by Marian Unn
Chapter 3
“Your state of business, Madam?” the man whispered through the lock on the door. The wind itself appeared to echo the man’s question. My frosted cheeks had only been exposed to the cold night air for a moment and already they were burning red. “Deus qui est spes nostra.” I repeated the phrase I had said a hundred times before, its truth growing ever stronger as I say it again and again.
God is our hope.
“Hello, dear sister,” said the priest as he opened the door, though you would hardly recognize him in his nobleman’s attire. Greeting him with a nod, I shook his extended hand, “Again and again I see you come here, and over and over I see you hide your face. Indeed these times are hard when one cannot even show her face at a place of friends! I assure you no one will judge you here, whoever you may be, dear Madam.” Smiling gently I did not hold back my inevitable sigh, “Oh brave Father, even when in the presence of God, man is still man; and man will always judge.”
“How true, how true, dear sister. I will molest you no more with such questions, as I see how they perturb you so.” Stepping into the adjacent room, I nodded farewell to the Father who returned to the door to greet and direct the others now knocking and whispering to enter.
It was a remarkable place, this sanctuary. I would try to come here discreetly, and as often as possible. Merek’s close supervision, though, sometimes prevented this. However, Father Bart cleared all of guilt for their absences. He was a kind man who understood the difficulties of regular attendance; especially since the discovery of one’s attendance at these gatherings was punishable by death. Nonetheless, many still risked coming here, for this shop was the sanctuary of the city. During the day, it served as an unremarkable little flower shop. The smell of dirt and pollen were always fresh in the air. But at night it had a higher calling. During the night, the little shop served as a secret place for worshipers to gather. At night, it was a church.
I used to come here with Merek regularly when he was a boy. We would buy flowers at a very low price from the owner. He was a good friend of my family and often gave us discounts, even free bouquets now and then for special occasions. Of course, this little shop was not a chapel then. It became one when all the churches were either burned or their buildings forced to become other institutions. An order of my son’s I am ashamed to say.
I do not understand how he lost his faith.
I took him to church every week and cultured him in the faith as best I could. I always made sure he understood how to act kindly and how to be giving to others. Yet he somehow came to see the faith as just another obstacle in his path to power. And like all other obstacles and problems he faced, he chose not only to overcome the obstacle, but to utterly destroy every hint of its memory.
Carefully stepping down the steep stone stairs, I held tight to the iron pipe which acted as a support rail. These stairs were a part of a secret passage way that led down to the church. In the building itself, the passage way was disguised as a pantry within the living quarters of the shop. One need only open the door a certain way to find it and descend down, but if the handle was not turned correctly, the door would not budge. This was the second safety measure. Unfortunately, precautions such as these were necessary in these desperate times.
Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, I came to five great doors which creaked under the pressure of the solid earth above. This was the third security. Walking towards the fourth door, I knocked once.
“Have you a purpose in coming to this gathering?” the old familiar voice of the owner, Mr. Herlet, inquired.
“Sir? There is no password to this door.”
“I know,” he said, while a chain began to rattle from within. The door whined as four men dug their heels into the ground to raise it up “I just wanted to hear your answer.” He smiled at me as I walked in; the slamming of the massive door behind me shaking the walls around it.
Pulling my hood tighter over my head I held my breath. When he rested his hand on my shoulder, I smiled at the old man, “Why did you inquire of me, sir?”
“Because when most leave here filled with hope, you leave here more lost than ever, pained even. We all see it, dear.” As his grip on my shoulder tightened, I winced.
“You speak just like my son. He too says I am more sorrowful when I leave here.”
“Well, perhaps it’s because your boy ain’t here. Would you not leave happier if your son was here with you, receiving the graces and experiencing the spiritual joy that comes from this place?”
“It would bring to me the greatest joy I, as a Christian mother, could ever know, if my son were ever able to experience such joy as this place offers,” though I know he would much rather find joy in the desolation of this holy place than in receiving of its graces. However, I am not sure he is even capable of feeling joy any more. For his joy, too, I believe, was another of the many casualties in his selfish conquest for power.
“Well, I’ll guarantee, if you introduce me to him, I’ll convince him to come. And once he hears one of Father Bart’s sermons, he’ll never doubt of coming again.”
“If only the matter were so simple,” I mumbled, more so to myself than to the old owner.
“It can be! You just-” he paused; another knocking came from the door. Placing his ear to the hard wood, he asked just as he had before, “Have you a purpose in coming to this gathering?”
“Stop asking that question old geezer!” one of the four men who had lifted the door groaned. His words were kisses to my ears. This is good. It means he was not as curious about me as I suspected. “Hush now! I can’t hear!” shushed the owner. Smiling after a moment, the old man motioned for the men to lift the door to allow the Father and the others behind him to enter. Taking the opportunity to slip away, I joined the masses in the pews of damp wood and cold iron.
The mass itself was not a painful experience for me. The beginning always made me feel blessed and loved. These feelings are elevated as I hear the scripture and Father Bart’s powerful homilies that always reach out to the hearts of us all. Encouraging us to be strong willed and to live our faith out in the world, to battle the persecution all people now face, for it is but a stepping stone to salvation. Yes, his message is always so strong and clear, and the Eucharist never fails to uplift even the spirits of the lowest among us. It is when the mass ends that I feel the pain rush over me. Upon realizing it is over, I recognize its importance to me, to the world for that matter. I grow saddened knowing that not everyone can properly understand or experience something so wonderful. But more than any of these things, it pains me more to think Merek would want to destroy it. His desire to destroy not just my faith, but all faiths, tears at me inside. To acknowledge that my own son wishes to abolish any and every person or institution that could instigate the feeling of hope and faith is a thought too heavy a burden for my aching heart to bear.
Upon re-entering the shop, I shook hands with Father Bart once more. “Do come again, M’lady, and next time, bring your son.” My hand became tense at these words. My heart racing, it felt as though it would leap from my throat at any moment, but I kept my composure. I had to.
“I heard of him from Mr. Herlet.”
Breathing a low sigh of relief I nodded, “I only wish I could bring him, Father.”
“And why can you not? As a mother, you should know your child, and your child should always honor your wishes no matter their age.”
“We both know that is often not always so,” especially when your son is the ruler of the land; but he need not know that last part.
“Yes, yes, well I will pray for you and your son, Madam.”
“Thank you, Father” I bowed, entering into the cold air of the night, thinking if only the priest’s words were true. If only he would listen and be obedient, then the world (in the most literal sense) would be a much better place.
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