Life With Mother Superior

by Jane Trahey

  To this day I don’t know what Father said to Mother Superior, but he certainly must have said quite a lot, because the next day my parents took their little angel back to St. Marks.

  Another little angel returned to St. Marks at about that time—my friend and conspirator, Mary.

  Chapter Seven: Sister Mary William

  Unless one-qualified for honors, one’s opportunities to leave St. Marks, except at the end of term, were extremely unusual and rare. If you hit the honor roll, you were allowed to drive into town for sports events, movies of certain religious origin, museum trips, and so on. For the first two years of my life there, I saw the city only in passing from the train station to the school and vice versa. Then, I heard about Sister Mary William and her Social Action Committee, and even though there were certain drawbacks to belonging to her group (such as working for missions in your free time), I felt that one might balance the other. The “other” was a series of little excursions to places where we could perform Social Action.

  To parents, it must have seemed unusual that their children, at the tender ages of fourteen and fifteen, had been through places they most likely had not—such as the recreation room of Joliet Penitentiary, the Old People’s Home run by the Little Sisters of the Poor, the Foundling Home for Wayward Mothers, and dozens of other attractive places in the same genre. Sister Mary William was a do-gooder and she also had a tremendous sense of wanderlust. Thus, she arranged for her group an itinerary that would have made Sir Edmund Hillary blanch.

  The first trip of the year was to the Poor House—a rickety red brick and frame building of the early 1900’s. What Sister Mary William thought we should get from going to the Poor House I’ll never know, but if she only accomplished one thing, it was the desire in all of us to be lucky enough to die young and in the bosom of a wealthy family. Sister Mary William offered our services for a Sunday—all we had to do was serve the old folks dinner, help with the dishes, and sing our class songs. Whether this, in any way, cheered up the octogenarians or not, I have no idea. Probably we depressed them with our youth as much as they did us with their age.

  “Sister, the gravy is gray . . .” I whispered at Sister Mary William, who was in hog heaven cheering up the old ladies.

  “Hush now, the gravy is not gray.”

  One old lady concurred, and toothlessly screamed out, “The gravy is gray, the gravy is gray.”

  “Now see what you’ve done, you’ve started something,” Sister Mary William scolded me. “Go and get the bananas we brought them.”

  There was a terrible fight over the bananas and even Sister Mary William began to wish she hadn’t brought us. The old ladies grabbed at them and at Florence and Lillian, who were distributing them. Within seconds they had every banana hidden on their person or in drawers.

  Each of them had a special place to sit at the long refectory tables. The tables were of that peculiar orange-y burled wood, and under each place setting there was a drawer in which they could stash away anything they didn’t want to eat. Several of the old ladies had to be reprimanded for putting the lumpy mashed potatoes in there.

  By the time we were to sing our songs, none of us could keep from crying. And even though Sister Mary William swung to and fro trying to lead us, it was a pitiful chirping of our usually raucous rendition of St. Marks’ old Alma Mater.

  Bowed, but not bloody, the Social Action Committee then performed at the County Jail. This meeting wasn’t quite as exciting as the old people’s, since we didn’t get to serve the food. All I can say is that the number of bad dreams and nightmares that followed the jail expedition canceled that permanently from the tour.

  Sister Mary William really rehearsed us for our next appearance—at the Arlington Park Cemetery for the Memorial Day services. We recited “In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row.” This new method of group vocal was one of Mary William’s inspirations, and it preceded by many years the much-touted Menotti.

  One thing could always be said for Sister Mary William—we were on time. In fact, when we arrived, not a soul except the cemetery watchman was there. It had rained the night before Memorial Day, and by the time we had weaved our way in and out of the tombstones, the hems of our white Sunday uniforms were dripping wet and our white shoes squeaking. The chairs were too wet to sit on, and only a sparse crowd of die-hards had arrived at the cemetery by the time we were seated and waiting. Of course, we were forbidden to move and if you didn’t toe the mark, you knew you would miss out on the next exciting side trip into Limbo.

