It took less than two weeks for Terry to realize that Father Ski would be taking a casual, often backdoor approach to matters of the spirit.
“Terry, did you know that I once chewed tobacco?” Father Ski asked as they strolled the seminary grounds one afternoon. “Hell, I did more than chew it, I was addicted to it. The stuff was really awful, but I loved it.”
“No, it doesn’t surprise me at all that you chewed. You still smoke like a chimney,” Terry said. “Can I ask you a question, Father? What in the world are you doing here? You’ve got the hands, face, and body of a dockworker.”
“I got my calling late, six years ago when I was thirty-five,” Father Ski said. “Made my family proud when I started wearing that tight white collar. My folks were delighted, relieved really, that I had turned my back on the commies. The Party had been my life after I picked up a sheepskin from Rutgers.”
“Communism? You’re kidding, right?”
“Hell no. I knew ’em all. Marched with Ellen Dawson during the Garment Strike in Passaic. Took a couple billy club shots from the goons hired by the bosses.” Father Ski smiled. “Oh that Ellen Dawson, she was something else. Skinny little thing with freckles, but when she got on the back of a truck and pointed that little clenched fist at you, you’d follow her anywhere.”
Terry was mesmerized. As he listened, he could see that his mentor’s tight collar would never be able to choke out those happy times.
“I sometimes have regrets about not following her to New Bedford two years later, or marching with her in that bloody Loray Mill strike in North Carolina. The Loray strike was a winner, those mill town bosses would never have it their way again.”
“Why did you get out?”
“The pogroms. How can you march under a banner colored red with the blood of millions of Russians? All done by a former seminarian who got ambitious. Stalin knew how to get it done, and that pipe-smoking butcher never forgot his enemies. Just this past year he had Trotsky’s head split open with an axe down in Mexico.”
They were strolling the seminary grounds late one afternoon when Father Ski motioned Terry to join him on a tree-shaded bench. He reached under his cassock and pulled out a pack of Twenty Grand cigarettes. “Cheapest you can get, and they’re proud of it,” he said. “You’ve got to admire that kind of honesty. And now for some honesty between us.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“You know, Terry, I was puzzled at the beginning why you were here. Now I’m beginning to get it.”
“Fill me in, Father, I need all the help I can get.”
“First of all, don’t be defensive about why you are here. Vocations are crazy things, no rhyme or reason at all. Take a look at me, a former commie head-knocker. And you, Terry, want to know what I see?”
“I’m listening.”
“First, I don’t question motivation. If you get through your years here, get out in the world and do good things, tend your flock, so to speak, then I say to hell with why you’re here. Your background speaks for itself. I see in your file that you’ve got a lot of clerical muscle going for you. Play it right, keep your nose clean, and you’ll probably go far.”
“How far is far?”
“That’s completely up to you. I saw that your mom died when you were just a kid. How does your father feel about all this?” Father Ski asked.
Terry flinched and turned from Father Ski to watch without expression a group of seminarians walking on the gravel path. The question took him by surprise, and left him fumbling for an answer.
“My father?”
“Yeah, Terry, your father. How big a part does he play?”
“A big part, maybe all of it.”
“The depression hit him hard I take it, and that’s a humbling experience for even the strongest of men. He didn’t want the same for you. Do I have it right?”
“You got it right. It just about killed me when he became a glorified repo man for a hoodlum auto dealer in Jersey City.”
For almost three years, Father Ski and Terry were possibly the most unlikely men you’d expect to see roaming the seminary grounds. Their camaraderie ended when Father Ski left to take over his duties as Catholic chaplain at the expanding Coast Guard boot camp at Cape May. War was coming.
By the time Terry finished his studies at the seminary, the war was raging. He celebrated his first Mass at St. Anthony’s and gave Holy Communion to his father and old neighbors in the parish. Then, in a gallant gesture, he became a Navy chaplain and was assigned to the Marines. He was aboard a troop ship enroute to Australia when his father died. Then Saipan.
Within two weeks of coming home, Father Nolan was assigned by the Archdiocese to fill a vacancy at St. Mark’s. He replaced sixty-five year old Father Eugene Koestler, who had suffered a fatal heart attack while delivering the last rites to an unbearably grouchy old woman, who didn’t die after all.
Except on holy days, there were two weekday masses at St. Mark’s, at half past six and eight. Nolan said the earlier Mass. Within a week or so of arriving, he was reading the sports page over a leisurely second cup of coffee in the rectory dining room when Father Schneider walked in. His pastor nodded silently in his direction, and poured himself a cup of coffee at a huge gothic sideboard, one of the ugliest pieces of furniture Nolan had ever seen. It was replete with carved ogres of every description, battle axes, shields with lacy, crisscrossed bands of questionable heraldry, and even a Byzantine cross or two. Two naked monsters were frozen in perpetual Bronx cheers at the upper corners of the sideboard, their knife-like tongues pointing directly at the beholder.
