"Could we talk to you about sins of the flesh?" Susan asked.
Father Chuckie blushed but said, "Yes, when you're old enough."
"We're old enough now," Susan went on. "Why, I—"
"That will do, Susan," Sister said.
Sophie raised her hand and Father Chuckie nodded to her. "Well, Father," she said, "I would like to know if priests are allowed—"
"Thank you, Sophie. That's enough," said Sister. "Mary Agnes, perhaps you have a question for Father."
The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone stood up slowly and smoothed down her skirt. "Father, could you recommend suitable readings for a girl who aspires to enter the Holy Sisterhood?"
Father Chuckie beamed. "Yes, yes, come see me. I'll be happy to instruct you. And any other of you girls who are considering a life of service to God." Mary Agnes sat down again.
I took a deep breath. "Father," I said, rising slowly to my feet, "could I maybe come talk to you about communists and the government and the FBI? It's all so confusing and—"
"Thank you, Francine," Sister Basil said, "but Father meant he will talk to you about matters of religion and morals. I'll tell you what you need to know about the evils of communism."
"But Sister—"
"Sit down, Francine," Sister said.
I sat.
Every day now I heard Walter Winchell on the radio talk about secret communists in this country. Hedda Hopper's newspaper column warned us daily that some writer or actor or newspaperman was "pink." Every day I saw newspapers and magazines telling us that the communists wanted our country and its children. They told us to be vigilant, to watch and listen for subversive talk, to turn in our neighbors or even our families if they seemed suspicious. And the result was what was happening to Jacob Mandelbaum.
And Sophie. The other girls all called her "comrade" and marched like soldiers behind her. I knew she wasn't a communist, but she wouldn't try to convince them otherwise. "And if I were, what would it matter?" Sophie asked me when I brought it up at lunch. "Not all communists are evil or planning to overthrow the government." She took a bite of her bologna sandwich. "Besides, every freedom fighter has suffered the abuse of those who do not understand."
"But you're not fighting for freedom," I said to her. "You fight for the right to play the radio, to ask questions about God and nuns in underwear, and to say what you really think in school essays."
"Same thing," said Sophie. She wadded up her lunch bag and threw it across three tables into the trash can.
I felt a little dizzy, as if the earth had tilted a bit on its axis. Talking to Sophie often made me feel like that.
"I can't just be quiet and let wrong things happen," she continued. "Even little wrong things. I want to make a difference in this world. Don't you?"
"I don't know, Soph. Sometimes I just want to get out alive." We laughed. "You know what I mean. I just want to live my life without any problems, without getting into any trouble."
"I don't think that's possible," she said.
"Well, at least I can try."
After school I thought about Sophie while I worked in the library. I needed to talk to someone about her, and Sister Pete was right here. She was kind and a good listener. I would take the chance. I put Stories of the Popes for the Primary Grades in its place on the shelf and walked over to Sister Pete. I cleared my throat about seventeen times but said nothing.
"You will injure your vocal cords doing that, Francine," Sister Pete said. "What is it?"
"I just wondered whether ... I mean ... is it—"
"Francine!"
"Sister, is it right, you know, about Sophie? How she's treated?"
Sister Pete studied me for a moment. "And how is she treated?"
"The other girls tease her. And no one will be friends with her."
"Indeed, that is not how All Saints girls should behave, but perhaps Sophie brings some of it on herself. I don't see her making an effort to be friends with the other girls."
I had thought about that. "I think Sophie likes being an outsider. She thinks it makes her ... noble. But still it must hurt when the other girls make fun of her and call her names, even though she says it doesn't." I hesitated before going on but then plunged ahead. This could mean real trouble. "And Sister Basil doesn't help. She doesn't encourage the other girls to be nice to Sophie. In fact, Sister herself kind of ... you know ... sort of picks on Sophie and punishes her whenever Sophie opens her mouth."
"Francine, you and I both know Sophie deliberately provokes Sister."
