Gwendolyn was about fifteen years older than I was. She seemed so worldly wise and full of fun, and she genuinely enjoyed owning and running a tea shop. She was not an artist, but dressed like one; there was always a bohemian flare about her, something rather like an English gypsy – if there is such a thing. I don’t mean that in any insulting way; she was like a cross between a hippie and a country lass from Yorkshire. She loved costume jewelry and penguins. The penguins were actually the “obsession” of her son, who collected penguins of all sorts, not real ones, of course, but toys and penguin bric-a-brac, including a large flock of them waddling their way to the crib in their Christmas nativity set. Christopher was killed by a drunken driver about ten years before I met Gwendolyn. The penguins became a lasting memorial and tribute to him.
Only after Gracie’s death, did I come to know that Gwendolyn was also a devout Catholic, and that certainly made our friendship even closer. Funny, but Gwendolyn became the link between me and other members of my family. She befriended my father and named her best penguin, a real taxidermy penguin who stood at the entrance of Tea on Thames, after him—Ruben. She always loved my little sister, and after I entered the monastery, it was Gwendolyn who went to all her recitals and plays. She played a big part in Ruthie’s later career, as she became the Mistress of Ceremonies in the new tea-shop-pub in Greenwich Village, called Penguin Pub. Maybe Ruthie filled in the emptiness of Christopher; they were about the same age.
Even when you live in a cloister, the loss of loved ones and friends is felt, perhaps even more intensely, as we carry them in our thoughts and prayers in a way we never could were we living with them in the world. Gwendolyn’s returning to England left a big empty space in my life, which seemed to be just one more cross the Lord was asking me to bear. One more sand dune in the desert I found myself in, with only a few oases scattered about. I try to remember that, as I think the young women entering think it’s all one big oasis, when it turns out to be one big desert.
Gwendolyn was a transplanted New Yorker; she loved the city and all its crazy neighborhoods and diversity. I knew it was a real sacrifice for her to leave it and return to London. It may just be a temporary thing, I’d tell myself. She was in her mid-sixties when Ruthie died, but I always thought of her as being in her forties or fifties. I guess people we love always stay young in our eyes.
I knew she was coming, but I didn’t know when. She had called me shortly after 9/11, and when she learned that Mama and David were in Windows of the World, she said she’d get the next plane over the pond; but it ended up being a few weeks, which was good. It gave time to let things settle down.
On October 1st, we had had a very nice Mass for the feast of St. Thérèse, and Fr. Ambrose gave an inspiring homily on her. We needed a little up-lifting: even three weeks after the towers fell, we were all a little depressed. It’s like the aroma of 9/11 lingered in the air and in our minds. Our two postulants, Sr. Brenda and Sr. Grace were still very sad over it all and finding the life a real struggle. In our life we have to find our own way of dissipating emotions or they’ll push us out the door.
So I was thrilled that morning when Sr. Paula called the extension in my office and announced “Lady Putterforth is puttering around the parlor.” Sr. Paula’s precocious punning pleasantly pleased me profusely. I went in and there she was –donned in a black blouse and slacks for mourning, and wrapped in yellow and orange scarves and floppy hat for October. She wore dangling earrings and at least seven bracelets on one arm; and just one on the other, a medley of penguins.
“MB…MB…you are a sight for sore eyes!” There was the usual tearful squeezing of fingers through the grille. “Now, I’m not going to cry; I’m here to keep you company and mess up your schedule for a couple of days—I’ve got a lovely room at the Promenade Hotel with a northern view, so I can’t see the Manhattan skyline. I can’t bear to look there, my darling, how are you holding up?” It all just flowed out of her like a torrent.
Without being able to respond, she went on. “They’re not homemade, as you’ll instantly know, but they are all fresh and kosher—from your deli down the street.” She was referring to the boxes of whatever were piled on the turn. “I want to hear everything once Sr. Paula arrives and leaves.”
Almost on cue, Sr. Paula appeared and did her serving thing with the Pyrex and a tray of good old apricot rugelach from Solomon’s Deli. “I told her I’m staying for lunch if there’s room, so we can meet this afternoon too…how is your sister Sally doing?”