Father Schneider was of medium height, broad at the shoulder and surprisingly lean at the waist. His step was jaunty, even cocky. He had a full head of thick gray hair, dark eyes and deep furrows on his forehead, probably from aggravation over the years. Terry judged it to be the unaffected swagger of a man who had lost his innocence, but had managed to remain on amicable terms with the world around him.
Father Schneider noted the bemused expression on his colleague’s face. “If I read that look on your face correctly, we’re off to a good start, a mutual dislike for this gothic abomination.”
“Why don’t you get rid of it?”
“A good question. It’s a gift from the Kramiers, one of our absentee German landlords. I’ll give you time before we get into that. For now, let’s just say we’re stuck with it.”
Nolan, although he had been at St. Mark’s for more than a week, really hadn’t had a chance to talk with Father Schneider. Both men had been busy. There had been a few mumbled words of greeting when he arrived then Mrs. Spiser took over. The housekeeper made it clear that Father Schneider might be his spiritual boss, but she had the final word when it came to running the rectory.
“Well, Terry, I’m going to put you to work,” said the pastor as he settled into a chair on the other side of the table.
Father Schneider looked at the young priest and winked, “First, I hope you don’t mind me calling you Terry.” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Good, that’s settled. Call me Jim. Makes things simpler.”
Terry smiled, “That’s fine.”
Mrs. Spiser came in with two poached eggs on buttered toast. She poured fresh coffee into their cups.
Father Schneider waited until the housekeeper returned to the kitchen. “She’s a spy, you know.”
Terry choked on his coffee, his eyes watered and his face flushed.
The older priest sipped his coffee and waited for the spasm to pass. To Terry’s surprise, Jim was smiling. “That’s right. She’s an honest to goodness spy. The cabal of Heinies who once ran this parish lock, stock and barrel, got her the job. I inherited her. I’m sure she reports to them on a regular basis.”
“Really? She seems so nice.”
“Grumpy as hell, but loveable despite herself. Now let’s get down to business.”
“I’m ready.”
Jim removed a sheet of paper from a file folder he had brought
with him. It contained a list of about a dozen names. Next to each were two hyphenated dollar amounts.
“Some of our parishioners complained that they’ve had their rents illegally hiked. You’ve been away for a couple of years, so in case you didn’t know, it’s illegal to raise rents without the approval of the OPA.”
Jim paused to fill his mouth with a forkful of poached eggs and toast, washing it down with a big gulp of coffee.
“OPA?”
“The Office of Price Administration. It’s been around since the start of the war to prevent rent gouging. With all the returning veterans, housing is hard to find and landlords are taking advantage.”
“Are any of them losing their apartments?”
“Some are. I understand they’re sending rent collectors around every week now. But even with the higher rents, some of our parishioners feel they’re lucky to even have a place to live. Mostly I think they’re scared. I hear there are at least two big goons using strong-arm tactics to scare the money out of them.”
“But what can we do about it?”
“Not much. We try to steer clear of politics in the parish, but when parishioners seek our counsel, I feel we need to at least follow up as part of our pastoral duty.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Why don’t you go down to the OPA office and talk to the director, a fellow by the name of Joseph Daniel Crosswaite. He’s a retired insurance company VP or something. He’s a nice guy, but overwhelmed. I’ll call to set up the meeting. Here’s my file with the rent histories,” Jim said as he pushed the file folder across the table.
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. I’ll be anxious to hear how it goes,” Jim said as he stood, “Nice to have you aboard, Terry.”
Terry was unfamiliar with Newark, and the walk downtown was much longer than he had figured. The OPA office was located in a former Cadillac agency on Broad Street.
A tall, thin man with a salt-and-pepper goatee was explaining something to one of several secretaries when Terry entered. The man looked up, saw Terry, and pulled a gold watch from a pocket of his pinstriped vest.
“Father Nolan? I’ve been expecting you. I’m J.D. Crosswaite.” They shook hands.
Crosswaite led the priest to his glass-enclosed office. Except for his desk, which was a chaotic jumble of complaints, reports, guidelines, and directives, the office was a fine example of austere bureaucratic neatness. There was an American flag on a pole in one corner and a framed picture of President Truman on the rear wall, testimony to how quickly more than twelve years of FDR can become just a memory. There was a clothes tree in the other corner. It held a wooden hanger with a double-breasted pinstriped suit jacket. The gray, snap-brimmed hat seemed out of character.
Crosswaite seated himself at his desk and offered Terry a seat. “How long have you been at St. Mark’s?”
“Only a few weeks. I got assigned right after I got back from the Pacific.”
“Good to have you here. Now, what’s on your mind?”
Terry placed the list of names before him.
“Well, what do we have here?”
“A list of people in our parish, at least the ones that we know of, who are being gouged by their landlords.”
“That you know of?”
“Yes, we’ve got parishioners too scared to complain for fear of being evicted. That’s why they’ve come to us.”
“I see. Do you have any rent receipts?”
Terry paused, a bit confused. “Not a one. Everything is done face-to-face, in cash.”
Crosswaite exhaled deeply, a sigh that bureaucrats seem to reserve for that moment when they feel particularly put upon by people who have no understanding of red-tape logistics. The sigh came with the job.
