I ended up doing quite a bit of the work myself, in countless attempts to correct the little children’s inevitable mistakes. All the same, I recognised that American children had an undauntedness about them that was different to Australian, English or Belgian children. They had a self-confidence that was astonishing and refreshing. They were open, talkative and sociable, and obviously not used to coming into class in silence, as we were all taught to do. I secretly hoped that they would never be asked to conform to such arbitrary rules.
Needless to say, I had nothing to do with policy-making. I wasn’t even placed in charge of a class. Sister Stephen, the slim, quick-witted, young Irish principal had obviously received a briefing that hadn’t put me in the best light. She had an unconscious way of curling her thin lips in disdain, pointing her chin in the air and disregarding everything I said. The impossibility of keeping the craft materials and children’s work tidy gave her endless opportunities to reprimand me. As a last resort, I put the stuff in boxes and placed them at the front of the classroom, officially the teacher’s space, where they wouldn’t be walked on.
I was proud of the children’s efforts at needlework, and so were most of their parents. I was even proud of myself for helping them to learn so well, until I saw that a few who had not managed so well had lost some of the confidence in themselves that this sort of work was supposed to instil.
It’s too petty to describe how everything I tried seemed to be sabotaged. Sister Stephen’s harping criticisms felt like continual harassment. I was there to be tested, but how was I supposed to get it right? I gave up and decided to submit to whatever was happening. Let my superiors judge me the way they wanted to, and let the future be what it would be.
To my surprise, I was asked to teach English. My training had included mandatory English teaching, so the assignment was fair enough. I couldn’t find a syllabus of any kind, so I made up some lessons in a hurry. I enjoyed the challenge, but it came to an end rather quickly during a surprise inspection visit from Mother Josephine. On the blackboard I had written the parts of the verb ‘to eat’. The past tense was down as ‘ate’:‘She ate an apple this morning’.
I was bluntly told in front of the class that I was wrong. ‘Ate’ should have been spelled ‘eat’ in proper English, Mother Josephine asserted. I argued politely with her, but she wouldn’t budge.
‘Sister, you have probably missed something during your schooling, since English wasn’t your native language. Please correct it.’
She watched while I replaced ‘ate’ with ‘eat’. At that moment, I sold out another fragment of my integrity to obedience, and more of my self-respect along with it. To this day, I don’t know whether Mother Josephine was being pedantic—since ‘eat’ is an archaic form of the past participle—or whether it was a test to see if I would cave in or hold my ground. In any case, I was relieved of the teaching of English.
The General’s conviction that I wasn’t good enough for Australia was the reason given to me for my presence at Montjoie, as if at a finishing school. So my mind was geared up to expect harsh treatment. Had I been in a different frame of mind, I might have had a totally different experience. I most likely would not have put up with harassment and silly pettiness as a matter of course. If only Mother Josephine and I had been able to speak as one human being to another, even just the once, who knows how different my Montjoie experience might have been.
MY WATCH BROKE down. That doesn’t sound like a big deal, except for the fact that there weren’t any clocks around the place, except for the one in the chapel on the second floor. ‘Your watch can’t be mended, Sister, and we don’t have watches lying around for people who break them.’ My superior spoke in a hurry and she was gone. The rule of silence prohibited me from asking others the time—at least, I allowed it to stop me from asking. An interesting few months followed, where I guessed the time, often got it wrong, and suffered the consequences with apparent equanimity. What had happened to my state of mind? Why didn’t I find an alarm clock to carry around with me, for instance? I was in a kind of hypnotic trance, responding to an unspoken edict: you are here to be tested, but are already pre-judged and won’t be able to get anything right.
