The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  In any case, there it was: No guided tour of the seminary had ever skipped a visit to the Cardinal’s empty but waiting tomb.

  In time, of course, the tomb was occupied. Cardinal Mooney was laid to what was thought to be his final rest on October 31, 1958. At that time no one would have dreamed that anything would ever happen to contravene his order. However, who could have foreseen the drain of seminarians and the change in name and purpose of St. John’s Provincial Seminary to St. John’s Center?

  Eventually, nearly unoccupied, the seminary was officially closed in 1988.

  When it became clear that such a drastic change was inevitable, the administration of the archdiocese decided to have the Cardinal’s body moved to Holy Sepulcher Cemetery, there to be interred in the section reserved for deceased priests.

  A small crew of workers was put to work on the transfer.

  They cracked open the seal of the plaque and laboriously raised the heavy casket from the tomb and placed it on a carriage. They rolled it out of the crypt and through the empty Prayer Hall. They maneuvered it up a flight of stairs and pushed it to the front doors of the one-time seminary.

  As they crossed the threshold, something eerie and inexplicable occurred. All the power in the buildings failed, and the telephones went dead.

  The moving crew was unaware of what had happened. Those few still inside the building of course knew that suddenly the electricity was out and so were the phones. But they didn’t know that the outage was in any way connected with the noncompliance with Mooney’s order.

  Nor, when the stories had been meshed, was the incident made public. Perhaps the powers that be were loath to fan the embers of what could give rise to a cult, a shrine, and/or talk of a “miracle.”

  Those who knew of the phenomenon ever after shied from the emptied tomb.

  As Koesler was recalling these events, he stood motionless at the very foot of the Cardinal’s now-vacant crypt. He smiled as “The Twlight Zone” theme sounded in his head.

  Koesler resumed his journey in the direction of the Power House entrance. As he did, his thoughts returned to the present and the upcoming meeting.

  At one time, not that long ago, this would have been a gathering of The Six. Over the years, The Six—four men and two women—had formed a special bond that had survived the test of time.

  Their relationship had begun some fifty-five years before. It was a bond that could, and did, survive disagreements, misunderstandings, and even enmity. Of course their usual response to one another was just the opposite of such negatives. The point was that the group’s comradeship was built on a rock-solid foundation that could withstand all manner of testing.

  But what they were experiencing now was a sterner test than any in the past.

  They had been six. Now they were five.

  Only days ago, one of their number had died. This, in itself, was not extraordinary. Koesler was in his early seventies. The others, all at one time classmates, had been one year behind Koesler. Now they too were in their early seventies, a year or two younger than he, depending on their month of birth.

  It was the cause of this demise that was ambiguous. Rather than dying of a sharply defined illness or from so-called natural causes, the death could be attributed to either an accident, or suicide, or murder. Whatever the true cause of death, it seemed possible—albeit unthinkable—that one of the surviving classmates might have been responsible for the death, had assisted in the death, or was an accessory.

  Koesler had reason to believe he knew the answer.

  TWO

  IT WAS 1942 and young Bob Koesler wanted to be a priest. Never had he planned on being anything else.

  In three months he would enter high school. The ninth grade was the earliest he could start on the process of becoming a priest. All he needed at that point was a seminary.

  Until about the middle of the eighth grade, he had taken it more or less for granted that he would attend the Redemptorist seminary in Missouri. The Koesler family belonged to Holy Redeemer parish on Detroit’s southwest side. Redemptorist priests—lots of them—staffed the parish.

  The Redemptorists were founded by St. Alphonsus Ligouri. They were supposed to be preachers and teachers, but most of them had, for all intents and purposes, become parish priests. So, young Robert put two and two together: He wanted to be a priest; the only priests he knew were Redemptorists—ergo, he was preparing to leave for Missouri.

  Then a friend of the family, a Maryknoll priest, opened young Robert’s eyes to a seminary virtually right under his nose. He wouldn’t have to leave home; there was a seminary in Detroit that was only two streetcar rides away.

  On this warm and bright day in May, Robert was following the directions mapped out by his anxious mother. The directions brought him to the massive institution called Sacred Heart Seminary. He arrived to find the gigantic playing field filled with boys competing in various track and field events.

  Annually, at Sacred Heart, one Saturday in early May was set aside as Field Day. This meant races, jumps, and similar fun events. The object was to get nearly all the students out of the buildings so the incoming candidates could be processed.

  As far as Robert Koesler could tell, three different categories of young men filled the Gothic corridors: There were seminarians excused from participating in the Field Day in order to organize the applicants. There were small groups of applicants from various home parishes. Each group hung close together, seeking comfort in numbers. Finally, there were unaffiliated boys who were here for the first time. These unattached individuals seemed lost; most of them were overwhelmed and scared.

  Robert Koesler knew no one. He stood stockstill in a virtual vortex in the middle of a corridor while young male bodies circled him in roughly a clockwise motion. So bewildered was he that he was sorely tempted to retrace his steps and retreat to the security of home.

