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By Abigail Carroll “How did it happen?” asked the olive oil merchant at the market. “Did illness take his voice?” asked the baker from behind a display of loaves. “Did he swallow something cursed?” asked the goatherd, selling butter and cheese. “It was an angel,” Elizabeth explained. “An angel in the temple.” “An angel?” asked the spice dealer. “How do you know?” “I knew it even before he opened his mouth. When he came back from the temple, he had the shining of Moses about him, but in a frightful way. He didn’t eat for three days.” Indeed, because fear of angels is not enough to cure a soul, I went mute. When I opened my mouth, my throat did not work. My breath was dry. For nine months and nine days I shaped no word with my tongue. I learned to wave and point. I made good use of a tablet and chalk. I was reduced to an infant, except for the fact that even my weeping was without sound. Such was the price of standing in the Holy Place with a doubting heart. At first, I was trapped in shock. Who was the high priest Zechariah without a voice? What good was the wisdom of my years without a tongue? Soon, I gave up. I did not even scrawl letters with chalk. If I could have shaped a sound, I would have moaned and moaned. My whole being was a silent, wallowing complaint. After some days, though, I noticed a strange thing. The low cackling of the morning fire, the gentle pouring of water—I had begun to hear these things in a different way. And the voices of people became more than mere chatter. They took on life: the neighbors’ children playing, priests reciting Torah, Elizabeth’s small laughter. “My love,” whispered Elizabeth one morning, pressing my hand to her aproned middle. She was carrying our child. The veil of silence did not lift, but in that moment, it changed. In that moment, I knew the Silencer and the Giver were one and the same. And so I learned to wait. There was much to wait for: the coming of our child and the hoped-for coming back of my voice. The wonder of it, which emerged like the slow unveiling of a mountain shrouded in mist, was that somehow none of this was about me. It was not about us. What I mean is, something was dawning. Someone greater than Moses was coming, and it seemed my silence was strangely announcing his advent. Messiah was not far. In the cavern of my silence, the Word who spoke into being all that is and was and ever will be was preparing to speak. * * * “My Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall declare your praise,” chanted the temple priests a few weeks after my encounter with the angel. As the Psalm echoed against the stone of the temple walls, I noticed a priest in his sashed tunic steal a glance my way. The irony of the words was not lost on him. Nor was it lost on me. At the close of the prayers, an older priest laid his hand on my shoulder and spoke in a pebbled voice the wisdom of Job: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.” The younger priest beside him blurted out, “Without your voice, the prayers simply are not the same!” What is prayer? I thought. There is worship in spoken words, but worship also in a bow. There is worship in a song, but greater worship in the God-ward living of a life. The prayers that had once danced on my lips now seeped into my sinews and bones. Just as our treasured son was growing in Elizabeth’s womb, so a new way of praying was growing in me. The quiet, at first a dark wasteland, had become a welcome wilderness. I had been exodused from the slavery of my role, my name, my success. And in the solitude of that desert I heard for the first time the low, continuous thrumming of my heart—its own prayer. These small intercessions ticked the long afternoons while I sat under the olive or lay down to rest. To my surprise, I found myself grateful for things I had never given thanks for in the past, and with a depth of gratitude I did not know could be mine. Blessed are you, O Lord, God of the Universe, for the taste of almonds and salt, by which we delight in your goodness. Blessed are you, O Lord, God of the Universe, for a new generation, through which you write your story onto time. Blessed are you, O Lord, God of the Universe, for every uncountable star in the mystery of Abraham’s vast sky. * * * One day, Elizabeth’s young cousin from Nazareth appeared—she, too, expecting. The sound my dear wife made at her arrival was that of a giddy child. And from the next room, I heard something I’d never heard before: my wife prophesying. For the child in her cousin’s womb was no ordinary child. John danced in Elizabeth’s womb at the encounter, just as David once danced before the ark. That evening, while Elizabeth chopped cucumbers and onions, Mary spoke of an angel visiting her in a flurry of fearful light. “The room grew bright,” Mary said. “I heard a voice like water, and it spoke my name.” “Go on,” Elizabeth said, smiling with attentive delight. “‘How could I tell Joseph my son was God’s Son? I planned to hold the secret for a little while, but when he saw me, he knew at once I was no longer who I had been.” Mary looked downward. “He did not understand?” Elizabeth offered, interpreting Mary’s gaze. “He drew up the papers for divorce,” Mary explained. “I was about to be alone with child. But then he had a dream, and everything changed.” Elizabeth reached over and squeezed Mary’s hand as one who understood. “The Lord has made a way.” Mary nodded. “Nothing is impossible with God.” As Mary spoke, words from Isaiah entered my mind. I could not fend off the prophet’s age-old declarations descending on me like a flock of laughing doves. Could Isaiah’s vision be coming to pass? I motioned for my tablet and scrawled from memory the 700-year-old promise: The Lord himself will give you the sign. Look! The virgin will conceive a child. She will give birth to a son and will call him Emmanuel, which means “God is with us”. Elizabeth stopped chopping, and we sat in a pondering stillness as dusk turned to night. * * * A week and a day after our dear son’s birth, when the morning of his circumcision arrived, many people came to share in the radiance of our joy. They came also because they were curious. How could it be that gray-haired Elizabeth had delivered a strapping newborn with wild dark eyes? And what did it portend that the child’s father had exited the temple on the Day of Atonement, mute, bizarrely unable to utter so much as a sigh? “His name shall be Zechariah, like his father,” my brother declared. “Good health, long life to young Zechariah!” declared the family and neighbors who were present to bear witness. Elizabeth raised her hand to quiet the jubilation. “That is not our wish,” she said firmly. "We have chosen the name John.” A hush fell on the group. “John?” asked the Rabbi hesitantly. “Ridiculous! There is no John in the family line,” blurted my brother. “Laughable!” chimed in his wife. “Absurd!” added a neighbor with creased brow. Custom is strong and slow to change, but I put an end to their fussing. I scratched in bold, forceful letters on my tablet the name the angel had given. Then, in the time it takes for a roll of thunder to follow desert lightning’s blinding flash, the words on the tablet became alive. They were like a spring deep in me suddenly swelling into a river that coursed powerfully through my lips. “John! His name is John! By the decree of the Lord’s angel, his name is John!” For the first time in nearly a year, I heard my own voice, and it startled me into praise. Over and over, the sudden river of sound coming out of me shaped my son’s name, and the name of my wife, and the name of my God. As I declared these things, my voice lifted me close to the One who had taken it away. Someone gasped. Someone stared. Someone raised their hand and shouted a blessing. There was dancing. We laughed deep and hard with joy. That night, when the festivities were complete and I lay with Elizabeth, our warm, smooth-skinned child between, I stayed awake long, listening to his breath. I thought of days past and of days yet to come, and I felt no reason to speak, no urge to render a sound in the quiet, lampless dark. Soft was the coo of roosting doves, uncountable the stars in the mystery of Abraham’s vast sky. Abigail Carroll is author of three poetry collections: Cup My Days like Water, Habitation of Wonder, and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim. Her poems have been anthologised in How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope as well as in Between Midnight and Dawn: A Literary Guide to Prayer for Lent, Holy Week, and Eastertide. Her work of nonfiction, Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal, was a finalist for the Zócolo Public Square Prize. She lives and writes in Vermont. Find her at www.abigail-carroll.com.
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By Desi Ana Sartini Dear Enoch, The time has come. The scent of the earth grows strong. It calls me home. Soon, very soon, I shall return to it. But before I go, there is something I must do. I look about the earth, to all my children. I search for hope, the hope of mankind, and my eyes rest upon you. Though you have never seen the fullness of God’s unveiled splendor nor experienced the glory of a life lived fully in His presence, still here under the shroud, in the midst of the brokenness, you choose each day to defy the Serpent and follow the Maker. Well done, my child. Know beyond a doubt that you have chosen rightly. And now, I am choosing you. With all the countless hours you’ve spent in the glow of our hearth, drinking in every word we have to say about the time before the Separation, by now you know as much about the Garden as anyone, save Eve and myself. If only more people were so eager to hear. All too often they are not. To some it rings true right down through their bones; to others it seems no more than a fanciful delusion. To most it is something in between. But all must be told, regardless of how they respond. That is why I write to you today. Eve and I are nearing the end of our days, and you and others like you must be the keepers of the story now. Soon, we will come to the final bitterness of our choice, and when at last the breath of glory departs from the dust of our flesh, the last living memory of the Garden will pass from the earth. I ask you, Enoch. Look around you. If you do not tell the story, what then will become of my children? What then will become of the world? Everywhere I look, I see my children, called to be the image-bearing stewards of God’s rule, choosing instead to build their own little kingdoms on the earth. They live for their own desires, slaves to their bellies. The world has fallen under the Serpent’s spell and forgotten its Creator. They do not even know that they are stewards in rebellion against their King. I weep as I watch my children sitting in brokenness and accepting it as the way things are, the way the world works. Their eyes are on the toil of their hands, the thorns of the field, the hostility of their brothers, everywhere but the Source of their being. They must be told. The truth must break through. Sometimes there are shards that do break through. Every once in a while, I see a spark in the eyes of a man. It happens most at the death of a child, when for one wild moment we know, we remember. The truth jumps up and shouts in our face, “This is not right!” In that moment of clarity, we see beyond the shroud and know that the world is broken, that this is not what life should be, that the Serpent must be destroyed and his hold on the earth released, that death should have no claim. But all too soon the moment passes and we slip back into our fallen stupor, left only with our grief and slow endurance of days. Arise, children of mine! Shake off your stupor and reclaim the truth! Climb the hilltops and scream it out! Don’t let your soul be silent! Fight! Shout! Be indignant! Tell the Serpent to go back to the pit where he belongs, and to take it all with him: the death, the struggles, the sickness, the brokenness, the war, the injustice, the hate! But alas, we are intertwined with it. The ropes of death, with all its snares, are wound about us. If the Serpent takes them down, he will drag us all with him. The curse must be broken before the evil can depart. When, O Lord?! When?! When shall the Serpent be defeated and the curse be lifted? How long must we endure this evil which we have brought upon ourselves? Will we ever see the beauty of Your face again? Will You ever again look upon us in friendship? You must forgive my outburst, my son. There are days when I am haunted by such thoughts, fearful for the future of the world. But then I remember His face and all the unshakable goodness, power, and truth I have beheld in Him, the lovingkindness He holds at the core of His being. I may have brought this doom upon the world, but it is He, not I, who will redeem it. For He holds humanity in the palm of His hand. It is He who formed us, He who breathed us into being, He who let us stumble, and He who will lead us home. In the early years after the Separation, as I watched the first few generations grow and find their way in the world, I used to think that things would be different if only everyone could have a taste of the Garden, life in the presence of God, even if just for a moment. I used to think it would change the way they lived. And perhaps it would. If Cain had once beheld the Eternal One, would he still have offered so unworthy a gift? If he had once stood in the presence of the Life Giver, would he still have lifted a hand against his brother? Once, I was sure he would have done no such thing. But in the years since, that conviction has wavered. I have seen the spell the lies of the Serpent have cast upon mankind; I have seen how deeply it grips their souls; and I have come to believe that under its influence many a man would question his own sanity rather than accept a vision of truth as he sits under the shroud. Heaven forgive me, I must confess that there was a time after I realized this that I fell into despair. Serpentine whispers resurrected old shames, and every taste of sweet fruit turned to bitter memory in my mouth. I began to envy my children, those who had never seen. If indeed we must live in exile, would it not be easier if we were not haunted by memories of a paradise we can never