“Discontent,” Sister Regina repeated, as if the word rested heavy on her mind. “You’re right. It’s been growing for quite a while now.”
“I fear for you, Sister,” her companion said.
“Because I broke the rule of obedience by challenging Mother Superior at supper the other night?”
“There’ve been other things.”
“Yes, there have. It seems like everything we do breaks one of our rules, and I’m tired of confessing what no longer seems wrong. Goodness, we’re defying our Constitution right now just by discussing this!”
Their Constitution stated: Words of complaint, severity and reproach are never addressed to one another. The confidential communication of rash judgments and feelings of discontent can disturb the peace and harmony of a religious community and should have no place among those who profess to be followers of Jesus Christ. It was one of the rules under which Sister Regina had lately begun to chafe.
“Yes, I know. I shall ask for a penance at the Chapter of Faults next Friday.”
“I don’t wish to be the cause of your asking for a penance.”
“Forgive me, Sister, but my penances are my concern.”
“All right, then, haven’t you ever asked yourself what good it does us to distance ourselves from everyone outside the religious community? If we’re to perform acts of charity to the best of our ability, we need to be among the people. When I was restrained from physically comforting the Olczak children, I felt... I felt... well, I just didn’t understand it at that moment. I’m not sure I’ve ever fully understood it.”
“So you questioned Mother Agnes’s authority.”
“Not her authority. Only her judgment.”
“But that’s what our vow of obedience is about. Willingly submitting to the judgment of our superiors, and believing that it’s through them that the will of God is manifested to us.”
“And I still believe that... most of the time.”
“And when you don’t, that old demon self-will rears its head, right?”
“The vow of obedience has always given me the most trouble.”
“I’ve known that for some time. I’ve watched you struggle with it.”
“And lately I’ve become less tolerant of the, shall we say, personality quirks of some of the sisters. I thought...” Sister Regina searched the sky again. “... .I thought when I entered the novitiate that life in the religious community would be absolutely devoid of turmoil. Submit to the rules, devote myself to a life of hard work, and prayer, and humility, and life would be one unbroken vale of inner peace. But it isn’t turning out that way. It’s...” Sister Regina shook her head.
“It’s this particular time, the sadness, the feeling that you want to do more. But you mustn’t let it undermine all you’ve aspired to. We all face doubts at one time or another. Place your trust in the Lord, and He’ll give you the grace to understand the judgments of those who are in authority.”
“Will He help me to understand the aggravation I feel lately with Sister Samuel when she sneezes on all our food at the table, then takes her handkerchief out afterward? Or with Sister Gregory, who deludes herself that she’s offering up dessert? Or with Sister Mary Charles when she punishes the children with her strap?”
“I must confess, I grow angry with Sister Mary Charles, too.”
They were approaching the church as Sister Dora said, “Goodness, we really are breaking Holy Rule, aren’t we?”
“I shall have to ask Mother Superior for a penance next Friday, too.”
“But on the other hand, R. B. admonishes us to offer prudent admonitions and charitable counsel to our sisters, and isn’t that what I’m doing?” Sister Dora had quoted directly from the book and Sister Regina could have pointed to the exact page, for the frequent study of the Holy Rule and their Constitution was incorporated into their stringent schedule of prayer and reflection. This study was meant to reinforce the vows they had taken, but lately Sister Regina had come to view it as the way the Catholic Church chose to keep the nuns in line. These thoughts above all troubled her.
“Sister, do you think...” She found herself unable to go on. It was scary putting your doubts into words for the first time.
“Do I think...” Sister Dora urged.
“Nothing.” They had reached the parish grounds and were walking up the narrow tarred driveway between the church and the school. “Thank you for your prayers and for your charitable counsel,” Sister Regina said as a comer of the convent came into view. “I shall strive to do better.”
They entered the convent through the kitchen door and found Sister Ignatius crimping the crusts on two apple pies. The room was redolent of bay leaf and onion from the chicken that was stewing on the stove. The sound of rudimentary piano music came from one of the music rooms as Sister Gregory gave a piano lesson, and Sister Regina felt her emotions shift into a comfort zone, for this was the familiar, and there was a great deal of comfort in the familiar. Even in the regimented words of greeting they spoke as they encountered the cook.
“Praise be to Jesus,” the two said as they walked through the room.
“Amen,” replied Sister Ignatius.
In the refectory, Sister Cecelia was setting the table for supper.
“Praise be to Jesus,” they greeted her as they passed the open doorway.
“Amen,” Sister Gregory replied, and they continued upstairs.
It was Saturday afternoon, which was considered free time. But Sister Regina’s charge this month was to act as Sacristan, which meant keeping the sacristy clean and preparing it especially for Sunday Mass. In her room she found a straight pin and tacked her veil together in back, donned a clean white floor-length apron over her black habit and, since she’d be scrubbing, removed her elastic undersleeves.
She entered the church by the back door that led into Father’s sacristy. It was connected to the altar boys’ sacristy, on the opposite side of the sanctuary, by a passageway that curved around behind the main altar. Now in late afternoon the light in the passageway was the color of apple juice as the sun filtered through the amber panes of the leaded windows.
