The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2)

by Jacob Restrick

  We were still spellbound, listening to her every word.

  “That was over sixty years ago. I found my way to Mary, Queen of Hope in 1943, and have been here ever since; always a member of the chorus line; always an understudy to someone more…more what? More gifted? More talented? More capable? More lucky? But I’ve clung to one thing always. My dear Sisters from the infirmary share this with me, and we want to pass it on to you, our young Sisters – and to us, you’re all our ‘young sisters.’ Keep your eyes fixed on Jesus who is meek and humble of heart, and thank Him every day, every moment, for your vocations; and if you break a leg along the way, well, blessed be God, and let the show go on. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.” She held up the Tony for all to see.

  We couldn’t applaud instantly. We just sat there in silence and awe at her words. And then in good old New York fashion, the rooftop garden exploded with applause and a standing ovation.

  Mother Rosaria let the applause go on at its own length, and gently took the stage again, fake mike and all. “Thank you, Sr. Gertrude, for words we will long remember and cherish. Those of us who aren’t privileged to remain always in the chorus line, depend more than ever on your prayers. It is all of you (gesturing to the Sisters from the infirmary) who have taught us the steps and we thank all of you for your prayers and perseverance.”

  It was Sr. Bertrand, of all people, who shouted out: “And thank you, Mother, for this wonderful rooftop patio.” And everyone applauded again. She finally gave two hoots, and we were all in agreement.

  “Now, we’re not over yet, Sisters, we have one more surprise for you. It is indeed rare that we have a Tony Award recipient among us, and this calls for a special toast, to go along with a special blessing for this rooftop garden.” And with that, the novices wheeled out a cart with two bottles of champagne, two bottles of Martinez apple cider, pitcher of plain old lemonade, and hollow stem champagne glasses, albeit plastic wear. When everyone had a glass with something in it, Mother said this time without the fake mike: “Let us pray. Dear Lord, we ask You to bless this rooftop garden in honor of St. Joseph. Bless all who come here to pray, to rest, to be refreshed, to enjoy the weather, or to enjoy the view. Thank you, Lord, for all the blessings in our lives, and may St. Joseph provide for all our needs, bring us an increase of vocations, and bring all our beloved deceased to the rooftop garden of Paradise where we will be with You, and the Father, and Holy Spirit, forever and ever. Amen. To Sister Gertrude, Happy Birthday, ad multos annos.”

  And we all shouted back “Amen.”

  After about fifteen minutes, and a bit of scrambling and rearranging on the stage, Mother calmed everyone down, and took the mike:

  “And now before we conclude our first Gaudeamus on top of our world, the Sisters from the Infirmary, I’m told, have prepared a little something for you, Sr. Gertrude, and really, for all of us.”

  The sisters moved into place: Sr. Gerard, Sr. Amata, Sr. Benedict, Sr. Beatrice, Sr. Bruna, and even Sr. Bertrand. Sr. Mary Cecilia was on the side with her clarinet, Sr. Bernadette (former infirmarian) and I joined them on the stage; I took the mike:

  “Sr. Gertrude this is a song we have often sung together and acted out when we weren’t singing. It’s dedicated to you in memory of my dear sister Ruth Steinway.” Sr. Mary Cecilia began with the introduction, the pure baritone sound of the clarinet filling the garden and rolling off into space, and we began quietly singing:

  Try to remember the kind of September

  when life was slow and oh, so mellow.

  Try to remember the kind of September

  when grass was green and grain was yellow.

  Try to remember the kind of September

  when you were a tender and callow fellow.

  Try to remember and if you remember then follow.

  (Sr. Benedict adding the “follow, follow, follow” roll)

  Try to remember when life was so tender

  that no one wept except the willow.

  Try to remember when life was so tender

  that dreams were kept beside your pillow.

  Try to remember when life was so tender

  that love was an ember about to billow.

  Try to remember and if you remember then follow.

