“My mommy can’t be dead because she’s got to take care of us here. She was gonna make potato dumplings for supper because they’re my favorites.”
Little Lucy, mystified, glanced from her sister to the priest and back again, trying to figure out what all this meant.
In a tiny voice, she asked, “Isn’t Mommy going to make dumplings, Annie?”
But Annie wheeled and flung herself against her father who was still kneeling, burying her face against his shoulder.
Unsure of what she should be feeling, Lucy asked timidly, “What’s wrong with Annie, Daddy?”
Sister Regina had begun crying, her young, smooth, unlined face remaining serene while tears ran down her cheeks and wet the starched white wimple beneath her chin. She knew not for whom she felt the more pity, this father or his children. Though she had never longed for secular liberties, she suddenly wished for the freedom to open her arms and embrace them, the father included. But it was not done, of course. The Rule of Benedict, the book by which nuns lived, forbade physical contact with the secular. Thus, she stood in silent prayer, asking for strength for herself and the Olczaks, who clung together, two of them weeping, the third—Lucy—sending perplexed glances over her daddy’s shaking shoulder at the priest and nun, as if asking their intercession for this enigma she didn’t understand.
Father Kuzdek drew Sister Regina aside and said, “Under the circumstances, Sister, I think we should excuse classes for the remainder of the day.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I’ll speak to your students first.”
“Yes, Father.”
They left the Olczaks in the hall and entered her classroom, where some disorder had naturally taken over. Father’s appearance immediately silenced the children and sent them scuttling for their seats. He stood centered before them while Sister Regina remained near the door at the front of the room, her wrists overlapped inside the copious black sleeves of her habit.
“Good afternoon, children,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Father,” they chorused in a singsong, joining their hands on their desktops, transfixed as if God himself had entered the room.
He had a habit, when he lectured them, of clasping his hands at his spine and rocking back on his heels. When he did so, his high-topped black shoes would squeak. They squeaked now as he rocked repeatedly, lifting his face to the ceiling while composing both his words and his emotions.
“Boys and girls...” he began, then studied the hardwood floor where a streak of sunlight turned the boards the yellow of honey. While he went on searching for the exact words, absolute silence filled the room. “You all know what death is now, don’t you? We’ve taught you about dying, and how important it is to be in a state of grace when you die. We never know when we’re going to die, do we?” He went on, incorporating a catechism lesson into what he had to tell them. When he finally divulged that Lucy and Anne’s mother had died today, Sister Regina sensed the change in them. The fourth-graders understood more fully. Some of them contorted their faces, lifting eyebrows, biting lower lips, expressing their dismay wordlessly. Others stared at Father Kuzdek, disbelieving. Best friends exchanged glances laced with fear or fascination. The best friend of Anne Olczak, Janice Goligowski, lowered her head onto her arms and kept it there.
Father gave them time to acclimate to the news, continuing his lecture for several minutes, then announcing that school would be closing for the remainder of the day and they’d all be going home as soon as the school buses could be recalled. He ended, as always, with a prayer.
“In the name of the Father...”
Sister Regina made the sign of the cross and folded her hands, but while her lips formed the words her mind was on the Olczaks, out in the hall, wondering how they would get along without the woman who had been the linchpin of their family, who had fed and clothed and loved them and kept their home the happy, thriving place it had been. Those sweet, well-adjusted children, she thought—let them not change. And their unassuming, hardworking father—let him persevere.
The prayer ended and Father asked the children to be quiet and obedient while he and Sister Regina left the room. He told her he would go himself to call Gus Drong and get the buses here as soon as possible. He asked Sister to go to the other three classrooms and inform the other nuns that school was being dismissed and why.
