“It was kind of like a message to you,” said Mr. Schoeffel, awed. “You know, Mr. Fletcher, I never saw a hundred-dollar bill before.”
“I think,” said Johnny, “that in gratitude to my congregation I should buy myself a new coat.” And he began to laugh softly, and the others joined him. All the children must see the candelabra blazing, he thought, and the flowers. It will be a message for them too.
That afternoon, in spite of the rain, Father Krupszyk and Rabbi Chortow visited Johnny in the parsonage, to comfort him because of his ordeal of the night before. There had been something on the radio about it. They found him romping with Pietro and Kathy and Max in the drab living room, full of laughter. They had never seen him so gay and so boyish. He shook their hands enthusiastically, to their astonishment. “You must come into my church at once!” he said. “I want to show you something.” He smoothed down his hair, released himself from Pietro’s gleeful grip. “No, you can’t come again, Pietro,” he said. “You saw everything once. That’s enough.”
The three clergymen went out into the rain, and Johnny led them to the front door, which was unlocked. The priest commented to himself again that never had he seen so dreary a church, no, not even when he had been a very young man with a country parish. He said, “The door isn’t locked in the afternoon?”
“It’s never locked,” said Johnny gaily. “Except at night, of course. I gave orders the church was to be open not only all day Sunday, but every day. You see, I’ve seen too many locked churches, and I always wondered why God had to be under lock and key all the time.”
“Well, well,” said Father John Kanty, pleased. The rabbi nodded his head sagely. “In the old country,” he said, his delicate beard gleaming with little drops of rain, “the doors were open for the prayers of the weary. There is no special time when men should pray; they need to pray when the need comes. And who should deny them their temple?”
Johnny threw open the doors with a flourish. The dark little church was full of golden light, for the candelabra still stood on the altar, and the flowers shone like suns in the illumination. If the other two clergymen were astonished, Johnny was more so, for the church was half filled with seated or kneeling worshipers for the first time in its history on a Sunday afternoon loud with rain and wind, or on any Sunday afternoon for that matter. “What do you know?” Johnny whispered, as he led the way down the aisle toward the altar. So absorbed were the men and the women in the pews that they hardly noticed the passing clergymen. News spreads, thought Johnny with joy. He saw strange profiles he had never seen before, and children, and young boys and girls. A lump rose in his throat.
“Beautiful,” said Father Krupszyk, looking at the great candles, which had hardly dwindled. He stepped closer and smiled broadly. “Why, those candles came from our religious supply store! They’re imported. I shouldn’t wonder if they had been blessed!” The old rabbi went very close to the candelabra, and his tired eyes widened. “Those are Jewish candlesticks!” he whispered, agitated with amazement. “At least three hundred years old, or more! See, I recognize them by this, and this,” and he pointed to the carving on them. “There is a history about them.”
Their faces, above their somber clothing, floated in the broad and soaring light, like the heads in a Rembrandt painting, vivid and moved and full of expression against a dark background. They stood there a long time. The priest noted that there was no cross in the church. Johnny said in a low voice, “I hope to have a large cross, very soon, above the altar.”
They returned to the house, where Mrs. Burnsdale had sent the children upstairs, had put an extra shovel of coal on the furnace, and was now preparing tea in the kitchen. “I’d never have believed it of Al McManus,” said the priest choosing his seat cautiously in the parlor with due regard for broken springs. “And I’m not gong to give him, even now, any credit for symbolism. I’ve seen those candlesticks in his house many a time, and he told me he bought them in Europe, and I know he doesn’t have the slightest idea what they are. And he sent out for those candles to our store, because we’re the only ones who carry them. I think this is all a mysterious message to us from God.”
Mrs. Burnsdale proudly brought in the tea and a plate of cake. The china was very delicate and pretty, and Dr. McManus had sent it to her from the limitless supply in his house. Father Krupszyk was a man of taste, and he examined one of the fragile yellow cups. “Antiques, and very beautiful,” he said. Mrs. Burnsdale said to the old rabbi, “There’s only good fresh sweet butter in that cake, sir, and no lard.” He smiled at her gently, and took a piece of the cake. He tasted it. “My wife can bake no better, he assured her.
