THE NIGHT BEFORE THE PURIM DANCE, THE GIRLS IN F5 all washed their hair—except, of course, for Rachel. No matter they’d have to sit up late in the underheated dormitory while it dried, or sleep with pin curls pricking their heads. It was thirty minutes before Last Bell and the monitors hurried them along. Naked under the steaming showers, the prospect of dancing with boys led the adolescent girls to assess one another with a competitive eye. These hundred girls had been showering together and using the toilets in front of each other as far back as any of them could remember. They saw each other change, felt themselves changing. They knew when one’s monthlies started, saw when another sprouted hair between her legs, envied those who filled out early, at fourteen or fifteen already with the figures of women.
Rachel, however, seemed barely to have matured: nipples still inverted, hips slim, skin smooth as wax. Unlike Amelia, whose beauty had deepened from oval-faced childhood to round-breasted adolescence. She had become a queen among the F5 girls, casually accepting the tributes of her coterie—messages delivered from boys, extra portions of dessert, homework answers, hair ribbons. Now legendary in length, Amelia made her hair more alluring by wearing it braided and pinned in a romantic swirl. Most of the girls had their hair bobbed short, the Home’s barber encouraging the simple style with magazine pages cellophaned to his wall. But Amelia refused the barber, instead visiting Mrs. Berger every few months for the slightest trim.
Rachel, with her bald scalp and looming eyes, was in a category by herself. Not that she had no friends; there was a companionship of sorts among the misfits, loose alliances that splintered into small subsets of girls in corners of the play yard. Various slurs had been flung at her over the years—mummy, Martian—but only Egg had stuck, repeated so often it had long ago lost its sting. Because Rachel didn’t try for any prizes, no one was jealous of her excellent grades. While other girls learned to sew or took up the violin, Rachel spent Club Bell in the Home’s library, losing herself in the pages of a book. Her favorites were biographies of courageous explorers; she had no patience for fiction.
Rachel’s connection to Sam and Vic, two of the most popular boys in the Home, afforded her some dignity. Vic, clever and outgoing, was involved in every activity and backed by his mother’s access to the superintendent. Sam had grown handsome and tall, his storm-cloud eyes threatening to boys and irresistible to girls, lauded star of the baseball team, ready to raise a fist at the slightest challenge.
Naomi had remained an ally. Though Rachel could never be her equal—a monitor’s authority depended on her prestige among her peers—Naomi kept a protective eye on Rachel, stepping in with a smack if someone shoved her on the stairs or tossed a handful of gravel at her in the yard. Rachel understood Naomi’s protection was funded by Sam’s tributes, slices of bread replaced over the years by pilfered coins and stolen magazines, but by demanding nothing from Rachel herself, Naomi seemed more confederate than mercenary.
In the Home, everyone did a thing or no one did, so Rachel also showered the night before the Purim Dance. Near her was a novelty—a girl new to F5, just come over from Reception that morning, the loss of her parents a fresh wound. The girl’s baldy haircut and pockmarked cheeks were already drawing insults. At first, she’d thought Rachel was also new and lined up next to her for the showers. Close up, the smooth sheen of Rachel’s scalp showed that her hair hadn’t simply been shorn. When Rachel hung her towel and stepped under a showerhead, the new girl realized with a thrill she’d spotted something more valuable than an equal: someone worse off than herself.
“Are you some kind of fish? What do you have, scales instead of skin?” She glanced around the shower to gauge the others’ reactions. A few were giggling; it had been a long time since their attention had been drawn to Rachel’s body. Still, they hesitated to join in.
It was Amelia who picked up the thread. “She’s not a fish, she’s an Egg, like a lizard’s egg. When it hatches, she’ll come slithering out from under a rock.” The giggles turned into laughter. Amelia approached Rachel, wet hair flowing down her elegant back. “I hope you’re not counting on getting asked to dance tomorrow. No boy’s going to be interested in you.”
Rachel couldn’t hide the blush that colored her neck and cheeks. The new girl, wanting to be accepted by Amelia, joined in. “No boy would want to dance with a hairless freak!”
The monitor watching the showers called Naomi over. She ignored the new girl and grabbed Amelia by the arm, pulling her out from under the shower. “Go dry off.”
“I’m not done yet,” Amelia said.
