Her companion, Sister Janet Schultes, also a member of the IHM order, was coordinator of the writers’ workshop that would begin tomorrow. Shorter and slimmer than Marie, Janet wore a light topcoat over her dress uniform. Both dress and coat were the deep shade recognizable to the practiced eye as IHM blue.
She also wore what was known as a modified veil, which sat well back on her head, revealing her nearly white hair. Sister Janet carried a black attache case that contained Sister Marie’s conference papers.
Since Janet had met Marie’s plane at Metro Airport, the two nuns had been chatting nonstop. Classmates and best of friends, they had been separated by many miles for many years now.
The two were about to enter the Madame Cadillac building at the center of Marygrove’s campus. Before climbing the steps, they paused to study the cornerstone.
Marie read the words aloud. “‘Arbor Una Nobilts’-the one and only noble tree. Remember, Jan, from the Good Friday Mass-the hymn?” She recited from memory. “‘Faithful Cross, among all others/One and only noble tree/Not a grove on earth can show/Such leaf and flower as grow on thee.’”
Janet joined in with the original Latin, “‘Crux fidelis/Inter omnes/Arbor una nobilis/Nulla silva talem profert/Fronde, flore, germine.’”
“You remembered! The Latin!”
“It’s a meditation for me,” Jan replied. “I try to recite it each time I enter the building.”
Marie shook her head. “Good Friday, the Mass of the Presanctified-a little bit of history.”
“It is history, Marie. The toothpaste is out of the tube. We’ll never get it back in. That era, that liturgy, that hymn, that language-all gone!”
“Yes, I fear we’ve thrown the baby out with the bath water.” As she said it, Marie winced inwardly, but, other than a slight shudder, gave no indication of what she felt.
“Come on,” Janet urged, “let’s get inside. You’re not dressed for this weather. You’ve forgotten what autumn’s like in Michigan.”
They hurried up the stone steps into the building, and headed toward the elevator.
“Seem familiar?” Janet pushed the third-floor button.
“Frighteningly. Of course I wouldn’t have expected these immortal and sanctified stones to change. They built this place for the ages.”
Janet smiled. “The stones are about all that hasn’t changed. You and I certainly have. . let’s see, how long has it been now?”
“Oh, dear. .” Marie grimaced. “I’ve been gone from Detroit for. . what? Almost fifteen years. Add another five to that and I’ll have been gone from Marygrove for about twenty years!” She smiled. “At our age one does not want to total up the years too frequently.”
“Remember when we went coed?”
“Barely. The first young men were arriving on campus just about the time I left. And now you’ve got. . what?”
“Actually still not all that many.” Janet held open the elevator door as they exited on the third floor. “Our enrollment is about 80 percent female.”
“So your football team is not headed for the Rose Bowl.”
They laughed.
“Nor are the pickup teams of volleyball and basketball players going to post-season playoffs. The major interest of Marygrove is still study and learning,” Janet added.
“Good,” Marie said emphatically. “But. .” She hesitated. “How do you attract them? I mean, I may have been away from Detroit for a bunch of years, but it’s still near and dear to my heart. And I’ve bled for the city. I read about it almost every week. The drugs, the violence, the murders, the children killing and being killed! I would have assumed any student would have to think several times before enrolling here. After all, Marygrove is smack in the middle of Detroit almost.”
“Marie, what did you expect-an armed camp?”
They entered the private residence wing.
“Is it much further? This bag is getting heavy.”
“Just down the hall.”
“What did I expect?” Marie picked up the thread of their conversation. “Some security. I haven’t seen any security people. If you’ve got some, I’d like to know where they are.”
“Well, there are four or five on duty nearly all the time.”
“Four or five? For all these buildings? For all these-what is it-sixty-eight acres, isn’t it? Mostly woods, just the way God made it. Why, we drove right in here off McNichols Road. There wasn’t anyone at the gate to screen or challenge us. Anybody could drive in here.”
