A Tender Victory Page 7

  Jean asked, “What does He look like—God?”

  Here come the questions! thought Johnny. If he confessed he had never seen God the children would be utterly confused, utterly frightened. He smiled mysteriously. “Beautiful, beautiful,” he said. “I’m not going to spoil it for you. You must see for yourself.”

  It would have to be a church with statues, and altars, and candlelight. He took Emilie’s wet little hand and laughed happily. “First we’ll just look in the door, and see if God’s there. If He isn’t we’ll go away, and buy the clothes.”

  He marched ahead with Kathy and Emilie. The boys trotted behind. People dodged around them impatiently. The children were now extremely curious. Kathy shouted up at Johnny, remembering last night, “God like a lady, like Mrs. Burnsdale. God rock Emilie in a chair too?” Her pink face was lighting up.

  “God,” said Johnny, “is like Papa and Mrs. Burnsdale.” He began to worry. How to explain the Imponderable, the Invisible, the Almighty, to these children so they would understand?

  The roar of the city swallowed them. The boys were stumbling on Johnny’s heels, the girls crowding him. Then, even above the roar Johnny could hear Pietro’s shrill laughter. “Pietro know!” he screamed. “God big Papa, like my Papa!”

  “Shut up,” said Jean, to Johnny’s thankfulness, for some people had stopped to stare, to look over their shoulders, to become aware of this strange troupe. Johnny was sweating, and his heart was hurrying. But he dared not stop; the cross was some distance away, disappearing now behind the bulk of the buildings. It’s always that way, he thought. You can’t see God for man and all his works.

  It was a big church, of rough gray stone. Its doors were wide open, and a few men and women were going in and out, singly or together. “See,” said Johnny. “God’s at home, after all. See the people. They are going in to talk to Him, just as we are. They are going to tell Him where they hurt, and He will help them. He always does.”

  He pointed to the fiery cross against the swimming blueness of the sky. “That’s His Sign. It means He’s at home, and waiting for us.”

  The boys halted. Jean studied Johnny closely. “He will make my leg straight, and this, my arm, if I ask Him?”

  Johnny’s face changed. He had had Jean carefully examined by the best Army doctors and others in Europe. One or two had suggested a series of operations, but not too hopefully. The majority had said nothing could be done at all. The boy was incurably crippled; his bones had not set right years ago. “If I ask Him?” Jean repeated, with a sly smile.

  Johnny looked up at the cross, praying, his heart heavy. He could not lie to this child; he could never betray him.

  Johnny’s eyes were suddenly wet. Then all at once the cross seemed to expand against the sky in a burst of unbearable light; its arms quivered with radiance like the sun, through Johnny’s tears. It soared in a circle of luminous flame. Johnny’s heart trembled as he watched. Then the cross was just a bright cross again, on the steeple. But Johnny knew.

  He put his hands on Jean’s shoulders. He said, and his voice was loud and clear, “Yes, if you ask Him. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow. But very soon. You must keep asking Him all the time, though, and you must believe He will do this for you. He can’t help you if you don’t believe.”

  They believed him! For the first time these young faces were the faces of real children, not nightmares—smiling, wondering, hopeful faces. They were eager and stimulated faces. “Hurry, hurry!” cried Pietro.

  An old priest, going up the steps, had paused to listen and to watch. He approached Johnny now, his mild brown eyes smiling. He held out his hand and Johnny took it, coloring. “My children, Father,” he said. “I am the Reverend John Fletcher, just returned from my duties in Europe as chaplain.” He stood among the children, and put his arms about them. “My children,” he repeated, praying for understanding.

  The priest nodded. “I’m Father McCloskcy,” he said in a serious voice to the children.

  Kathy asked excitedly, “God?”

  Jean and Pietro and Max and Emilie exclaimed, “God? God?”

  The old priest became very grave. He looked at each young face, and his mouth trembled with compassion. He looked at their clothing. Then he looked at Johnny, smiled encouragingly, and turned back to the children. “No, my dears,” he said, kindly, “just one who serves God. Like—like your own father here.”

  “They’ve never met—Him—yet,” said Johnny. “You see, I took them to a church—it was closed.” He stopped, painfully. “So I’m bringing them here—to meet Him.” He added, in a lower tone, “I’m having one—well, quite a time.”

