Free Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline

says, her voice barely
     audible.
    “Please and thank you what?”
    “Please and thank you, ma’am.”
    “You will wait to speak until you are spoken to, and then you will say please and
     thank you, ma’am. You will wait to do what, Andrew?”
    “Speak until you are spoken to?”
    “Exactly. You will not fidget or what, Norma?”
    “Touch your face. Ma’am. Ma’am madam.”
    Titters erupt from the seats. Mrs. Scatcherd glares at us. “This amuses you, does
     it? I don’t imagine you’ll think it’s quite so funny when all the adults say no thank
     you, I do not want a rude, slovenly child, and you’ll have to get back on the train
     and go to the next station. Do you think so, Mr. Curran?”
    Mr. Curran’s head jerks up at the sound of his name. “No indeed, Mrs. Scatcherd.”
    The train is silent. Not getting chosen isn’t something we want to think about. A
     little girl in the row behind me begins to cry, and soon I can hear muffled sniffs
     all around me. At the front of the train, Mrs. Scatcherd clasps her hands together
     and curls her lips into something resembling a smile. “Now, now. No need for that.
     As with almost everything in life, if you are polite and present yourself favorably,
     it is probable that you will succeed. The good citizens of Minneapolis are coming
     to the meeting hall today with the earnest intention of taking one of you home—possibly
     more than one. So remember, girls, tie your hair ribbons neatly. Boys, clean faces
     and combed hair. Shirts buttoned properly. When we disembark, you will stand in a
     straight line. You will speak only when spoken to. In short, you will do everything
     in your power to make it easy for an adult to choose you. Is that clear?”
    The sun is so bright that I have to squint, so hot that I edge to the middle seat,
     out of the glare of the window, scooping Carmine onto my lap. As we go under bridges
     and pull through stations the light flickers and Carmine makes a shadow game of moving
     his hand across my white pinafore.
    “You should make out all right,” Dutchy says in a low voice. “At least you won’t be
     breaking your back doing farm work.”
    “You don’t know that I won’t,” I say. “And you don’t know that you will.”

Milwaukee Road Depot, Minneapolis, 1929
    The train pulls into the station with a high-pitched squealing of brakes and a great gust of steam. Carmine is quiet, gaping at the buildings and wires and people
     outside the window, after hundreds of miles of fields and trees.
    We stand and begin to gather our belongings. Dutchy reaches up for our bags and sets
     them in the aisle. Out the window I can see Mrs. Scatcherd and Mr. Curran on the platform
     talking to two men in suits and ties and black fedoras, with several policemen behind
     them. Mr. Curran shakes their hands, then sweeps his hand toward us as we step off
     the train.
    I want to say something to Dutchy, but I can’t think of what. My hands are clammy.
     It’s a terrible kind of anticipation, not knowing what we’re walking into. The last
     time I felt this way I was in the waiting rooms at Ellis Island. We were tired, and
     Mam wasn’t well, and we didn’t know where we were going or what kind of life we would
     have. But now I can see all I took for granted: I had a family. I believed that whatever
     happened, we’d be together.
    A policeman blows a whistle and holds his arm in the air, and we understand that we’re
     to line up. The solid weight of Carmine is in my arms, his hot breath, slightly sour
     and sticky from his morning milk, on my cheek. Dutchy carries our bags.
    “Quickly, children,” Mrs. Scatcherd says. “In two straight lines. That’s good.” Her
     tone is softer than usual, and I wonder if it’s because we’re around other adults
     or because she knows what’s next. “This way.” We proceed behind her up a wide stone
     staircase, the clatter of our hard-soled shoes on the steps echoing like a drumroll.
     At the