The Brotherhood of the Rose Read online

  “You arrived just in time,” Miss Halahan said. “For the weekly initiation. Otherwise we’d have had to do it all over again just for you.”

  Chris didn’t understand. “Initiation” was yet another word he’d never come across. He didn’t like its sound. Nervous, he sat in a creaky seat and realized that all the other boys had followed his instincts, staying apart from each other. The auditorium was unnaturally quiet.

  An old man dressed in khaki pants and shirt with an olive drab tie marched to the center of the stage. He stood before a podium, and again Chris noticed an American flag. The old man held a baton beneath one arm and introduced himself as Colonel Douglas Dolty, director of admissions and headmaster of the dormitory. He began his speech with animal and sports jokes. A few boys laughed. The colonel ventured to guess that many heroes of the sports world knew about the school and on occasion would visit the boys. Though anxious, Chris was surprised to find himself interested. His cheeks felt tight from his now-dried tears. The colonel told a story (incomprehensible to Chris) about a place called ancient Greece and three hundred soldiers called Spartans who died heroically trying to hold off an army of Persians at a pass called Thermopylae. “Gentlemen,” he concluded, “I’m going to show you what this school is all about.”

  He formed the boys in two lines and led them outside, down the road to the vocational arts building. There, the newbies, as they learned they were called, were shown the foundry, where boys filled cast-iron molds. In the print shop, other boys were setting type for the next issue of the school’s paper. Chris saw the carpentry and machine and auto mechanics shops. He went to the tailor shop, the shoe shop, and the laundry. Even there, his group was impressed by the noise and activity and the importance of children like themselves doing the work. They wanted to try out the machines.

  But the colonel saved the best for last. With a smile of pride, he took them to the armory, showing Chris and the others the 1917 Enfield rifles, polished to a gleam, that they soon would carry, as well as the sabers, the dress uniforms of gunmetal gray, and the snap-on white collars they would wear in their student platoons. Here especially Chris was awestruck. No boy spoke up or clowned around. Chris inhaled the sharp sweet smell of gun oil, Brasso, and bore cleaner. The respect he and the other boys gave this old man was the same respect they would show him on the day in their senior year when they signed up for Army Airborne or the Second Marine Division. Respect indeed would turn to love. Nurtured in a male system, in the Spartan atmosphere of Franklin, love would turn to patriotism and pride. Fear, through prolonged punishment, would soon become commonplace and would finally be unknown. The glitter of saber scabbards, the charisma of rifles, insignias, and chevrons would create excitement, fusing all the needed alloys of heroism and loyalty to produce the men Franklin passed on to the outside world.

  “We can’t have you looking the way you do now, can we?” the colonel said. Continuing to reassure them with his smile, he took them to another building where he gave each boy two pair of lace-up high-cut black shoes, similar to combat boots. He handed each a white dress shirt and three plain shirts of various colors, four pair of pants, socks and underwear, four handkerchiefs—all wrapped in a tight bundle by a long bilious cotton nightshirt. With their shoes tied around their necks and their bundle of clothes clutched to their chests, they looked like miniature airborne troops as they ventured out into the dry hot wind again and trotted at double time back along the road to the dormitory.

  6

  The barber was waiting. When he finished, two inches of scalp showed above Chris’s ears. With the back of his head shaved bare, he looked like a boot camp recruit. He felt nervous and shy, but as he studied the other boys and they studied him, he straightened, glancing at himself in a mirror, seeing his newly acquired rugged features, feeling unexpectedly athletic, strangely confident.

  But the showers were next: a small tiled room with fixtures that had no handles, the flow of water controlled by a governess who peered through a window and manipulated dials. A male attendant told them to take off their clothes and stuff them in a large canvas bag at the end of the room. Chris felt ashamed. He’d never been naked in front of any person except his mother. His eyes felt swollen again as he remembered her. He tried to cover himself with his hands and saw other boys do the same. But it puzzled him that the male attendant and the governess didn’t seem to notice they were naked.