The two clergymen decided that they would not mention the riot of the night before to Johnny, for they saw that it no longer meant anything to him. It was obvious that he believed everything was now very splendid. The priest and the rabbi, who had had more experience with men, were not so sanguine. A lion may lick your hand today, thought the priest, but tomorrow he will bite your head from your shoulders. He sipped his tea, and one of his blond eyebrows rose speculatively. He only hoped that Johnny would have some respite for a while, before coming face to face again with the world of men.
Johnny spoke of Lon Harding, and an idea he had evolved. “Lots of churches go in for athletics and dancing and juke boxes in the parish halls,” he said. “But the kids get all that in their new schools. What they don’t get, in some of our public schools, is a full education. They get group integration and life-adjustment stuff instead, and a smattering of mechanical trades in the vocational schools. Not in yours, though, Father,” he said to the priest.
“No,” replied the priest thoughtfully. “We still believe in education, m the liberal arts, in religion, in languages, and Latin, in the humanities. ‘The whole child,’ the educationists say. But the brain, and disciplined learning, are part of ‘the whole child’ too. They forget that. Or,” he added sternly, “maybe they know only too well, and they don’t really want ‘a whole child’ at all. Just robots.”
The rabbi nodded. He took another piece of cake and eyed it approvingly. “Have I not been telling my people, the young people? Have they listened? No.” He looked at Johnny with his luminous eyes. “Not until recently. There is Sol Klein. He led the young people in their modernism. President of the men’s club. They have discussion groups about ‘modern education.’ It is all very foolish; they know nothing at all. Johnny, you have changed Sol. Our Sunday school is flourishing as never before. Sol led the way, with his own children. We must build a larger Sunday school, Sol has said.” The rabbi chewed his cake, and the luminous quality of his eyes deepened with tenderness as he looked at Johnny. “You have done so much good, my son. You have not heard? The young men and women have gravely decided, after a discussion group led by Sol Klein, that their rabbi is not really so stupid and old-fashioned after all, and that eternal ideas have not been destroyed by modern advancement. They have decided their rabbi must have a bigger and finer synagogue, and a nice new house.” He shook his head. “I was told, not consulted,” he added with a loving smile. “They sat about me, like children around a beloved, wise old father, who had too many greater things to concern him than the mere building of a new temple, and they asked my opinion of many things, and they seemed a little ashamed, the dear young ones.” He laughed gently. “‘I must play my part,’ I said to myself. I am the old wise man in the gates; there must be no worry about money for me. I am above such things. They informed me that my sermons are very inspirational!” He sighed, smiling.
“I wonder how long all this will last,” said Father Krupszyk.
“Don’t be cynical,” said Johnny.
The priest was silent a moment, then he began to smile. “Young Dr. Tim Kennedy’s parents once belonged to my parish. Now they live on The Heights, where the young priest is very brisk and modern, as far as what he thinks is due to his particular church and school. No nonsense about Father Frederickson. Well, he’ll get older in time.”
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He grinned at Johnny, and his broad face brightened. “I wanted to tell you about Tim Kennedy. He collected money from the boys who were once in my parish, before they all got to The Heights. Eight hundred dollars. They sent it to me for the church. And last Sunday they came in a body to High Mass. The sermon was in Polish. They sat there as if they understood every word of it, and looked very righteous and pleased with themselves. And afterward they said they’d never forget me again. So you see, Johnny, you’ve helped me, too.”
Johnny blushed. He pretended to be very busy pouring fresh tea as his friends smiled at him. “Let’s get back to what I was talking about,” he said. “I want to turn the parish hall into a library, with tables and good lights. And with teachers, after their classes, coming in to help the boys and girls, using advanced textbooks. It’s an idea I discussed with the doctor, and the board. The children would learn things they never learn in school. A couple of teachers could teach French or German in the parish hall. Others could drill the kids in English, and in English literature, and decent penmanship. The kids wouldn’t come, the doctor said. I don’t believe that. I’m sure lots will.”
