Toby wheeled his bicycle back to Broadway, thinking hard.
In January of 1912, Missus Chava had disappeared from the Lower East Side. A few months later, she’d graduated college—and then disappeared again. No address left with her landlady, or the employer who’d been so proud of her, or the university that had educated her. Nothing left behind, except those photographs.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. But first things first: he had the secretary’s telegram to deliver. Where was the nearest branch office? There’d be one on Broadway . . .
He pedaled north, scanning for the familiar sign. It appeared at 134th, tucked between a grocer’s and a tobacconist’s. He coasted to a stop at the corner. He couldn’t just walk in and announce himself, or the manager would call Julius and demand to know why a Midtown boy was poaching telegrams up in Morningside Heights. He’d have to get another boy to turn it in for him. It shouldn’t be too hard to find one; it was a sunny Saturday morning, and if the uptown bench-babies were anything like the ones back home, they’d be finding excuses to loiter out of doors instead of sitting in the office. Sometimes the managers let them play in the alley between calls, just to get them out from underfoot.
He wheeled his bicycle down 134th, to the alley behind the Western Union. Sure enough, a young boy in uniform was leaning against a wall, a half-eaten frankfurter in one hand and an issue of All-Story Cavalier Weekly in the other.
“Hey there,” Toby said.
Startled, the boy looked up at Toby, his mouth full.
“For you,” Toby said, and handed him the telegram and the nickel. “Morningside four five eight five. In good time, too, if you turn it in quick.”
The boy swallowed. “Thanks, uh . . .”
“Toby.” His empty stomach was alerting him to the boy’s frankfurter. “Say, that looks good.”
The boy wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had better.”
Toby grinned. “That so? What’s the best around?”
“The cart at 145th and Saint Nicholas, easy.”
“Eleven blocks north, for a frankfurter? There’s got to be a dozen carts between here and there.”
The boy shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Huh.” Well, what else did he have to do? Maybe the ride would help him think. “Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” he said, and pedaled off.
* * *
The Asylum’s Sabbath service was even more interminable than usual that morning. The rabbi droned on, reciting prayer after prayer. The little children kicked and elbowed one another, while their monitors hissed warnings and slapped fingers away from noses. Kreindel sat among her dormitory-mates, her mind wandering. What had that dream been about? She’d forgotten it all, but it still pulled at her. She wished she could ask Yossele, wished that he could tell her.
She looked up. A small commotion had begun in the front pew. Heads were bending together, exchanging quick whispers, murmurs of excitement:
It’s an Excursion Day!
Wait, who said so? Who’d heard first? It was a boy seated next to the headmaster; he’d spied the clipboard in the man’s hand, had read the glorious words Excursion Roster at the top of the page. An Excursion Day, the first of the season!
The news swept from row to row, and within moments the synagogue was churning with excitement. The rabbi floundered momentarily, then recovered enough to finish the service at near to a shout. With a glare of irritation he ceded the podium to the headmaster, who’d risen to rescue him.
“Quiet, please,” the headmaster called in his most thunderous voice.
The noise lowered to an electric hum.
“Since it seems that spring has arrived at last—”
The hum swelled in expectation—
“—we have decided that today will be an Excursion Day.”
Pandemonium! The synagogue erupted in cheers and stamping. The Asylum youngsters all prized these days spent at the local parks and beaches, where they ate crullers and drank bottled sodas until they grew giddy and unmanageable, and had to be herded back to the Asylum by force. The older residents, however, gritted their teeth in unison. For them, an Excursion Day was a terrifying exercise in adulthood—for there were never enough monitors to watch all the children, and so they, too, were pressed into the role, and made responsible for their charges’ welfare. All knew the stories of boys who’d run off on Excursion Days and had never come back, or girls who’d gotten separated from their groups and disappeared into certain ruin. Likely the stories were just stories; nevertheless it set their nerves on edge.
“Your monitors have the lists,” the headmaster said. “And I will remind you all that it is incumbent upon you to comport yourselves respectfully, as representatives of—”
His admonishments were lost as the synagogue emptied in record speed, the children all rushing to learn where fate had placed them. Kreindel’s dormitory clustered around their monitor with dread as she called out the assignments.
“Altschul and Winkelman, you’re taking Dormitory 2, Room 3 to Colonial Park.”
Kreindel groaned inwardly. Of all the rotten luck! Nearby, Rachel was likewise rolling her eyes in disgust. Kreindel wondered if they’d been paired deliberately. Was she expected to keep Rachel in line, along with the children? At once she felt punished, taken advantage of.
In the hallway, the girls of Dormitory 2, Room 3 already stood waiting in their pairs, quivering with excitement. Kreindel and Rachel took their places at the head of the column, Rachel fixing the yellow ribbon in her hair.
“Don’t you wander off with some boy and stick me with all the work,” Kreindel muttered.
“Why don’t you go and pray about it, Altschul,” Rachel muttered back.
One by one the dormitories were released through the Amsterdam gate, each group peeling off toward its particular destination: south and west to Riverside Park and Grant’s Tomb, or to the nearest streetcar stop for adventures farther afield. Kreindel supposed she’d gotten off lightly, all things considered. There