Naomi slapped her face. Amelia’s friends bowed their heads at her misfortune. The new girl slunk away before she, too, could be struck. “You’re done when I say you’re done.” Naomi shoved a towel at Amelia and pushed her away. Her friends hurried after her, wrapping her in comforting arms. Rachel kept her back to the commotion, grateful and embarrassed.
“Finish up now, girls!” the shower monitor yelled. “One more minute!” They hastily rinsed the soap from their hair. The monitor turned the tap, and the sizzle of a score of showers became a forlorn drip. The girls grabbed their towels and filed back into the dorm, the monitor following.
Rachel, wrapped in a towel, left last. Naomi, too, hung back. Placing a hand on Rachel’s shoulder, Naomi said quietly, “Don’t listen to that bitch. I think you’re real pretty. Always have.” Rachel dropped her eyes as a different kind of blush crept up her face. She waited for Naomi to lift her hand before walking away.
At her bed, Rachel dried off quickly and pulled on her nightgown. The shower monitor was pushing the laundry cart through the dormitory. As Rachel held out her towel, the monitor leaned in and whispered, “I’d watch out for Naomi, if I were you. She’s not a normal girl. You know what I mean? She’s not natural.” Rachel looked confused. “Just don’t say no one warned you.” The monitor grabbed the towel, threw it in the cart, and continued down the row.
Rachel curled up on her mattress and pulled the blanket over her head. She’d heard the accusation leveled before but wasn’t sure what it meant. She’d heard it said about girls whose close friendships were intense and dramatic, but Rachel wasn’t even sure if Naomi was her friend or just her protector. The way Naomi never seemed afraid of anyone wasn’t normal, not at the orphanage. How nice she was to Rachel might seem unnatural to anyone who didn’t know Sam paid her for it. But he didn’t pay Naomi to tell Rachel she was pretty, did he?
When Naomi made her rounds before Last Bell, telling girls to quiet down, she paused near Rachel’s bed. “Night, Egg,” she whispered. Rachel, pretending to be asleep, didn’t answer.
THE NEXT DAY was infused with excitement for the Purim Dance. The children too young to attend were animated by jealousy; those twelve and up fidgeted through the school day, their minds on the coming evening. Dinner was eaten in fewer minutes than usual and everyone hustled out of the dining hall so preparations could be made for the dance: tables moved, benches stacked, decorations hung.
In their dormitory, the F5 girls spent the hour brushing their hair, trading ribbons, sharing tubes of contraband lipstick, and doing what they could to make their clothes special. Rachel changed into a clean dress and stockings, then pulled her cardboard case from under the bed and studied the wig.
“Why don’t you put it on?” It was Tess, whom Rachel numbered among her friends.
“It itches my head, and besides, it hasn’t been brushed out in forever.”
“Try it on, let me see you.”
Rachel reluctantly pulled the wig on her head. It was snug—because she hardly ever wore it, she hadn’t been given a new one since F3.
“You look wonderful, Rachel,” Tess said. “Here, let me brush it for you.” She sat on the bed behind Rachel and began running her brush through the wig’s hair, but she tugged too hard and it shifted. “Sorry! You better hold it.” Rachel pinched her fingers at the temples and held the wig in place. Tess brushed it until the dark hair shone.
“Doesn’t she look swell?” Tess asked Sophie, whose bed was next to Rachel’s.
“Let me have a turn,” Sophie said. Tess surrendered the brush. “Here, tie this around it.” A ribbon appeared and was looped around Rachel’s head, a bow knotted at her crown. The girls appraised their work.
“Too bad you don’t have eyebrows,” Tess said.
“It won’t matter with the masks,” Sophie said. “No one will know you, Rachel.”
When the girls of F5 entered the dining hall later that evening, it was transformed. The space, cleared of tables and benches, seemed to stretch on forever. Strings of colored electric lights were twisted around the poles and swagged between the beams. Platters were piled with buttery hamantaschen; fruit juice mixed with seltzer fizzed in punch bowls.
At the door, members of the Dance Committee handed out masks—sashes of colored fabric decorated with feathers and sequins, oblong holes cut out for eyes. Girls and boys accepted the masks, wrapping them around their faces and tying them behind their heads. With everyone’s hair cut by the same barber, virtually all of them brunette and in similar clothes, the simple masks were amazingly effective at blurring identities. Even friends didn’t recognize each other until they were up close. They enjoyed the thrill of anonymity, the opportunity to imagine themselves for the night as something other than orphans.
