Fifteen

PASSOVER 1970 CAME late; the first night wasn’t till Tuesday, April 21st. Fortunately, Papa and I had talked several times since February. Unbeknownst to anyone in my family, including Mama, Papa paid off my school debt and only requested one thing: that I be present one last time with the family for Passover Seder on April 21st. He also suggested that I do my month at the monastery before then, so that by then I would know what my definitive plans were. He would tell Mama and Ruthie that I was off on a month’s retreat, something those Catholics try to do every ten years, or something! He’s so wise, my father!

Easter Sunday was March 29th. Sr. Imelda Mary and the powers that be agreed that I could enter to begin my month’s aspirancy two days before Palm Sunday, on March 20th. Then I would have all of Holy Week and three weeks of the Easter Season. This also worked out perfectly fine at work, although my supervisor was not really happy with my missing a whole month—but what would it matter to me if I returned to enter for good? So I frankly didn’t care what they thought at work. If I lost my job over this, I’d find another one. After all, this was New York and the Seventies!

And so it happened. I arrived mid-morning, having attended Mass at St. Vincent’s with Greta. I took a cab to Brooklyn Heights as Greta insisted I do, giving me money for it. I tried to keep to what they told me to bring and what not to bring. I was allowed some personal books, a Bible, journals, quiet black shoes, work shoes, undergarments, two nightgowns, a bathrobe, a jacket, and some work clothes (I didn’t quite know what that meant). They would provide a black jumper, white blouse, and a short modified veil that I would wear in choir and refectory.

Sr. Vincent and Sr. Grace Mary welcomed me and took me to the enclosure door, which is at the far left end of the entrance hallway when one comes into the monastery. There is no door knob on the extern side of the door. There was no ceremony, as I was only coming in as an aspirant, but nonetheless, I waited for five minutes, and then the door opened from the inside by Sr. Catherine Agnes, the Mistress of Postulants—and apparently the mistress of aspirants, too.

“Welcome, Rebecca, let us bless the Lord in His works.”

And I knew my response was to be “Blessed be God now and forever.” I was also to learn that when we entered into a room where we would speak to one of the nuns, we were to say, “Laudetur Jesus Christus” (Praised be Jesus Christ), and the other person would say, “In aeternum” (Forever and ever).

Sr. Catherine Agnes was always a bit stern looking, but had a heart of gold, I’m sure. I used to think to myself, “Tarnished gold, tarnished!” She walked very upright and close to the right hand wall, her hands hidden under her scapular, her eyes cast down and slightly ahead. We turned left and down a small corridor which led to the novitiate wing. Sister did not speak till we arrived at “our cell” (we were not to refer to anything as “mine”). I was near the middle, in a cell named Queen of Martyrs. All the cells had titles of Our Lady over the lintel. I hoped that it was not too significant that I be given Queen of Martyrs, but in many ways it is appropriate to the life, and certainly appropriate for Holy Week. It also made me think of Edith Stein, but I don’t think they thought of that.

Pre-Holy Week Journal March 20, 1970

Queen of Hope Monastery Brooklyn Heights, New York

Sister has left me alone in “our cell” to unpack, to put on my jumper and blouse. I have done that, and am waiting for the next thing to happen, which, according to the schedule on my little desk, is Sext at 11:50 followed by the Particular Exam, the Angelus, and dinner.

Here I am nearly 25 years old, and I’m feeling like a schoolgirl on her first day. It’s all a little surreal; a little bit spooky; a little exciting and nerve-wracking; but also a little romantic, in a spiritual sense.

Fr. Meriwether told me not to shun the spiritual romance when it comes, for it will also go and leave me cold and alone. I think I’m feeling some of that spiritual romance right now, like I’m on a date with the Lord, and we’re at a place we’ve never been before, but which I’ve been wanting to come to, and now here I am, waiting for Him to arrive. I’m sure I will be less nervous once I go through everything at least one time, like where I’m to be in the choir and in the refectory.

“Our cell” is very small compared to my bedrooms, both at home and at Greta’s. I shall miss my rocking chair this month. There is not even a chair in here except this wooden bench at this small desk, which only has one drawer in the middle. There is a wooden crucifix over my bed with a wooden carved corpus, all in a blonde kind of wood. There are two pictures on the wall: The Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart. They are over a small bookcase next to the desk, which is only waist high, with two shelves for books. There is no wardrobe or chest of drawers, but a plain niche-like closet without a door. It has five shelves, like square boxes stacked on top of each other; there’s enough room to hang up my bathrobe and skirt and blouse. Next to this is a very small mirror, I would guess five by seven inches; I suppose that’s so I’ll get my little veil on straight. No way to tell if my slip is showing. The veil is not the most comfortable, with an elastic band which goes behind my ears; it’s a bit tight on me, but I suppose I’ll stretch it.

The regulation jumper is a little too big, but at least it’s not too tight. The bed is low; way lower than my bed at home which I almost climb into compared to this, which I will go down onto. The thin mattress is on a wooden platform, and it is remarkably comfortable, at least to sit on. I’ll see if I can write that tomorrow! There is a thin foam rubber pillow, which I’m sure did NOT come from Bloomingdale’s.

