me see,” the priest answered. “I was baptized as an infant, of course, and confirmed when I was a young man. Since then I have participated in the Eucharist many hundreds (or even thousands) of times. Hmm, what’s next? Ah, yes, penance. Penance I have done, but I’ve not yet received unction. You’ve already learned that unction is reserved for the last days of life.”
“You must have been ordained, though, because you’re a priest.”
“Yes, I received Holy Orders when I was twenty-five years old, more than forty years ago!” Father Albert paused and closed his eyes. “You may not know that I was married, even before my ordination. My wife was a dear woman who helped me in my parish work. Her nursing skills were well-known.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died in an epidemic. Still a young woman she was, and very beautiful.” Father Albert contracted his eyebrows and compressed his lips so that his face became a tight web of wrinkles.
Josef though he’d better change the subject. “How do bread and wine become the body and blood of Jesus?” he asked.
“That’s a hard question. We know it happens because Jesus said so. He told his disciples at their last meal that they were eating his flesh and drinking his blood. But how does it happen? The scholars may figure it out, but I know I’m not smart enough to understand.”
“Well, how come some people eat his body and blood at the Mass and some don’t?” Josef asked.
“St. Paul says that anyone who eats the bread or drinks the cup in an unworthy manner profanes the body and blood of our Lord. So it’s only those judged worthy who are allowed to partake.”
“How can you tell whether a person is worthy or not?”
“You’re full of hard questions today! God himself knows who is worthy, and he entrusts his special representatives with this knowledge. Sometimes people you would not expect are denied the sacrament. Our own King Henry, it appears, has recently been judged unworthy.”
“If the king isn’t worthy, how could anybody else be?”
Father Albert winked. “Perhaps the king will be worthy again by this time next year.” Assuming a more serious tone, he said, “Between you and me, very few people are worthy, but the Church makes allowances.”
“Will they make allowances for my mother?”
Father Albert laid his hand on Josef’s head. “We must trust our church leaders to make these decisions. They’re learned men and they know more than we do. Do you see?”
Josef did not see, but he thought he’d better stop asking questions. He crinkled his nose and nodded. What had he learned today from Father Albert? We are not wise enough. We don’t know enough. Only a few learned men have knowledge, and we must trust them. But he wondered why it was that most Christians did not know enough. Why didn’t they try to learn more? Why did they not have schools where they could learn to read Holy Scriptures? Why didn’t they ask and discuss hard questions?
Josef did not go directly home. He wanted time to think. Mosche had told him that people should not study to gain riches and rewards or even to earn respect. Rather they should study for love, because the Lord commanded us to love him with all our hearts. Did Christians not love the Lord? They certainly didn’t study the way Jews did. As he walked the streets, Josef wondered what it means to love the Lord. How can you love someone you can’t see, or hear, or touch? How is love connected with learning?
Before long Josef found himself in the market square, just as the Saturday market was closing down. He watched vendors pack up their remaining goods and load their carts for the journey home. It was nearly time for dinner, and the air was growing cool. Reluctantly Josef set out for his house, which was no longer the peaceful place he had enjoyed as a younger child. Now it was inhabited by a disagreeable stranger who made life more difficult for him and his mother. At least he hadn’t seen Joakim harass her in the last few weeks.
On his way down Market Street, Josef sensed he was being watched. He sighed, suspecting he would soon be confronted by those boys who were the other great annoyance in his life. He was right. One after another, the boys appeared on the edges of the street, shadowing him from a distance. What was their intention? It was harder now to make him cry, but still they had power to make him miserable. As he glanced from one to another, he saw something ominous. A couple of the boys were holding objects in their hands that flashed in the slanted light of the afternoon sun. Were they holding clubs, perhaps iron rods to hit him with? No, they had knives! This was more than annoyance—this was danger! Josef turned around and ran as fast as he could go. Four of the boys ran after him. He could feel them getting closer with each stride.
When he reached the corner, Josef turned abruptly into Jews’ Alley. The boys seemed to hesitate for a moment, then came after him. He led them down the narrow street for about a block and tumbled into the courtyard of the synagogue. Here they caught up with him. Two of them grabbed his wrists and twisted his arms behind his back. The red-haired boy pulled out a knife and waved it in front of Josef’s face. “You’re going to come with us, bastard. We need blood for our clubhouse door, and you’re going to give it to us.”
Just then the doors of the schoolhouse behind the synagogue swung open, and a crowd of men, boys, and a few women streamed out into the courtyard. All nicely dressed, they were shaking hands vigorously with each other and repeating their friendly greetings all around. The red-haired boy quickly put away his knife. An old man approached him, clasped him warmly by the hand, and said, “Shalom, my son!” The other boys received similar greetings. They were soon surrounded by a boisterous mass of humanity. Josef was able to wrench free and slip away from the others. As the crowd grew louder and more animated, Josef saw the four boys backing out of the courtyard and into the street. He smiled when he remembered what Mosche had told him about Sabbath sermons and the loud discussions that followed. This was not all scholarly talk, Mosche had said, but mostly reports of news and the latest gossip. Well, anyway, it sounded like music to his ears.
Was Mosche here? Josef looked around but did not see him. He’d have to ask Mosche sometime if he could attend a Sabbath sermon with him. But he’d better go home now (by a different route than Market Street) before his mother started worrying.
•
Now eight years old, Josef had fallen into a routine that brought a sense of satisfaction to his life. Meeting with Mosche four or five mornings each week, he had made good progress in learning Hebrew and reading Scriptures. They had read through the five books of Moses and were currently working on Psalms and Prophets, committing many passages to memory. Once a week he was meeting with Father Albert to study Christian doctrine. While Josef did not always get satisfactory answers to his questions, he enjoyed the sessions with the kindly old priest. The situation at home was not good but it was tolerable—the extra income from having a boarder live with them allowed greater variety in their diet, even occasional luxuries such as honey and butter (instead of lard) for their bread. The boys in Market Street still heckled him sometimes but no one had tried to confront him lately.
One thing had changed. Since Mosche’s sister had turned six years old, she had decided she too was going to study Torah and Mosche was going to be her teacher. Miriam’s determination led her to rise early and come with Mosche to their pre-dawn sessions at the school. To accommodate the new student, Mosche went over material Josef had already studied. This was all right with Josef—he found he gained new insights when he reviewed texts he had read before. If the boys’ delivery routes were not too long, Miriam came along and listened intently as Josef and Mosche discussed what they had read.