  Herded into the small shower, they tried hard not to touch each other, an impossible task as they struggled with bars of soap and cringed beneath the powerful steaming nozzles. The spray was so thick Chris barely saw the other boys. The water abruptly stopped. Disconcerted, Chris left the shower room with the others. They dripped on the tile of a locker room, huddling, feeling cold now. The attendant handed each of them a towel and pointed toward a large metal pail filled with something gooey and sweet-smelling he called cold cream, telling them to rub it on their faces, their arms and legs, and any spots that were red and raw. Chris suddenly noticed that the large canvas sack where he and the others had stuffed their clothes was gone. He never saw his tar-stained sneakers and grimy shirt again.

  Or his candy bars.

  He wanted to moan, feeling tricked and betrayed. Eating them had been all he’d had to look forward to.

  But there wasn’t time for self-pity. The attendant took their towels and led them shivering, naked, from the locker room up the stairwell to a huge room where bunk beds lined the walls. Each bed had two shelves and a storage locker. The windows were barred. Demoralized, Chris put on his gray wool socks and pants and shirt. But though uncomfortable in the itchy new clothes, he glanced at the other boys in amazement. Except for their differences in hair color and complexion, all looked alike. He didn’t know why, but somehow that reassured him.

  The attendant explained their schedule. Wake up at 6, breakfast at 7, school from 8 to 12, lunch till 12:30, rest till 1, school till 5, play till 6, then supper and study hall, in bed by 8. “Any discomfort, itchiness, bloody gums, or illness of any kind, report it to me at once. Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to make your bed so I can bounce a quarter off it. The first few weeks, you’ll sleep with a rubber sheet—in case.”

  The attendant marched them from the dormitory to the mess hall, where they were joined by hundreds of other children, all sizes, all ages, all dressed in gray with their hair cut severely. They’d been in classes till now, but despite the crowd, the room was oddly silent as the boys filed past the counters with their trays to receive their food.

  Chris gagged when he saw the first meal he would eat here. One boy mentioned tuna casserole. Another grumbled about Brussels sprouts. Chris had never heard of that before. All he knew was that this green stuff was covered by white guck and the whole thing smelled like spit-up. He sat with his group at a plastic-covered table, staring at the salt shaker, refusing to eat, when he felt a shadow loom over him. “Everybody eats, or everybody’s punished,” a deep voice growled. Chris had to think about what the man had said. He gradually understood. He saw the other boys staring at him and realized that, if he didn’t eat, the other boys would be blamed because of him. He debated with himself, stifling the pressure in his throat. Slowly he picked up his fork. He stared at the creamy white stuff. He didn’t breathe as he chewed and swallowed, and somehow not breathing seemed to help.

  They were told after supper they’d get a treat. A movie. Just as Chris had never had a car ride before, he’d never seen a movie. As he crowded with the other boys, his eyes expanded with delight. The black-and-white images flickered magically on the screen. He watched an actor named John Wayne—the rest of the boys seemed to know who he was and applauded with delight—in a war story called The Fighting Seabees. His chest pounded. Shooting and explosions. The other kids cheered. He loved it.

  That night, as he lay in his bottom bunk in the dark of the dormitory, he wondered where his mother was. He tried to understand what he was doing here. He recalled what Lepage had said about his father dying
in something called the line of duty. Frightened and puzzled, he heard a boy across from him begin to sob. Chris felt his own tears hot and bitter at the corners of his eyes as an older boy yelled, “Quit yer cryin’! I wanna sleep!”

  Chris stiffened, embarrassed. When he realized the older boy had been yelling at the new boy across from him, he swallowed his sorrow, squeezing his eyes shut, determined to avoid attention, to be one of those who didn’t cry. But he wished he’d made Lepage tell him why his mother was called a prostitute, and he wished with all his heart that his mother would return from Atlantic City and take him away from here. Grief strangled him. But in his dream, he saw Eliot handing him a Baby Ruth candy bar.

  7

  “I root for the Phillies,” a boy to Chris’s right said.

