The Feast Day of Saint Bernadette of Lourdes
“Sister Marie Bernard rang the bell,” Josephine said as she slipped into her good dress.
“We heard it.” Stephanie pinned a chapel veil to her hair. “You ready?” She turned to Domenica. “Andiamo. See? The Italian you taught me stuck.”
Domenica draped the scarf from McVicars over her shoulders. The nurses walked to the convent garden together.
“That scarf is so chic,” Josephine complimented her.
“I finally have someplace to wear it.”
“Mademoiselle Cabrelli. Finally you like a fella!” Stephanie teased her. “We’ve been waiting. We were afraid you might take the veil.”
“Don’t,” said Darlene Heck, a surgical nurse who greeted them as they entered the garden. “Never make any major decisions when you’re exhausted. These nuns are experts at running a girl ragged.” Darlene handed each of the nurses a velvet bag containing rosary beads. “A gift from the Sisters.”
“Do you think Saint Bernadette would approve of a fuss on her feast day?” Stephanie whispered. “She seemed humble.”
Josephine looped the rosary around her wrist and through her fingers. “It’s a good excuse for Sister Marie Honoré to get her mitts on the vintage champagne stored in the convent basement.”
“Thank God she doesn’t like to drink alone.” Stephanie blessed herself.
The pale green buds of spring twizzled on the branches of the lemon trees. The nuns knelt on the soft grass, followed by the nurses. As the women bowed their heads to pray, the buzz of the bees in their hives along the wall underscored Sister Marie Bernard as she led the group in reciting the rosary. Soon their incantations were louder than the hum of the bees.
No matter their country of origin, nurses were French on the feast day of Saint Bernadette of Lourdes, the patron saint of healing. As the priest asked the nuns and nurses to pray in silence for their intentions, Domenica looked around the garden and prayed for the small army of fellow nurses and nuns that protected her at Saint Joseph’s, remembering, too, one sailor she hoped was thinking of her.
* * *
John Lawrie McVicars walked through Kelvingrove Park in Glasgow carrying a book. The title was of no importance to him because he had no intention of reading it. Its purpose was strictly utilitarian. He stored sheets of clean onionskin paper between the pages, and the blue envelopes between the endpapers. McVicars could sit in the middle of Glasgow, balance the book on his lap, and, with the fountain pen he kept in his jacket pocket, compose a letter whenever he pleased.
A sailor learns to take up little space on a ship, so it becomes a habit on land. Most tools in McVicars’s possession had multiple purposes. McVicars was shaped by his life in the military. He joined the merchant navy when he was eighteen; he had spent more of his life in service than he had as a civilian. He took out his pocketknife and gently opened a letter stamped Marseille, France. He smiled in anticipation as he opened the first letter he had received from Domenica Cabrelli.
17 April 1939
Dear Captain,
I hope your hands have continued to heal nicely. I purchased a small vial of holy water from Lourdes on the feast day of Saint Bernadette. Mary Gay thinks the holy water might have come from the faucet at Saint Joseph’s Church, but even if it isn’t officially from Lourdes, it has been blessed.
You are popular here at Saint Joseph’s. When you feel blue, remember the nuns of Saint Joseph are praying for you. They are also praying for my family.
My brother, Aldo, in the Italian army, has been assigned to a field operation in Tunisia. He wrote simply “I am here” on the postcard he sent to me. I don’t know if this has any meaning beyond my brother’s inability to write a letter. I have heard from my mother. There is talk in the village that an announcement was forthcoming. The old saying goes, if you want to know what the king is up to, ask the farmer, or in my situation, ask my mother.
Mama wrote that the Villa Borghese in Viareggio has been taken over by the Fascisti. The Blackshirts chose to occupy the most opulent residence in our village for their own use. Mama was also told the Fascisti were establishing field operations all along the coast of Italy. Lucca, the city closest to my village, is changing rapidly. The silk mills have been seized to make military uniforms. I pray it’s all just the typical pageantry.
Thank you for the scarf you sent, which reminds me of you and the way things used to be.
With a big kiss,
Domenica
McVicars was worried. An Italian émigré working in France in a Catholic hospital would soon be without a job and a country. He knew how these situations could go. The nuns would not be able to protect their nurses, so they would be discharged. Domenica would not be safe in France or Italy.