2
SISTER TERESA HAD AN UNDENIABLE DETERMINATION about her, but somehow she still managed a smile that held genuine sweetness. In that regard, the hazel-eyed nun reminded Father Gaetano of his mother. Though he’d been told that Sister Veronica filled the role of disciplinarian amongst the nuns at the convent of San Domenico—and now performed the same duty for the war orphans—Sister Teresa was the order’s mother superior. She did not use the title, she said, because she did not like to set herself above the other nuns, but he wondered if there wasn’t just a little bit of pride involved; a woman just forty might find it difficult to have other grown women calling her mother.
Indeed, it was unusual to have a relatively young woman acting as abbess, but the position was conferred by secret vote of the nuns in the community, so it was clear Sister Teresa had earned the respect of her sisters, even those many years her elder. Judging by the intelligence glittering in her eyes, Father Gaetano believed that the right woman had been chosen for the job.
“Something must be done,” she insisted.
“Sister, I’ve only just arrived—” Father Gaetano began.
“I know, Father. And I hate to burden you with this before you’ve even had a chance to rest. I know that many new responsibilities await you, but that is my fear, don’t you see? If I wait until you are mired in other concerns, you may forget us.”
She smiled even more warmly, her habit proving insufficient to hide her beauty. Father Gaetano had been told that older priests developed the ability to ignore such distractions, but he had not yet reached that pinnacle of grace, and Sister Teresa’s smile was persuasive. They had both given themselves to the service of God, but Gaetano Noe had grown up in a household with a smart, attractive mother and three beautiful sisters and had watched them manage the boys and men in their lives without any of those hapless males realizing how easily they were manipulated. He was not immune to Sister Teresa’s charms.
“I understand,” Father Gaetano said. He took off his round spectacles, wiped them on his cassock, and returned them to the bridge of his nose. “Lead on.”
She had approached him after mass, before he had even had an opportunity to return to the sacristy and remove his vestments. Keeping him engaged in conversation, she had escorted him from the church and across the lawn to the rectory, which had been transformed into an orphanage during the Allied assault. Father Gaetano would be living there as of today, overseeing the boys’ floor while Sister Veronica stood sentinel over the girls, but he had thus far seen only the front parlor—where he had left his suitcase and small valise—and now the kitchen.
Sister Teresa had promised to make him tea, but the moment she had put the kettle on the stove, effectively trapping him with her hospitality, she had opened up this new conversational front, which had surely been her purpose all along. Now Father Gaetano stood, sliding back his chair. Sister Teresa followed suit, but gestured at the already steaming kettle.
“Don’t you want to wait for your tea?”
The priest scratched one finger along his proud nose. “I didn’t actually want tea, Sister. We were engaged in a polite ritual, and while it is kind of you to offer and I am grateful, if we are going to work together effectively, perhaps it’s best we dispense with such courtesies.”
Sister Teresa gave a soft laugh, and then nodded. “I do like you, Father. I think we’re going to get along just fine. And, next time, I’ll even let you change your clothes before I drag you off on an errand.”
Father Gaetano executed a theatrical bow, and then gestured toward the rear door, through which they had entered.
“Shall we?”
Sister Teresa crossed the kitchen and turned off the stove, moving the kettle off of the hot burner. “The front door will be quicker.”
Curious now, he followed her out of the kitchen and along a narrow hall that led to the foyer, beneath a chandelier with half of its bulbs burnt out. During the war, nearly everything had become scarce in Sicily, and though the Allies now had control of the island, that seemed unlikely to change. More lights would go dark before they could begin to acquire new ones.
He’d come through the foyer when he arrived, so he had already seen the two rounded, ornate staircases that curved up either wall toward the landing at the top, and the children’s rooms beyond. He had seen many of the orphans outside, some of the boys kicking a football while the girls watched, and others climbing on the rocks by the shore. There must be more, but he hadn’t seen them yet. Tonight, at the evening meal, he would formally introduce himself to the orphans, and on Monday he would begin to teach them.
“Coming, Father?” Sister Teresa asked.
He glanced up to see her standing in the now-open doorway, awaiting his attention with a bemused look on her face.
“Of course,” he said. “But you will have to give me a tour afterward. I’d like to get my things—such as they are—hung and put away.”
Sister Teresa nodded in understanding. “Certainly. And I’m sure you must be exhausted. If you’d like to rest a while before dinner, I’ll do my best to see that you’re not disturbed.”
“That would be heavenly,” Father Gaetano said, thinking of the automobile journey the previous evening. He had traveled through the night to be sure he would be able to say mass for the sisters this morning. There was so much to do here, but the thought of a bed and a soft pillow was alluring.
“First, let’s see to your troubles,” he added, not wanting to seem callous.
Sister Teresa escorted him down a winding path that led north, away from the church and the converted orphanage, and from the village of Tringale. The church had been built at the turn of the century, when the village had outgrown the much smaller chapel that still stood at its center. Now the Church of San Domenico was the crown that rested atop the head of the village. When the people looked to the north, they saw the bell tower with its tall steeple, close enough for an easy walk to mass. Close enough for the explosions of war to shatter windows, for bullets to score the walls, for the wounded to be brought from battle and laid out on the floor in the shadow of the cross, where their blood ran in tiny rivers along the mortar between the stones of the floor. A diocesan administrator had told him the grim story when he had received the assignment as pastor. Dark things had happened here, and Father Gaetano hoped to bring new light to the place.
The path led from the rectory onto a property covered by olive trees and then to a clearing where the convent stood, gray and foreboding except for the vegetable garden that had been planted not far from the door. Though it was nearly November, somehow there were still a few tomatoes ripening there.
When Sister Teresa guided him around to the far side of the building, his heart sank at the sight of the damage to the convent. A portion of the third floor wall had been knocked away, and a small section of the roof had been undermined, drooping ominously. A severe storm might cause it to fall in, but all that the sisters had been able to do thus far was drape canvas—what looked to be the torn sails of fishing boats—over the hole.
“When did this happen?”
“The fifteenth of July, only a few days after the Allies began their assault,” Sister Teresa replied, a new chill making her tone brittle. “Sister Annica was in her bedroom when the bomb hit. We…” She turned away from him. “We were able to pull the debris off of her, but there was nothing we could do. She succumbed to her injuries.”
Father Gaetano stared at the canvas draped over the hole in the convent wall. A breeze made it billow slightly, and though he first thought of bedroom curtains, he could not help also thinking of a burial shroud. How could he convince more than two dozen orphans ranging in age from seven to fifteen that God loved them, that He had taken away their parents as part of His great plan for mankind?
“It will be repaired immediately,” he said.
“It’s been months, Father,” Sister Teresa replied. “There was so much damage to the village—houses and shops destroyed, the schoolhouse nothing but debris—people have been so busy clearing the rubble that they’ve barely begun to rebuild their own homes. And building supplies are as scarce as everything else right now.”
Father Gaetano frowned. He knew that his youth sometimes caused people to underestimate him, but there was power in the Roman collar and he knew how to wield it.
“I will speak to them from the altar at tomorrow’s mass,” he said firmly. “You and the other sisters minister to their spiritual needs. Without your guidance, they might well wander from the path of God. The very least they can do in return is to see to your safety. A few men, a few hours a day until it’s done. They’ll be able to see to their own concerns at the same time.”
He turned to her. “Trust me, Sister. It will be done.”