Acts of Faith (17 page)

“You
have
been spending too much time in Mea Shearim.” Boaz smiled. “Now, tell me how you got on this crazy tour.”

Deborah spilled out her story—that is, most of it. She did not feel it necessary to explain why she had been exiled from her father’s house.

“So,” Boaz concluded when she finished her narrative, “now you’re homeless in the homeland of your own people.”

“That’s about it,” Deborah shrugged. “So when my money runs out …” She stopped.

In truth, she had been afraid to give serious thought to what she would do when her remaining dollars were exhausted. She knew only that she would not go back to the Schiffmans’.

Boaz sensed the words that would most comfort her. “Why don’t you stay here on the kibbutz for, say, a month while you think things over? Of course, you’d have to work like everybody else.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to hard work,” she responded eagerly, then diffidently asked, “Could it be outdoors?”

“Outdoors, indoors—in the fields, in the kitchen, with the chickens, with the children. Everybody here does a little bit of everything.”

“Then I’ll do a little bit of everything,” she affirmed with a tiny smile—and for the first time since she had left America felt the stirrings of happiness. “When do I begin?”

“Well, officially, tomorrow morning—unofficially, right now. I’ll have my wife find you a bed in one of the girls’ dormitories, and,” he added with a smile, “get you something to wear besides that
shmatta
you’ve got on. Meanwhile, I’ll go explain things to your tour leader.”

“Will he be upset?” Deborah asked uneasily.

“No,” Boaz answered, with a hearty laugh, “we pay him a commission on every recruit he brings us.”

The next day she made her final call to Mea Shearim to announce that she intended to stay at “a kibbutz up north.”

Leah’s first questions were not unexpected. “Are they Orthodox? Is the food kosher?”

“No,” Deborah replied, “but the people are.”

“Will you at least give us your address? We have to call your father. Please, Deborah, out of respect for—”

“No.” She cut Leah off. “I’ll call my parents myself—when I’m ready.”

After a moment she added, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

In other words, thank God it’s over.

For all her bravado with Leah, Deborah did not call her parents immediately. It took her several more days—and many bitten fingernails—to work up the courage.

Surprisingly, her father did not lose his temper.

“Deborah,” he murmured sympathetically, “you must be under enormous stress.”

“On the contrary, Papa. I feel calmer than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“But a kibbutz is no place for a girl like you—certainly not one of the
Ha-Shomer Ha-Tza’ir.
They’re immoral people.”

“That’s not true,” she retorted, hurt and angry. “Besides, I don’t care what you say, I admire them.”

She was deliberately goading him now, venting the rage that had accumulated since he had cast her off, but the Rav simply answered softly.

“Listen to me, Deborah,” he said. “I have no time for squabbling. Tomorrow they will come to take you home.”

“Papa, this is my home now. Anyway, who do you mean by ‘they’?”

“Some of our people … from Jerusalem.”

“You make them sound like the Mafia.”

“Deborah,” her father cautioned, “you’re trying my patience. Now you will do what I say, or—”

“Or what? I’m eighteen, Papa. I’m officially an adult. And if any of your ‘people’ try to drag me from this place, they’ll have to deal with two hundred kibbutzniks.”

For a moment there was silence. Then she heard her exasperated father remark, “Rachel, you try and talk some sense to her.”

Now her mother was on the phone.

“Deborah, how can you do this to your father? You’re breaking his heart.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she answered, “but I’ve made up my mind.”

The tone in Deborah’s voice convinced Rachel that she was immovable.

“You’ll write at least?” her mother pleaded in capitulation.
“Even a postcard—just to let us know you’re well.”

Deborah tried to speak, but her throat tightened. She was saddened for her mother, trapped in a Brooklyn ghetto in a medieval marriage and a Dark Age mentality.

At last, despite the tears that almost choked her, she responded.

“Yes, Mama. I would never hurt you. Please give my love to everyone.” She stopped, took a breath, and then added softly, “Including Papa.”

B
y the summer of Tim’s twenty-first birthday, he had completed three full years at St. Athanasius’.

All that time, he had remained in school during the holiday breaks and taken ever more intensive private tutorials, not only with Father Sheehan, but with Father Costello, who had a doctorate in ancient languages from the Pontifical Oriental Institute in Rome.

In recent times the number of candidates for the priesthood in America had declined alarmingly. Yet suddenly as if from nowhere, there had appeared in this barren desert the dazzling figure of Timothy Hogan, strikingly handsome, charismatic, and brilliant.

His teachers were in awe. Tim had not only completely mastered the Bible tongues—Latin, Greek, and Hebrew—but even Aramaic, the everyday language spoken in the Holy Land at the time of Jesus.

Tim was unique in yet another way: he did not seem to have a single friend. Some speculated that his very brilliance intimidated the other students, but the more acute minds on the faculty realized that he shunned all relationships—with anyone but God. Whatever time he did not devote to study he spent in the chapel praying.

Thus it followed that unlike the rest of his classmates who saw the summer as their only chance to laze—and
perhaps furtively gaze—on a crowded beach, Tim had no intention of spending these precious months in frivolity. On the last official day of school, he bade farewell to his classmates and, despite the seductive sunshine, headed into the library.

He was so immersed in comparing St. Jerome’s two versions of the Psalms that he barely felt the gentle tap on his shoulder or heard the soft voice of Brother Thomas, one of the newly ordained deacons.

