I wish for quiet. But with hundreds packed into this refuge, there is noise at all hours of this nightmare.

Beside me, the little boy curls against my leg and sleeps. I lay a hand on his small shoulder to soothe the trembling and feel Alter looking at me. He lies against one of our hard trunks, cap on his stomach, trying and failing to rest.

We do not know the boy’s name.

Nameless. Faceless. Homeless.

I pull at the singed edges of my skirts. “Aren’t we all?”

“Hmm?” Alter offers halfheartedly, used to my muttering. His eyes are already back on the ceiling.

Homeless. My throat begins to ache. I feel tears burn against my eyelids. I do not know how long it’s been. A day? Two? Already, public buildings have been opened as refuges for those who fled. And we are all here, shocked and haunted. We have nothing. It has all gone up in flame and smoke. Though rain falls, extinguishing the flames, it is still too hot to survey the wreckage and understand the loss.

I lay a hand on the child’s shoulder again. He is small and thin, but warm and real. I can’t help but watch the children running back and forth, the infants clutched tightly in arms that hold them as though the world can burn again as long as they are safe; can’t help but close my eyes and let myself dream until the weight in my chest lifts.

And then, the child shifts. My hand falls awkwardly to my side.

Can I not have the comfort of ridiculous fantasies, at least? I bite back a hard laugh.

The refuge provides us with paper and pencils. With words to cure the sick and burnt, to bring back the lost, to build our world again. To pen letters to those who are sick with worry. I pen my third of the hour. It does not matter who it’s for — only that I write. This time, I include a drawing.

A boy, small, frail. He is in an inferno. A bubble blocked by walls of flames, impenetrable, and he is screaming.

The boy stirs. I crumple the drawing in my palm and take a deep breath, but I am reduced to a coughing fit, pulling stale air into my aching chest. After an endless minute, I can stop. I lie on my side, quivering.

Tears fall, because these flames will not be satiated until they steal the breath from our lungs. And I did not know I could be more broken.

“WE cannot take him with us.” Alter’s tone brooks no argument. We stand inside. I wish for fresh air, but outside, ash still falls, mixing with rain to turn the world an ugly, muddy gray. Leaving now is not an option. It has been four days and we have nowhere to go. Still, Alter brings it up over and over again, anxious about how we can provide for the boy once we’re on our own.

“And what are we to do? Leave him here?” I speak to his logical side. I refuse to show how my heart has already opened wide for the boy I seized from death’s hands. Refuse to acknowledge the pricks of panic I feel at the thought of continuing on again, alone. I bite my lip.

Alter’s brow furrows. “He is not the only one, Ita. There are many children like him.”

“He is not like them.” I am being stubborn. Alter lets out a frustrated breath. He looks back at the boy. The boy will not speak. He lies on his back, twisting his cap between his hands. The children around us shriek. Though it would normally fray my nerves, now I only look at the child.

Alter tries again. “And if his family comes looking for him?”

We do not say it, but we both think it. They likely did not survive. And if they did, would they assume that their child did? Would they find him in the thousands who have been misplaced? The thought makes my stomach roil.

I look to the floor. I am angry at myself, at Alter, though he did nothing to prompt this whirlwind in my heart. I wrap my arms around my middle and turn away, watching ash that falls like snow.

The school where we take shelter offers little food that we can eat. Bread, vegetables, nuts. I huddle with Malke Levin while our husbands file a request for more food. Malke’s husband is a shoichet, and she is proud, though it does us no good here. I am relieved that we have found another Yid in a sea of strangers. She has four children and dark circles around her warm eyes.

I hold the boy’s hand and count out loud until ten. Then backward until one, ticking off each of his small fingers as I do. I chant it and strain my ears for the whisper of his voice following along. There is nothing. He does not speak and I am confused.

“He is only afraid.” Malke smiles down at him. “What is his name?”

