Bill’s New Book – A Beach Time Read
Hurrah!
After six months, I have a new hip and a new book, The Soldier
Boy, that is now available on Amazon.com or Kindle (as an e-book). This
book of fiction was conceived and developed during my convalescence from hip
surgery; both are now doing well, thank you very much.
The Soldier Boy tells the story
of a boy born in the waning years of the Great Depression. His mother was
unable to raise him and gave him up for adoption immediately after birth. The
boy was sent from one orphanage to another, spending his entire childhood under
the care of sisters at a catholic orphanage. While the nation recovered from
World War II, the boy witnessed an outsized display of patriotism that provoked
his interest in the military. After leaving the orphanage, he joined the Army,
ultimately qualifying as a Special Forces soldier assigned to duty after
lengthy training. His childhood and Army experiences left an indelible mark on
him as he went from being a ‘throw-away’ orphan to a caring adult who created a
home and family with adopted children of his own.
Want more? Here is an abridged version of the first chapter.
New York City was
hurting. And the pain was felt most severely in the many ethnic neighborhoods
scattered around the metropolitan area. America’s oldest and largest city had
dozens of small, medium and large residential areas where poor folks lived in
ethnic neighborhoods and they suffered more than residents of the city’s other
areas. The ethnic neighborhoods generally had no identifiable borders: all
existed as small islands with a teeming mass of people, many underfed, who were
daily struggling with too little money, too few beds, and too many mouths to
feed.
In 1939, the Great
Depression was still raging despite its ten-year history and the best efforts
of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Unemployment plagued the nation and the
city. The overall rate of unemployment across the nation was 25%; in New York
the figure was closer to 33% and in the ethnic neighborhoods it was much higher
as immigrants with identifiable accents were always first to lose their jobs
and last to be hired. Most of the immigrants living in these areas were going
through the hardest times of their lives and there seemed no reason for hope.
On a February
evening in 1939 in one of the Italian neighborhoods, a shadowy figure dressed
in hand-me-down clothes emerged from one of the many apartment buildings that
dotted the street. The street lights were already on, at least, most of those
that the city felt were essential in the meaner neighborhoods. The figure
clutched something at her chest. She appeared to be a young woman. Another
person from a 4th floor window watched intently as the young woman
moved silently down the street. If anyone watched both the young woman in the
street and the figure in the 4th floor window, the similarity in
appearance would have been unmistakable. The coincidence of tears flowing
freely from both figures might have given a clue to the walker’s mission.
It was a short walk,
but it took the young woman from her neighborhood to an older, formerly upscale
area of the city. She walked directly to an old building, one that was large,
ornate and mysterious as it sat alone, surrounded
by a garden that featured a tiny cemetery behind a stone wall. The wall was
low, the cemetery with its lonely upright stone markers was clearly visible
from the street even as the darkness covered the graves distant from the dirty
sidewalk. The woman paused for the briefest moment at the door that was
illuminated by a single light bulb above the door. She found the bell, pushed
the button, and then laid her burden on the concrete stoop directly in front of
the door. She took one step back from the door into the shadowy darkness. She
appeared to be listening to sounds behind the door. Then she disappeared down
the street before the door was unlatched and pushed open.
Sister Mary had
entrance door duty that night. She had just finished her first year at Sisters
of Charity and had only recently been given the title of sister. She was a
slight young woman who looked more like a student at the convent than a sister.
Mary had joined the Sisters of Charity because of her mother.
Mary’s mother was
deeply religious. She had taken Mary to the Catholic Church in their parish on
most Sundays since she had been a small child. Sometimes mother and daughter
walked to distant churches so that Mary could hear other priests offer Mass. One
Sunday, the pair ventured into The Sisters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul
of New York, most often known simply as the Sisters of Charity of New York.
This congregation of sisters in the Catholic Church had a primary
mission of education and nursing dedicated to the service of the poor. The
Sisters of Charity found themselves obliged to also serve as an orphanage based
on the needs of the poor during The Great Depression.
After their initial
visit to the facility on that early spring morning in 1938, both mother and
daughter were impressed by what they saw. It was nearly a month after that
visit when Mary’s mother spoke to her about the Sisters of Charity again. She
asked if Mary had ever considered becoming a nun. It was the beginning of a
spark that led Mary directly to the Sisters of Charity.
The nuns at the
Sisters of Charity welcomed Mary as she began her novitiate period. It was
difficult for her to be away from home, but she enjoyed the close association
with the older nuns and the two younger ones who, like her, were just beginning
their life in the convent.
As a first-year sister
novitiate, Mary was closely supervised by others and her assignments were
invariably simple, boring duties requiring few skills. Her shift of work on
this night required her to deal with any front door visitors. She was also in
charge of the adjacent vestibule and front door closet. In the vestibule was a
single, small table with a telephone and a log book gracing its top and a
simple straight-backed chair. Mary’s job of answering the door included
completing a log book entry for all visitors.
Mary was sitting stiffly
near the front door when she heard the doorbell ring. It took a moment after
the ring for her to unlatch and then open the large door. When the door swung
open, Mary didn’t see anyone. She was about to return to the dimly lit hallway
when she noticed the small wicker basket laying on the stoop below her. It
seemed to be full of clothes. And then she saw a tiny movement. She waited and
stared intently. Seeing nothing beyond the jumble of fabric, she picked up the
basket and stepped inside to see more clearly.
There was something
– a note was pinned to one of the fabrics. As Mary unpinned the note from what
appeared to be a worn-out towel, she saw something else. Mary had tried hard
during her first year as a new sister to remain calm and serene as befitting
her residence in God’s house. She lost her calm demeanor when the note and the
blanket moved, and her sudden intake of breath provoked a noise from her
throat. The movement was caused by a baby lying beneath the jumble of fabrics
in the basket. She carefully sat the basket down by the table and closed the
door. Her heart was pounding. She stood silently for a moment to take command
of her senses and her muscles. She studied the note in the dim light. It was
hand-written in a childish script.
“I can’t keep the baby. Please take care
of it. Don’t try to find me. My father will kill me if he finds out.”
There was no
signature. Sister Mary didn’t know what to do -- It was too late to report to
Sister Rose who was her immediate superior. Undoubtedly, the sister would be in
her cell, either in bed or more likely on her knees in prayer and she didn’t
like being disturbed. Mary considered her options. After a moment she decided
to inform the Mother Superior despite the late hour.
If you are interested in purchasing your own copy of the
paperback book, it is available at Amazon.com for $11 or at Kindle.com as an
e-book for $3. Or, if we are close by, you can ask me to hand you a copy of the
paperback and avoid the shipping costs. Happy reading/BIll