  But he couldn’t do that. What sort of priest would he make if he turned and ran every time he was even slightly daunted?

  Just then a boy about his size and age stopped in front of him. “You new?”

  “Yeah,” Robert replied. “I really am!”

  “You gonna be a freshman?”

  “If I can find out how to do it.” Robert extended his hand. “Bob Koesler.”

  The other boy shook his hands energetically and identified himself. “McNiff—Pat McNiff.”

  “You know where you’re going?” To Robert, his new acquaintance didn’t seem nearly old enough to be one of the seminarian guides.

  McNiff grinned “I was here last year.”

  “So … ?”

  “I wasn’t accepted.”

  The possibility of being rejected had never occurred to Koesler. Till now he’d thought that all one had to do was register and then begin school. “Is … is there some test we’re supposed to take?”

  “Didn’t you get your application form in the mail?”

  Panic began to again grip at Koesler’s nervous system. “I didn’t even know there was an application form.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Wish I was. What’ll I do?”

  “The best you can, I guess. Look, I’ll take you to the study hall where the freshies are supposed to meet. Take it from there. Maybe it’ll work … you never know.”

  Koesler followed McNiff through the crowd until they reached an impressively large room filled with desks and chairs, a bunch of boys, and a balding older man in a cassock. Probably a priest, Koesler concluded.

  “This is it,” McNiff said. “Good luck.”

  “What about you?” Koesler was reluctant to lose the only friend he had made.

  “I’m gonna apply for the tenth grade. Last year I had a lot of trouble with the English test. So I really burned the books this year. I’ve got all the English they can throw at me—at least for the tenth grade. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “I hope so.” It was almost a prayer.

  Actually, the two would see much of each oth
er.

  Pat McNiff failed to realize that while he was working on English grammar in his ninth-grade curriculum, those in the seminary were inundated with Latin grammar. McNiff was eminently qualified for the tenth grade as far as English was concerned. But with no Latin, he would be slated for the seminary’s ninth grade. Though McNiff was a year older than Bob Koesler, the two would be classmates.

  But first Koesler would have to gain entrance.

  He approached the elderly priest and tried, haltingly, to explain that all he had to submit to the seminary was himself.

  “You haven’t got your application?” The query was delivered far more loudly than necessary, thought Koesler.

  “No, Father.”

  “Here …” The priest plucked a form from a stack of papers on a nearby desk and handed it to Koesler. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes before we hand out the test papers. Fill out as much as you can now and finish it after the test.

  “And get a move on! I don’t want to spend our first nice spring day waiting for you to get your act together.”

  At this point Koesler almost could pray that the earth would open and swallow him. But he had to ask; there was no other way. “Father …” He spoke just loudly enough to be heard by the priest over the subdued noise in the room.

  “Well?” the priest growled.

  “I wonder … I don’t have a pencil.” Koesler realized he must sound like Oliver Twist begging for “more gruel, please.” But his options were few.

  “My God, man!” the priest thundered. “Here’s a guy shows up without bringing anything with him! Anybody got a pencil you can lend this poor soul?”

  Several pencils were thrust immediately at the blushing candidate. He accepted the first pencil he saw. Fortunately, it didn’t need sharpening. If it had, he would have had to ask the location of the sharpener.

  He was so confused he had some trouble remembering how to spell his family name.

  He filled out the application form as best he could. And just in time to commence the test with everyone else. Before beginning, however, he delivered the completed application to the priest, who seemed slightly mollified by the dispatch of the accomplishment.

  Upon reflection, Koesler was grateful that he hadn’t known he would have to take this academic test. He would have crammed ceaselessly without knowing what exactly the test would be about.

  As it turned out, it was a potpourri of subjects blessedly familiar to him. He would do best in English and worst in math, with everything else on the high side with English.

  Some applicants finished early but were advised that they must wait the full hour and a half before proceeding to the next step, an interview with one of the priest faculty members.

  Koesler’s head was in a whirl. So many things had been thrown on his plate with such little preparation on his part! He felt like a zombie. He was beginning to wonder why anyone in this seminary would want him as a student.

  And now there would be another hurdle to clear. An interview. Once again, this was news to him.

  Well, he thought, take them as they come. He finished the test with a few minutes to spare. He ran through it one more time and changed only a couple of his answers. He thought he’d done well. Pretty good, at least.

  A huge electronic bell mounted on one wall let loose a blast.

  Bob Koesler was to learn—without even knowing he was being taught—that this was a wondrous system. For people in authority at least. Merely by ringing a bell one could get hundreds of young men and boys to do whatever it was time for them to do.

  The bell woke them in the morning. It summoned them to chapel to pray and to attend Mass. It called them to eat—not much, but enough to survive. It ordered them to exercise, to study, to attend classes. In short, a bell programmed their lives.

  In the swirl of students, Koesler searched in vain for his one and only contact, the McNiff boy. It would have been a deus ex machina had Koesler found McNiff. And God was not being a machine this day.