Mother Josephine sent me out of her sight one day. I had waylaid her as she left the refectory, desperate for an opportunity to talk to her. I had been at Montjoie for more than a month and had not had a single tête-a-tête with my superior or with anyone else. It was as if I didn’t matter at all. She told me to go for a walk outside, by way of getting rid of me. It was a bitterly cold winter’s day with an overcast sky. I put on my gloves (they had developed holes all of a sudden, as if gobbled by invisible moths) and went out to the playground where I walked and walked. I hadn’t asked how long I was to walk, and I wasn’t going to stop until I received an order to come in again. But how could I expect Mother Josephine, responsible for a thousand people, to remember me, walking outside in the cold? Stubbornly, I wouldn’t entertain the option of going inside to ask her if it was enough. No, I walked on doggedly for five solid hours, until dusk, and would probably have walked on into the night or until I dropped, waiting for my superior to finally admit she was unreasonable.
‘Sister!’ I was pulled up by the urgent voice of a young nun, running towards me. ‘Mother Josephine says for you to come in now.’ She came closer to look at my frozen face. ‘I saw you from a window,’ she explained, ‘and I asked Mother Josephine what you were doing, walking for so long in the cold and now the dark.’ Mother Josephine had apparently been taken off guard for a moment, but ‘You can go and fetch her in,’ was all she said.
Snow started to fall as we headed back inside together. With blue-cold lips I thanked the nun for her kindness. She asked one of the lay sisters to make me a hot cup of tea and then she disappeared. I was given some leftovers from the dinner table with my hot tea.
The next day I had a temperature, not surprising after my long exposure to sub-zero temperatures. It was a secret relief, because I thought I’d get a break from teaching. I was sent to the infirmarian for a check-up and for medicine if necessary. To my surprise, she told me that I didn’t have a temperature at all! I sat there feeling stunned, my cheeks and forehead burning, my lips cracked and dry. Was the thermometer faulty, I ventured to ask, but was brusquely rebuffed. Had she been told to ignore me? Was that part of my punishment?
I stood outside the infirmary room, not knowing what to do next. The infirmarian was rumbling about inside, so I plucked up the courage to ask for another temperature check. She agreed reluctantly, but came up with the same conclusion: it wasn’t abnormal. I began to wonder if my regular body temperature was lower than other people’s, so that a rise in temperature might make it seem normal. I received no sympathy and no medicine, and sat around feeling hot and befuddled, with an overwhelming desire to get under blankets and sleep. I quickly succumbed to a heavy cold and was told to stay away from others; so I did get a few days’ respite from teaching, but without the comfort of being in bed.
Then came a new challenge. One of the nuns said to me, ‘Old Sister Norbert needs a new bonnet. She can no longer do the fine stitching herself and nobody else has time to do it for her. Would you do it?’
I could have refused; I was being asked, not ordered. The only reason I could have for refusing was that I had never done that sort of thing before. But why not try? I accepted, probably hoping that acceptance without demur would help improve my reputation.
The trouble was that I had to do it after school hours. Being winter, the natural light faded early. I sat working by the window until the interior lights were switched on and black on black became impossible to distinguish. It took months, but I succeeded in finishing the bonnet, and the old sister was grateful to have it at last. That very evening, I saw it being taken apart. It obviously hadn’t met the standard. I glanced at the old sister, who blushed sheepishly and kindly tried to smile at me. No one ever spoke a direct word to me about the ill-fated bonnet, and no one show
ed me how it should have been done.
MY PARENTS HAD embarked on a trip from Australia to Holland, and decided to call in on me in Belgium. It was wonderful: I was overcome with indescribable emotion to see them again, and they were so happy to see me. ‘How are you, Carla?’ asked my mother, watching me closely. I hesitated. What I wanted to do was break down and tell her how miserable I was, but my face managed a dead calm. I was totally constrained by my loyalty to the order: never disclose anything unpleasant to an outsider.
