Brooklyn was known as the city of churches. There were those who insisted they outnumbered saloons. The competition between churches was fierce, and it was hard to see how they all stayed in business. There were no rewards for good attendance, and there were no firm penalties for absence. All Catholics agreed that Protestants and Jews got away with murder, but they could not. God was always watching them and followed every move they made, much like a surveillance camera. When the bell tolled, it tolled for them. Every Catholic church had a steeple with a bell or two in it; some could play carols at Christmas time. Some of them rang every fifteen minutes day and night with stubborn disagreement concerning the time. Consequently, the bells never stopped ringing.
You can go to Rome and Florence and note the stubbornness there as well. Catholics, while ringing bells incessantly, are not overly concerned with the time of day. Jews and Protestants don't ring bells to keep time; they consult their wrist watches and keep time to themselves.
During Easter and Christmas, the Catholic churches lucky enough to have sets of bells put aside the quarter-hour bells and played carols day and night. The cacophony would drive non-Catholics to the brink of madness, particularly when they were accompanied by the nightly vocal ensemble of cats on the tenements' back fences. To those of the 'true' faith, however, they were a constant reminder that God, as personified by the Bishop of their local diocese, was speaking to them through the magic medium of the bells.
While bells in many churches chimed or rang joyously, the deep-throated tolling of St. Theresa's was unique. Its raw iron resonance boomed down city streets and ricocheted from the sooty walls of tenement alleys like the voice of God himself. It summoned every Catholic to prayer and devotion, beginning with the seven o'clock mass. No one could hide from its voice. Roaches, in kitchen closets, would prick up their ears and skitter to the safety of cracks and crevices. Even Catholics with profound hearing disabilities would sit up at attention and glance at the clock on their kitchen wall.
St. Theresa's only bell was a beauty, a gift from the Bedford family when the church was built. Cast in Akron, Ohio, at the turn of the century, the massive iron bell had been intended for the Salt Lake City Cathedral, but it was finished too late to be installed while the church was being built. Afterwards, it proved too large to fit into the steeple. The bell sat in the foundry at Akron until Mr. Bedford bought it at cost and donated it to St. Theresa's parish, then under construction.
Its steeple was, in effect, built around the giant bell. It hung seventy feet above the lobby floor and was rung at every mass by either elderly Father Ambrose or the even more elderly sexton, Harold Wickes. They both suffered from rheumatoid arthritis and, like all good Catholics, neither wore a watch. By the Grace of God, however, one of them was always limber or alert enough to undo the rope from the cleats on the lobby wall. He would then pick his feet up and collapse, frog like, to the floor holding the rope tightly. The mighty bell would swing in its cradle and strike the clapper. (Most people think the clapper strikes the bell -- but no, the bell strikes the clapper.)
Father L'esperance, the third male member of the parish and a young Jesuit, was so devout he was good for nothing. He wore a perpetual stare of wonderment and awe. He would undergo moments of complete paralysis both in the confessional and as a celebrant of the Mass. It was sure to be only a matter of time before he would witness a miracle, but earthly things, like tying his shoes and buttoning his fly, required his fullest concentration. He could not be trusted to ring the great bell of St. Theresa.
The fourth male member of the parish, Pastor Moody, laid abed this Sunday morning, savoring the last sweet moments of warm comfort as he waited for the tolling of the best bell in Brooklyn. It would herald the seven o'clock mass. Old Father Ambrose would handle "that" mass. Nobody at those early masses -- meager collection. He would handle the High Masses at nine and eleven, the one that Monsignor Babbitt would attend. He went over the homily in his head, and it sounded good, really good. Sacrifice -- that was the theme, and he hoped the congregation would take it to heart when the basket was shaken under their runny noses. The church had not shown a profit this year, and if he expected to be a Bishop he'd better get his flock on the ball.
"What has happened to the bell?" he wondered. It seemed like it must be seven o'clock. He checked his bedside clock -- my God! 7:15! He rang for Sister Agatha. He should have been eating breakfast by now. Sister Agatha was already on her way up the back stairs from the kitchen with two, two-and-three-quarter-minute boiled eggs, two slices of whole wheat toast, and a small pitcher of orange juice.
"There in a jiffy, Father," she called, "The bell's gone out and the cook is late. I had to drag Father Ambrose out of the belfry and get him back down the stairs again." It was actually more serious than that; the stairs had tired him to the point that he had no idea of the time or why he was up there. For the moment, though, Sister Agatha would concentrate on the rope.
"The rope is rotten, Father; it broke off up in the steeple and came all the way down to the lobby floor." She set Pastor Moody's breakfast down on his bedside table and handed him his robe.
"What do we do now? We can't get through Sunday without the bell." Of all days -- today! Monsignor Babbitt would be there for High Mass; they were going to play golf this afternoon, and if he could persuade him to stay for dinner, he planned to bring up the Bishop appointment again.
"You know what this means, Sister. People will be coming in all hours for mass; some of them won't come at all ---" he sniffled; was that a cold coming on? "We must have organization, Sister. What will the Monsignor think?"