know again? Would it not be better to come to accept the world as it now is and make the most of what we can, rather than pine for that which is lost? For a long while I shut my heart, tried to cut off all memory of the Garden. For a time, I managed to make a tolerable life for myself in this way. After all, for all the glory that was, there is still much goodness left to be found in its broken pieces. By filling my days and focusing only on what was right in front of me, I guarded my heart from memories of the truth, and pretended to be other than I was. I told myself that the Garden was only a golden dream I had once had, and my failure at the tree and its ensuing consequences was but a nightmare. After all, who ever heard of a talking snake? Thus I became for a while as the shrouded man who tells himself that his Garden vision is but a reverie. My self-induced delusions were not to last, however. The earth and all that is in it bears the immutable markings of its Maker. There are some things which no created power can ever unmake. No matter how much havoc we wreak upon the earth, no matter how much power the Serpent claims over the world, still the sun will ever echo the Creator’s face, the rushing waters His voice, the storms His power, and the flames His throne, just as we, fallen though we be, bear still His image on the earth. I who have stood full in His presence and beheld His unveiled glory could never unsee, could never unknow. Even with my eyes down, every ray of sunshine, every trickling stream, every gust of wind, every tongue of flame, and every face of a child stirred in my heart the memories and called me back to Him. For the human soul was made for glory, and not just any glory, but a glorious union with its Maker. Without this glory, I could find no rest. Nor will I, this side of the chasm. Thus I have come again to wish that all mankind could taste the Garden, but not so that it would solve all our problems, but rather so that the longings within all our souls could find their meaning, and the truth give light to our hope. For no rebellion in heaven or earth could ever outdo His goodness. The day of the Serpent Slayer will come, and the Creator will redeem His own. Let us not lose our way in the waiting. In the light of all these things, it is therefore of utmost importance, Enoch, that you remember all that we have taught you, and pass it on to others. The memory of the Garden must be kept alive on the earth. Do not let yourself forget once we have gone, and do not become so absorbed in your own journey that you overlook the needs of your brothers. You must preserve the story and share it with all who will hear. And if at last you, too, come to the end of your days before the Serpent Slayer comes, then pass our letters and writings down to other worthy men, that the truth about God, humanity, the earth, and the Serpent will never be lost from the world. In defiant hope by knowledge of the Holy One, Adam Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.
By Sandro F. Piedrahita AMDG It was when he was around ten years old that Celestino realized that he and his family were all slaves, that they were owned by the Dominicans just like their horses and hogs. Before his father disclosed the truth to him, he would never have considered such a possibility. He was used to living on a thatched adobe dwelling adjacent to the monastery free to come and go as he pleased. And his parents certainly didn’t seem to be slaves. Celestino’s father Pedro Armendariz was the handyman at the monastery and he worked less hours than the Dominicans themselves, who were busy tending to their crops whenever they were not immersed in prayer. Celestino’s father only worked when his assistance was needed: fixing the plumbing, building a stone wall, clearing through some brush, certainly not the backbreaking work of a slave. Nor did Celestino’s mother seem to be enslaved. She worked as a cook at the monastery, but she was one of many, though she was the lone black woman among them. Most of them were Amerindian women from the Andean highlands. So when his father said not only that they were all slaves but that he – the boy’s father – was soon to be sold by the Dominicans, Celestino’s whole world turned upside down. “What does that mean?” Celestino asked. “That you’ll be sold…” “The Dominicans are in dire need of money, and a man who does business in Panama has offered them twenty-thousand pesos to buy me. They’re also selling all their horses and mules, and have auctioned various properties adjacent to the monastery to the highest bidder. The monks are kind and have never abused me, but given how much money they owe their creditors, they don’t see an alternative to selling me. I hope the man from Panama is kind. After all, he’s going to own me.” “Will we be able to visit you? How far away is Panama?” “I’m afraid not, my son. Panama is twenty-four-hundred kilometers away, and it is so very expensive to pay for the boat to take you there.” “Why don’t we all get sold to the man from Panama at the same time then? That way the family won’t be separated.” “I inquired about that possibility too, Celestino, but the buyer isn’t interested in buying the whole family. He needs a foreman for a quarry operated by Negroes but has no need for a woman or a boy.” “So all this time we’ve been the slaves of the Dominicans, and I didn’t know it?” “That’s because the priests didn’t treat you as if they owned you. The vast majority of slaveholders tyrannize their Africans like animals. We’ve been lucky – thus far – because the woman who owned us before the Dominicans was also kind. She gave all of us as a gift to the Dominicans, knowing we would be treated well. Who knows how this new owner will treat me… No, on second thought, I don’t want you to go with me. Some owners abuse their slaves, even resort to whipping them for the most minor offenses on a frequent basis. But don’t worry about me. I shouldn’t even be mentioning this. I’m sure I’ll be fine under the protection of the Christ and Mary His Mother.” Celestino started sobbing. Even at the age of ten, he understood the gravity of the situation. Not only would he never see his father again, but there was a realistic possibility that his new owner would treat his father with brutality. It was as if scales suddenly fell from Celestino’s eyes, though at his age it was still difficult for him to understand the deeper meaning of what he had just learned. In an hour, he had realized not only that he was not the equal of the Spaniard, but also that he would be doomed to slavery forever. Thus do certain children become men in an instant. * * * Celestino decided to speak with Friar Martin, also known as Friar Broom, for he spent much of the day sweeping the floors of the monastery. When he was not using his broom, he engaged in a myriad other tasks: collecting money for the poor, feeding the hungry, tending to the sick and dying, cutting hair, healing dental problems, bloodletting the ill, cleaning toilets… Friar Broom was not a physician, but he had the skill and knowledge to be an effective doctor if he were so permitted. Before Martin became Friar Broom he had been an assistant to a dentist–barber–surgeon and learned not only about dentistry but also how to heal various illnesses and maladies. Celestino decided to consult Friar Broom because he was a kind and wise man, also because he was the only black person in the entire monastery other than the young boy’s family. Celestino now suspected that Friar Broom might be a slave too given his color and race. At around three o’clock in the afternoon, Friar Broom was always busy praying in the chapel. There was a standing order at the monastery that nobody should disturb Friar Broom while he was praying, not the monks, not the nurses, certainly not Celestino. But given the state of his nerves, Celestino decided to breach the rules and entered the chapel in order to consult Friar Broom. What he saw shocked him to the core, made him think he was seeing things. He had heard about such miracles, but it was different to witness them himself. Friar Broom’s body was floating in the air fifteen feet above the ground. His face was next to the face of the Christ on His crucifix, so close to the Lord’s visage that he could kiss it. Celestino now understood why everyone was prohibited from entering the chapel during the prayers of Friar Broom. Apparently some of the other friars knew the black man had the gift of levitation and wanted to keep it a secret lest a popular cult develop with respect to the humble donado. The abbot had consented to the order prohibiting anyone from entering the chapel when Friar Broom was in prayer given the insistence of many of the other monks, but personally he thought the rumors of levitation were bunk. He had been in the chapel many times with Friar Broom and had never seen the man up in the air. Friar Broom was in a trancelike state when Celestino entered the chapel and initially did not hear Celestino’s insistent cries. Suddenly, however, he appeared next to Celestino on the pew where the boy was sitting as if nothing had happened. “Don’t tell anyone what you have seen,” Friar Broom whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Don’t even let your parents know.” “How do you do it? It seemed that you were flying.” “It’s a miracle which comes from the Lord. I’m but a simple mulatto, no holier than any of the other friars. But our Lord Jesus has chosen to bestow this special favor on me to bring me closer to Him. In a strange way, He gives me this gift so I shall recognize my nothingness. Now, Celestino, what is so pressing that you disobeyed the rule forbidding entry into the chapel while I am praying?” “Are you a slave?” Celestino asked abruptly. “No, I’m not, Celestino, at least not in the way that term is usually understood. But I am a slave to God who is my Master. And I’ll always proudly be a mulatto. That is the way the Lord created His humble servant, the way he knitted me together in my mother’s womb.” “So you’re not owned by anyone then? Don’t the Dominicans own you?” “Neither of my parents were slaves. My father is a Spanish nobleman, my mother was a freed black woman from Panama. So I was never a slave, although I suspect some would call me a bastard. I’m not owned by the Dominicans in a legal sense, but I have pledged my life to them. Why do you ask that question all of a sudden?” “I just found out that I’m a slave and that the friars want to sell my father to a man from Panama. Can’t you help my father somehow? I think he’s afraid he’ll be owned by a bad man, and he doesn’t want to leave the family.” “Slavery is a bane in this country, indeed an evil on the whole continent. Human beings belong to God and to no one else. You didn’t realize you and your parents were slaves, did you, Celestino? What a wondrous innocence!” “Is there nothing we can do to keep the friars from selling my father? I don’t want him to be taken from us.” “I was wondering about that too, as soon as I heard the news. You should know that many of the priests at this monastery love your parents dearly and see this decision as an act of desperation. I’m sure all the monks with the exception of the abbot would prefer to set your parents completely free, but we are going through calamitous economic woes. If we don’t raise sufficient money, we could lose the monastery itself. But let me pray on it, Celestino. You do so too. Never doubt the Great Physician’s skill.” “Are you hoping for a miracle?” asked Celestino. “Yes, I am, Celestino. Miracles are commonplace.” * * * Celestino certainly believed that Friar Broom was a powerful intercessor. He had heard rumors not only that he levitated, but also that he could heal the desperately ill, that he could walk through walls, that he could multiply the loaves like Jesus, and – most incredibly – that he could bilocate. It was a secreto a voces – an open secret – that a Spaniard who had befriended Friar Broom in Lima had contracted a disease in Mexico City which nearly took his life. The Spaniard reported that Friar Broom had appeared to him on what the Spaniard thought would be his deathbed and had cured him merely by making the sign of the cross on his forehead. Nobody could explain how Friar Broom could have been seen in Mexico City when he had never left the monastery of El Rosario in Lima. There was also the Angolan slave who swore that Friar Broom had appeared to him in distant Africa when he was shackled on a ship about to depart for America. Friar Broom had encouraged him to trust in Jesus and not despair despite the horror of what was happening. Others claimed that he had appeared to certain Jesuit missionaries in Japan and that he had ministered to a group of Spanish captives off the Barbary Coast. Celestino had heard such rumors and was sure, especially after having seen Friar Broom levitate, that the donado could obtain whatever he requested from God. He hoped that would include the rescue of his father from the Panamanian slaveholder and from the grasp of the abbot who would willingly sell him. Two days after their conversation in the chapel, Celestino sought out Friar Broom once again. The boy was too anxious to wait any longer, as he had heard the Panamanian man who wanted to buy his father would be appearing in the monastery in less than a month. Celestino had been praying without ceasing as recommended by Friar Broom. Like every child, he believed in miracles and was sure the black friar would help him communicate with God. When the donado saw Celestino approach, Friar Broom beamed a smile as if he were full of a joy which Celestino could not understand. “I’ve had an idea about something we could do, Celestino, but you’ll have to cooperate. There are certain wealthy persons I know in Lima who could help us out. I’ve frequently begged for alms before and have been providentially aided in such efforts. Why don’t you and I go from house to house and explain about the dilemma faced by your father? I’m sure that seeing you, many will be moved to pity, and we’ll obtain the funds so your father won’t be sold.” “That sounds like a good idea,” responded Celestino. “A great idea!” By then, not only the blacks and the Indians sought out the aid of Friar Broom in desperate situations but also the privileged white limeños who lived in comfort in their mansions close to the Plaza de Armas. They