Donny was a carefree, happy-go-lucky boy who had black hair and sang like an angel. He was also an only child. He lived close to the school, on the Auburn side of the railway bridge, towards Park Road. Like other boys, he was a bold, brazen lad, but for reasons I never understood the nuns punished him a lot less. There were rumours about his poor home life and his parents’ health, rumours also about his family returning to Scotland to live. Donny would throw his head back and laugh like he was drinking sunlight, Ha Ha! Go back where? He was always needed as a lead singer in the choir when we sang at Masses and concerts. I figured that the nuns didn’t want to upset him too much because he might refuse to sing for them.
The Sisters received their meat from a butcher in Park Road, and at one point in my schooling at St Peter Chanel’s — because I had a bicycle with a wire basket that I’d carry my school case in — I was asked to ride over and pick up their order. This was written down for me and I was given money to pay the butcher. Take your time, Sister Fiacre would say. Just come back safely with the order. A kind woman, she was short and plump.
The trip took longer than I expected and my legs hurt from all the uphill pedalling, but I was doing this for the nuns, for St Peter Chanel, for God and ultimately for the good of my soul. Thank you, Peter, Sister Fiacre would say when I returned, and she’d give me threepence. Threepence! Think of the lollies that I could buy on the way home from school … Clinkers, cobbers, freckles … So I became the official errand boy who was sent twice a week to the butcher’s. Those orders that didn’t fit into my basket would be stuffed inside my shirt and I would pedal back to school looking like I was pregnant.
My secret job of bike-riding to the butcher’s during school time came to an end when I was caught in heavy rain — a downpour that soaked me so thoroughly my clothes weren’t dry by the time I returned home. I sniffed, sneezed, coughed and ended up in bed, needing medication. When my parents got the truth from me, all the lollies in Heaven could not have placated my mother’s anger.
Sister, what are you doing to my son?
Nothing at all, Mrs Kornelia. He’s been helping us — grand lad that he is — and, in turn, he was praising God.
No more. He must never ride to shops any more. School is for learning. God know that. If you had a child, Sister, would you send him out in rain?
The rain came unexpectedly, dear woman. No one planned it.
Not even God?
I’m sure God has his reasons, if he did. We are sorry. It will not happen again.
Such was the scene at the door of the convent when my mother brought me back to school after I’d been away for several days. She literally marched me to the side entrance and demanded to be heard. It fell short of a commotion but I was never sent again to the butcher for meat.
The key lesson every day at school was Religion — Religion as specifically set out in the Green Catechism. Its official name was the Catechism of Christian Doctrine. The price was sixpence and it had been issued originally under the Imprimatur of N.T. Gilroy, Archbishop of Sydney on 8/9/’43. Nineteen forty-three! Two years before I was born. This little green book would have such a profound and lasting influence on my life — and it cost only sixpence! Five cents! What a small price to pay for learning whatever you needed to know that would get you into Heaven.
Salvation depended on us learning prayers for all occasions. The Sign of the Cross was first; then you had The Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary, the Glory Be to the Father and The Apostle’s Creed, Grace Before Meals and Grace After Meals. There was literally a prayer for every part of the day, including a Prayer for Our Holy Father the Pope. A picture showed His Holiness Pope Pius XII, bespectacled, a hand raised in benediction, looking youthful and uptight, his thin lips set, as if there was something he wanted to get off his chest but couldn’t bring himself to say it. The prayer was prefaced with the instruction: To be recited in all Catholic schools each morning.
So we prayed, morning, noon and afternoon, for His Holiness, for St Peter Chanel, for the Sisters of St Joseph, for Father Donovan the Parish Priest and for the Faithful Departed. We were instructed to pray with special fervour on Feast Days, Holy Days of Obligation, Easter, Christmas, during Mass and Benediction, in preparation for Confession and during the Stations of the Cross.
