Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Nothing had prepared John Beck for the anguish of isolation he would now have to endure. He was locked in a spiritual prison and had no way to find release. His life had suddenly gone terribly wrong. All he could do was look back on his life and ask God: “Why me?” Hadn’t he done everything right?

  Nourished by unselfish parental love, his boyhood had been bright and happy. He enjoyed classroom routine and excelled in his schoolwork. He was a quick learner, facile but not brilliant. His teachers and his classmates liked him. He passed through an athletic adolescence unruffled by anxieties that troubled other teenagers.

  He was popular; he had good friends, but never a best friend or a best girl. He knew, somehow, that he was just passing through his classmates’ lives, that he was on his way out of their small Midwestern town and was never coming back.

  It was not until his junior year at the University of St. Louis that he began to feel the calling to become a Jesuit. But by the time he won his Bachelor’s degree, the United States had entered the First World War and twenty-one year-old John Beck enlisted in the Army. He served less than two years and was never sent overseas. He spent another two years in St. Louis trying to become interested in the business world and found that he could not.

  When John Beck arrived at the Jesuit novitiate, he was a mature, self-aware young man of good character. Just the kind of fellow they seemed to be looking for. From his first day as a novice, he felt as comfortable as a dolphin in the sea. The vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, which he took two years later, freed him completely from the pull of worldly gravity. He had found his natural habitat and he rode the spiritual waves and currents without effort. Jesuits who had lived with John Beck in community called him a “natural.” Like a DiMaggio, they said, he was born to play the game.

  The vow of poverty posed no problems for John Beck. He had never worried much about material things. He drew his clothing from the Society’s general stock, never asked for anything special and took what he was given. Yet his cassocks and suits always fit perfectly.

  The vow of obedience never troubled him. If anything, it was liberating. The rules of the Society, he found, were reasonable and wise. No superior had ever asked him to do anything that was wrong or even foolish. There were times he felt the need to voice an objection or disagreement. But once his superiors made their decisions? Well, that was it. Obeying his superiors was obeying God.

  He knew the vow of chastity troubled others, but he seldom thought much about it. He never felt that he had missed out on something important or given up anything of value. Hearing confessions taught him how easily men and women could be swept away by passion. But that was something he had never experienced himself. When he was younger, he was aware that women had found him attractive. He was always puzzled by their attention, but never intrigued.

  He responded to women with friendly indifference as zebras might acknowledge gazelles who shared their same grasslands, similar but inherently different, beautiful as all God’s creatures are beautiful, but of no particular interest. He respectfully moved aside to give them space to graze. He knew they were there, but he had no urge to seek intimacy. Much less, prey upon them.

  Truth to tell, he had always felt that way about most people, men as well as women: respectful, appreciative but somewhat detached. He was, he supposed, a solitary creature. But he had never been lonely in the Society. There were always good people around, the kind of people, thank goodness, who had learned to respect his privacy. They knew how to keep their distance and not intrude. But now, suddenly, everything had changed.

  Now he had to distance himself while maintaining the appearance of collegiality. He had to follow the regular community routine with his fellow priests. He had to shepherd his novices, prepare them for their meditations, hear their confessions, instruct them on the ideals of the Society of Jesus and explain the implications of the vows to be taken at the end of their novitiate.

  He had to do all that without giving the Jesuits with whom he lived the slightest inkling of the invisible chains that were crushing his spirit. The Seal of Confession kept him from calling out to them for the relief he so desperately desired.

  Father Beck pressed his fingers into his temples. His eyes were sore and his head ached. His vision was a little off. Eye strain, probably. Was he coming down with something? A summer cold? Maybe he should see Brother Hegstad in the infirmary and get something to ward it off.

  He felt the tightening of the muscles in his back and shoulders again. It was hard to catch his breath. The room was spinning. He stumbled into his bathroom and reached the toilet just in time to throw up his supper.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Late that Saturday evening, Oksana Volkova slipped into the confessional booth at the Jesuit church in Cincinnati to listen to her agent’s report.

  “He wants to consult me about what I learned in the camps.”

  “Excellent! I knew he would not be able to resist. He will never let go of you now.”

  “But I am not certain that he will ask me to reveal what I heard in confessions.”

  “He will if he thinks the stakes are high enough. He is a practical man, not a religious fanatic.”

  “He seemed to be sincere about his faith.”

  “Of course he did. He is a politician. Also, he is an adulterer. Did you use my information?”

  “No. I decided not to use the names you gave me.”

  “That was wise,” she said. “It would have been excessive. He does not have to believe that you are a clairvoyant or a mystic. He just needs to believe that you possess valuable information which he cannot have. You will never be very far from his mind.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Nothing. Wait for him to make contact with you. When that will be, there is no way of knowing. A month? A year? No matter. He is worth waiting for. But should I worry about John Beck?”

  “No, not at all. When I confronted him about his behavior, he apologized for examining my room. He had been looking for evidence that I was some sort of saint. I denied it and asked him to keep his suspicions to himself. I am sure that he will.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Beck had managed to get into his bed and fall to sleep that night. But he was wide awake at three o’clock in the morning.