  We watched them hang the flag over the speaker’s platform and soon a few marines arrived with bugles. One of them winked at Ramona and Sister Mary William came flying down on him like an irate bald eagle.

  There was an interminably long speech on courage and bloody death to give us our freedom, which was delivered in somewhat of a Baptist minister’s mood by the head of the American Legion. Then, Florence read “Battlefield” after which we recited “In Flanders Fields,” and then taps were played. Sister Mary William cried, and so did the American Legion man. We weaved in and out of the tombstones looking at names and dates, and realizing that people (or past people) were lying under there.

  But the trip of the year was the trip to the World’s Fair before it opened. This meant we would go all the way into Chicago and to the lake front. Sister Mary William, with her usual original touch, had arranged for us to go through it all by ourselves—and in January.

  Her first step was to charter a bus. Since she didn’t have enough money, we got a bus that had no working heaters. Of course, we were by this time fairly conditioned to no heat as we had none in the dormitories at night, and most of the nuns kept the windows open during classes. I often used to wonder why. Now I know: we smelled. With twenty or thirty little girls all wearing the same uniforms day in and day out, we must have been a mighty advertisement for the use of a deodorant—of which none of us had ever heard.

  Even Jessie Wozynoski seemed well enough to go. Sister felt she could manage her since Jessie had just fainted in Ancient History two days before, and Jessie seldom fainted twice in the same week.

  Jessie was a sad, dark eyed girl who lived with her grandmother and grandfather. She was our only contact with the Continental life, for Jessie had been born in Paris, and spent her first and formative years shuttling between the Italian and the French Riviera. Her father was old Polish Aristocracy and her mother a Bavarian princess. Neither of them had much fun together and no official country to have what little they had together. From what we had heard, Jessie’s parents had shipped the grandmama and grandpapa and Jessie to this country while they still shuttled between Rivieras. Jessie usually left school a good month before we did to join them in some exotic spa like La Napoule or Biarritz. She was the only person we had ever met who had their own room every year on the “Queen.” Jessie was taller and paler than any of us, and I think a year or two older than the rest of us. We all rather liked Jessie, as she was sweet and provided us with a twist from our common heritage. The only problem with Jessie was that she fainted. And she fainted rather dramatically. None of this business of just slumping down. No. Jessie would stand dramatically—bolt upright—in the middle of Ancient History or Algebra or wherever she was about to go, utter a superb moan, “Siiiiisisssster,” and crash down flat on the floor and on her face. She often cut her lip or her eye on the sides of desks, but no one ever doubted the authenticity of the faint. No one would just crash like that unless they meant business.

  Mother Superior sent her off to the convent doctor who pronounced her sound of body but high-strung; the chaplain’s doctor pronounced her sound of mind but peaked. Sister Nurse thought her blood was weak, Sister Cook made her drink heavy broths with egg in them and Jessie had to report before lunch for a pill and a glass of port. Jessie’s only active thank you for the attention was to faint one day in the kitchen.

  Of course, we treasured the moments of her downfalls since they afforded a go
od fifteen minute break in our monotonous morning or afternoon. Most of all, we enjoyed Jessie’s fainting at the Communion Rail or at a public ceremony. But basically, there was nothing really wrong with Jessie—at least not enough for the school to send her away, and somehow we all learned in our years at St. Marks to be quick enough to try and catch Jessie (though she was very crafty about timing), and if we didn’t catch her we at least knew we should pat her wrists, get a cold cloth and fetch the first Sister that we could.

  Sister Mary William made a point of taking Jessie with us. She felt that Jessie should see something of scope in our country. “After all,” she said, “she’s seen the famous landmarks of Europe—why not right here in Chicago.” Mother Superior wasn’t keen at all and Jessie bit her nails and tried to stay upright for a week so that she, too, could visit this Mecca of the Midwest.

