Fever Season (11 page)

Standing over him, the woman appeared tall and skinny. With her mask on David couldn't see all of her face, but she had light brown hair and blue eyes that seemed kind. “Are you a nurse?” he asked.

“Not really, but I've had some training, so some nights I help out.”

“Is this a hospital?”

“Not exactly. You're in the infirmary at the Montefiore Home. We're a Jewish charity.”

“But I don't think I'm Jewish.”

Her mask shifted slightly as she smiled. “In times like these that's not so important. We've had to take in several new children during the epidemic.”

“I caught the flu, didn't I?”

The woman nodded.

“Am I going to die?”

“You're fine now, but you were in pretty rough shape when you came here. It'll still take some time before you get your strength back.”

“What about my sister? Is she here, too? Is she all right?”

“Finish your soup,” the woman said. “Then I want you to go back to sleep. Someone will talk to you tomorrow.”

David was still too weak to get out of bed in the morning. An old woman was in the infirmary now, and she brought him a bowl of oatmeal. By lunchtime he was feeling strong enough to get up and walk around a little. Just a few steps, though, and he was exhausted. The old woman helped him get back into bed.

“I'll bring you some soup,” she told him. “You need to eat to get your strength back.”

It was pea soup this time. Thick and tasty, but a little too salty. When David was done, he asked the woman if he could see his sister.

“The girls are up on the third floor. I don't think you're ready for the stairs yet. Perhaps she's well enough to come down here, though. I'll have to go and see. What's your sister's name?”

“Alice. Alice Saifert.”

“Alice Saifert,” the woman repeated. “I'll go and find out.”

David fell asleep again after the old woman left. When he woke up a while later, the other woman was back again. She was standing at the end of his bed with a man beside her.

“My name is Mrs. Freedman,” the woman said. “Do you remember me?”

David nodded. “From last night.”

“This is Mr. Rosen. He's here to talk to you.”

David sat up slowly. Mrs. Freedman propped an extra pillow behind him so he could sit more comfortably.

“I'm afraid I've got some very bad news for you,” Mr. Rosen said.

David didn't understand right away. Then it began to dawn on him. “You mean … Alice …” He couldn't bring himself to say the rest.

Mr. Rosen bobbed his head sadly. “I'm sorry, David. Your sister was just too sick. Nobody could have helped her.”

David sat on his bed with a blank look on his face.

“It's all right if you want to cry,” Mrs. Freedman said.

David didn't cry. He just stared straight ahead. Then he fixed his eyes on Mr. Rosen. “I want to go home. I want to see my mother.” He struggled to his feet. “Where's my mother? I want to see her. I want to go home! I want to see my mother! Someone take me home! Right now!”

He tried to walk toward the door across the room, but there was no way he could make it. Mrs. Freedman put her arms around his shoulders. He was much too weak to put up a struggle as she guided him gently back to his bed.

There was no easy way to say the rest, so Mr. Rosen came straight out with it. “We can't take you home, David. Your mother's dead, too.”

This time he couldn't hold back his tears.

C
HAPTER
10

It was another two weeks before David was on his feet again. During that time, the war finally ended. The Armistice was announced at 11:00 a.m. on November 11, 1918. The Spanish Flu epidemic seemed to be over, too. It wasn't gone completely, but the worst of it had definitely passed. Once the constant fear was over, it was amazing how quickly people began to forget about it. So many people had lost their lives since the war started in 1914, but the killing and the dying were finished now. People needed to get on with their lives.

David wasn't ready to forget. Not yet. Maybe never. He wanted to know what had happened. How had he gotten to the Montefiore Home?

“It was Abe Salutin,” Mrs. Freedman told him.

“Mr. Salutin? From the hat factory?”

“That's right. He was worried when your mother didn't show up for work. She hadn't even called the factory, so he feared the worst. When he tried to telephone your mother, no one answered. So he called the Home. He knew we had volunteers visiting homes, helping to care for people who were sick.”

Mrs. Freedman didn't tell David everything. He didn't need to know all the details. It had been a Saturday when he and Alice first got sick. It was Monday afternoon before Mr. Salutin even knew to be worried, and Tuesday before he thought to call the Home. Alice was already dead when the Montefiore volunteers got to their flat on Tuesday afternoon. She was lying in bed with their mother, who was still alive but barely conscious. It was obvious she was very sick. Her lips were already turning blue, and she was wet with sweat from her high fever. She died within an hour. David wasn't in much better shape. His fever was 102 degrees — well above the normal of 98.6. But at least his lungs were clear and he was breathing normally.

“They had to call a fireman to carry you down all those stairs.” That was when David had had his dream about falling. “Then they brought you here.”

