Ghosts of Their Fathers

By Mack R. Hicks

Abe is a Holocaust survivor who suffers from post-traumatic stress. His visions and dreams recount his loving father who was killed by the Nazis during the Holocaust. Now he believes the ghost of a martyred priest is asking him to protect a certain cathedral and its pastor.

Monk, the pastor, is haunted by his failure to fulfill his mother’s expectations. He has memories of a father who abandoned him. He questions his “marriage” to the Church and blames his father for his alcoholism and other moral lapses. This homeless Jewish man and despondent Catholic priest share their spiritual values and establish a deep connection.

Juanita, a Mexican psychologist-combatant and undocumented immigrant, complicates their efforts. She works for Special Forces at Homeland Security and uncovers a plot to cripple the Catholic Church and destroy an ancient cathedral. Now, Abe and Monk have two weeks to combat malevolent forces and save the Church. Can these anguished souls, with the help of ghostly protectors, save themselves, or will their suffering drown them both?

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Jul 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781489747426

Mack R. Hicks

Mack R. Hicks supports the acceleration of Jewish-Catholic relations through friendship, writing, and a commitment to fighting anti-Semitism. He is author of award-winning fiction books and co-author of A Catholic Survival Guide. He provided psychological assessments of candidates for the priesthood for over thirty years.

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Copyright © 2023 Mack R. Hicks.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-4743-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-4742-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908193

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 06/22/2023

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

DEDICATION

Dedicated to Paul Johnson,

Ze’ev Jabotinsky, Leo Strauss,

St Maximillian Kolbe,

St. Pope John Paul II, Pope Benedict XVI

Acknowledgements

Doug Hicks, Andy Hicks, Clint McKnight, Susan Hicks, Philip Hicks, Margaret Dawson, Shari Watson, Stephanie Graham.

Editors: Tom Bostock, Steve Keteltas, Jack Adler

Chapter 1

THURSDAY, JANUARY 17, 2008, 3:05 P.M.

Martin (Monk) McIntyre’s timer buzzed. Still groggy, he yawned and stretched his arms. His rumpled shirt contrasted with the stiff, white Roman collar. His mother had insisted he take a nap every day, even as a teen. Her boy would be well rested –– and, unlike his father, ready for the rigors of manhood. He rarely missed his 22-minute nap. He kept her old couch close by for just that purpose.

Monk pushed himself up with a grunt and shuffled to the room’s only window, a 3-foot-by-8-foot jalousie. Adjustable panes allowed air to flow into the room, especially when the office door was open. Now, even though screwed tight, a steady stream of moist air blew through rusted grooves in the glass panels. Who said Florida didn’t have seasons? He thought.

National weather advisories and emergency bulletins on Channel 10 predicted high winds, freezing weather, and the possibility of snow. The Hillsborough County sheriff’s office warned residents of frostbite and hypothermia, directing them to stay inside and postpone travel plans. Power outages and fuel shortages were expected. Letting the icy air sting his face, he focused on a group of street people hovering in a circle. These weren’t ordinary street folks, he thought, not at all.

No, these were soldiers in Abe’s army. Sister Mary and monsignor kept Monk up to date on their adventures. An elite corps selected by Old Abe; the vagrants clung to the cathedral. It was a sturdy anchor in their confused and aimless lives. The church would protect them. They would protect mother church.

He smiled. They were Saint Benedict’s Junior League, the crème de crème. There was something different about each of them: Sometimes it was their clothing, or posture. Sometimes they almost resembled ordinary folks out there.

One lady, Blue Sophie, spent her days circling a dozen parked cars just north of the cathedral. Wearing a red pillbox hat with blue netting, she would guard the area for hours, seeking money from anyone who dared invade her territory. No one asked why she circled the small area, perhaps because they were afraid or sensed that it was none of their business. We all harbor our own demons, Monk thought.

Sir Alex spoke with a distinguished British accent and claimed to have attended Eton College. He recounted stories of his mother’s close friendship with Sir Winston Churchill. A tall, thin man, with square shoulders, his walk was a heavy-footed march, much like soldiers at the Queen’s birthday review.

Others doubted his story because of a yellow Viva Le France tattoo on his neck He exhibited it with solemn pride, saying it was part of his initiation rite at Eton. Sir Alex had a penchant for root beer cans. He could be seen pushing his baby carriage through streets and alleyways, searching for his elusive prey. Nonetheless, next to Old Abe, he was the most trusted of the group.

In his early forties, Utah had thick blonde hair any woman would envy. Cheerfully naive and dressed in a ragged Union soldier’s uniform with tiny American flag pins on the collars, he spoke in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

Let’s face it, Monk thought, Old Abe’s soldiers were more than a little strange. But surely, they were unique souls with value in the eyes of God. The need for this improbable security force reflected the sorry state of the cathedral.

The bishop would end it all in just a few days. Financing and loans had suddenly dried up. The historic church would go down to make room for condos. He would then be headed to the Church’s psychiatric center in Washington D.C., a place for oddball priests with nervous breakdowns.

