She said, “That group of boys we saw when we first came in. Do you think they were being sent out for placement?”
Jack said, “That would be my guess. They looked a lot like these boys.” He inclined his head to a row of a dozen framed photos that lined the walls. Groups of boys bracketed by adults, staring solemnly at the camera. Neatly dressed according to the season, faces and shoes both polished to a shine. Children as old as fifteen, by her estimation, but there was little of childhood even in the youngest faces.
The most recent one was dated just the previous week and was neatly labeled.
Placement agents Charles Tenant and Michael Bunker departing March 1883 for Kansas with their charges: Gustaf Lundstr?m, Alfred Jacobs, Federico DeLuca, Harrison Anders, Colum Domhnaill, Lucas Holtzmann, Samuel Harris, Michael and Dylan Joyce, James Gallagher, Zachary Blackburn, Galdino Iadanza, Nicholas Hall, Erik Gottlieb, Marco Itri, John Federova, Alfred LeRoy, George Doyle, and Henry Twomey.
Anna wondered what had become of these boys, if they were well looked after and content in their new homes. Common sense said that they would be better off out of a city where children routinely froze to death for lack of a roof, but sending children off to be taken in by total strangers gave her a deep sense of misgiving.
Behind them Mr. Johnson said, “Our most recent group. You see Michael and Dylan Joyce—” He indicated two boys alike enough to be twins. They were no more than eight, fair hair sticking out from under their caps.
“These two are from a family of seven children living in one room in Rotten Row in such filth, you can’t imagine. The mother didn’t want to let them go, but in the end she made the right decision. Not a sound tooth in her head, a drunkard for a husband, and her still putting out brats like rabbits.” He huffed. “There ought to be a law.”
Anna’s voice sounded rough to her own ears. “What kind of law do you mean? Against toothlessness?”
She felt Jack’s surprise in the way he tensed. Surprise, but not disagreement or disapproval. At least not yet, but Anna was not done and would not be condescended to.
Mr. Johnson cleared his throat. “Overpopulation is not a joking matter, Dr. Savard. The underclasses are not capable of restraint and not willing to work hard enough to support so many children, so that we—you and I—must bear the financial burden. And what is the solution to that?”
“Why, birth control,” Anna said, holding on to her temper with all her strength.
“Artificial contraceptives are illegal, as I hope you are aware.”
Anna drew in a deep breath. “I am aware. So let me ask you, Mr. Johnson. Contraception is illegal and so is abortion. History makes it clear that human beings are not capable of abstinence. The poor—wait, what did you call them? The underclasses. How do you suggest their numbers be kept to levels you find acceptable?”
Mr. Johnson’s gaze shifted away and then back, the muscles in his jaw pulsing and jumping. “Is that a serious question?”
“Oh, yes,” Anna said. “I would like to know what measures you advocate.”
He stood a little straighter. “The first problem is the influx of the worst of Europe. The moral and intellectual dregs must be turned away. If such a policy had been put in place at the right time, Michael and Dylan Joyce would have been born in Ireland, and feeding them would not fall to us.”
“At the right time,” Anna echoed. “So, after your forefathers arrived.”
The muscles in his jaw were clenching again. “You misunderstand me.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I understand you very well.”
Very dryly Jack said, “Do you have any information for us?”
Mr. Johnson turned his attention to Jack with obvious relief. “Not yet. I came back because I forgot one important point. Does this boy”—he checked his notes—“Tonino Russo. Does he speak English?”
Anna couldn’t remember Tonino talking at all, but she was angry now and willing to cause the man as much discomfort as possible.
“He is bilingual.”
“So he speaks English?”
“He speaks Italian,” Jack said. “And French. And some German too, so I think you’d have to say he’s at the very least trilingual.”
Anna took one step back and poked him with her elbow even as she smiled at Mr. Johnson. Her dimples stayed hidden. “A very bright boy.”
“Dr. Savard,” Mr. Johnson said. “We do not send children west for placement if they don’t speak English. Now, does the boy speak English, or not?”
? ? ?
THEY HAD BEEN walking a full block before Anna broke her silence. “You said that they place orphans with families. But that’s not where they stop, is it? They take children from their parents.”
Jack knew her well enough already to understand that any effort to calm or placate her would be received very badly, and so he gave her the truth, as he understood it.