Crossing the sanctuary, Sister Regina genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and began her work. Father had finished Confessions, so all was still. She damp-mopped the floor, dusted the carvings on the altar, the priest’s and servers’ chairs against the left wall, the pulpit, the furniture that held Father’s vestments, and the deep windowsills. She changed the altar cloth and put a crisply ironed corporal over the chalice. She made sure the chalice was filled with hosts from the small safe in Father’s sacristy. She put new candles in the gold candlesticks and kept the old stubs to melt down for future use. She threw away some wilting gladioli from the altar and went over to the schoolhouse to get two potted yellow chrysanthemums from the flower room. When they were nicely balanced on the main altar she went to one of the side altars and put a lighted candle before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary—always part of the Saturday ritual. At the communion rail she hung a crisp new linen cloth edged with wide crocheted lace. And finally, she went to the twenty-gallon crock in Father’s sacristy and filled a pitcher with holy water. She was replenishing the fonts in the front vestibule when the door opened and Eddie Olczak appeared. He was dressed as he’d been at the funeral home, in dark trousers and a plaid shirt instead of his workday overalls.
He stopped halfway inside when he saw her, then his hand went up to remove his felt dress hat.
“Oh, Sister,” he said in surprise, and let the door close behind him. The vestibule turned dun in the scarce light from the two tiny leaded windows set high in the doors.
“Mr. Olczak, what are you doing here?” She had not expected to encounter him since his brothers had taken over his work.
“Well, you know... force of habit. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay over here. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Your brothers have seen after everything. There’s no need for you to worry about a
nything here. And I’ve taken care of the sacristy for Mass.”
“Yes... well...” He glanced away, then at the holy-water font she’d been filling. “Excuse me,” he uttered and reached over to dip his fingers in the font and make the sign of the cross, keeping a respectful distance from her.
She was immediately aware that she’d left her undersleeves in her room and her wrists were bare and that there were specific rules against this, especially with a secular of the opposite sex. Not only were her wrists bare, she was encumbered with a heavy pitcher of crockery so she could not hide her hands in her sleeves. But it would be sacrilegious to set the holy water on the floor.
Mr. Olczak was aware of none of her angst.
“Truth is,” he said, “they’ve seen after everything so good that they left me with idle hands. With the kids out at my folks’, the house is too empty, so I just thought...” He glanced at the bell ropes hanging straight and motionless, at the cold radiator, the clean floor of the vestibule and the rubber mat beneath their feet. At her again, then dropped his gaze. Holding his hat in both hands, fiddling with its brim, he said quietly, “You know, Sister, in one way you’re lucky that you never got married. You’ll never have to go through this.”
“I am married,” she reminded him gently. “To Jesus.”
“And He’ll never leave you, will he,” Eddie said.
“Nor will He leave you. He is always with you.”
He nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Sister, I’m worried.”
It struck her that Holy Rule admonished her not to encourage familiarity through idle conversations with the secular, but once again the rule seemed harsh in light of his circumstances. He was a heartsore man in need, one who had been a Catholic all his life and had worked around nuns a long time. He understood the protocol required between them and could not have been more deferential to any of them had he been a monk, always nodding, or doffing his hat, and keeping the most respectable distance whenever in their presence. Holy Rule demanded that she put a quick end to this exchange, but she felt that to do so would be the most heartless thing she could do.
Christ would want me to hear him out today, she thought, and decided to stay.
“About what?”
“The girls seeing Krystyna in the coffin.” He withdrew and stood clear across the vestibule, near a door that led to the choir loft, backing up against the door frame. “They’re so little, and they’re going to remember it the rest of their lives. I don’t want them to see her that way.”
“Perhaps you should talk to Father about it.”
“You’re their teacher. You know them better than Father does. I thought maybe you’d know what I should do.”
“Perhaps they could stay with their grandparents at the rear of the funeral home during the closing of the casket.”
“And what about during the Requiem Mass?” The casket would be open then, too, right here in the vestibule before the service.
“Is Anne still denying that her mother is dead?”
“No. But she’s grown so quiet. Doesn’t talk, as if she’s mad at somebody but she doesn’t know who.”
Sister grew quiet herself. She let the pitcher of holy water rest against her stomach. “That’s how I feel sometimes.”
“You, Sister?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“It’s not befitting for a nun, I know, but there’ve been moments when I’ve found myself overcome by... by...”
“Rage?” he supplied.
“Almost. And disillusionment.”
Eddie was flabbergasted that she’d confide such a thing to him, equally as flabbergasted that she harbored such feelings, for in the years he’d known her he’d never seen her any way but serene.
“It’d be a sin to feel rage against God, though,” he said.
“Yes, of course.”
He thought for a moment, then asked, “So who do we feel it against?”
He stood with his back against a door frame while she stood beside the holy-water font, trying to figure it out.
“I don’t know, Mr. Olczak,” she admitted. “I don’t know.”
She realized she was breaking Holy Rule again, and said, “Well... I must get back to the convent.”
________
Sister Regina was about thirty seconds shy of being late for Matins and Lauds. Mother Superior gave her a look of disapproval when she hurried into chapel short of breath from running to the convent from the back door of the church.