all knew he had the gift of healing not because as an adolescent he had been trained by a barber–dentist–surgeon but because it was vox populi that he had miraculous powers. More than one member of the Spanish nobility had been cured of an incurable disease merely because Friar Broom had prayed over them on their deathbeds. So Friar Broom thought the beneficiaries of such miracles would be receptive to his pleas. Celestino put on his best Sunday clothes, and the two started making their rounds in the wealthiest neighborhoods of Lima, hoping to collect the great sum of money necessary to buy Celestino’s father, about the same amount necessary to buy a small house. “God writes straight through crooked lines,” Father Broom said to Celestino. “By getting the funds to purchase your father, we won’t be just saving him from being sold to a potentially abusive taskmaster. We’ll be purchasing his freedom. And then who knows? Maybe as a freeman, he’ll be able to work and save the money necessary to purchase you and your mother too. The whole family will be free and won’t be owned by anyone. I’m sure that is the will of God.” “I hope so,” responded the ten-year-old, not fully understanding everything Friar Broom had said. The first person to contribute was doña Margarita de Piedrasanta, niece of the Spanish viceroy. She was forever indebted to Friar Broom, for through his intercession she had been cured of an inoperable brain tumor that every physician claimed would take her life. After Celestino explained his father’s situation to her, she commented that after her healing by Friar Broom she had freed all her slaves and had actively lobbied against the institution of slavery in Peru. She handed Celestino a thousand-peso note and told him to come back for more if he did not collect the full amount from others. Friar Broom happily told her that a thousand pesos was a twentieth of the amount they needed and blessed her profusely, reminding her of the words of the Christ: “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.” He assured her that she was storing riches in Heaven through her generosity. Little Celestino clutched Friar Broom firmly by the hand and exclaimed, “We’ll do it!” He was quite sure that with Friar Broom’s intercession nothing was impossible. The next person to contribute was a gruff old Spaniard by the name of Fruto Castelblanco, who owned a cacao plantation with many slaves. He told Friar Broom, “with all due respect,” that he believed it was the natural state of the African to be a slave to the white man. When Friar Broom gently reminded him of how he had obtained the cure of his daughter when she was dying of cholera, the hacendado reluctantly handed him a twenty peso banknote. “Don’t think I’m being niggardly,” he said, “but given how many miracles you’ve performed, I’m sure you’ll obtain the money to liberate a dozen slaves in a fortnight.” “I haven’t performed any miracles,” Friar Broom objected with a wave of the hand. “I was merely an intercessor – an unworthy conduit of God’s grace – asking the Lord to heal those who had sought my care if it was the will of Jesus that they be healed.” It took Friar Broom and Celestino three weeks to collect the money necessary for the purchase of Celestino’s father. The two immediately went to the abbot to announce their feat. Celestino could barely conceal his giddiness, smiling like he had never smiled before. However, the abbot left them both crestfallen as soon as he responded to their cries of joy. “We can use that money you’ve collected to pay down the monastery’s debt. In fact, I encourage you to keep asking for alms so that we may prevent foreclosure. The amount you’ve obtained is only a fraction of what we need, since we owe nearly three-hundred-thousand pesos on mortgage.” Friar Broom tried hard to contain his anger, knowing he had made a vow of obedience, so he tried to reason with the abbot. Here Friar Broom had come up with a solution to Celestino’s problem, and the abbot was unnecessarily throwing a monkey wrench into the works. “I can continue to beg for alms in order to pay off the monastery’s massive debt, esteemed abbot. And I can assure you that with the help of Jesus and Mary we shall receive all that we need. I promise to redouble my efforts to get all necessary funds. But don’t separate this beautiful family. Don’t sever everything that binds them. Instead, set them free. That is what the good Lord would want.” “The Catholic Church doesn’t forbid slavery. I’m sorry to disabuse you from such a notion. A century ago, Pope Alexander VI issued a bull explicitly allowing the Spaniard and the Portuguese to reduce ‘Africans into perpetual slavery wherever they may be.’ And that’s a direct quote. Slavery isn’t a punishment but a recognition that Africans fare best when guided by the white man. The Jesuits buy and sell thousands of slaves all over the continent and don’t think twice about it.” “It is inimical to everything the Church holds dear to separate a father from those to whom God has given him the obligation to protect. It is tantamount to leaving Mary without Joseph during the time of Herod. Who would have saved Jesus from Herod’s wrath and escaped with Him to Egypt if His earthly father had been taken from Him? As far as I know, the Jesuits rarely divide families.” “You are equating a penniless and unhygienic black man with Saint Joseph. Surely the comparison is fantastic and unreasonable, bordering on the blasphemous.” “Are you saying all men with African blood are doomed to slavery into perpetuity?” asked Friar Broom in an insistent voice, still trying to contain his anger. “I agree that I am your inferior, as you are a more faithful Catholic than I and God has given you a lofty position in the Church, but that inferiority has nothing to do with my color or race. There are many black men and women who are far more virtuous than the men who enslave them. It is unfortunately not uncommon for white slave masters to attack virginal African girls. And most white slave owners aren’t as gentle as you Dominicans. Many abuse and whip their slaves. Who knows what kind of man is purchasing Celestino’s father? You are throwing him into an uncertain fate. At a minimum, another owner will make him work to exhaustion. And you’re ending a marriage sanctified by God.” “That is rank speculation. For all you know the man buying Pedro is an upright and virtuous Catholic. I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. Why assume the worst?” “Celestino needs to have a complete family. Only his father can imbue him with the faith in God he needs to learn. By separating his father from his mother, you’re making a mockery of the Catholics’ insistence that all Africans live in unions blessed by God rather than concubinage. You’re putting Pedro in a position where he will virtually be forced to share a bed with a woman other than his wife.” “Pedro needs to be sold just like all our cattle and horses,” said the abbot. “I don’t want to discuss this issue any further. Be happy that we’re not selling Celestino and his mother too. Keep collecting alms for the monastery. I congratulate you for the amount you have already earned, but it is the slightest percentage of what we owe.” * * * Celestino spent all morning and most of the afternoon helping his father do some carpentry work. They were building a tool shed on the large yard behind the monastery where the friars were to keep all their equipment, their hammers, pickaxes and shovels, as well as everything they needed to till the fields. Celestino’s father was a taut, muscular man, no older than thirty-five. Unlike Celestino’s mother and Friar Broom, Pedro could not have been any blacker, with ebony skin which glistened in the sun, hair like black vicuñas’ wool and wide, intelligent eyes. He had a particular beauty, the beauty of the black man, so different from that of the white man, and Celestino thought no one was as handsome. He was also stronger than any of the white men at the monastery and towered above them in height. Despite being an African, born in Angola, he had learned to read and write Spanish, and the new novices laughed, thinking it was uproariously funny, when he asked to borrow some book or religious treatise from them. And Pedro had learned so much about the Catholic faith through his reading that the long-time monks marveled at the extent of his understanding of the most complex theological questions. At the right age, he had taught his son how to read and write, but he also decided to teach Celestino a trade, for he envisioned a different future for his son. At the time Celestino didn’t know that his father hoped that someday he would be a free black man and make a reasonably decent living as a carpenter like Saint Joseph. While they were working on the tool shed, Friar Broom suddenly appeared, dressed in the black and white habit of the Dominicans. His face was stern, and he looked as if he had just swallowed some bitter purgative. But he told them he brought good news. Pedro cleansed his sweaty face with a cloth rag and asked the friar what he meant. “I have decided to take your place and volunteer to be sold to Ramon Hijuelos instead of you. I was trained under a dentist–barber–surgeon and could fetch quite a price as a slave. In fact – and I say this without any pride – I have developed a popular reputation as something of a healing man. I’m worth a lot more than you, Pedro, and I’m sure Hijuelos would willingly take me instead of you for twenty-thousand pesos.” “I can’t force you to do that,” responded Pedro. “You have never been a slave and are the son of a Spaniard. I sincerely thank you for the gesture, but in good conscience I cannot allow it.” “You don’t have a choice, Pedro. My decision is firm. I intend to speak with the abbot this afternoon. After all, I’m used to hard work, and there is no task more humbling than my work sweeping the floors and cleaning the latrines of the monastery. And the fact some white blood courses through my veins doesn’t make me superior to any other black man. I want your whole family to be with me when I talk to him. I want him to realize this is not an abstract question, that we’re talking about a lovely young family which he means to destroy.” The next morning Friar Broom, accompanied by Celestino and his parents, knocked on the door of the abbot’s quarters. There was a sense of displeasure on the abbot’s face when he opened the door and saw them. “Why must you continue to pester me?” he asked. “My decision has been made.” “I’ve come with a different proposal,” said Friar Broom. “I want to be sold to Hijuelos instead of Pedro. After all, given my skills, I am worth a lot more than the twenty-thousand pesos for which you intend to sell Pedro.” “I’m not sure Hijuelos would want you. He needs a foreman to oversee men working in a quarry, not a dentist or a healing man.” “I can do that. With the help of God, there is nothing I can’t do.” “It’s just demented, Martin. Why would you want to be a slave working in a quarry?” “I don’t have a wife or a son, esteemed abbot. Nobody will miss me if I leave the monastery. Pedro, on the other hand, is desperately needed by his family. “Well, I won’t abide it. You’re nearly fifty years old, and Pedro is just another slave, strong and rugged. He can easily communicate with his wife and son through letters. And there’s no reason for him to be unable to live a life of chastity. Many of the peninsulares have come to the Indies without their wives and lead celibate lives.” “A few, perhaps, might lead chaste lives, but not the majority,” said Friar Broom. “At all events, my decision is irrevocable. Ask Hijuelos to take me instead of Pedro.” “You forget you’ve made a vow of obedience, don’t you? I hereby order you to stay put. You may foolishly want to be sold as a slave, but your abbot won’t allow it.” * * * It was nearly midnight when Friar Broom’s sister, Juana de Porres, arrived at the monastery bringing two horses with her. The friar mounted one of the horses with his sister while Celestino’s family rode on the other. Friar Broom had decided the family’s only option was to escape. He knew that certain priests claimed slavery was the will of God, that it was a sin of pride for the blacks to renege of their condition, and that slaves were justifiably flogged for attempting to flee, but he would have nothing of it. No man belongs to another in the eyes of God, and given the exigent circumstances, he felt it was his duty to help the family stay together. So they made the trek in the silent night to the port of Callao, ready to board a caravel to the coastal city of Guayaquil in Ecuador. Juana de Porres knew the captain of the ship well, for she traveled to Ecuador on a regular basis to visit her Spanish father, Don Juan de Porres. There were probably about another hundred passengers on the vessel, none of whom was black. Even Juana de Porres could pass for white, as she had taken after her father rather than her mother. “Thank you,” said Pedro to Friar Broom. “I know you’ve put yourself at risk of great punishment for bringing us here. Goodbye, my friend.” “Goodbye?” echoed Friar Broom. “Don’t you realize I’m going with you?” “Are you leaving the Dominicans?” asked the incredulous Pedro. “Let me worry about the Dominicans. I want to introduce you to my father. He was born in the Spanish city of Segovia, but since my birth, he has become very solicitous to the blacks. I mean to ask him to take care of your family and help you find a job as a freedman in Guayaquil.” “You don’t need to go with us, Friar Broom. I’m sure your sister will explain the situation to your father. I know how you love to serve God as a Dominican. You don’t have to sacrifice all of that just to help a luckless Negro and his family.” “Everything will be fine,” responded Friar Broom. “Just believe it. Walk by faith and not by sight. I am not going to be stripped of the habit of a Dominican nor be punished for liberating your family.” “I think you’re underestimating the gravity of the situation. The abbot is going to be incensed. You should hasten to the monastery before anybody realizes we’re missing. Otherwise with a snap of the abbot’s fingers you’ll be thrown out of the order of the Dominicans and will find yourself wandering the streets of Lima penniless and detested.” “Enough!” said Friar Broom. “You’re going on a trip to the lovely