  Deep in December it's nice to remember

  although you know the snow will follow

  Deep in December it's nice to remember

  without the hurt the heart is hollow

  Deep in December it's nice to remember

  the fire of September that made us mellow

  Deep in December our hearts should remember

  and follow. Follow, follow, follow.

  There was quiet applause, as everyone was quite moved by the words, but also the beautiful voices of the elderly Sisters. They blended in a lovely harmony. I remembered the joy the song brought to Sr. Gertrude when she learned it was Ruthie’s opening number at Penguin Pub. It’s a fantastic song from The Fantasticks!

  The infirmary Sisters took the remaining quarter of the Empire State Building and a bottle of sparkling apple cider with them. The novices and I straightened out the roof; other Sisters took care of the dishes, trash, and all the paraphernalia.

  And thus the party was a great success. We were already making plans for next spring: planting even more flowers and maybe even a strawberry patch, which would involve building a flower-bed.

  The Sisters all seemed to enjoy the view from the roof; for some it was their first time ever on the top of the monastery. We are on Willow Street, two blocks away from the Promenade, and from the roof we can actually see people walking along it. It would have been an ideal spot to watch the fireworks on the Fourth, but we were always sound asleep for that one. If one looked west (left) from our roof we had a great view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the Battery. We could almost see the Statue of Liberty, parked between Ellis Island and Governors Island, though in the process you’d almost fall off the roof. We joked, remembering the jokes that went around before President Kennedy was elected: “If Kennedy is elected he’s going to change the name of the Statue of Liberty to Our Lady of the Harbor.” Not far removed from the reality, for us here, located in her shadow, for many an immigrant she was indeed, Our Lady of Hope.

  There was a good forty-five minutes free before Vespers. So I just sat in my stall gazing at the Lord who never leaves the monstrance unless we move Him. The melody of Try to Remember still played in my head, and I resisted the temptation to go down memory lane, but thought instead of the Lord who also said: Do this in memory of Me. Try to remember Me, as it were, and all the marvels, I have done for you. And we still have Him with us. The soul is filled with grace in His holy presence. The peace of the chapel settled over me; as the sun slowly made its evening dive into the horizon bringing an almost tangible calm to the house beneath the rooftop garden. The Church at eventide…remembering.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maror Bitter herbs, horse radish.

  “Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe who has sanctified us by commanding us to eat maror.” (Haggadah)

  Mama’s eightieth birthday was coming up and David wanted to do something very special to celebrate. They had already been on three cruises, so David wanted to talk to me privately again to get my opinion on what they should do—perhaps a Broadway show, a nice dinner on the Upper East Side, or a matinee at the Metropolitan Opera. David was into the opera more than Mama, but she would go just to be a part of Lincoln Center.

  The early days of September were Indian summer-days and even Sr. Bertrand would venture out to our ground-level garden to sit in the sun, or on the rooftop garden, if another Sister went with her. Either one was better than “being cooped up” inside.

  Our Lady’s birthday came and went with our usual festivity. We love the feast days of Our Lady and September 8th is one of my favorites. It had been nine months since the previous December 8th, the Immaculate Conception. David did call that afternoon, and like before, just wanted to
make sure I couldn’t get away for the day to join him and Mama. Even Sally was coming in. He or Mama would let me know in a couple days what the definitive birthday plans were so I could be praying behind the scenes. David actually said that without rancor! I don’t think he ever talked about prayer when we were growing up. I reminded him about the time we all took Mama and Papa to see Fiddler on the Roof, and how much Mama would enjoy a Broadway show. It was so New York.

  I told him 42nd Street had just re-opened and The Producers would be two good options. They were both musical smash hits. He probably wouldn’t be able to get tickets, but they are two Mama would love, especially 42nd Street. Of course, David knew that, and was more surprised that I did!