Returning to the hall, Sister was not at all surprised to find that two of Eddie’s brothers and their wives had already heard the news and had arrived, along with some older nieces and nephews and one of Krystyna’s sisters, Irene Pribil, who was weeping copiously in Eddie’s arms. Krystyna’s parents were there, too, hugging their grandchildren and weeping. Browerville was so small that it took no time at all for the word to spread that one of its young had died tragically. Up and down Main Street and from farm to farm, the news traveled like a prairie fire, in many cases without even the benefit of a telephone. Krystyna Olczak was especially well loved by the women of the town, for she took in sewing and gave home permanents in her kitchen to earn pin money. She was a member of the Sacred Heart Society and the Third Order of St. Francis, and volunteered to set up the booths for the church bazaars and to decorate the outside altars for the feast of Corpus Christi. She contributed pies and cakes for bake sales and drove the nuns to Long Prairie when they needed their eyes checked, and took carloads of children out to Horseshoe Lake in the summer to swim, and in general, brought a dazzle of energy and willingness to all the works of charity she performed for so many. She was to the town’s society what Eddie was to St. Joseph’s: the one you could always call on to do more than her share.
It was no surprise that the crowd began to grow even before Eddie could get his children out of the school building. They continued arriving in the dimness of Paderewski Hall, hugging him, weeping with him, gulping back tears as the women knelt before Eddie’s children and tried to console them, and the men offered to finish Eddie’s daily work for him—sweep the classrooms, wash the blackboards, take in the flag and lock up the building.
It was Eddie’s brother Sylvester who said, “Nobody’s rung the death toll yet. You take the kids home, Eddie, and I’ll do it.”
Eddie—dry-eyed now, but trembling visibly—replied, “No, Sylvester, I want to do it myself.”
Father Kuzdek was back by this time and interjected, “Eddie, Eddie, why put yourself through it? Let Sylvester do it.”
Eddie stepped back and raised his hands as if pushing open a heavy door. “No, sir! No, Father! She was my wife and now she’s gone and I’ve rung that bell for everybody who’s died for the last twelve years, and now I’m going to ring it for her. I got to, see? ’Cause what would she think, my Krystyna, seeing... seeing someone else ringing the bell for her? She’d think, why, where’s Eddie? How come he’s letting Sylvester ring that death bell? And I thank you, Sylvester, for offering, but this...” Eddie’s voice broke. “... this is my job.”
The crowd in the shadowy hall remained silent. Eddie’s children stood one against each of his legs, with their temples on his ribs and his hands on their shoulders. Lucy, who hadn’t sucked her thumb since she was three, had it buried to the knuckle in her mouth.
“I’d appreciate it, though, if you’d take Anne and Lucy home. That’s what I’d like you to do, all of you... take the girls home.”
Some doubtful glances were exchanged. Some feet shifted. Some voices murmured reluctant agreement.
“All right, Eddie,” Sylvester said, gripping Eddie’s arm. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“All right, then.” Sylvester dropped his hand. “You want me to wait out on the church steps for you?”
“No... no, you go along with the rest. I’ll walk home when I’m done. Girls,” he said, dropping down to one knee, “you go with Uncle Sylvester and Grandma and everybody, and I’ll be there in a little bit, okay?”
“All right, Daddy,” Anne said obediently, “but I have to get my sweater first.”
“Me, to
o,” added Lucy.
Sister Regina was back in her room, preparing her children to leave, leading them in a final prayer of the day when the door opened and Lucy and Anne came in.
The prayer stopped and the room fell silent.
Anne said, “We have to get our sweaters.”
“Yeah, we have to get our sweaters,” repeated Lucy.
The two girls walked sedately as they’d been taught—no running in the schoolhouse—to their desks and got their sweaters from the backs of their seats. Their classmates stared at them in mute fascination, unsure of what was expected of them. Lucy’s eyes met those of her friend Janice, but neither said a word.
On their way back to the door, Lucy stopped before her teacher, looked up and crooked her finger. Sister Regina leaned down so Lucy could whisper in her ear. “My mommy died, that’s why we have to go home.”
Anne nudged her and whispered, “Come on, Lucy, let’s go”
Sister Regina thought surely her heart would explode into a hundred shards at the words of this child who still did not understand the import of today’s tragedy. Again she wanted to put her arms around her—around both children—and comfort them, and thereby comfort herself as well.
