The death bell rang again, a lugubrious clong that seemed to reverberate forever.
“I beg your indulgence, Mother Agnes. I wish to stay here awhile, in the school. I feel that I need some time alone.” Permission was needed for everything that differed from commonality within the religious community. Matins and Lauds were the ultimate example of commonality: universal prayers being sent up by every religious the world over at the same time of day. One did not ask to be alone to pray Matins and Lauds when your community was doing it together. To do so was to break your vow of obedience.
She knew immediately Mother Agnes was not pleased. Her watery blue eyes might hold a degree of understanding, but her mind was as fixed as the polar star: she had been a member of the Order of St. Benedict much longer than Sister Regina, and she understood the value of giving up self in order to serve God. Sister Regina had not fully learned how to give up self.
“It’s the children, isn’t it?” Mother Agnes asked.
“Yes, Mother, it is.” Sister Regina rose and faced her superior.
“You aren’t forgetting what Holy Rule says?” Mother Agnes referred to The Rule of Benedict by its common name.
“No, Mother, I’m not.” Holy Rule said familiarity with the secular was to be avoided.
“At times such as these, when one feels compelled to offer sympathy, it would be easy to become too familiar.”
Given the attraction the Olczak girls held for Sister Regina—of which Mother Agnes was fully cognizant—the situation bore watching.
“They’re so young to lose their mother.”
“Yes, they are, but your concern for them would be better directed toward prayer than grief, and the sublimation of your own sorrow toward the greater glory of God.”
Sister Regina felt a flutter of resentment that surprised her. She’d had Anne in her third-grade class last year and had tried very hard not to favor her, but within her black habit beat a very human heart that could not help being warmed by the child. Now this year, not only did she have Anne again in fourth grade, but along came little Lucy, equally beguiling, and Sister Regina felt herself drawn to her in the same way. To see them—her favorites out of her entire two classes—lose their mother, who also had been a favorite layperson, was the most traumatic thing Sister Regina had experienced since taking her vows. To be told she should sublimate her feelings, which were overwhelming at the moment, brought her such a piercing wish to rebel that she felt it best to keep silent.
Both nuns knew all of this as Mother Agnes waited in the doorway and the death bell sounded again. Furthermore, they both knew that Sister Regina had taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, and that of the three, obedience had always been the most difficult for Sister Regina to swallow. Mother Agnes was subtly reminding her of that vow. But Sister Regina was, at times, willful, and this, too, was against Holy Rule. Being obedient meant subjugating oneself to the will of God, renouncing the vanity of self-concerns so that only Godlike thoughts could flow within one, and the movement of grace could be felt within the soul. Sister Regina had tried to accept this. She had struggled to find inner peace, to spend time in contemplative prayer so as to reach that quiet place within, where she could feel herself in communion with God. But she was not sure she had ever succeeded. Furthermore, she could not understand how subduing her grief today could do her soul or those of the Olczak children any good. What she wanted to do was weep for them, and do it alone.
Mother Agnes, however, had other ideas.
“We must be watchful of worldly cares, Sister, lest they creep in and distract us from our one true purpose, which is to esteem a perfect union with God.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Mother Agnes paused momentarily to let her message sink in. “So you’ll return to the convent for meditation?” Meditation always followed Matins and Lauds.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Very well, then...” Sister Regina knelt to receive Mother Superior’s blessing, then the two of them left the schoolroom together. While they trod the silent hall in their high-topped black shoes, the death bell rang again and Sister Agnes said, “Remember, Sister Regina, we must not question God’s will.”
“Yes, Mother.”
As they left the yellow brick schoolhouse Sister Regina worked very hard to quell her resentment, to humble herself in God’s eyes and accept Mother Superior’s admonition. She focused all her thoughts on obedience and willed all worldly distractions out of her mind to let obedience flow in, and with it godliness. The two nuns walked side by side to the square white clapboard house a mere thirty feet away. It sat to the west of the school building and was shaded by a pair of elms half again as high as the three-story structure. They climbed a set of stone steps and entered via the back door, into an immaculate kitchen that smelled of freshly baked bread. The room had a single wall of built-in cupboards, a cast-iron wood range on one wall and in the center of the room an oversized worktable with a built-in bin that held fifty pounds of flour. Mr. Olczak filled it for them whenever it got empty, often with flour that his wife had bought and donated to the nuns.