"We are rich in organization, Father. We are poor in rope -- we need a new one. Father Ambrose said it's been there thirty years ... nothing lasts forever, Father."
"You say he was up in the belfry, Sister?" Sister Agatha nodded and raised her eyes in resignation. "The old fool, he could have frozen to death up there, then what would I do -- and those narrow stairs, how did he ever make it? Why can't Father L'esperance do those things?"
"Head's in the clouds -- waiting for a sign from the Lord, I guess." Agatha answered bluntly. She'd about had it with these men of God. Father Ambrose was just about useless, and you couldn't trust the Sexton with the collection basket. Both of them should be in a home. Father L'esperance was obsessed with God, and Pastor Moody there in his canopied bed couldn't wait to elbow his way into the Diocese.
"We must think of a way. As soon as I finish breakfast, I'll put my mind to it -- the eggs are a bit runny, Sister."
"I've already called the precinct, Father. Sergeant Moynahan is coming over -- he never donated for his daughter's Baptism." Look at him there, she thought to herself -- breakfast in bed and complaining about his eggs. Wait 'til they get him in the diocese! Be low man on the totem pole over there; nobody would be bringing him his breakfast in bed. She turned away abruptly and walked quickly from the room.
Sister Agatha was 47 years old. Twenty-nine years ago she entered the Convent of the Magdalene on Staten Island. Her deepest hope was to be the bride of Christ. It was a vision she had carried with her since she was a little girl, a precious dream, and the highest honor a young girl could ever hope for. Now, at 47, the honeymoon had never materialized. She was not a bride; she was a sister, a polite word for a housemaid of the men who ran religion in this poor corner of Brooklyn. Hiring cooks and cleaning people and running a boarding house for spineless priests, none of whom could fix a bell rope when it needed fixing.
She looked up at the tortured face of her Savior who hung crucified at the head of the back stairs to the kitchen. She often lingered there and talked to him. She was tempted to do so this morning, just for a moment, before the day began.
"Why did they choose Barabbas? If they had not ... if You had lived ..." She crossed herself and murmured, "We shall always choose the sinner -- it's the way we are." She would have stayed, but there was much to do. Patrick Moynahan would be there in a moment, and she must coax him into fixing the rope.
"Sissa, Sissa Agatta, they's a pleezman on da kitchen door." Mrs. Apollinaro, the cook, knew from family experience that the appearance of a policeman at the back door brought bad news.
"It's O.K., Alicia; it's only Sergeant Moynahan. We're expecting him." She walked quickly to the back door and adjusted her smile to one of piety and poverty. "Come in, come in, Sergeant Moynahan, won't you have a cup of coffee?"
"I have Patrolman Guitterez with me, Sister; is it O.K. ... I mean, for him to come in?"
"Of course, Patrick. That wouldn't be a coil of rope he has with him now, would it? How could you answer our prayers so quickly?"
Moynahan basked in the praise. Praise from the church was the sweetest praise of all. "We have keys, Sister. To preserve the safety and security, we have the keys to every store in this here neighborhood. Me and the patrolman responded to Feldman's Hardware and borrowed a coil of rope. Feldman will raise the price of rope tomorrow -- nobody loses."
Sister Agatha made a mental note to call Bernie Feldman in the morning and offer to pay, knowing full well that he would not accept payment. She wondered if Sergeant Moynahan would have been as quick to respond to a call for help from Feldman's Synagogue on Clausson Avenue. How strange that Bernie Feldman, a Jewish hardware merchant, must be the one to offer the rope to ring the bell of St. Theresas.
Guiterrez, after a cup of coffee, shouldered the heavy coil of rope and was up in the belfry in less than five minutes. "Below, down there!" he warned as the rope spilled down to the lobby floor. He clattered down the belfry stairs and fastened the free end to the cleats in the wall. "You in business now, senorita Sister ... first class sisal rope, first class stuff ... never need fixing no more."
What could she say to these men as they backpedaled out the kitchen door? How could she thank them? How could something, so easily accomplished by ordinary people, be such an insurmountable problem to men of God? She could offer them nothing in return. They were, in fact, thankful that they could contribute the little they did to the glory of the Lord.
She looked up the back stairs again, the stairs that would bring the good news to Pastor Moody. From her vantage point in the kitchen, she could see the tortured figure of the Savior at the top landing looking down at her. "So far away," she thought, "Thousands of miles and thousands of years away...had I known you...."
Mrs. Apollinaro had just put the lamb in the oven for evening dinner. The leg of lamb was a gift from Noel Webster, the funeral director on Park Place. It was a lovely leg of lamb; already the kitchen was smoky with rosemary, garlic and a crisp, crusty smell. "Lamb of God," she thought. Soon, Jesus looking down from his perch at the head of the stair would smell it, too.
"It's not for you!" she said aloud ... and caught herself before she went any further.
(Copyright 1999 by Harry Buschman - No reproduction without express permission from the author)