If we failed to pray we were loaded with guilt and shame, repeatedly told stories of the lives of the saints, those “holy” men and women who prayed to die in the state of grace. They did, and now sat at God’s right hand in Heaven. Those who didn’t, the sinners, now repented for their lapses and languished in Limbo or, worse still, burned in Hell.
Our home lesson was often from the Green Catechism, and we were given parts of these lessons to be learnt by heart for the Religion class next day. Some of these questions and answers were simple and the reply straightforward. So, the Commandment “Thou shalt not kill” was easy to understand. So, too, the Fourth Commandment, “Honour thy father and thy mother”. But the First Commandment, “I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt not have strange gods before Me”, caused me considerable trouble.
In our street lived a Russian family who boarded in the back of the house of another family. They weren’t there long before it became evident they were religious, and every Saturday, on their Sabbath, as they called it, they went off to their church. They dressed in their best clothes, suits and dresses; their son wore a tie and the older daughter wore pink ribbons in her hair, gloves and a hat like her mother. The children kept to themselves and attended a private school in Strathfield. Are you Catholics? I asked Misha, the son.
No, he replied blankly. We are Seventh Day Adventists.
That means they’re Protestants, said Stefan.
It means we are the true believers, said Misha, unfazed by Stefan’s sudden knowledge. We worship God on Saturdays.
Bad luck, said Stefan. That means you’ll never get to go to the pictures on Saturday arvo.
We have Bible lessons at our church; then we draw pictures and colour them in.
What sort of pictures? I asked.
Pictures of God and animals.
What does your God look like? I asked.
Like God, replied Misha. He has a beard and lives in the clouds.
So does our God, I said triumphantly. He holds out his arms and protects the world and all the animals. Fixed in my mind was the picture I had of God from The Junior Bible and Church History, another book we had to read and learn from at St Peter Chanel’s. In the first picture God was in the clouds, his arms outspread. There were trees, mountains, rocks and water below Him. Rays of sunlight were coming out from Him. He wore a shirt with long sleeves and a cape over His shoulders. In the next picture He was creating animals. Again He was in the clouds, surrounded by stars and the moon. Below Him were a tiger, a lion, an eagle, a flying goose, a sheep, a rabbit, two giraffes, a reindeer, a camel, a horse, an emu and a kangaroo. Out on the waters a whale was blowing spray from its spout. Can I go to your church? I asked.
I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my mother … And you’ll have to ask yours.
Misha stood there unblinking, like a statue, his square shoulders hunched forward, giving him a sad, defeated look, like he was about to cry or have one of those asthma attacks we’d heard he used to get but never saw him having.
My mother gave permission for me to attend Misha’s church and I accompanied his family one Saturday. The church was in the city and looked more like an office than a church. The polished furniture was a bright brown colour and there was a set of large glass doors. People wore their best clothes and the minister was called a pastor; he also wore a suit and tie. He carried a Bible and didn’t look anything like the priest at St Peter Chanel’s.
Misha and I were separated from his parents and sister and put into a small group. We sat at the feet of a lady who talked to us about Adam and Eve’s wickedness and God’s curse on them. Had any of us done anything wicked? No, no, everyone shook their heads. It was just like being in class with Sister
Brendan. Are any of you telling a lie? She was very polite but her eyes were cold and went straight through me. You will burn in Hell if you lie to God! God knows if you are telling a lie! She thumped her knee with a fist and everyone at her feet sat up like frightened puppies. Does anyone here want to burn in Hell? Again, everyone shook their heads. The class was getting more and more like one of Sister Brendan’s. No? No sinners here today? Very good. The lady smiled and handed out small coloured pencils and pictures of animals for us to colour in. Mine was a rooster. There would be a prize for the best finished picture, one by a boy and one by a girl. This is what I came for and I made sure that my picture was going to be the best. I used brown, yellow, red and dark blue to colour my rooster like the one we had at home. The blue feathers had to look glossy like polished metal but they couldn’t be black. The red feather must look like blood, the beak orange but not too dark.
