Seventeen

THE SECOND SUNDAY of Advent began with a light sprinkling of snow; one could see it falling in the light of the street lamp outside the dormitory windows when we rose for the Night Office. Papa always loved the snow, as I do, and delighted in its blanketing New York. It changes the pace of life and brings about its own peacefulness. My thoughts were laden with Papa all morning.

I suppose I wasn’t surprised when Sr. Mary Trinity pulled me aside after Mass and told me that my sister Ruth was in the parlor. “Go to her,” was all Sister said, and I knew. From the ante-choir to the parlor one passes St. Joseph’s corner. I looked at him and smiled. I knew why Ruthie was here, and I was most grateful she came.

When I went into my side of the parlor, she was standing by the window and staring out. She turned when she heard the parlor door open. “Oh, Becky, it’s Papa.”

“I know,” I said, and came close to the grille so our fingers could touch. “Thank you for coming down to tell me in person. How’s Mama doing?”

“Mama wanted me to call you, and I said, ‘No, I’ll go down myself. Papa would want that…and I’ve been there before, I know where it is.’”

She went on, sitting down quietly in one of the wooden chairs near the grille. “He struggled all night, it seemed, but around 4:30 this morning the nurse came and woke up Mama and me. Mama held his hand for maybe ten minutes, and he opened his eyes quite wide like he saw something, and he smiled, and Mama swears she heard him say: ‘Mama,’ and he closed his eyes and died. It was so peaceful.”

Ruthie could just about manage to get it all out. She looked miserable, I thought, her eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

“The funeral is tomorrow morning and then we’ll be sitting Shiva. Sally is flying in this afternoon—can’t you come out for one night? It would mean so much to Mama.”

“I know it would,” and I paused for a few moments lost in thought. “She would probably freak out if I walked in.” And in our grief, we got the giggles. And I went on after a minute.

“Mother John Dominic is very fond of Papa; she moved my clothing day up, you know, so Papa could be here and see me…can you wait for a half hour more? I will go tell her about Papa.”

I guess I had anticipated this moment so much with great emotion, that when it actually happened, I was filled with peace and a quiet grief. Ruthie didn’t know that much about our life, and our observance of enclosure, or the chain of command. I went first to Sr. Mary Trinity and obtained permission to tell Mother that Papa had passed away. I wanted to tell her myself, not Sr. Mary Trinity.

Mother was in her office, and Sr. Mary Trinity went with me, having called Mother first on an intercom to see if she was free. Sister went to Mother’s office door with me and knocked, but let me go in alone. Mother seemed to have known, perhaps she had given permission for me to see Ruthie. She stood up immediately and came around her desk to embrace me.

“Papa passed away this morning,” I blurted out quietly.

“Blessed be God; he is now out of his misery and suffering—and on this Second Sunday of Advent. Shall we pray for him?” And with that we turned to the crucifix on the wall on the side of Mother’s desk, and prayed an Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory be. Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.

“We shall send flowers,” Mother added after a silent pause. “Do you think that would be appropriate?”

I knew that was an opening. “Not really, Mother. Jews don’t usually send flowers, but you could send me, Mother, just for a couple hours this afternoon.”

I’ll always remember Mother John Dominic’s expression then. It was kindness, compassion, love, and firmness all wrapped into one. “No, Sister, that wouldn’t be possible. We don’t go out—even to our families’ funerals.”

Of course I knew that, but it never sank in as much as that December morning. “I know, Mother, and I accept that, but I told Ruthie that I would ask.”

Mother’s voice remained very soothing. “Give Ruthie our deepest condolences to take to your mother and family, and assure them of our prayers for your dear father, and for them.”

“Thank you, Mother, I will.” I turned to go. “Not ‘Thank you,’ Sister. ‘Blessed be God.’”

