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    City of Orphans
    City of Orphans
    City of Orphans
    Ebook319 pages4 hours

    City of Orphans

    By Avi and Greg Ruth

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Plot twists, big accusations, and plenty of shifty, crooked characters fill the pages of this harrowing adventure from Newbery Medalist Avi.

    The streets of 1893 New York are crowded and filthy. For thirteen-year-old newsboy Maks Geless, they are also dangerous. Bruno, leader of the awful Plug Ugly Gang, has set his sights on Maks and orders his boys to track him down. Suddenly Maks finds himself on the run, doing all he can to evade the gang, with only his new friend Willa by his side. And that’s just the start of Mak’s troubles. His sister, Emma, has been arrested and imprisoned for stealing a watch from the glamorous new Waldorf Hotel. Maks knows she didn’t do it—but will he be able to prove it in time?
    This is a riveting, quickly paced adventure set against a backdrop alive with the sights and sounds of tenement New York.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAtheneum Books for Young Readers
    Release dateSep 6, 2011
    ISBN9781416982609
    Author

    Avi

    Avi's many acclaimed books for young readers include the Newbery Medal-winning Crispin: The Cross of Lead and the Newbery Honor books Nothing But the Truth: A Documentary Novel and The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle as well as The Fighting Ground, Poppy, and The Secret School. He lives in Colorado.           

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    Reviews for City of Orphans

    3.5/5

    66 ratings6 reviews

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    • 3/5
      The setting is 1893 in Brooklyn, New York. The families you get to know are living in poverty where every penny is cherished.
    • 3/5
      Life for 13-year-old Maks Geless is hard enough, treasuring every penny he makes selling newspapers to help his Danish immigrant family get by. But when his older sister is accused of and arrested for stealing a gold watch, it threatens to tear his whole family apart. With the help of a plucky orphan friend, Maks has to get to the bottom of things... and fast!Newsies! Gangs! Robberies! Mystery! Murders! This is a historical novel rife with intrigue and adventure. The setting is, of course, well-researched and thorough. Avi draws the reader into 1893 New York City with all its sights, sounds, and smells. The novel features immigrants from many different countries and makes for interesting reading when you think about the similar and different issues that today's immigrants face. This one is a nice romp and I'd try it on fans of books like UPRISING by Margaret Peterson Haddix or detective stories.
    • 4/5
      Just as the Lorax speaks for the trees, we have Avi to speak for the children. The lives of the children of immigrants in New York City at the end of the 19th century were filled with dangers, suffering, and hardships utterly foreign to children living today. And yet children's lives were also filled with adventure, love, and a sense of pride and work ethic. Avi brings these facets to life through his characters Maks and Willa. City of Orphans packs a punch - sometimes literally - and will have young readers at the edge of their seats by its conclusion. Avi is indeed a master storyteller. The pacing is impeccable. The details are meticulous and unobtrusive. The voice of Maks is lively and authentic. And the connections he weaves together by the story's end are more than coincidental - they are miraculous and magical. I only wish I had a classroom of students - especially those immersed in studying Ellis Island and immigration - to read it aloud to and bring it to life. It's that good.
    • 2/5
      I originally thought my daughter would like this book since she likes mysteries and we live in the Lower East Side (albeit in the 21st rather than the 19th century.) She read the first page and decided that she would pass. (For those who know my daughter, you'll know that this is a rarity)

      I got a kick out of the descriptions of the Tombs (did they really have food hawkers inside the Tombs?), but the writing seemed choppy and hard to follow. The coincidences also seemed too contrived for my taste (although keep in mind that I'm about 20 years older than the book's intended audience).
    • 2/5
      children's/teen/middlegrade fiction; historical (1890s NYC). It wasn't bad, I just didn't think I could read a whole book written in Maks' "newsies" vernacular: "Don't forget: I'm telling this story. And don't count on gettin no break from me for a long time. At least not til I meet Willa. She's a girl." (*ok, I'm exaggerating here, but that's about how much I got annoyed after the first 13 pages or so--I couldn't even make it to 50 pages.)
    • 5/5
      Amazing

    Book preview

    City of Orphans - Avi

    1

    Amazing things happen.