seaside city of Guayaquil, and this simple mulatto friar is going with you to introduce you to his father. The Lord will take care of everything else. Don’t worry about the abbot. He will not punish me.” Don Juan de Porres greeted his guests with open arms. When Friar Broom had been born, the Spanish nobleman had taken it hard. After all, his son had been born much blacker than his mulatto mother. For many years Don Juan had treated his son and his daughter differently, given that one looked like a black boy and the other as a white girl. Indeed, Don Juan had failed to appear at his son’s baptism or recognize him as his son, as was commonly done in Peru with respect to children born of extramarital relationships. But with the passage of the years, Don Juan had learned to love his son more and more and eventually had recognized him as his own, giving him the last name of Porres rather than his mother’s last name. And eventually the Spanish nobleman began to admire his half-caste son, for no one matched his humility or Christian virtue. When Friar Broom had first joined the Dominicans and the monks told him he could not become a priest given his color and his race, Don Juan de Porres had violently protested. But Friar Broom had stopped him in his tracks. “I want to be as little as possible,” Friar Broom had told his father. “I want to be as humble as possible, for that way I shall desire nothing other than to please the Lord. As I decrease, Jesus increases. I don’t need to be a priest to serve my God.” * * * Friar Broom was sweeping the refectory at the monastery when the abbot approached him and screamed at him with all his might. “The Negroes have escaped! I knocked on the door of their dwelling at eight in the morning, and they weren’t there. We’ve searched up and down the monastery, and they’re nowhere to be found. I should have anticipated something like this might happen and kept Pedro and his family in shackles until the day of Hijuelos’ arrival.” “It is to be expected that a man in Pedro’s position might become a fugitive,” Friar Broom said in a calm voice. “I’ve already told you it was his duty as a Christian to keep his family intact, to protect them like Saint Joseph protected his wife and Son.” “Well, I won’t have it. Does that wretched Negro mean to make a fool of me? I shall immediately alert the authorities that there are three escaped slaves on the loose. And I’ll hire the best private slave catchers to find the fugitives. It’s going to cost me a great deal of money to pay the posse, but a lot less than the value of those three slaves. And when I catch them, I shall sell all of them, the wife and son included. Celestino is ten years old and doesn’t need a nursemaid any more. Given that his father has taught him how to read and how to do carpentry, I could sell him for quite a bundle.” “I thought you said one should never teach a black man how to read.” “And I’m right. Pedro is an example. He lacks all Christian humility, thinking he is the equal of the white man because he’s managed to plod through some religious treatises.” “With all due respect, your lordship, it is not a lack of humility to want to improve yourself or to do what is best for your family. God did not create this wonderful world in order for men to be in chains into perpetuity. And God does not intend for men to live in darkness. Every man should be taught how to read, particularly books which speak of God.” “Where do you think they might have gone? Do you have any idea?” Friar Broom didn’t want to lie. Neither did he want to disclose the truth. “Latin America is vast,” responded Friar Broom as his heart beat hard. “They could be anywhere.” “So you’re saying they could have left the country?” “I think at this point it’s best for you to let it go. I say it in all humility. Pedro and his family aren’t going to have it easy trying to make their way in a white man’s world. If they’ve taken such a bold step because of the deep love they have for one another, why not just say a prayer for them and let them be?” “It’s you who have put such ideas in the Negro’s head,” the abbot blurted. “The black family was willing to accept their fate as the will of God, but then you interfered and told them God did not approve their state of servitude. You told them to forget the God-given requirement that they act with absolute obedience to their masters. When I find them, I shall flog them, each and every one of them. I’ve never whipped any of them in the past, but now I think I should have. La letra entra con sangre, as is commonly said. One learns by bleeding.” “Pray about it,” counseled Friar Broom. “Ask the Lord to enlighten you. You’ll soon learn that what was best for this family was to escape.” * * * Two months later, the abbot summoned Friar Broom into his private quarters. The two walked from the chapel to the abbot’s room without saying anything. Friar Broom sensed that the abbot was upset for some reason and that the purpose for the meeting was to discuss disciplinary matters, but he could not guess what they might be. “You are a very special person, aren’t you?” asked the abbot. Friar Broom was perplexed. “Not more special than any other friar,” he responded. “Did you help Pedro and his family to escape?” “Why do you ask this question after so many months?” “Is it true that you can walk through walls,” inquired the abbot, “that you can also levitate?” “Those are old rumors,” Friar Broom responded. “Do not pay any heed to them.” “During the quarantine of those who had fallen ill with the measles epidemic, the door to the infirmary was bolted shut so that no one could enter and potentially spread contagion. And yet many of the sick friars who survived swore that you had ministered to them in the special room for the ill. How did you enter the infirmary given that there was no way to enter it without a key? Tell me, Martin. Can your body somehow go across solid cement?” “It’s best to leave certain matters unanswered,” responded Friar Broom. “Whatever happened, happened with the will of God. Why such a question now? You’ve known about the rumors for years.” “Were you on the ship with Pedro and his family going to Guayaquil?” “You’ve seen me in the monastery all this time. You were with me on the day when the Armendariz family disappeared, and you have seen me at the monastery ever since.” “That is why I’m so shocked,” the abbot responded. “How could you have been in the monastery at the same time you were on a boat headed for Guayaquil? How could you have been here with me and also with your sister and the slaves in Ecuador thousands of kilometers away? Are those who claim you bilocate telling the truth? I need to know. Everything hangs in the balance, including my very soul.” “How did you come up with the idea that I went to Guayaquil?” “Remember that I hired three slave catchers to find out the whereabouts of Pedro and his family? Well, they’ve submitted their report. They’ve obtained the records listing the passengers on the Mirabella caravel going from Lima to Guayaquil on the day the fugitives disappeared. And the records do show that three black people – a man, a woman and a child – were on the ship on that fateful day. But that isn’t what’s astonishing. The incredible thing is, those records demonstrate that you and your sister Juana Porres were also on that boat headed for Guayaquil. And yet at the same time you were sweeping the floors of the monastery.” “I think you should just forget about it. I hope you’re not thinking of sending slave catchers to Guayaquil. If something miraculous happened, chalk it up to the will of God. Don’t become so full of a vengeful pride that you’ll hunt down the Armendariz family to the ends of the earth.” “You’re completely misinterpreting me,” said the abbot. “I now think that I’ve committed a grievous sin by visiting such pain upon a loving family. If God decided to use miracles to save the three slaves, it must be because He thought it was important for them to live in freedom. In retrospect, I can’t even believe I thought of dividing the family for a few thousand pesos. You were right when you told me that would not be pleasing to our Lord. Tell me how I can make things right in the eyes of Jesus, since it is quite obvious that you are an instrument of the will of God.” “We are all instruments in the will of God, but I’ll tell you what I think. Encourage all the Dominicans to stop trafficking in slaves. The Jesuits should do the same. But don’t just sell them to another owner. That might soothe priests’ consciences, but it wouldn’t result in any improvement for the slaves. No, dear abbot, what the Church must do is set all of its slaves free. It will come at a heavy financial price, especially to some Jesuits who own vast haciendas with hundreds of slaves. But it is the only Christian thing to do. To engage in the enslavement of black men and women is an open and manifest sin. After all, we are all made in the image and likeness of God.” Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023) The Knight and Lady Poverty (Fiction, January 2024) The Crosses of Father Rutilio Grande (Fiction, April 2024) The Story of Prisoner 16670: A Radical Act of Love (Fiction, May 2024) By Brianne Holmes When Andrew got the news that his wife had been killed in the South Shore train wreck, the first thing he did was look for his keys. They were not on the hook by the door where she said he should keep them. They were not on the dresser or the kitchen table or between the couch cushions. He finally found them in his studio on a table near the commissioned painting of a poodle whose idiotic doggy smile had caused Meredith to die—in a way. He restrained himself from slashing the canvas with an X-Acto knife. He sped blindly toward the lake. He knew the streets of Michigan City like he knew the sound of Meredith’s voice. He could almost feel her gripping his thigh, begging him to slow down, saying, Please don’t kill us, Andrew. I like being alive. Washington Park was almost deserted. When he turned off the engine, everything was still, except for the gentle sloshing of waves on the beach. There was the lighthouse, white and red and friendly in the evening light. No one was fishing on the pier—wrong weather, wrong time of year. Andrew had forgotten his coat, and there was no shelter on the pier from the persistent November wind surging down from Canada. It needled through his flannel shirt and whipped his hair into a mane. Before boarding the train that morning, Meredith had buried her fingers in his hair. Your fur needs a trim, she had said. I’m growing a winter coat, he said. She said, You look like a Golden Retriever. Now as he gazed west, he could just make out Chicago’s gray skyline. He turned east and looked down at the short plunge from pier to rock buffer to water. Many times he had taken his rowboat out on this water, photographing the shoreline, the lighthouse, the pier, the gulls. Tonight, the wind stirred the lake, but it wasn’t truly rough. There were times he’d seen this water in full fury, waves surging over the pier. Once, about a year ago, a local teenager went out on the pier in a storm. He was swept away, dashed against the rocks, and drowned. When Meredith read the story online, she slapped her palm on the kitchen table and shouted, Idiot! Then she murmured: He probably would’ve been in my algebra class next year. If she had been standing there with him now, he might have said, The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full. Then Meredith would have said, Lake, Andrew, it’s a lake. And then he would have said, Poetry, Meredith, it’s poetry. Andrew leaned against a pylon and stared blankly at the familiar lighthouse. How many times had he photographed and painted that lighthouse? Dozens at least. People liked it, an icon, something familiar. The artwork sold. The setting sun cast a red glow on the Chicago skyline. In that city, her body lay in a morgue. Her brother had positively identified her. Now Andrew had to go, make arrangements, bring her back. He would have gone today or tomorrow, but they told him on the phone that they couldn’t release the victims until Monday. Get your bodies during regular business hours, apparently. The sun went down like a glowing sheet of metal. The lake became a darkling plain. