SISTER ALBERT MARCHETTI
“AN ANGEL OF GOD”
A True Story
By
Robert A. Chapin
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition
Is has been important to the author to protect the identity of some of the characters in this story, and for that purpose, names and descriptions have been changed.
Central Massachusetts, School Year 1952-53
Once again we are in the early 1950’s and my mother’s desire to send me and my 2 younger sisters to Catholic School. Raised in an Italian family we were not only rich in the culture but devoted to God, we were duty bound to attend Mass every Sunday and NEVER EVER miss confession. “Bless me father, for I have sinned…”
Ever since I can remember it was instilled in us from a very early age that we had to tell the priest all our sins. I was so frightened of “God in the little confessional box”, and even attempted to disguise my voice in fear he would recognize me the moment I left the “box”. That was also a time in my life when my mother would literally “wash my mouth out with soap” if I took The Lord’s name in vain.
Mother considered Catholic school the best education available and the cost was only $10.00 per kid for the entire year. Back then, the diocese was fairly well to do. It was only less than ten years following the end of World War II and many people appeared to have a job and some disposable income. There was plenty of work to go around and my dad, although an alcoholic, was always willing to offer his services to Father Hebert and the nuns.
Of the three “R’s”, reading, writing and arithmetic, my least of subjects was arithmetic, and it showed. I dreaded the day when report cards were passed out for our parents to read and sign, and, concentrate on the note sister sent home in her beautifully cursive handwriting about the shortcomings in Robert’s “lack of effort”.
There was Sister Albert, Sister Mary, (Mother Superior always dressed in starched white), then, there was Sister Gabriel. She was in all likelihood no more than 28-30 years old, but had the presence of Attila the Hun. She was very frightening but had a soft place in her heart for Mary Anne Carlton, whose father was the Superintendent of Public Schools in our town.
Devout Catholics, Dr. Carlton’s family was always sending Mary Anne to school with extra special gifts for the nuns, and it was obvious she was on their good side. Mary Anne could do no wrong, and was the proverbial “teachers pet”.
I mentioned earlier in several of my short stories that my father was an alcoholic, and that was the point at which Sister Gabriel made her distinction between Mary Anne - the good person leading a wholesome life, and me - the son of an alcoholic father on the fast track to hell - not only my father - but for me as well. I quickly learned that I was going to pay for the “sins of the father” - and it wasn’t Father Hebert to whom I refer!
Even though my father had his problems with alcohol, he was skilled in just about every profession. He was an excellent carpenter, stone and brick mason, fixer upper, a skilled machinist and excelled in whatever needed to be taken care of in the school. To some degree, he was exploited with the threat that he was going to burn in hell if he did not offer his services as an act of obedience to God.
The dreaded day arrived when Father Hebert entered Sister Gabriel’s classroom where everyone bent the knee and kissed his ring, he was seated in a huge chair with cassock and long string of rosary beads cascading on the side of his black robe. Sister Gabriel would read the name on the report card aloud, and commence to point out every student’s progress. Back then, the sisters used a numerical system, from 100 down to “dummy!” In math, I very seldom escaped the latter designation.
When it came to Mary Anne Carlton, she received all 100’s, and as she left Father Hebert she always handed him an envelope. How ominous, and they say you can’t buy your way into heaven! When it came time for my scores to be read, I glanced at the priest and all I could imagine was fiery red piercing eyes, pointed ears and long black fingernails. The black robe however was appropriate.
Sister Gabriel made certain to take extra care in shouting my name: She always refeered to me as “Robere” (They were of a French Canadian novitiate) and spoke with a slight accent.
“Father! Robere’ is a dummy in arithmetic, his father cannot hold a job and is always drunk!”
As punishment for my poor grades, Sister Gabriel had not finished with the humiliation. The building we were in was a three story turn of the century schoolhouse with nicely hand rubbed oak wood doors, railings and floors. Each room had a large grate on one wall measuring approximately 36” x 36” and equipped with a 24” long chain plunging from the center and a wooden handle at the end.
In the warmer months it was inactive, but when the weather turned colder, strange sounds emanated from this large grate on the wall and deep within the bowels of the basement. I was afraid to look at it having no idea what it was. All I knew is that when the clinking and clanging began, heat pumped from within.
By chance, it was in late fall when father was reading our report cards, and as punishment Sister Gabriel grabbed me by the ear and marched me to the grate.
“You dummy! Stupid dummy! she said, as she grabbed the handle on the grate (I later learned that when anyone pulled the handle it opened the baffle on the wall calling for more heat from the furnace below).
“Down there is hell! That is where the devil is waiting for you and your drunkin’ father!”
I began to scream and cry as she forcibly pushed me closer to the grate. With an immense amount of heat now just licking at my face, I expected Satan to reach out and grab me at any moment! Father Hebert continued to watch as he had to have been enjoying my humiliation but never came to my aid, and allowed Sister Gabriel’s contemptuous behavior. Finally, she dropped the handle and the flue closed and the rush of heat disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
If that wasn’t enough, she grabbed a pointer with rubber tip and as further penalty for crying out in class ordered me to extend my hand, knuckles up - and vigorously slammed the stick down onto them.
