3
SISTER VERONICA WATCHED the children file in for dinner, noting with approval the combination of excitement and nervous curiosity on their faces. Word had spread of Father Gaetano’s arrival and they would naturally be wondering what changes in their lives might be heralded by his coming. Sister Veronica had already met him, but she felt herself plagued by the same questions. The lanky, awkward young man looked more like a scientist than a priest. It was good that he was not a handsome man, for that might have been a distraction for the older girls. And the younger nuns, she thought.
For herself, Sister Veronica was mainly concerned about what sort of teacher and administrator Father Gaetano would turn out to be. While he could not interfere in the lives of the nuns within the convent, as pastor of San Domenico he had authority over both church and orphanage. Sister Teresa seemed convinced that the young priest would fulfill his role as teacher and confessor to the students, but otherwise would leave the running of the orphanage to the sisters. Sister Veronica hoped it would be so. It had been difficult enough for her to coordinate the creation of the orphanage when she had the freedom to act without constraint. The newcomer’s interference would make it that much more troublesome and complex.
When the battle for Sicily had begun, she and the other sisters had worked with the church’s former pastor, Father Colisanti, to help wherever they could. They had nursed the injured while Father Colisanti performed the last rites for so many, Italians and Germans at first, and later for Allied soldiers as well. And when the battle was over and the Allies had taken control, they had helped bury the dead. Father Colisanti survived it all, only to suffer a heart attack mere hours after giving a final blessing at the funeral of the last of the war dead. It had been days before a priest from Gera could come and speak the same blessing for Father Colisanti, but at last the kindly old man had been given into the hands of God.
With no pastor, the sisters had been left to their own devices. Nearly every day, a priest from one of the neighboring villages had come to say mass for the people of Tringale and for the sisters of San Domenico, and in the meantime, the nuns had been busy gathering the children left orphaned by the long fight for control of Sicily, its strategic position in the Mediterranean making it a prize for either side.
Some of the children whose parents had been killed during the long weeks of battle had other relatives in the village who could take them in, but in too many cases the children were alone. Several had lost their mothers and had fathers who had gone off to war and not yet returned, their fate uncertain. With Sister Teresa’s blessing, Sister Veronica had organized the nuns at San Domenico to give thirty-one children a place to sleep, warm clothes to wear, and three meals a day. Still mourning their own losses, the sisters had turned their grief into tenderness toward these children who had nothing and no one.
But it wasn’t enough. Sister Veronica had been a teacher at a Catholic school in Palermo after she had first taken her vows. The school in the village had been destroyed and, while they could not see to the education of all of Tringale’s children, she knew they had an obligation to cultivate the minds of the twelve girls and nineteen boys whom the Lord had put into their care. Born from chaos and tragedy, the orphanage had brought order to the children’s lives.
Father Gaetano was an unknown variable, which made Sister Veronica wary. The nuns had achieved a certain balance through patience, hard work, and the grace of God, and she did not want that balance upset.
“Excuse me, Sister?”
She turned to see a curly-haired boy named Carmelo smiling pleasantly at her. He’d turned eleven the week before and she had given him a fisherman’s cap as a gift. She had traded some fresh tomatoes from the garden for the secondhand cap, but it was in fine condition, and the boy had rarely taken it off since, other than during church and presumably at bedtime.
“What is it?” she asked, smiling to soften her features. Sister Veronica knew that her narrow features and high cheekbones could make her look stern even when she did not intend it. Her height could be imposing enough, so she tried to remember to smile around the children … though sometimes she wanted them to be wary of her.
“Do you know what’s for supper tonight?”
“I’m told Sister Maria has made her fish soup.”
Carmelo made a face, wrinkling his nose. “Again?” he whined.
Sister Veronica tapped the brim of his hat. “It’s good for you. Besides, how can you be a fisherman … How can you be a Sicilian … and not like fish?”
The boy smiled. “I like baccala. Even calamari. But Sister Maria’s fish soup is—”
“Ssshhh,” Sister Veronica said, nodding toward the door to the back kitchen at the far end of the dining room. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”
Privately, though, she agreed. Sister Maria’s fish soup was always very bland. It was the one thing the other nuns let her cook. They called it her specialty, but in truth it was a night off for the others, and amounted mostly to a stew of leftovers from whatever fish dishes had been made earlier in the week.
