The car stopped. “That’s the church with a funny name—Our Lady of the Rosary,” said Dr. McManus, with an attempt at scorn. “A feller who calls himself Father John Kanty Krupszyk. Little older than you, but bigger, with a face like a football player. No wonder; got his education at Notre Dame, that big Papist college out in Indiana. The Big Irish! Krupszyk! Met him once at a dinner given for Mac Summerfield, the newspaper owner here in town. Said to him, ‘How do you keep that church of yours clean, eh? And with grass around it? In that mob!’ Know what he said? ‘The people respect it. After all, God is in there. The children in the neighborhood take care of the grass and the trees we all planted, and the women clean the church themselves, and the men wash the windows and keep things reparied, and there’s always food in my kitchen; they bring it for me, because my salary is small and I have family demands on it. The church and the rectory are neighborhood undertakings.’”
“As they should be,” said Johnny.
“Wait till you see your church and parsonage! The roofs leak, by the way, and if you think I’m going to repair them without help you’re mistaken. You can put pans under the leaks.”
He lit another cigarette, carefully blew away the smoke from Emilie’s sleeping face. “Went to that feller’s church one Sunday. He speaks Polish. Has things he calls Masses. Two Masses in Polish, two in English. This one was High Mass. Ceremony. Ritual. Didn’t believe a word of it, but I liked it. And know what his sermon was about? He gave the congregation hell! Shouted at them, shook his fist at them, called them names! Wonderful! Did they walk out mad? No sir! They listened, and looked ashamed, and were as meek as milk. Then he told them that if they didn’t repent of their sins—imagine a parson talking of sins these days!—they’d end up with smoking hides. In these days!”
He chuckled with happy memory. “No little pennies in the collection plates, either. You could see they gave what they honestly could.—A little kid ran across the lawn, afterwards, and his mother whaled the devil out of him. You’d have thought it was holy ground. Yes sir, the women might not be better than the rest of the women here, but you can bet they take care of their church! They’re got something they call a Sodality.”
“Haven’t we a Ladies’ Aid?” asked Johnny, hopelessly.
“Ho, ho! You’ll see!” He ruminated to himself with angry amusement. “Went to see that priest feller. He’s got a library that would knock your eyes out. It’s a poor rectory, but smells of wax and paint, and everything’s scrubbed down to the bone. We decided I’d better call him Father Kanty; can’t get my tongue around those infernal foreign names. Do you know what? He has a better education than you have; speaks five languages all together, and no amateur at them. He’s writing a book, in French, about one of their saints, for a Canadian publisher. Good writing; I read his manuscript myself. Well, I asked him why he couldn’t get his people to clean up their houses and their yards. Know what he said? ‘I’ve just finished the job of getting their children three meals a day. Not a woman in my parish works outside the house, except if she’s a widow, or deserted, or has a disabled husband. Give me time,’ he says. And he says, ‘It’s taken me five years, but they now make regular confessions, and every Mass is crowded. The poor priest before me was lucky if he got them in for confession before Christmas and Easter, and most of the time the church was empty.”
They could see the modest altar gleaming bravely through the dusk. “See!” cried Jean. “God!”
“Yes,” said Johnny. He thought of the news he had to break to the doctor about the religious instruction of the children, and his heart sank. “How far is this church from mine?” he asked.
“Only about a quarter of a mile. I’ve been taking you around through the town, so you could see it.”
Dr. McManus tapped on the glass panel again, and said, “Down to Sycamore Street. Stop in the middle, right side.”
“Can’t say I think much of what I’ve seen so far,” said Mrs. Burnsdale.
“Ho!” cried the doctor. “Wait until you see what you and the parson here are letting yourselves in for!”
The car was moving down a very cramped and dismal street, not dismal so much in the sense of being dirty, though the eternal soot floated freely here too, and the stench of the sulfurous factories was ubiquitous. Rather it was bleak and parched, and completely treeless. Dusk was sifting down through narrow alleys, and here and there a poor shop had begun to light up feebly. The car stopped before an insignificant square building built of brick, with plain glass windows, and a stone arch over the narrow door. Johnny leaned forward, the better to see it. Inset in the arch were Hebraic figures, and Johnny spelled them out to himself: “The Righteous Can Enter Here.” So this was a synagogue, and a very modest one too.