Ruthie didn’t really understand and thought it was mean and unfeeling and a few other unkind adjectives I don’t recall. But when she left, she promised she would visit, and would call Gwendolyn and Greta, as I requested. I went to the chapel directly from the parlor and silently wept for Papa and for our loss and felt for the first time like an orphan. It was the eighth day of my novena, and I thanked St. Joseph and Our Lady for his peaceful death. I’m convinced that his whispered “Mama” was not Hannah Feinstein or his mother, Sarah, but Our Lady. She came for him. And so her words again became my own: Fiat…my amen coming forth from an Advent Heart.

Only after living with a few prioresses can I see in retrospect how extraordinary Mother John Dominic was in being both observant and flexible. Love and compassion seemed to be the criteria she lived by, which were applicable when she would say “no” as well as “yes.” And so I’m sure she bent the rules for me one more time on the Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent when Ruthie again came back. Perhaps Ruthie was smarter than I thought. She never called to ask if she could come to see me; she just showed up. And she knew the line of command, as she politely asked Sr. Vincent to ask Sr. Mary Trinity to ask Mother if she may see me in the parlor. She had also brought Mother and me an obituary of Papa’s death, in case we didn’t read the newspaper during Advent. She told me afterwards that she had rehearsed that line so it wouldn’t come out sarcastically, and of course, Ruthie was an acting student at NYU.

Sr. Mary Trinity told me it was “highly irregular,” but I could visit with my sister for ninety minutes that afternoon, and to explain to her that I wouldn’t be able to have visitors till after Christmas. I also knew that Sr. Mary Trinity meant ninety minutes when she said ninety minutes, and I wondered if monasteries in other countries were as strict about and keeping to time by the minute.

Ruthie looked a little disheveled; her eyes were bloodshot, but that could have been from the cold outside and the wind coming off the river. She told me all about who came to pay Shiva and who didn’t.

She said Gwendolyn came looking like the Merry Widow, all decked out in black, with a black floppy hat and a black net veil over her face. “Mama had never met her, but knew who she was, and I think she secretly was enjoying the reaction and looks of those who didn’t know who the lady in black was. It was so nice of her to come; I went by the tea shop yesterday to thank her and to tell her I was coming down to see you, and she said to ask you why you haven’t responded to her letter and cards?”

I had to explain that I hadn’t received the letter and cards yet. Ruthie thought it was all “most peculiar” and “weird,” but then again Gwendolyn had a nativity set in the shop with a flock of penguins around the crib rather than sheep.

“Do they really have penguins in Israel? Or was that one of your miracles?” She asked again without a hint of sarcasm…I wondered if she had rehearsed that line too.

“No, that is a tradition peculiar to Gwendolyn.” “Oh, quite!” Ruthie responded in her best British accent, giving us a sisterly giggle to warm things up. David and Sally had had many unkind things to say about my “incarceration” in “the nunnery,” as they called it, thinking they were sounding very Shakespearean, I suppose.

“Did you tell them you would be visiting Sr. Ophelia in Brooklyn?” That was almost enough to set Ruthie off doing a soliloquy from Hamlet, but she refrained, choosing instead to feign a Swedish accent.

“Greta Phillips stopped off to pay her respects; Mama also got a card from ‘Becky’s Ezra,’ which she thought was kind of him. His Aunt Sarah paid her respects, but guess who made the biggest guest appearance?” She didn’t give me chance to guess. “Father Meriwether! He walked in all decked out in his black suit and priest’s collar…looking like an older version of Spencer Tracy… (Ruthie was off on a roll.) Mama was impressed. ‘Such friends, your Papa had! The Catholic priest can come to pay his respects and your sister won’t?’”

I just let it go. Instead I just said, almost like thinking out loud, “Papa was respected by many people; he had a good heart and wanted to learn from each person. That’s humility because most should have gone to Papa to learn!”

“I know.” Ruthie got suddenly quiet and sad. “It won’t be the same without him; I hate Chanukah this year.”

“Oh, Ruthie, Papa would want you to light all the candles of the menorah and decorate our famous ‘Chanukah Tree.’ Eat plentifully and enjoy your little gifts. He’s come into the Light now.”

