Willow Locke - Anarchist Detective

Orphans of the Harp

They sat side by side on a park bench, James looked at her uncomfortably. Did he despise her thievery? She cared about his opinion of her, but she knew there were some things she could never justify to him—she lived in world of desperation he would never know. If James had to visit the doctor his mother would pay for it.
James noticed her watching—unwrapped his sandwich from its wax paper and gave her half. It was delicious, tender brisket on rye with mustard.
"Thank you," Willow murmured.
"You have to be careful with the dosage. It should be only the equivalent of a milligram or two. Just a drop."
"Yes, I know."
"I know what happened. McHale visited our house late last night to report."
"Yes, I'm glad he was there. I don't know what would have happened. Still, Reuven fought like a lion."
"He'll be alright." James reached for her hand. His blue eyes were so full of warmth behind his thick glasses. Had she misjudged him? She looked around, they were in public—were people staring? It was not unusual to see two young people courting in the park, but a wealthy English gentlemen with a Jewish tenement rat? She felt transparent, exposed. She pulled her hand away nervously and finished her sandwich, eating quickly, with tenement covetousness. She was licking her fingers clean when he offered her a fine cloth napkin. She smiled lamely, filled with self-revulsion.
An immaculately groomed young boy, no older than eight years old, dragged a massive wheeled harp onto the flagstones nearby. He was dressed all in white and the instrument towered over him. Some of the strings seemed out of his reach. He settled into position beneath the shade of a gigantic walnut tree and put out his begging bowl.
He began to pluck the harp and sing. The music was astonishing, unearthly. It was so beautiful it made her skin crawl. She had been thinking through James' autochrome problem as she watched the child, but the first bar of the music drove all of her thoughts from her mind. She could not help but listen with her full attention, her full being. How could one so young have attained such skill? The child must be a full-time musician. Already the passers-by were filling his begging bowl with coins. The pristine choral melody and flights of ascending notes sounded familiar to her. She glanced back at James and saw that he looked anxious.
"What is it? Don't you like the music?"
"Do you know it?" he asked, brows furrowed.
"No."
"George Frideric Handel, a popular composer, although the piece is not often played—"
"Why not?" she stole a glance back at the child.
"Because of its subject. It's called Eternal Damnation. He is singing the soprano passage. Handel wrote it to remind us—"
The child's voice ascended, agonized, holding a high C for what seemed like an interminable interval, the rhythm of the strings descending below the note. It ended when the child ran out of breath, his lungs too small to support the entire duration of the note. The child huffed, frustrated, and threw himself into his playing.
James finished his thought: "of the screams of the damned."
"Where does he train?" Willow asked.
"Train?" James looked at her carefully. "Haven't you seen them before?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"They are called the Orphans of the Harp. Immigrant children conscripted into basement music schools. They train on their instruments for eight hours a day, then they are sent out to perform and beg for coins in the afternoon. Schoolmasters take the money and send a portion to their families in Europe. They eat and sleep in the same room where they practice. The only thing they own is their instrument, their only joy is music. They spend every moment with their instruments. They are enslaved."
She felt a sudden pathos for the boy—saw plainly his dejection at losing the note. She wondered what it must be like, to have only music. At least she had her family. And now she had school, and James. And the schoolmasters—how much did they send back?
The child's bowl was already half full. The American money he had earned in just a few minutes would be a week's wages in Prague. But what choice was there? An eight-year-old couldn't survive alone, and the instrument was certainly leased by the schoolmaster. The schoolmasters grew rich and fat while only a pittance was reserved for the boy and his family. He was a slave.
She knew the terrible injustice of it, but her outrage was soothed by the beauty of his song—the track of her thoughts evaporated as the composition opened again, the vocal structure ascending as the plucked notes descended. Again the high C, Handel's beautiful scream of a damned soul. And this time the child held the note. She thrilled with his effort. The boy's face turned red and a single tear streamed down his cheek. His eyes were closed. Corded tendons stood out on his neck with the exertion but he held the note until the end of the passage. He smiled with joy and triumph as he resumed playing, and Willow felt his triumph and smiled too. When it was over, and the music settled back into its pattern, her outrage returned. She wanted to silence him, take him by the hand and smash his harp against the flagstones.

* * *
Ayala realized her work process had sped up. Now she was matching Zilpah. She would make quota today for sure, and it was only the early afternoon. She thought she would have fifty blouses by 1:30. She looked over at Zilpah and grinned savagely. Zilpah sucked at her thumb and licked blood from the wound where her needle had pierced it. It was the kind of mistake girls made on the first day, something Ayala had not expected from a master seamstress like Zilpah. Ayala shrugged, cracked her knuckles and grabbed the pieces for another blouse. She wanted to make quota within the next 15 minutes. The energy of her body roared in her ears as she started sewing.
That was the moment when Max Blanck arrived. He paced the factory floor and had whispered exchanges with the Pinkertons guarding the exits. The giant blonde one picked at his teeth as he whispered something to Mr. Blanck and gestured in Ayala's direction. The half blind one wiped a film of saliva from his chin and ran his hand over the white tracery on his face. Zilpah hunched into her work and bit her lip. Ayala looked for Hannah at the cutting table but she wasn't there. It wasn't break time—where could she be? Ayala traced back over her day in her mind as she worked. She hadn't seen Hannah all day, she was sure of it. This was followed by the realization that she hadn't looked over at Hannah's station all day either, since she had been so focused on making quota.
Blanck gestured to Ayala through the window of the overseer's office, beckoning her to come in. Just when she was so close to quota! Ayala tamped down her frustration, got up from her station and walked into the overseer's office. She wondered what he would find wrong with her work this time. She was going scathingly fast, but she could find no flaw in her product herself. She entered the office and eased the heavy oak door closed behind her.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Blank?" she asked.
He sat slumped at his desk, resting his chin on his large hand. His sleeve was undone and he played idly with his cufflink, twirling it on his leather desk top. It was a gold letter "B" set with sapphires and rubies. His fleshy hand looked unnaturally white, gray-blue veins flexed beneath the surface as he replaced the cufflink in his sleeve. His eyes were bloodshot, his full lips trembled as he answered.
"Ayala, you've always been special to me," he said, his voice wavered. "You're like a daughter to me. I want you to take the rest of the day off." Something was out of place. He seemed in the grip of some intense emotion, barely suppressed. He was not the brusque, confident businessman Ayala was used to.
"But I—,"Ayala started, but Mr. Blanck held up his hand to silence her.
"At full pay. At quota pay for the hours you'll miss," Blank smiled his child's smile. "Say hello to your family for me. How's old Reuven?"
"He's fine," said Ayala, stunned and delighted at the prospect of leaving early.
"But don't tell the other girls," said Mr. Blanck.
"Thank you Mr. Blanck," said Ayala.
"Please, Ayala, call me Max," he said.
Ayala turned to leave, she opened the heavy oak door halfway and then turned back to address him again.
"Max," she said "Where is Hannah today?"
Mr. Blanck pursed his lips and smiled sweetly.
"Hannah," he sighed and waved his soft pink hands helplessly in the air, "Hannah is ill today. I've just spoken with her family. The tenements are always damp and dirty and full of miasma. We're all hoping she'll be back at work soon."
Then Ayala was free. She was astonished by the prospect. She refolded the blouses she had made and moved her recent ones from her sewing table into her basket with the rest. She couldn't suppress a broad smile when she looked at Zilpah, who only scowled quizzically in response. One of the Pinkertons stepped into her path as she walked toward the door, but Mr. Blanck noticed and gestured for him to step aside. She took the eight flights of stairs quickly and exited into the bright light of the park. She felt like dancing.
* * *