  “I should imagine,” murmured the old priest sympathetically. He paused. Then he knew what to do. He knew whom to select—the most unstable. He took Pietro’s hand. The boy did not pull away. “Let’s all go in together and meet God,” he said. “He’s been waiting a long time. A very long time.”

  The old man, small, bent, and gentle, and the little mercurial boy, went up the last steps togther, hand in hand, and Johnny and the mystified children followed. The priest asked, “And what is your name, my child? Pietro? Ah, Peter. Your father will tell you about Peter.” Pietro began to jabber, to Johnny’s amazement. “Pietro—Peter! Peter—Pietro!” He peered up at the priest with his dark and dancing eyes. “Padre! Padre like Papa? Yes? Yes? Papa is padre, too. I am his boy, his American boy! We go to see God, yes? In the church?”

  They all stopped in the cool vestibule. The priest was more grave than ever. He said to Johnny, “We see so many of these rescued children. God has blessed you, and them, Mr. Fletcher. But so many, many children who weren’t rescued! Where is your parish, Mr. Fletcher?”

  Johnny answered, “I haven’t any—yet. But God will take care of that, of course.” He added, “Will you go along with me, Father, and help me now?”

  The priest hesitated. Then he smiled, and touched Johnny’s black sleeve with a paternal hand. “I think Someone else will help you. I don’t believe you need me.” He turned to the children, who were gaping around eagerly, muttering to each other. He raised his voice and said, “God bless you and keep you, dear children,” and he lifted his withered hand in blessing and went on into the church.

  “Bless? Bless?” demanded Pietro, impatiently. “What is it—bless?”

  “Come,” said Johnny, and they entered the church.

  The young minister halted with his flock, full of apprehension. What if the children got out of control, as they very often did? What if they began to scream and run wildly, or ask questions loudly? There were only half a dozen people in the church, kneeling in the pews or before the various altars, but they should not be disturbed. Johnny said quietly, “You must look, and listen. If you make a noise or act up, kids, you will hurt God, and me. All right?”

  They stared at him; he could see the shine of their eyes in the dusk. Then Jean said fiercely to the younger boys, “You shut up, see, and no noise. I must ask God about my arm and leg. Papa says He will make them better. No noise!” Kathy took a strong hold on little Emilie’s hand and said with determination: “Emilie, be quiet, and don’t ask too many questions. God is listening.”

  The church lay before them, and all at once the children were utterly still, their mouths open, marveling, holding their breath. The gray Gothic arches sprang from the gray walls, which were pierced by the strong blaze of the stained-glass windows. The air, cool, haunted by incense, trembled with fragments of color, a lance of scarlet on a groin, a delicate blue on the white stone floor, a soft yellow on a far pew, a blade of purple on pale altar steps. There stood the great altar at the rear, with its tall golden crucifix, its flowering of silent candles, its vases of blossoms. There shone the everlasting light, like a ruby star, testifying to the Presence.

  Along the walls marched the slow agony of the Stations of the Cross, and there were altars, with candle flames stirring gently, at the sides.

  Where to begin? wondered the apprehensive young minister.
Pietro was tugging feverishly at his arm, and whispering loudly, “God? God?” He pointed to the great altar at the rear. Johnny said, “Yes, God.” He put his hand on the thin shoulder in restraint. “But you don’t run to Him, not yet. You learn about Him first.” Where was the old priest? He was nowhere to be seen.

  With some desperation, Johnny looked at the nearest altar in its special niche. A tall arch enclosed the white, blue, and gold figure of the girl-Mother, with her Child in her arms, candles before her, her beautiful maiden’s face half smiling, meditative, her Child lifting His little hand in blessing. Her bare feet stood on a globe circled with stars, and her eyes gazed tenderly upon the world.

  Johnny took Pietro’s hand and motioned for the others to follow. They imitated him, walking soundlessly on the balls of their feet. They stood before the altar of the Madonna and Child, and they looked up, sucking in their lips, their eyes unblinking.

  “Look at the little boy,” said Johnny. “A little boy like you, Jean and Max and Pietro. That is His Mother, who is holding Him in her arms, just as your mothers held you.”