“Jew place,” said the doctor, peering at it. “Met the feller who runs it, at that newspaper dinner. He and Father Kanty are good friends; probably sympathize with each other. Seem to have a lot in common, and shouldn’t wonder. Congregations are hell; people are hell. If you haven’t learned that yet, boy, you’d better start soon.” He puffed violently on his cigarette.
“Feller name of Rabbi Chaim Chortow, and old as Abrham. Scholar, Father Kanty tells me, and shy as a mouse. Has a beard. That makes his younger congregation mad, though why a man shouldn’t wear a beard if he wants to is beyond me. About three hundred fifty Jews in the whole town, and this is the only place they have. Know why? Father Kanty told me. The old Jewish families live in this community because it’s home to them; been here since the Year One, when they built this synagogue. Old folks are the same everywhere; they hate to move away from places where they were young once, and thought the world was wonderful, and married, and had children. Well, having been curious about Father Kanty, went to see this rabbi. He lives behind his church, in a house about the size of a dollhouse, with his old wife, who wears something over her hair all the time. That makes the young people mad too, though why what she wears is worse than a bandanna is something I don’t understand. The Jewish girls wear ’em on the street, just like all the other careless females do, too.”
The doctor smoked thoughtfully. “Never did like foreigners; still don’t. But it’s beginning to sneak into me that people are the same the world over—in other words, they stink to high heaven in their hearts. Take this old rabbi. Voice like a soft old organ—you know, when it sounds as if it’s thinking to itself. He’s got an accent; came from Russia, or some other damnable place. That makes another thing the young Jews have against him. Heard they wanted to kick him out and get a bright new feller, all New York paint and smartness. But those bright new fellers know when they’re better off, and they wouldn’t come. Besides, the old folks had something to say about it, and there’s one thing about the Jews: they respect their parents. Something we should learn too.
“Well, son, the younger Jews moved out to the suburbs, up there on the hills, loaded down with mortgages. Pride. Maybe our people ought to get some of that vanishing commodity, too. The old Jews are tailors and shopkeepers and have their own meat stores. The young Jews go in for law and medicine and ‘manufacturing.’ That means making some clothes, and selling them. By the way, two of the young Jew doctors are pretty damn clever, and I got them on the hospital board after fighting like hell with the directors. Don’t like them, myself. Why? Don’t know; haven’t taken time off to know. That don’t matter.
“Well, sir, the old rabbi tells me his troubles.”
Johnny interrupted: “You don’t like Catholics or Jews, but—they tell you their troubles. Funny.”
The doctor said, “Shut up. I’m conducting this tour, and no comments, please, parson. The Jewish girls like to dress well, and live in nice houses, even if the mortgage is up to the roof. And the Jews in this town are just about as well off as the rest of us—which means they scrape for a living. And the Jewish girls read lots of books, and they make their men read lots of books, and they go all out for psychiatry. Jargon, I call it. Never saw a psychiatrist yet who knew any
thing really fundamental about human nature. So the young Jews think their rabbi should talk psychiatry and child psychology to them, and current events, and ethics, and social integration, whatever in the name of God that means. They don’t want sermons on God, and the necessity for prayer, and dedication. No, sir. That’s old-fashioned stuff, for the ghettoes and the old folks. ‘There is only one God, and Freud is His prophet.’ That’s how it goes.”
“That isn’t peculiar to young Jews,” said Johnny. “Dr. Stevens tells me he runs into it all the time, with younger, ‘smarter’ congregations.”
“What’s he do about it?”
“Well,” said Johnny sadly, “he has to listen to them.”
