“There was an article in National Geographic years back,” Gerhardt declared proudly, “that called the Shrine one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. Right along with the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building.”
“Truly,” said Father Bryce, who had uttered scarcely a word on the long drive north, “it is a marvel. Such an immense dome, and there seems almost no visible support.”
“Well, that’s what they can do nowadays with ferroconcrete. From the time the foundation was dug—and the Shrine goes down as deep as it stands high—till the cross was put on top of the dome, this whole thing went up in less than five years.”
“And we’re here… alone,” Father Bryce observed. “No other pilgrims have come to worship here.”
“It’s a shame, isn’t it? When I was a young man, just out of high school, this place was filled with visitors on Sundays during the summer months. They’d drive here from all over the country. But now—” Gerhardt shook his head bitterly. “It’s like the Church is ashamed of the place. There was a time when they were actually thinking of demolishing it. Only at that point it would have cost as much to raze as it had originally cost to put up. So they just try to pretend it doesn’t exist. That’s why they let us have it for Birth-Right. I think the Bishop would like to pretend we don’t exist either. At least, that’s what I’ve heard Father Cogling say.”
“Ashamed of such magnificence,” Father Bryce marveled.
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it. And you want to know the reason, Father?” Gerhardt thrust out his bony jaw challengingly, and when Father Bryce nodded, he declared: “The Jews!”
“The Jews?” Father Bryce echoed, not in the tone of polite, cautioning skepticism that Gerhard was used to from all but a few priests of Father Bryce’s generation, but in a tone, much more, of honest curiosity.
“First there was the stink, in the sixties, right before he was going to be canonized, about Blessed Konrad having been anti-Semitic. Because he preached against the Jews who defiled the Holy Eucharist! There were pickets right here outside the gates of the Shrine with signs that said BLESSED KONRAD—PATRON SAINT OF ANTI-SEMITES. You might have seen them on TV when you were a kid, though the media wasn’t as biased then as it is now, and mostly the whole thing was kept off the TV news. But it was in the papers, all right, and you can bet those picketers were Jews. Or Commies. Or both, probably. And then, when they’d won that round, and the Vatican backed down and said Konrad wasn’t even Blessed Konrad anymore and may never even have existed, that’s when there was the fuss about the architect who built the shrine, Ernst Kurtzensohn. A Nazi, they said in the papers. Because he’d been an assistant for Albert Speer when he was a young man in Germany, and Speer was Hitler’s favorite architect. Could the man help it he was born a German? Is that a crime? If it is, then I’m a criminal! But suddenly the papers are saying that the Shrine, because the lower levels are built to withstand a nuclear attack, is somehow the same as the bunkers where the Führer was killed. Kurtzensohn had been the structural engineer for the Berlin bunker, so that makes him some kind of war criminal! They even tried to deport him back to Germany to stand trial. A war criminal! When he was a member of Opus Dei!”
“It is hard to believe,” Father Bryce murmured sympathetically.
“In the end, even Monsignor O’Toole turned against him.”
“Did he?”
“Of course, the Monsignor was under pressure himself, and his first thought was always for the Shrine. He knew that the Jews would be after him next. And he was right.”
Gerhardt fell silent, but for a moment the dome itself, with its marvelous acoustical sensitivity, resounded with its own, more abstract version of his fulminations, the meaning gone but the emotion intact.
“Amazing,” Father Pat commented. “It sounds like an entire pack of hunting hounds.”
A lot Father Pat would have known about the sound of hunting dogs, Gerhardt thought. But he did not venture to contradict the priest. Indeed, as the echoes died away, he had to admit the comparison was apt.
They had come to stand before the altar of the side chapel dedicated to the Monsignor’s memory. Gerhardt pointed to the simple marble plaque that was the only memorial to O’Toole’s accomplishments.
Father Bryce read the few words on the plaque and nodded respectfully. “I wonder if I might ask you, Gerhardt, for a few moments here alone by this altar. That I might pray?”
Gerhardt suspected that he was being manipulated in some way, but it was not a request he could reasonably refuse. “Certainly, Father. For as long as you like. But my sister is keeping your dinner warm, you know.”
