Absolution

by Henry Hack

  “When was the last time you went to confession?”

  “About a week before the murders, three years ago.”

  “You never formally confessed your actions of that dreadful night to Father McClanahan?”

  “No, sir. Until two days ago I never told anyone of that night at all.”

  “But now you want something extremely important to you, acceptance to the seminary, and you want my blessing to allow you to proceed.”

  “Your blessing and your absolution, Father. If I am guilty of a sin in the eyes of the church, please tell me. I will confess it to you and ask to be absolved. And I will do penance – whatever you determine.”

  “Are you celibate, Francis?”

  “Uh, no sir. I was a Marine.”

  “Yes, you were,” he said, smiling at me. “I believe life-long celibacy for you, my son, will be penance enough, don’t you think?”

  I took in his words and said, “Are you accepting me into the seminary? Do you believe I have not sinned?”

  “After I hear your formal confession right now, I’ll give you my answer. Go ahead, Francis.”

  I hadn’t committed a long list of sins since I joined the Corps, just some occasional profanity and sex out of wedlock, so my confession was a short one. Father Johansson absolved me and assigned the rosary as my penance. He said, “To answer your questions, Francis, I also believe you did not commit a sin on that night, but you did have a serious moral lapse in running away from those mortally injured people, and that is something you will have to deal with inside your soul and your heart. As far as entering the seminary, I will allow you to apply. There is a lengthy process and background investigation that must be completed before you can join us here. During that process, you and I will discover if you have the true calling to be ordained a Priest in the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “Thank you, Father. All I ask is the chance.”

  “I will give you that chance, and you can start by filling out a lot of paperwork my secretary will give you.”

  He showed me to his outer office and said, “Mrs. Olsen, please have Francis Manzo prepare the initial paperwork packet for admission.” He shook my hand and said, “I can only imagine what it was like for you that night.”

  “Pure terror,” I said.

  Mrs. Olsen went into a supply closet and Father Johansson whispered, “Are you certain the police suspect a second person was at the murder scene?”

  “No, Father, but they may be keeping that to themselves for obvious reasons.”

  “But you have to live with the fear they may one day come for you, right?”

  “Not for a long time, I hope. Not until I prove to myself, and my church, and our society, that I am a worthy human being and worth saving.”

  “You have great insight for a man of your young age. You read the lives of the saints, and that’s why you chose Francis, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good choice. You’ll hear from me within a week.”

  While I awaited the call from Johansson, a remark he made early in our meeting re-surfaced in my mind. He mentioned I was his only prospective candidate that day, and I now wondered if there was difficulty in recruiting candidates for the priesthood. Coupled with the remarks by attorney Dugan a few days earlier, I began to suspect something was going on in the church I was unaware of. Was Johansson going to accept me because he had no choice?

  . . .

  True to his word, Father Johansson called me a few days later and said I had been accepted to begin the first stage of the process. I would have to meet regularly with the Office of Vocations, and then go on what he called Discernment Retreats, whereupon a final decision would be reached for entry into the seminary house. There I would study for the priesthood while also attending nearby St. John’s University to obtain my degree in religious studies. If all went as scheduled, I would be ordained in six years. “Thank you, Father,” I said, “but may I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “No sir, but are you, uh, is the church, having trouble getting students to study for the priesthood?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Is it because of the celibacy issue?”

  “Among other things. But that particular vow is the chief obstacle, in my opinion. There is talk of someday allowing priests to marry, but I don’t believe that will happen any time soon.”

  “My second question is, are you accepting me because of the shortage of candidates, even though I may not be qualified?”

  “Not at all, my son. You are eminently qualified and will make a fine priest. Now, put your doubts and fears behind you and pray to Jesus for support. I will pray for your success as well.”

  “Thank you, Father, that’s all I need.” I vowed I would succeed, and I vowed to never forget, and to always pray for, the souls of Veronica and Andrew Simon, Pete Selewski, and, most importantly, for Michael, the innocent crying child left behind.

  Michael Simon would now be three and a half years old, and I remembered reading he had been adopted by his father’s brother and wife. God bless them, too. I hope you’re a happy and safe little guy but someday, a long time from now, you will have to be told what happened on that frightful night, and who you really are. And how will you react to that?

  . . .

  I continued to work nights at TWA and attend day classes at St. John’s, and two years later I was accepted into full-time seminary studies. The next few years passed by, sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, but pass they did, and I was ordained in the summer of 1966 into the Diocese of Brooklyn at the Cathedral of St. Joseph on Pacific Street in Brooklyn. My parents, and my two brothers and their wives, all came in from out of state to attend my ordination. Father Johansson and Father McClanahan also showed up for the elaborate ceremony, the culmination of my study and devotion to God.