His voice rose a little vehemently. “We’re going to disprove the old European idea that a laboring man breeds stupid children, and that these children should be taught only trades, because they aren’t intelligent enough for anything else! Who says they’re not?”
Father Krupszyk stood up. “Johnny, your troubles have just begun.”
The priest looked at the whitening scar on Johnny’s temple. Johnny said, “Father, would you withdraw from any battle in which you had engaged in the name of freedom, God, and justice?”
Father Krupszyk thought of the years he had spent in one unending struggle in his parish. As he was, above all, an honest man, he pondered Johnny’s question. His wide Slavic face became very grave. He began to speak, slowly, “I am a Pole. My people have always been freedom-loving, and religious. They were betrayed to Russia by those who had sworn to protect them. The struggle, Johnny, is mighty. And now, answering your question, I can truly say that I would never withdraw, and I’ll never withdraw, either. I’ll fight with you, Johnny, no matter what it costs me.”
Rabbi Chortow echoed his sigh. “I am an old man,” he said. “Long ago, my years made me a peaceful man. This is no time for peace, for peace has become a betrayal. The Jews, who are an ancient people, prize peace above all things, and cooperation in the name of peace. My dear son, I will fight with you, too.” He gently smoothed his floating beard, and sighed again. He thought of his quiet library, and his old wife who was always so anxious about his health, and who was very timid and avoided all arguments. She must understand that even old people must forget their age and their love of peace, for these were terrible days. The old had much to offer in wisdom. If, in the name of God, they were called again, even to die, then they must die, and offer an example. For what else was a man born?
“I’ll need some books,” said Johnny, “for my library.”
The rabbi gazed at his strong and confident face, and again he sighed, this time in aged sympathy. The priest said, “I have a whole storage of advanced textbooks in my cellar. I’ll send them to you tomorrow. And others—about Our Lord. And His love for the world.’”
“But love,” said the rabbi, “is all there is, and ever will be.”
The priest was more practical. “Perhaps you can persuade your Lon Harding and his pals to protect you. You’ll need it, Johnny.”
Johnny waved away this eminently sensible remark as puerile. “So, I can get all the books I want, thank you, Father, and I am sure that Sol Klein will be able to get me scores; all his group, and his club, subscribe to the book clubs, and read many other books, and the rabbi probably has dozens too. And I’ll talk to the Ladies’ Aid about having their teacher friends help us in the parish-hall library. The only thing,” he added, as if it were a matter of no consequence, “is having those bookshelves put up, and the reading tables and good lights and chairs, and a desk or two for the teachers.”
He was very enthusiastic. He looked suddenly much younger. The priest and the rabbi regarded him with compassion. The priest said, “You’ve got powerful enemies. They’re not going to let up on you. Last night’s affair wasn’t spontaneous, as you know; it was planned. Worse things can happen, too.”
“The only really bad thing would be for me to be kicked out of my parish,” said Johnny. “And that won’t happen. I’ve got lots of friends here. Why, the Ladies’ Aid is going to have a special Thanksgiving dinner for me and the children; that is, they are going to give us a big turkey, already stuffed, ready for roasting, and everything that goes with it. To save Mrs. Burnsdale work, they said; like Kathy, she’s become very outstanding in the church.” Johnny smiled, thinking of Mrs. Burnsdale’s rather brisk remarks about the lackadaisical Ladies’ Aid. “But about the affair last night. Well, it turned out for the best, after all. Our Lord usually manages that.”