Within their own tiny chapel, with its feeling of refuge, she once again felt the angst of the day begin to slip away. Kneeling beside her sisters, in this place where she’d spent so many hours, falling into the familiar routine, she felt a reaffirmation that this was where she belonged. Their sweet soprano voices chanting in unison brought the assurance she so desired. During the Magnificat she felt transported, the Latin words flowing through her like fresh rain through dusty air, clearing and purifying.
During the thirty minutes of meditation, however, in the extreme silence of the airless chapel, all efforts to free her mind of temporal thoughts failed. The conversations with both Sister Dora and Mr. Olczak kept intruding, and by the time she went downstairs for supper she felt like an imposter in her habit. Surely a truly good nun would be able to achieve a union with God that would supersede all worldly thoughts.
But not she. Not she.
At supper Sister Gregory pushed her dish of apple pie aside, then nipped at it all through the meal until she’d eaten it all. Sister Samuel sneezed on everything in sight, and Sister Cecelia told Sister Agnes that she had seen Sister Regina leave the convent without her undersleeves on, and even though she was only going to clean the sacristy, it wasn’t proper.
During community hour Sister Mary Charles, fulfilling her charge, read a chapter from their Constitution. Sister Regina did not know whether it was by chance or by order of their Reverend Mother that tonight’s reading was the chapter on obedience.
Sister Mary Charles read:
Religious should have a great reverence for holy obedience and should strive earnestly to overcome every inclination to self-will.
On all occasions they should conform to the directions of their superior with a prompt, exact, and wholehearted response, and they should never censure the judgments of those who are in authority, believing that the will of God is manifested through them.
Sister Regina realized, upon hearing the rule read aloud, that not only since the death of Krystyna Olczak but for months before that she had broken her vow of obedience time and again. She had broken it by silently railing against the many constraints put upon her by Holy Rule and the Constitution. Even worse, she had begun assessing the methods used by the order to keep the nuns in line, and to consider them akin to brainwashing.
That night in her room, during the hour set aside for reflection, Sister Regina performed the required daily examen. Kneeling beside her bed, with her eyes closed and her hands folded, examining her conscience, she admitted that she had much for which to ask forgiveness, not only of God, but of her superior and her entire religious community as well.
CHAPTER SIX
Irene Pribil awakened on the Monday of her sister’s funeral in the same bedroom the two had shared as girls. It was a big south room with high ceilings and wide white woodwork in a farmhouse that had been built in 1880. The center of the floor was covered with linoleum—pink cabbage roses on a forest of green—that she dust mopped every Saturday during the regular weekly cleaning. Around the linoleum the edge of the floor was painted gray; she repainted it every April. The windows were hung with inexpensive white sheer panels that she helped her mother starch and hang on curtain stretchers every spring and every fall. Outside, east of the house, was the garden she helped her mother plant each spring and harvest each summer. And downstairs in the kitchen was the nickel-plated cast-iron stove, where they canned for weeks and weeks during the hottest part of the year. In the chicken coop beyond the garden was a flock of Plymouth Rock hen
s she’d raised in the brooder house and fattened all summer, and which she would soon sell to Louis Kulick at his produce in Browerville, earning herself enough cash to buy a few Christmas gifts for her folks and sisters and brothers and their kids. Ahead of her, as far as she could tell, were years and years of nothing but the same.
Irene had gone to country school through the eighth grade, like all the rest of her brothers and sisters. Then, just like they, she had gone to work—in Long Prairie, where she kept house for a family named Milka who owned the dry-goods store. Also like her sisters and brothers, she’d brought home her checks and given them to her parents, doing so without whining about it because it was expected of her.
Krystyna, too, got a job in Long Prairie, operating a mangle at the dry cleaners, and on weekends the two girls always managed to catch a ride home to the farm, and from there go with their brothers to one of the dance halls for a Saturday-night dance.
It was at the Clarissa Ballroom that they met the Olczak boys for the first time. There were so many of them that Irene couldn’t keep all their names straight. But two she remembered: Romaine, because for a while he was sweet on her and gave her her first kiss. And Eddie, because from the first time she ever met him, she was sweet on him and wished more than anything that he might try to kiss her.
It had never happened.
Eddie had taken one look at Krystyna and gone blind to all others.
Never once, in all the years since, had Irene let Krystyna know how she felt about Eddie. Eddie either.
The job at Milka’s ended when they sold the business and moved to Melrose. It was followed by others, always doing housework, always for meager wages, always returning to the farm on the weekends, until the spring of 1945, when her mother fell off a stepladder while painting the granary, broke her collarbone and suffered a severe concussion. Irene returned to the farm to help out while her mother recovered, and stayed.
She had always intended to leave, preferably by getting married, but with homegrown pork and beef and cream and butter plentiful, and the cooking rich, she had gotten quite fat. There were no young men asking her to the dances on Saturday nights anymore. And since the war ended, women tended to take care of their own homes, so housekeeping jobs were fewer and harder to find. With a limited education, Irene was ill prepared to live on her own and support herself. At home with her folks she had food, shelter, company and love, and she grew complacent with these.