  As I lay prostrate before the altar the Bishop placed his hands on me and said the consecratory prayer as the rich odor of incense permeated the air. I, and the others being ordained, rose and were given our vestments. The Bishop anointed our hands with holy oil and presented us with our golden chalice and paten with which we would say mass. My long journey was over. I was now a Priest in the holy Catholic Church.

  I hadn’t mentioned to my parents of my desire to become a priest until I had received my final acceptance into the seminary. I had flown down to Florida, on TWA naturally, and spent a few days with them explaining my choice in life. And I had to tell them my new name.

  My mother said, “You know, Francis, you coulda changed Giuseppe to Joseph. He was a bigger saint than Francis. But the Mastronunzio? That I-a understand.”

  “Ah,” Pop said. “I shoulda changed it years ago. Your brother did it. He’s-a Leo Mastro now.”

  “Like they named him in the Marines,” I said laughing.

  Now, six years later, I noticed their age had started to show, to spread its lines and wrinkles on their faces and necks, to paint its brown spots on the backs of their hands. They were pushing toward seventy. How long would I have them? When would I see them again?

  I put those thoughts away and hugged them after the ceremony. I was ordained. It was time to celebrate with my family. And after that, it was time to go to work – for God.

  PART TWO

  THE SURVIVOR

  (MAY 2000)

  FIVE

  There is no God. The old Jew lying on the green and black tiled floor of his candy store told me that a long time ago. Thirty years? Now, as his blood seeped from the bullet wound in his almost hairless skull, his words proved true once again. Words I had been shocked to he
ar as a devout Catholic boy growing up in South Ozone Park, Queens, but words which I came to believe, after much soul-searching and agonizing, were absolutely true. There is no God. For if there were a God, he would not have allowed one of his chosen people to be brutally murdered today. Not Mordechai Stern. Not Mort, my friend, my former employer, my mentor, my philosophical adviser, my truth teller. Mort, more a father than my father, more a grandfather than my grandfather, more an uncle than my uncle.

  My eyes traversed the floor looking for evidence. The floor needed sweeping, I immediately noticed, and I smiled as I remembered the hundreds, maybe thousands, of times I swept this floor for Mort and Lily Stern. As the memories flooded back, a tear started down my left cheek. I reached into my back pocket for my handkerchief – Remember, Mikey, always carry a handkerchief, a pocket comb, and a pen knife vit you, Mort would say. Then he would add – And a dreidel or your rosary voudn’t hoit either. Maybe both. Odd words coming from an avowed atheist, but he knew I was a devout believer at that tender young age and didn’t want to burst my bubble. That would happen a few years later when “Professor” Stern would teach me Religion and Philosophy 101, better known as “Mort’s Books of Fairy Tales.”

  By the time I got the handkerchief up to my face the tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I choked back a sob. I could hear the shock and disbelief in Detective John Micena’s voice when he said, “Lieutenant, are… are you okay?”

  “No, John, I’m not okay. Some low-life scumbag murdered one of the finest human beings I ever knew in my life. Killed him for a few lousy bucks – he never had more than twenty or thirty in the till – that’s why I’m not okay.”

  “I’ll get him, Boss, you know that.”

  I smiled at my top homicide detective and said, “I know you will, John. Pick your partner, and I’ll get a team from the 106 Squad to assist you.”

  “Richie Paul. That’s who I want.”

  “Good choice,” I said as I noticed the arrival of the Crime Scene Search Unit. “Let’s step outside and let them have at it.”

  John put his hand tenderly on my shoulder and said, “Mike, tell me all about Mr. Stern.”

  . . .

  I was ten years old when I first walked into Stern’s Stationery Store, a candy store, as we called it, on Rockaway Boulevard, between 126 and 127 Streets. I lived seven houses up from the boulevard on 130 Street with my parents and two older sisters. I had a craving for something sweet, and although Stern’s was a block and a half farther down the boulevard than Sam’s candy store, my usual place, I decided to go to Stern’s. Why? Because I had heard some talk from my street buddies it was easier to snatch a candy bar there. Not that I was a regular thief, like a lot of my friends, but a dollar a week allowance only went so far. With larceny in my young heart, I nonchalantly wandered into Stern’s and noticed he was behind the soda counter making egg creams for a couple of teenage girls. This was going to be easy. When Stern turned to the cash register to deposit the girls’ money, I snatched a Snickers bar from the candy display, and sauntered toward the front door. Suddenly a hand – a strong hand – gripped my shoulder. How he had gotten from behind the counter to block my path in zero time was beyond my comprehension. But there he was, and there I was, terrified and humiliated.

  “Forget something, sonny boy?” he said. “Like paying for the Snickers bar in your pocket?”

  How the hell had he known?

  “Uh, well, uh,” I stammered. “I have no money, Mr. Stern.”

  “Mr. Stern? You know my name, and you seem to be respectful. But you are still a thief. Tell me, sonny boy, what is your name?”

  I hesitated, but figured I better be truthful. “Michael Simon,” I said, bursting into tears.