I blush, hesitate, and look between her little ones and the child sitting comfortably in my lap. I can only pretend for so long. Malke is waiting. There is an ugly knot in my throat when I speak the words. “I don’t know. He is not my own.”

I tell her the story. Her eyes spark with childlike excitement. “We must find them, Ita!”

Find them. She grasps my arm tightly, but I sit frozen.

When I speak, the words are harsh. “They likely did not survive.”

Malke’s face falls, eyes dimming and lips turned down so she looks younger and sadder. “Still, if they did, we will find them,” she says with stubborn determination. She will not be cowed so easily.

The boy shifts in my lap. Something sticks out of his pocket, digging into my knee. Glad for the distraction, I move it aside. It is his small copper pocket watch. I turn it in my palm, studying the engraved word on its back. Bloch.

Bloch.

I look down at a boy with only a surname and slip the watch back into his pocket before Malke can glimpse it. I do not want it waved in front of everyone. His name is sacred, somehow.

When he is asleep, my fingers find the paper, and my pencil draws a pocket watch. Its chain is thick and heavy, wrapped around wrists that reach out to hold the child. But they cannot, locked in a copper prison.

My throat burns as fiercely as our home.

There are thousands of cottages set up to house the homeless after the fire. Within two weeks, we inhabit one with the Levins. It is there, with Alter bent over the coal stovetop, that Malke finds the boy’s pocket watch.

“Oh.” She holds it up, studies it.

She turns to her husband. “Bloch. Oh, Harry Wolf’s family knows of some Blochs.” She begins weaving plans of finding the child’s parents. They are useless. There are certainly other Jews around, but the people of Chicago remain scattered.

Alter watches me. I avoid his eyes, lift my chin, and scoop Malke’s youngest child into my arms to bring her outside.

“You’re upset.” Alter has followed me.

I laugh. “How astute.”

The lighthearted words do not fool him. I let Malke’s girl down to wander around us. We follow her unsteady path as she learns her legs.

Alter tries again. “This is not bad news, Ita. We can reunite him with his parents. Would you have us keep him?”

Yes. “No. But they are likely dead.”

“Then we owe it to him to be sure, do we not? And if they are alive, we owe it to them to bring him back.”

I clasp my hands together. “And if they are not alive, what then? I will not leave him in a home for unwanted children.”

He pulls at his beard — usually so neatly trimmed, now overgrown and scruffy — and spreads his arms. “We have nothing. I can’t provide you with a stable home, let alone a child.”

I press my lips together. “That would not be a consideration if he were our own child.”

Alter drops his arms. “But he is not.” It is a long moment before he speaks again. “And if he were our own, would we not want his safe return?”

“But they may not be alive,” I argue again. “He was alone. Completely.” There is a pebble in the baby’s hand. Too small. I take it from her and squeeze it so it leaves a mark on my palm. “What if this is how the Eibeshter sends us the child we prayed for?” Seven years of burning hope and betrayal fuel the words so they come out harsh and jagged.

Alter shakes his head. “We cannot assume we know His plan, Ita.” I turn away. Watch the little one fall, stand, begin again. He thinks I am angry with him, and he is hurt. “Ita. It is not that I don’t care for the child. But he is not our own. Every moment, you grow more attached. What will be if they return? Should I stand by and watch you lose him?”

I cannot answer.

He is right. He is always right. It does not matter how much I wish to cry, But we’ve lost everything! Who are we if not Haber’s Dry Goods? Who are we if not guardians of this lost child? How can you ask this of me? We will be alone again!

He is right. That knowledge does nothing to cool the burn behind my eyes. So I do not breathe a word as the efforts to locate the boy’s family continue.

Though the congregation of Kehilath B’nai Sholom was always small, it has become nearly extinct with the blaze. Or perhaps we are too scattered; I cannot tell. Alter is involved in the rebuilding along with other laborers, searching all the while. He tells me that the child must have been part of Kehilath Anshe Mayriv, at the corner of Lake and Wells. There was nobody we would know there.