  “Why am I still alive?” he whispered to himself.

  He was alone in his room in the dead of night, staring up into the darkness, a useless bystander witnessing calamity and unable to intervene or even sound a warning. He was becoming powerless to do any good for anybody here on earth and fearful that he was lost in a cold, unconcerned universe with no discernable purpose.

  “What have I done with my life?” he asked himself over and over in the night. “Why am I still alive? Why can’t I just die?”

  T H E • E N D

  Red Army Spies

  and

  The Blackrobes

  B O O K • T W O

  Days of Danger

  C H A P T E R • 1

  When Father Beck’s letter arrived at the Coogan home in Lakewood, Ohio, Kathleen Coogan was tempted to open it immediately, but decided to wait until her son came home from playing baseball with his friends. The letter was addressed to Charley, after all, and he was almost a grown man now. She went to the telephone and dialed her husband’s office number and, for once, thank goodness, Herb was able to take her call right away.

  Should she and Charley wait to open the letter from the Jesuits until her husband came home for dinner?

  No, Herb had said, she shouldn’t have to wait. He knew Kathleen was excited and he wouldn’t mind. He would read the letter when he got home. He loved her, he assured her, but now he had to get back to work.

  Well, she thought, that call didn’t last long.

  Should she get on the phone and alert all her friends about the latest news? Maybe she should just wait until she knew what this letter actually had to say. And maybe she and Charley should w
ait until Herb got home. The ladies could wait for the latest news.

  After all, everyone in her chapter of the Catholic Daughters of America and her parish Altar and Rosary Society already knew that the Jesuits had accepted Charley. The ladies had shared her happiness about that letter from the Jesuit Provincial that had arrived just before Charley’s high school graduation.

  Your application has been considered favorably by the Fathers who spoke with you. I accept you, therefore, as a candidate. You will receive a letter of instructions from the Master of Novices at Milford, Ohio.

  The ladies had agreed that the notification was spare and crisp as a bugle call. Kathleen knew it by heart and, although she didn’t realize it, so did all her friends.

  And now that letter of instructions was here! They would all want to know that it had arrived. But, she realized, they would all want to know exactly what those instructions were. So, yes, she should definitely wait until Charley got home before making any telephone calls. But how would she get through the afternoon?

  What if Charley’s game went into extra innings? Fortunately for Kathleen, her telephone rang. The first call was from her best friend Fran and the second was from her best friend Alice and, of course, she just had to tell both of them.

  Thanks in part to Kathleen Coogan’s social networking, Charley Coogan had been basking in celebrity ever since the Provincial’s letter made his acceptance official. So had three other boys in his graduating class. Their classmates had considered those three to be sure things because they had performed consistently in the A+ range. Charley had been the long shot. He was a good athlete who was finishing the Classical Course (four years of Latin, two years of Greek) with an A- average, but just barely.

  The Jesuits looked for scholarship and piety in their candidates, but social skills were also valued. Charley was not particularly scholarly or overly pious, but he was popular and “well-rounded.” So Charley Coogan, with his athletic monograms for varsity football and baseball, a couple of debating trophies, a regular by-line in the school newspaper, a summer-time job as a soda-jerk at Malley’s Candies, and a mere cum laude in the Classical Course, was going to the Jesuits! Charley’s mother was delighted. His father, less so.

  Most of Charley’s classmates at Saint Ignatius High School respected his expressed desire to become a Jesuit, although they felt no need to do so themselves. His public-school friends at Lakewood High were just plain mystified. And when Charley told the nice Saint Joseph Academy girl he took to his Senior Prom, she smiled sweetly and asked him to be sure to always remember her in his prayers. Then she went home and cried herself to sleep.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  That afternoon at Milford, Brother Hegstad checked the sliding weight on the infirmary scale.

  “How’s your appetite, Father?” he asked.

  “Not so hot, Brother,” said Father Beck. “Have I lost some weight?”

  “About eighteen pounds since I weighed you in June. That’s a fast drop. We’re not even halfway through July. How about the headaches, shoulder pain, eye strain?”

  “Nothing you’ve given me seems to have helped much, I’m sorry to say.”

  Brother Hegstad looked at Father Beck and made some notes: shortness of breath, some change in posture, a little bent over, a little distracted, looks worried, generally slowing down. No smile, no jokes. The infirmarian put the chart aside.

  He had seen something like this before. Some novices got this way before they checked out and left for home. But not anywhere near this bad. Whatever was ailing Father Beck might be serious and the veteran battlefield medic knew his limits.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Father. I just know you shouldn’t be feeling the way you do. We’d better have the doctor take a look at you, give you a complete physical, maybe put you in the hospital for some tests. Okay?”

  “Well, okay,” said Father Beck. “Whatever you say, Brother. You’re the boss.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Kathleen Coogan’s tuna casserole was in the oven when her husband pulled into the driveway. It didn’t have to be served immediately, so the Coogans were able to sit down in the living room for Kathleen’s opening-important-mail ritual. Enclosed with Father Beck’s letter of welcome was a list of articles each candidate was expected to bring with him and a mimeographed sheet of instructions. This letter was addressed to Charley, so he was the one to read it aloud, which he did.