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full. At 3:00 a.m., Andrew was in his studio working on the commissioned portrait of the poodle. He hated that animal. He had been working on its nose that morning while Meredith got ready to leave for Chicago to visit her brother. She had wanted to take the 10:55 train, but Andrew, who had promised to drive her to the station, had been preoccupied with his work and was running late as usual. They pulled into the station just as the 10:55 left. He could tell she was annoyed, but all she said was, I’ll just catch the 11:25. Andrew could not look at the poodle any more. He crossed the room to a stack of blank canvases. Hidden behind them was a painting of Meredith that he had been working on for her 27th birthday. She was leaning against a water maple in a yellow spring dress that set off the richness of her tan. Her dark hair had caught just a hint of sunlight, and her mouth curved teasingly, as if she knew some private joke. Meredith had asked him once, What is the hardest thing to paint? People, he said. More specifically, she said. Is it the hands? No, he said, it’s the eyes. There’s a light in them that’s hard to catch. It’s the soul, Meredith said decisively. The soul, he said. Yes, she said, the soul. You catch a glimpse of it sometimes, in the eyes. She knew perfectly well that he didn’t believe in the soul. Andrew did not leave the studio that night. In the morning, the silence was appalling, not to hear her moving through the house, getting ready for church. He forced himself to finish the dog, then started on a commissioned bridal portrait. At 10:55, he put down his brush and called Meredith’s distant cousins in Greece. Then he called her brother to get the phone number for her aunt who lived in Rockford. Then he called the aunt, who sobbed into the phone. After that, he judged that church would be over and called Meredith’s minister. The minister was silent for so long, Andrew wondered if he had lost signal. Then the minister said, “Oh, Andrew. Andrew.” It wasn’t so much the words but the way he said it that choked Andrew. It was his turn not to speak. Then the minister said, “If you’d like, I can come over.” “No,” Andrew said. “No.” “Call me back, then,” he said. “We need to…discuss service times.” “Yes,” Andrew said and hung up. He rushed back to the bridal portrait and worked on it all day and into the night. Around midnight, he lay down on the hard studio floor, fell asleep, and dreamed he was marrying Meredith again. She was wearing the yellow dress, and they were standing on the lighthouse pier. At the foot of the pier, waves washed away boulders as if they were nothing but pebbles. Then the lake rolled back, a silent wall of water that disappeared over the horizon. The floor of the lake lay barren and dry. Andrew woke with an aching back and resumed work on the bridal portrait. By morning, his eyes burned, and his hand was cramped. He cleaned up and took the train to Chicago. He had to get her; he had to think, plan, call the minister back. He wished someone else could think for him. There was no visible evidence of the train derailment. The commuters rushed about in a soulless mass as if no one in the history of the world, let alone two days ago, had been crushed like paper in the bent metal teeth of a wrecked train. * * * Almost everyone at the funeral was a stranger. Most were from Meredith’s church, along with a handful of co-workers from the high school. Andrew sat in the front row near the closed casket, next to Meredith’s brother Sean, whose black hair was in wild disarray. The rims of his eyes were the color of a dying sun. Andrew stared at the casket. It was her body in there, twisted unnaturally at the neck—but it was not Meredith herself. She wasn’t there, which meant that she was either someplace else or nowhere else. He wondered why he used to enjoy the thought of nowhere. Sean nudged him and cast a questioning look at the leather-bound Bible in Andrew’s lap. Andrew pointed to Meredith’s name, embossed at the bottom. He had given it to her last Christmas. She went ecstatic over it as if it were proof that Andrew was on the verge of conversion. He had been planning to have it buried with her, but the minister had handed it back to him and said, “She doesn’t need it where she is.” They sang a hymn Andrew had never heard. The minister held forth on the resurrection of the dead. Beside Andrew, Sean began to weep quietly, face in his hands, tears dripping between his fingers. But Andrew couldn’t cry. He wanted to, but he couldn’t, and he wondered what her friends would say about that. From where he sat, Andrew could smell the sticky sweetness of the flowers surrounding the casket. They were dead, all these flowers, just waiting around to look as dead as they already were. He remembered Meredith, standing before him in the studio, hands on hips saying, How’d you get to be such a pessimist? You’re an artist. Exactly, Andrew said. But your paintings, she said, your pictures. You see beauty. Okay, look, he said, pointing to a photo he had taken of the sun setting behind the Michigan City lighthouse. He had rowed out on the lake on a brilliant summer evening for that shot. He said, How long a window of time do you think I had to take that? How should I know? she said. I teach algebra, not photography. He said, A second. Two seconds. I took the picture, and it was gone. But it was there, she said. But it didn’t last. That’s why I paint it. So we can keep it. After the service, Meredith’s friends offered tearful condolences. Sean hugged him and said, “She really, really loved you, you know.” “I—” Andrew said. He wanted to say, “I really, really loved her too,” but he found that he couldn’t speak. They all trooped out to the cemetery and put her body in the ground, and that ought to have seemed final, but it did not. The house was silent when he returned. He went to the studio and looked at her portrait. There she was, smiling at him, getting flecks of bark on her new yellow dress. He hadn’t gotten the eyes right. Absent was that gleam of life that Meredith called the soul. “Say something,” he murmured absurdly to the painting. Were she here now, he would gladly listen to anything she said. He wouldn’t even mind her evangelizing. He who has an ear, let him hear! she had said to him once when he let her read to him in bed. I have ears, he had mumbled, pulling the sheet up to his chin and glaring at the clock on their bedroom wall. He said, My ears and my eyes are telling me you’ve been reading for half an hour. She playfully flicked his ear and said, You sound like an old man. I have a dawn appointment with the dawn, Andrew said. He was going out to the dunes to paint. The forecast said winds would be relatively calm. He rolled over, his back to her. Meredith closed her Bible and smacked his shoulder with it irreverently. She said, He who has lips, let him kiss me! Andrew grinned, rolled over, and kissed her. These lips, Meredith said, touching them with her finger, These lips were made for praise. She had believed every feature of his face belonged to her God. When Andrew went to bed the night after the funeral, he placed Meredith’s Bible on her pillow. It seemed like an unreasonable thing to do, but he didn’t care. Perhaps it was alive in the same way she was. It still seemed to have power over people’s hearts. “You and your God,” he muttered, breathing in her scent on the pillows. He dreamed again that he was marrying her by the lighthouse. Waves rose and flooded the pier, but they could both breathe underwater. He could hear the spray echoing overhead, and Meredith said, Sweet is the night-air! And Andrew woke up thinking, That’s not very much like algebra. Rain drummed on the roof and the wind, a dull roar. He rolled over. The alarm clock was dark; the power was out. It was like the storm last October. They had been sitting on the couch watching TV when the screen and the lights blinked out. Dark! Meredith exclaimed cheerfully. They fumbled until they found each others’ hands and then they stumbled into the kitchen, looking for the flashlight. Meredith found it in a drawer and shone it on her face, lighting her nose an eerie red. They went back to the couch, and Meredith declared that these were the perfect circumstances in which to read. She grabbed her Bible from the coffee table. Andrew didn’t protest. He was comfortable with his head resting on the couch cushions, and Meredith leaned back against his shoulder and started reading from the Psalms. He let her go without comment until she came to the line, He rides on the wings of the wind; he makes his messengers winds, and then he couldn’t resist. Are you saying God is out there right now? he said, twisting around to look at her and pretending to be in awe. Meredith, did God come by and knock out our power? In a way, yes, she said. He said, God is flying by. Right. Now. Poetry, Andrew. It’s poetry. The next morning was hollow, wet, and cold, but he couldn’t stay in the house. He strapped his rowboat to the top of his Ford, packed up his camera, and drove slowly toward Washington Park. Meredith had said that he understood beauty. So. He would go catch some beauty. The water was choppy but not unmanageable. He slid the rowboat into the lake and struck out past the pier toward the “no swimming” signs. The wind was strong and cold, numbing his hands on the oars. Once he had rowed past the lighthouse, he let the oars rest and fumbled with the settings on his camera. From this angle, the lighthouse and the pier looked different, like a long and fragile arm, promising a safety it could not supply. With the heaving of the boat, it was difficult to get a clear shot. A gust of wind ripped over the lake. Cold water sloshed over the side of the boat, seeping into Andrew’s boots. He looked northwest and saw a dark bank of clouds rushing down from the horizon. Steadying his camera against the strengthening wind, he took several photos of the storm. Take. Take a picture. Such an odd phrase. As if, by preserving an image, he could really keep a part of the subject, maybe catch its essence or its spirit or its soul. He imagined Meredith saying triumphantly, Ah, so you admit there’s a soul! “No,” he said aloud, “but I want there to be.” Water was getting on his lens. He wiped the moisture off with his damp sleeve and put the camera in its case. Then he took up the oars and started to row toward shore. The wind roared across the lake and swept the quivering waves toward the lighthouse, the pier, and the buffer of boulders beneath the pier. He rowed hard but seemed to have no control over the direction of the boat as the wind pushed him toward the pier. Tightening his grip on the oars, he dug deep into the water. His hair blew into his eyes, stung his cold ears. Thirty yards to Andrew’s left, waves broke on the rocks and sprayed the concrete buttress of the pier. The black clouds that had massed on the horizon a few minutes ago were now almost overhead. Just to the north, a wall of rain met the lake. He struggled at the oars, hands red with cold. What had possessed him to come out on a day like this? But he knew. He had wanted the danger of the water so he wouldn’t know the danger of his mind. He had wanted the numbing wind, so he wouldn’t feel his body. Perhaps if all those things were out of the way, he would feel his soul, if indeed he had one. And had Meredith seen her soul, trembling, full of light, as the train jolted it from her body? A twist of metal and a white-hot light. Waves surged over the side of the rowboat. He stopped rowing and started bailing with his hands. His camera bag floated in the bottom of the boat. Another wave hit him in the face, and he felt the change in the boat, the weight of water tugging it down. The pier loomed close, its support columns barring the gray sky. Andrew pictured Meredith giving him a look of incredulity. She would say, You died that way, you idiot! Or would she say, I know, Andrew, I know. If you’d been rowing home to me, you would have made it. He opened his camera bag, chucked the camera, and tried to use the bag to bail water. It was too late, he knew, but he didn’t want Meredith to say he had given up. Then he saw the wave coming, broad and high. It heaved his boat aloft, a strong shoulder of water bearing him up. The boat nosed past the crest of the wave and tipped. Andrew clutched at the side of the boat, wet wood wrenching away from his fingertips, and he heard the crack of his own head hitting wood and saw the gray spray around him flicker in and out like electric lights in a power outage. He thought for a spinning moment that it was Meredith flicking the light switch up and down, as if to gather the attention of her students. She said, “Listen! You hear the grating roar of certitude, and peace, and help for pain,” and he opened his mouth to correct the quotation, but he choked on water. His vision cleared, and he saw far above the murky light filtering through the water like a last will and testament to the goodness of God, and he thought wearily, God. If I’ve even got a soul. Andrew’s back slammed against rock. He braced himself and kicked, trying to propel himself away from the rocks, but the lake shoved him back, harder. His shoulder blade throbbed, his lungs burned, and his body was going numb. One more time the waves sucked him back, heaved him forward, and when he hit the rock, he clung to it. He hauled himself up the face of the rock and broke the surface, coughing up lake water. Slowly, he crawled to the top of the rock and stood, bracing himself against the concrete pier. The rock buffer stretched out before him toward the shore, white spray leaping along its edge. The lake wind cut through him and hit the pier with a roar like many voices, like a host of souls singing one insistent poem. Ah, love, let us be true and together sail that Sea around earth’s shore. Brianne Holmes lives in Upstate South Carolina where she works in marketing and communications. In 2016, she earned a Master of Arts in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from East Carolina University. Her writing has appeared in several publications, including the North Carolina Literary Review, Relief, The Twisted Vine, the Journal of Microliterature, As Surely As the Sun Literary and Abandon Journal.