There are hundreds of Missing Persons signs hung on lampposts, and although he scours each one for “Boy, Bloch, skinny with freckles,” it is impossible to look through them all.

When Alter is not building, he sets up a small collection of caps bought with some money from our savings and peddles them on street corners. He did the same in the beginning, before his seltzer delivery and before his store. He peddles and he asks about the Blochs. He shares each lead with caution, with hope that I will receive it well. I cannot disappoint him, and so I only smile.

I do not wish for their deaths, G-d forbid, only for more time.

For four weeks, we stay in the cottage. Even Malke and the children add papers and notices to the others posted in the streets.

“A lost child. Small, around five years of age. Bloch.”

I know he is smart. He watches me cook with eyes that understand. I make a soup with vegetables over the stovetop and hold him carefully so he can stir. He smiles. Three of his teeth are missing. I teach him to whistle through the gap, and he does it until the others wish I had never done so. I am glad I have. It seems his way of speaking.

Only a couple of weeks later, the weather turns sharp and cold. I take the boy out to breathe the crisp air. We wander from shop to shop, enjoying a Sunday afternoon away from our cramped home.

Mischief enters the boy’s eye. He stops, then tosses his mitten to the ground. He scoops it up, then does it again. As I try to understand his game, a woman stops me. She asks my thoughts on the warmest coats for children to keep tuberculosis at bay. A buzz enters my ears, my hands clamming up in a way that is strange but wonderful.

When we arrive home, Alter grins down at the child, flicking his cap over his eyes and letting him hang on his arm.

He smiles at me. “You look happy.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” I feign nonchalance, my heart still skipping fast and light in delirious pleasure.

Alter pauses, surprised. “Of course.”

But he gives the boy a pat and straightens. He does not meet my eyes, and I notice the smile slide from his face, eyebrows knitting together as though he is puzzling out his ledgers. My heart sinks as quickly as it had soared, a bitter taste in my throat. It is only later, when I go to help Malke prepare dinner, that I notice the mittens still clenched in iron tightness in my fist.

November and December come. In a mixture of wonder and pride, we watch Chicago rise like a phoenix around us. The coolness in the air gently sweeps away the memories of blistering heat, and we become as comfortable as we can be in this small cottage. The boy still will not speak. I have come to call him Moishe. Moishele. Though it wasn’t from water that I saved him, it feels true. Malke worries about him. Why won’t he open his mouth? I wonder if he does not feel safe in our care. I ignore the bitter thought, focusing on the moments that are sweet and easy.

It is colder still when Moishele shows me a snail he found next to the stock of coal and we go outside to find it a home. The cold makes my fingers stiff, but he does not seem to feel it. His small hands hesitate as he lets it down beneath an overturned stone, looking to me for reassurance. There is an ache in my throat as I nod.

Alter has no success in locating Moishele’s family. I wonder one evening, as he watches the children scratching pictures in the mud, if he has eased his search. He has said nothing of it for days, and I do not push.

AS winter deepens, the children chafe at each other’s nerves, restless to play again in the streets. One Sunday, Malke finally throws up her hands. “If you must! And who will be scraping the mud from your boots?” she mutters as she mends. Every spare moment we mend, though she and her husband spend hours in the sweatshops, working to earn enough to move to a proper home. I do piecework at home and watch my Moishele and Malke’s youngest. My earnings cushion Alter’s peddling so we, too, can be secure enough to find a new home.

The children play Hoop and Stick down the street with twigs they find. As they play, Malke and I revel in the peace. She leans back. “When I do scrub the mud from their shoes, it will be worth it.”

I grin. “We’ll see when the time comes, won’t we?”

“Oh, be a sport, Ita! It hasn’t been this quiet since—” An enraged shriek sounds from outside. The moment is over, the children stumbling inside in tears. “Mamma, we had the hoops first and Dov Ber—”

“We were playing Hoops and Sticks, not Graces, that’s for girls!”