Well, here I am, Lord. Be with me today and each day of this special month; reveal Your Holy Will to me so I may follow it; and keep me close to You when I am afraid. I thank you, Lord. I love you; do not forget me. Your Becky.

Sr. Catherine Agnes came for me at 11:30. We went first to the refectory, as it was closer than the church. She showed me my place, already set with a coffee mug, a tea towel, and a spoon and knife. The novices and postulants (and I) were at the far ends of an n-style table arrangement. In the center was an oblong table which served as a serving table. Off to the top left of the “n” near the head table was a raised platform with a table and chair and a microphone. This was the Reader’s table. On the opposite side and above the head table was another table along the wall, which had bowls of fruit. I learned that after Lent that would also be the dessert table.

The refectory was quite bare. Behind the head table was a rather large crucifix, and on one wall near the entranceway was an icon of Our Lady. There was a shelf under the icon, which would be used for flowers…again, after Lent. There was a small red vigil candle burning there instead.

Following Sister along the right wall in the cloister, we came into the ante-choir, where there were several shelves of books. There was a large bulletin board with a table beneath it. The Mass schedule, intentions, and other liturgical notes were posted there, and several low cut boxes held sheets of music. There was also a row of large hooks, but there was nothing hanging on them. There were also three sturdy padded chairs for infirmed sisters.

We came into the choir from what I used to think of as the back of the choir. One would do a profound bow towards the tabernacle, which was outside the choir area on the other side of the large choir grille. Sister took me to my place in the front row of stalls. I would be next to Sr. Jude Mary, who was a novice and would serve as my choir angel; she would help me navigate through the books and show me the correct choir rubrics. I thought of them as choreography, but wouldn’t call them that…yet. I was told to stay there in my place till Sext, which would begin in less than ten minutes.

Maybe that was when I surrendered, in those ten minutes waiting. There was just myself and Sr. Thomas Aquinas praying at the rosary stall before the Blessed Sacrament, and I looked up at the monstrance, and for a very short moment everything around me dissolved, and I was at peace. Before I knew it, sisters were moving into their stalls. Directly across from me was Joanne Meyers, whom I had met last year. I thought maybe she’d remember me and smile, but she never looked over at me.

March 20, 1970—Evening

Lord, it’s over for the day, and I’m sitting here (as you know) in what looks like my grandmother’s nightgown. It’s so quiet, even the noise of the city outside is muted, only an occasional car horn is heard. Thank you, Lord, for this day. Vespers this evening was so awesome I could hardly sing. I had heard Vespers from the guests’ chapel many times, but hearing it intoned from the inside is so much better. I don’t know if writing in this is breaking Great Silence, but I couldn’t go to bed without saying “thank you” –may I remember to always be so grateful, regardless of what happens each day, when I sing Magnificat anima mea. Bless my family, Greta, Gwendolyn, Ezra, Fr. Meriwether, and especially Papa. Such a blessing You gave me, Lord, in him…my Reuben sandwich.

Sr. Catherine Agnes told me not to get up for the Night Office because I was just learning things, and that I could sleep in till Lauds for a few nights. I didn’t tell her that most nights I was still up when they were all going in for the Night Office. I must have dozed off for a couple hours, but I heard a light bell around 11:40, and was wide awake, so thought I would make a good impression and appear at the Night Office. I didn’t need a week to adjust to this schedule; I could do it. Joanne Meyers probably needed at least a week to get used to breaking her sleep.

The Night Office was lovely, as I had remembered from my times on retreat here. So I was quite pleased with myself. I shuffled off to bed afterwards, but lay there wide awake for hours, and just dozed off, I think, as a nun knocked on my door and rang her schoolhouse-sounding bell: “Benedicite,” she exclaimed. I think I remembered to give the right response. It took a couple seconds to get my bearings. There wasn’t much time to get dressed and over to choir; a little cold water on my blood-shot eyes and adjusting that elastic band veil made me almost run down the corridor to be there on time.

Afterwards, Sr. Catherine Agnes, made a sign for me to duck into the small periodical room on the first floor near the Chapter Room. I thought she was going to praise me for my diligence, or recommend a magazine, but instead she reprimanded me for disobeying her wishes. “I told you, Rebecca, not to go to the Night Office. I thought I made myself perfectly clear.”

“Yes, Sister, you did, but I was…”

“I don’t need to hear an excuse. You are to stay in your cell during the Night Office till Wednesday of Holy Week. And Rebecca, under no circumstances, are we to run or skip down the cloister. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, yes…” And she was off without hearing me out. I stood there alone, dazed. I could feel the tears welling up behind my eyes, and my lip began to quiver. Get a hold of yourself, Becky Feinstein. Your intentions were good, and you really did misunderstand her. You thought it was a suggestion made in kindness, not a command made with authority.