  The children crowded closer to the altar, tense and silent. Jean stood a little ahead, his face sharp and clear in the candlelight. He was whispering something to himself which Johnny could not hear, and his lips were trembling. Pietro turned to Johnny and pointed upward to the Madonna. “Mother? Mother? My mother?” He was beginning to tremble with too much excitement. “Yes,” said Johnny. “God’s Mother—and yours. See how she looks at you; she loves you, dear. No, you mustn’t go too close yet.”

  “Why? Why?” cried Pietro. “Why?” demanded the others. Only Jean was silent—too silent.

  How explain sanctity to these children? Where were the words? And why could they not, indeed, these children, touch her feet at least? Johnny glanced hastily about him. The pews were entirely empty now, and there was no one in the church but themselves. Praying fervently that no newcomers would enter, Johnny bent, lifted Pietro in his arms, hugged him to lessen his trembling. He mounted the low altar step and whispered, “She is praying, and you mustn’t disturb her. I mean, she’s talking to God. Reach out your hand, Pietro, and touch her feet.”

  The quick little hand darted out, but not to the feet, as Johnny expected. The fingers closed on the hand of the Madonna. And then a great aura of light shone on Pietro’s face. “Mama? Mama?” he questioned, in a passionate whisper. The statue beamed on him. “Mama?”

  From what little hidden crypt in that lonely child’s brain had come the remembrance of maternal love and protection? From where had come the universal word of trusting hope? Johnny pressed his cheek against Pietro’s head; he could feel the child’s urgent waiting. “She hears you, dear,” he said. “See how she smiles at you.”

  Pietro struggled in his arms, straining forward, and Johnny held him. Pietro kissed the Madonna’s hand, then shyly gazed at the Child in her arms. “My Mama too,” he said to the Child, proudly. He was still a moment, then he wriggled in Johnny’s grasp, flung his arms about his neck and gave him his first kiss, warm with joy.

  Johnny, holding him, closed his eyes briefly.

  The children had been watching. They pressed against Johnny, demanding, “My Mama? She is my Mama too?” They were jealous of Pietro. Johnny said, “Well, yes, of course. If she is Pietro’s mother she is yours.” Then he became alarmed. What was the matter with Jean, standing so rigidly apart, with his hands clenched at his sides? Johnny said quickly, “Jean. Jean!” But Jean was muttering, “Je vous aide.”

  Oh no, thought Johnny with despair. The boy never spoke French when awake. Johnny put Pietro down, caught the older boy’s narrow shoulder. Jean was staring at the statue, tears running down his cheeks. He was blind to where he was, blind to everything but his menacing promise, his vow of vengeance, in behalf of a young mother kicked to death before him in some forgotten concentration camp.

  Johnny swung the boy about to face him, fixed his eyes on those glaring, sightless ones. “Jean,” he said slowly and emphatically, “listen to me. Can you hear me? She doesn’t need your help. She is with God. God. Safe with God. Do you hear me?”

  The blind eyes did not flicker. “Safe with God,” repeated Johnny, sweating. “You can’t help her. She is resting, in God. Try to understand. Jean?”

  He put his hand under Jean’s sharp chin and turned the little face of nightmare to the statue again. “Can’t you see her smiling at you, telling you she’s all right, and loving you, and watching you? Look at her, Jean!”

  Jean’s body was like iron. He did not pull away from Johnny. But slowly the iron softened, and from somewhere in the depths of the poor child came a sigh such as no child should ever have to utter. “Maman,” he murmured, and then he smiled, and Johnny’s heart contracted again with sorrow. “Mama,” whispered Johnny.

  “You only dream that she’s dead,” Johnny went on, putting his arm about the boy. “Only bad dreams. Can you remember that, Jean?”

  “Only a dream,” said Jean obediently, in a new voice Johnny had never heard before. He smiled at Johnny. “Mama is not dead,” he announced, and there was peace in his eyes. The children, so abnormally sensitive to fear, to emotion, to passion, felt some communication from him. They began to laugh, very softly, even little Emilie, who clapped her small hands as if in delight. And the laugh was children’s laughter, carefree and happy.

  “Let’s sit down, right here,” said Johnny. “Where we can look at the Mother, and I’ll tell you all about her Child, who is God. You see, God was so sorry for all of us that He came down here, Himself, out of heaven, to show us the way back to Him.” (He decided the Trinity was too complex today.) He helped the children into a pew and sat among them. They gazed at the statue while he talked.