Abruptly, the children began to shush each other, and amidst the susurrus of their voices, Sister Veronica turned to see that Sister Teresa and Father Gaetano had entered the dining room. A pair of twelve-year-old girls, Concetta and Giulia, began to whisper to each other, apparently exchanging first impressions of the priest, but the rest of the children were standing at strict attention.
“Good evening, children,” Sister Teresa began.
“Good evening, Sister Teresa,” they chorused back.
“These long months have been difficult for all of us,” Sister Teresa went on. “Each of us has lost someone we loved. The war came to our doorsteps and did a great deal of damage. But with the grace of God, we have already begun to rebuild our lives. The sisters of San Domenico have become teachers and caretakers. Our futures are intertwined with yours, and we thank God, for we see the opportunity to know you all and to help guide you on the path the Lord has set out for you as a blessing. Along the way, we will all face challenges, among them the loss of Father Colisanti. God called his servant home. I know Father Colisanti is even now singing with the hosts of Heaven. In his absence, we’ve had many kind and wonderful priests visit us, but the church of San Domenico needs a pastor, and you children need a theological instructor and a confessor.”
Sister Teresa paused for effect. Sister Veronica tried to hide her smile at the way the children hung on her words. She envied her mother superior’s command of the children, wishing they would pay even half so much attention in class as they were paying now. There had been much talk and much curiosity ever since it had been rumored that a new priest had been chosen for the church of San Domenico.
“Boys and girls, please give your attention and the warmest of welcomes to your new pastor, Father Gaetano Noe.”
It was an invitation for the children to react, almost as if Sister Teresa expected them to applaud, but the children seemed to sense that clapping would be inappropriate. Instead, they turned to stare at the young, lanky priest with his round spectacles. For his part, Father Gaetano offered a nervous grin and then seemed to summon up the gravity that came along with his collar.
“Hello, children,” said the priest.
“Good evening, Father,” they replied.
He started out all right, Sister Veronica thought. Smiling in the right places, he told the orphans how much he looked forward to getting to know them and invited them to come and see him any time they wished. He tried to connect with the boys by talking about football and promised that they would spend enough time in church and talking about the Bible during class time that he would be happy to discuss whatever interested them. He appealed to the girls by mentioning a love of music and movies and a weakness for chocolate.
It should have worked, really. But these were children whose parents had been killed months earlier, taken by bombs or bullets or collapsing buildings, and they were wary about anyone new coming into their lives, no matter who had sent them on the errand. Father Gaetano might speak on God’s behalf, but Sister Veronica knew the pain in these young hearts. The children had put their trust in God, and now they didn’t know what to make of Him.
Sister Veronica and Sister Teresa exchanged a look. The mother superior saw it just as clearly as Sister Veronica, but it would have been inappropriate for one of them to interrupt, and Father Gaetano was going to have to establish his own relationship with the orphans, whatever that relationship might be.
Suddenly, the priest let out a quiet laugh. “I can see that you’re all very bored with me already. Not the best way to begin, is it?” He threw up his hands in surrender. “Well, at least now there’s no need for me to warn you that I talk a lot.”
Several of the children laughed. Little Sebastiano smiled—he, at least, seemed charmed—and a few of them nodded, agreeing that they were bored.
“You’re probably also hungry,” Father Gaetano went on. “And I hear Sister Maria’s fish soup is quite … memorable.”
More of them laughed this time, looking around guiltily to make sure Sister Maria wasn’t in the room. The priest took off his glasses and cleaned them with a kerchief from his pocket, a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye as he regarded the children again.
Maybe he won’t have trouble with them after all, Sister Veronica thought.
“Dinner will be ready soon, I presume. Before we eat, do any of you have questions for me?” he asked.
Alessandra raised her hand. She was ten, but looked no more than eight, a slight little wisp of a girl with large eyes. Her hair hung across her face much of the time and she often used it as a veil to hide behind.
Father Gaetano pointed to her and asked her name, which the girl promptly provided.
“What’s your question, little one?” the priest asked, smiling.
Alessandra fixed him with a pleading gaze. “Where is God?”
Father Gaetano spread his arms. “Why, He’s all around us, of course. Everywhere.”
The little girl’s lip trembled, but she frowned and forced it to stop. “Is He there when I cry at night?”
The priest’s smile vanished, his eyes filling with understanding. “Yes. He is there with you.”
