The day at St. Athanasius’ Seminary began before dawn. At five-forty-five a bell rang, and a student caller would walk along the rows of beds in the vast dormitory, rousing the young seminarians with the exhortation, “Benedicamus Domino”—Let us bless the Lord. To which they would each reply, “Deo gratias”—Thanks be to God.
They had twenty minutes to shower, tidy their beds, and get down to the chapel. They performed these tasks without speaking to one another. In fact, the entire time span between lights-out at nine-thirty and breakfast was known as the Great Silence.
Then, wearing their black cassocks, they descended to the chapel for meditation. It was, as the Fathers always reminded them, the time for looking inward. To reflect on how to live better for the coming day. And how better to establish a personal relationship with Christ.
After morning meditation, the seminarians would line up in the refectory, each holding a tray, waiting to pass a long, narrow hatch where they could help themselves to a bland but filling breakfast.
The opening was just wide enough for gloved hands to place the food out on the counter. For the only females allowed on the seminary grounds were those who worked in the kitchen, and a strict rule forbade hiring women under the age of forty-five, lest the young men be in any way exposed to what the Fathers referred to as “the temptations of the other sex.”
But then almost everything reminded him of Deborah.
Although the Fathers did so frequently, there was little need to expound upon the evil influence of women, since the only females within the boundaries of the seminary existed as disembodied limbs behind the refectory hatch or in the boys’ nocturnal fantasies.
Still, these were adolescents, ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-one, and even a churchman’s word could not dam the surging tide of hormones. For the pious youths who fell victim to erotic urges, the most urgent order of the day was “hitting the box”—confessing and obtaining absolution.
Sex was everywhere, intensified precisely in proportion to the power of its prohibition.
In the winter, the classrooms were ill-heated—for a purpose, so they said. To teach them how to cope with hardships that would inculcate humility.
Yet however harsh the weather, after lunch they had to go outside for half an hour. A few indulged in sports, making use of a metal rim without a net for basketball, a set of rusty dumbbells, and some wooded paths for walking.
Here they could chat freely—although they were required to remain in threes, and were subject to the closest scrutiny. The priests continually emphasized the regimen of “custody of the eyes” and inveighed against what they called “particular” friendships. Loving thy neighbor was one thing—thy classmate another. The watchword was numquam duo: never in couples.
Every day’s horarium was identical—meditation, prayer, study, thirty minutes’ outdoor recreation. Except for the Sabbath.
On Sunday afternoons, the boys would remove their somber cassocks and don special garb—black suit, white shirt, black tie and shoes—for visiting the ordinary world.
They would march down to the village, led and followed by priestly chaperons. The purpose was not wholly clear to them, since they were not allowed to buy a newspaper, or even a chocolate bar. They simply paraded into town and back, under the curious gaze of the villagers, to whom, of course, they were forbidden to speak.
Toward the end of Timothy’s first year, four boys in his dormitory were discovered in a serious breach of conduct.
It was a rule that all correspondence—in and out—had to go through the Rector’s office. But Sean O’Meara had mailed a letter during one of the Sunday promenades. Three other seminarians had seen him, but had not reported his misdemeanor.
In the hearing presided over by the Rector, Sean bravely, though foolishly, tried to defend himself on the grounds that the letter had merely been to his old parish priest and spiritual adviser.
This did not mitigate his offense.
The punishment was harsh. O’Meara was banned from major orders for twelve months, during which time he was to study, pray, and do penance.
The conspirators were sentenced to stay at school in July and August, to work in the gardens—and to pray.
Timothy stayed on as well. The summer months provided an opportunity to receive daily tutorials in Hebrew and Greek and accelerate his journey toward ordination.
Besides, he had nowhere to go.
One hot July afternoon at the end of his daily tutorial, Tim excused himself so he could go to the library and commit to memory what had been taught that day.
Father Sheehan urged him to get some sun instead. “Those boys out there trimming rose bushes aren’t really being punished,” he said with a smile. “It’s a joy to be in the fresh air—the summer sun is God’s reward for suffering the winter.”
And so, unwillingly at first, Tim went into the garden after lunch and joined the penitents in weeding plants.
It was the first occasion in nearly a year that Timothy found himself with others of his age beyond official supervision. At first they were hesitant, wary of each other no less than of him. But as the summer heat intensified, so did the need for fellowship. They began to talk.
All three “prisoners” were saddened by their punishment. It was not the work, for they enjoyed the beauty of the outdoor life. But they had been looking forward to returning to their families.
“What about you, Tim?” asked Jamie MacNaughton, the tallest, leanest, and most nervous of them. “Haven’t you got any family—brothers, sisters—anybody that you miss?”
“No,” he answered blankly.
“Parents not alive?”
He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to answer. Discretion was the wisest course.
“Not really …,” he said evasively, his voice trailing off.
“You’re lucky in a way,” said another of the trio. “Frankly, Hogan, I’ve always admired how self-sufficient you are. Now I can sort of understand. You don’t miss the outside world because you don’t have anybody in it.”
“Yes,” Tim replied.
And—as he had throughout that agonizing year—he tried to suppress all thought of Deborah Luria.