    Look at someone on the street and you might never see that person again—ever. Then you bump into a stranger and your whole life changes—forever. See what I’m saying? It’s all ’bout them words: luck, chance, coincidence, accident, quirk, miracle, plus a lot of words I’m guessing I don’t even know.

    But the thing is, I got a story that could use all them words. ’Bout a kid by the name of Maks Geless. That’s Maks, with a k. M-a-k-s.

    Now, this Maks, he’s regular height for a thirteen-year-old, ruddy-faced, shaggy brown hair, always wearing a cloth cap, canvas jacket, and trousers, plus decent boots. He’s a newsboy—what they call a newsie. So he’s holding up a copy of the New York City newspaper The World, and he’s shouting, "Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout it! ‘Murder at the Waldorf. Terrible Struggle with a Crazy Man! Two Men Killed!’ Read it in The World! The world’s greatest newspaper. Just two cents!"

    Now, not everything gets into the papers, right? But see, the only one who knows what really happened up at the Waldorf is . . . Maks.

    You’re thinking, how could this kid—this newsie—know?

    I’ll tell you.

    This story starts on Monday, October 9, 1893. That’s five days before the day of that headline you just heard. It’s early evening, the night getting nippy. Electric streetlamps just starting to glow. In other words, the long workday is winking.

    Not for Maks. He’s still on his regular corner, Hester Street and the Bowery. Been peddling The World for five hours and has sold thirty-nine papers. Sell one more and he’ll have bailed his whole bundle. Do that and he’ll have eighty cents in his pocket.

    Now listen hard, ’cause this is important.

    In 1893 newsies buy their papers and then sell ’em. So next day’s bundle is gonna cost Maks seventy-two cents. Then he sells ’em for two cents each. Means, for his five hours’ work, he’ll earn a whole eight cents. Not much, you say? Hey, these days, six cents buys you a can of pork and beans, enough eats for a day, which is more than some people gets.

    You’re probably thinking, eight pennies—that ain’t hardly worth working all them hours. But this is 1893. These are hard times. Factories closing. Workers laid off. Not many jobs. Housing not easy to find. Fact, people are calling these days the Great Panic of 1893. And the thing is, Maks’s family’s rent is due this week. Fifteen bucks! For them, that’s huge.

    All I’m saying is, Maks’s family needs him to earn his share, which is—you guessed it—eight cents a day.

    Now, most days when Maks finishes selling his papers, he likes staying in the neighborhood to see how his newsie pals have done. Don’t forget, this is New York City. The Lower East Side. Something always happening.

    This night all Maks wants to do is to get home and eat. No surprise; he’s hungry twenty-five hours a day, eight days a week. And last time he ate was breakfast—a roll and a bowl of coffee-milk.

    So Maks holds up his last newspaper and gives it his best bark: "Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout it! ‘Joe Gorker, Political Boss, Accused of Stealing Millions from City! Trial Date Set! Others Arrested!’ Read it in The World! World’s greatest newspaper. Just two cents! Only two cents!"

    Sure, sometimes crying headlines, Maks gets to head doodling that someday he’ll be in the paper for doing something great, like maybe making a flying machine. So The World would pop his picture on its first page, like this here mug Joe Gorker. Then Maks reminds himself that his job is selling the news, not being it. Besides, The World is always laying down lines ’bout Joe Gorker, screaming that the guy is a grifter-grafter so crooked that he could pass for a pretzel.

    Anyway, Maks’s shout works ’cause next moment, a fancy gent—top hat, handlebar mustache, starched white collar, what some people call a swell stiff—wags a finger at him.

    Maks runs over.

    The guy shows a nickel. Got change, kid?

    Sorry, sir. No, sir.

    I know: Maks may be my hero, but he ain’t no saint. Like I told you, for him, pennies are big. Needs all he can get.

    Fine, says the swell. Keep the change.

    Thank you, sir! Maks says as he slings his last sheet to this guy.

    The guy walks off, reading the headlines.

    Maks, telling himself his day is done, pops the nickel into his pocket. Except no sooner does he do that than who does he see?