At the front of the room, a stage was set up for the members of the band who had rehearsed dance tunes. When the superintendent mounted the stage, the band director cued the trumpet player, who gave a flourish to catch everyone’s attention.
“Welcome to the annual Purim Dance,” Mr. Grossman said. “I invite the committee to come forward to make a few announcements.”
Five boys made their way onto the stage, Vic stepping up to speak for them. His mask hung untied over his shoulder, and all the girls knew who he was. Widely considered to be the most handsome sixteen-year-old in M6, his romantic attachment to one of the F6 girls had been chronicled in the gossip column of the last Home newsletter—but that didn’t stop every other girl from hoping for a dance with him. Sam had helped set up, but since he wasn’t on the committee, he stayed on the floor, his back against a wall.
“On behalf of the Dance Committee, welcome!” Vic waited for the round of applause to dissipate. “We’re going to have a great time tonight. How do you like the decorations?” More applause and a few whistles. “Our kitchen staff is working late to keep us supplied with punch and pastries, so let’s show our appreciation.” Another round of applause. “And special thanks to the members of the band who have been rehearsing a great set of songs, and yes, there will be a Charleston!” Claps, whistles, and foot stomping. “Now, there are a few rules, and if we all follow them, we’ll have lots of fun and make all the work our committee has done worth it. No one leaves the dining hall, except to use the facilities. Counselors will be attending both the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms, so no funny business.” A wave of nervous laughter. “All other corridors are off limits. The dance will continue until Last Bell. When you hear it, F4 and M4 will exit first, followed by F5, M5, and F6. And remember, the younger kids are sleeping, so be quiet! M6 boys will stay to help take down the decorations and put all the tables and benches back in place for breakfast.”
“Thank you, Victor,” Mr. Grossman said. “And thank you, members of the Dance Committee, for all of your hard work in planning this affair.” A final wave of applause as the boys stepped down from the stage. The band director lifted his hand, counted a quick four-four time, and the dance began.
With her wig on and the mask around her face, Rachel felt transformed. She milled around with her friends for a while, then thought she recognized Sam from his tight jaw and the set of his shoulders. As she got closer, his gray eyes showed through the holes in his mask.
“Aren’t you going to dance with me?” she asked. As he heard his sister’s voice, his scowl softened.
“Rachel, is that really you? Vic, here’s Rachel. Can you believe it?”
“If someone told me you could look prettier than usual, I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it for myself,” Vic said. “You better come back and dance with me, Rachel.”
Sam took Rachel out just as the band started a fast waltz. Neither of them knew how to dance to it, so they just held hands and twirled and laughed. Rachel enjoyed seeing Sam’s smile up close—usually, he was only this happy when the Home’s baseball team won a game. By the time the dance ended, Rachel was breathing fast. As the band started a tango, Vic came up and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“May I cut in?” he asked, mimicking a movie star.
“Why, of course.” Sam gave Rachel’s hand to Vic and bowed.
“Madame, may I have this dance?”
“Certainly, sir.” Rachel curtsied. Vic lifted her hand up to his shoulder and placed his other hand at her waist, his fingertips pressing into the small of her back. The members of the Dance Committee had asked Millie Stember to give them lessons, and Vic led Rachel across the floor in measured steps. When he spun her in a twirl, she looked around to see who was watching. Amelia, her hair undisguisable, had her eyes on them. Vic kept turning Rachel so she caught only passing flashes of Amelia whispering to a tall boy and pointing in her direction. She knew the other girls must be watching her, too. Rachel smiled, imagining their jealousy. When the dance ended, Rachel’s face was flushed, her dark eyes shining through the mask.
“You’re a fine dancer, Rachel,” Vic said. Bending, he planted a kiss on her cheek. Suddenly awkward, Rachel stumbled a little and let go of his hand.
“See ya later!” Vic headed off toward the refreshment table. Rachel was at a loss for a moment until Tess and Sophie surrounded her.