Mother Josephine was as hospitable towards my parents as if they were a king and queen. Graciousness oozed out of her. There was no shortage of cakes for tea, and they were given a guided tour, culminating in the chapel. They weren’t shown the nuns’ quarters, however, or the place where their daughter slept. If they had, my father would have approved of the horsehair mattress! All the while, I was dying to come clean with them and tell them about my life. A huge desire welled up in me to ask them to take me away, please! The terrible longing I’d had as a six year old for my parents to hug me and make me feel wanted came over me again. Nothing happened when I was six, and nothing happened then. Inevitably, the time for goodbyes came and then they were gone.
I WOKE UP on Christmas morning in my attic dormitory and looked out of the tiny window set in the sloping roof to see snow lying over the rooftops and the street below, like a silent cloak in the pre-dawn light. It was a magical morning. I broke the ice on my basin of water and washed myself.
On Christmas afternoon, the young ones in the community had a great time shovelling and sweeping snow from the wide flagstoned footpath in front of the convent. Large shovels and stiff brooms helped us pile the broken snow into the street gutter. About a dozen of us worked for more than three hours.
A few days later, there was fresh snow. It melted a bit, then froze over, and we were sent down to scrape it off with salt and spades. An elderly couple passed by, watching us. If only I hadn’t looked up to catch the eyes of the elderly man; as if cursed by looking at me, he slipped, falling heavily on the ice. His wife helped him to his feet again as he moaned with surprise and pain. None of us spoke or went to his rescue: the rule of silence set us apart, kept us from being human.
The boarders had gone home for the Christmas season, so the whole community went into a three-day retreat, as was usual in the holidays. A Jesuit priest was hired to lead the retreat, and gave inspirational talks in the chapel twice a day. Here was an opportunity to improve my French; I hadn’t been able to listen to so much of it ever before! Lord knows what it was like for the unfortunate priest, who was required to speak enthusiastically to a group of women who sat there like statues and, out of prudery, never even looked at him. I sometimes glanced at him, and realised he must have been instructed not to catch any nun’s eye. Instead, he enthusiastically addressed the statues and the wall at the back of the chapel!
For the rest of the retreat time, free from the daily grind of teaching, I escaped into blissful trances. When I was without any pressure to perform, a sun would burst forth in my heart, filling it with joy. My body would relax into delicious feelings with the slightest prod: the sight of a single flower somewhere, the sound of a bird.
I started to write a letter to my family during this Christmas break; the only letter I managed to send during my entire six-month stay at Montjoie. It took me more than two months to finish it, because, incredibly, I was given only one sheet of paper each time I put in a request, and it took several days before each (written) request was granted. The stationery was kept by a nun who had grown grumpy and graceless from the loss of female hormones. She seemed to think it her duty to frustrate my requests for paper, an envelope and a stamp, turning the process into a silent, tortuous saga.
My mother noted that the four-page letter was dated 26 December, but didn’t get to her until March. It was this, as well as what I had written, that made her anxious about my welfare. I admire my mother for her perspicacity, for the letter was cheerful enough in the way it was written. Alarm bells went off, however, when she read the remarks I made about the recent retreat. ‘You know, you can be miserable and sorrowful, and as poor and isolated as a church mouse, and still be happy, so long as you are not God-forsaken.’
My mother started asking questions about why I hadn’t come back to Australia with the others. She directed her questions to the superior at Genazzano, insisting that she write away to England. After a while, she put her foot down and demanded answers, feeling that something was really wrong. It was my mother who got me out of Brussels; but not before another two more months had gone by.
DURING THAT TIME, a pupil asked for English lessons, as she was going to live in England shortly. I was asked whether I’d be interested in coaching her and I agreed with pleasure. When asked by her parents what I would charge—as if I had any clue at all about Belgian currency or the going rate per hour for tuition—I simply said ‘Not much!’ and that was all they got out of me over the next weeks.
