“You heard what they did to the prisoners?”
“Only rumors.”
“They shot the ones who were German-born, as if they could somehow tell. The kaiser says they are all traitors for fighting against him. He has also announced that American-born sons of German immigrants will be transported to Germany for induction in their army. If they refuse, they too will be murdered.”
Patrick was shocked. He immediately thought of Heinz and so many others like him. What would be their reaction? What about other Americans not of German ancestry or several generations removed? His own reaction was revulsion. “The man is a savage.”
Roosevelt smiled grimly. “He is an animal, a mad dog, and he will be stopped.” Again he smiled, totally devoid of mirth. “And he may have given us the weapons we need to use against him. Certainly it will now be clear to those who pressured me to authorize the attack that victory will not be so easy. With these atrocities, it is evident that we cannot negotiate with a madman.”
“With respect, sir, what pressures?”
Roosevelt stood and waved his arms. “Anyone in this beloved land of ours with an interest or an opinion. The financial world is strained because the Germans now occupy Wall Street and the banks. The stock exchanges, by the way, have moved their operations to Pittsburgh and hate it. The shipping people say they are near economic collapse because the harbor is closed. Two million refugees are crying out because they can’t go home, and the millions of other people who have to help them find themselves grossly inconvenienced. Then, of course, we have the superpatriots-and, yes, Patrick, I know I am often among them-who think that one American is worth ten Germans, and just what on earth is the problem with beating them? Well, now they know. This latest battle was the reenactment of the Civil War slaughters at Fredericksburg or Cold Harbor, wasn’t it?” Patrick nodded and Roosevelt continued. “Well, now they know the truth as do I. It will be a long and hard fight, but we will prevail.”
Roosevelt walked around his desk and put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I will accept your resignation, but, as you stated, not until this crisis is over. You’ve done your best for me and your country, and I will not forget it. Nor,” he said, laughing, this time genuinely, “your damned insubordinate candor. Should you be punished for it? Or rewarded?”
“Sir, I’d like a command. Later you can tell me whether it is reward or punishment.”
Father Walter McCluskey shifted his ample bulk on the hard wooden bench in a vain attempt to ease the pain emanating from his tortured buttocks. He was proud that he didn’t stoop to using a cushion like that prissy and skinny little dago fanatic, Father Rosselli. Besides, he sometimes needed a jolt of agony to keep him awake during the monotony of these Saturday confessions.
Only half his mind at best was paying attention to the verbal meanderings of the old woman who was so distressed because she had been ill and missed Mass last Sunday, and who was so tired at night that she often fell asleep during her evening prayers. Poor dear.
Gently, he told her it was all right to miss Mass if you are sick-as if, he thought but refrained from saying, God wanted her breathing her own unique brand of plague on the rest of the faithful. As to her nightly prayers, a merciful and benevolent god would surely understand that her daily exertions caused nightly fatigue and, besides, wasn’t it more important to live like a Catholic than to pray like one? He doubted she accepted that piece of theology. She liked the routine of prayer, but not necessarily the substance.
He gave her a nominal penance, which seemed to please her, as it acknowledged she had sinned, however slightly, and she departed. She would be back in a week, as would dozens like her. It was frustrating some days. It would be so nice to actually assist someone truly in need of help to leave a sinful life. Unfortunately, he sighed, those were the ones least likely to come to confession.
Father McCluskey deftly closed one sliding panel and opened the other. The part of his brain that had been ignoring the old lady had decided that this next person, still invisible, was also female, although quite a bit younger. He had deciphered this from the fact that he heard the rustling of a dress, and the person had not wheezed or groaned upon kneeling. It was a game he sometimes played to keep himself interested.
He waited. Instead of the opening request to be acknowledged as a sinner who needs forgiving, there was silence. Through the screen he could see the shadow of the woman. The silence continued and his senses came alert. Finally, he took the initiative.
“My child, how can I help you?”
The response was a whisper. “I don’t know.”
He caught the accent. The girl was Irish. “Have you sinned?” he asked gently.
“Some say I have. I don’t think so.” The girl started sobbing quietly.
“Talk to me, my child.”
Molly leaned forward so her head touched the screen and her words tumbled out. “I went to that other priest to ask him why I hated all Germans for what one had done to me, and when he asked what caused my hate and I told him how one had raped me, he told me it was my fault.”
She related how she had told the other priest of her standing on the barricade and being chased down and attacked by the German. “He said it was my fault for tormenting the man and leading him on. He said that what I did proved I was a loose woman and that no good Catholic would have been on the streets like that. He said I had brought that man into an occasion of sin by my disgraceful behavior.”
Father McCluskey put his head in his hands. Damn Rosselli.
The girl continued. “Did I sin, Father?”
Time to be tactful, McCluskey thought. “No, child, you did not sin. I think the other priest might have misunderstood you.” He also thought Father Rosselli would make a good missionary to the Eskimos, and would soon be one if he could swing it with the bishop. “You did the right thing by standing there to proclaim your right to be free. That is why we came to this land, is it not?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And as to your actions being responsible for the attack upon your body,” he had a difficult time using the word “rape,” “you are no more responsible for the events that occurred than a passenger on a boat would be if it sank because of the actions of a captain. The person responsible for your being raped,” there, he said it, “was your attacker, not you. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” Her voice was definitely more cheerful, and McCluskey felt relieved. This was going to be a good day after all.
“Now, let us talk about your hatred of all Germans. May I assume you have met a German you do not particularly wish to hate?”
Molly giggled. “That could be.”
“Now child, let us be serious. Did the Germans invent the heinous crime of rape? Are there no Irish rapists about? Could you not be assaulted someday by an Irishman? Has it not happened to others of our faith and our race?”
He saw her head bob up and down. “Yes.”
“And if your assailant had been Irish, would you hate all men of Irish descent?”
“Of course not.”
“Then have you not answered your own question?”
There was silence while Molly digested this bit of logic. “Thank you, Father. I know now that I have not sinned and I know also that I will succeed in not hating.” She asked for absolution and he gave it gladly, along with a personal blessing and a promise to pray for her.