“Then why doesn’t He try to make me feel better?” Alessandra asked, her voice breaking.
Since he and Sister Teresa had entered, Father Gaetano had stood with the mother superior at one end of the room, as if it were a classroom rather than the dining room, creating a sort of invisible barrier between themselves and the children. Now Father Gaetano broke that barrier. He walked to Alessandra, who stood beside the table where she was assigned to sit for dinner, as all of the students did.
Father Gaetano crouched before her and reached up to touch her face. He looked into her eyes.
“Open your heart to Him and He will give you comfort,” the priest said. “You will feel Him there if you have faith in Him. But that does not mean you will not cry, Alessandra. There will be tears. Your parents are with God, now, and He will take good care of them. One day, you will meet them again, but I know for a young girl that time seems very long from now. You cry because you miss them terribly, and that is only right.”
Father Gaetano glanced around at the other children. Several of them were wiping at their eyes. Alessandra had been the one to ask, but they all felt the same pain. Some of them seemed to truly be listening, but other faces were stony, closed off from the priest’s words, their grief still too mixed up with anger to listen.
“Let the Lord give you comfort,” the priest said, returning his attention to Alessandra. “Sometimes you will cry and sometimes you will laugh, and one day not so very long from now you will find yourself with more laughter than tears, as your parents would have wanted it, and you will know that God is with you.”
He stood up, clapping his hands. “But tonight is not a night for tears, my young friends. It is a night for good food and new friends.”
Sister Veronica glanced again at the door to the back kitchen and saw that Sister Maria had emerged. Father Gaetano had noticed as well.
“Dinner is ready, children,” the priest said. “Please, all of you, be seated and we will offer a prayer of thanks for this meal, for each other, and for the good sisters of San Domenico, who provide so much for all of us.”
As the children sat, steepling their hands in front of them in preparation for prayer, Sister Veronica saw young Sebastiano Anzalone reach inside his sweater and produce the little woolen clown puppet the boy always seemed to have with him. She sighed inwardly. Sebastiano was a sweet-natured boy and a good student, and she hated to have to chide him, but she could not make allowances for him and not for others who might like to bring a book or a toy or other distraction to dinner. It was not appropriate, especially during prayer.
The boy settled the clown puppet into his lap, positioning it so that his hands were clasped over the puppet’s hands, as if the two were praying together. Father Gaetano had not noticed, and Sister Veronica was grateful for that. She did not want him to begin with a poor impression of Sebastiano.
She waited until Father Gaetano had blessed the meal and they had all completed their prayer. As several of the sisters carried large pots out from the back kitchen, the eldest child at each table ladled fish soup into the others’ bowls, serving themselves last.
Sister Veronica went down on one knee beside Sebastiano, holding on to his chair for balance. Her knees and back often gave her trouble, the years catching up to her.
“Sebastiano,” she said softly.
The boy looked at her innocently, taking a moment to realize his mistake. Then he glanced away guiltily, tucking the puppet closer to his body, covering its head with his hands as if to hide it.
“What have I said about your little friend?” the nun asked.
“That I’m not to bring Pagliaccio to class or to meals,” the boy said, despondent. “But I forgot, Sister. Really, I did. I wanted to introduce him to the new pastor … to Father Gaetano.”
Sister Veronica let out a long breath. She didn’t want to be cruel, but the boy needed to let go of some of his childhood illusions. He might only be nine, but the world had not been kind to him. The temptation to allow him to find solace in his imagination was great, but it would do him no favors.
“Father Gaetano will be too busy for such games,” she said, and saw the boy flinch and glance at the floor, embarrassed or sad or both. “And the next time you bring Pagliaccio to the dining room or to class, I will take him away and you will not get him back.”
“Not ever?” Sebastiano asked, glancing up quickly, eyes wide.
Feeling like the devil himself, and hating herself for it, Sister Veronica fixed him with a stern look. “Not ever.”
Sebastiano hurriedly tucked the clown puppet into his shirt and sat up straight, waiting for his fish soup. Sister Veronica watched him a moment longer and then turned away, striding toward her own seat. She saw that Father Gaetano was engaged in conversation with some of the older students at his table, eliciting questions and even some laughs, and she wondered what sort of partner he was going to turn out to be when it came to preparing these children for the future. Some of them might be adopted, but in the aftermath of war, few families had enough for themselves, never mind enough to bring new children into a household. Many of them would be alone, now, until they could build new lives for themselves as adults, with paying work and a husband or wife and children of their own.