I felt deflated. I'd hoped Sister Pete would take Sophie's side or at least try to understand her. "She's just speaking her mind."
"There is a time and place for everything, and Sister Basil's classroom is neither the time nor the place for speaking one's mind." Sister Pete patted the chair next to her and I sat down. "1 know Sister Basil seems harsh and unfair sometimes. But each nun is different, just as each person is different. Sister Basil expects more quiet obedience and less ... well, liveliness from her girls. She is our principal, and we must honor and obey her."
"Maybe you could talk to Sister Bas—"
Sister Pete put up her hand. "I don't have the right to do that." She smiled. "Nor the courage." She was silent for a moment. "Sister Basil will not change, but Sophie can. Much of what Sophie suffers is the result of her own behavior. She can change that, and indeed, it is her responsibility to do so."
Sister leaned back and put her clasped hands behind the white bib of her habit. "Until then, perhaps her sufferings can bring her closer to Jesus if she bears the taunts and punishments gladly, as He bore the cross. Talk to her about it, Francine."
"Yes, Sister," I said.
Should I talk to Sophie? I wondered as I bounced home on the bus. I knew I myself had told her to be quiet and accept things, but now that advice just didn't seem right. Sophie needed someone to defend her and not just tell her to change or accept things gladly.
I thought Sister Basil was mean and unfair and Sister Pete was wrong. I couldn't help it. I did. I just hoped thinking that was not too bad a sin.
29
In Sister's Office
Some days later, Mr. Bowman and Jacob Mandelbaum were sitting on the Bowmans' front porch when we got there after school. They were so quiet, I could hear the ice cubes tinkle in their glasses.
"Hi, Mr. Mandelbaum," Sophie said.
"How's my girl? No more trouble at school, I hope," he said.
"Everything's fine," she said, giving him a quick hug. We sat down on the steps. "What's going on?" Sophie asked.
"The FBI again," Mr. Bowman said. "That's them, parked in front of the Martins'." He pointed to a dark-green Ford with two men in the front seat. "They followed Jacob here."
My heart thumped. The FBI was right across the street. I was pretty sure this was "getting involved."
"They broke into my house while I was gone, searched for what-I-don't-know, threw my clothes on the floor. And my books," Mr. Mandelbaum said in a small voice so very different from his usual boom. "Now they're here."
"Are you sure it was the FBI," I asked in a whisper, "and not burglars?"
He nodded. "Sure I'm sure. They're after me. Me! I'm for beer and baseball and enough to eat for everybody; I'm against Brussels sprouts, phonies, stuffed shirts, and government goons. For that I'm called a criminal, and they take away my work. And now..."
"The FBI wants to make a deal with Jacob," Mr. Bowman told us. "If he will confess that the communists used him and give the names of others who might be or have been or have known communists, he'll be excused."
"Name names, they said," said Mr. Mandelbaum, "and they'll get off my back. Squeal—that's what they want me to do. Squeal. I would never. What should I do? What should I do?"
His eyes filled with tears. My heart thumped again. Adults were supposed to be sure and strong. I didn't want to see them cry.
I stood up. "I have to go home."
"Oh, Francine, please, stay,"
Mr. Bowman said. "We shouldn't be frightening you like this. I forget, all girls aren't battle veterans like my Sophie. Sit. We'll talk about something else."
"It's all right, Mr. Bowman. I do have to go home."
My father was reading the newspaper when I got there. "Dad?" I asked.
He looked up. "What's wrong, Frannie?"
How could he tell? Did I sound as scared as I felt? "Mr. Bowman's friend, Jacob Mandelbaum, said the FBI—"
He interrupted me. "I told you, I don't want you to get involved in all that political talk. You're much too young to be worried about it."
"But the FBI is investigating him," I said. "Did you know that they do that to ordinary people?"
He folded his newspaper and put it on his lap. "The FBI must know something. Where there's smoke, there's fire."
"Dad, do you know that some people call labor unions communist?"