“Is not! Even Moishele was going to play with us. Ask him!”

They all turn to the child. I almost expect him to defend himself, but he is quiet. The children shift, agitated. And just as Alter walks in, Dov Ber stomps over to Moishele in a huff and snatches the sticks from his hand.

His face crumples. I jump up, but Alter steps between them first. He does not speak, only frowns until Dov Ber throws the sticks at Moishele’s feet in disgust.

Alter bends, places the sticks into the boy’s hands, and gives his shoulder a light pat.

For the remainder of the evening, Alter watches Moishele intently, hovering nearby to intervene if needed. When he turns to me, I can’t help but raise my eyebrows.

Alter shrugs and adjusts his cap, a small smile on his face.

IT is bitter cold. Still, Alter tries to sell his caps in the streets. Some days, he bundles Moishele tight and brings him along. When the chill turns too sharp, Alter stays indoors, documenting in neat ledgers the successes and failures of the past year. How much was lost in the fire. How much was saved and earned since. I try not to think of our proud little store.

When Alter’s calculations are complete, we find that there is enough money. We will move when it grows warmer, perhaps to Hyde Park. For now, we cram together, settling down for a long winter.

Moishele grows restless. Alter puts him on his knee and teaches him his letters and numbers, and the child is silent as he absorbs Alter’s words.

Max.

The boy’s name is Max.

I am sitting with my mending, Alter and Moishele beside me.

“Mem.” Alter’s large hand is laid over Moishele’s tiny one, pointing to the letter on the paper. “Mem. Moishele.” He repeats it — once, twice. “Moishele.”

Moishele shifts, stares at the letter, eyebrows knit in concentration. “Max.”

The whisper is scratchy and slightly squeaky. I pause, unsure of what I heard. Alter stills. Leans closer.

“Max.” Again, clearer this time.

I look up at Alter. He blinks as if he is too dazed to truly understand. “Ita! He— he spoke, I— Max!”

And suddenly, I am laughing until I need to catch my breath, and I can hear the clumsy whisper again. The boy slides down from Alter’s knee, and there are tears in my eyes and throat as I hold him tightly against me.

Max grins, then reaches again for Alter. Alter bounces Moishele — Max — up and down until Max is scrunched forward in silent laughter.

Max Bloch.

IT is weeks before Max comes fully into his speech. By then, we’ve parted from the Levins with tears and embraces and gone down to Hyde Park, where we find a tenement in which to rebuild our piece of Chicago.

It is small but wonderful and full of all the things I had ached for, and I know fiercely that Max has made us whole again.

There is news worth celebrating. I know it, so I make bread and fish and lather it with pepper sauce, keeping my arms and legs moving so I need not think.

I think anyway, the thoughts twisting and tangled in an aching mess.

The Blochs have been found. They are living near Ginsberg’s shul, Ohave Sholom Mariampol, at Canal Street in the South Loop. Alter met their cousin just after we moved and only made the connection today. The journey by wagon will take some time, so we will wait until morning.

It is news worth celebrating, but I cannot eat. When I settle Max down for the night, I watch his small chest rise and fall, his cap in his hands, tufts of soft brown hair over his freckled forehead. I close my eyes, replaying the fire, the crush of bodies down Randolph Street, the heat, the winds that whipped fire devils. I replay the moment Max’s cries reached my ears.

“It was a blessing for us to care for him,” Alter tells me after I ask all I can about his parents. His family. His five other siblings. The Alter who sang with Max, who taught him to tie laces, who tucked him into bed — he has gone. I am confused, almost hurt. Now, he busies himself with his ledgers again. “And it will be a blessing to bring him back.”

But I do not want to. I do not want to.

Because suddenly, I cannot remember a world where Max does not hover near my legs or whistle through his teeth or leave his cap and boots on the floor in the evenings. When I try to, my mind flounders, only producing a home that will be empty and echoing like the chambers of my heart.