“So what is this place?” David asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer already.

“It's an orphanage, David.”

He nodded glumly. “My parents were orphans.”

“No grandparents then?”

David shook his head.

“Mr. Salutin told us about your father. Are there any other family members we can contact?”

He shook his head again. Tears formed in his eyes.

“It's all right, David,” Mrs. Freedman said softly. “You can stay here. I promise you it's not like
Oliver
Twist
. The building is new, the beds are comfortable, and the sheets are clean. We'll move you out of the infirmary tonight and into the boys' dormitory. The dining room is downstairs, and there's always enough food to eat. You'll need to eat to get your strength back, David. You're awfully skinny right now. Do you know what you weighed before you got sick?”

David shook his head.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“I'm thirteen. Almost fourteen.”

“You're a little on the small side for your age, but a boy like you should weigh close to a hundred pounds …”

Mrs. Freedman led David over to a scale. He stepped on, and she slid the weights around until they balanced.

“Hmm,” she said. “Only eighty-two pounds. We're going to have to do something about that. Are you ready for lunch?”

“Can I eat up here?” David asked. He wasn't ready to meet anyone new yet and have to talk about what happened.

Mrs. Freedman understood. “I'll take you downstairs, but you don't have to eat in the dining room if you don't want to. J-P can bring you your lunch in the pantry.”

The only way to get down from the second floor was on a staircase outside the building. Mrs. Freedman led David down. He looked around at the children eating at the long tables. There were quite a few. “We're full up,” Mrs. Freedman said. “Sixty-five children. The oldest are sixteen. The youngest are six. We don't have any babies here.”

Mrs. Freedman took David through the dining room and into the pantry. It was a small, closed room right next to the kitchen. The people who worked in the kitchen used the pantry for storing cans and other dry food, as well as some of the kitchen utensils. There was also a small table with a few chairs around it, where the kitchen staff usually ate their meals.

“Will you be all right if I leave you alone?” Mrs. Freedman asked.

David shrugged and crooked his head a bit.

“I'll tell J-P you're here. Come back to the infirmary when you're done and we'll find someone to take you to the dormitory.”

David wasn't sure if J-P was a name or the initials for some kind of job. He was trying to think what it might stand for when a young man limped in. He had thick black hair parted in the middle and a face that was a little pudgy, though the rest of him seemed wiry and strong. David guessed he was about twenty-five and had probably been wounded during the war. He was also missing the last two fingers on his left hand. David tried not to stare.

“Brought you a sandwich,” J-P said. “Bring you anodder if you want. They say we're supposed to fatten you up.”

“You're French,” David said. “I didn't know any Jews were French.”

J-P laughed. “I'm not Jewish. I just work here. Help out in da kitchen and be Shabbas Goy on Saturdays.”

David didn't know that expression. His face must have shown it.

“Saturday's da Jewish Sunday,” J-P explained. “And religious Jews aren't supposed to work on da Sabbath. From sundown Friday to sundown on Saturday, they don't even turn on a light or use da stove. People here aren't like that so much, but a lotta people who give them money are. So they gotta stick by da rules. But da rules say someone who's not Jewish can do those things, so that's me.”

David ate his sandwich as J-P explained. It was some sort of dry roast beef with spicy mustard.

“Brisket,” J-P said. “It's good, eh?”

David nodded.

“You want more?”

“Yes, please. And some milk, too?”

J-P went out and got him another sandwich. He also brought him a glass of grape juice. “You can't have milk with meat,” he said. “It's not kosher.”

J-P sat with David while he ate. “J-P's your name?”

David asked between bites.

“Da English people, they say J-P because they can't pronounce it. It's really Jean-Patrice. Jean-Patrice de la Montagne,” he said with a fancy bow. “John Patrick of da Mountain.”

David laughed. “I'm just David. David Saifert.”

“You're one of da ones they brought here with da
grippe
, right?”

David mumbled “Yes” as he ate.

“You going home now that you're better?” David looked down, and J-P realized he'd made a mistake.

“Sorry, kid. I didn't know …”

David just nodded.

“There's pudding for dessert. I'll get you some …”

When David finished eating, he went back upstairs.

“I'd like to go home,” he told Mrs. Freedman.

“But, David …” She looked alarmed. “I thought you understood.”

“I know. I do. I just want to see it. That's all.”

David couldn't really put what he was feeling into words, but his mother and sister had both been buried while he was still sick. Like his father's death, it was hard to feel these were real. He didn't want to go to the cemetery to see where they were, but he had to go someplace where he could say some sort of goodbye. Going home seemed like the best place to do that.