By Scott Braswell and Michael Braswell Mildred Percy stood at her kitchen window – the one decorated with ceramic thimbles donated by her third-grade Sunday school class – and watched the parking lot lights across the street snuff out one by one. It was getting late. She walked to the kitchen screen door, one hand caked in Bisquick and the other holding a bottle of sorghum molasses she had removed from the antique cupboard. Her husband, Elmer, liked biscuits for supper on Sunday evenings. He would often joke to his six p.m. Sunday night congregation that the evening's sermon may be cut short because it was biscuit night. Tonight, though, it was getting late; the clock was creeping past eight-thirty. “Elmer! It’s close to suppertime,” Mildred shouted in a voice so loud it surprised her. Five minutes ticked by and still no sign of her husband. She looked out at the old oak tree in the back yard, its branches lifted by a late summer breeze, as if it were shrugging its shoulders, saying, “I don’t know where he is either.” Mildred smiled at that thought for a quick moment and returned her attention to her missing husband. She knew he’d grunt and groan if the biscuits and sorghum weren’t on the table by the time her grandmother’s clock struck five o’clock. She didn’t mind it so much – the biscuits, that is, not the clock. She had always hated the sound that clock made. Slamming the screen door behind her, Mildred hurried to the garden where she found Elmer, crumpled on the ground, his legs spread and his back against the old oak. He was holding the gold office pen he always had clipped to his shirt pocket, the one she got him for Christmas, with his name engraved on it. His thumb was nervously clicking the pen. “Mr. Percy, what in the world is going on with you. Those biscuits are gonna crawl back in the can if you don’t come eat ‘em!” Mildred arched her eyebrow in disapproval and placed her Bisquick-caked hand on her hip, just like her mother used to do. She hated when her mother did that. “Something happened to me Milly,” Elmer said in a soft voice, wiping at eyes wet and raw with tears. Mildred’s wrinkled brow softened, and she could feel her heartbeat begin to race. A warm breeze lifted the hair off her neck and carried with it the unmistakable scent of burning biscuits. She mourned them for a split second. “Well Lord have mercy, do I need to call Dr. Elsey, or 911?” she asked her husband. Elmer shook his head and ran his hand through the tall grass beside him. He bit his lower lip – a lifelong nervous habit of his – the words in his throat falling apart before making their way to his mouth. He breathed deeply and watched clouds move across the sky. He thought for a moment about how he had never noticed the sky before. Mildred hesitantly took his hand. He could feel her worry moving over him. “What’s going on with you, Elmer Percy?” she asked with soft urgency. “You want to come inside and talk about it? Those biscuits are…” Elmer gave her hand a slight squeeze and looked up at her. “I think I had a dream.” “A dream? What kind of a dream?” Elmer sighed and ran his hand through the grass again. He shook his head slowly, watching the sun drop a couple of rungs down the sky. “Don’t know,” he answered. “I took a rest here at the oak for a spell after checking on the garden. Must’ve dozed off. Can’t say for sure what happened after that.” He picked a hand full of grass and let it get swept up by a wisp of evening breeze. Mildred breathed deep and picked at the dried biscuit mix on her hand. Some of it had gotten in her watch, and she drew her lips tight in mild frustration. She liked that watch. “You want to tell me what you dreamed?” she asked, rubbing her forehead with her clean hand. A few moments passed without an answer, and Mildred sat down in a thatch of tall grass beside her husband. She could feel his hand shaking. “I guess so,” he finally responded. “I’m not sure you’ll understand, and… well, it’s pretty crazy. I’m not sure I understand it myself. Must have been asleep, but – can’t explain it – I felt …awake. More awake than usual. In the dream I was standing in this crowd of people – all kind of people, young, old, and folks our age. And they were laughing and carryin’ on – and dancing. They were dancing to that rock and roll fuss that I used to say was the devil’s dance and the reason deaf people never had it so good.” Mildred let slip a slight smile. “Well, you can bet your biscuits I wanted to leave that place as fast as I could,” Elmer continued. “But even though I wanted to leave, my feet wouldn’t move.” He reached down and touched his ankle. Mildred’s eyes followed his hand. “The people looked so happy, and then I noticed they were all looking at one person who was dancing and laughing with them. Then the person they were looking at looked at me, and…” Mildred reached to touch her husband’s temple, turned gray by two heart attacks, a wayward daughter and a few bad breaks that could have gone either way. “Milly, this sounds awful crazy,” Elmer said, shaking his head. “I just…” Elmer paused, his voice, the once-commanding baritone one would expect from a veteran preacher such as himself, disappearing into a hoarse, almost childlike whisper. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, and for Mildred, it did not go unnoticed. She sat still in the tall grass that swayed side to side in the dying dusk light, holding her husband’s trembling hand. Her eyes traced the old wrinkled lines, and she thought about when those hands held their child for the first time, and how they helped bury her mother when she passed away from liver cancer, and how they could also be swift and fierce. “Tell me what happened,” she said, watching tears streak her husband’s cheeks. Elmer breathed deep and turned his head away from his wife, wiping his face. “Well, the person looking back at me was him.” “Him who?” Elmer’s voice softened. “Jesus.” Mildred stroked his thumb with her forefinger. “At first I couldn’t believe it,” Elmer said, “but he was looking at me, drawing me into the laughter, even though I fought against it, at first. Then he walked over to me and spoke only once.” “What did he say?” Mildred asked, her hand now resting still on top of her husband’s. “He said, ‘Where’s Mildred?’” Mildred withdrew her hand from his and slipped it into her pocket. “Before I could say anything, he took my hand, and we began to dance. I couldn’t believe it – I felt like a little boy, like when I used to dance with my mother in her kitchen. It’s like he reached in, dusted off that memory, and made it new again. There I was dancing with Jesus, and I found myself laughing and singing with him and the others.” Elmer paused a moment, biting down softly on his lower lip. “Then Jesus stopped dancing even though the others continued. Then he looked at me in a different way.” Elmer’s words trailed off and a sudden, unfamiliar sadness overcame him. Mildred patted his hand. “His eyes changed. I became afraid. I didn’t want to look but knew I had to. Can’t explain why. I just knew.” “What did they look like – his eyes,” Mildred asked. Elmer’s face crinkled into a thinking mode, his thoughts on a quest to honor his wife’s question. “They were burning,” he said, “like the last embers of a fire, glowing around the edges but dark in the center – death’s eyes. Even though I looked away, his eyes looked into me, through me – probin’ around into places I had forgotten. Places safe from eyes. But there he was, lookin’ – his eyes were like searchlights, seeing everything. I couldn’t hide. I tell you, I’ve never been so ashamed and scared in my life. No matter how tight I held on, those eyes pulled every piece of darkness out of me and set it right down on the front row, then switched on the spotlight. Like the time my father beat me when I was twelve with a leather harness ‘cause I had lied to him. He said he was beating the devil out of me, but it hurt so bad that ever since, I felt that anything good had to hurt, that sometimes you had to deny and even hurt the body to save the soul. Like the time I whipped Julie when she was fifteen after I caught her drinking beer with her friends.” Elmer breathed deeply and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. Leaning his head back against the old oak tree, he continued. “And there was the time after we were engaged, I sneaked over to Embreeville to see an old girlfriend.” Elmer paused, anticipating a reaction, but was met with only silence. “I never told you about that, and I’m sorry. I’m not that kind of man, and I know you know that. But in that dream, I felt like death had a hold of my belt-loops.” As his words burrowed through her ears, Mildred looked at the fading sun in the distance; her grief hung still in the air like stale laundry on a line. They both fell silent for a while. An evening breeze picked up and rustled the leaves above them. The moon traded places with the sun. Mildred put her hands in her pockets and stood up. The tall grass fell against her ankles. “Mildred, I looked into his eyes, and my heart broke in two.” Tears rolled down Elmer’s cheeks as his voice cracked and dropped to a whisper. “Then his eyes changed again. I was bathed in the look of those eyes... like a newborn baby.” The moon blinked in between clouds passing across the sky, and Mildred closed her eyes in its light. “Ovenlight,” she thought. She looked at her hands. They were swollen and sore. Putting her hands back in her pockets, Mildred started off through the tall grass back toward the kitchen door. Elmer turned to look in her direction. He counted silently each step she made. She stopped and turned to look back at him. “I’ll put some more biscuits in the oven,” she said. “Come help me set the table.” Michael Braswell is a retired university teacher and former prison psychologist. He has published books on ethics, peacemaking and the spiritual journey as well as several short story collections.
'Sunday Biscuits' was first published in Stray Dogs by Michael Braswell and Scott Braswell. It has been republished here with the author's permission. Michael's other work on Foreshadow: Peacemaking Boogie (Poetry, February 2024) By Sandro F. Piedrahita “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” - John 15:13 “True courage requires fighting when everyone knows the cause is lost.” - Saint Maximilian Kolbe, A Hero of the Holocaust by Fiorella De Maria Prisoner Number 16670 had spent a lifetime preparing for this moment, and when it came, he was prepared. He had already spent three days at the Starvation Bunker, and the other prisoners were lapsing into despair, to say nothing of hunger and thirst, so he did what he always did. He prayed the Rosary, ceaselessly, endlessly, without respite. Despite the dire circumstances, he placed his hope in God and in the Mother of God, the Immaculata. Even though many of the other captives were Jews, he encouraged his fellows to do the same. “He who has God lacks nothing,” he proclaimed, quoting Saint Teresa of Avila. “God alone suffices.” Prisoner 16350 was a rabbi wearing a yellow star on his striped uniform and told Prisoner 16670 that he could not pray to the Catholic Virgin Mary. Prisoner 16670 responded in a mirthful voice – yes, a mirthful voice! “Then we’ll both pray together to God Our Father. God will listen to us in this moment of tribulation.” Prisoner 16350 bowed his head down and commenced an ancient prayer in Yiddish. “When I am shattered, assure me that I can heal,” he prayed. “When I am weary, renew my spirit. When I am lost, show me that you are near.” Like the other prisoners, the rabbi had a number tattooed on his arm and for all purposes had lost his name. After the Rosary was completed, Prisoner 16670 lamented that he did not have a piece of bread to consecrate the Eucharist. “I shall celebrate the Mass,” he said, “but I wish I could give you all the Holy Host. Now more than ever we need the body of Jesus.” Prisoner 12200 – a Pole just like Prisoner 16670 and a huge muscular man – instantly objected. He still had a powerful voice despite three days without food or water. “Do you think the Lord is with us here in the Starvation Bunker? God couldn’t be farther away from Auschwitz. I refuse to pray the Rosary, and I won’t join you if you say the Mass. It would be useless.” “God is everywhere,” responded Prisoner 16670. “He is here with us, helping us to carry our heavy Cross. Never doubt in the darkness what God has shown you in the light.” “What light?” scoffed Prisoner 12200. “Those Germans haven’t even placed a light bulb on the ceiling, and there is only a small barred window. We are doomed to die in darkness.” “Don’t be afraid of the darkness,” responded Prisoner 16670. “This too shall pass. You are a Pole. Pray to our Lady of Czestochowa the Black Madonna. She has always protected the Polish people, and she won’t stop doing it now.” “If what has happened to the Polish people under German occupation shows us the Black Madonna is protecting Poland,” retorted Prisoner 12200, “then I think very little of her protection.” “Well, I’ll celebrate the Mass anyway. I only wish I had a loaf of bread.” Suddenly Prisoner 13760, a weak lad of seventeen, intervened. He extracted a crusty piece of French bread from the pocket of his shirt. “I was saving this for later,” he said in a weak voice, “for when I am really hungry. But I suppose it’s more important at this moment for you to deliver the Eucharist to us than for me to eat.” “Thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Prisoner 16670. “That should be more than enough! We shall all be nourished by the Body of Christ even if our bellies remain empty.” Prisoner 16670 officiated a Mass at the Starvation Bunker for the benefit of his nine fellow prisoners and himself. At the right moment, he raised the piece of bread in the air and said, “Do this in memory of me.” Then he tore the stale bread into little pieces and put them in the mouths of the other starving men. Aside from the Jews, only Prisoner 12200 abstained, since he no longer believed in the grace of God. “I only wish we had more bread,” whispered Prisoner 51764 at the conclusion of the Mass. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and had a receding hairline. He had been employed as an accountant before the war. “And perhaps a little water,” he added. “Do you really think the Germans are going to let us die of thirst and hunger? At some point, they’ll bring us some food and water, won’t they?” “Don’t delude yourself,” scoffed Prisoner 12200, the burly Pole. “They are doing this to us to frighten all the rest, to show what will happen if anyone else escapes. For every man that escapes, ten men are killed. That is their rule, and they have selected us to be the ten.” “Except for 16670,” responded Prisoner 51764. “He wasn’t selected.” The Germans had demanded that the prisoners refer to each other by their numbers rather than their names, and even in their absence, the accountant in horn-rimmed glasses didn’t break the habit. “Fools rush in,” retorted Prisoner 12200, referring to Prisoner 16670, “where angels fear to tread.” “How can you call him a fool for his heroic act of bravery?” protested Prisoner 16350, the Jewish rabbi. “He saved a life and sacrificed his own.” “They’ll kill the other man too eventually,” retorted Prisoner 12200 with anger in his voice. “Prisoner 16670 saved nobody. He just hastened his own death.” “Just like the Christ,” objected the seventeen-year-old Prisoner 13760 meekly. “No man has greater love than he who gives up his life for another…” * * * Raymund Kolbe was twelve years old when the apparition happened. He had stolen some eggs from a neighbor, and his mother had chastised him for doing so. “What is to become of you?” she said. “If you’re a thief at your age, what will you be as an adult? The child is the father of the man. I couldn’t be more disappointed.” Raymund was perturbed. He sped to Father Gajewski’s church and knelt before a figure of the Black Madonna. “What will become of me?” he asked in desperation. His mother’s words had shaken him profoundly. “Am I to become an evil man, unworthy of your love?” Then he started to weep. He looked up at the face of the Virgin of Czestochowa, kindness incarnate. “I promise I shall never steal again,” he pleaded through his tears. “Just let me know I am still in your good graces!” Then it happened. He heard a voice, and suddenly the statue of the Black Madonna came to life. “I’m not angry at you for what you have done,” the Black Madonna reassured him. “I couldn’t love you