by Edward Izzi
“What’s up, Paulie?” as Joey shut off his radio.
“Hey Joey. What’s up with the gym shoes?” Paulie asked his best friend right away.
They both knew Fr. Marquardt’s strict rules about the altar boy dress code and wearing gym shoes while serving mass was strictly forbidden. Fr. Marquardt was the church pastor, and he ran a tight ship when it came to the rules and regulations regarding the altar boys and serving mass.
“I was at baseball practice and I forgot to bring my other shoes,” Joey explained.
“He’s gonna send you home!” Paulie said right away, as he fumbled through the closet, looking for a black cassock that would fit him.
“He can’t. He’s not gonna find another altar boy ten minutes before mass. Besides, these are new gym shoes. And they’re cool!” Joey answered.
He started preparing the water and wine cruets and went into the sacristy cupboard to get the red wine that was used for mass. Paulie noticed Joey grabbing a different bottle of wine, which was loosely corked in a dark, green wine bottle.
‘Where did you get that bottle of wine? It looks different,” Paulie asked.
“It’s my Nonno’s. I told him we needed some wine for mass today, so he sent me over here with a bottle of his homemade wine. He figured Fr. Marquardt would enjoy it,” Joey casually answered, now knowing that he was breaking all of the pastor’s rules that Saturday afternoon.
“Fr. Marquardt won’t even notice the difference,” he sarcastically reasoned.
“Yeah, right!” Paulie answered.
They both started laughing loudly and giggling at the thought of the priest saying mass using his grandfather’s Italian, homemade wine. They both figured the pastor would enjoy the change in mass wine and might even ask Joey’s grandfather for more.
The boys were both fully dressed and ready when Fr. Marquardt arrived from the rectory, as the five o’clock Saturday mass was about to start in ten minutes. As he entered the church sacristy, his eyes were immediately fixated on Joey Campisi’s shoes.
“Are those shoes appropriate for Holy Mass, Mr. Campisi?” the pastor asked.
“I’m sorry Father, but I was at baseball practice today and I forgot my black Sunday shoes” Joey apologized. Fr. Marquardt began putting on his holy vestments, including a purple chasuble, as there were people beginning to enter inside the church.
“You will need to remember this when you come to confession this week,” he reprimanded. The two boys were in the fifth grade together at the grade school, and more than familiar with Fr. Marquardt’s strict rules and regulations.
Fr. Marquardt was the parish pastor and school principal and ran St. Rosalia Parish with an iron fist. The deacon and the others had also arrived, and within several minutes, the mass was about to start. The entrance hymn started playing, as the altar boys lined up with the others to the begin Saturday afternoon mass.
St. Rosalia was a beautiful, old Chicago Catholic church, with high domed ceilings, gold painted trim and antiquated, stained glass windows. The white, Carrera marble altar looked majestic, beneath the magnificently large, life-like crucifix suspended high above from the wooden rafters. The old church was located a few blocks away from Halsted and Taylor streets, and although most of the parishioners were Italian families, there were Irish Catholics from neighborhood who came to worship at the parish as well. The church was the center of the Italian community back in the Fifties and Sixties. Most all the children in the neighborhood went to St. Rosalia grade school to receive a “better” education.
Back in those days, the families in the neighborhood dutifully trusted the nuns and the diocesan priests who ran and operated the local, community Catholic school. No questions were ever asked as to how or why their children were being taught and at times, severely disciplined. Many of the Italian families wished to stay in the good graces of the local Catholic school, as there was a waiting list for the neighborhood children to be enrolled. The nearby public grade school, located several blocks away, was beginning to become integrated, and many of the neighborhood parents resented the compulsory integration that Mayor Daley was forcing upon them at the time.
Almost everyone in the neighborhood had ‘racist’ views regarding the public school education of the Negro children with the neighborhood white kids, and practically all the parents didn’t want their children going to school with them.
