William Kienzle - Masquerade

“For the moment I would do so if I were you,” Koznicki said. “Father Koesler is not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time.”

Krieg’s countenance hardened. “All right, Father. We had salad, broth, lamb, and-what? — potatoes.”

“And coffee,” Koesler said.

“And coffee,” Krieg repeated.

“Except that this time I noticed that only Sister Janet took cream in her coffee. I passed the cream to her and noticed that no one else asked for any.”

“Meaning I didn’t have cream in my coffee. Well, that should do it. . whatever ‘it’ is.” Krieg dripped sarcasm.

“‘It,’ Reverend Krieg, is dietary laws. It occurred to me when I was thinking of your growing up as a Catholic child learning Catholic habits, idiosyncrasies, superstitions, whatever, from your mother.”

“My mother!” There was a decided change in Krieg’s attitude. At mention of his mother, he became perceptibly aggressive. “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”

“Just about everything,” Koesler replied. “I was thinking of you in terms of myself. Two Catholic kids growing up in a Catholic environment. I was thinking of you learning about the rosary as I did, watching as Mother recited it regularly and fervently. Then it occurred to me: Maybe you were without any discernible Catholic mannerisms because you didn’t really grow up in a Catholic atmosphere. You didn’t learn the rosary from your mother. But you did learn that you should never mix dairy and meat products in the same meal.”

“This is an outrage!” Krieg erupted. “My mother is a saint! How dare you drag her into this sordid affair!”

“I think you’re right, Reverend: It is a rather wretched affair and your sainted mother doesn’t belong in it. It’s just that she taught you dietary customs. She taught you so well, you observe them without even thinking. That’s not odd. Catholics follow Church rules, regulations, and laws out of pure habit. There are any number of Catholics who still do not eat meat on Fridays. Outside of a certain few Fridays, it’s not even a matter of law any more. But many Catholics continue to exclude meat from their Friday menu. It’s a matter of ingrained habit.

“When you saw the remnants of beef Stroganoff on the plates, instinctively you knew you could not eat that dish because it contained both meat-the beef-and a dairy product-sour cream. A sign to your chauffeur and he ordered a different dinner for you. I noticed him being very insistent with the waitress.

“So instead of Stroganoff you had an omelet. No meat in that, nor in the salad or vegetables-both of which you ate. Keeping the meal clear for dairy products, you added a glass of milk, and cream in your coffee.”

“I don’t-” Krieg began.

“Just give me one more moment,” Koesler broke in. “The following evening, if you’ll recall, we were served fruit salad, consomme, lamb, and potatoes. No dairy product. After dinner, you had coffee without cream. Remember? Sister Janet was the only one who took cream. People who drink coffee take it black, or with cream, or with cream and sugar, or with sugar. And that’s the way they drink it all the time. Once you notice how a person takes coffee, you know how to serve it from that time on to that individual. Unless. . unless the person is consciously or unconsciously observing some dietary restriction, such as one that does not permit meat and dairy products at the same meal.”

There followed a few moments of silence.

Then Krieg said quietly, “And where are you going with this line of reasoning, Father Koesler?”

It was the unspoken question on the minds of everyone else in the room.

Instead of directly addressing Krieg’s question, Koesler said, “All I’ve really been doing Reverend, is putting together building blocks that seem to fit. For instance, Rabbi Winer was the only other person who did not eat the Stroganoff.”

“So two people out of eight don’t care for Stroganoff. That seems normal enough.”

“And the first word I heard you say was a Yiddish one. The rabbi was telling his story at dinner Sunday night. You happened to reach the dining room just as he got to the punch line. Only you were the one who said it: ‘Gevalt!’”

“Oh, come now, Father-Officers-isn’t this getting a bit thin? English-language dictionaries are filled with foreign words that are so popular and common that they are accepted in ordinary English usage. ‘Gevalt!’ is just one of many foreign words that are understood by almost everyone. I just have no idea what you’re driving at. Does anyone?” Krieg looked at the others but got no reaction. The police were busy absorbing, weighing, and evaluating the interchange between the priest and the minister.

“Reverend,” Koesler said with some solemnity, “I think you know, I really think you know very well where I’m heading. Although at this point as I was mulling over these facts just a few minutes ago, I was hesitant to take the hypothesis I was forming any further. Then I decided I owed it to too many people not to follow through to whatever end it might lead.”

Tully noticed a change in Krieg’s eyes. They began darting about the room, as if things were closing in, as if he were being pressed into a corner.

“I noticed,” Koesler continued, “that the information sheets that Sergeant Moore gave me state that you were born here in Michigan, within the Detroit Archdiocese, in fact, in Imlay City. There is only one Catholic parish in that city,” Koesler added parenthetically, smiling at the memory of his classmate giving him much more information than required. “Sacred Heart parish was established as a mission in 1874 and as a parish in 1928. Anyway, it’s been there much more than long enough to have served you and your parents.

“By the way, I could just as easily have gotten like information from any Catholic parish in the world. But it was convenient checking things out with the pastor there who happens to be my classmate.

“First, I asked him to check the baptismal record. He found your record easily from the alphabetical listing. We already knew the year of your birth, and figured, correctly, that you would have been baptized shortly thereafter. That’s the custom among Catholics.

“There was your name, date of birth, date of baptism, names of godparents, and your parents’ names. Your father, Helmut Krieg, and your mother, Rebecca Weissman. And next to your mother’s name, the letters AC- Acatholica- non-Catholic.

“Then, I asked the pastor to see if he could locate a marriage record for your parents. He did. They were married at Sacred Heart parish just a year before you were born. The form included spaces for the name of the priest who witnessed the ceremony, the two witnesses, the date of marriage, your parents’ parents’ names-your mother’s parents were Asa Weissman and Sarah Blum-your parents’ names, their residences, and their place of baptism. Your father was baptized in a Cleveland Catholic Church. Your mother was never baptized. She was Jewish. And a dispensation from the impediment of disparity of cult was granted, so your father, a Catholic, could validly marry your mother, a Jew, who would remain a Jew.

“Since your mother was Jewish, it confirmed the hypothesis I had formed without this verification: that, by Jewish law, you are a Jew.”

An extended silence followed.

“This,” Koesler said finally, “may be why you were so familiar with the rabbi’s Jewish joke. This is why neither the rabbi nor you would eat the meat-and-dairy-mixed Stroganoff. This is why you stayed with a meatless meal on Sunday and, when meat was the main dish on Monday’s menu, you passed on all dairy products-even to not taking cream in your coffee. You didn’t learn the rosary from your mother. Instead, you learned the customs of Judaism, chief among which are the very strict dietary laws for which Jews are known.”