“There was talk of putting up a gatehouse,” Janet sounded apologetic, “but it was deemed too expensive. Besides, just as you said, the campus is heavily wooded. Even if there were a gatehouse and a guard at the entrance, there’s nothing to stop someone from climbing the fence at some secluded spot and getting in here.”
Janet indicated they’d arrived at Marie’s room. They entered. Marie looked around before setting down her suitcase. “Quite nice. You do it?”
“Uh-huh. There’s so much of the college that isn’t used anymore, it’s fun making something out of nothing. This used to be dormitory space.”
“I remember.”
“I had it remodeled. Six private rooms. Just enough for the workshop faculty.”
Marie began to unpack. Janet sat on the one, single bed.
“So,” Marie said, “no one at the gate, and the whole place accessible to anyone who can climb the fence: Is all that supposed to make me rest easy?”
Janet frowned. “I said there was security. You didn’t see him, but there is a guard in the main parking lot. There’s one in here, too. He must be making his rounds. Then there’s one in the Liberal Arts Building, the Theater, and the Residence Hall.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, there’s more. But it’s sort of intangible.”
“Intangible?”
“Marie, Marygrove has changed. Not just the coed thing. We’re in a mostly black, mostly poor city. Once you get away from the riverfront section of downtown and a few isolated neighborhoods, you’ll find neighborhoods that are near death. But even in those neighborhoods, there are people who want something fine for themselves and their families. A goodly percentage of our students are from those families.
“Marie, this place has become a haven for poor black women-many of them older women-who want an education. This may be hard for you to understand, but these women have declared Marygrove off-limits to hoodlums.”
“And that keeps them out?”
“For the most part, yes.”
“It works?”
“Seems to.”
Marie smiled. “I don’t know. This conference is all about murder, isn’t it?”
“Fiction, Marie, fiction.”
“Sometimes there’s only a thin line between fiction and fact.”
Janet laughed. “Stick to your field, Marie: fiction. Just think,” she added, with a smile of wonderment, “an author-a published author. When we were students here together, who would have thunk it?”
“Not I.”
“How’d you get into it?”
“By accident, mostly, I guess.” Marie sat on the room’s only chair. “I was thinking about all the things that have changed in our lives. Oh, not only the changes in the Church. More the changes in our order.”
Janet nodded. “Almost as day and night. In the beginning, we were teachers-almost all of us in parochial schools.”
“Exactly. If it hadn’t been for teaching nuns, there would never have been a parochial school system. All those parishes could never have afforded lay teachers. Parochial schools almost certainly would never have even been considered without our coolie labor. Some of the religious orders were founded to train nuns as nurses and hospital personnel. Some orders trained nurses and teachers. But, by and large, they mass-produced teachers.”
“That’s right,” Janet agreed. “And so we were. Except for the few who were cooks or domestics, or the few who served the order in management or health care, we were all tea
chers. And so it was into the fifties and early sixties, and-”
“And then,” Marie broke in, “the roof collapsed.”
“The candidate supply dried up. So many of the Sisters left us. And so many more decided to enter other educational fields-adult ed, continuing ed.”
“As in my case,” Marie said.
“In charge of continuing education for the entire Archdiocese of Miami.”
“Yes, the archbishop himself bestowed on me the freedom to draw up the entire program and set the budget.” Marie laughed. “Then he gave me the freedom to raise all the money for the budget.”
“I wasn’t aware your job was that big. I didn’t know they expected you to be a fundraiser too!”
“I didn’t know that either in the beginning. But then the archbishop said, ‘Welcome to the world, Sister.’”
Janet looked concerned. “How were you able to do it? I mean with all that responsibility, where did you find time to write? I mean, write a book!”
“It wasn’t easy. And I wouldn’t recommend it. But, as I was saying, I got to thinking of how our lives have changed so drastically over the years. And I thought: Why not? I’d always found a lot of fulfillment in writing.”