But Holy Rule forbade it.
Instead, she could only say, “I shall pray for you both.”
Somehow, today, the promise of mere prayer felt inadequate.
________
Everybody faded away and left Eddie, as he wished.
Lucy and Anne went off with his brothers Sylvester and Romaine, and their wives, Marjorie and Rose, and the rest of the relatives.
The school buses came and the students were dismissed.
Father Kuzdek went over to the church to bum a vigil light and pray for Krystyna’s soul.
The nuns retreated to the convent next door.
Alone at last, Eddie stood in the gloom of Paderewski Hall, laden with a frightful emptiness that hurt in much the same way as a hunger pang. It pressed up high and sharp in his midsection, just below his breastbone. There had been moments since receiving the news of Krystyna’s death that he’d felt disassociated from what was happening, as if he were awakening from a bad scare to discover it was really a nightmare after all, and everything was all right.
But it wasn’t all right.
Krystyna was dead, and it would never be all right again.
He remained alone for several minutes, relieved the others were gone so he could feel miserable without them looking on. Tears leaked down his cheeks, but he hadn’t the energy to wipe them away. Instead, he buried his hands in his deep overalls pockets, glancing around the hall from force of habit, making sure everything was tidy at day’s end—storeroom doors closed, classroom doors opened, no lights on anywhere, the bell on the parapet, a slip of sun shooting in from the flower room on the sunniest comer of the building. So much easier to think of common everyday responsibilities than of this huge and stultifying thing he was being forced to accept. So much easier to stay here than go next door and start ringing that bell. He sighed once, but it ended in a shudder.
Better get over to church and get it done.
He urged his feet to start moving toward the double doors at the end of the first-grade hall. The doors were constructed of wood below and small glass panes above. He noted that the lowest row of windowpanes needed washing; he’d do that tomorrow. Then he realized he probably wouldn’t be here tomorrow. He’d be home, preparing for Krystyna’s funeral. Once again the thought brought a quick flash of unreality, as if somebody had mixed up the messages he was receiving.
Outside all was silent. Not a bird chirped. Not a car moved past on the highway out front. Even the saws at Wenzel’s had stopped, as if the entire town were observing silence in honor of Krystyna.
He walked next door to the church, across the skinny blacktop driveway that separated it from the school, and up the eighteen sandstone steps that rose to the majestic edifice above. It had occupied so much of his life, this church; it somehow seemed fitting it should require him now when death stepped in.
He entered through one of the center doors. It closed behind him, sealing him into the vestibule with its stuffy silent smell that he’d known since before he was baptized. It was the smell of aged wood and snuffed candles and of old-country traditions brought here by his Polish immigrant grandparents and the grandparents of his peers before the turn of the century. A pair of ornate holy water fonts, shaped like acanthus leaves, flanked the doors to the nave, pedestals so tall that as a child he’d had to reach above his head to touch the water.
He reached down now, wet his fingertips and crossed himself without registering the words that accompanied the motions. His mind was elsewhere, in a vale of sorrow so sheer it made him wish he’d been in the car with Krystyna, that he was with her now in heaven instead of here, preparing to ring her death bell.
The bell ropes hung to his left, beside a radiator, three of them, suspended from an ornate tower one hundred and fifty-two feet above his head. He knew which rope was which by its length and the number of knots, and chose the one that played the lowest, most morose note. The rope was thick as a cow’s tail, worn smooth and oiled by his hands over these last twelve years.
It took a surprising amount of effort to swing an inert bell that large, and a modicum of experience to haul on the rope just hard enough to make it ring once. But Eddie had done it so many times it was second nature to him.
Today, however, when his hands gripped the rope, nothing happened. Only his fists closing around the sisal.
I can do this, he thought, I can do this. I will do it for Krystyna.
His grip tightened.
His shoulders rounded.
His eyes stung.
Bonng.
The bell tolled once... for the first year of her life—born on the bed in her parents’ bedroom out on the farm where they still lived, raised in the Polish Catholic tradition, baptized in this very church.