Sister Ignatius, the cook, and Sister Cecelia, the housekeeper, were nowhere to be seen. The house was as silent as a cave.
They passed into the central hall that divided the house in half with a long strip of linoleum flooring that shone from a recent waxing, past the doors of the community room and two empty music rooms with their pianos closed for the day, up the hardwood steps to the second story, past the row of closed bedroom doors, to the tiny chapel in the northwest comer.
Inside the chapel six nuns knelt on six prie-dieux. Two other prie-dieux waited, empty. Mother Agnes knelt on one, Sister Regina on the other. Not a word was spoken. Not a head turned. Not a veil fluttered in the absolute stillness of the chapel. At the rear of the room an organ without an organist hunkered in the shadows. At the front, above a miniature altar, a pair of candles burned at the foot of an alabaster crucifix. The light from a pair of north-facing windows was muted by stretched brown lace that tinted the chapel the dim rusty hue of tea.
Neither the elbow rests nor the kneelers of the prie-dieux were padded. Sister Regina knelt on the unforgiving oak and felt it telegraph a pain clear up to her hip joints. She offered it up for the faithful departed, welcoming the discomfort for the betterment of her soul, and in the hope that she might more gracefully fulfill the vows she had taken. One of those was the vow of poverty: austerity and a lack of creature comforts, presently padded kneelers, were part of that poverty. She accepted this the way she accepted the sky being blue and the chapel being darkened: as part of her life as a Benedictine nun, and after eleven years since entering the postulate, she no longer thought of the softness of the furniture at home, or the luxury of drinking all the warm milk she wanted straight from the cow, or the greater luxury of occasionally staying in bed until midmorning. She folded her hands, closed her eyes and bowed her head like her sisters.
Meditation had begun.
Meditation happened twice a day, in the morning before breakfast, and in the afternoon, immediately following Matins and Lauds. It was a time in which it was possible to get closest to God, but to do that one had to grow empty of self and full of His divine love.
It was while Sister Regina was attempting to empty herself of self that the three church bells began pealing in unison, signifying the beginning of life everlasting for Krystyna Olczak. At their celebratory note, Sister Regina’s head came up and her eyes opened. It was he ringing them, Mr. Olczak—but, oh, how could he bear it? They should not have let him; one of his brothers should have wrested the job from him and sent him away without subjecting him to this most dolorous duty. Oh my, how heartbreaking for a man who obviously loved his wife the way Mr. Olczak did, to celebrate her death. She pictured him, toiling at the ropes, and became filled with a mild form of outrage on his behalf, the second time that anger had menaced her that day. Once again she tried to free herself of it by reciting Holy Rule. Holy Rule said
anger robbed you of sublimity and thereby held grace from flowing freely through you.
But she found it difficult to eradicate anger from her thoughts today. It felt good, and just, and deserved!
She spent the rest of meditation doing exactly what Reverend Mother had warned her not to do, questioning the why and wherefore of Krystyna Olczak’s death. She longed, during her moments of doubt, to discuss it with her grandmother Rosella, who’d had such a profound influence on her as a child. Grandma Rosella Potlocki had been the most deeply religious person the young Regina Potlocki had ever known. Grandma never questioned God’s will, as Sister Regina was doing now. It was Grandma Rosella who had been unshakably certain that it was God’s will young Regina become a nun.
There had been a moment, watching the Olczak girls collecting their sweaters, leaving with their aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins, that Sister Regina had wished she, too, could be folded into the wings of her family, just for this one day. But she had given up all temporal ties to family when she’d taken her vows. Holy Rule allowed home visits only once every five years. Her family was now her religious community, namely these seven other nuns who lived, worked and prayed together in this convent and in the school and church next door.
