The Brotherhood of the Rose

by David Morrell

  It had colored windows, but no crosses or other religious symbols could be seen anywhere. As every boy sat at his assigned place in the pews, the chaplain, Mr. Applegate, stepped up to a podium and led the boys in song—first “The Star-Spangled Banner,” then “God Bless America.” Next the chaplain pulled out a dollar bill (which gained Chris’s interest right away) and read the words on the back of Washington’s picture. “The United States of America!” he said loud enough to be heard at the back of the chapel. “In God We Trust! Remember those two statements! We trust in God! He trusts in us! That’s why this country is the greatest, richest, most powerful on earth! Because God trusts us! We must always be willing to be His soldiers, to fight His enemies, to preserve our God-ordained way of life! I can think of no greater honor than to fight for our country, for its greatness and glory! God bless America!” The chaplain held up his hands, demanding a response. The boys shouted it back to him. “God bless America!” he repeated. Again they shouted it back. As the chapel gradually became quiet, Chris felt the echo of the shouts linger in his ears. He felt excited in a frightened way, not understanding what the chaplain meant but responding to the emotion in his words.

  “The Biblical text this morning,” the chaplain said, “is from the Book of Exodus. Moses, leading God’s chosen people, is pursued by the Pharaoh’s soldiers. Helped by God, Moses parts the Red Sea, allowing His People through, but when the Pharaoh’s men attempt to cross, God returns the Red Sea and drowns them.” The chaplain opened the Bible, drawing a breath to read. Then he hesitated. “Considering today’s politics, I suppose the Red Sea is not the most apt image for drawing a parallel with our country against the Communists. Perhaps Red-White-and-Blue Sea would be more appropriate.” Chris didn’t know what he meant, but the instructors sitting in the front row laughed discreetly, mindful they were in chapel. The chaplain pushed his glasses back on his nose and read. The service concluded with “God Bless America” again, then “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and finally another chorus of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  Hoping for a chance to play, Chris was dismayed to learn that at the close of what was called the nondenominational service all the boys had to divide into their own religious groups, Lutheran with Lutheran, Anglican with Anglican, Presbyterian with Presbyterian, for further worship. He was confused, not knowing where to go because he didn’t know if he had a religion or what it was. Glancing uneasily around him as he left the chapel with the other boys, he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled to a red-haired freckled supervisor who looked as if he had a sunburn. “Kilmoonie, you come with me.” The supervisor’s voice had a lilt. He said his name was Mr. O’Hara. “Yes, Kilmoonie, I’m Irish like you. We’re both R.C.s.” When Chris frowned, the supervisor explained, and that was the day Chris learned he was something called a Roman Catholic. That was also the day he learned a little about what it meant to be Jewish. As the different religious groups walked toward separate buses that would take them to various churches, Chris glanced across the concrete that led toward the dormitory and saw a boy walking all alone. Without thinking, he blurted, “But why doesn’t Saul have to come?”

  The supervisor apparently didn’t notice Chris hadn’t said sir. “What? Oh, that’s Grisman. He’s Jewish. His Sunday’s on Saturday.”

  Chris frowned as he boarded the bus. Sunday on Saturday? What sense did that make? He thought about it as the bus drove past the big iron gates at the entrance to the school. He’d been here only a few days, but already he’d lost track, and though as recently as the night before he’d fallen asleep making plans to run away, now the outside world seemed foreign and scary. His eyes widened nervously at the crowded sidewalks and the busy streets. The sun hurt his eyes. Car horns blared. The boys were under strict orders not to say a word while they were on the bus and especially not to make faces or do anything else that would attract the attention of people on the street. In the strange silence of the bus (except for the muffled roar of its engine), Chris stared ahead as did the other boys and felt unsettled, incomplete, eager to get back to the school and its routine.

