occupation, Lionni had become obsessed with the Ministry of Transport. He had surreptitiously observed it, pretending, variously, to be a street sweeper, a railroad lugger, a garbage man—always in the same billed worker’s cap and soiled blue smock. He became familiar with the entire perimeter of the compound.
Now, by the time he reached the enclosure’s back side, the soft light of true dawn bathed the rough wall. A lingering cloud of mist promised rain. In this light Lionni would be fully exposed, but he had no choice. He knew from earlier visits that this rearmost wall had been built of remnant cement blocks—jagged, odd-shaped, or broken—resulting in just the protruding foot ledges and handholds he would need. Dismounting his bicycle, he pushed it behind a pile of disused pallets and crates. He stood back to assess the wall.
It was twice his own height, and though formidable was not insurmountable. But along the top of the wall were embedded shards of broken glass which glistened in the fresh sunshine. Green and brown predominated, every edge a threat. Quickly untying and unfurling his erstwhile tent and bedroll, Lionni doubled the canvas over again, then hurled it up and onto the thorny crown of the barrier. Pushing and rearranging pallets and crates, he made a stack against the wall, then scrambled onto it. Lionni prided himself on his agility, despite his shortened leg, the result of a badly set bone break in childhood. From the top of the pile of lumber scraps, he slapped himself against the wall, found the ledges he needed, and clambered skyward. Atop the wall, the heavy canvas might prove just thick enough to protect his body from the shards of glass. He hurled himself up, vaulted to keep his weight from settling, then plunged into the compound, finding it, as he expected, to be deserted.
Two
Master of Ceremonies
T HE C -54 BOUNCED and bounced again when it hit the runway. Inside the plane, aft, a stack of wooden crates broke loose from its cords, causing cartons to crack open, spilling dozens of cans, which then banged forward like cannon shot as the plane decelerated. Several struck Warburg’s feet—unexpected pain.
Turning sharply, the plane pulled quickly off the runway, causing more cartons to spill. “Captain Marvel has to get us out of the way,” Deane said, “the rate these birds are coming in.”
“I’m impressed, Father.” Warburg grinned at the priest, drawn to him. “You seem to know your way around.”
“ Savoir-faire , my friend. French for ‘savvy fear.’” Then Deane matched Warburg’s grin with one of his own. “I hate flying.” He held up the book he’d been reading more or less the whole way across. A prayer book, with ribbons dripping out of its gold-edged pages.
As the plane slowed, the roar of the engine faded, and Warburg could speak almost normally. “So you prayed us across.”
“So you’re a Warburg.”
“Not the way you mean,” Warburg said. “I’m from Vermont.”
“Oh, well, there are Warburgs in New York.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Felix Warburg has helped Archbishop Spellman with the New York Foundling Home. Mrs. Warburg is on the board of directors. She’s very nice.” Deane’s easy smile was the one he used in Park Avenue salons.
“You work with Archbishop Spellman?”
“Until this week I was his MC.”
“Master of ceremonies?”
“Yes, but not the way the Toastmasters mean it. In the Church, the master of ceremonies is just that. On the altar, at the big guy’s elbow, I hand him the chalice when he’s ready.”
“And off the altar? Trusted assistant there, too, I’ll bet. Chief of staff or something.”
Deane lowered his head, a self-mocking bow.
Warburg said, “I’ve heard that it was Archbishop Spellman who finally shut up the anti-Semite priest Father Coughlin. Would the master of ceremonies have been involved with that?”
Deane’s failure to reply read less like discretion than modesty.
“Was that you?”
Now, by the time he reached the enclosure’s back side, the soft light of true dawn bathed the rough wall. A lingering cloud of mist promised rain. In this light Lionni would be fully exposed, but he had no choice. He knew from earlier visits that this rearmost wall had been built of remnant cement blocks—jagged, odd-shaped, or broken—resulting in just the protruding foot ledges and handholds he would need. Dismounting his bicycle, he pushed it behind a pile of disused pallets and crates. He stood back to assess the wall.
It was twice his own height, and though formidable was not insurmountable. But along the top of the wall were embedded shards of broken glass which glistened in the fresh sunshine. Green and brown predominated, every edge a threat. Quickly untying and unfurling his erstwhile tent and bedroll, Lionni doubled the canvas over again, then hurled it up and onto the thorny crown of the barrier. Pushing and rearranging pallets and crates, he made a stack against the wall, then scrambled onto it. Lionni prided himself on his agility, despite his shortened leg, the result of a badly set bone break in childhood. From the top of the pile of lumber scraps, he slapped himself against the wall, found the ledges he needed, and clambered skyward. Atop the wall, the heavy canvas might prove just thick enough to protect his body from the shards of glass. He hurled himself up, vaulted to keep his weight from settling, then plunged into the compound, finding it, as he expected, to be deserted.
Two
Master of Ceremonies
T HE C -54 BOUNCED and bounced again when it hit the runway. Inside the plane, aft, a stack of wooden crates broke loose from its cords, causing cartons to crack open, spilling dozens of cans, which then banged forward like cannon shot as the plane decelerated. Several struck Warburg’s feet—unexpected pain.
Turning sharply, the plane pulled quickly off the runway, causing more cartons to spill. “Captain Marvel has to get us out of the way,” Deane said, “the rate these birds are coming in.”
“I’m impressed, Father.” Warburg grinned at the priest, drawn to him. “You seem to know your way around.”
“ Savoir-faire , my friend. French for ‘savvy fear.’” Then Deane matched Warburg’s grin with one of his own. “I hate flying.” He held up the book he’d been reading more or less the whole way across. A prayer book, with ribbons dripping out of its gold-edged pages.
As the plane slowed, the roar of the engine faded, and Warburg could speak almost normally. “So you prayed us across.”
“So you’re a Warburg.”
“Not the way you mean,” Warburg said. “I’m from Vermont.”
“Oh, well, there are Warburgs in New York.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Felix Warburg has helped Archbishop Spellman with the New York Foundling Home. Mrs. Warburg is on the board of directors. She’s very nice.” Deane’s easy smile was the one he used in Park Avenue salons.
“You work with Archbishop Spellman?”
“Until this week I was his MC.”
“Master of ceremonies?”
“Yes, but not the way the Toastmasters mean it. In the Church, the master of ceremonies is just that. On the altar, at the big guy’s elbow, I hand him the chalice when he’s ready.”
“And off the altar? Trusted assistant there, too, I’ll bet. Chief of staff or something.”
Deane lowered his head, a self-mocking bow.
Warburg said, “I’ve heard that it was Archbishop Spellman who finally shut up the anti-Semite priest Father Coughlin. Would the master of ceremonies have been involved with that?”
Deane’s failure to reply read less like discretion than modesty.
“Was that you?”
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