Chapter Two

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Chapter Two Falling in love with Love I stood in utter silence in the back of the church, immobile, not from my supposed fear, which vanished in an instant, but I was enthralled by the beauty of the place, the smell of it, the peacefulness which seemed to settle over me instantly. The stained glass windows which filled both sides of the nave (a word I didn’t know then), caused the morning sun to spill into the church in a multitude of hues: yellows and reds and blues like I’ve never seen before. All of this cast onto gray stone and dark wood. The sounds of the city outside were muted and nearly disappeared and one could truly “listen to the sound of silence” as the song put it. I was bowled over by it, something I was not expecting at all. I just wanted to pop in, light a candle for Gracie, and pop out and be merrily on my way back to Mt. Sinai. I stood very quiet in the back, watching what people were doing, and saw that it was okay to walk around, so I looked around me. Directly on my right was a shrine, almost like a church within the church. One passed through a laced wooden archway, and there were three statues each on the three different sides, with a flood of little burning candles in red holders. There were two women kneeling on wooden padded “kneelers”. I didn’t want to interrupt them, so I walked slowly around to the far right aisle which had other side shrines. One such shrine had a life-size statue of St. Vincent Ferrer, whom this church was named for. I wouldn’t have known that, of course, except there was a prayer printed in front of the statue with his name on it. I had never even heard of him, nor was I sure I was pronouncing his last name correctly…it kind of got lost behind my front teeth. Next to the prayer, embedded in the kneeler in front of the statue, was a glass about the size of a silver dollar. I wasn’t sure what was behind the glass, and I was afraid to look. There was also a bell on the pillar next to St. Vincent which didn’t have a chord or a button, I guessed so no one would ring it? There were racks of little red candles there too. He was dressed in white robes with a black cape; he had his hand raised like he was giving an emotional sermon, and there was a peculiar thing right over his head, which I think was supposed to be a flame of fire. It was all very interesting…they named this whole beautiful church after this man with fire coming out of his head. Maybe the bell was a fire alarm? I knew that Catholics had all kinds of saints and named them as patrons or patronesses of different things. Maybe St. Vincent Ferrer was the patron of Firemen. Just past St. Vincent was another, smaller than life-size, but very beautiful, statue of Christ, but unlike I had ever seen before, not that my repertoire of Catholic statues was very extensive! He didn’t really have the Jewish robes you

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usually see in pictures of him, but something more formal, looking rather rich and embroidered, although it was all enameled wood. His heart was exposed in the middle of his chest, and his left hand was pointing to it; his right hand raised in blessing. But it was his face that almost moved me to tears. It was as if he knew me and knew that I was feeling sad because of Gracie’s accident and that I didn’t know what to do or what it all meant. I thought to myself, “This is just a little bit spooky. Why would I even think the Christian Jesus knew me?” But it was uncanny, that may be a better word than “spooky”. The heart was enameled red with a brown crown of thorns around it. It was all too fascinating. I watched other people around me, and saw how you go about lighting a candle; quite easy actually, taking the flame from an already burning one, using a thin wooden stick that went into the sandbox afterwards. I waited till no one was near by, and took the fire from in front of St. Vincent, appropriate, I thought, and lit a candle in front of Jesus with the beautiful face. I think I must’ve whispered something like, “this is for Grace, please make her better.” Or maybe I prayed the candle lighting prayer Mama prayed every Friday night. I was feeling a little light headed, I remember, and thought I’d better sit down; I hope I’m not going to pass out. Wouldn’t that be awful, I thought. Headlines in the New York Times: Great-granddaughter of Rabbi Feinstein from Vienna, passes out in Catholic Church. So I moved quickly up towards the front and moved into a pew. Others were seated throughout the body of the church, so I figured that was acceptable to do. It didn’t appear like there was a division between men and women, like in some synagogues. I slid into an empty pew and kind of put my head in my hands for a moment and breathed deeply. And when I looked up, I was dazed by the beauty of the high altar and what I would come to know as a reredos. It was unlike anything I had ever seen in pictures, movies, or certainly in the synagogues, some of which were quite magnificent too. There were small statues and paintings of lots of saints; most of them, I noticed, were wearing the same uniform as St. Vincent, and at the very top, there was his picture, at least I think it was he. He looked heavier and older than the good looking Vincent back by the entrance, but there was that same flame of fire coming out of this head. The carved wooden backdrop filled the whole back wall, and interestingly, directed one’s eyes to a large golden or brass “circular box” right in the middle, draped with a lovely green cover, etched with gold thread. Hanging from the ceiling in front of it were seven or eight wrought iron candle holders with large candles in them, also in red globes like the smaller ones. Over the golden box was a crucifix, and flanked on either side were candles in huge brass or silver candle sticks. This was all elevated from the section before it, which was also elevated from the body of the church where I sat. Both sections were divided by a marble railing running the length of the section. The middle section was all wooden pews, facing each other,