  The bus stopped in front of a church whose towers made it look like a castle. A cross loomed over it. Bells droned. A lot of people wearing suits and dresses were going in. Mr. O’Hara lined the boys up two by two and marched them in. The church was dark and felt cool. As Mr. O’Hara led the boys down a side aisle, Chris heard a woman whisper, “Don’t they look cute in their uniforms? Look at that young one. Isn’t he sweet?” Chris wasn’t sure if the woman meant him, but he felt self-conscious. All he wanted was to be invisible within the group.

  The church made him feel even smaller than he was. He stared at the peaked roof (the highest he’d ever seen) with its crisscrossed beams and hanging lights. He peered at the front where a red light flickered above the altar. Candles glowed. The altar was covered with a stiff white cloth. A small shiny golden door on the altar looked as if it held a secret.

  But beyond the altar hung the most disturbing sight of all. His chest shrank, suffocating him. Kneeling, he had to grip the seat ahead of him tightly to control his trembling hands. He’d never felt so scared. Beyond the altar hung a statue—a lean, twisted, agonized man whose hands and feet were nailed to a cross, whose head was pierced by what looked like spikes, whose side had been cut open, blood streaming down.

  He glanced around in panic. Why didn’t the other boys seem shocked by the statue? Or the other people (the “outsiders,” as he’d begun to think of them)—why weren’t they gaping in horror? What kind of place was this? Subduing himself, trying to understand, he heard Mr. O’Hara snap his fingers twice, and at once the older boys stopped kneeling. They sat in the pews. Chris followed their lead. He felt even more afraid when an organ began to blare, its eerie chords filling the church. A choir began singing, but the language was foreign, and he didn’t understand. Then a priest wearing a long colorful robe came to the altar, followed by two boys in white cloaks. They faced the small gold door, their backs to the people, speaking to the statue. Chris hoped for an explanation—he wanted someone to tell him why the man was nailed up there.

  But he couldn’t understand what the priest was saying. The words seemed gibberish. They made no sense. “Confiteor Deo omnipotenti…”

  All the way back to school, Chris felt confused. The priest had spoken briefly to the people in English, talking about Jesus Christ, who apparently was the man nailed above the altar, but Chris hadn’t learned who Jesus was. Mr. O’Hara had mentioned that next week Chris would be starting something called Sunday school—maybe, Chris thought, I’ll find out then. In the meantime, he sighed as the bus returned through the open gates of Franklin School, heading up the single road toward the dormitories. After the disturbing experience of being on the outside, in the scary church with the awful statue, he welcomed being back. He recognized some of the boys. He looked forward to sitting on his bunk. Knowing what he was supposed to do and when he was supposed to do it, he felt secure, pleased not to be confused. And lunch was served exactly on time. Hungry, he swallowed huge mouthfuls of hamburger and potato chips, drinking glass after glass of milk. It was good to be back home, he thought, then abruptly stopped chewing as he realized the word that had flashed through his head. Home? But what about the house on Calcanlin Street? And what about his mother? Confused again, he understood—without knowing why—that he was going to be living here for a long time. Peering along the table toward Saul in his honored center place, he told himself if this was going to be his home he’d better learn how to get along. He needed friends. He wanted to be Saul’s friend. But how, when Saul was bigger and stronger and faster, and above all had the baseball cards?

  9

  The answer came to him the next day in swimming class. By now, he was less ashamed of being naked in front of the other boys. As the instructor told the class to kick their legs the way Saul was, Chris felt his heart race with satisfaction. I’m doing it! he thought. I’m really doing it!

  “
That’s right, Kilmoonie,” the instructor said. “Keep those legs out straight. Kick strong and steady. Just the way Grisman does.”

  The other boys looked astonished at Chris as if they hadn’t known he existed till the instructor said something good to him. Chris blushed, kicking harder, his chest filled with pride. He glanced down the line and noticed Saul turn his way as if curious to see who Kilmoonie was and whether he kicked as well as the instructor said. For a moment, while the other boys splashed, Chris and Saul stared into each other’s eyes. Chris might have been wrong, but Saul seemed to grin as if the two of them shared a secret.