“Yes, I remember that. But, a book!”
“It was the best way I could think of to tell our story. To create a nun who had lived through all the things we’ve experienced. Life in the old convent, the tightly knit community. Life today, an entirely new ball game.”
“In a murder mystery?”
“Why not? Mystery is no stranger to the Church. You might even say the Church is built on mysteries. Besides, there’s something neat and finished about mystery stories. I’ve always liked how all the loose ends get tied up. I find it very satisfying.
“The biggest problem is finding time. A few evenings, a few early mornings; every once in a while a weekend. It’s a long process under the best of circumstances.”
“I’ll bet!” Janet moved about the room, touching pictures, draperies, fixtures, almost compulsively. “And now? Another one?”
“I don’t know about that. Not right away, that’s for sure. For one thing, the publisher’s got me doing a bit of promotion.”
Janet grew animated. “That sounds exciting. Do you travel much?”
“Not a lot. Some telephone interviews. A bit of radio and television. You know: ‘Why is a holy nun of God writing about murder?’ ‘What does a nun know about murder?’ ‘. . about the world?’ ‘. . about anything-other than how to say the rosary’”
Janet laughed. “Really! That bad?”
“That bad!”
“I’m embarrassed. I haven’t checked, and I should have: Is Behind the Veil on the New York Times best-seller list?”
It was Marie’s turn to laugh. “Heavens, no! I’m what’s called a midlist author. On a few best-seller lists, but not for any length of time. A soft-cover sale. A book-club offering. It did get reviewed in the Times, but it was sort of negative: ‘The characters in Sister Monahan’s first novel talk like nuns’. . that sort of thing.”
“That’s not fair. I read your book. The only thing missing was America’s favorite ‘F’ word. And not everyone in the country stoops to that.”
“I know. But that’s the way it goes. Actually, I think all the other authors in this writers’ workshop are in the same boat I’m in-mid-list authors.” Marie wandered to the open door in the rear of the room. “Nice bathroom. All for me?”
“All for you. Father Benbow and his wife have their own bathroom. Rabbi Winer’s wife didn’t come with him, so he’s sharing a bathroom with Father Augustine and Father Koesler. And Mr. Krieg has his own facility.”
“No one would wash from the same bowl as he, eh?”
Janet snickered. “Just the way it worked out.”
Marie glanced at her watch. “Just five o’clock. How long do we have before dinner?”
“About an hour.”
“How ’bout a walk? I’d like to see the place again. Besides, I’m a little keyed-up.”
“Sure.” Janet slipped into her topcoat. “Want to borrow one of my coats? It’s getting really chilly out there.”
Marie took a windbreaker from her suitcase. “I haven’t forgotten Michigan weather entirely. Particularly how it changes from hour to hour. Come on; maybe we can find some of those elusive security guards you’ve been bragging about.”
Janet showed her surprise. “Why this obsession with security?”
Marie’s laugh was tinged with nervousness. “Oh, I don’t know. You just never know when a gal’s going to need some security. Call it a premonition.”
“I don’t like to hear you say that. I remember your premonitions. What I remember mostly about them is their accuracy.”
“Forget it, Jan. Let’s just enjoy our walk.”
They struck out briskly across the campus. Neither spoke for some minutes.
It was Marie who broke the silence. “Who invited that guy anyway?”
The question startled Janet. “Guy? What guy?”
“Klaus Krieg.”
“Oh. My predecessor. The former director of development.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t get to know Jack Regan very well. He resigned to take a job at UCLA, and I was named director just before he left. We had only a few meetings. He handed me this conference as a fait accompli. And when I saw your name as one of the participants, I paid no attention to the rest. I was just so happy we would be able to get together again.” Janet paused a moment. “What’s the matter with the Reverend Krieg anyway?”
“Please don’t debase the title ‘Reverend’ by bestowing it on that creep!”
Janet giggled. “Creep? He is an evangelist, after all.”