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but each place was also separated from the one next to it. There were three rows on each side, each a step higher than the row in front. The floor was all a gray slate stone with different emblems on them, including what I thought looked like shields. Again, the light from the windows high above flooded the floors with a warm bluish hue. Beyond the railing that separated that section from the back section were three stone or marble steps going to the marble altar which held the golden box. The coverlet hid most of it, but one could see the front panel. I didn’t know for sure what I was looking at, but I couldn’t pull my gaze away from it. The face of the Christ statue, where I lit my candle, was still present to me, and I knew at that moment, that Jesus was real. There were no voices; no visions; no ethereal music, but a deep peace. It was as if my secret hiding place was full of warmth and peace and “had come home.” Before I realized it, I was weeping ever so quietly, and I wasn’t thinking of Grace, but of Joshua, my brother. And there was a heavy weight lifted from me about him and his death, and I knew he was alright. I knew he was with God. I had never felt this before in the nearly two years since his passing. But I kept seeing that face of Christ, and I knew He was not a long-dead prophet from two thousand years ago, but was alive, and I knew He was here…although I couldn’t put any of that into words or clear concepts at the time. I think I may have dozed off for a bit, although I don’t really remember, all I remember is the peacefulness I found myself in, and a realization that everything was going to be okay; I think I felt a presence, but I wouldn’t have said it then, it would take time for me to realize that the presence was indeed there, and emanating from the golden box. I would come to know that this whole magnificent edifice, it’s gorgeous architecture, the exquisite glass windows, the smell and sight of candles and incense which permeated the wood; that it all was for the One in the golden box, who showed me for the first time that autumn morning, His Sacred Heart. I rested in the peacefulness, for what I thought was probably twenty minutes. When I eventually roused myself, and looked at my watch, it was almost two o’clock. I had been here for nearly three hours. I knew I needed to get to Mt. Sinai, but I also knew I would return here and explore all the other side chapels. I watched carefully before bounding out of the pew. There were always a handful of people kneeling and praying; some holding their rosary beads. I knew what rosary beads were; Grace had actually shown me hers once, but I wasn’t sure how “they worked.” Passing by my candle I checked that it was still burning; it was. I paused at the younger looking St. Vincent, and whispered: “Thank you, St. Vincent for welcoming this little Jewish girl into your beautiful house. I’m off to see my friend, Grace, but I hope I can come back some

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day.” I had to smile to myself. I wasn’t sounding much like a sophisticated sophomore at Columbia University. Oy vey. Nearing the vestibule doors again, I noticed that everyone coming in or leaving the pew would go down on one knee, and some would make the sign of the cross at the same time. And everyone dipped their fingers in a stone pillar by the entrance, hollowed out in the middle and filled with water. They would make the sign of the cross on themselves with the water. This didn’t seem strange to me, of course, we were used to sprinkling water and washing our hands. I didn’t do it myself—this first time—but I did, stop for a minute and looked over the literature rack in the vestibule. It had many pamphlets and booklets, a few newspapers, a magazine or two, and even some prayer books. I didn’t know if they were for sale or free, but I took about five of the pamphlets and a Catholic newspaper and one magazine, for Gracie. The Magazine was called SIGN and had a lovely picture of a nun praying on the cover. She looked so beautiful and peaceful; I knew Gracie would love it. She once told me that she had played “nun” as a little girl. She was named Sr. Clare and taught third grade. She said that she was very strict, but all the children loved her because she was so pretty. I looked at my watch and almost flew through the doors and made my way up Lexington Avenue to Mt. Sinai. My bandana came off and tied around my neck at the first red light. It was remarkably warmer than this morning. I turned left at 74th Street, not for any reason, except the traffic and lights allowed it, and I wanted to eventually go west to Fifth Avenue. I passed another huge Catholic Church called St. Jean Baptiste. It was a French-speaking Church apparently, and I made a mental note, that I must pop in there some day, but I knew that the beauty I experienced at St. Vincent’s would not be found anywhere else. I was still feeling quite light and happy as Mt. Sinai Hospital came into view. I entered this time without a problem, and stopped to get my visitor’s pass, and took the elevator to the fifth floor, to room 543. I suddenly wished I had had a handful of flowers with me, but there I was schlepping in with my Catholic pamphlets and magazine, and full of questions for my Catholic girlfriend, the jogger. Gracie looked very pale; her normally twinkling blue eyes seemed a little dull and sunken. She was sitting up in her bed. Her Mother was there, and her younger brother, Skip. “Hello, Mrs. Price,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was here earlier, but they wouldn’t let me in…Gracie”, I said, turning to the patient, who was all smiles now at my arrival, and who didn’t seem surprised by my disheveled hair. I leaned over the bed and kissed her on the cheek and gave a little hug. “Look at you, all wrapped up in a very smart hospital gown.” She held her arms out in a modeling pose. “My modeling career may be over before I hit the runway.” Grace looked like a model and I knew, she secretly