  After class, they all hurried shivering to the dressing room, where their gray shirts and pants hung on pegs. Chris hugged himself, hopping from one bare foot to the other on the cold tile floor as he grabbed a towel from a pile in the corner, drying himself. An angry voice startled him.

  “Where’s my cards?”

  Chris turned, bewildered, seeing Saul paw frantically through his clothes. The other boys gaped.

  “They’re gone!” Saul swung accusingly toward the group. “Who stole my—?”

  “No talking,” the instructor warned.

  “But my cards! They were in my pocket! Somebody must have—”

  “Grisman, I said no talking.”

  But Saul’s anger made him lose control. “I want my cards back!”

  The instructor stalked toward him, stopping with his feet spread apart, his hands placed threateningly on his hips. “I want my cards back, sir!”

  Distraught, Saul opened and closed his mouth, no sound coming out.

  “Go on and say it, Grisman. Sir!”

  Saul blinked toward the floor, confused, angry. “Sir!”

  “That’s better. What cards are you talking about?”

  “My baseball cards.” Saul quickly added, “Sir. They were in my—”

  “Baseball cards?” The instructor curled his lip. “We don’t issue baseball cards. Where’d you get them?”

  Saul’s eyes looked swollen and misty. “I brought them to school with me.” He swallowed. “Sir. I had them in my pants pocket and—”

  “You weren’t supposed to keep anything you brought here. You don’t have toys here, Grisman. You don’t own things. All you’re supposed to have is what you’re told you can have.”

  Chris felt a snake uncoil in his stomach, embarrassed for Saul, who nodded, staring toward the floor, beginning to cry. The other boys gasped.

  “Besides, Grisman, what makes you so sure one of your classmates stole these precious baseball cards? Illegal baseball cards. How do you know it wasn’t me?”

  Tears streaming down his cheeks, Saul peered up, sniffling, struggling to speak. “Did you, sir?”

  The silence made Chris squirm.

  “I ought to claim I did, just to keep peace around here,” the instructor said at last. “But I didn’t. If I had these ridiculous cards, I certainly wouldn’t give them back to you. It was one of your friends.”

  Eyes red, squinting, Saul turned to the other boys, face tense with hate. Though Chris hadn’t taken the cards, he nonetheless felt guilty when Saul’s gaze stabbed him before continuing to the next boy and the next. Saul’s lips shook.

  “A lot of rules have been broken,” the instructor growled. “You shouldn’t have had the cards. But since you did, you should’ve kept another rule—if you’ve got a secret, make sure no one else knows it. There’s an even more important rule, and this one’s for everybody. You never steal from a teammate. If you can’t trust each other, who can you trust?” His voice became low and hard. “One of you is a thief. I intend to find out who. All of you,” he snapped, “line up.”

  They trembled. He scowled as he searched their clothes.

  But he didn’t find the cards. “Where are they, Grisman? Nobody’s got them. You made trouble for nothing. You must have lost them outside.”

  Saul couldn’t stop weeping. “But I know they were in my pants.”

  “Say sir.” Saul jumped. “And if I ever see those cards or hear about them again, you’ll be the sorriest wretch in this school. What’s the matter with the rest of you? Move it! Finish dressing!”

  The boys scrambled to do what they were told. Chris pulled on his pants, watching Saul stare angrily at everyone as he buttoned his shirt. Chris guessed what Saul was doing—looking for bulges in somebody’s clothes—as if he didn’t think the instructor had searched hard enough. While the instructor locked the door to the swimming pool, Saul moved next to a boy and studied a lump in his shirt pocket. The boy pulled a handkerchief from that pocket and blew his nose.

  The instructor turned from locking the door, shouting, “Aren’t you dressed yet, Grisman?”

  Saul hurried, tugging on his pants, tying his shoes. Tears dripped on his shirt.

  “Fall in,” the instructor said.

  The boys lined up, two by two. Fastening his belt, Saul ran to his place. As they marched to the dormitory, the world seemed to change. A few boys were sympathetic. “Gee, That’s too bad. What a dirty trick. Who’d be mean enough to steal your cards?” But the group didn’t have the same eagerness to be close to Saul and get his attention.