Father Gaetano had promised them more laughter than tears, but Sister Veronica feared that might be a hollow promise.
Innocence lost could never be regained.
4
ON SUNDAY NIGHT, more exhausted than he’d ever been, Father Gaetano strode from room to room on the boys’ floor, checking to be sure his charges were ready for bed. His shoes made a slap and scuff on the floor of the corridor as he wondered how many priests had once called this old building home. The faded aromas of cologne and cigars lingered, settled forever into the paint on the walls. A burst of laughter came from one of the rooms along the hall, and in such staid surroundings the happy noise was discordant.
Not just a rectory, he thought, studying the Christian images and symbols that hung on the walls. A cursory examination made it clear that this building predated both church and convent and had once been a private home. But even as a rectory, it had been more than that. Prior to the war, the pastor and several active priests had lived here, along with servants, but the number of additional rooms indicated other residents as well, and he suspected it had also been a home for retired clergy. It didn’t feel like a place where children belonged, and he wondered if it ever would.
The first floor was made up of two parlors, two ornate offices, the small kitchen where Sister Teresa had first made him tea, the enormous dining room, and the much larger cooking area, referred to as the back kitchen, where the nuns fixed the meals for themselves, the orphans, and the rectory’s priests. A second kitchen was not uncommon in Sicilian households, and Father Gaetano suspected it had been built—and the dining room enlarged—when the building had first been turned into a rectory.
The girls had their rooms on the second floor and the boys on the third. The building had no attic; instead, the three small rooms under the gabled roof on the fourth floor had been used for storage, until the nuns had converted two of them into classrooms, breaking the students up by age for their lessons. Father Gaetano had been given a room on the third floor, to monitor the boys, and Sister Veronica had a room on the second floor, amongst the girls.
The priest had never had to oversee children before, but he was familiar with the mischievous minds of boys; once upon a time, he’d been one himself. So, while he wanted them to trust him, and he hoped they would like him, he knew that he would also have to cultivate a healthy fear of his ire. A stern word or look would not go amiss, if aimed correctly.
He had already checked two rooms, reminding the boys to say their prayers, as lights out would come in mere minutes. Now he turned into a third room, quickly reminding himself of the names of the two boys who shared the small, spartan space. Quiet, wounded Enrico lay on his bed, scrawling something in what appeared to be a journal. His roommate, Matteo, sat on the windowsill, staring out at the night. In the quiet of the room, Father Gaetano could hear the crash of the surf through the open window.
In the twenty-four hours since the priest had first met the orphans in his care, he had already learned that Matteo had an angry heart, a sharp tongue, and a penchant for mischief. But all of the rebellion he’d seen in the boy was absent tonight. He seemed weary and deflated, and Father Gaetano saw some of his own exhaustion in the face of this thirteen-year-old boy. The only sign of Matteo’s troublesome nature was the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, as if he’d meant to smoke it but forgotten. The young priest did not think he had ever seen anyone who looked so alone.
Enrico glanced up as Father Gaetano entered, but Matteo ignored him.
“Matteo.”
The boy let his gaze linger on the night-dark window a moment longer and then turned. “Father?”
Father Gaetano gestured at the boy’s cigarette. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. You know you aren’t allowed to smoke.”
“The sisters smoke in the back kitchen.”
The priest nodded. “I’m aware. But they are grown and you are just a boy. Smoking can affect your physical development. When you’re older, you can smoke all you like. But even then, I’d recommend against smoking in your bedroom, surrounded by linens and blankets and draperies that might ignite with the merest speck of burning ash.”
Matteo seemed to consider this, then nodded. “Sounds reasonable.” He gestured with the cigarette. “But as you can see, Father, I’m not smoking. Do you know how difficult it is to get cigarettes these days? Harder than finding a Coca-Cola. I’m saving this. One day, when they’re not quite so hard to get, I’ll smoke it. If I get in trouble for it then, it will be worth it.”
Father Gaetano considered taking the cigarette away, but instead he smiled. “Fair enough.”
Pleased, Matteo thanked him and slid the cigarette behind one ear.