I was miserable the rest of the morning, until Mass. The sisters were singing the responsorial psalm in English after the first reading, which was from the prophet Ezekiel:

I will make with them a covenant of peace…my dwelling shall be with them. I will be their God and they shall be my people.

And then we sang:

The Lord will guard us, like a shepherd guarding his flock.

And I was at peace again, and actually thanked the Lord for the little humiliation this morning, and for giving me something to offer to Him. I was lost in my own thoughts and don’t remember a word that Fr. Antoninus said.

Fr. Antoninus Callen, O.P., was our chaplain. He had his own quarters on the other side of the chapel, with a private entrance to both his rooms and to the sacristy. I didn’t know him at all. He was probably in his sixties or seventies and walked with a slight limp. He gave a short homily every morning, which was always a theological tidbit, as he called it. Some of his tidbits were very chewable! I learned later on that he had been a professor at the Angelicum in Rome. But that first Mass inside, I didn’t remember a word.

The day before, Sr. Catherine Agnes had shown me the turn room, which was just off the enclosure door, close to a corner of the cloister. It held the large turn, something like a large built-in lazy susan, where the mail was delivered from outside the cloister and picked up inside. Off to the right of the turn were the community mail slots; each sister had a cubbyhole, arranged alphabetically. Next to these was a large cabinet with drawers, also giving each sister’s name, first names only. I didn’t realize, of course (it was just my first day), that nuns communicate with each other by leaving notes in the drawers or in an envelope in someone’s mail cubbyhole, and so one should get in the habit of checking the drawer and mail slot regularly. Since I had just arrived, and only a few people knew where I was, I didn’t think a thing about the Turn Room or my personal drawer.

What I didn’t know, because it wasn’t on the printed schedule or horarium, was that the novices and postulants met each morning at nine o’clock sharp for the morning work assignments and any other announcements which needed to be made. I didn’t know this because I didn’t look in my mail drawer where Sr. Catherine Agnes had left a note telling me to go to the upstairs classroom/community room in the novitiate. At seven minutes past nine, a quiet rapping at my door, woke me up; I had fallen asleep on my bed, reading. The rapping at my chamber door was not from the raven (nevermore!)…but from Sr. Rosaria Mary, one of the novices. She had come to fetch me and take me to the community room. Sr. Catherine Agnes was sitting patiently at the head of the table.

“Rebecca, you would do well to check your mail drawer every morning before Mass. Had you done this, you would have known we meet here every morning except Sundays. Now, sit down, and don’t be late again.” “I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t look in my mail compartment this morning; I didn’t think I’d have anything, I just arrived kinda.” I tried to sound penitent and humorous, but hated myself for sounding so infantile. “Don’t be insolent, child.” The response came at me like an arrow shot from the bow of Sr. Catherine Agnes. I was struck dumb and sat down at the table in slow motion. The other novices were all staring at the table in front of them.

“Sisters, this is Rebecca Feinstein, our new aspirant who will be with us for a month. She will help Sr. Thomas Mary in the Laundry three times a week.”

I didn’t know a thing about laundry work, that was always my mother’s job. But I was glad for it after a time. It was mindless work after you got the routine down, and the fresh linen smelled so wonderful. It lent itself to silence, which we were supposed to be practicing even when we worked.

I couldn’t speak that first morning anyway. I was still in shock at the harshness with which I was treated. I was nearly 25 years old, and this nun was talking to me like a child, even calling me that, and had the audacity to say that I was insolent. She really spoiled any romantic fantasy I was hoping would sweep me off my feet till next month.

My laundry partner was Sr. Thomas Mary, who was actually a black veil novice and was in her second year of temporary vows. She still lived in the novitiate. Only once when we were close by each other folding sheets, did she quietly say, “Don’t let Sr. Catherine Agnes get to you. She’s a mean old croaker.” And just the way she said it made me burst into laughter. Sister went on: “I think she’s mean on purpose to test your humility and docility…she’s really quite nice underneath all that.” And she smiled, as she was still remembering the last sister who had been integrated into the professed quarters.

I thought about it all afternoon and in the quiet half hour before Vespers…humility and docility, not two of my predominant virtues! I thought at one moment to write Sr. Catherine Agnes a note expressing my dislike for being spoken to as a child, and stick it in her mail drawer. But I remembered Greta, who used to say we should have restraint of tongue and pen. “Sleep on everything before you write or speak.” I didn’t always get along with one of my supervisors at work who failed to acknowledge that there was a life outside the library. I practiced a lot of restraint in her regards, so Sr. Catherine Agnes was a restraint-piece-of-cake.

It wasn’t till Tuesday that I was able to speak ever so briefly to Joanne Meyers. We were assigned to work together in the library, re-shelving books. The library was a bit of a mess, and didn’t follow the Dewey Decimal System but some monastic or Dominican system which I had to learn. I made a mental note that when I’m professed they would have me redo the entire library system. Joanne remembered me from Thanksgiving. She seemed to be very happy and fitting in. She, too, smiled and told me not to fret over Catherine Agnes. “She hasn’t liked me since the day I entered. But here I am; I’m glad you’re here.”