He shook his head. "That's ridiculous. Union men are good Americans, fighting for the rights of the working man, for fair pay and decent working conditions. How much more American can you be?"
I pushed on, hoping to get more answers before he became impatient and grouchy. "Isn't that what communists do—fight for the rights of the working man? And if people are wrong about unions, could they be wrong about communists?"
"I don't have all the answers, Francine," he said, running his hands through his hair. Holy cow, I thought, he doesn't have all the answers and he's admitting it and he's still not grouchy! I was astonished. "It's complicated," he continued. "First Russia was on our side against the Nazis. Now we hear that the same country, same people, are evil and out to destroy freedom in our country like they did in theirs. I just don't know. But I do know I want real Americans in charge of America, not some stooges sent by Russia. That's what I know." He picked up the newspaper and opened it. "The world is all so different now. How can anyone keep up?" He shook his head again. "It's a different world, Francine. A different world."
I went into my room and lay on the bed. Holy cow. My father just talked to me like I was a real person. And I liked it.
From outside came the sounds of Artie and his friends playing hide-and-seek. Their shouts and their laughter rang in the spring evening. I envied them. They sounded so innocent and out of place in this world where we were all trying to destroy one another.
"Francine, come to my office after school," Sister Basil said before church history the next day. "I would like to talk with you."
My heart fell into my saddle shoes. In all my eight years at No Sinners, I had never been called to the principal's office. What could I have done? I was sure she hadn't seen me stick my tongue out at Mary Agnes during catechism.
Oh no. Could Sister Pete have squealed on me? If so, I was dead.
All afternoon my thoughts were jumbled. I couldn't concentrate on anything. What was going to happen to me?
After school I stood outside her office door and tried to slow my breathing down, preparing to enter the lair of the evil Sister Basil the Rotten. I knocked finally, very softly, hoping she wouldn't hear me and I could go safely home.
"Come in," she called.
I went in. On this rainy May day the office was filled with a cool, green light. Sister Basil motioned me to a chair facing her desk. A large cross with a bronze dying Jesus hung over her head where every visitor would have to stare straight at it.
Sister's desk was large and wooden, its top bare—not one scrap of paper, not a pen or paper clip. No books, no picture, no vase of flowers. Just the bare, polished surface that reflected Sister Basil's scowling face.
"Don't slouch, Francine," she said.
I stood up straighter.
"Sit down, Francine," she said.
I sat.
In movies people's knees knock with fear, and I expected that mine would. They didn't, but my mouth was awfully dry. I held my breath as long as I could and watched her carefully, hoping she wouldn't smile.
Sister said nothing. We just sat there in silence until I thought I would have to scream.
"Francine," Sister said finally, folding her hands carefully in the very center of her desk, "I am concerned about you. You are aware of the dangers of occasions of sin—people and circumstances that can tempt you into sinning..."
My breath whooshed out. Sister Pete had not betrayed me. But what was Sister Basil talking about? The True Confessions magazine Gert had let me read at recess yesterday?
Sister cleared her throat. "When you are young," she said, "every day, every minute, every action and emotion, is critical. You are making choices, going in one direction or another. It is my duty to watch over you girls, to attend to your spiritual and your temporal welfare, and keep you from making dangerous decisions."
She unfolded her hands and leaned back in her chair. "I care about you," she went on, "and when I see you in danger of making unsuitable choices, it is my duty to instruct you—to make sure that your activities are worthwhile, your entertainments are wholesome, and your friends are the right sort, that they are positive influences on you and help you choose the right direction."
Cared about me? She did? Was she being ironic? And did she mean I should be friends with the Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone? That would never work, no matter what Sister thought. Why, I'd rather drop out of school, jump into a pool full of sharks, let red ants crawl over my naked body...
Sister was still talking when I tuned her back in. "...unruly and disruptive, and her father is politically suspicious. This is why it would be better if you ended your friendship right now, before—"
"Sister, do you mean Sophie?" I asked out loud in a voice more squeak than not.
"Of course, Francine. Whom else have we been talking about?"