“I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do without formal complaints.” He picked up a blank form from a pile on his desk. “Here’s the form. I suggest you get each person on the list to fill one out, attach any documented receipts, then deliver them to this office. We’ll follow up, when we can.”
“But that could take weeks. These people are suffering now.”
Crosswaite reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a thick stack of papers.
“Here are the formal rent complaints we received this past month alone. Each one requires a separate inquiry from one of our staff. We are doing our best with the resources we have. Given the situation, we’ve got a substantial backlog.”
Crosswaite, to this point composed, now appeared self-conscious. He put down Father Schneider’s list and leaned back in his chair.
“I’m sorry, I wish I could do more. Perhaps you should put together a petition and send it to the mayor’s office, and see where that gets you. Are you prepared for an off-the-record anecdote?”
“I’m ready.”
“I can show you complaints that my investigators have been working on for months without being able to run down the owner. One of my men, and I still don’t know exactly how he did it, got enough on one big slumlord to blow this town wide open.
“Inevitably, the crooks at City Hall found out about our investigation. There’s very little, legal or illegal, that goes on in this city that they don’t know about, or have their clammy fingers in. So it wasn’t surprising when our regional director called for the entire file on the case. That was six months ago, and nothing’s happened.”
“So, you’re telling me that these people have no recourse?”
“No. I’m telling you that there is a complaint procedure that they need to follow. Otherwise, this agency can’t do its job.”
“I see.” Terry stood. “Thanks for your time. I’ll discuss our next steps with Father Schneider.”
Crosswaite stood and handed Terry the file he had come in with. “Good luck with your new assignment, Father Nolan. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
“Thanks.”
For nothing.
That evening, Terry found Schneider in the sun porch at the back of the rectory. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off above the elbows; khaki pants; red, green, and yellow argyles; and scruffy brown leather slippers. His “contemplation clothes,” as he called them.
“Got a minute?” Terry said.
“Sure. How’d you make out with Crosswaite?”
“He’s a paper pusher with too much on his plate. There’s nothing he can do.”
Jim nodded. “I suspected as much. Especially now. I hear the OPA is shutting down at the end of year.”
“Then it was a total waste of time.”
“Not entirely. At least we can say we discussed the problem with the agency. That’s what you’ll tell the families when you meet with them to follow up.”
“Me? I barely know them.”
“It’s a good way to start. You don’t learn much about your flock from the sanctuary, you know.”
Terry nodded. He was the “new guy” and had to expect he’d get the tough jobs. At least for now.
“How about a drink?” Jim got up and led them into the rectory. Terry flashed back to his first meeting with Monsignor Flaherty.
Jim lifted a dark green bottle of Vat 69, poured stiff belts into two tall glasses, and dropped in some ice cubes from a bucket Mrs. Spiser provided earlier.
“How do you take your scotch, straight, soda or water?”
“Soda will be fine.”
“Cheers.”
They returned to the sun porch, both sinking into the wicker chairs. The older man spoke in quick, easy patterns.
“I know it’s frustrating, but you need to know the lay of the land around the parish. Our people are struggling to make ends meet. Pure and simple. The women used to rely on their husbands’ army checks, but now the war is over. The WPA and other government dole-outs are gone. Jobs scarce. And the Negroes moving in from the South have made a bad situation worse.”
Terry looked around the well-appointed porch. “Then how do we survive here?”
�
�It’s not from the offering plate on Sundays, I can tell you that. This is brewery gulch. The German beer makers are gone, but their money lingers on.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“The Krameirs and the Trommers. Both families moved out a few years ago, the Krameirs to a mansion in the hills overlooking the city, and the Trommers to a twenty room seaside cottage. The two families not only competed in beer sales for years, but also in their donations to St. Mark’s.”
Jim took a long swig of his drink, almost draining the glass.
“Twice a year I make two trips, both just before Christmas. I take the Greyhound to the end of the line in Bay Head where I’m met by the Trommers’ Packard. From there we drive along the Jersey Shore, halfway to Atlantic City. I spend the night. I’m asked some questions. I give them answers. The next day I’m driven back to Bay Head. There’s a five-digit check in my pocket.
“A week or so later, Anton Krameir and his wife stop by the rectory in midafternoon. We drive to their mansion, and I’m feted like a papal nuncio. Again the unnecessary questions. I supply fatuous answers. Everyone is happy. Mrs. Krameir accompanies me to the car. The chauffeur puts the auto in gear, I wave, Mrs. Krameir waves, her husband waves from the drawing room window, and I pat another fat check as it settles comfortably in my pocket. It’s all part of the job. They don’t teach that in seminary.”
“It’s hard for me to understand why they would continue to support a parish where they no longer belong,” Terry wondered.
“At first I viewed it as just a big tax write-off on their part. Later I realized it’s a legacy, a way for these families to continue to leave their mark on Newark. You’ll notice that they are thanked profusely in the Christmas and Easter leaflets. The families feel involved. The diocese is pleased. We get to move forward in relative comfort. Everyone wins.”
That talk was the first of many the two priests would have. Father Schneider touched on all facets of the parish’s operations.
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