“Come on, Jan; you know better.”
“All right, so he’s a creep. But Jack Regan seemed to think he’d draw a crowd. And-no offense intended-but wouldn’t you agree that Klaus Krieg is the major drawing card of this workshop? I don’t mean to take anything from you or the other writers,” she added hastily. “The students undoubtedly will learn a lot from all of you. But their prime objective is to get published. And Krieg is a publisher.”
Marie smiled fleetingly. “And he’s rich.”
“Very.”
Still, Marie thought to herself, Krieg must have had a motive for accepting. Why exactly is he here?
3
He heard their voices. Although he had met her only once, he recognized one of them as belonging to Sister Janet Schultes.
He was good at that. At one time in his history, Rabbi Irving Winer had sustained the thin strand of his life by honing his every resource and faculty, not the least of these his five senses.
He had tabbed them the instant they exited the elevator. Clearly, they were making no effort to keep their voices down. But he had made every effort to be silent, hoping they would not accost him.
He assumed, correctly, that the other female voice belonged to the nun-author, Sister Marie Monahan. Janet was serving as, for want of a better title, hostess of this workshop. Earlier this afternoon, she had welcomed him, shown him to his room, given him a map of the campus and a schedule for the workshop, and answered the few questions he’d had. She’d suggested he might be tired and want to rest. Eagerly, he’d assented as a way of assuring seclusion.
He had no idea that Janet and Marie were long-lost friends, wanted to be together, and had no intention of invading his privacy. So he made no sound.
In time they left, again taking the elevator. Once more a gladly received silence pervaded the third floor’s private residence wing.
Rabbi Winer gazed out the window. The immediate scene seemed downright bucolic. There were about as many trees as God allowed to grow in one place. Beyond the woods, he could make out the city in brick and neon, and pedestrians and homeowners and muggers and apartment dwellers and hope and despair. If he consciously tried, he could hear the city’s sounds. But he preferred not to hear. It w
as easy to block out the far-off noises.
Although the room’s temperature was pleasant, even a bit on the coolish side, the rabbi was perspiring. The window revealed his present reality. But his mind, his memory, continued to invade the present with the past. Even as he tried to suppress the ancient images, he knew from experience he would not succeed. Little by little, the unwanted but vivid whispers from the past grew until they blotted out the present.
It was November 9, 1938, not September 3, 1989. And it was Munich, not Detroit. God! Dear God! He did not want to live it again, but a perverse power decreed that he must.
Earlier in November, Ernst von Rath, the German Embassy attache in Paris, had been assassinated by a young Polish Jew, Herschel Grynszpan.
Although at the time Irving was only twelve, he knew things were changing radically and rapidly. More and more Germans were wearing the Nazi uniform. His parents and older sister grew more secretive, as if trying to shield him from what he sensed was happening. It seemed the Nazis were eager for an event they could designate as the “final straw” calling for what would eventually be termed the “final solution.” As it happened, the von Rath incident was it. And November 9, 1938, would forevermore be known as Kristallnacht, the Night of Crystal, or the Night of Shattered Glass.
And that was precisely how young Irving Winer was introduced to Kristallnacht. Heavy-booted feet tramped up the stairs, followed by pounding on the door, followed by orders shouted in imperious German. Then the sound of glass shattering, furniture splintering, voices pleading, voices commanding.
In bed, covers pulled over his head, young Irving never saw the Nazis who destroyed his home, the precious musical instruments, the heirlooms, the works of art. He never saw the Nazis who seized and dragged his father from their house that night. But he knew; somehow he sensed, as he cowered beneath the covers, that his boyhood, his youth, was ending prematurely that night.
In the days and weeks that followed, his mother determined to stay in Munich and await her husband’s return. She was equally determined to get her children out of, and as far away from, Germany as possible. In both resolves she failed. Never again would they see her husband, their father. He was among the earliest to be cut down in the brutal resolution of Hitler’s “problem.”
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