She opened her eyes and examined them as discreetly as possible without stirring.
Sister Dora, who taught first and second grades, the most animated and happy of them all. She was the perfect choice for introducing children to their first year of school, for she respected them and was a gifted teacher. Although Holy Rule forbade special friendships within a community, Sister Dora was Sister Regina’s favorite.
Sister Mary Charles, grades five and six, a tyrant who elicited satisfaction out of whipping the naughty children with a strip of rubber floor tile in the flower room. Sister Regina thought that what Sister Mary Charles needed was for someone to bend her over the lowest bench beside the gloxinias and wail the tar out of her backside one time, and see if she might change her ways.
Sister Gregory, the piano teacher, fat as a Yorkshire on market day, who declined dessert every night under the pretext of offering it up, then nipped at it after it was placed before her until it was gone. Sometimes she stayed behind and ate the unfinished desserts of the others while helping clear the table.
Sister Samuel, the organist, who was pitifully cross-eyed and plagued by hay fever. Sister Samuel sneezed on everything and didn’t always cover her mouth.
Sister Ignatius, the cook, who was very old, very arthritic and very lovable. She had been here longer than any of them. Years ago she had taught, and stayed on after her classroom days ended, retiring to the kitchen, where she sometimes fell asleep next to the worktable with a paring knife in her hand. She had wangled the birth dates out of all the nuns and insisted on baking birthday cakes for them even though Holy Rule said they were to celebrate the birthdays of their patron saints, rather than their own. Sister Ignatius would have done very well being somebody’s grandmother.
Sister Cecilia, the housekeeper, was an inveterate busybody who felt it her province to tell Mother Agnes anything that she discovered or overheard within the community, claiming that the spiritual well-being of one affected the spiritual well-being of all. Sister Cecelia thought that because she had once visited the Vatican she was irreproachable, but she was an unmitigated busybody, and Sister Regina was getting tired of forgiving her for it.
Sister Agnes, their superior and principal, taught seventh and eighth grades. Sister Agnes was very much in cahoots with Sister Cecelia in monitoring the consciences of the other nuns rather than letting them monitor their own. She was a stickler for Holy Rule and the Constitution of their order. She could quote both books verbatim and was more unbending than a superior perhaps ought to be.
They were all meditating in silence, each of them having been helped by Mr. Olczak hundreds of times, encountering him repeatedly each day, knowing him perhaps better than they knew any other man, knowing both of his children, and having relied upon their mother for her charity on many occasions.
Were none of them grieved more by her death than they’d been grieved by any death in this parish, ever? Could they truly divorce themselves from caring about the aftereffects of this tragedy on that family? Well, Sister Regina could not. To do so, she felt, would be a mockery of what this habit stood for.
O Father, forgive my faithlessness, for only in You can I find eternal joy, only in accepting Your will can I... can I... can I what?
A fold of her habit was caught under her right knee. She rocked the knee and intensified the pain, offering it up as penance for her wayward thoughts, seeking selflessness, finding instead that her mind was filled with images of Anne and Lucy and their father. Had he gone home to them now? To that yellow brick house that could be seen from the main comer of town, where his family and Krystyna’s had undoubtedly gathered? Would he cry in his bed tonight without her? Would the children? What was it like to love someone that way and lose them?
Sister Regina was surprised when meditation ended. She couldn’t believe thirty minutes had passed, but Mother Agnes rose and led the silent departure from the chapel, the line of women descending the steps in single file and gathering in the refectory at their accustomed places. They began with grace, led by Sister Gregory, their prayer leader this week. She called for a special blessing on the soul of Krystyna Olczak and on her family. Then their simple supper began—beef stew tonight, served over boiled noodles with a side dish of pickled beets, grown in their own garden and pickled by Sister Ignatius, and fresh white bread, baked by her that afternoon.
Sister Samuel said, “It’s very sad about Krystyna Olczak. We will miss her.”
Sister Cecilia said, “She bought us our last fifty-pound sack of flour and had Mr. Olczak empty it into the bin. She was a generous woman, the kind you’d like to see live a long life.”