Your rooster is really good, said Misha.
How do you know? I asked.
I just do. The teacher likes you because you paid attention, too.
The teacher’s name was Miss Kim and she did give me the boy’s prize. She congratulated me and said, Welcome to our church … Let’s give Peter a clap, children. They clapped but only half-heartedly. The prize was a packet of the same short coloured pencils we’d been using. I could take my rooster home to show my parents.
Misha whispered, Now you are one of us.
What do you mean?
It means you can come to church every Sabbath with us.
But I want to go to Mass with my parents tomorrow.
Can’t. You are a Seventh Day Adventist now.
No, I’m not. I’m a Roman Catholic.
You speak Polish at home. You must have been a Polish Catholic. Now you have become a Polish Seventh Day Adventist.
Miss Kim stopped us speaking by clapping her hands and announcing that Scripture was over. We could go out into the hall and have milk and biscuits. Now that was something different from going to a Catholic Mass. Here they gave me prizes and fed me Monte Carlo and Milk Arrowroot biscuits. The milk was strawberry-flavoured and I could take a biscuit to eat on the train going home. Wait till I tell my mother and father that I am now a Seventh Day Adventist and have to stop going to a Catholic school.
Misha and his family delivered me home and reported on my good behaviour. After they left I told my parents all about the day and showed them my rooster picture and the packet of coloured pencils I’d won. Now I belong to their religion, I announced. Now I’m not a Catholic anymore. My father patted me on the head, as if to say, yes, yes, of course, and went out into the garden; my mother ignored me and went on peeling potatoes at the sink. O Matko Boska, she whispered under her breath. O Mother of God.
Mum, they’ve got a great religion. You should go on the next Sabbath.
I’ll go to Mass tomorrow and so will you.
I’m a Seventh Day Adventist now.
You’re still a Catholic and always will be. Listening to a pretty lady talk about Adam and Eve and getting a few biscuits and a drink of pink milk doesn’t make you a Seventh Day Adventist.
What makes me a Catholic?
You were baptised a Catholic and you’ll die a Catholic. So will your father and so will I. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it will be. Remember that. Listen to your mother and do what she says and you’ll end up on the right side of the street. Misha and his family have their religion, we have ours. Koniec! That meant, End or Finished; it also meant that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. If I pushed her any further about this I’d end up on the wrong side of the wooden spoon.
But on Monday, at school, when I tell Stefan, Leo, Ziggy and Veronica that I went to Misha’s church they say that I’ll go to Hell because I broke the First Commandment and the Green Catechism says on page thirty-four that it’s sinful to take part in non-Catholic religious services. It is a sin against faith. Mary Duffy overhears the conversation and goes telling tales that I went to a Protestant service.
Is that true, Peter?
Yes, Sister Brendan, it is true.
Why?
Because I wanted to colour in pictures and then I won a prize and they gave me biscuits and milk …
Before I can finish Sister Fiacre comes on to the veranda and asks, What’s all this about, Sister Brendan?
Peter went to a Protestant church service, Sister.
Sister Fiacre’s hand goes up to her mouth. Oh, she exclaims. My, my, what are we to make of all this? Does your mother know?
Yes, Sister, my mother does know. So does my father.
And they don’t mind?
My mother prayed to the Virgin Mary about me and asked her for help. She said O Matko Boska and that means O Mother of God. I also tell Sister Fiacre about Miss Kim, the rooster, the biscuits and everything else — even getting the extra biscuit to eat in the train on the way home. Sister Fiacre watches me and smiles. She pats my head and presses me to her side and I think, Why can’t Sister Brendan be nice like this. Mary Duffy is pulling faces at me behind the nuns’ backs.
God understands all about roosters and coloured pencils. Of course Miss Kim was correct about Adam and Eve and God’s curse. Yes, yes, we must not tell lies … Did you go to Mass yesterday?
With my parents, Sister.