I told her I was glad she was here, too, and that she was the one who introduced me the expression “discerning a vocation.”

“Well, I guess it worked!” And she turned into a library aisle with an arm full of books.

I had these two assurances not to get bent out of shape over Sr. Catherine Agnes. I didn’t think of it as Joanne did, that she didn’t like me. I wanted her to like me, of course, but I didn’t really care if she didn’t. She didn’t even know me. It was more the disapproving tone in her voice when I did something wrong, and the way she’d talk to me like I was a dumb little girl just learning to walk in high heels or put on mascara, which I actually didn’t do.

The month passed swiftly by, and I was less prone to misstep as the weeks went by. Holy Week and Easter were so peaceful and beautiful till near the end, when we were overwhelmed with flowers, and work, and spring housecleaning. I liked the novices and postulants, and didn’t really get to speak with the professed, but I could observe them in choir, the refectory, and in the cloister.

Once a week, Joanne and I would go with Sr. Catherine Agnes to the infirmary to visit with the sisters who were there permanently. I grew quite fond of an old Sr. Hyacinth, who was one of the oldest sisters. Her mind was still sharp at age 95, which she said was due to her studying languages, including Arabic and Mandarin Chinese. I could never figure when she had the time to do that. I liked visiting the elderly sisters; the Infirmary gives a different sense to “time.” Time seemed to go by very quickly, in or outside the Infirmary.

That night I wrote in my journal:

April 14, 1970

I only have a week remaining and I shall have to come to a decision. I thought the decision would be easy, that I would sail in and sail out without any storms on the sea. I also realize, as I’ve always known but didn’t give it much weight, that the decision-making is a two-way street. “They” will be making a decision, too, and I’m not sure how that will all go. I’m glad that the final word will not be up to Sr. Catherine Agnes, whom I think would be happy to see me out of here and back in Manhattan “tending to my books,” as she once referred to my occupation. I had made a very helpful and constructive suggestion about their method of cataloguing their collection of the lives of the Saints. And Sr. Catherine Agnes almost flippantly snarled at me, “You can tend to your books however you want at your library, but here, you do it our way.”

My reaction was to become silent and pout, like Ruthie would be when she was little and didn’t get her way. If Sr. Catherine Agnes could read minds, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here on this backbreaking little bench in this two-byfour of a cell writing this! At least it gave me something concrete to bring to confession. I’m no saint, that’s for sure, but sometimes I just can’t come up with some very good sins when we have to go to confession. (I once heard Fr. Meriwether say, with a glint in his eye, “There are no ‘good sins,’ Becky, they’re all bad!”)

So I confessed that “I had a terribly uncharitable thought about a sister who was flippant to me.” Fr. Mel (the extraordinary confessor) asked me if I had forgiven her. I said, “I’m not really sure, Father, she’s a pain in the neck and has made my time here very difficult. She talks to me like I’m a schoolgirl, and I’m a professional woman with a responsible job. Nothing I do satisfies her.”

“But have you forgiven her?” he repeated. He wasn’t being much help, I thought. I wanted him to sympathize with me. He probably knew to whom I was referring because probably everybody has something to say about her.

“Well?” Father broke my train of thought. “Well what?” I hope I didn’t say it with too much of an edge in my voice. David used to tell me that I have an edge in my voice when someone doesn’t agree with me. And I realized that David was right. I do get that edge. And in that little moment of grace, I was able to forgive Sr. Catherine Agnes. “Yes, I forgive her, or I want to be able to forgive her when she hurts my feelings.”

All Fr. Mel said was “Good, and for your penance say three Our Fathers for her.” And I did, wondering how many Our Fathers had filled this choir for Sr. Catherine Agnes.

On Monday (in two days) I’m to meet with the “Big Four,” as I call them, and they will want to know, I presume, how the month has gone. I don’t know if they will tell me to pack my bag and hit the road or what. The novices are very discreet about sharing their experiences. Only Sr. Joanne has been frank, and, I must say, encouraging. She told me that one girl about my age was told that she needed to mature in the faith a little more, and to come back in three years. That could very well be me. Mama would be happy; Papa might actually be disappointed; Greta would be sad and hopeful at the same time; Gwendolyn would be furious and be here in a New York minute to give old Catherine Agnes a piece of her mind.

But you, Rebecca Abigail Feinstein, how would you feel? I would be very disappointed, maybe even crushed. And I can’t write about it anymore.

That was a sleepless night, as I recall, except that it showed me that I really wanted to come here, even if Mama would turn her face from me and think of me as one who had died—my photo next to Josh’s on her dresser, lined in black. Even if Sr. Catherine Agnes thought I was the worst aspirant they ever had, I knew in that quiet place within me that it was the Lord that mattered, and that if He wanted me here, it would happen; maybe not this year, maybe not while Sr. Catherine Agnes was Postulant Mistress, but it would happen.