Ruthie stared at me. “I don’t know what light you’re talking about, but it’s not on West 79th Street this year. Sometimes it all just seems so meaningless, strutting our time on this stage of life.”

She was slipping into her own Shakespearean tragedy mode. But that’s what grief and loss can do, especially without True Light which became a man and dwelt among us. I was thrilled to think that Fr. Meriwether went to pay Shiva and told him so when he came to visit me on the third day of Christmas.

It was Ruthie who announced to me that our time was nearly up, and she made herself ready to leave. She promised she would kiss Mama for me and thank Greta and Gwendolyn. I knew Gwendolyn was probably very sad; she had a great fondness for our father.

“She has a stuffed penguin in the window with a Santa hat on, and a sign: “Ruben the Penguin says ‘Happy Holidays—stop in for tea.’”

I was so grateful Ruthie came to see me; no one else in my family said a word to me. It was only then that I broke down in front of her, trying to thank her, and she put her fingers over mine in the little metal squares of the grille.

“Papa loved you best, you know…” and she couldn’t say any more.

“He loved each of us, Ruthie, to the fullest. You know that. You were his baby; he used to say that you were the best youngest in the whole family.”

God let us cry together for the few minutes that remained. “I’m gonna get salt stains all over my new habit,” I mumbled enough for Ruthie to chuckle.

“Merry Christmas, Becky,” she said and turned quickly, grabbed her coat from the chair and fled through the door. I looked at the short obituary from The New York Times, which I later placed in my prayer book. I remembered Papa now every time we remembered the dead at Mass and especially in our daily prayers. I was able to somehow “let go,” and found that I felt closer to Papa now than ever before

I was able to fall back into Advent and the silence of the sisters and that special peacefulness that fills the house at this time of year. I thought about the people hustling and bustling, doing Christmas shopping and attending office Christmas parties; the stores were all in full decoration now, the tree at Radio City lit behind Prometheus, and fancy ice skaters looping around the small rink in front of him. The grand lions in front of the New York Public Library had their large wreaths around their necks, and Gwendolyn had penguins with Santa hats decorating the shelves of Tea on Thames, and one named “Ruben” for my father. There was the luscious and comforting smell of English tea and sugar cookies. I missed them all, but I was content to be right where I was. It happens every Advent.

December 18, 1970

I’m having a hermit day, which is so wonderful and peaceful. I’m praying it will snow all morning; we had flurries early in the morning, before the sun came up, enough for the novices to get out and shovel the path from the cloister back door to the garage, and from the side door to the gate where milk and other things will be delivered.

We are certainly busy these days; I never realized how active the contemplative life can be! I’m being facetious, Lord, You know. It will be the Fourth Sunday of Advent in two days and we’ll have the week with the Annunciation and Visitation gospels. The professed sisters have been making oranges with cloves stuck in them as part of the little gifts we get and give. We novices are doing Christmas decorations for the refectory, our own little tree in the novitiate, and then something in the choir and church. The poor sacristan, Sr. Sebastian Mary, has so much to do. We’re helping with the cleaning, which has never been my forte. So I’m trying to remember to offer it up for Papa’s repose. House cleaning! I rather liked the Greta Phillips approach to house cleaning: if you can pay someone else to do it, do it. We actually had an allmale team of apartment cleaners come in once a week and wash, vacuum, dust, and do floors, windows, and bathrooms—all in two and a half hours. There were four of them. My contribution was only $50.00, and well worth it.

Now I’m washing, vacuuming, dusting, waxing and polishing, and I ain’t getting paid a nickel! Only joking, Lord. You know I love doing it for You. As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t for You, I wouldn’t be doing it at all!

We also have community chant practice every day this week, which I know is very important even if it can be so tedious at times. We’re singing the Dominican Introit, Puer Natus Est, at Midnight Mass. I never realized how much goes into singing the chant well. I guess I took it all for granted at St. Vincent’s and let the choir or the friars do it.

