When she drove through the gates, she was met by a soldier. Savannah had to give him her driver’s license and be cleared to enter. The Coast Guard owned the property now and ran a military type school for at-risk youngsters. All of the buildings were still there and being used – it was really an impressive place with beautiful grounds. There was a power plant that had met all of their needs. All of the staff had lived in small cypress cottages and the hospital and treatment center had been large and filled with light due to the many windows and open hallways. She had been surprised to find out that there had been a rec hall, a ballroom, a post office and a movie theatre. There had even been a golf course, a lake for fishing and boating, a swimming pool – everything they needed to be happy. This had been their world. Several of the nuns chose to be buried here at Carville where they had lived – and the cemetery was one place she fully intended to visit before her visit was over.
Once she had been cleared to enter, Savannah bypassed the museum and drove around until she found the cemetery. Her penchant for ghost-hunting made her more sensitive to the eternal resting places of people, so she always at least drove by to give them a nod of greeting. Behind the cemetery she spotted the Armadillo building and everything she had read about it drew her near. Over the years many of the patients had volunteered to be guinea pigs in hope that a cure could be found. But it had been the lowly armadillo that had given the most to the cause. The building’s exterior has the texture and the appearance of the armadillo shell and pays homage to one of the four other creatures in the world who can contract the dreaded disease of leprosy. Much research was done on the animal and she knew that a special section in the museum was dedicated to the armored mammal.
Carville Leprosarium sat on the Great River Road surrounded by centuries-old live oaks dripping with Spanish moss and resurrection fern. Savannah was entranced. This is where she began. As she walked up to the museum, she was assaulted by a symphony of feelings – sorrow, hope and a haunting sense of fate walking beside her. Something was about to happen – she didn’t know if it was about Patrick or her parents, but she could feel the winds of destiny blowing.
Knocking, she waited. It seemed like forever before a tall thin woman with light brown hair stood before her. This was the person who had held the secrets of her life in the palm of her hand? A curiosity and anxiety unlike any she had experienced before almost caused her to lose her southern gentility. “Come in, Miss Doucet. I’m Barbara Hodges. How are you?”
“I am well, just hunting answers. Do you think you can help me?”
“Your lawyer has contacted me, and I think I have good news for you.” A rush of relief made Savannah weak-kneed. “Let me show you around; then, we’ll talk.” She wanted to demand answers right off, but Mrs. Hodges clearly intended for her to get the full dose of information. The waiting was torture. Inside the museum was a bit depressing. Every square inch was filled with memorabilia. Items that would have been of no interest to anyone were saved and marveled at simply because they had belonged to a leper. Baseball bats, sewing machines, shoes – the array of items was endless. There was a special section devoted to the armadillo, just like she had read and a room arranged to depict how a patient had lived. Another room was dedicated to the Daughters of Charity. But what got to Savannah the most was the simple things – the toys, the shoes, the clothes – they spoke of the real people who had spent their days behind these walls.
She stopped to read the account of the 1937 World Series game found recorded in the diary of one of the Sisters. According to her, the patients had gathered around the radio to enjoy the play-by-play account. It was a time when they could put aside their aches and pains and worries and be somewhat normal. Toward the end of the game, the jovial voice of the announcer had come across the airwaves, “You know the umpire – he’s the leper of the game. Everybody despises him, but nobody touches him.” Sister Hillary’s faithful recording told how their faces had fallen and all of the joy had gone out of the occasion. They had turned off the radio and silently left the room.
Another equally intriguing part of the tour for her was the account of the man who had published a newspaper from behind Carville’s walls. His real name had been Sydney Maurice Levyson and when Savannah had begun to read of his life, she had asked Mrs. Hodges for a place to sit quietly and read the entire account. Such a heart-wrenching, yet triumphant tale, she had never read. Obviously it was because of her own relationship to the disease, but Sydney’s story just made her weep. He had been born in 1899 in Gonzales, Texas and raised in Borne, Texas – just outside of San Antonio. His parents had been Jewish and had owned a little drug store. Sydney’s future was bright, he graduated from the University of Texas with a pharmacology degree and had big plans – until he came down with a skin disease. His local physician was smart enough to diagnose him