  Mother Superior herself bundled Jessie into her clothes. In fact, Jessie looked like a large walking mummy with a stocking cap and two sweaters, a coat and a large scarf that was wound Nefertiti fashion from her bosom up to her nostrils. In fact, the fashion background we all received at St. Marks was certainly a firm foundation for a life of a frumpdom.

  By the time the bus left, the driver was trying to keep his window clear of steam—if was so cold in the bus that our breath quickly frosted the windows, leaving him in somewhat of a cloudlike atmosphere. Also, we sang a lot—which didn’t help him one whit.

  It was one of those icy-red days in Chicago, when it’s so cold the wind seems to unbutton your coat and twist around you like a muffler. The bus could only go as far as the main entrance, so Sister Mary William pushed us off the bus there. None of us wanted to leave the cool confines of that old car—it wasn’t warm, but our body heat was preferable to the wind of the lake outside.

  “I’ve never seen such a bunch of sissies in my life.”

  We breathed deeply, much as a paratrooper must do before jumping, and joined Sister. By this time her cheeks were bright red, her shawl clutched around her, and her bright blue eyes were running almost as fast as our noses. “Why, when I was young, we would have thought this was a nice day.”

  “Where did she grow up—Iceland?” Mary yelled over the howling wind.

  I’m sure if our parents knew that that very day St. Marks had put us out in the cold, they would have fainted. But they never heard about these trips until the end of the semester. And, by that time, our bronchitis had cleared up. Anyway, most of the stories we told they didn’t believe.

  The fair grounds were vast and totally devoid of human beings that day. Men who worked there deliberately stayed home to avoid the cold—but St. Marks girls had courage. We started walking, running, anything to keep moving and warm. The Science Building loomed majestically in front of us. It was unheated, but it was at least out of the wind. Sister Mary William shepherded us into it and even she looked disappointed when she saw that nothing—not one thing—was in the building. The most scientific experiment we saw was an old man opening his lunch box with a pair of pliers.

  From the Science Building, it took all our energy to buck the wind to Fort Dearborn. This was a fascinating reproduction of the old Fort, faithfully carried out in logs. We did not like this building as well as the Science Building as the wind came whistling through the logs. By this time, most of the Social Action Committee were reduced to frozen, crying mummies and Sister Mary William decided to seek out a rest room. The bus driver told her where to go and we were so grateful to get somewhere that was heated, we made her promise we could stay there until blood circulated in our feet once again. There were a few other groups of children in the large cafeteria lounge and Sister Mary William borrowed money from her mission funds to buy us hot chocolates. After this, Mary and I and Jessie went to the washroom. It was then that Jessie took one look in the mirror, made a feeble moaning sound and crashed down between the sinks. Neither of us was equipped for this. Jessie had promised not to faint at the World’s Fair, and here she was, white as a sheet on the floor. I started to throw cold water on her but she looked cold and blue enough. Mary ran out and down the hall screaming at the top of her lungs . . . “She’s having a spell. Sister Mary William. Jessie fainted.”

  This, of course, amazed the few workmen, who put their sandwiches down and stared. Mary, flying through the stairwell with her navy beret pulled down over her ears, her uniform mid-calf length with black stockings and shoes, all lent a certain amount of humor to the picture.

  I joined the race. But by this time Sister Mary William had heard the frightening word, “Jessie,” on the floor below, and as she flew up the stairs I flew down. As I passed her by, shouting, she grabbed me, and while I hung suspended on the steps, she whispered in my ear, “Stop shouting the message. I have received it.”

  Jessie was out cold on the floor. Her pale, thin, aristocratic lips were blue and she looked like a great limp doll dressed for the Arctic.

  “Poor darling,” Sister Mary William mumbled, and started patting her wrists and rubbing her hands.

  “Oh if only I had some whiskey,” she moaned.