Sr. Mary Trinity keeps telling us to be silent and recollected during these days, and I’m trying to be, but my head is sometimes full of distractions, especially when we’re supposed to be silent and do silent prayer or meditation, or, as one sister calls it, “mental prayer.” Sr. Mary Trinity sometimes calls it contemplation, but I don’t think I’m there yet. I’m distracted just thinking about what to call it. We have a quiet half hour from the end of Vespers till supper, and it’s very peaceful in choir, so I stay there. When we were postulants, Sr. Catherine Agnes made us stay, but it formed a nice habit. I feel sorry for the sisters who have to go prepare the refectory and help in the kitchen. Others serve in the Refectory for the Infirm, which is really in the main refectory, but separated by a wall. There is a speaker in there so the infirm can hear the reading clearly. They also have meat served more often.

Just when I am beginning to get into the profound silence in the choir, the heat comes on, and clangs and bangs in stereophonics; or the sister behind me is sniffing every 20 seconds, and I find myself counting the seconds instead of meditating on the points given in my meditation book. It also used to get very warm in the choir the first week the heater came on, and I thought I’ll never last the winter here; it’s too hot. One should not be perspiring in choir in the middle of December. That got adjusted after a Chapter meeting which we in the novitiate did not attend. It’s easier to stay awake now.

Sr. Mary Trinity wants us to meditate on the antiphons for Advent, especially the Magnificat Antiphon. We’re to read it over several times in Latin, then translate it, then think about it. It’s been difficult for me; I drift off thinking about Papa, about Ruthie’s visits, about Mama and our Chanukah Tree, and what’s going on outside these walls. The city is all dressed up for Christmas…and then, I start singing, silently of course, “City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style… It’s Christmas time in the City.” I can get a little homesick for New York even while living in it! The bell is ringing for Vespers…Advent Bells.

Thank goodness for my journal, as I would forget how that first Advent and Christmas was. I must say there is nothing so wonderful as Advent and Christmas in the monastery; they remain my favorite time of the year. I always loved Christmas, even as a nice Jewish girl who got to mix it in with Chanukah; I thought Chanukah was better because we got gifts every night for seven nights. But after becoming a Catholic, Advent and Christmas became the color of the City in a way a non-believer cannot experience. It’s all because Puer Natus Est, isn’t it?

One soon loses a certain sense of time here. The days seem to fly by so quickly, and the seasons of the year are really marked by the Church’s feasts and liturgical seasons. We kept Advent almost to the end, and only decorated for Christmas two days before. There is a wonderful spirit in the house, so different from what one is used to in the world. Just celebrating Christmas was new for me in the world, but here one really prepares and celebrates in a deeper way.

Being the youngest novice in religion, although not chronologically, I was given the honor of carrying the baby Jesus to the communion window at the start of Midnight Mass and handing Him over to the priest celebrating the Mass, who places the Baby Jesus in the manger in the crèche set up in the sanctuary. I was hoping it would be Fr. Meriwether, but no such luck. The Midnight Mass was beautiful, and I was swept up in the quieting effect the chant has on the soul. We were also able to receive Holy Communion twice on the Solemnity of the Nativity.

Perhaps the loveliest time in the monastery in the whole year is the Octave of Christmas, from Christmas to the Solemnity of the Mother of God, which used to be called the Feast of the Circumcision. The Christmas antiphons are so wonderful for St. Stephen, St. John, and the Holy Innocents.

I almost forgot to mention, as it’s changed now like many of the old customs, that on Christmas morning in the refectory there was a bright orange at each one’s place, along with their Advent mail. We weren’t to open them then and there, but to take them to our cells afterwards. My pile of letters and cards was much smaller than the other novices.