    He sees Bruno.

    This Bruno is one serious nasty fella. Taller than Maks by a head, his face is sprinkled with peach fuzz, greasy red hair flopping over his eyes, one of which is squinty, and on his head he’s got a tipped-back brown derby, which makes his ears stick out like cute cauliflowers.

    But the thing is, Bruno may be only seventeen years old, but he’s head of the Plug Ugly Gang. Lately, Bruno and his gang have been slamming World newsies, beating ’em up, stealing their money, burning their papers.

    So Maks knows if Bruno is giving him the eye, things gonna be bad. And it’s not just ’bout being robbed. If Maks loses his money, he ain’t gonna be able to buy papers for next day. No papers, no more money and the family rent don’t get paid. In other words, no choice. Maks has to get home with his money.

    Trouble is, his home is a three-room tenement flat over to Birmingham Street, near the East River. That’s fifteen big blocks away, which, right now, feels as far as the North Pole.

    In other words, if Maks wants to keep his money, he’s gonna have to either outrun that Plug Ugly or fight him.

    Don’t know ’bout you, but Maks would rather run.

    2

    Maks looks over his shoulder. There’s another Plug Ugly down the street. Next moment, he sees a third. Then three more. Six Plug Uglies in all, including Bruno.

    Maks looks for help. He ain’t exactly alone. People like to say the Lower East Side is the busiest place in the whole world. Crowds of people buying, bargaining, begging, strolling. Kids, grown-ups, dogs scrambling for dropped food. Oh, sure, some stealing. These days, folks are really hungry.

    Sidewalks packed with hundreds of curb-stalls, two-wheel handcarts, plus backpack peddlers selling anything and everything, whatever jim-jam a person should want, might want, could want, can want. Food, clothing, or furniture. On the Lower East Side you can buy bent spoons, used books, four-fingered gloves, one-eyed eyeglasses, or a shoe for your best left foot. Hey, one old beard is selling cracked eggs.

    Sellers crying out their goods in English, German, Italian, Yiddish, Chinese, Spanish, Hebrew, Romanian, plus so many other languages, it’s like the cheapest boardinghouse in Babel.

    Even the air is crowded. Crisscrossing telephone lines make the smoky sky look like ruled paper. Hundreds of signs posted here, there, everywhere. It’s like someone plucked a newspaper clean of words, then stuck ’em all on walls, windows, doors, and sandwich boards, telling people to buy, buy, and buy some more.

    Overhead, the clattering elevated steam train—called the El—rains down smoke, sparks, hot ash. Every time a train rackety-racks by, Maks wishes he could ride one. Trouble is, costs a nickel to ride the El. That’s five cents Maks’s family can’t spare. If Maks wants to go somewhere, he walks.

    And the neighborhood stinks too. Stinks of rotten food, sweat, smoke, plus horse dung piles. Don’t forget, this is before motor cars.

    So streets are clogged wheel to wheel with wagons, trolleys (bells ting-a-linging), cabs, and carts. All hauled by horses. During rush hour, if you don’t look out, you’re gonna be mashed or rolled out dead by metal-rimmed wheels or iron horseshoes. Maks knows kids who’ve been hurt, killed even. Hey, cabbies and teamsters don’t care.

    Neither do Bruno and his Plug Uglies.

    You’re asking: How come Maks don’t cry for a cop? ’Cause coppers don’t like newsies. Call ’em street rats, guttersnipes. Besides, these times, city police are hardly better than crooks. Fact, lots of those cops are crooks, ready to be bribed if you have the clink. Don’t forget: This is before Commissioner Teddy Roosevelt started bending things straight.

    Anyway, Maks ain’t supposed to call for help. Kids’ doings—good or bad—are just for kids. Keep that in mind.

    Not that it matters. ’Cause right now, when Maks looks around, ain’t a cop in sight.

    In other words, Maks is gonna have to get home on his own.

    Closer.

    Maks yanks his cap down tight and shoots the only way open to him, right down the middle of Hester Street. But the crowds are so thick, he can’t keep from knocking folks.

    Excuse me, ma’am. Sorry, sir.