  Saul, for his part, didn’t want to be close to them either. He stayed to himself in the dormitory. At supper, he gave up his honored central place, preferring to sit at the end of the table, not talking to anyone. Chris understood. If they were excluding Saul, he was excluding them. Though only one boy had stolen the cards, Saul couldn’t tell which one. As a consequence, Saul was blaming everybody. The boys in turn had discovered Saul was vulnerable. He’d even cried, and that made him just another kid in the group. His cards had made him special. Without them, he’d still be taller and stronger and faster—but he had no power. Worse, by breaking down, he’d embarrassed them.

  Soon the class had other heroes of the moment. In swimming class, a few kids even managed to equal Saul’s performance, possibly because he showed no enthusiasm. He’d lost his joy. But Chris never went to the pool without feeling troubled by what had happened in the locker room that day. Who’d stolen the cards? he wondered, noticing the angry flare in Saul’s eyes each time the group dressed, as if Saul relived his loss and humiliation.

  Another question equally troubled Chris. How had the cards been stolen? The instructor had searched each boy’s clothes. So how had the cards disappeared? He felt excited as a sudden thought occurred to him.

  Eager, he couldn’t wait to tell Saul, but then he remembered what had happened when he confused Babe Ruth with the candy bar, and he stopped himself, afraid of being laughed at if he was wrong. He waited for his chance to prove what he suspected, and the next day when his class walked from the school building to the dormitory, he hung back. Out of sight, he hurried to the changing room in the basement of the gym. After searching beneath the benches and behind the equipment locker, he found the cards wedged between a pipe and the wall beneath the sink. He shook as he held them. Whoever had stolen the cards must have been afraid the class would be searched. To protect himself, the boy had hidden them in the changing room, planning to come back when it was safe. Chris shoved the cards in his pocket, breathless as he ran from the gym to the dormitory to give them to Saul. He imagined how delighted Saul would be. Now Saul would be his friend.

  Unlike the group, Chris had never stopped wanting to be close to him. From the start, he’d felt attracted as he would to a brother, and he’d never forgotten that afternoon in swimming class when the instructor had praised him for kicking as well as Saul did and Saul had turned to him grinning as if they shared a bond. But Saul now had built a wall around himself, and without the gift of the cards, Chris didn’t know how to break through.

  As he reached the dormitory, though, Chris suddenly felt uncertain. The cards had been stolen a week ago. Why hadn’t the boy who hid them come back to get them? Pausing on the stairs, Chris knew the answer. Because the boy had realized he couldn’t show them to anyone or play with them except in secret. Otherwise
word would get around—Saul would find out, and there’d be trouble. The bulge of the cards in Chris’s pocket made him worried. Though he hadn’t stolen the cards, it would seem as if he had. Saul would blame him. After all, how else would Chris have known where they were?

  Panicked, Chris had to get rid of them. In the dormitory’s basement washroom, he thought of hiding them under a sink as the thief had done. But what if a janitor cleaned beneath the sinks and found them, or what if a boy dropped his comb and happened to glance beneath the sink as he picked the comb up? No, he needed somewhere out of reach. Glancing above him, he noticed the steam pipes covered with grimy asbestos liners suspended along the ceiling. Climbing on the shoeshine stands, then across the cast-iron towel racks attached to the wall, he wedged the cards above a steam pipe. Nervous, he climbed back down, sighing in relief that he hadn’t been caught. Now all he had to do was figure out how to return the cards to Saul without being blamed for stealing them.

  He couldn’t sleep all night, thinking about it. There had to be a way.

  The next day, Saul was still sulking when Chris came over to him outside the refectory after lunch. “I know who stole your cards.”

  Saul angrily demanded, “Who?”

  “The swimming instructor.”

  “He said he didn’t take them.”

  “He lied. I saw him give them to our teacher. I know where she put them.”

  “Where?”