“He kissed you, we saw it!” Rachel was about to say it was just because Vic was Sam’s friend, that he was like a brother to her, but she swallowed the words. She let them think Vic liked her, enjoying, for the first time, their admiration and envy.
Finally, the band started up a Charleston. “Let’s dance!” the girls shrieked. Forming a line, they kicked and wobbled their way around the dining hall. The faster they moved, the harder their hearts beat in their chests. Rachel’s smile lifted her cheeks until she could feel the fabric of the mask tighten around her face. Afterwards, the girls mobbed the refreshment table, gulping punch and brushing crumbs from their chins.
When the band took a break, many of the girls, Rachel’s little group included, went to the bathroom. The din of their talking and laughing echoed from the tiled walls. Jostling in front of the mirror, they removed their masks to splash cool water on their faces. “Here, Rachel!” Tess touched a lipstick to Rachel’s mouth, brushing the red cream with her finger. “Take a look!” It was a moment before she found her reflection in the mirror. So this is what it feels like to be pretty, Rachel thought.
Eager for another dance, she urged her friends to hurry up. She wanted to see her brother’s smile, hoped Vic would dance with her again. Impatient, she tied the mask around her face and left the girls behind. She took quick steps in the direction of the dining hall.
“There you are.” A voice from the side corridor that led to the bakery startled her.
“Me?” she asked. A tall boy stepped out of the shadows. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Rachel recognized Marc Grossman, the superintendent’s son. He reached for her arm, closing his hand over Rachel’s elbow.
“Come with me.” He pulled her down the corridor.
Rachel was so used to accepting the authority of teenagers barely older than herself, so trained to line up or be still or move faster, that her body followed pliantly even as her brain sparked with questions. She wanted to ask what was the matter, if she’d done something wrong, if maybe Sam needed her, but she’d been slapped often enough for talking out of turn that she swallowed her words. Past the bakery, an exterior door was tucked into a dark alcove. Rachel pulled back, afraid now that Marc was planning to take her outside. There was no worse trouble a Home child could get into than going out on their own. But he didn’t try to open the door. Instead, he shoved her against it so hard and sudden Rachel was stunned.
Marc brought his face close to Rachel’s. She saw how his eyebrows met in a fan over the bridge of his nose. “Back at the dance, some of the boys were saying that couldn’t be Egg, not with all that pretty hair, but one of the girls told me it was you, so I made a bet with the boys to prove it.”
So this was who Amelia had been whispering to. Rachel thought of Naomi’s warm hand on her shoulder when she told her, I think you’re real pretty. Rachel knew now it must have been a lie. She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head. She expected Marc to pull off her wig and laugh at her. Instead he pressed his forearm across her collarbone and slid his free hand down Rachel’s ribs to her hip. Her bones recoiled from his touch. “To win the bet, I can’t take off your wig or your mask.” He pushed his knee between her thighs. A tingling sensation spread over Rachel. It made her feel sick. “But I heard your head’s not the only place you’re bald, isn’t that right, Egg? Aren’t you bald everywhere?” Marc’s hand reached under her dress, snaked under the garters of her stockings and tugged at her bloomers. Rachel gagged on the saliva that filled her mouth.
She tried to push him away now, but he simply leaned in, his height and weight defeating her. Marc’s fingers stroked and probed until Rachel felt a pain that so shocked her she screamed.
“Hey, no funny business!” Millie Stember’s voice echoed along the corridor.
Marc backed away and shoved his hands into his pockets. Rachel’s trembling knees folded.
“No funny business here,” Marc said, sauntering into the light and past the counselor.
Millie ran up and pulled the mask down around the girl’s neck, knocking the wig askew. “Rachel, not you!” The surprise in Millie’s voice made Rachel wonder if she wasn’t pretty enough even for this. “Come on, sweetheart, I’ll take you up to see the nurse. Can you walk?”
She put her arm around Rachel’s waist and lifted her up. It seemed to Rachel she could still feel Marc’s hand between her legs. A few girls had gathered at the bright end of the corridor. Seeing who it was emerging from the darkness, one of them ran to get Naomi.
Rachel clung to her old counselor. “Did he get to you?” Millie whispered. Rachel nodded, though she had the feeling she was being asked something more than she knew.
Naomi appeared. “What happened? Did she faint or something?”
