The Girl in the Torch Read Online Free Page A

them both.
    â€œI’m afraid that I have some bad news,” the woman said. “The doctors tried as best they could to help your mother. But there was nothing they could do. She passed in the night.”
    â€œPassed?”
    At first, Sarah didn’t fully understand what the woman was saying. Passed where? Or passed what? Had she passed the medical examination that would allow them to leave? Had she passed on to New York City without her?
    â€œHer fever wouldn’t break. And she didn’t respond to the medicine. They tried everything. But the illness had progressed too far.”
    Sarah tried to catch up with the dark, unfamiliar words.
    â€œShe had to be buried right away, because of her disease, to keep it from spreading.”
    â€œBuried,” Sarah repeated.
    â€œYes,” the official confirmed. “I’m terribly sorry.”
    She continued talking, but Sarah could no longer hear her. All of the woman’s words seemed to scramble and blend into a low hum. Her body felt heavy and numb, sinking into the cloth of the cot as if it were quicksand. Her breath pulsed out of her mouth in desperate little heaves.
    Until the quarantine, not a day of Sarah’s life had passed by without seeing her mother, without spending most of every waking hour beside her. And now, she was gone.
    Sarah tried to picture her, but it was as if all her memories had floated up to heaven along with her mother’s spirit. She could more easily imagine her father’s face, his red hair and beard, the deep crow’s-feet that formed around his eyes whenever he was pleased about something. She imagined her mother’s long thin legs, her brown hair, the faded freckles over the bridge of her nose, but they refused to come together to form a distinct whole.
    â€œMama?”
    â€œShe’s gone, dear.”
    â€œMama?” Her voice rose in pitch.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œMama!” Sarah called again, knowing it would go unanswered. The nurse sat beside her and tried to lay a consoling hand onher back, but Sarah recoiled and curled into herself, hugging her legs.
    Suddenly a word came into her head that was so terrifying, it blotted out everything else. Orphan. Growing up, she had heard horrible stories about orphanages, where children without parents were forced to work at hard labor all day to earn their keep, and those who didn’t were starved or beaten to death.
    The word snapped Sarah back to the present.
    â€œWhat will happen to me?”
    â€œWe’re still trying to find your relatives in Brooklyn,” the official said. “We put notices in the Brooklyn newspapers, but it might take some time.”
    The official said this with an air of confidence that made Sarah think that they dealt with girls in her situation all the time.
    â€œWhat if you can’t find them?”
    The woman looked at the nurse.
    â€œLet’s give it some more time,” she said. “Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
    The woman and the nurse walked away.
    Sarah looked at the cinnamon bun in her hand. The idea of food made her feel sick. She tried to imagine what her mother might say to calm her down, but she couldn’t even remember what her voice had sounded like.
    The only memory that formed in Sarah’s mind was of her mother standing at their table chopping vegetables with a distinct rhythm, chop, chop, chop, chop, one, two, three, four, chop, chop,chop, chop, one, two, three, four, in a steady beat. Her mother would hum or make up a tune along with the rhythm of the chopping. She must have made up hundreds, maybe thousands of funny little songs while she cooked. Yet Sarah couldn’t recall a single one.
    How could a person who just days before had been so solid and sure become just a cloudy image, just a wisp of a song?
    That night Sarah stared into the high-beamed ceiling of the darkened dormitory and tried to see through it to the sky. She