“They want to see you in the Rector’s office.”

Tim looked up, puzzled. “Who?” he asked.

“I wasn’t told. I only know they arrived in the longest car I’ve ever seen.”

Could it be someone to inform him that his uncle or his aunt had died? That was the only thing that he could imagine, since he had no other ties with the outside world.

He knocked diffidently and then heard Father Sheehan’s friendly voice call out, “Come right in, Timothy.”

Tim opened the door and was somewhat taken aback to see—in addition to the Rector—five imposing visitors. All were elegantly clad, only one in clerical dress—Bishop Mulroney, his hair now fully gray.

“Your Excellency.…”

“Good to see you, Tim. I’ve heard some absolutely splendid things about your studies. I’m extremely proud.”

Tim glanced at the Rector, who nodded, beaming.

“Yes, Timothy. I’ve been in constant touch with the diocese.”

“Oh,” was all that Tim could manage, hesitant to express his pleasure, lest it be deemed sinful pride. “I’m glad that I didn’t … disappoint Your Excellency.”

“On the contrary,” the Bishop replied. “In fact, you’re the purpose of our journey.”

Tim glanced at the other visitors and thought he recognized at least two of them. For even in the “edited” newspapers the seminarians were allowed to read, he’d
seen pictures of John O’Dwyer, Junior Senator from Massachusetts. And he was fairly certain that the man in the dark gray three-piece suit was the current Ambassador to the United Nations, Daniel Carroll.

But they were never formally introduced.

Each merely offered Tim a friendly smile, as the Bishop motioned him to sit, and then offered a partial explanation.

“These gentlemen are all important businessmen and public servants, as well as devout and committed Catholics.… Tim, the record you’ve set at St. Athanasius’ has drawn us here like a lodestone.”

Tim lowered his head, not knowing whether it would be proper even to say, “I’m flattered.”

“Tell me, Timothy,” the senator politely interrupted, “what are your future plans?”

He looked up in mild surprise.
Plans?
“I—I hope to be ordained in two or three years.”

“We know that,” Ambassador Carroll acknowledged. “Our real question is your future plans within the Church.”

“Do you have any particular aspirations?” one of the other men inquired.

Aspirations? Another term that struck Tim as incongruous in an ecclesiastical context. “Not really, sir. I only want to serve the Lord in whatever capacity I might be useful.” He hesitated, then confessed, “As Father Sheehan may have told you, I’ve been doing a lot of work in Scripture. Someday, I’d like to teach.”

The others present nodded at one another, exchanging knowing glances. Senator O’Dwyer even whispered audibly to the Bishop, “There’s no question in my mind.” He then looked at the Rector, who addressed the young seminarian.

“Tim,” Father Sheehan began, “there are two roads to Rome.…”

Rome?

“The first is that on which you’ve already embarked—the
pursuit of sacred learning. The other is what we might call—for lack of a better word—‘leadership.’ ”

“I don’t believe I understand,” Tim murmured uneasily.

The bishop took up the discussion.

“Tim, as pastors of the Church, our primary purpose is of course to do God’s work. But we are also an earthly institution. The Vatican needs gifted administrators. And the American Church needs to have its interests represented at the Holy See.”

During the pause that ensued, Tim tried to read the compass of the conversation. Where were they heading?

At last, the senator spoke on behalf of his colleagues. “We would like to send you to Rome to complete your studies.”

Overcome, Tim barely managed to say, “I feel honored … very honored. Does that mean I’d be going to the North American College?”

The bishop leaned back in his chair, and smiled. “In due course. Naturally, you’d have to get a degree in Canon Law. But first we would be happy if you spent a semester at the University in Perugia studying Italian.”

“Italian?” Timothy inquired.

“Of course,” Bishop Mulroney responded. “It’s the
lingua franca
of the Vatican and of those who serve there—from the Swiss Guards to the Holy Father himself.”

Timothy was too astonished to say anything.

“You’re leaving on July fifth,” the bishop continued, in a matter-of-fact tone. “That gives you two weeks to visit your family and come to Fordham University to meet the rest of the group.”

“Sir?” Tim inquired.

“Yes,” explained one of the industrialists. “We’re sponsoring four young men as gifted as yourself. Good Catholic boys.”

The senator from Massachusetts added, “
Irish
Catholics.”

Tim was sad at the prospect of leaving St. Athanasius’—the only real home he had ever known. Moreover, he was reluctant even for appearance’s sake to pay a farewell visit to his family.

And, worst of all, to return to the scene of his crime.

The Delaneys were glad to see him—though the feeling was not mutual. And Aunt Cassie had an unfortunate way of expressing it.

“If only your poor mother were sane enough.…”

Tuck exploited the occasion as a festival worthy of expansive toasting.

“They don’t send just any priest to Rome—especially when he’s not even got the collar. God’s chosen you, Tim, believe me. And I love you for it.”

It did not escape Timothy’s attention that this was the single time in their entire relationship that his uncle had employed this phrase.

Tim blessed the dawn of his departure.

It seemed to him that he had barely taken a breath during all the time he had spent in Brooklyn. Naturally, he went regularly to Mass and met with some of his old teachers, but for the most part he remained in the house, reading. He could not even bring himself to walk on Nostrand Avenue for fear of meeting any of the families he had once served—especially the Lurias.