“Humph. Let’s get back to the old rabbi, and the fastmoving young people he has to stand, though it makes him sick. Told me only faith sustains him. So, one Friday night, he asks them, ‘Is God out of date?’ Do they think about that, and do penance, as Father John Kanty calls it? You can bet they don’t! They just get mad. The atom bomb sobered them a little, just as it sobered the Catholics and Protestants. But then human nature asserted itself again, and there they were, screaming about progressivism, and being up-to-date.”
“Not original,” said Johnny. “Dr. Stevens has the same trouble. Don’t people understand that religion is based on eternal verities?”
“Of course they don’t. They’re too stupid.” He paused. “What eternal verities? There aren’t any.”
“You know there are,” said Johnny quietly. Dr. McManus looked at him and his eyes glittered with anger. “Don’t be a fool, parson,” he said. “I’m willing to stand by you, so long as you aren’t a fool. Go eternal verities on me, and you’ll be looking for a new congregation.”
Johnny smiled comfortably to himself. His heart became peaceful. After all, there was God. And still men of God.
“The children are tired,” said Johnny tentatively, as the car rolled on.
“Don’t look tired to me,” said Dr. McManus irascibly. “Little thin, but healthy. I’m a doctor, and I know. Besides, I’m not taking you out of the way, as you seem to think; only about one minute. Did you think you could hop from the station right into the parsonage? Anyway, look at the kids. They’re listening the way no American kids do; they ain’t bouncing around, empty-eyed, like some of our own brats. Hey, you, Jean there, have any idea what I’ve been talking about, eh?”
But it was Max who astonished them all by answering immediately, “Yes—doctor. You say, doctor, all people are the same? Ja?”
“Max!” exclaimed Johnny, with intense pleasure.
“Son, you’ve boiled it all down, and right,” said the doctor.
Max smiled proudly. He smoothed the peaks on his head, made them lie flat. Jean said, “But there is the law here. Papa said it.”
Dr. McManus appeared about to snort, then closed his mouth tightly on his cigarette, after giving Johnny a jeering glance. They were driving through a better section now, quiet, small houses with fairly clean streets in spite of the soot. Gardens were visible, alive with zinnias and marigolds and petunias and geraniums. “Our middle class, whatever there is of it,” said Dr. McManus. “The vanishing Americans. If you’re thinking of something to save, parson, here’s your chance. Women who have pride in their homes, and read homemaking magazines and make their own draperies, and study cookbooks. Men who work in small offices, and come home at night with brief cases. Or who’re skilled mechanics, or own a truck or two. The American dream—the middle class. They stand in the way of Communism.”
He pointed to a few little red-brick houses, bristling with glossy ivy. “Ministers; silly men—believe in the brotherhood of man. And that house on the corner, with all those hollyhocks, belongs to Dan McGee; president of the local mine union. Gets about eight thousand a year. On your church board; fought his being there, myself, don’t like people who make trouble.”
“Does he make trouble?” asked Johnny, looking with interest at the bright white curtains across the clean windows.
“No,” said the doctor, shortly and inconsistently. “Just don’t like him on principle. But he stands with me on making your parishioners support their church; doesn’t have the idea I should foot all the bill. He’s worried to death about the local Commies; they hate him. We have lots of talks.”
Johnny smiled to himself.
The car was rising on rising streets. The mountains were coming more fully into view, and the air was clearer. “See that great big white house almost covered with trees, far up on that hill? Cost over a hundred thousand dollars to build, ten years ago, when things were cheap. Circular drive; gardens; fountains; even a swimming pool. Know who owns it? Mac Summerfield, who owns and edits our one morning newspaper, and our evening one. Doesn’t need the papers. Rich with oil. Inherited two-three millions from his dad, who struck oil in Titusville. He’s our rich hidden Commie. Hate sheets on the side, anti-Semitic, anti-Catholic, anti-American. Got in some trouble couple of years ago on those sheets; he was all for Hitler then. Funny people don’t catch on that Communism and fascism are one and the same thing. Stupid bastards.”
“Can’t you do anything about his Communist activities?” asked Johnny.