  Chris knelt with his group at the back of the first-grade room, putting puzzles together—mostly maps of the United States with cartoons of corn and apples, factories, mines, and oil wells drawn on various sections, though sometimes the maps were of countries Chris had never heard of, China, Korea, and Russia, for example. The puzzles were brightly colored, and he quickly learned how to put them together. He’d never been to school before, but despite the complaints he’d heard from the older boys, he thought he was going to like it. For a little while, at least. Despite what Eliot had told him, Chris was sure his mother would come to take him home.

  The boy who’d said he rooted for the Phillies looked even thinner than Chris, his face so lean his eyes bulged. When the boy smiled, waiting for approval from the others, Chris noticed he had several missing teeth. But when the boy got no response, his smile quickly vanished, replaced by humiliation.

  Another boy spoke. To Chris’s left. Though the same age as the other boys in the group, he was bigger—not just taller but heavier—than the rest. He had the darkest hair, the tannest skin, the squarest face, the deepest voice. His name was Saul Grisman, and last night in the dorm, Chris had heard an older boy whisper that Grisman was a Jew. Chris hadn’t known what he meant. “What’s the matter with ya?” the other boy had said. “Where ya been? A Jew.” Chris still hadn’t known what he meant. “Aw, for Pete’s sake,” the other boy said, “I didn’t know Micks could be so dumb.” When Chris had asked what a Mick was, the older boy had walked away in disgust.

  Now Saul said, “I root for all the teams! And I got the baseball cards to prove it!” He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out two handfuls of them.

  The other boys blinked, astonished. They stopped putting together the puzzles and quickly glanced toward the governess, who sat at the front desk, reading a book. Assured, they leaned forward guiltily, staring in awe at the baseball cards. Saul showed the cards one at a time: pictures of men in uniform swinging bats or running or catching balls, Yogi Berra, Joe DiMaggio, Jackie Robinson, names Chris had never heard of, with their life story on the back of each card, how many home runs they’d hit or outs they’d made. Saul enjoyed watching the other boys admire his treasures, but he wouldn’t let them handle one card, which he raised with reverence. “He played before those other guys, and he was better,” Saul said.

  Chris squinted at the heavy man in the picture, then down at the name—Babe Ruth. Feeling nervous because he didn’t know anything about these players, he tried to think of something to say that would make the other kids accept him. “Sure,” he nodded wisely. “They named a candy bar after him.” For an instant, he thought of the gray-faced man named Eliot.

  Saul frowned. “A what?”

  “A candy bar. Babe Ruth.”

  “That’s Baby Ruth.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “It’s not the same. It’s Babe. Not Baby.”

  “So what?”

  “The candy bar’s named after some guy’s baby named Ruth.”

  Chris blushed. The other boys sneered at him as if they’d known the secret all along. The governess glanced up from her book, sending a shock through the room. Saul fumbled to put the cards beneath his shirt while the other boys ducked quickly down to put more puzzles together. The governess stood, walking ominously over to them. She towered, making Chris nervous as she watched for a long time before she returned to her desk.

  “How’d you get to keep the cards?” one boy asked Saul as the class walked in double file to lunch. The other boys strained to hear Saul’s answer. Not only did Saul have something none of the rest of them had, but he’d actually managed to smuggle the cards into school. Chris remembered that everything the boys had brought here with them had been taken from them the first day, including (he recalled bitterly) his candy bars, which he wished he’d eaten right away instead of saving. So how had Saul kept the baseball cards?

  “Yeah, how’d you get to keep them?” another boy asked.

  Instead of answering, Saul only smiled.

  “Can I sit next to you at lunch?” a third boy asked.

  “Me too. Can I sit next to you? Can I look at the cards again?” another boy asked. Though they had to walk in ranks, they nonetheless seemed to crowd around Saul as they entered the refectory for lunch.

  When Chris carried his tray of wieners and beans to their table, he found that the only empty seat was the farthest from Saul. The other boys sat proudly next to Saul or across from him, a few even daring to whisper more questions about the cards till a supervisor stopped and glared them all into silence.