“The bell for lights out will ring in just a few minutes,” Father Gaetano told the two boys. “You should say your prayers.”
Quiet, thoughtful Enrico closed his journal and sat up, studying him. “Who are we praying to, Father? Some of the other children say there is no God. Stefania says if he ever lived, he must be dead now, or he would not allow such horrible things to happen.”
Father Gaetano sat on the edge of the boy’s bed, fixing him with a reassuring gaze. “God still lives, Enrico. He has given us this world, but also the freedom to do with it as we wish. When men choose evil over good, we are breaking our contract with God. But He wants us to make better choices. He wants good men to rise up and drive away the evils of the world.”
“So He has abandoned us,” Enrico said, clutching his journal to his chest.
“Never,” Father Gaetano said. “Surely you must know the story of the crucifixion. According to Matthew’s gospel, Jesus cried out, ‘My God, why have You forsaken me?’ Though he knew that his suffering would open the way to Heaven for us all, that his pain would have an end, and that his sacrifice was necessary as part of God’s plan—”
Matteo hopped off the windowsill, walking to his bed. “Just give it up for tonight, Father.”
Stung, irritated at the interruption, Father Gaetano glared at him. “What?”
“Enrico’s not the Son of God. Neither am I. We don’t have some special destiny. What we’ve lost isn’t some sacrifice that’s going to save the world. Our parents, and Enrico’s little sister … they’re dead. What did the world gain from that? Nothing. And that’s God’s plan?”
The boy flopped on his bed, facing the wall, his back to both Enrico and the priest.
“Tell your bedtime stories to the younger kids, Father. Maybe they’ll still believe in fairy tales.”
Emotion roiled in Father Gaetano, fury and sorrow and guilt all churned together as he tried to sort through his thoughts and search his heart for some response. When the bell clanged in the corridor—Sister Veronica ringing it from the top of the stairs, just before she would go down and do the same thing on the girls’ floor—he felt a flood of relief at the interruption.
“Lights out,” he said. “But we’ll discuss this more during our lesson tomorrow.”
Matteo didn’t reply, just kept his face toward the wall.
“Good night, Father,” Enrico said softly, sliding under his covers.
Still, the priest felt he should speak. But all he could manage was a simple “Good night” before he clicked off the light. As he left the room he realized he ought to have told the boys he would pray for them, if they would not pray for themselves. Then he wondered why he felt the need to tell them. The prayers would be equally powerful whether or not Matteo and Enrico were aware of them. What did it matter if they knew?
Yet somehow it did. He needed them to know that God saw their pain. That He was listening, even if they did not receive the reply they longed for.
Walking down the hall, he reached the door to his own bedroom, which was opposite the stairs. It was early, yet—even for a priest who had to be up by five a.m.—but he felt weary to the bone and knew it would be best if he went to bed. As he paused, he heard a voice coming from the next room along, which was shared by the three youngest boys.
“Shut up!” one of them snapped.
Whispered argument followed, but he couldn’t make out the words even as he approached the door. He rapped once and then turned the knob, stepping into the moonlit room.
“Time to settle down, boys,” he said kindly. “You know lights out means it’s time for sleep.”
“We’re trying, but Sebastiano won’t shut up,” one of them muttered bitterly.
“Every night it’s the same,” said another. Giovanni, the priest thought. “Sebastiano keeps whispering to that stupid puppet till he falls asleep.”
Father Gaetano frowned. He blinked as his eyes continued to adjust, until the warm, golden glow from the moon and stars was enough for him to make out details. The little one, Sebastiano, was only nine, a scrawny boy who lay on his side, knees pulled up in a protective posture. The head of a small, garishly painted puppet jutted from the place where he clasped it to his chest. It took a moment for the priest to recognize it as a clown, and he smiled. He’d always loved clowns.
“Sebastiano, who’s your friend?”
The boy glanced away for a moment, then raised his eyes with a wary expression. “Pagliaccio.”
Father Gaetano smiled, reached down, and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well, you and Pagliaccio need to get some rest, okay? Anything the two of you have to say to one another can wait until morning.”
Little Sebastiano frowned. “It’s not the same in the morning. He’s not…” The words trailed off.
“Please go to bed, Sebastiano,” Father Gaetano said.
“Yes, Father.”
“I hate that stupid puppet,” Giovanni rasped, pulling his covers up over his head.