“God bless her,” said Father Bryce, getting down on his knees on the lowest of three steps leading to the altar.
Gerhardt withdrew to a respectful distance and mulled over the situation. Things had been getting out of hand, and every time Gerhardt tried to come up with a solution, he seemed to make things worse. This was not the first time in his life he’d sinned for the sake of the Church, but it was the first time he had resisted the opportunity to go to confession as soon as it had presented itself. All during the long and mostly silent drive from the Twin Cities to the Shrine, Gerhardt had thought to ask Father Pat to hear his confession. Whatever opinion Gerhardt had of the man personally (and it was not high), he was a priest with the power of forgiveness that all priests inherit from Saint Peter, irrespective of their own grace or virtue. Father Pat might literally be reeking with sin and still administer the sacraments. But Gerhardt had gone to confession with Father Pat before, and he knew that it would not be enough to say “Forgive me, Father, I’ve sinned against the fifth commandment” and let it go at that. Father Pat would demand to know the exact nature of his sin against the fifth commandment, and there were compelling reasons why Father Pat should not be admitted into his confidence, even under the seal of the confessional.
There had been opportunities, even in the rush of events, to approach Father Cogling, but the priest had his own reasons for wanting to remain uninformed of what he surely suspected. President Reagan had often operated in the same way, and it showed good sense in both priest and president. As a man of God, Father Cogling should keep his hands clean. Even in the Middle Ages it wasn’t the Church that had burned the heretics. All that side of things was handled by civil authorities—by laymen like Gerhardt Ober, who weren’t afraid of dirtying themselves if that might help to preserve undefiled the Church’s own immaculate garment. It was enough for Father Cogling to have expressed his concern to Gerhardt as to the fact of Father Pat’s being blackmailed, which he’d learned from having chanced to monitor a phone conversation between Father Pat and the blackmailer. Father Cogling had naturally been concerned for the younger priest, but even more, as he’d explained to Gerhardt, he was alarmed at the possibility of a scandal that could involve the Church. Gerhardt had shared his alarm, and acted accordingly. Perhaps he’d been unwise.
And it had certainly been a mistake to have effected the disappearance of Father Pat’s mother and twin brother, even though at the time they had seemed to pose an even greater threat of scandal—to the Church in general, and to Father Cogling in particular. Gerhardt was devoted to Father Cogling. No other priest in the entire archdiocese still honored the memory of Monsignor O’Toole and of the Shrine he had founded. Father Cogling was, in Gerhardt’s estimation, a true saint. He may have sinned in his youth, but sin can be repented, especially the sins of the flesh, which are in their nature fleeting.
As it said somewhere in the Good Book, what’s done can’t be undone, and there was no use crying over spilled milk—or even, for that matter, blood. Repentance was not a matter of shedding tears, in any case, and that was a good thing for Gerhardt, since he’d never been one for crying. Repentance was something spiritual and sacramental; it took place between the sinner and the priest, and, as Father Cogling had explained it to him one time, it was one of the mysteries of the Faith. You had to put your soul into God’s keepi
ng and just let go. God would do the rest. So the fact that Gerhardt wasn’t heartbroken over what he’d done was neither here nor there. God would be his judge.
Father Pat finally made a sign of the cross, got up off his knees, and turned to Gerhardt. “Well, now, shall we find out what your good sister has prepared for our dinner?”
“Right this way, Father,” Gerhardt said, leading the way to the single elevator in the Shrine proper that was kept in operation. He rummaged among the many keys on the ring chained to his belt, inserted one in the lock, and then pressed the button that now could summon the elevator. Apparently Hedwig had not used the elevator since his departure that morning to chauffeur Father Pat to the Shrine, since the door opened at once.
“After you, Father. They’re on the fourth level down.”
Father Pat gave an odd look at the cage of the elevator. “There is no… stairway?”
“There is—that door over there—but it’s only for emergencies. I doubt it’s been used, though, since the Shrine was opened. If the local power fails, we’ve got an emergency generator that kicks in right away.”
Father Pat seemed reluctant to enter the elevator.
“Elevators make you nervous, Father?”