“Hell, no,” said Dr. McManus gloomily. “He isn’t an open Commie. Sometimes even runs an editorial or two taking Russia gently to task about something insignificant. Why would a rich man want to be a Commie? Sonny, you’re naive. He wants power; he wants to be, chief commissar or something. He hates humanity; wants to help beat its face in the mud. Perverted s.o.b. but they all are.”
Johnny thought it over somberly. Dr. McManus leered at him. “He keeps his eye on all the churches. Let a minister step out of line, and talk common sense to his congregation, and there’s an editorial calling him an enemy of the people, or tool of Wall Street, or something. Watch it, sonny boy. You’re due for a couple of editorials in the future. I can feel it.”
The doctor pointed to a row of small Cape Cod houses, all newly painted white in desperation against the soot. There was a sameness about them, but something charming also, for every garden was different, surrounded by little white picket fences. “There live the tools of Wall Street, and imperialistic capitalism, and the oppressors, as Mac calls them,” said Dr. McManus. “In other words, foremen and superintendents of the mines. Mortgages on every one of them. I know. They belong to your parish, poor devils.”
The streets were becoming dreary again, but they were at least neat. As it was suppertime now, there were no children on the streets, or women on the porches. Attempts had been made to grow wisteria vines over the posts, with only fair success. Lawns were dirty with soot, but grass was bravely struggling, as were the few young saplings. “Your parish,” said Dr. McManus. “A good cross section of the whole town. Not a man lives here who makes more than five thousand a year, if that, either in the mills, or the factories, or in the offices, or in independent business—which is practically on its last gasp now, the way things are these days. And there’s your church.”
It was a wooden church, on the next corner. Apparently the architect had had some vague idea about the churches in New England, but only a vague idea. It had a thin steeple with a cross, and the steeple was too tall for the low building, which had originally been white but was now a dirty gray. The building huddled close to the ground, as if ashamed of itself for being so unprepossessing. The stained windows were cheap and poorly executed. Only the doors were arresting in appearance, dark carved wood polished and rich. “I gave those doors to the church,” said Dr. McManus angrily. “I pay for having them polished every week, too. And for those little lawns. Think the parishioners are grateful? No sir. I should do it all, they think.”
The parsonage next door looked very small and humble and ugly to Johnny, of no particular style, with no good old-fashioned porch. Its windows were thin and tall in its squat exterior, and it had a narrow arched door. Like the church, it was built of dirty gray wood, once white, and had a roof with curling shingles. Though
it was almost flush with the sidewalk, Johnny saw, with some hope, that it did have a large yard, the coarse grass and weeds recently cut. But there were no trees in it, no flowers, and it was fenced in.
“Like it?” asked the doctor, with ghoulish interest.
“No,” said Johnny.
The doctor laughed so heartily that Emilie woke up. He patted her face. “Just having some fun, dearie,” he said. She smiled at him timidly, yawned. “Good teeth,” commented the doctor approvingly. “Nice mouth too.”
“There can be a garden,” said Johnny. “And trees.”
The chauffeur opened the doors of the huge limousine, helped the children from the folding seats, tried to take the duffel bag from Jean. But the boy clung to it fiercely. All the children had been somewhat cramped in the car, despite its size, but they had not complained. The little girls shook out their dresses fastidiously; the boys straightened their ties. They regarded the house without expressions of disappointment or curiosity. As they all marched up to the door it opened, and a gray, wiry, and rather severe woman stood on the threshold in silence. Dr. McManus waved his hand. “Mr. Fletcher, this is Mrs. Dan McGee, wife of the president of the local mine union, and president of the Ladies’ Aid. Marjie, your new minister. And his kids. And Mrs. Burnsdale, kind of their caretaker.”
Mrs. McGee smiled slightly and shook hands with Johnny, saying in a rather monotonous voice, “Welcome, Mr. Fletcher and Mrs. Burnsdale.” She hesitated, and looked at the children. “Well,” she said. “I heard about these. They’ll all be going to Sunday school; that’s nice. But come in, come in.”