“Marc Grossman,” Millie began, then remembered herself. “Never mind, Naomi, Rachel will be fine, just go back to the dance. Maybe let her brother know she’ll be in the Infirmary.”
Millie Stember guided Rachel up three flights of stairs and along a silent hallway. Rachel couldn’t seem to catch her breath; by the time they reached the Infirmary, she was pale and faint. Millie called out for the Home’s resident nurse, Gladys Dreyer. She came in from her adjoining apartment, hair in curlers, wiping cold cream from her face.
“What’s happened?”
“Marc Grossman got to her.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know, but she’s so shaken up, I assumed the worst.”
Nurse Dreyer led Rachel to a bed and sat beside her, close. Her sweet perfume, such an unusual extravagance in the Home, twitched Rachel’s nostrils. The nurse took both of Rachel’s hands. “Listen to me, dear,” Gladys said. “It’s very important that you tell me exactly what he did. Do you understand?”
Rachel started shaking, tremors dissipating through her fingertips. Trembling, she faced the nurse. As if listening to someone else’s words, she said, “He pushed me against the wall. He put his hand under my dress. He . . . touched me.”
“That’s all?”
Rachel blinked. “It hurt. I screamed, and Miss Stember heard.”
“And you’re sure it was just his hand under your dress? He didn’t open his pants?”
It occurred to Rachel now what she was being asked, what worse thing could have happened. She felt nauseated. “I’m sure.”
“Well, thank goodness for that.” Gladys Dreyer addressed herself to Millie. “I’ll take care of her from here, you can go on. It sounds like she’ll be all right.”
Millie stood to leave. “Have you tested him for syphilis yet?”
“Mr. Grossman won’t let us, even though I’ve sent three girls to the hospital for Salvarsan treatment who say it was him.”
Millie Stember shook her head. “It’s fortunate I came along when I did, Rachel. Promise me you’ll stay out of dark corridors from now on.”
Rachel tried to say she hadn’t wanted to go down that corridor, but Millie was gone. The nurse took Rachel into the adjoining bathroom and started a tub of hot water. From a high cabinet, she took a tin of sweet-smelling bath salts and sprinkled them into the rising steam. “Soak as long as you want, Rachel. I’ll have you sleep up here tonight.” Leaving a nightgown folded on a stool, she closed the door.
Rachel untied the tear-stained mask from around her neck. Looking at it, she felt foolish for ever believing she was beautiful. Her clothes and the hated wig discarded on the floor, she lowered herself into the tub. At first she felt a sting where Marc had touched her, but it soon went away. Rachel closed her eyes and sank down until water filled her ears, trying to forget. She didn’t hear the commotion when Art Bernstein, the M6 counselor, burst into the Infirmary. “Nurse Dreyer, you’re wanted in the superintendent’s apartment. Marc Grossman has been beaten pretty badly. I think his nose is broken.”
“About time.” Gladys tied a kerchief over her curlers before grabbing her bag. “All right, let’s go.”
When Rachel emerged from her bath, the Infirmary was quiet. She found an empty bed and curled up under the blanket. Clasping her hands together, she surrendered herself to sleep.
NAOMI APPEARED EARLY the next morning with a change of clothes. Draping an arm over Rachel’s shoulders, Naomi asked how she was feeling.
Rachel shrugged her off. “Okay, I guess. He just. . . .” She hesitated, searching for words. She felt strangely disconnected from what had happened in the corridor. “It wasn’t so bad as it could have been. What did you tell Sam?”
“I told him Marc Grossman got to you and you were going up to the Infirmary. He disappeared from the dance right after that. I figured he was coming to see you.”
Nurse Dreyer put a tray on Rachel’s lap and insisted she eat the buttered rye and drink some tea before leaving. Rachel managed the tea but the bread felt thick and dry in her mouth. She pushed the plate toward Naomi, who ate it as a favor. Gladys, seeing the crumbs, nodded with satisfaction. “I think you’ll be just fine, Rachel. Go on now.”
Naomi led Rachel to the synagogue for the Saturday morning service. Going down the stairs, Rachel felt light-headed. She held Naomi’s hand until they reached the ground floor. There, they joined the lines of children coming up from breakfast and through the synagogue doors. Rachel slid into a pew alongside other girls from F5. She spotted Amelia at the far end of the row and looked away. Naomi went up front with F6. Sam and Vic were also up front on the boys’ side; Rachel could see the backs of their heads. She wished she could tell Sam she was all right. That he didn’t have to defend her. That he hadn’t failed her.