Sophie? Why, she wasn't unruly or disruptive. Well, I guess she was. But she was my friend. She was smart and interesting. She needed me, and I learned so much from her. Sister didn't see that side of her.
"It's for the best, Francine," Sister said. She nodded toward the door. "You may go." I got to my feet. "You will think about what I said, won't you?"
"Yes, Sister," I whispered as I opened the door. I knew what she meant: "You will do what 1 say, won't you?" And I knew that it wasn't really a question.
30
Serious Trouble for Mr. Roberts, Mr. Mandelbaum, and Sophie
Mr. Roberts is dead. I absolutely loathe Mr. Thomas Heggen, who wrote the book, and made me love Mr. Roberts and be happy for him when he was finally transferred to a ship in the middle of the war, and then, with just a few pages left, killed him off.
I put the book back under my pillow. I'd finish it later when I wasn't so sad.
The day started out bad and got worse. Sophie wasn't at school, the Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone got 100 percent on her religion quiz, and I fell and skinned my knee at recess. After my shift at the library, I missed the five-thirty bus and had to wait ages for another.
Sophie was waiting for me when I got off the bus. "Sophie!" I said, grabbing her arm. "How long have you been waiting here? Why weren't you in school today? I hate it when—"
"Francine, listen," she said in a funny, tight voice. She wiped her red nose with the back of her hand. "Jacob Mandelbaum is dead." Dead? That kind, funny man with the smelly cigars? "It's so awful. He shot himself. In his car. At the beach in Santa Monica."
My eyes prickled. "Shot himself? But why?"
"Why do you think? They were hounding him, the FBI and who knows who else. He couldn't do what they wanted him to, and he couldn't see a way out, so he killed himself." She snuffled. I dug my handkerchief out of my pocket and gave it to her. She blew her nose loudly.
We were silent as we walked. Mr. Mandelbaum had shot himself. Suicide. Straight to Hell. That's what the church taught, anyway. Maybe it was different for Jews. I hoped so. This was one of the times I preferred to think God was more like Mr. Bowman than like Sister Basil. God and Mr. Mandelbaum could sit on a cloud together and talk about baseball.
I too
k a deep breath. "When is his funeral?" I asked Sophie. "Are you going?"
"Mr. M always said he wouldn't want a funeral. He wanted his friends to go watch the Hollywood Stars and have a beer and a cigar. So that's what they're going to do." She snuffled again. "Not me, though. I don't want to laugh and be happy. I'm going to stay home and make up plots against the FBI."
"Come on in," I said when we reached my house.
"Can't. Got to go." She gave me a quick hug and ran off.
"Francine," my mother called from the kitchen as I entered. "You're late. Dinner is ready." I dumped my school-books on the sofa in the living room and joined them at the table.
Meatballs and spaghetti. I stared at the steaming red mound on my plate.
"Beverly Winslow won a dance scholarship to UCLA," said Dolores. Who cared? I poked at my spaghetti.
"The new furniture polish worked like a dream on the dining-room buffet," my mother said. Who cared?
"Joey Manila said—"
"Who cares?" I shouted, dropping my fork. "Who cares!" They all looked at me. "The Bowmans' friend, my friend, Jacob Mandelbaum, is dead. He killed himself because the FBI wanted him to—"
"Blue blazes, Francine!" said my father.
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry," my mother said, taking my hand. "How is Sophie doing?"
I shook my head, unable to speak for the lump the size of a Chevrolet in my throat.
"Listen to me, Frannie," my father said. "The FBI doesn't play around. This is serious. I just hope no one else winds up dead."
I studied my spaghetti for a minute. "Instead of a funeral," I said, "all his friends are going to a ball game where they'll drink beer and smoke cigars. I don't suppose I could go?" I looked at my father's face. "I didn't think so."
Sophie was back in school the next morning when Sister Basil announced, "The Los Angeles school district is considering a plan for next year to make identification tags for all students, in case of a nuclear attack and ensuing chaos."