  “Once,” he said, speaking clearly and slowly, “there lived a young girl. Not very long ago, though often it seems like it. She was very beautiful.” He glanced at Kathy, and the child’s face, in all that sweet dusk and candlelight, had a sudden strange purity and loveliness, an innocence like marble. “As beautiful as Kathy,” said Johnny, “and not very much older.” The boys craned around Johnny to stare solemnly and with new interest at Kathy, whose yellow lashes blinked with happy astonishment before the scrutiny of the boys. She opened the compact, which she had never relinquished, and gave herself a brief inspection. Johnny tweaked her long braid and repeated, “As beautiful as Kathy and not very much older. And that statue there is a picture of her as some artist dreamed she looked. Who knows? Perhaps that is what the artist’s mother looked like, and he loved her.

  “Well, that young girl, in a country far away—even farther than where you all came from—loved God very much, and wanted to serve Him. God always hears prayers. So He sent an angel, called Gabriel, to see the girl, whose name was Mary.”

  “Angel?” demanded Pietro, bouncing on the hard wooden seat.

  I keep running into difficulties, thought Johnny. He glanced around. Two plaster angels with halos knelt on each side of the great altar. He pointed. “Those are angels,” he said. “They live with God.

  “And the angel told Mary that she would have a Son, and that the Son was God, and that He would save our poor, bad world from itself, and bring peace and hope to all men,” said Johnny.

  A dark and cynical expression appeared on Jean’s face, and Johnny went on hastily, “We don’t have peace yet, or much hope, but one day it will come. God never lies. In the meantime we have to work for it, all of us, children and men and women. Well, Mary was frightened. After all, she was a very young girl.”

  But now can I explain the Virgin Birth? Johnny asked himself. These children don’t even know much about natural birth. There are some things I’ll have to skim over. Then he had an inspiration.

  “Mary was going to marry a very good man, Joseph—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden sharp cry from Max. “Joseph? Joseph? Papa, bist Du?” He was clutching the back of the pew before him, and his pale eyes were astare.

  So, t
hought Johnny, that was his father’s name. He said quickly, “Lots of men are called that name, Max.” He reached across Pietro and gently loosened the taut hands on the pew. “Don’t you want me to finish the story? Well, then, sit back like Jean, and be a good boy.

  “The people were very poor, Mary’s people, because a strong army of soldiers from a very big country had taken her people’s own land and had made slaves of them, and had robbed them of all their money, and they had put Mary’s people, so many of them, in prison.”

  Now he would see if he could really reach one or two of these children. He looked slowly from one face to another. Pietro was only regarding him with bright-eyed impatience for him to continue. But Jean had turned his tormented face to the minister and full comprehension hovered on it, as well as amazement. Kathy had lifted her head alertly, again frowning in an effort to understand that what had happened to her had happened to another girl. Then again, she gave the statue a loving and significant smile. Max showed the only violent reaction. He leaned across Pietro and grasped Johnny’s knee in a desperate and sudden gesture. “Mary—and Joseph—their people in prison too? In—in—”

  “We call them concentration camps today,” said Johnny sadly, putting his hand over that of Max. “You see, it’s a very, very old story.”

  Max pulled his fingers away from Johnny, and he began to wring his hands again. “Don’t do that,” said Johnny, with steady firmness. “Mary and Joseph didn’t. They loved God. They trusted Him.” Max’s hands became still, then they relaxed and fell on his knees. But his head drooped on his breast.

  “The strong soldiers from another country made life very miserable for Mary’s people. They were all over, marching—marching—killing, too, when the people couldn’t stand it any longer and tried to fight back.”

  Jean said suddenly, out of the clouded darkness in him, “Storm troopers!”

  “Well, yes, I suppose you’d call them that,” said Johnny. Jean looked at the statue and his fierce face became very tense. “So,” said Johnny, “these soldiers—they were called Romans—had made a king—a leader—over Mary’s people. Mary’s people are called Jews.” He hesitated. Max’s head was slowly lifting. It was like the head of a young corpse rising out of a grave, blindly accusing, blindly asking why. So I have a clue now, thought Johnny. He could not stand that young blind face, those lost and lonely eyes full of confused anguish. The peaks of hair over the boy’s head resembled a crown of thorns.