Finally getting a chance to speak, I filled her in on all the recent details. “It would appear that David had taken care of things, thank the Lord; we weren’t sure what to do if he hadn’t. His own duplex he has willed to Dr. Ghattas and her son, Sharbel, with the title to be transferred entirely to Sharbel when he reaches twenty-one years old. Mama’s apartment was also co-signed a couple years ago (she completely forgot this) under Sally’s name, Sarah Feinstein. So Sally has inherited our apartment, which I’m really happy about. She and Mitzie are planning to move to New York after the first of the year. She calls her ‘Mitz’. I haven’t met Mitz yet, but Sally says she’s excited to meet me. Sally says she’s the spiritual one between them. I think she was or is involved in some kind of New Age cult, so that should be very interesting, don’t cha think! Oh, and Mama left me something, which I’ll show you later…you will love it.”
“Oh, that is all good news. That Sharbel boy is certainly a lucky young man! That sounds terrible; I don’t mean he’s lucky except that he’s inherited a New York duplex; he’d much rather have a father, I’m sure, but you know what I mean.” Smile, nod.
“He’s a serious kid, and I think he wants to be a doctor; he’s at Yale University. He called me but got all choked up and couldn’t talk. I told him I wasn’t going anywhere and would be here next time he got home. David, Mama, Sharbel, and Mrs. Hutner, Mama’s neighbor, all went on a cruise together a couple years ago. Mama was in her glory, having a grandson finally, and able to show off his pictures. She said that Sharbel told her she’s much more fun than his other grandmother. That, of course, made Mama’s day.”
We laughed. It was good to hear Gwendolyn’s laugh and to hear her jewelry making a commotion. “How is your sister?” I inquired.
“Oh, she’s a blooming mess, as I expected, but she’s good company. She’s nearly sixty now, and acts likes she’s in her twenties, well, maybe her thirties. She’s still running her theater club in Soho, which has kept both of us busy. I thought I was retired from the business, but I enjoy it. The young people are very talented; different from American kids, you know, but still kids, really. They have a worried carefree-ness about them—I haven’t figured it out yet. It’s like they live hard in the present and yet, are oblivious to the future, and not conscious maybe like we were of air raids and atom bombs. But it’s much more a reality than we ever imagined. There are days when I wish I were twenty-five again, but then, other days when I’m glad I’m in my seventies. And of course, you know, we’ve gotten over to Lancashire a couple times to see Fr. Matthew, whom I still call Ezra! He sends his very best and said he will be home here just after the new year. He looks very austere, you know, with his hair cut and his cheeks kind of sunken in. He said he misses you and all the Sisters.” That all cheered my heart to hear, except the sunken cheeks.
“Speaking of sisters, our two youngest are delightful; you would enjoy both of them. One is named Grace and graduated from the New York Fashion Institute; you would have loved her outfits, before she entered! She’s quite content, I think, with her postulant’s plain jumper and blouse; but she would fit in with your Soho crowd. I don’t know about their being oblivious to the future – I’ll have to think about that one but I do notice a hesitation to make a permanent commitment. The permanence of this life frightens her, and others who have come and gone. It’s hard to imagine living in one place for ever.”
“Yeah,” said Gwen, sounding more American than British.
�
�Brenda is a little older and more solid. She is an African American with dreadlocks that she knows will be snipped off come vestition, but she’s looking forward to it. She’s an RN and a convert from the Methodist Church. She lost her grandfather on 9/11 whom I just learned was also a deacon in his church besides a retired volunteer fireman. She hasn’t been able to talk much about it yet.”
“And how’s Sr. Gertrude and all the nuns in the infirmary?”
“Devastated by 9/11 as you can imagine. They have the right perspective on everything though; they still pray about it all. Most of them were children during World War II, you know. They’ve been through the Korean War, Viet Nam, and now this…this war on terror. It’s never struck quite so close to home, however. Sr. Gerard is predicting the End Times are any minute now. Sr. Amata doesn’t say too much; Sr. Benedict is still sharp and keeps up on the news in the paper; and Sr. Gertrude is quiet, for Sr. Gertrude, and weeps easily. I’m amazed how they each take it in their stride in their own way. Sr. Bertrand and Sr. Gerard are the gloomiest, but very funny in their pessimism. Sr. Bertrand says that we could be the next target: “What’s to keep a crazy Islamic terrorist from coming into the extern chapel, coming up to the grille, and mowing us all down with a machine gun?