The girl was about sixteen and we got on famously. She taught me a good deal of French, so I felt well rewarded. We had our lessons in a tiny music room that smelled of its teak walls. It had the usual creaking floor, with a low window, below waist level, which overlooked the playground. The tuition progressed well and did wonders for my self-esteem, because here was someone who expressed only gratitude! It was fun. When it was time for her to leave and I still hadn’t stipulated my fee, her father gave a rather large sum to the convent. The nun in charge of accounts made a public announcement about the generous gift at the lunch table, acknowledging my contribution. In one fell swoop, I had redeemed myself in that place and it felt very good. I never found out how much money I earned for them.
Something in me changed after that little incident. My relations with the general community continued as before—everyone was very busy with their work, and diluted to invisibility for most of the day in the vastness of that establishment—but I began talking to the lay sisters, to maintain the feeling of being a human which I had recently gained.
In contrast to the teaching nuns, the lay sisters were a much more cohesive bunch. They worked together in the laundry, the kitchen and the scullery. I joined them after meals when I could, helping to dry the dishes. I enjoyed their company and also sensed a certain independence and assertiveness among them. They were simple, kind, uncomplaining and dedicated women, with only one exception.
This woman had a big mouth, always speaking up when lay sisters should not be seen or heard. The most that was expected of them was to contribute a funny anecdote now and then; for the rest of the time, their assumed lesser intelligence demanded their subservient silence. The lay sisters accepted their lower-class status, except for Sister Bigmouth, Soeur Patrice. Soeur Patrice had a way of stating the truth, to the frequent embarrassment of Mother Josephine and her offsiders. She didn’t mind arguing with them either, and often refused to obey a command to stop. I found her funny, daring, courageous, stupid and enlightening. She definitely served to diffuse some of the unquestioned reverence for the superior that reigned in the chateau, and brought things down to earth a bit.
One day, Soeur Patrice announced that she thought the girls were not being given the right kind of food. Mother Josephine was trying to save by scrimping on food bills. There was a revolt, not long after, in the senior girls’ refectory: they declared it was dog food and refused to eat it. It was a highly embarrassing incident. This was a crisis Mother Josephine had to field with all of her skill. The storm was weathered, as all storms were, but it could have easily been prevented if the wisdom and honesty of one angry lay sister had counted for anything.
I began to absorb the camaraderie among the lay sisters; it was the secret to their perseverance in that convent sweatshop. They all came from a peasant Flemish background and were used to hard work. They probably knew that life out there would not be any better, most likely worse. Here at least they had some security, and would be looked after in later life if they needed care.
In those days, not having a husband might have been a good thing: the astute could opt for a life in a convent. I got to know these women well and they were far from naive.
One of them, Soeur Helene, was totally self-effacing. She was delicate with a thin, angelic face and a smile in her slightly crossed but calm eyes. I never heard her speak; she was either very loyal to the rule of silence or perhaps she had a speech impediment. She didn’t seem to need to speak. This little sister was a balm to my soul; there was a consistent feeling of peace and kindness about her. She would look at me occasionally with those quiet eyes and any soreness in my heart would disappear.
I began to talk to the sisters as I worked with them. It was against the rules, but the little bunch of washer-uppers had agreed that talking was necessary for their sanity. They spoke about what they thought was happening on the floors above them (they worked in the basement), and since they were never told about the things that weren’t supposed to concern them, like happenings in the schools, they made it their business to find out for themselves. There was always a fair amount of gossip and laughter. I joined in with guffaws which made them warn me to be more quiet!
I had found an underclass in them that I identified with. They seemed to understand that even though I was a visitor and a teacher, I was not in the hierarchy’s good books, and young and vulnerable. They trusted me, and gave me to understand that they were behind me.
Soeur Helene showed me something strange and wonderful one day. She motioned for me to follow her and opened a cleaning cupboard. There I espied a statue of the Black Madonna, hidden in a corner. Just looking at it made my hair stand on end. There was a curious energy about it; her features were strong, not pretty or sweet, and her colour was black, with a shiny finish, giving the impression of sweat on her face and on the infant in her arms.
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