    At Chrystie Street, Maks halts and looks back.

    Plug Uglies are coming hard.

    Maks keeps shooting south. Gets to Canal Street and races ’cross in front of two horse trolleys. One horse shies, causing the driver to scream curses.

    Still pounding down Chrystie Street, Maks searches for a hiding place along the walls of brick tenement buildings. Can’t find one. Now his side is starting to ache. Getting hard to breathe. Worse luck: An ice-block wagon and four fat drays pull in front of him. He tries to get round, only to squeeze up ’gainst a stall where an old Chinese lady is selling baskets. Wiggles free, but the Plug Uglies are gaining on him.

    That’s when Maks remembers that up ahead is an alleyway, a shortcut to Forsyth Street. If he can get through without the gang seeing, he might be safe.

    Galloping like a runaway horse, Maks reaches the alley. Gives it a quick check. It’s four feet wide, dismal, gloomy, with grimy brick walls on either side, garbage on the ground.

    Maks dives in.

    Trouble is, halfway through the alley, a high wooden fence blocks his way. The fence is smack against the bricks, making it impossible to get round. He tries jumping but can’t reach eight feet, not with one hand in his pocket clutching pennies.

    As Maks tries to think what to do, he sees, right there on the ground, along the base of the wall, a body. The body’s so tangled in rags, he can’t tell if it’s a he, a she, someone sleeping, drunk, maybe even dead.

    Next second, he swings round just in time to see the Plug Uglies—Bruno in the lead—coming down the alley. In other words, Maks has to fight.

    3

    Maks takes another look at Bruno, shoves a hand into his pocket, makes a fist over his pennies, checks to see where the other gang guys are.

    4

    Maks wedges himself into the corner where the wood fence butts ’gainst the brick wall. Figures that way, the gang won’t be able to get behind him.

    Then he taps up his cap (so he can see), licks his knuckles (wet knuckles sting your enemy), and sets his fists the way he’s seen that heavyweight champ Bobby Fitzsimmons do on the sports pages of The World.

    Bruno comes to a halt right in front of Maks. Stands so close, Maks feels his heat and smells his beery breath.

    The mug plants his feet wide, hooks his thumbs into pockets, rocks back on his heels like some hotshot ward heeler. His nasty grin—some teeth missing—reminds Maks what people say ’bout Bruno: The guy is crazy, crazy mean.

    The rest of the Plug Uglies squeeze in right behind Bruno, leering, laughing.

    Good run, kid, says Bruno, holding out a dirty hand, palm up. Let’s see your brass.

    Maks is pressing against the wooden fence, hoping it gives way. Same time, his heart is going bump-bump, bump-bump, like a fire wagon bucking to a blaze. I . . . need . . . it, he says, the words squeezing out between gasps. To buy . . . papers . . . tomorrow. And our rent is due this week. And . . . and times are hard, he adds, something his papa is always saying.

    Right, Bruno sneers. "Hard times for everyone. And that includes me. So just tell all your dumb newsie pals at The World, greetin’s from their new boss. I’m gonna take care of yous fine.

    So give! he shouts into Maks’s face. His other hand is balled into a fist.

    Though Maks’s legs are shaking, his eyes blinking, he keeps his dukes up.

    Don’t be a wind-sucker! yells Bruno. Hand over your money or your nose gets clocked. To prove it, Bruno slaps Maks so hard, the kid’s cap falls to the ground.

    Maks manages to throw a putty punch. Misses.

    Bruno gives a phony laugh. Warned yous! he says, and conks Maks’s nose. It not only hurts god-awful, he starts bleeding enough blood that he’s tasting it.

    That gets the other Plug Uglies howling. Lop him, Bruno! Lay him out! Collar him!

    Bruno slugs Maks on the side of his head so hard, it makes the kid dizzy. The only thing keeping Maks up is being wedged into that corner. And though he knows he’s gonna be turned into dog meat, he manages another jab.

    Stupid mug! Bruno yells, and cocks his arm, ready to sling his slammer.

    That’s the moment Maks does what he never done before in his whole life: He cries, Help!