“No. No, of course not. I was only… curious.” He entered the elevator with obvious reluctance, and Gerhardt stepped in after him and pressed the button marked 4. The doors slid closed, and they descended.
The doors opened with a hiss, and Gerhardt stepped out. Father Pat followed him, stepping gingerly. He looked about at the gray concrete blocks of the corridor with almost as much amazement as when he’d entered the Shrine itself.
“We are in the crypt?” Father Pat asked.
“The crypt? I don’t think I’ve heard anyone call it that since the Monsignor’s day. Sometimes he’d say, ‘Let’s go down to the crypt, Gerhardt.’ Other times he’d say these were his catacombs. Like in Rome. When we were in Rome, in ‘fifty-one, he took me to a church called Santa Maria sopra Minerva, which he explained means ‘Saint Mary on top of Minerva.’ Minerva was one of the pagan goddesses, and they built the church on top of what used to be a temple to her, and there were catacombs under that. I served Mass for the Monsignor there.”
“Gerhardt! Thank God you’re here. I was going crazy.”
While he was speaking, Gerhardt had advanced to the first turning of the corridor, and there was Hedwig ahead of him at the far end, outside the door to the main kitchen.
Gerhardt made a cautionary gesture. “Of course I’m here, Hedwig. And Father Pat is here with me.”
“Oh,” she said, in another voice entirely, as Father Pat followed Gerhardt around the turn of the corridor. “Oh, I see. Father Pat, how wonderful that you’ve been able to come here at last.”
“God’s will be done,” said Father Pat with a benign smile. As he approached Hedwig, he extended his right hand, with the palm of it lowered and the fingers drooping, as though (Gerhardt thought) he expected Hedwig to kiss it.
Hedwig took it, somewhat disconcertedly, in her left hand, and that was odd, too.
“Hedwig,” said Gerhardt, noticing how his sister held her right arm close to her body. “Have you hurt your arm?”
“It’s nothing,” said Hedwig, releasing Father Pat’s hand and cupping her right hand, which was pressed against her stomach, with her left. “I had a small accident. It’s of no importance.”
“Did one of our young ladies—” He did not complete the question, not wanting to reveal his central anxiety about the operation of Birth-Right to Father Pat, who would probably learn soon enough how rebellious his charges could be.
Hedwig smiled brightly. “No, no, nothing of that sort. It was my own foolishness.” She gave her brother a warning grimace, then smiled more brightly still at Father Pat. “And it certainly didn’t stop me from preparing… What do you think, Father?”
“I really can’t imagine,” said Father Pat.
“Sauerbraten! With spaetzle!”
“Is that so?” Father Pat replied, with a blank look.
“Father Pat loves sauerbraten,” Gerhardt assured his sister.
“Oh yes,” Father Pat agreed. “Very much. And the young ladies—will they be dining with us?”
Hedwig cast down her eyes. “No. Unfortunately. They’ve already had their dinner. It will just be the three of us. But I suppose you’d like to see your room now, and to freshen up. You’ll be staying in the Monsignor’s suite, with its own private chapel. And Gerhardt?”
“Yes, Hedwig?”
“Will you just make sure that everything is all right in the kitchen? I’ll join you there as soon as I’ve seen Father Pat to his room.”
Gerhardt went into the kitchen and stared sullenly at the pots on the gigantic electric range. The kitchen was of institutional proportions, having been designed for the eventuality of serving a small army of the faithful in the event of nuclear war. The metal countertops and shelves were festooned with huge stainless steel pots and pans and cooking utensils, all dully gleaming like armor. Hedwig had tried, here and there, to add a homier touch, but all the various houseplants, in their pots and baskets, tended to become sickly with no other source of light than the fluorescent bulbs, and the ceramic kittens and other knickknacks didn’t produce the same effect of cozy good cheer that they had in Hedwig’s own kitchen in Willowville. They seemed, much like the girls domiciled on the floor below, forlorn and resentful, and they awakened an answering resentment in Gerhardt. For a moment he felt tempted to take up the nearest figurine—an infant angel sitting, beelike, atop a daisy—and smash it to bits. But Gerhardt was not one to yield to such irrational impulses.