He waited a full minute, the longest minute of his life, while pictures of her flashed before him, a spectrum of pictures, from photographs of her as a child to imagined pictures of her last few seconds of life before the train hit the car. Oh, Krystyna, why did you do it? Why did you try to beat that train? If only I had been with you, I would have said, Stop, wait, you can’t make it!
Bonng.
The bell tolled again... for the second year of her life—when she was photographed on the back of a draft horse so broad her legs stuck out like a dragonfly’s wings. That was long before Eddie Olczak knew her, or loved her, or kissed her, or stood in this church and spoke vows with her or became the father of her children.
Bonnng... for the third year when...
Surely this was all a mistake. Surely when he finished and walked home Krystyna would be there, the same as always, wearing an apron, standing at the kitchen table, setting some woman’s hair in pin curls. She would flash him a smile as he entered, and say, “Well, look who’s here. It’s my Eddie spaghetti.” (Or sometimes she’d say Eddie confetti, or Eddie my steady, or whatever rhyming word came to her mind that day.) And he’d pour a cup of coffee, and lean against the kitchen cabinets and watch while she worked, and visit with the women, and wonder what Krystyna was saving up for this time. Twenty-five cents she earned for each head she set. Fifty cents for giving a Toni home permanent, which took her four full hours to do. She loved pretty clothes, and jewelry, loved to go dancing on Saturday nights over to the Clarissa Ballroom or out to the Knotty Pine Coliseum. Sometimes she bought perfume and lipstick from the Avon lady. Most often though, she spent her money on yard goods to sew clothes for herself and the kids.
But no more. No more.
Bonnng.
Oh, Krystyna, Krystyna, why were you taken so soon? How can I go on without you? How can I face that house at the end of every day, and who’ll be there for the children?
Bonnng.
Twenty-seven times he rang that bell. Twenty-seven minutes it took him to tell the town she
was gone, while he remained dry-eyed and stoic in the face of duty. And then, at the end, according to custom, he grasped all three ropes at once, sending up a glorious tintinnabulation of rejoicing—life everlasting, amen!—and it was then, as he rang the bells in unison, that Eddie finally broke. Surrounded by the deafening sound, his tears came all at once, and with them anger and condemnation. He hauled on those ropes as if to punish them, or himself, or to curse a fate too cruel to be borne, sometimes hauling so hard that the weight of the bells pulled his boots several inches off the floor, weeping and howling out his sorrow and rage where only God and Krystyna could see him, while above his head the bells poured forth a celebration of her arrival in heaven.
CHAPTER THREE
Eddie might have thought all the nuns went to the convent after the school buses left, but Sister Regina did not. She returned to her room and remained alone, listening to the soft weeping in the hall, the voices fading away, and his footsteps leaving the building. She had overheard the conversation and knew Mr. Olczak was going over to the church to ring his own wife’s death knell. In the quiet of the schoolroom she waited for it to begin. The sound of the first bell, and the picture of him ringing it, drove her to her knees in profound sympathy.
It was there Mother Agnes found her, with her back to the door, her forehead on her sleeve and her sleeve on the edge of the desk.
“Sister Regina?”
She lifted her head and discreetly wiped her eyes before turning, still kneeling, to face her superior.
“Yes, Reverend Mother?”
Mother Agnes was in her late fifties with a prominent chin, ruddy complexion, and pale blue eyes that appeared huge and watery behind thick glasses. “Have you forgotten Matins and Lauds?”
“No, Mother. I haven’t.”
“Ah,” Mother Agnes said, then stood thoughtfully for a moment. “We waited for you.”
“I’m sorry, Reverend Mother, I...” A truly obedient nun would have followed her superior without a word, and this is what Mother Agnes expected. But Sister Regina felt as if she would suffocate if she had to kneel in the tiny chapel at the convent with seven other nuns praying Matins and Lauds, when she was having trouble drawing a steady breath without bursting into tears.