Many of my family and family’s friends did not really want to acknowledge where I was or what I had become. I was amused to find a delightful Christmas card from Ruthie; it was a humorous card, as opposed to a religious one. I had several cards from Gwendolyn, a lovely card from Greta, and a Christmas note from Br. Matthew. And, bless her heart, a Chanukah card from Ezra’s Aunt Sarah. She wrote very beautifully of my father’s passing. Nothing from Mama, David, or Sally, but then I wasn’t expecting anything, nor was I able to send them cards.

I was happy for 1970 to end and for a new year to begin. I prayed only for the grace of perseverance. This way of life was certainly not of this world. I knew there would be other crosses to bear down the road, but I knew with Whom and for Whom I carried them, and that made all the difference in the world. How could I ever live with these same women in this same place for the rest of my life? It seemed like a most impossible scenario. I was able to speak that way with Fr. Meriwether, who came to visit me on the third day of Christmas. He looked rather tired, no doubt from the clerical workout the poor priests go through over the high holy days. But he was delighted to see me, and we spoke about Papa, and how he found my family when he went to the wake. We spoke of different parishioners I had been friends with at St. Vincent’s, and the wonderful decorations that transform the interior of the church into a medieval-looking cathedral. There was a huge holly wreath with red berries on each of the pillars going up the center aisle. I think he said each wreath cost something like $300, but each was given by benefactors who wanted to do that every year. There were maybe a hundred poinsettias on the principal altar and side altars, and six real balsam evergreen trees banking the high altar and on the far end of the friars’ choir stalls. The trees were flooded with tiny Italian white lights.

And then he told me that he had a Christmas gift for me, but I must promise him that it would be top secret between us. I could not tell anyone of my family or friends. I agreed immediately, dying of curiosity, but half dreading that he was going to tell me that he was being transferred to Pakistan or Peru or one of those square states west of the Mississippi. But it was none of the above; it wasn’t about him at all.

And on the third day of Christmas I received the most wonderful gift I have ever received. He told me that he had received my father into the Faith privately, two months before he died. Papa specifically requested—more like demanded—that no one be told, and that only I could be told upon his passing. Fr. Meriwether told me that Papa had come to see him several times after I had entered. His mobility became worse and worse, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep coming on his own. He had read the New Testament that he found in my room; he went through it several times. He came to believe that Jesus was indeed the Messiah and Savior, but he could not bring himself to embrace the Faith publicly; it would break Mama’s heart. Fr. Meriwether told me that Papa would live with Mama as brother and sister, which they had been doing for a long time already, so there was no need to have his marriage blessed. He also told me that Papa was very moved by a private conversation he had had with Mother John Dominic, but would not share with him what the context of that was. To my great delight and utter shock, he told me that Mother John Dominic had been present at Papa’s baptism and is in the registry as his only witness; she is, in effect, Papa’s godmother.

I could feel the flood of tears rising behind my eyes and causing that painful knot in my throat. It had happened on the evening of the Solemnity of the Assumption. The church was locked, and nothing was going on in the Priory or the hall. Mother arrived by cab, alone. Papa, she, and Fr. Meriwether met in the Priory and went into the church from the priory entrance, which leads directly to the baptistery. Fr. Meriwether had received delegation from the Cardinal to also administer the sacrament of confirmation, although Papa was not yet in articulo mortis. After the baptism they walked together up the right side aisle, and Papa lit a candle at the statue of Christ the Priest, the Sacred Heart statue which had melted my own heart the very first time I walked down that same aisle. Mother John Dominic and Papa sat in the friars’ stalls in the Friars’ Chapel, and Father celebrated Mass on the altar there, and Papa received his first Holy Communion.

And my gift, besides this wonderful revelation, was a photograph of Papa and Fr. Meriwether in front of the statue of Our Lady, the Porta Caeli, at the entrance to the sanctuary. Mother took the photo with Father’s camera. She would not allow herself to be photographed, and Fr. Meriwether didn’t press it. On the back, in Papa’s own hand, was written, To our dear daughter, from your two Fathers, with our Heavenly Mama. Shalom, my little angel. Pray for me.