Never Love a Stranger, page 7
One morning Brother Bernhard stuck his head in the dormitory door and said to me: “Francis, will ye step into my office and see me after breakfast?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Later when I went down to his office I saw several people there: the Sister Superior who had charge of the lower grades of the school, Father Quinn, and a stranger. He looked like a cop.
I was worried but tried not to show it. I walked over to Brother Bernhard and said to him: “You wanted me, sir?”
“Yes, Francis,” he said. “This is Investigator Buchalter of the child welfare commission.” To Mr. Buchalter he said: “This is the boy we were talking about.”
I waited for them to speak. For a few moments there was a strained silence in the room.
Finally, the Sister Superior said: “Francis, you’ve been a good boy in school. I’ve known you and watched you since you were a baby. And now I have something to tell you. Something I don’t like to tell you but I must. Francis, have you ever thought of being anything else besides a good Catholic boy?”
“No, ma’am,” I answered cautiously.
Father Quinn smiled. “See?” he burst out, “just what I told you.” He fell silent again.
The Sister Superior continued slowly: “If someone were to come and tell you that you were of another faith, how would you feel, Francis?”
I let an audible sigh of relief escape my lips. This wasn’t about the shooting. “I wouldn’t believe it, ma’am,” I answered.
There were smiles all around the room then—proud smiles, smiles saying better than words, “This is a good Catholic boy.”
She continued, more at ease than before: “Francis, don’t you remember anything about your parents at all?”
It seemed like a foolish question to me. She knew as well as I that I had been here ever since I could remember. I answered politely: “No, ma’am.”
“Well,” she said, “Mr. Buchalter investigates the parents of all the children here. From time to time he reviews their history in an effort to learn more about them and help them. And he has something to tell you.” She looked at him.
He looked very uncomfortable. “You see, Francis, it all started a little while ago. Your case came up for review again when you graduated from St. Thérèse.” His tone of voice was almost apologetic. “When a child enters high school, we again go over the child’s history—in this case, yours—to see if there are any more things we can learn before approval is granted—if any relatives can be found. Well, to make a long story short, we found a relative of yours still alive: an uncle, your mother’s brother. Some time ago he wrote us telling of his sister who had come to New York at the time you were born. She died at the time we found you. He identified her by a ring that she had worn and we had kept in the case files to give to you when you came of age. It wasn’t a valuable ring, but an unusual one. His description of the design matched with your mother’s ring. And now, legally, he wants you to come and live with him. We have determined that he is a good man and responsible man. He has two children of his own. He will give you a good home and take care of you.” Mr. Buchalter stopped.
Father Quinn spoke quickly: “But, Francis, he’s different than we are. He does not believe as we do, Francis,” his voice was deadly quiet and serious, “he’s not of the faith.”
I looked at Father Quinn questioningly. “Not of the faith?” I repeated after him, wondering just what that might mean.
“Yes, Francis,” Father Quinn said heavily. “He’s not Catholic.”
I didn’t even know what the hell he was talking about.
“In all probability, Francis,” Brother Bernhard said, “you will go to live with him in a little while after certain details are worked out. But don’t forget all the things you’ve learned here, Francis. Never forget the Church that has sheltered you and brought you up. Always be a good Catholic no matter what people say.”
“Yes, Brother Bernhard,” I said, more bewildered than before.
“Your uncle is outside, Francis. Would you like to meet him?” the Sister Superior asked gently.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered automatically. My mind was whirling. I had a family. I wasn’t a bastard. I had a family.
Mr. Buchalter went to the door. “Will you come in, Mr. Kane?”
A man stepped into the doorway. He was tall—almost six feet—slightly bald, broad-shouldered, and ruddy-faced. He had soft brown eyes and there seemed to be a mist over them. As I looked at him I remembered vaguely hearing somewhere that all non-Catholics went to hell. Somehow I didn’t care. I would never mind going to hell if someone would only look at me like that—someone with love and kindness and worry wrinkles in the corners of his eyes as if he were afraid that I wouldn’t like him. He smiled and the room lit up. He held out his hand to me. I took it. It was warm and friendly and full of secret understandings that seemed to flow between us like live electric currents.
“So you’re Frankie!” he said. His voice was a great deal like him; it was deep and richly warm and trembled just a little.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and my voice was shaking too. And there were tears in my eyes too. And there was love in my heart too. For I knew no matter what else in this world, I was kin to this man. I was of his blood and family. I knew it. I felt it.
And it wasn’t until a while later that I knew he spelled his name “Cain”.
And it wasn’t until a few days later that I knew I was a Jew.
Chapter Fourteen
I HEARD somewhere that news has a mysterious way of travelling. Before I had been back in the dorm for more than a few hours, it was all over the place that I had been adopted. The other kids asked me questions and I answered them as best I could. In all truth, I didn’t know very much to tell them. I couldn’t wait until the afternoon was over so that I could go ahead and tell Julie the news.
I phoned her first to find if the coast was clear, and then went up.
She opened the kitchen door and let me in. She seemed rather tired, but I didn’t pay any attention to that and launched into the tale of what happened that day. She was sitting in the chair at the foot of her bed and I was sitting on the edge of the bed as we spoke.
