toward Mrs. Karistin. Warden Webb, however, kept his eyes trained on Dana as he leaned closer to the glass, brow furrowed.

“She won’t let us in! Let us in!” Over and over she shouted, creating splashes with the emphatic stomping of her foot. “Tell her to—”

Warden Webb stepped away from the window just as the shrill tweet of Mrs. Karistin’s whistle brought each of the children to a frozen halt. Moving slowly, as if walking in water rather than simply through the rain, the children lined up again, smallest to tallest, all of them made more diminutive under soaked clothing and dark, dripping hair.

“One, two, three . . .” Mrs. Karistin walked the line, counting to sixteen, where she stood in Dana’s place, waiting. “Have we stayed out long enough now, Baby Killer?” she shouted across the distance. “Or do you need more time?”

Dana dropped her arms in defeat and, leaving her letter box in the mud, slogged her way to the line.

“Seventeen.” Her voice was all sweetness, as if welcoming Dana into some warm, generous fold.

To Dana’s surprise, Warden Webb stood just inside the doorway, scowling and saying, “Go directly to the dining hall,” above each passing head.

The children’s footsteps squeaked and squished against the floor as they marched, creating a puddling trail the length of the hall. They filed in, and each found a place at the long table. Not knowing if they should sit—it wasn’t near dinnertime, after all—they stood behind the chairs. Soon the silent room began to fill with the sounds of sniffles and chattering teeth, accompanied by the
plop, plop
of raindrops falling from each drenched child.

Little Kicker began to shake, his tiny body quivering so that he clutched at the back of a chair to steady himself. Dana’s eyes searched frantically for something, anything, with which to warm him, finally landing on a dish towel haphazardly draped over the corner of the front table. She bolted for it and ran to the boy, wrapped the towel around his bony shoulders, and held him close. Though she could offer no warmth from her own chilled body, she brought her lips to his pale, tiny ear and whispered, “It will be all right. You’ll be warm and dry soon.” It was, at best, a distant promise, and perhaps a downright lie, but she repeated it again and again, hoping her breath alone would allay the oncoming chill.