  “Are you kidding? I can get tickets for any show. It’s a brilliant idea…are you sure you can’t get out even for a Wednesday Matinee?” He knew I couldn’t, but said these things to make me laugh. “We’ll let you know. I want to make a day of it.”

  The weather was so nice that I “reserved” the rooftop for my meeting with the postulants. Instead of meeting separately, I thought we could just have an informal discussion about things. This would only include them, not the novices or simple professed. The two of them sat on the two-seater swing – which Sr. Brenda politely informed me wasn’t actually a “swing” as it didn’t swing; it was a glider and glides back and forth on runners. I told her she was being very “Dominican” because we like to fuss over words, and make distinctions. This made her feel proud till Sr. Grace said: “Well, I’m still calling it a swing.” I hadn’t realized till I was assistant novice mistress that there can be “sibling rivalry” between Sisters, especially if there are only two of them. I don’t remember having that during my novitiate, but we were also not as free to speak our minds – and we certainly wouldn’t have been on a glider-swing on the roof for our weekly meeting. We didn’t have a weekly meeting!

  I wasn’t overly concerned about the two of them; they actually got along very well and complemented each other. Sr. Brenda was a little older and was a professional and given to “details” (thus, the swing really being a glider) and Sr. Grace was surprisingly more naïve about many things, being such a product of the pop culture. They were both very prayerful and excited about receiving the habit soon and their new names, and getting their hair cut.

  Sr. Brenda talked about her family, especially an old grandfather, and Sr. Grace liked to talk about Leah who was still, as Sr. Grace punned it, “kibitzing on the kibbutz.”

  * * *

  A couple days went by, and I hadn’t heard from Mama or David. We rarely had windows open because the noise of traffic and sometimes unsavory conversations could find their way into the silence of the enclosure, but Tuesday morning the eleventh was an exception. It promised to be another beautiful day, clear and sunny; early autumn in New York. A perfect day for Mama’s birthday for whom I offered my Mass and Communion. Our Mass was over and a few of us were having a late breakfast. It was a bagel-breakfast morning I remember spreading walnut raisin cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel – a treat we didn’t get every day. I was standing by an open window looking out on our “Fatima set”, a statue of our Lady with the three children and even two little lambs. Our Lady was standing in a bed of pink and white petunias, thanks to the white-veiled novices. And then…

  We heard it – we felt it. God have mercy on us, we smelled it.

  There was a boom that shook the ground. We all just froze wherever we were; and then the bell rang—and we all hurried in silence to the chapter room. Mother was white as a sheet and could hardly speak, but she announced that a plane had crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. We could go to the chapel right now and pray, or we could go to the rooftop.

  It was Sr. Bertrand who shouted: “Rooftop; we can pray from the rooftop.” And we moved like silent roaches when the lights come on…to the rooftop. We could see it; the smoke was a veritable cloud pouring out of the top of the building; and as we stood there speechless, each sister mumbling her side rosary…we saw the second plane smash into the South Tower, in a fire-ball of explosion.

  Mother had brought a transistor radio with her, and we stood motionless listening to the news. I felt my knees suddenly become weak. My New York…our New York. How could this be happening? Some of us had to sit down in the wicker chairs we had bought for the roof-garden. We were stunned.

  Mother said Fr. Ambrose had called her immediately. He had a television in his quarters and always watched the morning news. That’s when she rang the bell.

  I think we probably stayed there on the roof for over an hour; some made their way downstairs and to the chapel. The radio was reporting that thousands were killed instantly. We saw the buildings literally collapsing in a cloud of smoke and debris. We learned that it was a terrorist attack. The Pentagon in Washington had also been hit, and a plane crashed in Shanksville, Pa. It was almost surreal. The noise and the smell were unlike anything we had ever experienced.

  Sister Paula arrived with several pitchers of ice water and a stack of paper cups. We drank our water, shook our heads, and some of us cried on each other’s shoulders. I had to get to a phone and call Mama; she must be terribly upset; she was probably watching it all on her new wide-screen TV…poor Mama, and on her birthday of all days!