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wanted to do that rather than teach elementary school. So much for Sister Clare! She was an Education Major at New York University, but was flirting with fashion design at Parson’s. “What do you mean?” I chimed in. “Did you break something when you fell running?” Gracie was an avid runner before that became a national past time. If anything, she always looked a bit anorexic to me, but then everybody looked a bit anorexic to me, especially blonde Gentile girls. I was always a bit on the chunky side, not “fat”, but “full-bodied”. I figured Gracie was obsessed with being thin; part of the would-be model regime, and so the compulsion to run. I tried it once with Grace, in a moment of exasperation. My spring-summer wardrobe uncannily shrunk during the winter, and I wanted to lose the “excess winter baggage”, as my complimentary brother, David, called it. So Gracie invited me to run with her around the reservoir in Central Park. Of course, I freaked out before that even happened. What should I wear? I didn’t have a jogger’s wardrobe, like Gracie did. I didn’t even have sweat pants. My brothers did, but then, they were allowed to sweat. Ruthie and I had decided years before, at one of our proper tea parties, that it was unbecoming for ladies to perspire. So we vowed not to, ever, as we finished off the crumpets. Gracie said a comfortable pair of baggie old jeans would be fine…I think we may have called them dungarees then. I did have a hand-me-down pair from David, which fit me loosely enough. It was still cool enough for a sweat shirt, which I did have, not to sweat in, but to wear to football games. And I had a pair of old sneakers, which were reliable footwear to the library or Zabar’s on Broadway, and they would have to withstand their maiden voyage around the reservoir. It was a Sunday morning. I told Gracie I couldn’t jog on Saturday; it was forbidden by the Law of Moses. She accepted that without question, and seemed to have no qualms about running on the Christian Sabbath. “I’ll go to the 6:30 Mass, and meet you in your lobby at 9:00.” Even earlier would have been fine with me, as I would have to go through the interrogation by my siblings as to why I was dressed for a hayride in April. They wouldn’t believe me, I’m sure, if I told them that I was going on a morning jog, or however experienced joggers referred to it. I had a quick breakfast—two banana nut muffins and a cheese Danish, with a cup of sweet coffee, which was mostly milk. The boys weren’t even up yet, and Ruthie was engrossed in a Sunday morning cartoon on T.V. which she never seemed to outgrow. Mama was deep into the Sunday Times, and told me to eat more if I was going to the Park. I had mentioned the night before that I was going running with Gracie, but I don’t think it registered in Mama’s head. A Sunday morning stroll in the Park was a New York tradition and one of the benefits of living so close to the Park. Three minutes to nine and the door bell buzzed

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signaling that Gracie had arrived. I grabbed my spring jacket and kissed Mama on the top of the head, and scurried off to meet my Olympic partner. She was very instructive and knew about ten different warm up stretches which made me grateful I had had an extra banana nut muffin; the warm-up wore me out. But we began at a slow pace chatting with each other on the soft gravel path which looked to me like a ten mile track around the lake. Other runners, much more into it than we apparently were, passed us. It took less time than I thought, but we were coming up to the starting point, and I thought that would be it. “Well, that was good!” I boasted to Gracie, slowing down and ready to stop. “Come’ on Becky, we’re just getting started.” She picked up the pace, and I’m proud to say, I was able to keep up with her, although I was panting a little more heavily than she seemed to be, and I suddenly felt a slight chill in the wind at the back of my neck. I put my hand back there, and was shocked to find my hair wet with perspiration—not just damp, mind you, but wet. There was also a growing ache in my calves which I usually only felt if I was walking uphill for any length. My conversational skills were also becoming more and more difficult, but I managed to tell Gracie to go ahead of me, and I’d catch up with her at the starting point. And Grace took off, leaving me to pant and sweat by myself. I got that infamous stitch in my side, which I blamed on the cheese Danish. Gracie had nearly passed out of sight, so I felt free to bring it down to a walk, which I did. The spring jacket was almost too much now, but I couldn’t leave it anywhere, besides I had stashed three Milky Ways in the pockets. When I was sure Gracie was beyond the pale, I unwrapped the first Milky Way and devoured it in three generous bites. The caramel and nougat never tasted so good in all my life. Besides, it gave me some immediate energy to run again, which I planned to do when I turned the last bend before the starting point, fully expecting Gracie to be there stretching or whatever she did when this torture was over. But she was not there. I couldn’t believe it; she must’ve been off for a third time round. So I turned around and walked against the running traffic in the other direction. This was met with a few scours and frowns by the serious Olympiads. I waited in the corner of the last turn, off the track, behind a tree where I could see who was coming. Two young girls about my age came riding past me on the horse path. They were all decked out like they were going to a Virginia Hunt, and I kind of envied them at the moment. Neither of them appeared to be sweating. When I saw Gracie prancing down the path like an antelope in heat, I moved onto the track, and jogged ever so laboriously till Gracie caught up with me. “I can’t go another round” I panted to her. “You’ve done really well, Feinstein, for your first time…I’ll make a fast final lap and meet you at the starting place.” And she took off. “Feinstein?” I said out loud. “Feinstein?” “She’s never called me by my last name. She must’ve molted into her Phys-Ed Teacher mode. Sr. Brunhilda.