Father Gaetano might have admonished him, but all three of the boys fell silent then. Any further comment would have been counterproductive. The goal, at the moment, was to get them all to sleep, so he took his leave, backing quietly out of the room and closing the door behind him.
“The little angels all sleeping?” a silken voice whispered.
He turned to see Sister Teresa standing at the top of the stairs, her face pale as alabaster in the dim light from the wall sconces.
“Or soon will be,” Father Gaetano replied, struck by how the soft light and the late hour and the gentle whisper made her seem so much less like a nun and so much more like a girl. He’d had plenty of practice acknowledging feminine beauty and then studiously ignoring its allure. He cleared his throat.
“I believe you called them little devils at some point last night,” the priest said.
Again, that lovely, weary smile. “They’re all angels when they’re sleeping, Father.” Sister Teresa turned as if to go back downstairs, but paused, watching him. “I’m about to return to the convent. The other sisters are gone as well, except for Sister Veronica, of course. She and I were about to have a cup of tea and we thought you might like to join us. There are anisette cookies, freshly baked.”
A flutter of alarm passed through him. “Not by Sister Lucia, I pray.”
Dinner at the orphanage this evening had been stuffed sardines prepared Catania style. They were horrid. For those orphans wondering about the existence of God, Father Gaetano felt sure the stuffed sardines offered no new evidence in favor of belief, and perhaps much to the contrary.
Sister Teresa smiled. “Thanks be to God, no. Sister Franca does our baking, and she’s a wonder.”
* * *
THE ANISETTE COOKIES were as tasty as promised. Father Gaetano sat in the small kitchen of the former rectory, dunking the cookies into his tea as often as he bothered to sip from the cup. Though he talked with the two nuns, he enjoyed just listening to them as much as actually conversing. While the other sisters seemed deferential to Teresa’s status as mother superior, it was clear that Sister Veronica held no such reverence. The two were friends, and the priest appreciated being allowed into the circle of their friendship, even if only for tea.
Soon enough, though, his weariness got the better of him. He had traveled all of Friday night, performed Mass for the sisters on Saturday before becoming acclimated to the grounds and being introduced to the children at the orphanage, and then spent today fulfilling his role as pastor. He had said two masses for Sunday, officiated at a wedding, and made a circuit through the village, visiting the sick and infirm and those who would never recover from the injuries they had sustained in the battle for Sicily. He had followed that long day with dinner amongst the orphans, attempting to entertain them, distract them from their grief, and heal their faith all at the same time. After dinner, he had been responsible for the disposition of the boys, making certain they all attended to their evening ablutions before lights out.
Now he slid his chair back. “Sisters, it was my pleasure to join you, and I am grateful for the tea. I’ll give my compliments to Sister Franca in the morning, but I really must put my head down.”
“Of course, Father,” Sister Teresa said, brushing a few crumbs from her sleeve and standing as well. “You have your first catechism lesson with the children tomorrow, just before their lunch. If you haven’t had time yet to prepare, I’m sure they will be just as interested to hear about your travels before coming to us.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I thought, honestly, that I would start at the very beginning. Since they haven’t all been here the same length of time, meaning some will have had lessons others have not, and since we have no idea which of them had parents who took the time to teach them about our Lord and His works, it seems best to begin with a clean slate.”
The nuns nodded approvingly.
“I focused on the New Testament,” Sister Veronica said. “The lessons of Christ seemed most useful when they first arrived, with all of their grief. But I confess there was little structure to what I was teaching them.”
“You need compassion, then, not structure,” Father Gaetano assured her.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble,” Sister Teresa repeated. “With all of your other responsibilities, it’s my hope that your time teaching the children will be a joyful respite rather than an additional burden.”
Father Gaetano smiled weakly. He had prayed for the very same thing. Celebrating the liturgy of the mass, ministering to the sick, counseling his flock, hearing confession, and seeing to the repairs of the convent would take up the majority of his time, and he hoped to find respite in the company of the children. Each night before bed he wrote his sermon for the following day’s mass, and now to that tradition he would add a few minutes to make notes and consider how best to teach the orphans their catechism. Not that he worried he would have any difficulty teaching the stories and messages of the Bible, but already in his time here the children had posed profound questions about the nature of God. They’d had their faith shaken by their losses and tragedies. Teaching them catechism would not be as simple as he had imagined.