  I couldn’t reach her. She was probably at Millie Hutner’s and I didn’t know that number. Or maybe she was out getting her hair done for her big night out. I’d try again in an hour. Many of the lines and communications were all down temporarily. All one heard for hours were sirens; police and fire sirens. We shut the windows and retreated into the chapel and prayed; it was our greatest consolation. Some went to help Sr. Bernadette, a native New Yorker, who couldn’t finish dinner in the kitchen; she was so shook-up by it all.

  We would have the Office of Sext and dinner (lunch) in about an hour. I made my way to my office, not to work, but to sit at my desk and distract myself. It was then that I saw the little red light flashing…the answering machine. We must have a million calls telling us the news. I would jot them down and be able to let Mother know later on.

  The first was from last night…an Evelyn Saccerello wanting a Mass said for her husband’s first anniversary…the second from last night…was from Mama.

  “This is for Sr. Baruch; please tell her that her brother, the doctor, is taking me to see 42nd Street, the Broadway musical, not the street, and we’re having a birthday breakfast at Windows on the World tomorrow morning—he wants to know if she can join us. It would be such a blessing.” Beep, disconnect.

  I couldn’t move. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t have meant this morning; maybe they were going later; maybe they were stuck in traffic. I didn’t have David’s number, but I could probably call his office. I grabbed our oversized clunky New York phone book and looked up Feinstein, David Dr. Maybe it was too early for office hours; but I called anyway. After five rings, a frenzied woman’s voice answered. “Doctor Feinstein’s office.”

  “Hello, is this Dr. Feinstein’s secretary? I’m his sister calling from Brooklyn; I’m trying to reach him and don’t have his home phone.”

  The secretary was slow to answer. “I haven’t heard from him at all; he isn’t due in till this afternoon, but I looked at his appointment book, as I do each morning, and he had written: ‘Breakfast with Ma at 8:30 AM’. I don’t know this for sure, but he had me call Windows on the World a couple days ago for reservations, I…” And she couldn’t speak anymore.

  “I understand; I got an answering machine message from our mother. They must’ve been there.” We both gasped at the words.

  “I…I…don’t know what to say…I can’t believe it,” came her voice from the other end of the telephone line.

  “I know, dear, neither can I. All we can do now is pray. God bless you.” And I hung up. If one is able to know the sensation of having a stroke without actually having one, that’s what I felt. All I could do, was put my head down on my desk in utter disbelief. I couldn�
��t cry, or scream, or even call for help. Sr. Agnes Mary was going by and saw me. All I could do was point to the phone and say: “Mama…”

  The rest of the day is all a blur to me. I know Sr. Agnes Mary got Mother and together they listened to the answering machine message. Mother wanted me to go to the emergency room, thinking I was in traumatic shock; but I assured her that the only ER I needed was Eucharistic Repose. I remember sitting in the chapel for hours where I was able to come back to my senses, and began to pray for Mama and David, and all the thousands who lost their lives that morning.

  There was a “heavy silence” over the house like we were living in slow motion; but the wonderful thing about monastic life is that it drones on, and holds us up, especially the Psalms which express the praise and heartache of God’s People. The worst part was trying not to think what Mama and David were thinking when it all hit; if they even had time to think…time to surrender themselves to the loving and merciful arms of their Creator.

  I couldn’t imagine what the poor people on the planes went through, if they even knew where they were heading. It’s too much to try to fathom. I would have to pull myself together for my Sisters here; we all felt the impact of the attack on New York; others may have lost friends or loved ones too.

  Mother was so wonderful during all this, as only time and reflection on it all would show. Early that afternoon she sent Sr. Paula out to an appliance store, and she came back with a delivery man who installed our new 37-inch colored television. Our most important task was to pray, and this we certainly did, but Mother also knew we needed to know the impact behind all that had happened.