more.” “What shall I do? How can I know I’ll always be the object of your love?” The Virgin of Czestochowa then showed Raymund two crowns, one of them white like the driven snow, the other scarlet like a rose. “If you accept the white crown, you’ll be pledging your purity of soul to me. If you accept the red crown, you’ll be promising to be a martyr for the faith. Tell me, Raymund, do you willingly accept either of these crowns?” The twelve-year-old gazed at the figure of the Black Madonna. “I’d like to accept both of them,” he said. “Very well then,” responded the Virgin Mary. “For the moment, begin to live a life of chastity. At some point I shall call you to be a priest. And many years later, I shall give you the crown of martyrdom. When you grow older, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will gird you and carry you where you don’t want to go.” * * * Everyone thought that the thin, waiflike Prisoner 13760 would be the first to succumb to thirst and hunger, but he held on. It was Prisoner 19978 – a prominent thirtyish lawyer from Warsaw – who was about to die on his fifth day in the Starvation Bunker. His symptoms were unmistakable: an overwhelming weakness, a fast heart rate, slowed, shallow breaths and inexplicable diarrhea. His eyes had begun to sink in and glass over. His muscles had begun to become smaller, and muscle wasting began to set in. He was also afflicted with an overwhelming tiredness and dizziness, lapsing in and out of consciousness, and his skin was overly pale. His skin loosened and turned gray in color, and there was swelling of his feet and ankles. Prisoner 16670 approached the dying man and asked if he wanted to give his last Confession. Prisoner 19978, amid his weakness, affirmed with a motion of the head. “When was your last Confession?” asked Prisoner 16670. “Maybe seventeen, twenty years ago since my last valid Confession,” responded Prisoner 19978 in a whisper. “I have been all things unholy, although I did a pretty good job hiding it, even in the Confessional.” “What do you have to confess today?” asked Prisoner 16670. “What don’t I have to confess?” responded the dying man. “I have been guilty of adultery, beating my wife, even consorting with men. Everyone thought I was a pillar of the community because I was such a hypocrite. I hid my vice in furtive corners, sought out temptations in dark places where prostitutes and buggers gathered. And I didn’t believe, I never prayed, even as I went to Mass to keep up appearances. My confessors thought I was a stalwart, virtuous man. My hypocrisy became so great that it led me to ignore my conscience. I no longer realized that I was sinning. But then I was imprisoned.” Then Prisoner 19978 began to cough blood. Since Prisoner 16670 did not have a napkin or a kerchief, he cleaned the man’s face with the sleeve of his own shirt. Once Prisoner 19978 had recovered, Prisoner 16670 proceeded with the Confession. “Do you sincerely repent of all your sins?” he asked. “I repented on the first day of my incarceration when I realized what I had lost. I’m not sure I ever loved anyone but myself, but I sure do now. They imprisoned me because I was a member of Opus Dei, if you can believe that, Father. Can you gauge the extent of my hypocrisy? And now I would give anything – anything – to be back with my wife and sons, to live a Catholic life free from sin.” “It’s good that you are going to die a holy death,” said Prisoner 16670. “Others will not be so lucky. I declare you righteous, forgiven. You can join the Lord in peace.” Prisoner 19978 soon expired, and the other captives wondered what to do with his corpse. The German soldiers hadn’t appeared in days, and everyone knew the dead lawyer would simply be allowed to rot in their midst. “I can’t deal with this anymore,” exclaimed Prisoner 12200, the burly Pole, in desperation. “Why don’t the Germans have the decency of just shooting us in the head instead of letting us waste away?” “It is a heavy Cross we’re carrying,” said Prisoner 16670 in an impassive voice, as if he were somehow impervious to the horror all around him. “But offer your pain to Jesus as a way of carrying His Cross. This punishment won’t be eternal. We’ll all be in a better place in just a few days.” Prisoner 12200 broke down and moaned. The two-meter tall man bawled like a child. “What have I done to merit such a punishment?” wailed the burly Pole. “What sin have I committed to deserve this torture?” “Suffering isn’t always a punishment. Some say it can become the ladder to Heaven. Just start praying. Don’t give up. We shall all be soon delivered.” “Don’t you see I no longer believe in a beneficent God?” cried out Prisoner 12200. “It’s not just what’s happening to us. It’s what’s happening all over the place. Some would say the devil is rampant in Europe. Millions of Jewish men, women and children killed. Our Motherland Poland enslaved. Priests like you sent into concentration camps and gassed. Millions of people praying to no avail.” “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” responded Prisoner 16670. “It is true that the demonic Fuhrer has corrupted an entire nation. Herod, killer of innocents, has returned and is wielding great power. Millions of formerly God-fearing people have suddenly become participants in a magnificent crime. But good always prevails over evil. It always has. It always will. Trust in the will of God.” And Prisoner 16670 made a sign of the Cross on the forehead of his Polish compatriot before giving him a medal of the Immaculata. * * * Raymund Kolbe soon became a priest, as he had promised the Virgin of Czestochowa, taking on the name Maximilian. As part of his training he was sent to Rome, which filled him with joy and trepidation at once – joy because it was the seat of the Catholic faith, full of ancient splendor, trepidation because he had heard rumors that it was a city given to vice and sporadic acts of anti-religious fervor. Soon he witnessed something which made him shudder and think that the battles for the salvation of souls must be renewed. As he was walking toward Vatican City, he witnessed a huge parade of men, women and children. What he saw on their banners shook him to the core. He recognized that it was a group of anti-Catholics, marching under a banner showing the dragon crushing Saint Michael the Archangel. They were celebrating the victory of the enemy! “Immaculate Virgin,” Maximilian earnestly whispered, “pray for us who have recourse to thee and for all those who do not have recourse to thee, especially the enemies of the Church.” When he returned to Poland, he decided to form an army to combat against the Church’s foes, with the Immaculata as its general and the medal of the Immaculata as its mightiest weapon. He formed a group called the Knights of the Immaculata, which eventually formed the largest monastery in Europe, a place called Niepokalanow – City of Mary Immaculate – which housed more than seven-hundred friars. When he was asked how he could have achieved such a wonder, he always regaled his listeners with the same story about the miraculous medal of the Immaculate Virgin. “Once,” he told them, “there was a wealthy Swiss banker who was virulently anti-Catholic. He said he had built a fortune without ever praying and called Christianity the cradle of superstitions and fairy tales for the lowly, ignorant masses. When a Catholic friend told him he couldn’t be more wrong, the banker scoffed with scorn. ‘Only a fool would think that a man could be crucified and returned to life in three days,’ he said. ‘Only a fool could believe in the virgin birth of Jesus.’ His friend challenged him to wear the medal of the Immaculata for a week. If he wore it and didn’t change his mind, his friend promised to never mention the Holy Virgin nor the Crucified Christ to him ever again. So the banker – his name was Alphonse Ratisbonne – put the medal around his neck, expecting to disabuse his Catholic friend of his religious delusions. One day, however, as he was walking about the streets, he came upon the Church of Sant’Andrea delle Fratte and was suddenly moved to enter it. He instinctively knelt at the feet of a statue of the Immaculata, which was identical to the image impressed about the medal hanging from his neck. Suddenly he felt himself shaking. The Virgin herself was speaking to him. ‘Be not afraid,’ she said in a kindly voice. ‘I am your mother Mary, and I come to you from Heaven.’ The Swiss banker collapsed in tears, never to doubt again. And just as she performed a miracle for the banker, she has graced the Knights of the Immaculata with her gifts. The grand monastery of Niepokalanow couldn’t have been built without her aid.” Father Maximilian saw the creation of Niepokalanow – Mary’s city – as nothing less than miraculous. The first thing he had done was to form the Knights of the Immaculata with the purpose of renewing the Franciscan order. Despite much initial opposition from his superiors, he eventually obtained the blessing of Pope Benedict XV and set about his work. By then, Father Maximilian had already been introduced to the Cross: he had developed tuberculosis and lost a lung, but even that didn’t dissuade him from his grand purposes and outlandish plans. His first accomplishment was to establish a newspaper in honor of the Immaculata called “The Knight.” Even doing that would have been impossible without Mary’s help, for the Franciscans did not have the money for such an endeavor nor a printing press. But Father Maximilian saw no limits to his quixotic quest. If Saint Francis of Assisi had lived in the twentieth century, he pleaded with his superiors, he would have used all modern means of communication to spread the Gospel message, not only newspapers but also the radio, film and even television. Why not modernize the teaching of the Good News? When the first edition of “The Knight” was ready to be published, Father Maximilian needed five-hundred marks to pay the printer and did not have the money. In vain he knocked at the doors of wealthy Catholics and asked for help. In vain he went from door to door begging for alms, as the founder of his order once had done. His fellow priests thought the plan for the little newspaper would be aborted from the outset. But Father Maximilian did not despair. He grabbed a fellow priest by the arm and told him, “We are going to visit a friend who will provide us with the funds.” “Do you have a friend who’s a banker?” asked his fellow priest. “Better than that,” said Father Maximilian. “Come follow me.” When they arrived at the place where Father Maximilian expected to obtain the funds, his fellow priest was flabbergasted. It was not the home of a wealthy benefactor. It was not a bank. It was the chapel of Our Lady of Sorrows in the Basilica of Saint Francis. “Is this what you meant when you said you had a friend who would provide you with the money?” asked his fellow priest. “I assume you’ve already prayed, and your pleas have gone unanswered. I’m as faithful as the next fellow, but I think it’s rather late to ask for Mary’s intercession. It’s not the end of the world if your little newspaper fails.” “Come, pray with me,” Father Maximilian responded. “Mary is the most powerful of intercessors and will never leave a son unaided.” Father Maximilian then knelt before the statue of Our Lady of Sorrows and entered a trancelike state. He shut his eyes and prayed. After two hours of silent praying, Father Maximilian’s fellow priest stood up and walked out of the church to smoke a cigarette. He was convinced that Father Maximilian’s dreams of establishing a Catholic newspaper had failed. As far as Father Maximilian, his praying did not cease. He knew the parable of the insistent widow and firmly believed that if one persists in prayer, one always obtains what he requests when what one asks for is aligned with the wishes of the Immaculata. When Father Maximilian’s fellow priest returned to the church, he was surprised to see a large envelope at Father Maximilian’s feet. Father Maximilian himself had not noticed it, as he was still immersed in prayer. When his fellow priest tapped him on the shoulder, it was as if Father Maximilian had been roused from a deep sleep. “Have you seen the envelope in front of you?” asked his fellow priest. “An envelope? What envelope?” asked Father Maximilian. Then he saw it at his feet. He opened it slowly, deliberately, with his trembling hands. Inside the thick envelope there were five-hundred marks, the exact sum that he needed for the first edition of “The Knight” to be published. Father Maximilian’s fellow priest was astonished, for there was no way of establishing the envelope’s provenance. The only rational explanation, the only possible explanation, was that it had been a miracle. From then on, everything seemed to fall into place. Father Maximilian could not fail to see that one miracle followed another. He was never sure whether he would have the funds to pay for the latest edition of “The Knight” until the very last moment, but the Immaculata always provided. And at one point an American benefactor – a Catholic priest of Polish descent – gave Father Maximilian the money for him to buy a massive printing press. Following that, Father Maximilian was able to distribute his little newspaper widely, and donations from readers started to come in, first as a trickle and eventually as a torrent. “The Knight” eventually achieved a circulation of a million copies, and membership in the Knights of the Immaculata reached one-hundred-fifty-thousand! “We are going to build the biggest monastery in the world!” Father Maximilian told his superior Father Zeno. “You just see!” * * * By the sixth day in the Starvation Bunker, Prisoner 16670 was visibly fatigued but not defeated. His throat was dry, and there was no saliva in his mouth. His face was gaunt and yellowish, his body skin and bones. He wished he had a cane, for his legs were weak, and he felt his body was too heavy for his soul to carry. And yet he didn’t want to collapse on the floor like the other captives, for he knew his stamina gave them strength. He didn’t pray for a swift respite from his pain, the promise of a holy death. He prayed to be the last man standing, for without him the other prisoners would descend into the worst kind of despair. “Let all of them be taken before me,” he intoned in a whisper to his God. “They need someone to gently guide them to their deaths. Let me give them an example of how to suffer and believe.” By then, four other prisoners had perished. Prisoner 14688, a Jewish optometrist, had simply curled up on the floor and died. Prisoner 24678, a Polish butcher, had exhaled his last breath muttering nonsensical phrases, sounding like a madman. Prisoner 38675, a Dutch convert to Catholicism from Judaism, had first asked Prisoner 16670 to give him Extreme Unction and then had gently closed his eyes. Prisoner 77892 opened his eyes wide and muttered, “Maria, Maria” before he died. Prisoner 16670 did not know if he was invoking the name of Mother Mary or that of a wife from whom he had been separated. Their corpses were all on the floor, some of them already rotting and emitting a foul stench which drove the remaining men to vomit. “I wish I had a pill,” confessed the once burly Prisoner 12200, now a shadow of himself. “I envy the men who are already dead.” “Don’t even say that,” Prisoner 16670 gently reproved him. “You will die when the good Lord in His infinite mercy decides it’s time for you to go. Come, say a prayer with me. It will do you good.” “I’ve already told you I see no point in praying. If God exists, He is a mercenary God.” “Don’t blaspheme,” the seventeen-year-old Prisoner 13760 interjected. “God is good. God is merciful. God is faithful to the end.” “I had a girlfriend, the apple of my eye,” Prisoner 12200 said almost in a whisper as his eyes began to water. “She lives in Krakow now. Her name is Julia Kaluzniacki, her hair is golden and her eyes are blue. And she is pregnant with my child. I had every intention to marry her, but then I was arrested. I had a Jewish friend – his name was Jacob Bronstein – and I hid him in a shed behind my father’s house. When the Gestapo appeared, they beat my father to his death and pulled at my mother by the hair. I know not what her fate is. