Leaving the trunk open, Evangeline carried the envelopes to Celestine. With trembling fingers
Celestine untied the ribbon and returned the envelopes to Evangeline. Flipping through them,
Evangeline found that the cancellation dates corresponded with the Christmas season of each year,
beginning in 1988, the year she became a ward of St. Rose Convent, and ending with Christmas 1998.
To her amazement the name on the return address read “Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko.” The letters
had been sent to Celestine by Evangeline’s grandmother.
“She sent them for you,” Celestine said, her voice tremulous. “I have been collecting and saving
them for many years—eleven, to be precise. The time has come for you to have them. I wish I could
explain more, but I am afraid that I have already pushed myself beyond my strength this evening.
Speaking of the past has been more difficult for me than you can imagine. Explaining the complicated
history between Gabriella and me would be even more so. Take the letters. I believe that they will
answer many of your questions. When you have read them, come to me again. There is much we must
discuss.”
With great care Evangeline tied the letters together with the black satin ribbon, securing the knot in
a tight bow. Celestine’s appearance had changed dramatically over the course of their discussion—
her skin had become ashen and pale, and she could hardly keep her eyes open. For a moment
Evangeline wondered if she should call for assistance, but it was clear that Celestine needed nothing
more than to rest. Evangeline straightened the crocheted blanket, tucking the edges over Celestine’s
frail arms and shoulders, making sure she was warm and comfortable. With the pack of letters in
hand, she left Celestine to sleep.
Sister Celestine’s cell, St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Celestine folded her hands across her chest beneath the crocheted blanket, straining to see beyond the
bright colors of her bedspread. The room was little more than a haze of shadow. Although she had
looked upon the contours of her bedroom each day for over fifty years and knew the placement of
each object in her possession, the room had a formless unfamiliarity that confused her. Her senses had
dimmed. The clanking of the steam radiators was distant and muted. Try as she might, she could not
make out the trunk at the far end of the room. She knew it was there, holding her past like a time
capsule. She had recognized the clothing Sister Evangeline had lifted from its hold: the scuffed boots
Celestine had kept from the expedition, the uncomfortable pinafore that had so tortured her as a
schoolgirl, and the marvelous red dress that had made her—for one precious evening—beautiful.
Celestine could even detect the scent of perfume mingling with the mustiness, proof that the cut-
crystal bottle she’d brought with her from Pans—one of the few treasures she allowed herself in the
frantic minutes before her flight from France—was still there, buried in dust but potent. If she had the
strength, she would have gone to the trunk, taken the cold bottle in her hand. She would have eased the
crystal stopper from the glass and allowed herself to inhale the scent of her past, a sensation so
delicious and forbidden that she could hardly bring herself to think of it. For the first time in many
years, her heart ached for the time of her girlhood.
Sister Evangeline’s resemblance to Gabriella had been so pronounced that there were moments
when Celestine’s mind—weakened from exhaustion and illness—had fallen into confusion. The years
dropped away, and, to her dismay, she could not discern time or place or the reason for her
confinement. As she drifted asleep, images of the past lifted through the evanescent layers of her
mind, emerging and fading like colors upon a screen, each one dissolving into the next. The
expedition, the war, the school, the days of lessons and study—these events of her youth seemed to
Celestine as clear and vibrant as those of the present. Gabriella Lévi-Franche, her friend and rival,
the girl whose friendship had so changed the course of her life, appeared before her. As Celestine
drifted in and out of sleep, the barriers of time fell away, allowing her to see the past once again.
THE SECOND SPHERE
Praise him with the sound of the trumpet:
Praise him with the psaltery and harp.
Praise him with the timbrel and dance:
Praise him with stringed instruments and organs.
Praise him upon the loud cymbals:
Praise him upon the high sounding cymbals.
—Psalm 150
Angelological Academy of Paris, Montparnasse
Autumn 1939
It was less than a week after the invasion of Poland, an afternoon in my second year as a student of