frowned. “These are good homes. They can’t place someone right off the street.”
From the other side of the door, an infant cried. They heard a young voice, different from theirs. A boy’s.
“Why just us?” Mary Jane asked. “Why not the other girls?”
Sister Delores nodded, as if to thank someone, finally, for asking a logical question. “They only had seven spots for us,” she said. “Out of a hundred and fifty. And they told us the younger ones do better. We’ve been sending our babies out for a while.”
“Betsy’s younger than I am,” Cora said. She was not defending her young friend. She was hoping Sister would realize her mistake, take her back to the home, and make Betsy get on the train.
Sister Delores shook her head. “Betsy’s slow in the head. You can see it, looking in her eyes. They said no one would want her.” She gazed up at the picture of Jesus. The girls understood that they should not speak. Even in profile, the veil obscuring half her face, Sister Delores’s weariness was clear.
“We love all of God’s children.” She continued to look at the picture. “But only some can get on the train.”
She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her quiet voice, her hard blue stare, was enough.
“I’m going to tell you once more, and once more only. If you’re sitting here now, you are a very lucky girl. And for your own good, I guarantee you are each getting on that train.”
They didn’t know they were part of an exodus, a mass migration that spanned over seventy years. They didn’t know that the Children’s Aid Society had already filled, and would continue to fill, train after train with the Great City’s destitute children, sending, before the end of the program, almost two hundred thousand of them off to what was usually an easier life among the farm families of the Middle West, with its abundant fields and fresher air, its clean Main Streets and church picnics, its earnest young couples who wanted a child.
Or a field hand. A young slave. An indentured servant who could be made to work long hours in the cold and the heat, who wouldn’t need much food. A prisoner whom no one would miss, who could be beaten, starved, tormented, undressed and violated, all within the privacy of one’s home.
The routine was almost always the same. Flyers would be mailed a few weeks before a train went out: Homes for Children Wanted. Various Ages. Both Sexes. Well-Disciplined. Caucasian went without saying. The address, time, and place of distribution would be announced at a later date.
The trains didn’t go to the same towns every year. The Society kept them in rotation, thinking the chances would be better if a community wasn’t already thick with orphans, if the orphans they had were anomalies, not a real threat to the demographic. And there were so many little towns to choose from, their little downtowns snug against the tracks. The agents, the women with the rosters who rode the trains as well, told the children not to worry if they weren’t selected at the first few stops. People always went for the babies first. Once they were all spoken for, the agents promised, the older ones would have a chance.
Still, they were coached. They were taught to smile when smiled at, and to sing “Jesus Loves Me” on command. The girls were told that if potential parents asked them to lift their skirts, they should, to show that their legs were straight. People had the right to know what they were taking on. Two red-haired boys had the seat in front of Cora. They held hands even when asleep. The older boy told the agent they were brothers, and that they couldn’t be separated. She told them she would do her best.
When the train arrived at a new town, the children were cleaned up, their faces and hands washed, their hair combed, their clothes changed. Before they even left New York, they had each been given a bath, and not just one
From the other side of the door, an infant cried. They heard a young voice, different from theirs. A boy’s.
“Why just us?” Mary Jane asked. “Why not the other girls?”
Sister Delores nodded, as if to thank someone, finally, for asking a logical question. “They only had seven spots for us,” she said. “Out of a hundred and fifty. And they told us the younger ones do better. We’ve been sending our babies out for a while.”
“Betsy’s younger than I am,” Cora said. She was not defending her young friend. She was hoping Sister would realize her mistake, take her back to the home, and make Betsy get on the train.
Sister Delores shook her head. “Betsy’s slow in the head. You can see it, looking in her eyes. They said no one would want her.” She gazed up at the picture of Jesus. The girls understood that they should not speak. Even in profile, the veil obscuring half her face, Sister Delores’s weariness was clear.
“We love all of God’s children.” She continued to look at the picture. “But only some can get on the train.”
She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her quiet voice, her hard blue stare, was enough.
“I’m going to tell you once more, and once more only. If you’re sitting here now, you are a very lucky girl. And for your own good, I guarantee you are each getting on that train.”
They didn’t know they were part of an exodus, a mass migration that spanned over seventy years. They didn’t know that the Children’s Aid Society had already filled, and would continue to fill, train after train with the Great City’s destitute children, sending, before the end of the program, almost two hundred thousand of them off to what was usually an easier life among the farm families of the Middle West, with its abundant fields and fresher air, its clean Main Streets and church picnics, its earnest young couples who wanted a child.
Or a field hand. A young slave. An indentured servant who could be made to work long hours in the cold and the heat, who wouldn’t need much food. A prisoner whom no one would miss, who could be beaten, starved, tormented, undressed and violated, all within the privacy of one’s home.
The routine was almost always the same. Flyers would be mailed a few weeks before a train went out: Homes for Children Wanted. Various Ages. Both Sexes. Well-Disciplined. Caucasian went without saying. The address, time, and place of distribution would be announced at a later date.
The trains didn’t go to the same towns every year. The Society kept them in rotation, thinking the chances would be better if a community wasn’t already thick with orphans, if the orphans they had were anomalies, not a real threat to the demographic. And there were so many little towns to choose from, their little downtowns snug against the tracks. The agents, the women with the rosters who rode the trains as well, told the children not to worry if they weren’t selected at the first few stops. People always went for the babies first. Once they were all spoken for, the agents promised, the older ones would have a chance.
Still, they were coached. They were taught to smile when smiled at, and to sing “Jesus Loves Me” on command. The girls were told that if potential parents asked them to lift their skirts, they should, to show that their legs were straight. People had the right to know what they were taking on. Two red-haired boys had the seat in front of Cora. They held hands even when asleep. The older boy told the agent they were brothers, and that they couldn’t be separated. She told them she would do her best.
When the train arrived at a new town, the children were cleaned up, their faces and hands washed, their hair combed, their clothes changed. Before they even left New York, they had each been given a bath, and not just one
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