  “Simon? Vat’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing stealing candy in my store?”

  “Uh, I’m not Jewish, Mr. Stern. I’m a Catholic. I go to St. Anthony’s Church on Sundays, and to their school.”

  “Ach, maybe you do, but I know a fellow landsman ven I see one, and you, young man, are a Jew, whether you know it yet, or not.”

  I had no idea what Stern was talking about, but at least he was talking. I said, “Mr. Stern, I’d like to return this candy bar. I do not have the money to pay for it.”

  “Of course you don’t, Mikey. How about ve make a deal?”

  “Uh, deal? I don’t know –”

  “A deal. You’re a Jew. Deals are in our blood, don’t you know that?”

  “Uh, Mr. Stern, I said –”

  “Yah, yah, I know vat you said. Now here’s the deal. Keep the Snickers bar, but sweep the floor for me. A good sweep. Sparkling clean. Can you do that?”

  It sounded good, but I was worried about my parents finding this out. I said, “Yes, Mr. Stern, but suppose I agree to sweep your floor every day for the rest of the week, would you agree not to tell my parents about this…this…”

  “Theft? Not tell your parents you tried to steal from an old Jew, from one of your own, Mikey?”

  I had no idea how to respond, so I meekly said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Deal,” he said laughing and extending his hand to me. “You are a Jew. A real little macher. A ten-year old deal maker. You’ll go far in this life, Mikey Simon.”

  So I swept the floor, among other things, for the Stern’s for the next eight years until I graduated from high school and joined the United States Army.

  . . .

  “Helluva story, Boss,” Detective Micena said. “But what was Stern going on about knowing you were Jewish? I mean I know you are, but you told him you were a Catholic. What the hell was that all about?”

  “That was what I was wondering, because as far as I knew I was a Catholic. I mean, Stern seemed to be an alright guy, but I had no idea what the hell he meant. I waited a few days and one night at the dinner table I said, ‘Dad, are we Jewish?’”

  “And your dad said?”

  “He said nothing, but my older sister, Mary Beth, jumped up and said, ‘Are you crazy? We’re Catholics. Aren’t you studying for your confirmation, retard?’”

  “My father shifted in his seat and said, ‘Why would you ask something like that, Mikey?’”

  “All of a sudden I realized I should never have opened my mouth about this. I didn’t dare mention Mr. Stern and open up that can of worms, so I said, ‘A kid at school called me a lousy Jew because he figured our last name was Jewish.’”

  ‘Simon is a common last name,’ mom said. ‘I’m sure there is every race and religion represented with our name. We happen to be Catholic.’

  “Okay,” I told her, digging into my potatoes and pretending to be satisfied with her answer.

  “And that was the end of it?” John asked.

  “Yeah, until I turned eighteen and my parents sat me down and told me the truth about myself.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Oh, boy, indeed, John. And it was a shocking story. My parents were not my parents at all. They formally adopted me at age eight months after my real parents were murdered in a night time home invasion. Kindly took me in and raised me as one of their own.”

  “Holy crap!”

  “The man who raised me, who I always called my father, is my uncle – my real dad’s brother. Uncle Alan Simon is Jewish. He married Elizabeth O’Toole, an Irish Catholic, and they had two daughters. Alan was not particularly religious and ceded the girls’ upbringing and mine to his wife.”

  “Were you angry when they finally told you the truth?”

  “At first, yes, but I shortly came around. They were – still are – good people, and I had a happy home growing up.”

  “You’re half Jewish?”

&nbs
p; “No, both my biological parents were Jewish. And my DNA results peg me as 99% Ashkenazi Jewish. And my father, Andy Simon, was a Nassau County cop.”

  “That’s another amazing story. Did they ever solve your parents’ murders?”

  “Yes… and no. And that’s a story for another time. Let’s go back inside and see what was turned up by our forensic guys and the medical examiner.”

  . . .

  The crime scene techs were not yet finished dusting for prints, working patiently and carefully around the cash register. “Got a couple of good ones here, Lieutenant,” the senior technician said.

  “Great,” I said, “Let’s hope they belong to our perp. Okay to come back there now?”

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  There was something I wanted to check on. Hidden behind the register was a slot in the counter’s back which led, through a short, square wooden tunnel, to a wooden money box screwed in place between two ceiling beams in the basement below. I had helped Mort construct it after he had been stuck-up at gunpoint for the third time. Anytime he got more than about thirty bucks in the register he’d slip a ten or a twenty into that slot to minimize his losses at the next robbery, which, sad to say, was certain to happen. I called over to John and said, “Let’s go down into the basement. I want to check something out.”

  The single entrance to Mort’s cellar was via the outside steel doors flush with the sidewalk. I pulled them up and went down the cement stairs, but the wooden door at the bottom of the steps was locked with a padlock. I said, “John, see if you can find Stern’s keys and bring them down here.”