The Saturday mass continued uneventfully, as Fr. Marquardt preached to his flock about faithfully following “God’s Holy Commandments”, and to not be dissuaded by the ‘modern, adulterous evils’ that lurked rabidly within the community. As he received the gifts of bread and wine, Paulie and Joey stood side by side next to the mass celebrant. The Saturday mass was more than half way through, when Fr. Marquardt grasped the cruet filled with wine. He poured the wine into the gold chalice, looked up to the church rafters and the large crucifix hanging above, and gave thanks. Father Marquardt then took a drink of the homemade wine from the gold chalice.
Paulie and Joey looked at each other, both trying hard to keep from laughing, as Fr. Marquardt had a cringing, distorted look on his face after taking a gulp of the red wine. Paulie was biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing out loud, and he could taste the blood in his mouth. The celebrating priest angrily looked over to the deviant altar boys, who were trying very hard to keep a straight face and look in another direction.
Fr. Marquardt calmly finished blessing the bread and wine, and gave communion to each of the worshippers, with Paulie holding the gold platted paten. When the dispensing of communion was finished, and the closing blessings were made, the priest declared the mass over. Fr. Marquardt then darted a dirty look of revenge to both of his altar boys. As the closing hymn was played, Paulie and Joey followed Fr. Marquardt as they processioned out of the church and into the sacristy. The priest then stood outside and greeted all the parishioners, as Paulie and Joey hurriedly disrobed their cassocks and tried to bolt out of the front door of the church.
“We’re in so much trouble!” Paulie nervously said.
As the boys were trying to leave, Fr. Marquardt grabbed them both by the arm and ordered them both back into the sacristy. When the church had emptied, Fr. Marquardt angrily entered the back room, ready to do war with his two belligerent altar boys. He was foaming at the mouth.
“Which one of you two decided to switch the mass wine with that undrinkable garbage?” he demanded.
Both the boys stood there with their heads down, not willing to ‘spill the beans’. Paulie and Joey were the best of friends since kindergarten, and they had gotten in trouble together many times before. They once planted a pack of cigarettes inside the desk of one of the other bigger boys in class and got the kid who was bullying Paulie to get a detention without Sister Jean ever suspecting the truth. They were loyal friends, who had each other’s backs, and their allegiance to each other was without question. Paulie and Joey had previously made a pact to one another that they would never ‘rat’ on each other, no matter what the consequence was.
“Would any of you two care to talk?” the pastor demanded.
Both boys stood there in the middle of the sacristy, in silence. Fr. Marquardt then went into his cabinet drawer and pulled out a long, two-foot paddle with several drilled holes. Holding the paddle in his hand, he demanded an answer.
“If neither one of you talks, I promise that the punishment that you’ll both receive will be far more painful together than the agony you’ll receive alone,” Marquardt demanded. He was trying hard to coax an answer out of the boys. They both continued to stand there in silence.
“The mass is a very holy ritual, and you two boys have totally disrespected the Lord,” he lectured. Both the boys stood in silence, staring at the floor for several longer minutes.
“Okay boys, have it your way. Both of you remove your pants.” Paulie and Joey both began to remove their trousers.
Suddenly, Joey Campisi spoke up. “It was me, Father. It was me. I’m sorry. It w
as my grandfather’s wine. I’m sorry,” as Joey started crying profusely, confessing to the harmless prank.
More long minutes of silence as Fr. John Marquardt stared at the two young boys, holding the paddle in his hand.
Marquardt was a smaller man, balding, and in his late thirties. He had an intimidating presence about him and wore his black cassock and his dangling gold cross as if they were sacred vestments directly from Rome. He was the typical, Catholic school discipline-arian, who believed that children should be only seen and never heard. He often wore his reading glasses on the tip of his noise, and he had this piercing look of anger that he made with his icy cold blue eyes, often instilling fear into any young boy or girl who had broken any one his many school rules.
The total disrespect that the two young altar boys had demonstrated was far more insulting to the pastor than the actual innocent trick during the mass itself. It was an ‘unholy’ deed that the young altar boy participated in, and he needed to be severally punished.