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This running stuff was not healthy, I concluded, as I reached the beginning, which was my ending, thank God. I did a couple of the stretches she had done in the beginning, which felt much better this time than before. I was also able to devour another Milky Way before Grace arrived home, her thin face glistening with perspiration. If I wasn’t convinced that my Olympic training was over that Sunday morning, I was doubly convinced on Monday morning when I tried getting out of my bed. It t’wasn’t for me, but I admired Gracie for her stamina. And now here SHE was sitting up in a bed at Mt. Sinai looking very pale and weak. “They’re taking tests, and have taken gallons of blood from me, so I guess we won’t be able to run this Sunday.” She smiled her great smile and waited for my reaction. “What a shame” I retorted, “and I just brought a dozen Milky Ways for….energy.” We both laughed. Mother and brother, not getting the private joke at all, were looking rather serious and grim. A nurse came in like almost on cue, and announced that visitors should make it short right now, that Grace needed to rest. They could come back this evening. I picked up the cue, and gave Gracie the SIGN magazine with the lovely nun on the cover, and told her “I stopped into St. Vincent’s and lit a candle for you.” She seemed very pleased with both. “Thanks, Miss Feinstein, I could always count on you.” “I would’ve been here sooner, but I fell asleep in the church, can you imagine!” I quickly kissed her on the cheek, and slipped something into her hand: “for later” I whispered. “Here’s the Catholic paper too. Good bye, Mrs. Price, I’ll be back tomorrow.” And I slipped out quickly. I didn’t know why I was overcome with emotion all of a sudden, but I sensed that there was more going on than anyone knew, or wanted to talk about. And I hoped Gracie wouldn’t give her brother that Milky Way. I thought about going back to St. Vincent’s Church, or I could walk across the Park to 81st Street; or take the cross town bus. The bus won. The ride through the Park was quick, once we got to the Park. I had a seat near the back, and I took out one of the pamphlets I had taken from the Church. It had a picture on the front of a young nun holding an armful of roses. It said: “The Little Way of the Little Flower.” I liked that thought. I like little ways, little jogs, little flowers, little danishes. Something buried in my memory seemed to recognize this nun or someone like her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The bus was stuck momentarily in a traffic jam on Fifth Avenue and 77th Street, and I was immersed in a little village in Normandy, France, named Lisieux, with a little flower whom they called Therese. Thanks to the traffic jam, I was able to read almost the entire pamphlet. This young French girl was quite remarkable. She grew up in a pretty well-to-do family,

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with four other sisters and no brothers. Her Mother died when she was just a child and the oldest sister became her “Mother” until she left for Carmel. I figured out that Carmel was the name of the convent, and those who entered there were called Carmelites. I remembered Ruthie and I had met them years ago during one of our trips to Horn and Hardarts. Carmel, I read, was a strictly cloistered convent, which meant the nuns could never go outside, or go on vacation, or visit their homes. Even their visitors talked to them through a double grate in the “speak room.” It was hard to imagine anyone wanting to live like this, and this Therese wanted to be a Carmelite when she was 15! She even went to Rome to ask the Pope to let her! I noted in several footnotes, references to her autobiography, The Story of a Soul. I made a mental note of it…maybe they would have it at the library. I realized that she wanted to do what most of us would find abhorrent because she loved Christ, and His Mother. There was even a kind of miracle when she was sick as a child, and a statue of the Virgin Mary smiled at her. Funny, but I didn’t find that ridiculous, not after my visit to St. Vincent’s and the statue of Christ with His heart wrapped in thorns. I think it was there on the cross-town bus that autumn afternoon in New York, that I decided I wanted to get to know this Jesus. I could never ever say that at home, of course, my father would have a coronary on the spot, and my Mother would put her head in the oven. Even if they…we…weren’t the most devout Jews, we were descended from a great rabbinical family in Austria. I closed the pamphlet in the middle of the ride through the Park, and His face came back to my mind. Who was this Jesus? Little did I know that “little way” through Central Park would change the course of my entire life.