Alter does not get angry at my tears. He never does. But I see his sadness. He sighs, hands flat on the table. “We will be all right, Ita. We always have been.”

“No.”

Alter looks up, surprised at my tone.

“We have not always been all right. You have always been all right. You have always had your store. That was your days and nights! Like your child! Your caps and your ledgers. It is not so easy for me to forget. Do not tell me that we will be all right!” Fire scorches at my throat. I feel unmoored, standing over the edge of an empty, broken future.

Alter stares at me, mouth hanging open. A part of me would have laughed at the sight, but it is buried beneath messy anger and worse guilt. So much worse.

His mother’s name is Hannah. Her lungs are still weak from too much smoke, but she does not speak, just holds Max tightly in her arms. I cry with her.

I should not have come.

I should not have come. I am sick to my stomach. But I had to see them myself, this family. Max’s family. I needed to see a mother who cares, a father and siblings, some semblance of his life before Chicago burned.

My heart splinters again when Hannah embraces me. Then she holds me at arm’s length. “How can I thank you? What can I do?” She speaks with large, sincere gestures that make up for her raspy voice. I shake my head.

I kneel to Max’s eye level and feel small, skinny arms around my neck. I won’t let him go. I can’t. But even as I think it, I am whispering, “You are home, Moishele. Home with your mamma and tatte.” Again and again, begging him to understand.

He loosens his grip to look at me. His large eyes are confused and afraid, his fingers clinging to my sleeve. “Home,” I whisper again. He begins to wail. I cannot leave him.

Alter picks him up, his jaw tight. I notice the flush of his cheeks, the dip in his eyebrows. He looks at me. What can we do?

“Come.” Max’s father, Sol, nods for us to follow him to the sitting room.

We sit there for a while. We speak of the fire. They were visiting that Shabbos, and that is all Hannah says. She brings out tea, though her hands tremble and she cannot keep her gaze from Max.

The other children play. Too soon, Max slides from Alter’s knee to cautiously join.

Alter puts his empty hands on his knees. Then on the table, fingertips pressing white against the wood until I cannot see the difference between skin and nail. I follow his eyes to the children and watch how they fall into familiarity so easily.

I drink Max in with my eyes, silently saying goodbye. That we hope to visit, but we live across the city and it won’t be the same. But it does not matter, because this is his rightful place. I took him from the flames so that he can grow here with other scrawny, freckled children with big smiles.

When we turn to leave, he wraps his arms around my neck once more.

He whistles between the gap in his mouth right into my face. I cannot help but laugh.

Alter shakes his little hand, taps at his cap so it covers his eyes, then flicks it up again. Despite it all, my heart warms. The thought of goodbye leaves me breathless, but a world without the gift of our brief time with him would be more devastating. I know that now as I see him here, with his family. Finally.

When we arrive back at our empty tenement, Alter leans one shoulder against the doorway and does not speak. He waits for me, as patient as ever.

I wring my hands around my handkerchief, the quiet insisting something from me. “Are you going to open another store?” It is an inadequate way to break the silence, but these are the only words that come.

Alter thinks, rubs the underside of his jaw. I wait.

“I can. But they still need men for rebuilding. There’s no shortage of work. I do not need the store, Ita.”

There is leftover fish. We sit down to enjoy it, and I am surprised to find that I do. Alter begins to hum to fill the silence, though he can’t carry a tune. I retreat to our room.

There is still stationery in our trunks. I dig it out, my fingers fumbling for the pencil.

This time, I draw a young boy with freckles, a grin without teeth, and a cap that falls too far over his eyes. He holds a snail in his palm. Together with another pair of hands, adorned in bracelets of copper, they let it down, free.

Later, I find Alter in the tiny kitchen, making a mug of coffee.

“I know you don’t need the store, Alter.” His hand hovers over the kettle, waiting. I continue on. “But I think we should still open it.”

When he gives me that smile that reminds me of a miracle child, I finally feel whole.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 906)