  A few other people who had come in the washroom just stood about and stared. One of them said, “She’s having a fit.”

  This really irritated Sister Mary William and she looked the woman right in the eye. “She is not having a fit, but I’ll have one if you don’t leave.”

  Finally Jessie moaned and moved and Sister propped her up against the wall and sent us for some hot tea. “Oh if only I had a good cognac,” she kept saying. Poor Sister couldn’t send us for one and she didn’t feel equipped to seek out a brandy by herself. But Jessie seemed able to walk and we all shepherded her down the steps and out into the knife blade cold. There wasn’t really anything else to see at the World’s Fair grounds and so we boarded our magic, frozen, bad-humor bus and headed for home. We finally got back to the convent, after dark, and six of the seven of us had influenza for ten days. The seventh was Sister Mary William, who simply couldn’t believe that we all caught it on our nice trip.

  Despite the fact that Sister Mary William had other outings planned, Mother Superior put a temporary ban on excursions. It wasn’t until Easter that she allowed Sister Mary William to take us to Holy Hill, where we had the chance to climb up the seven thousand steps on our knees.

  Chapter Eight: The Merry Month of . . .

  May was a month with a lot to recommend it. Not only was it very near the end of the term, but there were assorted devotions that offered endless diversions from the daily routine. It always started out with a bang because of the homeroom May crowning which took place on the very first day.

  Sister Rose Marie, my junior homeroom teacher, was beside herself with anticipation. She wiggled her thin little precise nose and nervously adjusted her glasses. Her voice seemed as if it was being piped, rather then spoken, as it came to us in wailing, reedlike chirps. Since little Sister Rose Marie was barely five feet tall and weighed about ninety pounds, we had tagged her “Roughhouse Rosie.”

  “We should only sing two or three songs and then we will crown the statue of the Virgin.”

  “Yes, Sister,” we chirped back.

  No matter how naughty we were, or now we mimicked her, she never really seemed aware of it. Therefore, we left her alone most of the time to live in her aesthetic peace.

  “Now who will be the May Queen?”

  It took the entire hour to vote. My name was never mentioned, as it was taken for granted that only honor students would even be suggested, and it was preferable that the honor student also have a wide religious streak in her. Mary and I were eliminated on both strikes. It was bound to be between Lillian Quigley and Ramona Sapper, and Lillian spent more time on her knees, so she naturally would win hands down. She blushed and looked rather pleased, for she had all confidence that her vocation would stand out in the polling. Everyone in the junior class said Lillian was “roped.” This meant that she spent considerable time in the presence of one of the nuns talking about her future. I
t was fully accepted that she would join the convent right after graduation—everyone but her father fully concurred.

  “She makes me want to throw up,” Mary whispered. “Look at that sickly saint’s smile.”

  “Young ladies, do you have any objections to the poll?” Roughhouse asked patiently.

  We both shook our heads.

  “Then please refrain from speaking to each other.”

  Ramona was picked as Queen of Honor, and Florence, a rather awkward, gawky girl, would carry the crown. This was so that Florence would think she was as well coordinated as any of us, which wasn’t saying much.

  Now that the queens were chosen, the workers could come forth. I was immediately elected flower chairman and Mary my co-chairman. We invariably inherited the dirty jobs and the costly ones. It was typical that we would be behind the scenes always and never on the stage.

  Every room at St. Marks had a statue of the Blessed Virgin on a pedestal in the corner. The teacher sat on a platform that was about a foot high and faced the class. For a May crowning, Sister’s desk had to be moved off the platform and put in the corner. The pedestal was placed in the center—and banked around it, vases which would hold our selection of flowers.

  The procession of Lillian, Ramona and Florence would come in the back door of the classroom, go all around the room, while we sang hymns. Finally, they would stand in front of the statue until we hit the line, “Oh Mary we crown thee with blossoms today”—then the crown bearer would hand the crown to the queen and she would put it on the head of the statue.