Читать книгу Cult Sister - Lesley Smailes - Страница 10

Bleary-eyed, I left the publisher’s apartment the next morning and hurried to the park. The ‘sister’ arrived at the main entrance of the square at the same time as I. I knew it was her. She was with an older man. He stared at me intently, then nodded and left.

The woman walked towards me. Graceful, tall and noble, she seemed to glow as she approached with her long, golden hair streaming behind her. Holding out her hand, she said her name was Shoshanna. We spoke very briefly and then she warmly invited me to come for supper and spend the night at her ‘camp’. Picturing a fire and tents, I was intrigued.

I went back to 10th Street, packed up my rucksack, wrote Stefan and Ross a note and left. I met Shoshanna at the designated spot and together we caught a rush-hour train to Brooklyn.

The ‘camp’ turned out to be a three-storey apartment building on Evan Street. We went up the front stairs and entered an oasis of quiet calmness. I felt like I had gone through a time portal and dropped into an earlier century. The living room was full of bearded men like the two I had met the day before. They were all sitting quietly, reading what looked like little Bibles by lamp light. None of them even glanced at us, let alone greeted us. I liked this. It was a refreshing change after all the leering male advances I’d had to fend off while travelling across America.

Shoshanna took me to the kitchen where another long-haired, long-skirted woman was preparing the evening meal. ‘Welcome. Would you like some water?’ the second woman said softly. After my simple refreshment, Shoshanna took me up another flight of stairs to the sisters’ room. One would never have said that there were that many people in the house. It was so quiet. There were about seven or eight women upstairs. One by one they came over and hugged us.

‘Greetings,’ and ‘Welcome,’ they half whispered. ‘Can I wash your feet?’ a sister asked. What a strange, kind gesture, I thought. ‘Would you like this skirt?’ said another, holding up a long, handmade, maroon skirt. ‘I think it will fit you. Put it on for the evening meal.’

After having my feet washed, I took off my well-worn grey, cotton onesie and donned my new skirt for the six o’ clock supper. The sisters packed up what they’d been doing, and we all softly traipsed downstairs to the large, open-plan dining area. I was amazed at how many people filed into the room. There must have been about twenty of us, but there was none of the usual chattering one would expect among so many people – instead almost total silence prevailed. There were two long trestle tables covered with blue tablecloths. The men seated themselves on upturned buckets around the larger table. The women sat around the other, also on buckets. The silence was strange, yet pleasantly peaceful.

Then the sister I had met earlier in the kitchen started serving plate after plate of tantalising food. A veritable feast it was. I was amazed at the abundance. I watched as everyone bowed their heads, silently offered thanks and started eating. It was wonderful to have a home-cooked meal again. Still no one spoke. It was so hushed; I could hear the older woman next to me chewing her food. Then two sisters got up and started removing empty plates, replacing them with a dessert. As people finished their meal, one by one, they left the table.

The room was stark and undecorated. No pictures, knick-knacks or ornaments. Large posters with handwritten Bible verses hung on the walls. I wished I had a camera. It seemed I was in another land, another era, it was so removed from anything I had ever experienced before.

After the meal a few of the women helped clean up. There was no hot running tap water, but big pots of water were already steaming on a camping stove. ‘Would you like to wash? There is a gathering at eight?’ a sister asked me. I nodded.

I was given a bucket one-third full of hot water and shown the bathroom. ‘We take bucket baths,’ a sister said to me. She showed me the scoop to pour the water over myself. It felt good to wash off the New York grime. I put my new maroon skirt back on. Soundlessly, at eight o’ clock we filed back downstairs to the dining area. The tables had been moved to one side, the buckets lined the walls and there was neither food nor dishes in sight. The men sat on the floor in a big circle and we girls and women sat behind them in an outer circle. I peeped around. Everyone’s head was bowed. They all had a pocket-sized Bible in their laps.

At last someone spoke. It was the older man I had seen in the park earlier that morning. He’s definitely the alpha male of this pack, I mused to myself. And I was right. It was only years later that I learned his real name. In my early days with the Church I just knew him as Brother Evangelist.

‘Let us give thanks,’ he said. Everyone started clapping and some raised their hands. ‘Does anyone have a song?’ he asked. One of the men raised a hand and mentioned a Psalm number. Everyone turned to the place in their Bibles. Then the singing started. Some of the women sang in harmony. It was very beautiful and moving. Something opened in my core and I started to cry. They all seemed so pure. It was a holy experience. We sang Psalm after Psalm. In all the places where God or the Lord were mentioned they inserted Hebrew names. It seemed like something straight out of the Bible, the way church used to be thousands of years ago.

I felt something stirring deep inside me. The last few years of my life had been so traumatic. I was so damaged but here I felt calm. Peaceful. Safe. Secure. I wanted to be a Sister too. I wanted to be pure like them, to be holy and upright. I wanted to be part of their church.

I can’t really remember much about the next few days except that I cried a lot. It felt as if a dam wall had broken. I didn’t know where all the tears came from, they just kept coming. It was like they were washing me clean. I decided to stay with these people for as long as I could. I wanted to learn all they had to teach.