However, when Hedwig returned, he was snappish. “How in hell did you manage to break your arm?”
She didn’t answer at once but stood in the doorway, glowering.
“Well?” he insisted.
“How do you think? By trying to move the corpse in the freezer!”
“Oh, shit,” said Gerhardt.
“Please watch your tongue. I have to put up with enough filthy language from that Peck girl. I don’t have to hear it from my own brother. And I think I’m owed some kind of explanation.”
Gerhardt bit his lip. He had not wanted Hedwig—or anyone else—to know about Peter Bryce. If he had not been called back to the Twin Cities to bring Father Pat to the Shrine, this would not have happened. He had managed to dispose of the old woman without great difficulty, for there was, in fact, a literal catacomb in the sixth and lowest subbasement of the Shrine. The architect, Ernst Kurtzensohn, had foreseen the need to provide for the rapid interment of those who had been injured in the initial blast or later developed radiation illness and died after they’d been admitted to the shelter. So the Monsignor’s reference to his “catacombs” had not been entirely a jest. Gerhardt was certain that no one any longer knew of the existence of this special facility, and so it seemed to have been made on purpose for the disposal of Mrs. Bryce’s and her son’s corpses.
The only difficulty had been with Peter. Because of the man’s obesity, Gerhardt had been unable to raise him to the level of even the lowest of the burial chambers, which stood at a height of four feet above the floor. Even the old woman had taxed his strength. Indeed, he’d almost been unable to move Peter’s body out of the back of the limousine and into the wheelbarrow beside it. So, when Father Cogling had called to insist that Gerhardt return to the city, he had trundled the body back into the elevator and up to the fourth subbasement and deposited him in the walk-in freezer until such time as he could deal with the matter in a less hasty fashion. He had intended either to rig up some kind of hoist or else to dismember the corpse into more liftable pieces, which might be done without unsightly gore if the body were given time to freeze solid.
What Gerhardt had not foreseen was that Hedwig would decide to enter the freezer herself to get one of the precooked sauerbratens stored there. She’d even said, before he’d driven off, that she meant to make sauerbraten t
o welcome Father Pat to the Shrine, but Gerhardt hadn’t put two and two together.
“Hedwig,” Gerhardt said in a tone of stern authority, “this is not a matter that I’m free to discuss with you.”
“No?”
“No. I must ask you just to forget what happened today.”
“And every time I go to the freezer to get some food, I must overlook the fact that there is the corpse of a fat man in a wheelbarrow there?”
“He will not remain there long. The corpse will be interred in the sixth subbasement, where provision has been made for exactly that.”
Hedwig looked aghast. “You’ve been on six? Gerhardt, there are bats down there!”
“There were bats down there, Hedwig, but that was some long while ago. And I think the problem was taken care of when I sealed up the broken screen on the ventilator. In any case, I was down there yesterday and saw no sign of bats.”
“A month ago you said you’d seen their… excrement.”
“But not a great deal of it.”
“I can see the bats outside at twilight. There are hundreds of them, Gerhardt. And that’s where they must live. There’s not anywhere else they could be. They’ve got some cave down there that they know how to get to. You promised me you wouldn’t go down there again until we’d had professional exterminators check the entire floor.”
“Exterminators are expensive, Hedwig. You know that.”
“If you let bats get into other parts of the Shrine, Gerhardt, I won’t remain here. There are limits to what you can ask of me. I will do what must be done for Birth-Right, even if it means I risk being put in prison. I will even forget that I have seen a corpse in the food locker. But I won’t live here with bats.”
“You’re being irrational, Hedwig.”
“Yes, about bats I will be as irrational as I like.”
“We can’t discuss this now, in any case. Father Pat will be expecting his dinner.”
“I know that. But there’s one more thing. You’ll have to take me to the doctor in Leech Lake. I may have broken my wrist trying to move that wheelbarrow to get at the chest with the sauerbraten. The whole thing turned over on me, and for a while I thought I’d be trapped underneath it and freeze to death.”
THE PRIEST A Gothic Romance Page 26