The meeting went well. They were all more relaxed, meaning less formal, and we reviewed the month with delight and even some laughs, except for YouKnow-Who; I don’t think she cracked a smile. She also didn’t bring up her litany of Rebecca-mishaps, which I was grateful for. Maybe three Our Fathers for her a day would help, I thought!

On Friday of that week I was called into the subprioress’ office. She told me that all those charged with observing my month were well pleased, and on behalf of Mother John Dominic and the Council, I was invited to enter as a postulant. There it was—no fanfare, no long preface, just a poached egg plopped on my plate.

Ker-plunk!

They said that they would like me to enter on May 31st, the Feast of the Visitation. Sr. Imelda knew that only gave me a month to make arrangements. If all that was amenable to me, I should let Mother John Dominic know in writing as soon as possible.

She told me she knew that my month wasn’t up till Sunday, but I was free to go now whenever I liked, and added, “Oh, Rebecca, one of the nuns suggested that you might lose a few pounds and leave the Jean Naté at home.”

Of course that little remark made me eat twice as many cookies that night after supper and be terribly selfconscious wondering who “one of the nuns” could possibly be. Besides, how can one lose weight on a high starch diet? I got through my first week thanks to white bread and peanut butter. But I’d try, eventually. I imagined St. Augustine (or maybe his mother) praying, “Make me thin, Lord, but not just yet.”

I went from Sister’s office directly to the choir, Jean Naté and all; only the Rosary Sister was in the choir—Sr. Regina Mary, close to 90 years old. She was nearly deaf and a bit stooped over, but she had the loveliest smile of all the sisters. I don’t think she even heard me come in, although she probably could smell it was Sr. Jean Naté. I just knew it had to be Sr. Catherine Agnes; she always noticed how much peanut butter I ate, or I thought she did.

I went down on the floor, prostrate before our Divine Lord in the Most Blessed Sacrament, and through my tears and the huge lump in my throat, I thanked Him, and all I could think of was our Blessed Lady’s words: Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it done unto me.

I knew it was just the beginning, the tiniest second step, but my surrender was huge. It always is, Lord, isn’t it? When we look back at things we sometimes think it wasn’t such a big deal; but when we’re in the middle of it, when it’s really happening…it’s a big deal. Following the Lord is a big deal.

That afternoon I called Greta at work to tell her my news and that I would be coming home on Saturday afternoon. She was delighted—so delighted that she wanted to come down to the monastery for morning Mass and meet me in the guest parlor when I was “released” and we’d have a big breakfast somewhere with lox and bagels and fresh brewed coffee, and then we’d take a cab home. It all sounded delicious to me!

I also managed to get Joanne alone in the library after supper and told her my news. She was so happy and said she’d be counting the days for my entrance. She then shared with me that her entering the novitiate was up for the vote and she was hoping that it could be on the Feast of the Sacred Heart and hoped that she would get that title with her new name. She wasn’t too anxious about the vote, but, like me, was afraid that Sr. Catherine Agnes might put the kibosh on it.

The postulants and novices do everything together, so we would still be together and could fight the Old Battle Axe together, except that she would no longer be under her, but Sr. Mary of the Trinity, the Novice Mistress.

That evening I wrote my formal letter requesting to enter and said I would do so on May 31st…exactly two weeks before my 25th birthday. Blessed be God. Greta advised that I give only a week’s notice at the Library, rather than not go back to work at all. The other librarians and library staff would want to throw a little farewell, and this was such an unusual reason. “It will shock them, but not really surprise them, especially after being away for a month in Brooklyn Heights and not the Riviera.”

She said that Joe Waterman in the Archives would be especially disappointed, as he’d been building up the nerve to ask me out. I had had no idea, I told Greta. And she informed me, “Oh yes, he’s been working at it for over a year.”

“Over a year! No wonder he’s an archivist. The present moment is too unreal, or too scary, or too something.”

“Too soon.” We had a good laugh over poor Joe. My heart was not broken; it wasn’t even moved! But it made me wonder for a moment what I would have done had he actually asked me out, say, a year ago. All of that is silly speculation. I hadn’t really placed myself in the dating mode without being self-conscious about it, although I did think about having children and being a mother, especially when you’d see them in the park or shopping together.

Gwendolyn, my dear godmother, was another story entirely. She only told me then that during my month away, she had made a novena to St. Thomas More that I would change my mind. But she was also delighted with my decision, and said she’d never pray to Sir Thomas More again, definitely the wrong saint if you wanted somebody to change their mind.

In the next breath she was telling me that since she was going to be the godmother of a cloistered nun, she would have to create and name a dessert after me. She thought maybe Abbey Apple Turnovers, till I told her Dominicans don’t have abbeys. She’d think about it and make a batch of Whatevers for the monastery on the 31st. I told her to stay away from anything with a penguin in it!

One disappointment: Ezra’s profession was moved to the Feast of the Sacred Heart in June, and I would not be there for it. He promised he would do all he could to get down to New York to see me before I entered. “We have to drink a bottle of champagne together and toast Our Lady and The Lord and all the saints, for bringing us to the Faith.”