When Sister Gabriel, Father Hebert and the class had their fill of revenge, the punishment subsided, but not until the priest pointed his finger directly into my face admonishing me for the wicked ways of Satan and how my father will burn in hell. Sister Gabriel continued scolding me as she read aloud the scores in the penmanship portion of the class and pointed out that because I was left handed, Satan was just waiting for me - behind the infamous wall.
I was unable to carry out the Catholic method of writing with the (right) hand. Every time the sister looked over my shoulder and saw me using my left hand - I got the pointer across my knuckles - again, and again, and again!
I remember playing in the small fenced in yard at recess and Sister Albert (possibly in her early twenties), had taken a fondness to me and pulled me into her bosom. Of all the nuns, she had a desire to read between the lines and bestow compassion. I can still smell the starch of her ‘wrinkle free’ pure white veil and as with Father Hebert adorned with rosary beads and a huge crucifix. When Sister Albert embraced me I felt as though I could not have been any more pure than if I had just experienced my freedom with Jesus! Most of all she reassured me in a silent manner that God would provide for me and that not all nuns in the novitiate were as unpleasant and unkind as Sister Gabriel.
Whenever I was in Sister Albert’s class I felt free of the hostility of Sister Gabriel, and lucky for me it was the last class of the day. She taught art and in one session handed me a piece of construction paper, a set of water colors and instructed me to paint how I felt when I was in her class. After drawing, using the beautiful colors of blue and yellow (my favorites), she gathered up all of our artwork and pinned them on a rope to dry. When I completed the assignment she once again pulled me into her bosom where I left the presence of God. Instantly, the hostility of Sister Gabriel and Father Hebert were but a distant memory and experience.
I remember wrapping my hands around her and just sobbing deep into her garment. She realized my anxiety as she shielded my tearful eyes from the other students. For that moment I was Mary Anne Carleton who shared a life of privilege and bunches of good food and snacks and nice clothes and no worries, and a father who was always addressed as “Mr.” Carleton a sign of respect I had not been made aware of with my own father.
I didn’t have to contend with a drunken father or a mother who worked two jobs. I was at peace and Sister Albert was my liberator for that moment. The Grace of God was upon and within me when several days later Mother Superior (always dressed in white) announced there was going to be an art show to be judged by Sister Gabriel, herself and of course Father Hebert.
Sister Albert walked into our home room and announced to be sure that we ask our mothers to bake something nice for the special event. My mother was a wonderful cook and made a special cake for the occasion. Although it was a party for all to enjoy, parents would not be present. It was a special event just for the kids, and the winners of the top three prizes would be sent home with a congratulatory certificate and the first prize was a beautiful ten inch high Easter egg decorated like a cake with a ribbon of decorative sugar on the outside and a window depicting Christ on the cross on the inside.
Sister Francine, the nun in charge of household duties: ironing, sewing, cooking, and a multitude of tasks to keep everything running like clock work also made the beautiful Faberge’ style sugar eggs.
On the morning of the judging, Sister Albert who had purposely withheld the names of the “young artists”, displayed the artwork from all twenty five students.
Sister Albert asked Mother Superior, Sister Gabriel and Father Hebert to do the honors of judging.
I sat in silence and with good reason had butterflies churning in my stomach when my painting of “serenity” was chosen as one of the three finalists. I am certain that sister, and father were confident Mary Anne’s painting was among the finalists.
The judges huddled and finally selected my painting as the overall winner. When Sister Albert announced the painting was mine, the class applauded but the look on the faces of Sister Gabriel and Father Hebert could not have been more surprising. Mary Anne’s painting was in the bottom of the selection process and in an effort to hold true to her pretense, Sister Gabriel was forced to smile and acknowledge ‘Robere’!
Eventually, Mother Superior was transferred to a school in the Boston Diocese. Father Hebert was relocated to the Diocese of Buffalo after a controversy was made over the allegations that he had sexually violated young alter boys. Sister Albert Marchetti of The Sisters of Saint Joseph was selected as Mother Superior and became Sister Gabriel’s boss…
Sister Gabriel continued to teach at the St. Thomas Aquinas school and never again treated any student with condescension and contempt.
In 1971, I had occasion to visit Saint Thomas Aquinas school in central Massachusetts. As I parked and walked to my old school, huge demolition equipment had already been delivered. Time and the lack of money could not stop the wrecking ball from demolishing a part of my memory that had its bitter sweet moments. Today, the vacant land is a paved parking lot for the Saint Thomas Aquinas church.
I walked to that part of the schoolyard where Sister Albert so tenderly embraced me so many years earlier, and a warmth rushed over me as I again felt her reassuring touch and her silent suggestion that “God would provide for me!”
Sister Albert, born in 1931 was 22 years old in 1953. She lived out her life in a retirement home for nuns at The Sisters of Saint Joseph of Springfield, Mont Marie, in Holyoke, Massachusetts. She was an inspiration in my life and was a true angel of The Lord.
I am proud to say that I remained a southpaw “left handed person”