    And that’s when the body on the ground jumps up. Rises so fast and unexpected, all Maks can see is that whoever it is has this big stick and is swinging it like a whirligig gone wild, smacking Bruno on his shoulder, arm, face—thwhack-thwhack-thwhack!

    Bruno—taken by surprise—yelps and stumbles back, colliding into the Plug Uglies behind him. Those guys tumble, causing two more to crash. The others, shouting and yowling, try to duck out of the way.

    But the alley, being narrow, and the stick-swinger swinging a storm, first one Plug Ugly then another gets whacked: arms, heads, and backs. Crack! Crack! Crack!

    The gang breaks and runs, chased all the way out of the alley by the stick. In moments the Plug Uglies are gone.

    Maks, hardly believing what’s happened but having no idea who saved him, leans back into his corner, awful glad he’s still got his money.

    All the same, his legs are shaky, his chest hurts, his eyes are foggy with tears, plus his nose hasn’t stopped dripping blood.

    Meanwhile, up at the alley entryway, the stick-whacker is looking out onto the street.

    Maks bends over to scoop his hat. As he wipes blood and tears from his face, he looks up. That’s when he sees that the one who saved him has turned round and is coming back, stick in hand—as if the work ain’t done.

    Which is when Maks sees who it is.

    Only thing, he don’t believe what he’s seeing.

    5

    The one who saved him is a girl.

    She’s taller than Maks. Skinnier, too. So he’s looking up at her, she down, with a face smeared with grime. Her hair is dirty, long, snarled, and twisted into greasy knots. She’s wearing a faded green shirt, which must have been some lady’s ’cause bits of lace, like a tattered spider’s web, are curled round the collar.

    As for the girl’s skirt, it’s brown, long, filthy, ripped at the hem. Don’t even reach her ankles, so Maks can see her bare, bruised feet with their nasty, scabby toes. And in that narrow space she smells like sauerkraut gone south.

    Truth is, the girl makes Maks think of an alley cat, one of them howlers nobody wants. Except most cats try to clean themselves, but Maks is thinking, Nothing clean ’bout this girl.

    And that stick of hers, it’s still in her hands. Maks can see it’s some tree branch, looking hard and nubbly.

    Course, Maks got no idea who she is or why she was sleeping in the alley. His best guess is, she probably just arrived in America, one of them immigrants pouring off that new Ellis Island—what Maks and his pals call green-horns. Fact, Maks wonders if he’ll even be able to understand whatever crack-jaw language she speaks.

    As for the girl, she’s just standing there, stick twitching in her hands, staring at him, saying nothing, but blocking his way.

    6

    Now, the thing is, Maks don’t have no more fight left, not against this girl, not with that stick, not after seeing what she done with it. But deciding he better say something, he says, Hey, thanks.

    What for? the girl says, a hard voice, with a scowl that seems to be stuck on her as much as the dirt on her face.

    For . . . for getting rid of them guys, says Maks, glad she can at least talk American. They was gonna bust me bad.

    I guess you called ‘help’ loud enough, she says.

    To Maks, that sounds as if she’s making fun. Yeah, he says, but you got ’em pretty good. Soon as he says that, the thought pops into his head: This girl don’t hear pretty too often.

    The girl lowers her stick, hitches her skirt, and fiddles with her shirt. Wipes her nose with the back of her hand, using the same hand to push hair from her face. That’s when Maks sees her eyes, which look as if she’s expecting something sneaky coming every next moment from ten different ways. Same time, she’s still leaning ’gainst the alley wall studying Maks, the way a cat might mark a mouse.

    That your nose bleeding? she says. It doesn’t look too good.

    Maks feels like saying she don’t look so good neither. But since she ain’t beating on him—not yet, anyway—he wipes some nosebleed away. I’m okay, he says.

    What did you do to them? she asks.

    Nothing. They like slamming newsies.

    Don’t look like you have anything worth robbing.

    Just sold my papers, says Maks, patting his pocket. Still got my money.

    Course, soon as he says that, Maks realizes he just gave the girl a reason to rob him.

    All the girl says, though, is, Lucky you.

    Wanting to stall so he can get

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