A brushing sound against his door got his attention. What was it? He wondered. Monk left the door cracked, except when he took a serious nap because he didn’t schedule counseling sessions on Friday afternoons. The whisking noises sounded again, like wooden branches scratching against the surface of the door. If he believed in ghosts, the old cathedral would be the perfect setting. But he didn’t. He stepped to the door and eased it open. No one was there.

Leaving it ajar, he sat in his desk chair and picked up his Breviary. Worn from use, the Liturgy of the Hours contained psalms that rotated in a four-week cycle. He looked up. There it was, the odd scratching noise again. Maybe it was a penitent soul, afraid to come in. A few seconds later, he heard more brushing sounds and a hoarse cough.

Finally, a bony nose and bulging eyeball stuck out from the edge of the doorjamb. Well, well, it was Old Abe! Monk had seen him from a distance, but never inside the church. Old Abe of St. Benedicts’. Sister Mary Justine had mentioned him just yesterday. Monsignor knew him, too. When Monk arrived at the cathedral in May, he learned about Old Abe before he had even unpacked his bags.

His frame was almost skeletal, and his gaping mouth hid a narrow, bony chin. He held a plastic tablecloth over his head with his right hand. He reached his other hand across the threshold to the door frame to steady himself. Loose pallid skin showed beneath a quilted coat, faded orange Bermuda shorts, and white knee socks.

You are the one who helps sick people. It is what I have heard. Abe spoke with an Eastern European accent. His stilted, formal speech showed surprising strength. Unmoving, Abe stood in the doorway, holding the door frame while rainwater dribbled down the tablecloth and darkened the faded carpet.

His eyes said it all. Goggle-eyed, filled not so much with fear as amazement, as though in shock. They seemed to look in two directions at once, searching for the source of his confusion. Monk had seen that spellbound expression on the street many times. The old man had undoubtedly suffered abuse during his lifetime, but wasn’t that true of all the others out there?

Do you mean confession?

"No, Father . . . I am a Jew. I want to be inside . . . like inside this building . . . inside anywhere, even for a while. I want to stay, but I am sick. The tents in the park are good, but I can’t go there. I just want to feel safe. I am feeling them again, in the streets. This is big for me, Father, just to be here now. I have thought for a long, long . . ."

Them?

As when I was a boy, these streets feel rough. They catch my feet. They scare me all over again. But inside scares me more. I do not bear it well. When I am outside, I feel pain, but inside, I suffocate, I cannot breathe.

So, they scare you?

Yes, Father, but it is a very long story. I thought to come when Father Hawkins, the Black priest, was here. He was kind, but I was afraid . . . then I saw you over there. Abe peered at the window. At the tent city. You look just like him. A twin, so much like the priest I knew as a boy. The Polish priest. You can help me. When inside, the walls come together. I have bad dreams, very bad dreams, I have.

Abe turned his head to his right, his gaze fixing on the Irish Crucifix near Monk’s mother’s picture. Then he looked back at Monk. That is special for you. I know it.

Monk shifted in his chair. It had belonged to his mother and sat atop the casket at her funeral Mass.

"I have great fear to be inside. I run out. I do not want that, not in my place. This is my place, Father. My church. I live here in its shadow. I protect this church, and I cling to it. We cling to each other. It is my home. Me and my friends, we protect you, too. You and monsignor and Sister Mary, to keep you safe."

Abe took staggered steps, more side-to-side than forward. He stopped halfway to Monk’s desk, his eyes growing larger. Caught in the middle, it was as though he feared getting too far from the open door but was equally afraid of getting too close to Monk’s desk.

Finally, after turning to look again toward the doorway, he tugged at the wooden chair, dragged it back from Monk’s desk, and sat.

You can leave anytime you want. if you don’t feel good, or we can talk in the hall, or outside, or come back in . . . whatever works for you.

Thank you, Father.

Call me Monk, most folks do, or Father Marty. What do I call you?

My name is Abraham Goldner. Abe is good. You are the pastor and a Catholic priest. I will call you Father. It is what we called the Polish Priest, the Holy One, so that is good.

How long have you been here at Saint Benedicts’, Abe?

Six years, four months, and a few days. I know it well. But I have been on the streets since, ah . . . 1963. That is, let me see. He looked past Monk toward the louvered window. That is a long time.

This poor guy wasn’t like most of the other people who sought his help, Monk thought. In addition to traditional and face-to face confessions, he helped parishioners with marital and work-related problems. Sometimes his confessions progressed straight into counseling sessions, leaving other penitents waiting in the hallway. Another practice the bishop discouraged.

The old man seemed earnest enough, and no doubt needed help, but what if he got too close, too attached, or blew a psychotic gasket? He’d been abused, no doubt, and was probably off his meds –– like the others out there. Here we go again. Monk fingered his Roman collar.

Saint Benedict’s work with migrants and street people, who contributed nothing financially to the church, was one of many things the bishop had to cope with. Bishop Andrew had financed the tent-shelters across the road to help the poor, but bureaucratic regulations had delayed the opening.