When I had finished she said: “I’m very happy that things are working out for you the way they are. You deserve a break.” She spoke without enthusiasm. Her tone of voice was tired and dead sounding.
I looked at her. “You don’t sound happy about it.”
She stood up and walked over to the window. Her back was towards me. For a minute she didn’t speak. When she did speak, her tone of voice was brittle and hard, as I had never heard her voice before. “I’m going home, Frankie.”
“Why?” I asked. And then before she could answer: “You don’t have to do that. I’ll still be around to see you no matter what happens.”
She turned and looked at me. “For a free lay?”
I shook my head. “No, because I like you. You ought to know that; you made me say it often enough.”
“You don’t like me,” she said a little coolly, “any more than you’d like any girl who’d let you do it.” She turned to the window again. We’ll never see each other again.”
I stared at her back for a minute before I spoke. “I still want to know why, Julie?”
Again she looked at me. “If you want to know, you shall. There’s nothing in it for me laying for a kid like you. You can’t do anything for me. You couldn’t marry me if I should get knocked up. So what’s in it for me, outside of being your instructor?
“No, Frankie, summer school’s over, so beat it like a good little boy! You’ve had your fun—now beat it!”
I went over to her and took her arm. She shook it free roughly.
“But, Julie——”
“Get out, Frankie!”
A funny lump came into my throat, and I walked to the door. “Good-bye, Julie.”
She didn’t answer me. I opened the door and went out.
Outside her door I took a cigarette from my pocket and lit it. I heard the faint creak of her bed, and then I could hear her crying. I walked away from the door and let myself out of the apartment.
I went out into the street. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, but I didn’t feel it. I felt chilly, almost cold. I walked into the park and threw myself on the grass. I looked up into the sky with unseeing eyes. Thoughts kept running through my mind—Julie, Julie, Julie.
I wrote to Jerry and old him I had been adopted. He sent me a letter saying he was very glad for me. The weeks flew by and at last it was the day I was to leave. That afternoon my uncle would come to take me away. I had packed my things in a couple of cardboard boxes and had taken them downstairs to the superintendent’s office.
I didn’t feel like going back to my room. I heard some noises from the gym down in the basement. I thought I’d go down there and see what was doing.
As I started down the steps I heard the lunch bell ring. I went back upstairs to the dining-room. I seated myself at the table and bowed my head while Brother Bernhard said grace. It was then I began to get the strangest feeling—a feeling that I had never been there before. The faces around me seemed strange, indifferent. The white marble table top felt cold and new. I put my fingers on it and I felt where I had scratched my name into its surface with a key. It felt rough there, and I wondered how long ago I had done it. It was many years ago—I couldn’t remember when. I wasn’t hungry. I began to wonder how my aunt would like me, if my cousins would like me. Then I thought that I didn’t want to leave here.
Halfway through the meal I asked Brother Bernhard’s permission to leave the table. He seemed to understand how I felt and said it would be all right.
I went out into the yard. This was where I had played ball and stood in line to go up to school. It was empty now and deserted, but suddenly I could hear the voices of the kids waiting for the school bell to ring. I could see them running about playing tag and ball, leaving their books in the line to hold their places. I looked up at the steeple of St. Thérèse, half expecting to hear its chimes. A shadow fell across my path. I looked up. It was Brother Bernhard.
“You’re feeling strange, Francis?” He made the statement rather than asked a question.
I nodded.
“I know how you feel, Francis,” he said. “I’ve watched you grow for many years, from when you were a little baby. I remember the first steps you took, the funny way you’d look when you fell and then tried to get up again. You’d never cry. You’d set your mouth in a funny little line and try again. I watched you when you were sick. I tried to help you understand the ways of people. I watched you grow into a fine strong lad and I was proud of you. I tried to be both a mother and father to you—to cushion your disappointments, to hold your head high when you would fall into despair. I knew you better than any one—better than you yourself did. I knew when you were happy and when you were sad. There were some things I couldn’t tell you—things you would have to learn for yourself. I watched you learn them. I watched them form hard lines about your mouth, throw shadows behind your eyes. But there was nothing I could do about it—just hope that you would be all right, that it wouldn’t hurt you too much. But always there is the feeling that it wasn’t enough.”
I looked at him and said: “Oh, no, Brother Bernhard! You were wonderful! I couldn’t ever thank you enough for what you did.”
He smiled. “’Tis not I that you should thank, Francis. It’s the Church. And yet the feeling persists in me. I know there are many good things we teach here. But outside these walls, Francis, is where you learn more than anywhere else.” He gestured with his hand towards the street. “We who live here live sheltered, quiet lives, free from the struggle, and we lose touch with it. When you’re within these confines we can watch you and guide you. But when you’re outside…. Who is there that can be of help? Who is there to give you shelter and defend you against the thoughtlessness of others? No, Francis, I am afraid there is much more to do—things we never think about. We must learn to walk outside with our boys.” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Enough sentiment, Francis! Did ye say good-bye to Father Quinn, the Sister Superior and all your teachers? We’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss them too, sir,” I said, “I told them good-bye this morning.”