Then there was the Last Passover that I promised Papa I would be home for, and so I was. Two nights before, he called me and wanted to meet me for tea and dessert at Gwendolyn’s. Tea on Thames had become Gwendolyn’s Place for Papa. I was happy he was so comfortable with her. Apparently, he had become a regular teetotaler during my month away. He even called Gwendolyn “Gwen,” and she called him “Ben.”

Papa was very happy with my news, but had not yet broken it to Mama or Ruthie. He wanted me to know that he was 110 percent behind me, and prayed that he lived to see me a “full-fledged nun,” as he put it. He knew it would take a few years. “But what’s a few years when you’re twenty-five and in love?”

Papa understood that, better than some of my Catholic friends, I think maybe better than Gwen did.

“Now, my little Catholic angel, I want you to listen to me and not say a thing till I’m through. Agreed?”

“What is it, Papa? Is something wrong?” “Agreed?”

“Of course, Papa,” and my stomach dropped to the ground, wondering what he was going to say.

“Your mother loves you, you know that, and you should always remember that. She’s also proud of you, but she’d never tell you that…she gets it on all sides from Sally and David and the blue-haired ladies in her Hadassah. They won’t let it go that ‘your Becky became a Catholic.’ But my Hannah knows how I feel about you; she knows how I feel about all our children because I tell her—she’s got to be strong, I tell her. Only your mother and David know what I’m going to tell you, and you must promise me that it will not change your plans one iota, agreed?”

I sat nearly paralyzed with fear at what he was going to say. I couldn’t even get an “agreed” out of my mouth. I just nodded my head.

“I have inoperable pancreatic cancer. The doctors give me six months to a year. It could be sooner, according to your brother, the doctor…the great optimist.” Papa smiled.

I couldn’t smile or utter a word.

“I am at peace with God; you, of all my children, have taught me that. You are my child of God who makes me so proud.”

Papa’s voice cracked. We both took each other’s hands and said nothing. We couldn’t speak. Gwendolyn saw us and let us be—she even directed some new customers to the other side of the room. “Papa?” I looked over at Gwendolyn.

“Gwen knows. I told her while you were away. I told her I didn’t want to tell you yet, that you should go, and not let this keep you from fulfilling your dream. You must go—promise me that.”

I couldn’t say a thing. I began to sob a little and struggled to get control of myself.

“Gwen convinced me I must tell you, that it would be worse if you learned once you were in the monastery.”

Without saying a word, Gwendolyn came to the table with a porcelain white teapot and two clean white cups… all she said, in a whisper, was, “Pretend it’s tea, my darlings.”

She poured a half cup’s worth in each cup, and we sipped some lovely brandy. It was our best medicine from our British doctor, Gwendolyn. Finally, I managed to get my words together.

“Papa, I can wait for another year, and can even move back home to help Mama take care of you when the time comes. Let me do that for you, Papa? Please.”

“Becky, Becky, I want to see you in your beautiful habit and to hear what name they will give you—I want my last months to be filled with that image of you in my mind. Your brother and sisters, or at least Sally, will blame you. Your mother will think you caused it or that God was punishing us by your converting to Christianity. Do not listen to them. You are my pride and joy. When my time comes, and I’m to bear the trial of it, it will be my greatest consolation that you are there in Brooklyn Heights, praying for me. David and your mother will handle the physical part; Sally will keep my mind alert with humor and news; Ruthie is in charge of music—my kind of music, and she will help your mother with food. You, my little angel, are in charge of prayer.”

“I should be there too, to help take…”

“Stop, stop.” Papa raised his hand. “Your Mama, she will be the nursemaid, God help me, but you should be pursuing your—what do you call it, your vocation. And do you know who agrees with me? David does—the agnostic doctor of the family understands that the dying patient needs to have his heart at peace. He told Mama right to her face, ‘If Becky stays, Papa would be deprived of his finest dream for her. She should go.’ Then it was your mother’s turn: ‘She should go? Go where? She’s gone to the East Side of Manhattan, that’s far enough.’”

Papa poured a little more of our special tea and took a big sip, cradling the cup in both hands, his eyes twinkling at me. “David didn’t know that Mama didn’t know what you were up to. So I told her there and then.” Papa grinned, watching for my reaction. “I told her: ‘Becky’s going to enter the monastery in Brooklyn Heights. Hannah, she’s going to be a nun.’”

After we both had another sip of brandy, Papa said, “You could have lit a cherry bomb on her head and it wouldn’t have made her move. David moved his hand in front of her face: ‘Earth to Mama; earth to Mama…come in, Mama.’

“‘I’m going to die next, what’s to live for after this?’ Your Mama started her lament. ‘My son killed in Vietnam, my daughter becomes a Catholic nun, my husband gets cancer. I’m going to die next.’”

Papa smiled, his face a little flushed, pinkish from the strong, sweet “tea.” “So I took her in my arms…‘You are not going to die, Hannah. Becky is doing a good thing…a mitzvah. She’s obeying a call from God.’

“‘Mitzvah, spitzvah—she’s killing me.’”