The priest and the rabbi went out to Father Krupszyk’s battered car, and drove off in a spume of smoke. Johnny’s mood of elation sustained him. Not even the thundering rain could drench his spirits. The priest was telling the rabbi, as they rattled through the streaming streets, about a priest of whom his grandfather had told him. “He was young, like Johnny, Rabbi. And he believed in people, that is, most of the time. He lived in a wretched little mud village—I’ve seen some of the Polish villages myself. He decided that the people not only lived like pigs, they thought like pigs. It was not their fault, he said. No one had tried to inspire them, to lift them up, and to teach them that the landowners were only men and could be brought to reason and justice, and to cease their oppression of the people. So the priest set up a little school, to teach not only children, but men and women, how to read and write. The landowners didn’t like that. But the people were so devoted to the new young priest that the landowners were afraid to bother him—much.
“His father had been a poor peasant. But the old priest of the village had detected a vocation in the young boy, and so he was educated for the priesthood. He would devote his life to his people, he said. And so he began.”
“It’s an old story,” said the rabbi with apprehension.
Father Krupszyk nodded, deftly swung his car away from the flooded gutter. It lurched. “Mustn’t get the points wet,” he said. “Sorry. One of these days I’ll try to find out how you get money enough from a parish to buy yourself a car that doesn’t break down and get its points wet all the time. A good thing for me that I’m a mechanic too. Well, about that young Polish priest. When the adults could read and write, the priest got books for them, though how he managed that is still a mystery. So they began to read, and when they began to read they began to think. My grandfather was a descriptive old party. I could see those poor peasants, huddling together, men and women alike, in the priest’s icy parlor, with the stove in the corner and sunflower seeds drying on the top of it, and not giving out much heat either, for priests were supposed to keep warm in the ecstasy of God—and the young priest in his worn cassock reading to them, and talking to them, and discussing things with them, and, later, giving them hot tea in thick glasses and perhaps some black bread smeared with pork or mutton fat, and the kerosene lamp fluttering and smelling, and, at the bare narrow windows, the snow coming down and down and down, mixing with the mud until it was all one flux, and the sky about the same color—well, I could see the big peasant faces turned to the young thin priest, the women’s hair under handkerchiefs, and all of them, men and women alike, in high felt boots, stamping their feet to warm them.”
The rabbi was half dreaming. He remembered those villages very well.
“The priest,” said Father Krupszyk, “had a wonderful voice, my grandfather told me. He could sing like an angel. And he had a flute. After the lessons were over he’d sing for his ‘children,’ though they were old enough, most of them, to be his parents, and he’d play his flute. It was a fine silver flute. He never me
ntioned who gave it to him. The peasants began to believe the priest was a saint. They were more and more devoted to him. They held up their heads a little. Then some of the peasants who worked on the land, encouraged by the priest, began to demand that the landowners treat them a little better, and mend their thatched huts, and give them some money. Ah,” said the priest, shaking his head, “that was a bad day for our young priest.”
“Naturally,” said the rabbi sadly.
“On more than one occasion,” his friend went on, “the young priest would lead delegations to the grand houses, and would talk temperately and gently to the owners, who let him come as far as the door. You see, they had their own church, about five miles away, and a very able priest, who had expressed his serious doubts of the young priest on more than one occasion. In fact, he’d written their bishop about Father Ignatius very strongly. The bishop would reply soothingly; he was a very just old man and not very popular with the landowners himself. He too had been a peasant’s son, and he was a little skeptical of the other priest who had been a landowner’s son, and who had ambitions to replace the bishop in the not too distant future. It wasn’t until much later that it was found out that the bishop had given Father Ignatius his beautiful silver flute. It’s in a church in Poland now,” said Father John Kanty thoughtfully, “unless the Nazis or the Russians stole it.
“The landowners decided that Father Ignatius was a menace. How to get rid of him? A delegation, in fine carriages with black horses and silver harnesses, went to see the bishop. The bishop knew they were coming. He deliberately received them in his kitchen, to their disgust, and as they talked to him he reflectively cracked sunflower seeds and threw the shells on the tiled floor. Then he said to them, ‘Go home, treat your people as fellow Christians in the sight of Our Divine Lord, and honor Father Ignatius as a devoted priest.’ You can imagine what they thought of the bishop then!”
A Tender Victory Page 34