“Sr. Gerard immediately picked up on it: ‘Glory be to God. I know it’s the chastisement. It’s gonna happen; we should keep the chapel door locked.’ And Sr. Amata, very thoughtfully and with a slight smile, said: ‘We’d be the Dominican Martyrs of Brooklyn Heights.’
“And Sr. Gertrude rallied to the cause: ‘It would be a Feast Day for all of New York; our relics could be displayed in a side chapel of St. Patrick’s.’
“Sr. Benedict: ‘St. Patrick’s? We‘d be in the Cathedral of St. James—our own Basilica. Brooklyn and Queens—Manhattan will have their own martyrs.’
“Sr. Gertrude: ‘But I want a little side chapel in St. Patrick’s, and maybe one at St. Malachy’s in the theater district.’
“Sr. Mary Baruch: ‘And St. Vincent Ferrer.’ I added my own two cents.
“Sr. Benedict: ‘I hope our feast day will be in October or November…’
“Sr. Amata: ‘It will be the month whenever we’re all mowed down.’
“Sr. Benedict, pensively: ‘Oh yeah, well I hope it’s October or November.’
“And we all laughed, turning our doomsday into a feast in a New York minute! I remember that night praying very earnestly that I hoped the Lord wasn’t listening to us and taking us too seriously. It would be wonderful to be martyrs, but not just yet. I know I have a lot more work to do! I know that’s very Pelagian; I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what Pelagian means, but I hope it doesn’t happen at all – period.” Gwendolyn’s penguined hand brushed back her hair, and she looked me square in the eye: “Now, listen, M.B., I have some not very good news.”
The bell for Sext rang. Gwendolyn stood up. “It can wait till this afternoon.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re sick and dying…”
“You’ll be late for your prayers. I’ll see you at 3:30…ta,ta.” And off she went clinking all the way, waving her usual wave at the parlor door.
Chapter Nineteen
SextThe “sixth hour” of the Divine Office, around 12:00 noon. Second “little hour.”
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am meek and humble of heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Mt. 11:28-29)
I ate my dinner with enough anxiety that I couldn’t enjoy it – nor could I concentrate on the reading. Then I got impatient helping with the dishes afterwards, which I know is not a good example for the novices; I wanted people to hurry things up, which was stupid because Gwendolyn wasn’t coming back till after 3:30 anyway. Whatever could Gwendolyn have to tell me? She certainly looked healthy for seventy or seventy-one. I never knew her exact age.
Maybe she was going to tell me that Tea on Thames was now Tea on the Tiber, which I already knew. There was a nostalgic ache every time I thought of it; that tea shop was like a personal historical preservation society home of my early years: my conversion, my meeting Ezra, my meeting Gwendolyn! Maybe Gwen will tell me that it’s stopped being a tea shop entirely and bought out by a coffee chain, like Starbucks, and renamed Coffee on the Hudson.
Well, whatever it is, I can’t do anything about it, I told myself. I will simply accept whatever it is, if it’s not sinful, of course, or contrary to the Faith. She certainly hasn’t become Church of England.
We have grand silence from 1:00 to 2:00 P.M. I usually go to our cell and either lie across the bed or sit in Squeak and doze, pretending to read. For the first couple weeks after 9/11 I couldn’t doze at all. One can do work as long as it doesn’t make noise or disturb others. The first week I went to the infirmary. The Sisters would all be taking their after-dinner naps, but there were bound to be dishes to be washed in the kitchenette or things to be straightened up in the common room. One day that week Sr. Gertrude was sitting alone in front of the picture window. I fixed us each a cup of tea and sat beside her; we didn’t speak, just sitting together was comforting enough. When the silence was over at 2:00 we’d say a few words to each other. That’s when I told her about Mama and David. And she couldn’t say anything, but took my hand in hers and gently patted it.