Just the way Papa said it set me into a fit of laughter. The more I laughed, the more Papa kept it up—sounding just like Mama: “‘All my life, all I want is for my Becky to marry a nice Jewish boy, but then she brings home Ezra, the Catholic monk, and now you tell me she’s going to marry Jesus?’”

Gwendolyn, by this time, had joined us, bringing her own cup of “tea.”

“‘All I want are some little Feinsteins running around the apartment to spoil, and you tell me she’s going to be a nun? Not even Christian grandchildren am I getting, you.’”

Gwen chimed in, sounding like Peggy Wood: “Climb every mountain…”

Papa joined in: “Ford every stream…” I joined: “Follow every rainbow…”

The whole tea shop was singing: “Till you find your dream.” We all laughed and applauded. Only in New York! We started out with the saddest news in my life and ended up with a grand production number, all in a would-be English tea shop.

The night ended with my promise to Papa that I would enter as planned, and he promised that he would be there on my “wedding day.” The rest was up to God.

And so it came to our last Passover. It was the first time in years, since my “great apostasy,” that the entire family was together. Sally was here from Chicago, without her friend; David from his enclave near New York Hospital; Ruthie in her best Passover frock; and Rebecca, the black sheep.

Ruthie, being the youngest (but trying to look the oldest), asked the age-old ritual question: Why is this night different from all other nights? Papa, looking very patriarchal in his navy blue suit and tallis, wearing his Passover yarmulke, gave the ritual answer, reminding us that we keep this night to commemorate the passing over of our people from slavery in Egypt to the new land God would give them. And then he broke with tradition. “Tonight commemorates another Passover. We are here to bid our farewell to our beloved daughter and sister, Rebecca. As you are all very much aware, Becky passed over to Christianity five years ago; she was asked by us her family to leave our home, and she did. But she has never—never—(he hit the table) passed out of our hearts. She is still a Feinstein, the daughter of Hannah and Ruben Feinstein. On May 31st, our Rebecca will enter the Dominican cloistered monastery of Mary, Queen of Hope in Brooklyn Heights. She is going into a new land, like Moses and our ancestors, and she goes with my prayers and my blessing.”

Papa picked up his wine glass and nodded that everyone do the same, and they did. “To Becky, Mazel Tov!”

To my utter surprise everyone, including Mama, David, Sally, and Ruthie toasted me and shouted back, “Mazel Tov!”

Almost on cue, Ruthie asked, “Why do we eat bitter herbs?” Papa spoke of the bitterness of slavery, and more poignantly, I think, he spoke of the bitterness of families divided by their personal bitterness, ambitions, and greed.

Sally sat mesmerized by Papa’s erudition and eloquence, as did we all. Even David didn’t show his usual impatience or disdain. Ruthie’s eyes were as wide as saucers, I hope from Papa’s eloquence and nothing else. And Mama—we caught each other’s eyes, and I could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. Hannah of a Thousand Silver Hairs, looked tired and a little lost for words, but she also looked lovely in her blue dress. It was then that I realized that it was her anniversary dress which she wore that night to Fiddler on the Roof, when she was so happy to receive the gift from Joshua. I never saw her wear the brooch again until this night, different from all others.

“Our bitterness is changed to joy,” Papa went on, “like charoset of honey and apples, to see my family around the table again. It may be my last Passover, as you know, and it is our Becky’s last with her family. I thank you each for being here. My Hannah and I are happy to wish you each a Blessed Pasach—keep us always in your prayers. Drink with me: To life—to the Feinsteins—to God!”

Perhaps it was divine grace or Papa’s prePassover promptings, but David and Sally, and Mama too, spoke to me and actually asked questions about the monastery and life “behind the walls,” as Sally put it. I think she had read that dreadful book The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk. It was enough to frighten anyone, and fueled the Catholic bashing agenda. Greta was very good at giving me an education in the library on this new genre. It was fascinating in that it seemed that the world hated Catholics and Jews.

I was happy my siblings asked questions, even if it was after five years! It was Ruthie, I thought, who made the most astute observation, albeit in a backhanded kind of way, when she said, “It’s rather like having our own Edith Stein in the family.”

Not quite, that’s for sure, but maybe in my family’s mind it was that bad. The brightest of the Feinstein girls and the doctor in the family didn’t know who Edith Stein was. Sally pretended she had heard of her—something about the Holocaust…Mama didn’t know but pretended she did. Ruthie had written a whole school paper on her which got her an A+, and Papa had read it word for word, as Papa would always do. I’m sure the “plus” came from his spelling and grammatical corrections.

Papa had a phobia against poor English grammar, which we kids seemed to inherit…or some aspect of the word. Sally wrote it as a journalist, David studied it and prescribed it as a doctor; Ruthie memorized it and acted it out as a would-be actor, Mama spread it and whispered it in typical Hadassah gossip, and I prayed it and believed it to be a Divine Word, a Divine Person who became man. To my family, my relationship with “words” was the most scandalous, but it has always been a study and love affair most fascinating to me.

