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weak, feverish, and even more scrawny than he had been when they left Europe. He could not move as fast as Peter, nor could he help but yelp as Mrs. McGafney pulled him by the ear to get him going.
    They were escorted to the foyer, where a man stood dressed in the finest suit of clothes either boy had ever seen. A woman stood next to him, holding on to his elbow. She was wrapped in beautiful gray fur, which accentuated the brilliant emeralds and diamonds hanging from her earlobes. Peter and Jakob didn’t know much English yet, but they understood completely what the exchange of money looked like, as the dapper man handed a large roll of bills to Mrs. McGafney. She escorted the couple to the reception desk, where he and the woman signed a few papers. At the same time, she eyeballed Peter and Jakob with a look that said, “You’d better behave.”
    â€œThere, you’re all set now,” Mrs. McGafney said as the man shook hands with the official at the desk, and the couple turned toward Peter and Jakob. She pushed the boys toward the couple, her voice pointed and cold with thinly veiled relief.
    The woman with the diamonds and emeralds in her ears came toward Jakob and placed a white-velvet-gloved hand gently on his shoulder. She knelt in front of him, not bothering to fix her skirts so they wouldn’t be soiled by the damp, muddy floor of the Ellis Island dormitory. She pointed to herself and said, “Mama.” Then she pointed to Jakob.
    â€œVin ne hovoryt',” * said Peter, pressing the finger of his right hand—the only finger left on that hand besides his thumb—to his lips in Jakob’s defense. He couldn’t blame Jakob for not wanting to speak to anyone since they left the Netherlands.
    The gentleman raised an eyebrow, looking to Mrs. McGafney to see if she understood.
    â€œThe young boy, we think he is mute. Hasn’t spoken since he got here. His brother always speaks for him. None of the orphans arrive whole, after all.”
    â€œDo we know why the older one—”
    â€œName’s Peter.” Mrs. McGafney interrupted the man.
    â€œPeter. Yes, of course. Do we know why Peter is missing his fingers?”
    The caretaker shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œNo telling what they’ve been through,” said the woman, clicking her tongue against her teeth with pity. “I might not speak either if I were him. But he will most surely in time.”
    Their names were John and Harriet Stewart, a wealthy couple from Chicago involved in the shipbuilding business, who’d been unable to have children of their own. As such, they’d felt compelled to do what they could to help ease the growing problem of orphans clogging East Coast orphanages, and they hadn’t minded at all the possibility of adopting older children. Harriet Stewart held cool cloths to Jakob’s head as he fevered the whole way to Chicago on the train. The autumn trees and rolling hills of the East turned to patchwork fields of crops in the Midwest, reminiscent of the land surrounding Chudniv. John and Peter tried as best they could to communicate through their language barrier, using hand gestures and drawing on scraps of newspapers until they were clutching their stomachs with laughter—something Jakob hadn’t heard from his brother since long before their journey began.
    Once they arrived in Chicago, Jakob’s fever broke, as did everything he knew about life before then. The Stewarts’ home in Wicker Park was the most magnificent structure the boys had ever seen, scalloped shingles on the gabled roof with finials on every peak. Windows made of stained glass and framed with wrought-iron guards and transoms. A front porch that wrapped around the entire first level, trimmed in fretwork and spindles. The inside was no less grand, with rugs, plush sofas, velvet drapes, intricate paintings taller than Jakob, shiny woodwork, and fireplaces