“I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through; thank you for telling me. With your permission, of course, I’ll tell the others when we come to pray our rosary.”
“Of course you may; thank you, Sister. I wanted to share it with you because I knew you would pray, and because you knew Mama, and Mama thought you were the most extraordinary woman she ever met.” Sister smiled and squinted over the top of her old fashioned frameless glasses.
“Your Mama was an extraordinary woman, Sister, but you know that. And our dear Lord knows that…He has a special place in His Heart, you know, for mothers. I know it was a heartache for you all those years not seeing her, not being able to share our wonderful life here with her; but she came around, and that has filled your heart with great joy these last few years. Many of us don’t have that extraordinary opportunity.”
We didn’t say anything more for a couple minutes. Sister continued to pat my hand. “And now she is gone, and your brother whom you have come to know again, but you have the memory of their love for you. I can hear your mother: ‘Such a blessing, my daughter, the nun.’ What a memory to carry with you for the rest of your life.”
Sr. Gertrude was very serious in a way she only reveals in the most poignant moments. There was a depth in her which she kept hidden with her show-biz antics and talk, but I knew she lived in the ‘deep end.’
“Sometimes life comes crashing down on top of us, and we can’t pick up the pieces. And life is never the same when we pass over to the way life will be after that. And so we go on. We begin anew…that’s what we do.”
Sister Gertrude didn’t realize her words were more meaningful to me than she could imagine. September 11th was like the Seder plate crashing down, and I couldn’t do anything to change it; I couldn’t pick up the pieces and put them back together. I suddenly remembered the dread of that moment, in not just what I did, but in what I feared Mama would do. This was her prize possession. This was the plate that held all the suffering and joy of her life, her faith, her love for her family, and her years of preparing the foods for Pesach. And what did Mama do?
She forgave me; she wasn’t angry, but felt sorry for me and what I was going through, and she poured out her mercy on me. It was my first experience of real mercy. I cried more than she did, picking up the shattered pieces.
“Don’t worry, Becky, our Seder will still go on tonight…that’s the whole point, isn’t it? We break and we begin again. I have another Seder plate which you’ve never seen, but we shall polish it and use it tonight…such a blessing, it’s made of silver. And Papa will be very pleased because it belonged to his Mama.”
&n
bsp; She made it all better. Like sitting quietly with Sr. Gertrude in front of the picture window looking out on our cemetery.
“Doesn’t it depress you, Sister, sitting here every day and looking out at the cemetery?” I was rather pensive when I asked her that.
“Oh, no, dear. This is where I meditate best. It’s not depressing or morbid. I know many of those Sisters whom we have laid to rest; I used to watch their every move and listen to their every word, like a good understudy. Isn’t it something when you think about what God did for His people at the time of the first Passover. And to think it was all in preparation, like a dress rehearsal. God’s Chosen People knew the oppression of slavery early on in their story, and they stood in for all mankind since the first crash—when Adam and Eve fell from grace. Mankind had chosen to know evil and thus suffering and sickness and loss, and separation from God came about—the worst part, death would come to every human being, fallen from grace, cast into darkness, our minds and our hearts covered with a…a what? A veil.” And she pulled on hers and smiled. “Not like our veil really, but a veil of ignorance and falsity. How awful to not know why we are here, why we were created, and what it all means? Can we never know what life is really about, or are we to be slaves of ignorance, obeying the taskmasters of power, money, fame, manipulation, meaninglessness?” She paused to collect her thoughts and take a sip of her now-lukewarm tea. And she went on:
“God Himself prepared mankind for a new way, a new life, a new union with Himself unrealized before. He gave His People His Word…His Torah.” I smiled. “The most precious thing mankind could have, God’s Word to reveal to us the truth about life and God Himself, and to begin a new relationship with Him. And wonder of wonders,” Sister’s face lit up and her eyes sparkled, “this Word became a man…His humanity, His flesh and blood and human soul, would belong to the Divine Person, the Word, the Son, the Beloved. And from the first instant of His human life, He became a sacrifice; He was set apart to fulfill in Himself all that God the Father had prepared for mankind.”
The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2) Page 20