Most of Saint Benedict’s down-and-outers were renegades, anyway. People who rejected rule-bound living. Bishop Andrew was right, Monk knew that. How could Saint Benedict the Moor stay afloat with only a senile monsignor, a retired nun, a religious Brother, and a washed-up pastor. He was spread way too thin.

And the bishop didn’t trust him. Monk knew his drinking was part of that. A parishioner must have seen him over at Paddy’s Irish Pub, throwing down a few shots of Captain Morgan Rum. Stress pushed him toward the bottle, just like his father. But he wasn’t into the bottle completely, not yet. And now the sexual abuse rumors. Wait until the media picked up on them.

Abe smiled and eased his grip on the chair arms. Blotted color filled his white knuckles. I am still here . . . how can this be? I tell you now. He squinted and stared at Monk. You can be my priest, too. People say I had a bad life, but I do not complain. Now I live under the stars, in the most free country in the world. I don’t blame anyone. I am just not strong. I never was. When I was a boy, I loved music. I played the piano. My best friends were girls. The boys at my school made fun of me . . . but they were nice. I liked them, anyway."

Want to talk about it? Monk asked. If it gets to hurting too much, you can stop, or we can go outside.

No, I need to stay here, inside my church. This is why I come to you. Abe sighed. I was born in Poland. My parents were rich, and we lived in a big house, in a village near Krakow. I went to the village school, but tutors taught me science, German and English. My father presided over many banks. Thirty banks. My mother, she was such a good person.

Abe looked past Monk to the window. They both loved my brother and me. My father played the piano. When he was young, he played with the national symphony. He taught me to play, and I was good. I practiced three hours every day, sometimes more. He wanted me to sing, but I only wanted to play the piano. He prayed I would do what my heart said.

Monk crossed his arms and glanced at his mother’s gold-framed picture. You were lucky to have a father you could count on. A man who was always there. A man who cared so much for you.

Abe nodded and continued to stare at the window. I loved him with all my heart. My father collected art. He blessed us with incredible paintings. My favorite –– Abe almost looked Monk in the eye –– he put in the piano room, for my practice time. It inspired me. I see it now when I need to fall asleep.

It must have been beautiful.

Abe raised his hands and moved his fingers, as if caressing the painting. Road to a village, in France, I think. So quiet, the road and hills under snow. Fresh, cold, open. Yes, cold and free. It is cold and windy today, Father, that gives me courage to come see you.

Monk nodded.

The intercom buzzed. A shrill voice: Sorry to bother you, Father. A lady, her name is Mrs. Lopez, don’t think she’s a parishioner, wants you to baptize her uncle. Today.

Monk flipped the intercom switch. I’m with someone, Mrs. Lawson, but yes, fine. See if she can come in around 5:30.

Sorry, Abe, Mrs. Lawson stayed late today, I should have turned it off when you came in.

Abe waved off Monk’s apology. Yes, Father, I know Miss Gertie. She usually leaves at 2 on Thursdays. He looked up at Monk. I keep track of our people. It is my job.

Abe sighed. When I was 12, the German soldiers came and took my father’s paintings. Decadent, they said, but I did not understand. They were just pictures of villages and ballet dancers and such. The corporal, Frederick, was nice to me. He told me the man in charge was Albert Rosenberg. The shame. I will never forget that name. I would like to forget it . . . but that is my problem. He hoped to please his superior, Hermann Goering.

Monk listened intently, studying Abe’s facial expressions as he spoke.

Then, a few weeks later, they came in the night and took my parents. They would not let us say goodbye, how my mother cried. Abe took a deep breath. But my parents had made a hiding place for me and my brother, under the servants’ quarters. We hid there, and when the soldiers came back, they looked, but Frederick did not show them every place.

Monk got up and walked to the window. He let the cold air wash over his face. Was this out of his league? Some of the staff criticized the previous pastor for tolerating the reclusive vagrant, but the kitchen workers, cleaners, and undocumented immigrants thought Abe and his friends were needed. They slipped them food and clothing, or let them stay inside with the other migrants. They figured no disaster had befallen the church since Abe took residence, several years before, behind the rotted-out stairway at the side of the cathedral.

Monk smiled. Maybe the unsightly old man was a walking gargoyle, sent by God to protect the walls of the cathedral-fortress from the devil’s might. Could be, he thought, but who would protect the old church from the bishop’s men? People who saw the cathedral as an obstacle to their grandiose plans.

How did you live?

A sigh and a whisper. Not well. We had little to eat. We were hungry. After three or four weeks my brother left for food. He never came back. I went to the garbage cans at night. That is how I learned the ways of the street.

Monk walked back to his desk. Your parents?

I never saw them again, Father. I never saw my brother again. Then, a few weeks later, someone must have told the S.S. They came for me. They were not nice people.

Where did they take you?

Abe bent and cradled his head in his hands.

Monk waited.