“Leave us alone, Mr. Russo,” as he ordered Paulie to leave the sacristy and the church. Paulie looked over to his friend, as tears were streaming down Joey’s face. As he left the side door of the sacristy, he could hear Fr. Marquardt locking the door behind him.
Paulie quickly walked to his bicycle and was ready to ride away back to his house as quickly as possible. But there was something inside of the little boy that made him stay behind and wait for his best friend. He walked back over to the sacristy door, holding his Schwinn bike and tried to listen to what was going on inside.
There were no “whacks”, no “whipping” noises, and no slaps of the paddle against Joey’s bare bottom. But he could hear Joey screaming and crying loudly, with such a horrifying, eerie sound. It was as though his best friend were being tortured. The sounds and the agonizing noises coming from Joey in that sacristy room were ghastly, earth shattering screams of horror, screams that Paulie would never be able to put out of his mind.
A good hour had passed, as Paulie faithfully waited by the sacristy door for his friend. Finally, Joey had appeared out of the church’s front door, walking slowly toward his bicycle securely locked in the bike rack. His hair was disheveled, and his face was drenched with tears.
“Joey, what happened?” Paulie demanded. Joey was silent. It was as though he couldn’t talk. He only unlocked his bike and slowly walked along side of his bicycle, all four blocks to his house. Paulie couldn’t understand why Joey wasn’t riding his bike, choosing to walk it home instead. Paulie decided to walk his bike along with him and they continued to walk with their bikes together in silence. After several unanswered questions, Paulie just figured that whatever had happened, it was far too painful for Joey to talk about.
As the two approached Joey’s house, Paulie loudly said, “See you tomorrow, okay?” Joey looked at his best friend and nodded, then turned and walked towards the front door, dropping his bicycle on the front lawn.
As Joey was climbing the steps of the front porch to go inside, Paulie saw something on his best friend that he would never, ever, forget.
The back of Joey’s trousers was completely drenched with blood.
Chapter Four
John Cardinal Brody
It was a cloudy Thursday morning in March 1982, as Fr. John Marquardt arrived at Cardinal Brody’s Chicago mansion on North State Street. His Eminence requested a meeting with Father Marquardt last week to discuss “some issues” which had transpired since his being the pastor at Guardian Angels Parish on the near north side. He had been the pastor there since 1978, and after several transfers between difference parishes around the Archdiocese of Chicago, was hoping he could remain at Guardian Angels Church for several more years until possibly, his retirement.
He was aware of John Cardinal Brody’s health and legal issues. The Cardinal had recently been diagnosed with late stage four lung cancer. It had been announced in the press that his health was quickly deteriorating, and that he refused further chemotherapy treatments. There had also been newspaper reports in the Chicago Sun Times about the Cardinal’s illicit activities and corrupt business affairs.
Various charges and preparations for legal indictments into the Cardinal’s financial transgressions were no secret to Chicago’s Catholics. There had been various allegations of the Cardinal diverting millions of dollars from the various financial funds and church coffers to fund the opulent life style of his married Winnetka girlfriend, Mrs. Katherine Giudice, which included jewelry, cars, lavish vacations, mink furs and a luxury home in Boca Raton, Florida. To say that corruption within the Archdiocese of Chicago was widespread was an understatement. Everyone within the diocese knew that, if the Cardinal’s current health problems didn’t kill him, the pending indictments from the Justice Department would.
Fr. Marquardt parked his yellow, 1980 Ford Fairmont within the adjacent parking lot and walked down North State Street to the entrance of the massive, red bricked Chicago mansion. Its neatly manicured lawns, landscaped bushes and oak trees complimented the black, wrought ironed fences surrounding its beautiful, park-like setting.
He entered the ornate mansion, and after checking in with several of the Cardinal’s associates, entered the immense, lavish office of Cardinal John D. Brody. His Eminence was in a Wheel chair, wearing a light fleece blanket around his shoulders as Fr. Marquardt knelt to kiss the Cardinal’s right hand.
