Peter 

June 13, 1863 

6:00 AM 

"You must look nice," Mum said. She laid a worn suit on the bed. "This is your father's wedding suit. He brought it all the way from Ireland. If only we had stayed..." She began to cry again. 

"How many times do I have to tell you. I am not going to die," I said. She only cried louder. "If my name is called, they will just let me go." 

Mum cried louder still. "If only we had three hundred dollars!" More crying. I turned away from her. This was getting to me. 

The draft had been announced four months earlier. The war had been hard. Soldiers were needed. Few people in New York City wanted to go, but everyone I knew was dirt poor. Most people lived like we did, in tenement houses. Ten or twelve people lived in an apartment. People worked long hours in factories or on the docks. We could not leave work and our families to fight. 

The government didn't care, though. It passed a draft notice. White men between 20 and 35 had to register. Today, July 13, 1863, names were being drawn from a hat. If your name was drawn, you were drafted. Either you went to war or you paid a $300 fine. No one I knew had that kind of money lying around. So men were going to war. 

I was twenty, but I wasn't worried. When I was ten, I was in a fire. It was at a factory. My Pop and I worked there. Pop pushed me out a window. He had to. I would have died if I had stayed. That is what happened to Pop. He died in the fire. I broke my leg. It never healed right. I can walk, but not fast. I can't run. I can't lift very heavy things. I can't stand all day. I can't be a soldier. 

But Mum had decided I was going to war. And Mum was stubborn. She did not change her mind easily. 

"It is so unfair!" she was yelling now. I heard people talking. It was 6 AM. She had woken the neighbors. 

"For the love of God! Stop your wailing," Mrs. Giliani screamed from the next room. "My babies are still asleep!" 

"You are so lucky to have small children!" Mum yelled. "They won't go to war!"  

Mrs. Giliani said a few choice words. Other neighbors chimed in. Mum just cried more. I knew better than to try to change Mum's mind. She would be okay.  

I managed the apartment house. She brought home most of the money. She would dry up for her shift. She would make sewing machines all day. I would be home when she got home. She would see I was still alive. And it would be over. But right now she could cry. 

I quickly dressed in the suit. I apologized to the Gilianis. I wanted to get this over with. I needed to talk to Mr. Jensen after the hearing. He owned a bigger tenement. It had walls between rooms. He needed someone to manage it. I wanted the job. 

It was a beautiful day. I whistled as I walked to the hearing. "It should be a good day," I thought. 

If only I knew what was coming. 

Ivory 

July 13, 1863 

6:30 AM 

Elisha was acting up again. 

Mr. Smith had visited last week. He said our porridge was too hot. The children could get burned. Mr. Smith was a very wealthy man. He gave the orphanage a lot of money. So the porridge was colder. It was too cold for Elisha. He dumped it on the floor. He stood on a chair. His piercing yell began to fill the room. 

"Elisha, stop that!" Mrs. Christansen sharply yelled. She was a widow, and she directed the orphanage. She was also a yeller. That was the kids' nickname for her. 

Elisha didn't listen to Mrs. Christansen. He just yelled more. Mrs. Christansen picked him up. He kicked her. 

I raced across the room to Elisha's table. "Now, Elisha, it's time to stop," I said. "You're eight years old now. Big boys need to act big." The yelling turned to crying. "One, two, three, all eyes on me." I had his attention. I smiled. "You don't have to eat the porridge. Why don't you eat your eggs and toast? I know you are hungry. But you have to sit down to eat."  

Elisha nodded, sat down, and began to eat. The staring faces of other children went back to eating. 

Mrs. Christansen turned to me. "Miss Beacon, may I have a word with you?"  

I nodded. I hated it when she called me Miss Beacon. I was Miss Ivory to kids. Adults called me Ivory. Only she called me by my last name. 

I followed Mrs. Christansen from the dining hall into her office. She sat behind her huge desk. With folded hands, she looked me in the eye. 

"As you know, this is an orphanage. This is not a hospital." She straightened up in her chair. "We care for children, not lunatics." 

I knew where she was going. And I didn't like it. "Elisha is not crazy. He's just different." 

"He is a risk. He is getting older and harder to handle. What if he begins to hurt other children?" 

"He won't," I said. 

"How do you know? He is already a distraction. Children can't learn with him around. Our donors expect this to be a quality institution." 

"I don't think..." I started. 

"Honestly, Miss Beacon, I don't care what you think," Mrs. Christansen said. "Elisha is being moved next week. He is going to the Colored Asylum in Albany. I wanted you to hear this from me. 

I couldn't help it. I started crying. I did not usually cry in front of Mrs. Christansen. It didn't look good. But it just made me so upset. 

"Miss Beacon, I am a bit surprised at your reaction. With Elisha gone, you can move on." 

"Move on?" I said, choking back tears. 

"Yes, go somewhere else. You have served this institution faithfully. We are grateful. But you have an excellent education. You also have a favorable appearance. You could go to Philadelphia or Boston. No one knows your history there. You could find prospects." 

I wish she would just say what she meant. I was very light-skinned. I could easily pass as white. I could teach in a white school. I could attend a white church. I could find a white husband. 

But if I did that, would I be staying true to myself? And would Elisha survive among lunatics? I couldn't even think about it. 

I got up and walked out the door. 

Peter 

Monday, July 13, 1963 

10:00 AM 

Things were getting boring. 

The official had been calling names for three hours. You could hear a pin drop. I thought about leaving. Mum had made me come, but this was torture. I really needed to talk to Mr. Jensen. I had promised Mum I would stay, though. I just hoped I didn't fall asleep. 

"Peter O'Reilly," the official called. I sighed and got up. I started walking towards the clerk. 

I never made it. I heard a lot of shouting. There was a bang. Then I found myself on the floor. 

My bad leg hurt. I felt the breath go out of me. Over me, I heard a shout. "This hearing is over!"