“Never missed a church bazaar or a bake sale,” Sister Ignatius added.
Reverend Mother spoke up. “Though we’ll all miss Mrs. Olczak, we must not question the Lord’s will in taking her.”
Sister Regina said, “Why not?” And seven forks stopped in midair.
Sister Regina knew immediately she should have held her tongue. Poor Sister Samuel was staring so hard it looked as if her crossed eyes might switch sockets.
The opportunity was too juicy for Sister Cecelia to resist.
“Even though you have both of her children in your room, Sister, you know what Holy Rule says.”
“But this was a special friend. Mr. Olczak’s wife. Someone who took special care to... to... to see to our needs.” Sister Dora nudged her under the table, but she persisted. “Tell me, Sister Cecelia, didn’t she give you a ride to Long Prairie the last time you needed your teeth fixed?”
“Yes, she did. But that doesn’t mean I would question—”
“I believe...” Mother Agnes stepped in, nipping this exchange in the bud. “... that at evening prayer we’ll say a Litany for the Faithful Departed.”
And so the talk about Krystyna was silenced and Sister Mary Charles brought up an article in the St. Cloud Visitor, the weekly diocesan newspaper, regarding a proposed decency rating for movies. While the talk revolved around the benefit such a rating would have for the schoolchildren, the meal proceeded as usual. Sister Samuel sneezed on the bowl of stew, rubbed her nose with her hanky afterward and tucked it out of sight up her sleeve. Sister Cecelia left the table and went to get desserts. Sister Gregory held up a hand, refusing her apple cobbler, which the old cook put before her anyway. When the meal ended, Gregory’s dish was as empty as everyone else’s.
Each member of the community was assigned a charge—a duty—each week, by Mother Agnes. Those whose charge was dish washing this week went off to do them and help Sister Ignatius clean up the kitchen. Afterward they joined the others for evening recreation in the main-floor community room. Recreation time was part of their unwavering schedule. It lasted sixty minutes and everybody was required to
be there. Each nun had a drawer on the north wall of the community room, and from the drawers came crocheting, knitting, letter-writing gear and books. Sister Dora read from a volume about the life of Saint Theresa, the Little Flower, while everyone worked on whatever they liked. Though conversation was allowed, little of it flowed, for Sister Dora had been assigned her reading by Reverend Mother, and it filled the hour of recreation time fully.
At 7:30 everyone left the community room and went upstairs to their own rooms, where they spent an hour and a half preparing the next day’s lessons. Sister Regina used part of that time to read Matins and Lauds, which she’d neglected earlier in the day.
At nine o’clock a soft bell rang, and they gathered once again in chapel to chant the Divine Office and end with evening prayers, tonight the litany that Mother Agnes had designated. Then Sister Samuel played the organ while they all sang Stabat Mater.
After evening chapel the nuns retired to their rooms, locked in Nocturnal Silence, which would last until 6:30 A.M., when everyone gathered in the chapel to meditate and chant the Divine Office from their Breviaries once again.
Sister Regina’s cell was a duplicate of everyone else’s, a narrow room with a single cot, desk, chair, lamp, window and crucifix. No bathroom, no clock and only a tiny closet in which hung two extra sets of clothing and a mirror no larger than a saucer, by which she could pin her veil in place or pick an eyelash out of her eye, should one fall in. The mirror was used for little else, for vanity had been forsaken along with all other worldliness when she took her vows.
She untied her guimpe in back and removed it along with the wimple—headband and veil intact—hanging them on a metal coat hanger bent especially to accommodate them. Next came the sleevelets and the loose scapular, followed by the cincture—the belt—with its three knots signifying the three vows she’d taken. From the pocket of her habit she took a black rosary and laid it on her desk before hanging up the long black dress. Sitting on her bed, she removed her shoes, black stockings and white garter belt, then donned a white nightgown from her closet, and sat down quietly to wait for the click of the bathroom door, signifying that Sister Cecelia was done.