At night, I lay awake, ruminating on this father I’d never met who lived in Le Havre with another family. I tried to picture him, wondering if I’d inherited his arched long nose—which seemed unlikely, since it resembled my mother’s and was, according to Marie, undeniably Hebraic. Perhaps his eyes then, with their chameleon bluish-green hue that reflected my moods, though, again, Julie’s were nearly the same color. Or his hair, my sole unique asset, so thick and frizzy and gold-red, even if it was only slightly redder than Rosine’s. Nothing of me seemed a part of him. I closed my eyes to conjure his face, but all I saw was Julie, furious that I was a bony replica of her creamy perfection.
The only way I could grow closer to him, have a sliver of him to make him mine, was to embrace his faith. But how could I, when my mother forbade it? In my turmoil, I grew even thinner, barely eating and prompting the nuns to remonstrate that I’d fall ill if I insisted on subsisting on a sip of consommé and crust of bread. I pored over my catechism, despite the fact that Julie had refused my baptism, so there was no further need to study, hiding the primers in my satchel until the Reverend Mother asked me directly if I was disobeying my mother.
“I must become one with God,” I told her, clasping my hands to my chest in imitation of the saints I painstakingly drew in my sketchpads. “Lest I risk my immortal soul. My people crucified our Savior. I will be damned for eternity if I do not receive the chrism.”
Oh, I knew exactly where to strike, how profound an impact my words would have on Mère Sophie. “Not all your people are to blame for our Savior’s passion,” she replied carefully, but I could see she was troubled, caught between my mother’s demands and her own unshakable faith.
I dropped to my knees before her, as I had before Monseigneur. “I must be baptized, Reverend Mother. What if I die and my soul is condemned forever to purgatory?”
“My child, you are too fervent. How can you say such a thing?” Yet she eyed me as she spoke, marking my pallor and gaunt cheeks, my slip of a body under the convent uniform. Just in case, I unsheathed my last weapon, held at bay for just such a moment.
“My father wants it,” I said, and her eyes widened. “My aunt told me. She said he paid to have me educated here. He is a Catholic. He wants me to be baptized. He must.”
“Your aunt told you this?” she said in dismay.
“Is it true?” I replied.
Mère Sophie couldn’t lie. But she didn’t answer at once, fidgeting with the rosary at her belt before she said, “I only know what your mother told me. Your father did ask for you to be sent here. As to who pays for it, I did not ask. And no,” she added, holding up her hand, “I don’t know anything about him. We’ve never so much as corresponded.”
“But he is my father,” I said. “We cannot disregard his wishes.”
She let out a troubled sigh. “I dare not countermand your mother’s, either. Sarah, you put me in an impossible position!” she exclaimed, and when I wilted, the tears that were so ready these days dampening my eyes, she said, “Unless you hear God’s calling for yourself. If you possess a true vocation, no one can stand between you and the veil. You must be baptized and receive Holy Communion. It would be our Almighty’s will.”
“I do hear Him,” I said eagerly. “God calls to me. I know He does.”
She sighed. “A vocation isn’t something one can decide upon in a minute. It requires much time and contemplation. Many girls who come to us think they want to stay, but as they grow older, the world beckons them. And the world, my child, can be irresistible.”
“Not to me.” I leapt to my feet. “I want to stay here forever.”
“We shall see,” she said, and I left her, determined to prove it. No girl at Grandchamp was more diligent. I didn’t miss a single mass. I scrubbed the chapel floors and mended Our Lady’s mantle, though I was hopeless with a needle. I arranged flowers in the urns before the altar and would have cut off my own hair to adorn the statues had Mère Sophie not prohibited it.
As spring softened the frost on the convent windows and marigolds peeped up in the garden, I watched as the Reverend Mother weakened, her joy at my sincere demonstrations of devotion wrestling with her reluctance to challenge my mother. Finally, shortly before October and my twelfth birthday, Mère Sophie informed me that Julie had granted permission for my baptism. She didn’t explain why my mother had changed her mind, but I suspected Mère Sophie had worked her magic, her monthly progress reports so exulting of my virtues that she’d proven impossible to resist.
By then I was a wraith, floating about, as Sister Bernadette snorted, with my head in the heavens, having forsaken all but César. Marie abandoned me for Louise and her group of friends because, she declared, I spent every spare moment either on my knees in the chapel like a novitiate or with my nose buried in my Bible.
The night before my baptism, I couldn’t eat. With my stomach gnawing at itself and my nerves strung taut, anticipation having built to a crescendo inside me, I found myself plagued by terrifying doubt. Was I doing the right thing, abandoning the faith of my mother and her parents? Was there only one God, who sent His Son to perish for our sins, or was there another, the God of Abraham, who promised my soon-to-be-forsaken people a promised land of refuge? Must I choose one over the other, if both existed? And if I did, would I risk the wrath of the one I betrayed?
I tossed and turned, hearing Julie’s reproaches in my head and Mère Sophie advising me that faith could surmount every obstacle. Unable to sleep, I rose from my cot and tiptoed outside in my shift and bare feet, César snuffling behind me as I made my way through the dew-drenched gardens into the chapel. Collapsing to my knees on the flagstones, I implored God for guidance.
I did not receive any. By dawn, it was too late. Returning to my dormitory, shivering and with my teeth chattering, I donned the white robe for the ceremony, already dressed and waiting by the time the nuns and Mère Sophie came to fetch me.
In the chapel, I found my family assembled. I hadn’t given any thought that they might attend, but even if I had, I would have forgotten because only days before, Monseigneur had been assassinated by a madman in Paris. The murder of such an important prelate of the Church convulsed the convent, compelling us to spend hours at the rosary, praying for the repose of his soul, though I secretly lamented his death more because he’d promised to baptize me, a privilege no other girl here had enjoyed.
Julie and Rosine stood by the font, draped in lace shawls. As I moved toward the officiating priest, I suddenly saw a small figure clutching Rosine’s hand. As I lifted my eyes in bewilderment to Julie, I discovered a swaddled babe in her arms, whom I’d first mistaken for a muff of some sort. I went still. Mère Sophie whispered, “Your mother wishes to have both your sisters baptized with you.”