  After reading Father Beck’s letter, he skipped the shopping list and went directly to the sheet of instructions. “There’s a quotation on top from the Psalms,” he said. “‘I have rejoiced in the things that were said to me: we shall go into the house of the Lord.’ Now, here come the instructions.”

  All articles of clothing used at home or at work will be of service in the Novitiate. They need not be new. Items purchased in order to complete the enclosed list should be of plain and durable material, not costly. If new shoes are purchased, they should be black. Do not bring white trousers. The attention of the candidate is called to the fact that while slipover sweaters are useful at the Novitiate, they are worn only under the cassock or coat.

  Toilet articles should include a razor, scissors or nail clipper. If you use a safety razor, bring several packages of blades. The novices do not use electric razors.

  Equipment for baseball, swimming and ice skating will be useful. The Imitation of Christ and a small edition of the New Testament might be brought along. A Missale Romanum with Jesuit Proprium is required.

  Send on, or bring with you, certificates of Baptism and Confirmation. Do not bring smoking material. If you are addicted to the use of tobacco, break yourself of the habit even before starting for Milford.

  “And tha . . . tha . . . tha . . . that’s all, folks!” said Charley in his best cartoon voice.

  “Tha . . . tha . . . tha . . . that’s a lot to rejoice about!” responded his dad.

  Kathleen was not amused. She picked up the sheet of paper with the list of articles Charley was supposed to bring with him.

  “Some of this we have and some we’ll have to buy new. So I guess I have my work cut out for me. I’ll need you and Charley to bring down that trunk from the attic this weekend. And we’ll have to clear a space to put it in the living room where it won’t be in the way. Or should we buy a new trunk for Charley?”

  “Sure,” said Herb. “But maybe we could have some dinner first?”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Pick up on your extension,” Father Novak called out to his secretary who was at his desk outside the provincial’s office. “You should hear this. I’m talking to the Rector at Milford. It’s about Father Beck.”

  Brother Krause stopped typing in mid-sentence and picked up the phone.

  “Okay, Arthur,” he heard the Provincial saying. “Brother Al’s on the line now. Tell him what you were telling me.”

  “Father Beck’s in the hospital, Brother,” said the Rector. “I’m just back from visiting him.”

  “What’s the matter with him, Father?”

  “I was just telling Father Novak. Nobody knows right now. They’ve been running tests on him but they haven’t been able to make a diagnosis. I was about to try to describe what’s been happening. Back in June, Father Beck was bright and energetic, as always. By mid-July, he was a tired old man. Believe me, I’m not exaggerating.”

  “He just changed overnight?” asked Brother Krause.

  “Well, it was more gradual, but all of us here noticed the dramatic change at just about the same time. At first, we thought it might just be the heat. The humidity’s been brutal here this summer. We thought he’d snap out of it with a little rest. But he didn’t. Brother Hegstad got him to our doctor for a physical.

  “The doctor told me that Father Beck was depleted, emotionally as well as physically, as if everything gave out on him all at once. He put him on a special diet to build up his strength. But there was no improvement.

  “So the doctor put him in the hospital. As I said
, the tests haven’t turned up anything. So I don’t know what to think, much less what to do. It’s August already and the new novices will be arriving in a couple of weeks.”

  “So will I have to appoint a new Master of Novices?” said the Provincial. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Well, yes, if Father Beck isn’t up to doing the job. We should at least have somebody ready to replace Father Beck in case we have to make a change.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Father Novak. “It’s too late to yank anybody in the province from their assignments. Would you have anybody at Milford who could do it?”

  “We’ve all been impressed by Alex Samozvanyetz. He could be exactly the right man.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess.” The Provincial paused. “Could you sound out Father Beck on this?”

  “Actually, I did in a general sort of way. I asked him what he thought about Samozvanyetz taking over on the off-chance that he had to step aside.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing, at first. He thought about it for a while and then he said: ‘He’ll probably do a perfect job.’”

  “Pardon me, Father,” said Brother Krause. “Those were his exact words?”

  “They were,” said Father Thornton. “He said ‘He’ll probably do a perfect job.’ I remember because he seemed to be choosing his words carefully.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Kathleen Coogan, diligently following the written instructions from the Master of Novices, added to the contents of Charley’s trunk day by day. By the end of July, she had checked off all the items on her shopping list and had arranged them neatly, ready for display, with the diligence of a mother assembling her daughter’s trousseau.

  She had found a store she had never known existed and purchased a small edition of the New Testament, The Imitation of Christ by Thomas A’Kempis (of whom she knew little) and a Missale Romanum with the required Jesuit Proprium which, she discovered by flipping through the book, was an appendix with the Gospels, Epistles and prayers (the things that change every day) to be used at Masses honoring Jesuit saints and martyrs. The Missale Romanum was formatted just like her own daily missal, which had an English translation of the Latin on the opposite page. She looked for and couldn’t find a single word of English in the Missale Romanum she had purchased for her son.