  Outside the refectory, they were allowed to speak as they went to their room for rest period, but Chris couldn’t get a word in. All anybody wanted to talk about was where Saul had gotten the cards and how he’d managed to keep them. Because of Chris’s disastrous remark about Babe Ruth and the candy bar, the other boys treated him as the dummy of the group, and Chris wished harder for his mother to come and rescue him. He decided he didn’t like school after all.

  He disliked it even more when, late in the afternoon, the governess marched them to the swimming pool in the basement of the gymnasium. An instructor told them to strip and shower, and again Chris felt ashamed to be naked in front of other people. His shame soon turned to fear when the instructor ordered them to jump into the pool. Chris had never seen so much water. He was afraid of his head going under and choking as he had one time when his mother was giving him a bath. But the instructor nudged him toward the pool, and Chris finally jumped in willingly because the water would hide his nakedness. Splashing down through the cold sharp-smelling water, he landed abruptly, surprised the water came up only to his waist. The other boys entered as reluctantly as Chris, except for Saul, who considered the pool a thrilling challenge and even sank down so his head was under water.

  “You!” The instructor pointed. “What’s your name?”

  “Saul Grisman, sir.” The “sir” was an absolute rule. They’d learned whenever a boy spoke to a grown-up he had to say “sir” or “ma’am,” depending.

  “You look like you’ve gone swimming before.”

  Saul answered, “No, sir.”

  “Never had lessons?”

  “No, sir.”

  The instructor rubbed his chin, impressed. “Maybe you’re a natural.”

  With their admiration of Saul reinforced by the instructor’s approval, the boys competed with each other to get close to Saul as they held the edge of the pool and the instructor showed them how to kick their legs.

  “That’s right. Watch Grisman,” the instructor said. “He’s got the idea.”

  At the farthest place from Saul, sputtering, struggling to keep his head above water, kicking awkwardly, Chris had never felt so lonely. Back on Calcanlin Street, he’d spent the summer alone waiting for his mother, but in the familiar house in the familiar neighborhood with friends to play with, he hadn’t felt alone. In fact, that hadn’t been the first time his mother had left him alone; he was almost used to living by himself, though he always missed his mother when she was gone. But now in these strange surroundings, shivering in the water, excluded by the other children, envying Saul, he felt the bitter ache of loneliness and decided
he hated this place.

  The only time he mustered interest was the next night, Saturday, when after a day of practice making his bed, learning to lace, tie, and polish his shoes, to knot and adjust his tie to the proper length, he went with every boy in the school to see another movie. Chris eagerly recalled the first one he’d seen here, The Fighting Seabees. This one was called Battleground. Everyone cheered as it began, and again the action was exciting, lots of shooting and explosions. Chris loved the plot about a group of American soldiers fighting as a team in war. The music—blaring trumpets, pounding drums—made his stomach feel warm.

  But after, none of his group cared what he thought about the movie. Everybody wanted to know what Saul thought. Chris almost broke his rule by crying himself to sleep. Instead he clenched his teeth in the darkness, planning to run away.

  8

  The sudden glare of the overhead lights woke him at six. Someone said it was Sunday. Blinking sleepily, he shuffled with the other boys to the washroom, where with his toothbrush in his left hand he held out his right hand for the supervisor to pour him some tooth powder. As he cleaned his teeth, making sure he reached all the way to the back the way the supervisor had shown him, the peppermint taste of the Colgate made him feel slightly sick. He listened to the flushing of urinals and toilets and tried not to look at the boys getting off the seats. The toilets were in the open—no walls or doors—and his shyness prevented him from relieving himself till he absolutely had to. He surprised himself by sitting, not caring who watched him, his need too great. In fact, no one seemed to care. And the relief he felt afterward, combined with the confidence he’d acquired by overcoming this further taboo of shyness, made him anticipate the day with unexpected optimism. He even enjoyed the milky scrambled eggs he washed down with orange juice, and he felt a little like the soldiers in their uniforms in Battleground when he put on his stiff dress shirt and his cadet clothes before the supervisor marched his group to chapel.