There were some opening words, a hymn, announcements. Then Mr. Grossman mounted the stage. His predecessors having been rabbis, it was tradition in the Home for the superintendent to deliver the sermon. But Lionel Grossman was trained in social work, not religious studies. He used these occasions to make rambling speeches about the virtues of hard work and the importance of following rules. The children settled in, their eyes drifting to the ceiling.
“I’m going to talk to you today about violence.” There was an unusual quiver in his voice. “Violence cannot be tolerated in our Home. Here, we live like brothers and sisters. Here, we live in an institution dedicated to your health, your education, your future as productive American citizens. We cannot have this marred with violence. When violence breaks out among us, it must be met in no uncertain terms. An example needs to be made of those who tarnish our Home.” Rachel thought he was talking about what Marc had done to her, or the worse things he’d done to other girls. She wondered if the superintendent was going to sacrifice his own son, like Abraham in the Old Testament.
“Samuel Rabinowitz and Victor Berger, come forward.” All sound was swallowed up as a thousand children took in and held the same breath. Sam and Vic stepped into the aisle. “Come up here, boys.”
Rachel started trembling as they mounted the stage. She could see Sam’s knuckles were raw, like he’d caught a ground ball on gravel. Vic looked back over his shoulder to their counselor, Bernstein, who nodded encouragement. Sam faced the audience, his back rigid.
“These boys have brought violence into our Home,” Mr. Grossman pronounced, his voice shrill. “They assaulted my son.” The grown man faced the teenaged boys. He stiffened his open hand. Swiftly, he slapped each cheek so hard their heads swiveled. A thousand children gasped.
Mr. Grossman pointed to a spot at the end of the front row. Rachel couldn’t see Marc seated there. She imagined him with black eyes and a bandaged nose. “Apologize to him.”
Vic’s eyes followed the line of Mr. Grossman’s trembling arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was clear, but Rachel saw his lip curl.
All eyes turned to Sam. He stood silent, his cheek blazing. He stared back at Mr. Grossman, mouth shut.
The outstretched arm reached back and swung forward. This slap knocked Sam from his defiant stance. He stumbled, then righted himself. A whisper began to rise among the congregated children as a line of blood seeped from Sam’s nose.
“Apologize!”
Vic stood beside his friend. Rachel knew his thoughts were the same as hers. Just say the words. They don’t mean anything. Save yourself. But Sam wouldn’t speak. Rachel’s guilt and shame mounted. She imagined running onto the stage and throwing herself in front of brother. Her muscles tensed but her body didn’t budge.
Mr. Grossman’s face burned as red as Sam’s. He reached back a third time, this time his fingers curled into a fist. Bernstein jumped up from his seat. In two strides, he was beside the superintendent, the fist caught in the middle of its arc.
“Not here, Mr. Grossman.” Bernstein’s low voice barely carried back to Rachel’s row. “Not in front of the young ones.” He gestured toward the back of the synagogue. Mr. Grossman followed the counselor’s gaze to the six- and seven-year-olds in the farthest rows. Even from this distance, he could see the fear in their eyes.
Mr. Grossman lowered his arm. “I’ll deal with you later,” he growled to Sam, then stepped back. “Take them, then.” Bernstein led Vic and Sam from the stage. All eyes followed the boys as they made their way down the long aisle. Mr. Grossman cleared his throat. “Let me speak now of brotherhood,” he began.
Rachel would have jumped up and followed her brother out of the synagogue were it not for the look Naomi shot back at her. More trouble, that’s all she would cause. She closed her eyes and made her mind go blank, stuffing her ears against the words spilling from the stage. Every passing minute felt like an hour.
Finally Rachel sensed the children around her rising from the pews. Led by their monitors, their shuffling feet the only sound, they filed out of the synagogue. Once in the hallway, their voices, unleashed, echoed up the marble stairs as they recounted what they had seen. A counselor called out, “All Still.” For the first time in the history of the Home the words were ignored, no monitor willing to enforce the order with a slap.