“Good boy!” he said, walking towards the building with me. “I’ll see ye again before ye go.” He started into the building.
“Brother Bernhard,” I called him back.
He turned towards me. “What is it, son?”
“Is it a mortal sin to be a Jew?” I blurted out.
His face softened as he stood there looking at me. When he finally spoke, he spoke very slowly and quietly: “No, son, it isn’t. It couldn’t be. You see a lot of us are prone to forget Jesus Christ was a Jew.”
“But, Brother, if I’m a Jew and I live with my folks, I could not come here to church. And I would not attend confession and be absolved of my sins. Then when I die I would surely burn in hell.”
He came back to me and took my arm. “Francis,” his voice was very low, “as much as we like to think it is, heaven is not a private preserve of us Catholics. It is a place where all good people are welcome. I like to believe that it is open to all mankind regardless of the manner in which they worship our Lord, as long as they do believe in Him and live according to His lights. Be a good lad, Francis, and love your people. Do what is right and ye’ll have naught to fear.” He smiled. “Do ye understand me, son?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, “I think I do.”
“Good!” he said. “And now I must go. Luncheon must be almost over.” He mussed my hair half affectionately and went inside.
The kids were coming out from lunch. They poured into the yard from all the doorways. I went into the building through the gymnasium entrance.
I stood on the steps of the gym looking around me. There were a couple of kids playing with the basketball on the other side of the room. Peter Sanpero was amongst them. I decided to walk over and say good-bye and to tell him to forget all the arguments we had had.
The group fell silent as I approached. They watched me walk towards them. I could feel something was wrong. The back of my spine tingled, and yet I could not understand why. I had learned a long time ago not to show that I felt anything was wrong. So I continued to walk towards them. I stopped in front of Pete and stuck out my hand.
“Will yuh forget what happened, Pete?” I asked.
He looted at me, ignoring my hand. Then he took a step towards me. “Sure I’ll forget,” he said, and hit me in the chin. I went head over heels on my back over a boy who knelt down behind me. Several pairs of hands held me down. I couldn’t move. At first I was too surprised even to try. Pete stood over me.
“Yuh Jew son-of-a-bitch,” he snarled at me, “sneaking into our school and never telling anybody!” He kicked me in the side. I could feel the pain running across me. He bent down and hit me in the face. I managed to pull one hand loose and grabbed his shirt. He pulled back, at the same time hitting my face. I hung on to his shirt and he pulled me up with him. My other hand came free and I fastened them around his throat and neck. He was back against the wall and the other boys were swarming against me, hitting me in the back and in the neck. I paid no attention to them. For the first time in my life I fought without thinking. I was crazy with hate for him. I squeezed his neck. Then methodically I began to butt his head against the wall behind him. His hands kept punching me in the stomach. Blood was running down my face from my nose and mouth. Then the other boys jumped on me, and we were all rolling around on the floor, over and over. I felt my jacket tearing away. But I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was kill Pete. I wanted to kill him—kill him! I banged his head against the cement floor. Suddenly strong hands grabbed my shoulders, lifting me up, pulling me away from Pete. Suddenly everything was quiet. Brother Bernhard was holding me and I couldn’t move. Peter was still lying on the floor.
His face was stern, his eyes blazing mad. “Who started this?” he asked us.
One of the younger kids piped up before he realized what he was saying: “Peter. He said it was about time somebody taught that dirty Jew a lesson.” And just as quickly he fell silent.
Without relaxing his grip on my shoulder, Brother Bernhard said to them: “Go to your dormitories.” And to Peter he said: “Go home and never come into this gym again. It’s only for those who live here.”
He held on to me as they went out. When the last one had left the room he let go of my shoulder. He looked at me, his face softening. “Bear them no grudge,” he said. “They still have to learn.”
I looked at him, my breath coming fast, blood running down my nose, and pain running through my side. I said nothing.
“You’d better wash up,” he said more gently. “Your uncle is waiting and you can’t change, for everything is packed.”
I walked into the lavatory and washed my face. Brother Bernhard stood silently behind me and handed me paper towels to dry myself with. Silently we walked upstairs and into the superintendent’s office.
My uncle was there. There was a woman with him, who I supposed was my aunt. I guess I made a rather frightening picture as I stood there, my jacket and shirt hanging in shreds around my back covered with blood. Her face grew white. I started across the room. Pain began running down my side and across my chest. There was a roaring in my ears. I felt as if I were falling down into a circle and faces were whirling around me—Brother Bernhard, my uncle, my aunt, Peter, Marty, Raymond, Jerry, Jerry’s father, Ruth, Sister Anne, Father Quinn, Jimmy Keough, Fennelli, Julie.
I tried to open my eyes. I could hardly move them. They seemed to be swimming in tears. At last, after hours of trying, I opened them. I was in a white room. My aunt and uncle and Brother Bernhard were bending over me. Oue of the corner of my eye I saw a nurse leave the room. Vaguely I wondered what a nurse was doing in my room. I tried to speak.