  By observing other applicants who were scanning signs posted on various pillars, he discovered which office he was supposed to be at. He did not want to cap this day’s adventure by getting in the wrong line and wasting what easily could be hours. So he not only searched out and ascertained his destination from the bulletin board, he asked directions of anyone and everyone who appeared knowledgeable.

  When his time came, he entered a small office. Awaiting him was the antithesis of the gruff, elderly cleric of the study hall. Later, Koesler would learn that his interviewer was the chief executive officer of this enterprise—the rector of the seminary.

  In short order, the rector discovered that Koesler had virtually come in off the street. He was asked for—and did not have with him—his certificates of baptism and confirmation, his parents’ Catholic wedding certificate, and a transcript of his grammar school grades.

  Once more the less than intrepid boy panicked. He volunteered to go directly home, get all the required documentation, and return with them this very day.

  Father Donnelly almost smiled. He assured the boy that, while these documents were absolutely required before his admission could be considered, it would be sufficient to mail them in within the week.

  Donnelly and Koesler also chatted about the boy’s reasons for wanting to be a priest. From this discussion, it was apparent that young Koesler wanted the priesthood as much as or more than any other lad making application this day.

  On concluding his interview with Father Donnelly, Koesler checked diligently to be sure there was no other procedure required of him. Finally, satisfied that he was done for the day, and intent on getting the required documentation in the mail, he headed to the designated corner and waited for the streetcar.

  He could see clearly the games going on all over the outsize field. Happy kids, he concluded: all this fun and activity and studying for the priesthood to boot.

  It would be a headache trying to round up all those records. But his family, most especially his mother, would willingly endure the discommodity to come up with the required documents.

  The easiest certificate to obtain would be his scholastic grades from his parochial school. The others—baptism, confirmation, and marriage record—were spread around the Detroit metropolitan area. Young Robert’s family had relocated from time to time based on the senior Koesler’s employment. Thus, each vital statistic had its own separate parish.

  But the entire family was indeed most supportive in Bob’s quest for ordination. Gladly would they travel all over creation to locate the requisite parishes.

  This was the initial test of how far Bob and his family would be willing to go for his vocation.

  In a few days, the mission was accomplished. The records were tucked into an envelope and dispatched to the seminary. Robert was able to breathe a tad more easily.

  And then the waiting game began. Allowing two days—three at the most—for delivery by the postal service, each and every morning the family expected mail from the seminary. What could be taking so long?

  Robert’s adrenaline rush had long since subsided. Initially, the path had seemed to lead toward Missouri and the Redemptorists. A priest at Holy Redeemer had started making arrangements.

  Robert had never been long away from home and family. His mother feared that homesickness could end his aspirations. Then they had learned about the Detroit seminary, and suddenly things were upside down. Mrs. Koesler was relieved. Her son could be a day student and live at home.

  The Redemptorist who had been counseling Robert took the change in plans in stride. The priest was aware that should Robert for any reason leave the diocesan seminary, he could still try Missouri. But it was not vice versa. If Robert were to attend, then leave the Redemptorist seminary, he would not be accepted at Sacred Heart.

  Though the Koeslers didn’t know it, they were on the safest path. Sufficient to tap into this alternative plan was the Redemptorist’s thinking—if it became necessary.

  Robe
rt, however, was getting worried. So far, he was committed to the diocesan seminary. But the deadline to apply to the Redemptorist seminary was fast approaching. What if the deadline for Missouri passed and he was then rejected by Sacred Heart Seminary?

  In such a case, he would be attending Holy Redeemer High School. And his dream of the priesthood? At best, put off till next year, when he would be applying for the tenth grade, as had the McNiff kid.

  The worst scenario? He would not be accepted by either school. And his dream of the priesthood would be shattered. He didn’t want to think of that eventuality. But he couldn’t suppress the worry.

  Then it came. He had been accepted for the ninth grade at Sacred Heart Seminary.

  Catholics were no strangers to the belief in miracles and Divine intervention. Young Robert interpreted his acceptance into the seminary as a portent that he would persevere over the twelve hurdles ahead.

  None of the other applicants had anywhere near that degree of confidence.

  Whatever, considering the size of the school, its history, the number of students, the caliber of the faculty, its service to the Archdiocese of Detroit, Robert Koesler would soon be a very small fish in a very large pond.

  THREE

  HOLY REDEEMER ELEMENTARY GRADES and high school took up a heap of land on Detroit’s southwest side.

  From day one, boys were separated from girls. The IHM Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, taught both boys’ and girls’ elementary classes through the sixth grade. From the seventh grade through high school, the Brothers of Mary taught the boys, while the nuns taught the girls. In those final six years, not only were the two sexes segregated by classrooms, they were in separate school buildings.

  As if anticipating the Age of the Automobile, Holy Redeemer church spawned an extravagant asphalted parking lot. In the early forties and before, the entire city had easy access to mass transportation in the form of streetcars. The time had not yet come when the auto giants would contribute to the demise of the streetcar system. Redeemer parish made ready for a parking crisis. If there was a car in every garage, there would be room for churchgoers to park those vehicles while attending Mass.