Naomi caught up with Rachel. “Bernstein will have taken Sam up to Nurse Dreyer for sure. Come on.”
They retraced their morning’s steps. They found Sam in the Infirmary balancing an ice pack on the bridge of his nose. Bernstein was still there, and Vic, too, in a chair beside the bed. Rachel sat at her brother’s feet and laid her head on his knees.
“Oh, Sammy, you shouldn’t have gone after Marc, not on account of me.”
Sam lifted the ice pack and glared down at her, dried blood crusted on his mouth. “Do you even know what a brother’s supposed to do for his sister?” Nurse Dreyer pushed him back against the pillow and settled the ice. With his eyes closed, Sam said, “I only stick around here for you, but what’s the point? I can’t protect you. Naomi does a better job of that than me. I might as well run away.”
Rachel sat up. “No, Sam, you wouldn’t really leave me here alone, would you?”
“Look around you, Rachel. You’re not alone. Besides, what difference does it make if I’m here or not? I don’t think I can take much more of this.”
Rachel remembered the slap she’d seen all those years ago from the window in Reception. She wondered how many Sam had endured between that day and this.
“Come on, all of you,” Gladys Dreyer said, her perfume wafting over their heads. “It’s too crowded up here. Bernstein, you stay. Mrs. Berger’s coming over to talk to you and Sam. Everyone else, go on now. Sam’ll be fine.”
Vic dropped an encouraging hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’ll be good as new, Sam. Don’t let them get you down. Tell my ma I’m all right, will ya?”
Sam nodded, then looked at his sister. “Go on then. You heard Nurse Dreyer, I’ll be fine.” Rachel saw a distance in her brother’s eyes that made her shiver, like he was staring at her through a scrim of ice. She leaned in to hug him, but he held her off. “Don’t,” he said. Rachel started tearing up again. “Don’t worry, I mean. I’ll see you tomorrow, at Reception, when we visit Mrs. Berger. Okay?”
Rachel nodded. “Okay, Sam.” She followed Naomi and Vic out of the Infirmary. Bernstein lagged behind, conspiring with Nurse Dreyer.
If she hadn’t been so worried about her brother, Rachel might have minded the whispers and pointed fingers that followed her through that long Saturday. Just before Last Bell, Naomi took Rachel aside in the F5 dorm and told her she’d heard from Millie Stember that Marc Grossman was being sent away to a military school up in Albany. Rachel was glad to hear it, even though the only consequence of what happened in the dark corridor that mattered to her now was Sam. She could hardly sleep, her anxiety alternating from his threat to run away to what else Mr. Grossman might do to him.
The next afternoon, when Rachel went to Reception, Mrs. Berger and Vic were there, but not her brother. Fannie Berger wrapped Rachel in her fleshy arms. “He’s gone, kitten. Even with Marc away at school, it wasn’t safe for him here anymore.” Rachel barely listened as Mrs. Berger explained how she and Bernstein had pooled their money to stuff Sam’s pockets with crumpled bills before he slipped through an unlocked door and scrambled over the wall.
Rachel broke away from Mrs. Berger. “But what will happen to him? Where will he go? Won’t the police bring him back if they catch him?”
“He’s practically a grown man, he can take care of himself,” Fannie said. “He’s left the city, that’s all I know, but wherever he’s gone, I’m sure he’s fine.” Vic looked at his mother, a question raising his eyebrows, but she shook her head.
“He’ll be all right out on the road, a tough kid like Sam,” Vic said. “He wanted me to tell you how much he loves you.” He gave Rachel a kiss on the forehead. She turned away, ashamed of the blush that colored her cheeks.
Rachel remembered when the agency lady took her away from Sam, how he promised to come for her. She knew it wasn’t his fault he broke that promise. He was as young as the M1 boys, some so small she could rest a bent elbow on top of their heads. Sam couldn’t help it then, but he was sixteen now, not six, and this time he had left her behind on purpose. She felt as abandoned as on that first day at the Infant Home. Of the thousand children in the Castle, the millions of people in the city, none now belonged to her.
In the distance, a bell rang. Across the yard, doors were flung open and children flooded out. Rachel felt their shouts smack against the glass like unwitting birds. She said her good-byes and left Reception. Wading through the crowded yard, dust gathered in her eyes. She had no lashes to blink it away.