David inadvertently confessed his ignorance, and Ruthie picked up the cue and expounded to us, especially David, who Edith Stein was, that she was a Jewess atheist who became Catholic and taught school for ten years with Dominican nuns before becoming a Carmelite nun and later died at Auschwitz for “her people.” “That’s us,” Ruthie underlined, smiling at me.

It was Sally who asked, “Why didn’t she become a Dominican like those teachers?” I wasn’t really sure of the answer, except that the Dominicans she taught with were not cloistered, and it was the life of Teresa of Avila that had converted her, and she (St. Teresa) was a cloistered Carmelite.

Ruthie, after pondering all this over her wine glass asked, “Will we never be able to see you again, ever?” Mama caught her breath. The idea of cloister never really sunk in.

“Of course you will,” it was Papa now. “The nuns can have visitors, especially their families. They meet in a very nice room called a parlor. I’ve been there; I’ve seen it.”

Mama nearly swallowed her teeth with that revelation. “Ruben Feinstein!” exclaimed the Jewish mother of the house, “You set foot in such a place? Oy vey, what would Rabbi Liebermann think?”

“Rabbi Liebermann? Rabbi Liebermann should think about why his lovely wife is divorcing him and moving to Connecticut; Rabbi Liebermann should think why his son is three times in a rehab for drugs and the police are watching his other son. Rabbi Liebermann should set foot in the monastery and get a little hope in his life.”

Mama rebounded: “I never heard of such a thing. My Ruben setting foot in a Catholic monastery!”

“I did, and I’m doing it again on May 31st, with or without you all.”

“Oh, Papa, you don’t have to do that.” I could feel myself already getting choked up over the thought of it; I didn’t know if I could handle it.

Almost as if reading my mind, Papa came back: “You can handle it, darling. It’s the least I can do for you. Besides, it’s all settled with Gwen and Greta.”

“Gwen and Greta?” Sally and David chimed in unison. “I guess Rabbi Liebermann has nothing on you,” chided David to poor Mama’s embarrassment.

“Gwendolyn is Becky’s godmother, and Greta is her roommate of the last five years, you ignoramus. You would know that if you spoke to your sister.”

Papa calmed down in an instant while everyone silently refilled their wine glasses and broke matzo crackers into bite-sized pieces. “Gwen insists on a limo—her exact words were, ‘If you’re gonna do it, baby, do it in style.’”

We all laughed, thank God. Thank God for Gwen and the dessert she sent over—“Cloistered Crumb Cake” with English walnuts and dried apricots.

That was my last night with my family on West 79th Street. David left shortly after Cloistered Crumb Cake. Sally was staying in her old room, but went out into the night to wherever she goes. Ruthie promised she’d come and visit me, and could she bring her friends? Everything had become a Broadway production for Ruthie, who still had our Comedy/Tragedy masks on her bedroom wall and our theater money coffee tin.

Papa said he needed to go in and rest awhile, leaving me alone with Mama. She had changed out of her pretty blue dress into an old house dress and apron, her dishwashing clothes, the brooch safely put away near Josh’s photo, I suppose.

She washed; I dried.

“Are you really upset that Papa will take me to the monastery, Mama? Maybe you could go with me, too.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t. I know how your father is—and he’s getting very sentimental in his old age. He cries at the movies, can you believe it?”

“I think it’s more than old age, Mama.”

“I know. I know.” She stopped washing and wiped her hands on her apron. I could tell she was gathering her words and breath together. She slowly walked over to the kitchen table and gestured for me to join her. She took two of the newly washed and dried wine glasses and pulled the chilled Mogen David out of the fridge. She poured two glasses almost to the rim. She smelled her glass for a few seconds, lost in her thoughts and in the sweet aroma. I noticed the lines in the face had gotten a little deeper and more spread out from her eyes. Still a very attractive woman, my Mama.

“Papa is dying and we can’t do anything to change that. He will do what he will do. Me? I want you to know that I love you too; you are my dearest and only Becky who never gave me a silver hair till, well, you know when. But you are your father’s daughter, and you will do what you will do. I know that Papa knows that, and you are his pride and joy.” Mama’s face seemed to relax a bit from whatever tension she had been wearing. She brushed back the loose locks of hair which kept falling over her eyes. She smiled her old familiar smile and looked into my eyes.

“This becoming a nun, oy, I can’t even imagine. But Papa? He is so proud, go figure. So, my darling, I can’t go to that place, but here, Becky,” she was touching her heart, “here is the cloister you will always be in. Now go, sugar-plum, before I fall to pieces.”

Mama and I squeezed each other tight and wept in each other’s arms. She held my face in her hands and looked in my eyes and squeezed my cheeks like I was her eight-year-old kid.

“You be a damn good nun, you hear—such a blessing.” And she pushed me by the shoulders towards the door and bent over the sink in her private tears. I grabbed my purse and jacket and looked down the hall where I took my first steps and played with my dolls and grew up in this family that I knew tonight, different from all other nights…I knew they loved me.