“Please sit down, Father,” His Eminence ordered as he wheeled himself behind his decorative, massive oak desk. He coughed several times, clearing his throat, and then wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief. There clearly wasn’t any doubt that the Cardinal was not in the best of health.
“Father, I called you in here to discuss some issues which have arisen from your parish,” His Eminence began. “Reports and accusations that, according to your previous records, you are no stranger to.”
The pastor sat motionless as the Cardinal began to articulate, “We have several complaints from parents within the Guardian Angels School that you have been, quite frankly, behaving inappropriately with their children,” the Cardinal coughed several more times as he continued. ”Inappropriate behavior that, to be direct, you have been reprimanded and treated for in the past.”
“Your Eminence, I can explain…”
“There is nothing to explain!” the Cardinal screamed. Cardinal Brody was well known for his explosive, domineering temper.
“You’re touching and even possibly, raping small boys within your school needs no explanation, Father.” Cardinal Brody was uttering his contemptuous words to the shamed priest, while keeping from grinding his teeth.
“The Church bears no forgiveness for deviants such as yourself who have taken such liberties of sexual misconduct upon these young children,” the Cardinal loudly reprimanded.
“This is the fifth assignment which we have had to make because of your inappropriate, sexual behavior. You have been in extensive counseling for these deviant, sexual acts in years past, but your misconduct seems to continue. We have paid and sponsored for your therapy sessions and brief sabbaticals, hoping that, through extensive prayer and therapy, you may realize and change this disgraceful behavior,” Brody said.
Father Marquardt was defenseless, feeling shameful that some of his current ‘inappropriate episodes’ that had apparently, reached the desk of the Chicago Cardinal.
“As is the policy of this Diocese, we will not pass judgement on you for your current sins, Father. But we cannot allow you to continue to be a pastor within our diocese schools and have these various accusations continue to come across my desk.”
The Archdiocese of Chicago, through the direction of the Vatican Church, discretely dealt with these “inappropriate transgressions” at that time. It had been the policy of the Vatican Church since 1962, to ‘swear to secrecy” the diocese administrators who had to deal with these various episodes that were occurring with many of their pedophile priests. The church was steadfast in dealing with these issues ‘internally�
�� and to ‘take care of their own.’ Many various dioceses across the country were committed to taking responsibility in getting the counselling and help that these various priests needed in order to serve the Catholic communities that they were assigned to.
Father Marquardt sat there silently, knowing that he would have to brace himself for whatever penance Cardinal Brody would have to, again, strongly recommend.
“We cannot allow you to continue as a priest within our diocese any longer. And judging from your current conduct and your deviant sexual behavior in years past, I do not feel that you can serve the Lord as a Catholic priest,” Brody said. There were several moments of silence, and Fr. Marquardt tried to put his head around the Cardinal’s statement.
“Are you asking me to leave the priesthood?” Fr. John asked.
“I am not asking. I’m demanding,” Brody sternly answered.
Marquardt began to turn three shades of red. Here he was being judged by the most corrupt, most dishonest Cardinal to ever serve the City of Chicago in recent years. He was being asked to leave the priesthood, the only life he has ever known for the last twenty-three years. Since his ordination in 1959, Fr. John Marquardt had always relished his life as a Catholic priest. He enjoyed being the center of the Catholic communities which he served, and the respect that he was given while administrating his pastoral duties.
But he had spent a considerable amount of time in ‘intense prayer and counseling’ to control his sexual demons, but to no avail. He had hoped that some of these ‘inappropriate transgressions would remain discrete and unreported, as many of them did. After being reprimanded and warned for a fifth time by the Chicago Archdiocese, he knew deep down that he had no alternative. He would either voluntarily leave the priesthood or go through the laicization process of being ‘defrocked.’
“Perhaps, Your Eminence, you could give me another chance and transfer me to another diocese where….”