See, all’s well then.
That night I ask my mother why I can’t go to the Marist Brothers School in Parramatta like some of the other boys at St Peter Chanel’s are going to do. She says, It’s because you’re not ready — besides, when you go it will be to the Christian Brothers College in Strathfield. But not for another year.
But I’m in Fourth Class.
You need to grow up more. Your father and I have decided another year at St Peter Chanel’s will do you good. Besides, you can become an altar boy and that will make us even more proud of you!
An altar boy! The nun in charge of training the altar boys is Sister Brendan. No, Mum! No!
I’ve already spoken to the Sisters, and Sister Fiacre has given her permission. She is the boss.
It’s Sister Brendan who decides who finally passes the tests for altar boys.
Maybe, but Sister Fiacre says your Spelling and English are very good and you learn new words easily. Latin shouldn’t be a problem for you.
Words words, blah blah blah … I’d rather be good at Arithmetic and not get yelled at in Sister Brendan’s Arithmetic classes.
But the end of Fourth Class arrives and I get a prize for coming first in English. The prize is a book called The Eight Days Feud by G. H. Tempany, and it’s about a cricket quarrel in a posh English school. I’ve discovered that I’m good at writing compositions, also stories about horses, storms and holidays at the beach, even though I’ve never been to a beach in my life and I hate storms. I’m scared of horses since Dodger threw me one day on the farm in Parkes.
My parents are pleased with me when I get selected to be a candidate for the Altar Boys Class. But Sister Brendan is still my biggest worry at school. She never says a kind word when I get the daily Spelling List one hundred per cent correct — and she screams her head off when she comes in to take Arithmetic. All she does is talk about her Primary Final students and the results they get. My parents will be taking me away from St Peter Chanel’s before Sixth Class so I don’t really care about her Primary Finals.
I’m now in Sister Dymphna’s class, Fifth, and that’s a lot easier than being in Sister Brendan’s. Sister Dymphna is a big woman, stern but friendly, and my mother says she’s Second-in-Charge. My father explains that it’s like being the foreman at work. I understand that, and it doesn’t take me long to get on with this nun.
When I make a mistake with division sums or how many square feet there are in a square yard or how many yards there are in a chain, she doesn’t get cross. She says, Never mind, it’ll come to you one day. Sit down, and we’ll try again later. When she speaks about chains in Arithmetic all I can do is think about the chain that our dog’s tied to an
d I have absolutely no idea why chains should be a part of Arithmetic.
The class is different now because some of the boys have gone away to Brothers Schools and Mary Duffy has been sent to a boarding school in the Hunter Valley, wherever that is, but it makes me happy. I hope it’s far away. When I hear the words hunter and valley I think of jungles and natives and animals. Maybe she’s lost and getting stung by mosquitoes and eaten by leeches and wild animals.
At home I boast about my new teacher and I’m told that I’m lucky to have Sister Dymphna. She is popular with all parents and nuns. My mother still does the washing and ironing for the nuns at the convent on Saturday mornings and she notices how they behave around one another. She says they pray a lot, they sing hymns in the convent chapel and they sit in the yard and sew and knit; sometimes one of them plays a piano. Sister Anne is very homesick for Ireland and cries. My mother says she understands her and they talk about their homelands. My mother cries too. Sister Austin is another nun who is friendly. These nuns have all responded to the call of their vocations, as we are often told in class, just like Father Donovan, the Parish Priest, and Father Doherty, the Assistant Priest. God has given the nuns talents — even Sister Brendan, to whom I now go twice a week after school and on Saturday mornings for Latin classes. My parents are filled with pride at my becoming an altar boy. My father says, You’ll look like a Polish soldier in your altar clothes. It’ll be your uniform.
Why will I look like a Polish soldier?
Because the colours of Poland are red and white.
Why?
Red stands for all the blood that people have shed in fighting for Poland. White stands for God.
The Sparrow Garden Page 12
