That summer, they held a children’s picnic in the park, where the little ones from the Norwegian orphanage were to have a bit something of what they so rarely tasted: cake and lemonade, sunshine and laughter. The park was brand-new with a road running through it; there was a stream adorned with bridges, and a boathouse with rowboats to rent. At its center stood a horse drinking fountain, providing some comfort to the creatures in the heat.
By the picnic area where the children gathered, they had raised a wooden platform below the ash trees, and generous souls were urged to step onto it to offer a lucky child or two a place in their home. Both the children and their caretakers knew it was a gamble; sometimes such offers turned out to be nothing but a workplace—the generous souls were merely seeking an inexpensive worker—but for those who were lucky, it could mean a good life, and perhaps even a family to call their own.
I was jittery with excitement when the day arrived and I was to step onto that platform and ask if there was a child who wanted to come home with me. I had put on my finest hat, with cherries and leaves of wax crowding at the pull, and a black velvet coat that was much too warm. I could not discard it, though, as I was already slick with perspiration, and my dress soaked through. It would not do to stand there in front of a lawn filled with children and their caretakers with dark stains marring the green cotton of my dress. I wore jewelry too—maybe too much. I wanted to appear as a mother, not a whore, and busied myself with unclasping my necklace and pulling the cheap rings off my fingers while I waited.
I was not alone by the platform; there were other women there as well. They all wore their Sunday best and little cross pendants, putting on a performance just as I was, and succeeding better at it too, to my chagrin. They were all Scandinavians, just like me, like the little ones would be as well. Some children were not orphans at all but came with their struggling mothers who wanted nothing more than to see their children in the care of someone who could properly feed and clothe them. Mads was not there in the crowd, but he knew what I was up to. I had told him of my plans the week before.
“We should consider fostering a Norwegian orphan, maybe two,” I said as he had his sausages one evening. I had placed the newspaper before him on the table and pointed to an advertisement for the children’s picnic. “Maybe it does not have to be my sister’s child. Maybe any little angel will do.” He had been a little stumped by Nellie’s refusal—which served me well. Perhaps he would not go to her the next time he ached.
“It would be nice with a child in the house.” He seemed somewhat uncertain, taken by surprise, perhaps, wanting to have his dinner in peace.
“Wouldn’t it just?” I heaped his plate with more food. “I truly think it would be good for me to have a child around. A woman can go a little mad with no one to care for but herself and her husband. I would be better, then, I think . . . I would be happier for sure.”
“It would be good to see you happy again, like you used to be before.”
“You know how fragile women can be. We are meant to care for children.” I looked away to hide the smirk that suddenly curved my lips.
“You are right.” He let out a deep breath. “That’s what’s been bothering you all along—I said so to your sister. Of course you need a child to care for.”
“Ours would be the happiest house.” I rambled on and poured him a drink. “I would make all kinds of good stuff, meats and puddings. Our orphans would be the best-behaved, most well-fed children in church.”
I only had to get one first.
It was quite the spectacle on the lawn before the platform, with all the children gathered around picnic blankets and wicker baskets filled with donated treats. The orphans all wore simple garb: light-colored shirts and dark pants for the boys and starched pinafores for the girls. Glass bottles of pale lemonade shone in the sunlight, and the children’s hands were filled with bread and ham. Some of the girls braided flowers into ropes, while the boys played with sticks and leather balls; their chatter rose like a song in the air. Among them sat the women who worked at the orphanages, demurely clad in navy blue. Their eyes were on the platform, silently judging us brave souls who dared tread upon the pine boards. The air smelled of fresh greenery and baked treats, with just a hint of lemon.
A woman with a drab gray dress was speaking right before me. She described how it was her pleasure as a Christian to open her door to an unfortunate soul, and I made a note to mention God as well. They would like that, the matrons at the orphanages. A little piety went a long way with such people. I was annoyed with myself for not wearing my cross; I should have thought to dust off my old church attire.
Finally, it was my turn, and I stepped upon the platform just as the gray-clad woman stepped down. I could not help but smile at the sight before me, all the little ones milling about. “My name is Mrs. Sorensen,” I said as loud as I could, and pressed my hands to my chest. “I am sad to say that I have no children of my own.” I dropped my gaze and added a quiver to my bottom lip while the audience let my tragedy sink in. Then I took a deep breath and straightened my back before continuing. “What I do have is a kind husband and a large house with many empty rooms, and a kitchen brimming with all sorts of nice food.” I cocked my head and added a smile. “I do not want a child only to be kind.” I raised my hands a little. “I want one because I believe it is in a woman’s nature to care for our little ones.” I made another little pause. “I keep a Christian home. My husband and I are both Norwegians and would very much like to raise a Norwegian orphan as our own. We both read and write in Norwegian and English and would make sure that the child is educated as well as clean and healthy.” I paused again and looked around on the lawn. “Is there any child in need who would like to come home with me?” I did not expect anyone to speak up right away. The offers would come later, after I had departed the platform. The woman who spoke before me was already surrounded by matrons and mothers with toddlers in tow. I felt I had done well, though, as I departed and left the platform to another. My voice had been loud and clear enough to cut through the children’s chatter.
I had prepared a basket of sweets, caramels and suchlike, to be distributed among the children in the hopes that it would charm one of their little hearts so much that they would beg their caretaker’s permission to go and stay with me. The basket was waiting by the platform’s edge, but I had not even reached it before a tall, thin woman guiding a scrawny boy by the hand approached me. I could not understand what she was saying, though. She was speaking Polish or some other such language; her eyes were fierce with desperation. Then there was a woman about my age, carrying a girl. She spoke Norwegian just fine.
“Oh, please take her,” she begged me. “We cannot go on like this.”