The orphans of course grew older. The teeth of Usher Flicker came in. Mann Lifshits turned out to be left-handed. And a soft black mustache appeared on the lip of Myer Krystal. That was a sign that soon he would depart. But the odd thing was that neither he nor any of the other children left the Orphanage Number 2. Or if they did, with knapsacks, with valises, they quickly returned. Something there—the little bells around the necks of the goats, perhaps, or the yellow light burning late in the attic window—called them back from the task of seeking their fortunes.

This refusal of the older children to leave created two major problems. The first was that the gossip that had surrounded the doctor when he lived on Lepecky began to plague him at the Hatters’ Asylum as well. Much of this talk—about the Polish cook, the Polish maids, or about Miss Bibelnieks for that matter—need not be repeated here. What if it were true that shortly after Trumpelman became Director, Miss Wysocka moved into a room next to his? Or that when Mathilda Megalif, the dramatic actress, taught the orphans pronunciation, she occasionally remained for the night? These things may have once shocked our Jews, in their corner of Europe; they would not faze many folk now—not in America, not in the modern world.

It was a more serious business when the talk tied Trumpelman to his charges—that is, to children, even if some of these same orphans now wore earrings and read novels half through the night. Then word got out that one of the girls was going to bear the Director’s child. Imagine the scandal! For weeks no one talked of anything else. A Pole came around, a municipal official, and asked Miss Wysocka questions. Then a letter arrived from Mister Faulhaber—airmail, from New York. The news had spread over the ocean! In response to this, the Community Council announced that the Chairman of the Public Health Department would hold an investigation. For a time, it was an ugly situation. But Fried Rievesaltes, with his many connections, saved the day.

It was that gentleman who, early one morning, in the midst of a rainstorm, drove up to the Hatters’ Asylum in a cab. Trumpelman, with his hat over his eyes, his collar up, climbed into the rear. A young Jewish girl, it was the dark-haired Nellie Brilliantstein, tightly held his arm. The taxi knew where to go. To the Hotel Europa. It stopped next to Zam’s “Spider” two-seater. While the girl was above, in the medical suite, Trumpelman paced in the downpour. The pastry shop was already open. It was permissible to sit in the lobby chairs. But the Director would not leave the open square. There the rain drove at him from different angles. With an effort the pigeons flew by. At last Miss Brilliantstein came out the hotel door, openmouthed. Instantly the taxi, with Rievesaltes still inside it, drew up beside her, and she got in. Trumpelman shouted through the shut, streaming window. What he wanted to know was: Had it been a male child, a son?