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t know who turned us in, what black-hearted traitor told the Germans about Jacob in the shed.” “Think about that child,” suggested Prisoner 13760. “How lovely to know your seed will sprout.” “I have two sons myself,” interrupted Prisoner 12445, a swarthy Jew with a thick beard, as if rousing from his sleep. “I thought they were safe in Holland, but now I know the Nazis are there as well.” “Are they grown? Or are they children?” asked Prisoner 16670. “Oh, they’re both in their twenties, a man and a woman now. I was about to join them when the Nazis caught me on a train. Maybe I should have told you about them. Maybe you would have taken my place instead of that of Prisoner 00960.” “My regret is that I had but one life to sacrifice,” lamented Prisoner 16670. “That the Nazis didn’t accept my immolation instead of killing the nine of you.” “No,” said Prisoner 12445. “The man you saved said he had small children. You did the right thing when you told the guards that you would take his place. I’m almost an old man now. No one will even miss me.” “What you did – what you did,” stammered the seventeen-year-old Prisoner 13760, “replenished my faith in humankind. Amid the barbarity of the Nazis, your courage is a testament to the human spirit.” “I hope the man escaped,” stated Prisoner 12200, “that at least he made it, that we did not lose our lives in vain, that you did not lose your life for nothing.” “I’m sure he managed to escape,” said Prisoner 16670. “Otherwise the guards would not have acted with so much wrath. But now it will be nearly impossible for any other prisoner to attempt to flee. There will be a strong temptation for the other prisoners to turn him over, knowing that for every prisoner that escapes, ten will take his place in the Starvation Bunker.” “What a macabre world!” exclaimed Prisoner 12200 with all the voice that remained in him. “It’s a macabre world, a nightmare somehow made a reality. It’s almost unbelievable that this is a world of men.” Prisoner 16670 admonished him in a fierce voice. “Don’t allow the enemy to convince you that you are alone. Don’t ever give into despair. Never, ever give up. The God of all creation is with you here at Auschwitz.” * * * When Father Maximilian broached the idea of founding Niepokalanow – the City of Mary Immaculate – most of his fellow Franciscans were sure that he was building castles in the air. After all, he was speaking not only of building a monastery for more than seven-hundred friars but an entire little city devoted to the glorification of the Immaculata. How could he ever obtain the money to buy the vast plot of land that was required? How would he pay laborers to build the massive structures he envisioned? And how could Father Maximilian, a man already afflicted with tuberculosis, have the stamina to direct the project? No, it was just impossible. It was one thing to ask Mary for five-hundred marks to publish an issue of “The Knight,” quite another to come up with the millions necessary to finance such an inordinate dream. But Father Maximilian had an idea. There was a huge unused plot of land close to Warsaw owned by a very wealthy man called Count Lubecki. The man was a Catholic – Father Maximilian had heard his Confession more than once – but he was afflicted with the stubborn sin of greed. He had inherited a fortune as a young man and had multiplied it through his wily business acumen. Every year he donated a new statue to the Basilica of Saint Francis in a desire to make up for his avarice, but the truth was that such gifts were an infinitesimal fraction of his net worth. One night Father Maximilian had a dream – he saw Count Lubecki dressed in rags and begging for alms – and the priest realized that he was seeing a vision of Count Lubecki’s soul. Although he was mightily rich in the eyes of his fellow citizens, he was poor in the eyes of God. By convincing Count Lubecki to donate the vast plot of land to the Franciscans, Father Maximilian would not only be fulfilling his dream of building a community dedicated to the Immaculata. He would be bringing Count Lubecki’s soul that much closer to Heaven. So one day Father Maximilian lifted a statue of the Immaculata in his arms and made his way to the castle of Count Lubecki on foot across the snow. Count Lubecki greeted him with joy and noticed Father Maximilian had placed the statue of Mary Immaculate on a small hill overlooking the unused plot of land. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” asked Count Lubecki. He was a man in his mid-fifties, ruddy and robust, dressed in a suit of silk. “I come to bless you,” said Father Maximilian as he took off his black hat, covered in snow. He knew that with his tuberculosis he shouldn’t travel during blizzards, but he seldom worried about his health. “One dies on the day chosen by the Lord and not the day before,” he said whenever anyone objected to the risks he was taking with his health. “Thank you for the blessing,” said the Count. “I can use it. I see you’ve placed a statue of Mary Immaculate on my premises. Why have you done that, pray tell?” “I’ve come to give you an opportunity to store riches in the Heavens. You know that huge plot of land to the south of your castle? I’ve come to respectfully request that you donate it to the Franciscans. I want to build a monastery, and we need the land for it.” The Count was disturbed. He had never imagined such an outlandish request. “I would gladly give you some money to help you,” said Count Lubecki, “or I can sell you the land at a discounted price so you can build your monastery. But the land is worth a huge sum of money, and I can’t just give it away.” “Why do you need the land?” Father Maximilian probed. “You are the owner of vast properties and don’t even use the plot we’re discussing. I don’t mean to be importunate, but I’m not making the request for myself. I am asking on behalf of the Immaculata.” “The Immaculata?” echoed Count Lubecki. “Yes, I need to build a monastery for the Immaculate Mary. We have thousands of new members of the Knights of the Immaculata and have nowhere to house them.” “Well, I’m sorry,” said Count Lubecki. “I try to keep all the Commandments and am punctiliously honest in business. I donate generously when I go to Mass. But you’re asking me for a property worth more than a million marks.” “All right,” said Father Maximilian. “Think nothing of it. If your conscience is satisfied, who am I to question your decision?” “A million marks!” Count Lubecki repeated. “You’re asking me for a property worth more than a million marks!” “Whatever you give,” uttered Father Maximilian, “the Lord shall restore sevenfold.” “I’m probably being a fool,” the Count replied, “but you shall have your plot of land. Let me speak to my lawyers. I’ll have them draw up the papers. You shall have your city of the Immaculata. Now give me your blessing. God knows how dearly I am paying for it!” * * * Prisoner 45900 was a long-haired and bearded bohemian used to making money by playing the guitar and singing songs at railway stations. He did not know why he had been arrested but suspected it was because, given his demeanor and style of dress, the Gestapo had taken him for a homosexual. Or perhaps they had realized he sang songs of Polish resistance and wouldn’t tolerate it. Once he arrived at the Starvation Bunker, he was in a better mood than most, and continued to sing, sitting in a corner against the wall and wishing he had his guitar. He was lanky and thin even before he began to starve and had a smile painted on his lips in the most inauspicious times. In him, Prisoner 16670 thought he had a kindred spirit, for Prisoner 45900 didn’t seem to be afraid of death. It was Prisoner 45900 who saw the miracle on the eighth day. While the other prisoners were huddled on the floor, Prisoner 45900 said, “Look! Do you see it?” “See what?” the other prisoners responded in unison. “The window. See the window. It’s snowing!” Prisoner 12200 stood up and ran to see for himself. Prisoner 45900 was right: snow was accumulating on the ledge of the window. Since the window was not protected by glass and only by three steel bars to prevent escape, some of the snow was even falling inside the Starvation Bunker. “A reprieve!” cried out Prisoner 12200 in a triumphant voice. “At least for now we won’t die of thirst.” Then he scooped up the snow on the window ledge and drank it avidly. He hadn’t felt such satisfaction in his entire life. The other prisoners soon followed suit, except for Prisoner 12445, who didn’t have the energy to lift himself up from the floor. Prisoner 16670 took a clump of snow from the floor of the Starvation Bunker and fed it to Prisoner 12445. “Thank you,” the glassy-eyed man said in the weakest voice. “Give me some more. Please, father, give me more.” Prisoner 16670 collected some more snow in his hands and took it to Prisoner 12445. Only after Prisoner 12445 had had his fill did Prisoner 16670 begin to eat a little snow himself. “The Lord has had pity on us,” he said in praise as he quenched his thirst. “The snow season has begun, and we are blessed by manna from Heaven. Thus say the Scriptures. ‘Every second, every minute, every hour our bodies will breathe in the manna of Heaven.’ Even in this accursed place, the Lord is near and has showered us with His mercy.” From that day forward, at least the prisoners did not have to worry about thirst, although the icy cold was in no way pleasant given that they weren’t dressed for winter. Blizzards followed, and the floor of the Starvation Bunker was drenched in snow coming through the window. Everyone but Prisoner 12200 joined Prisoner 16670 in thanking God for such a manifest miracle. But it was not enough to save Prisoner 12445. He relinquished his soul on the ninth day despite the snow Prisoner 16670 had taken to him on the previous afternoon. Before Prisoner 12445 died, he made a final request to Prisoner 16670. “If you survive and ever manage to go back to a normal world, please get in contact with my two children. They are named Jacob and Ruth Klausner. And their mother’s maiden name was Grossman. Last I heard they were in Holland, but who knows where they are now. I want you to tell them that I loved them to the end.” “I promise you,” said Prisoner 16670, not wishing to remind the dying man that it was extremely unlikely that any of the prisoners would survive the Starvation Bunker. “If I can, I shall find them and make sure to tell him their father’s thoughts were on them even on his last day.” “Why don’t we eat him?” said Prisoner 12200 in a frantic voice as soon as the man expired. “I’ve heard of men who’ve survived in the frigid mountains for weeks by eating the flesh of their friends. Who knows how long we can last if we drink the snow and eat the bodies of the dead?” “Why are you so afraid of death?” asked Prisoner 16670. “We’re not freezing in the mountains. We’re in the Starvation Bunker. Even if we survive the hunger and the thirst, the German guards will come and inject our arms with carbolic acid at the end. It happened to Wieceslaw, who survived in the Starvation Bunker for an entire month.” Prisoner 12200 hit his head repeatedly against the wall until his forehead bled profusely and covered his face in red. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” he said without cease. “There are so many reasons for living.” Prisoner 16670 put his arms around his shoulders and told him to sit on the floor. “Offer it to the Lord,” said Prisoner 16670. “Share in His Passion. Await His mercy. Marvel at His goodness.” “Goodness?” queried Prisoner 12200. “Every man must die at one point or another. But you shall not die alone. I promise I’ll be with you till the end. And we won’t die of thirst. Our lives shall simply ebb away.” “I wish you had taken my place instead of that of Prisoner 00960,” said Prisoner 12200 as he began to sob without control. “Why did he merit such a bounty? Don’t you know that I also have a reason to live, that a child is on the way?” * * * When Father Maximilian returned to the City of Mary Immaculate – Niepokalanow – after spending several years ministering to the citizens of Japan, he was astonished by what he saw. What had been a bunch of makeshift barracks now housed an enormous monastery and multiple other buildings. There was now a church, a seminary, a large publishing house, a library, a radio station, a sawmill, a carpentry, a dairy, a fire station, a hospital, a cemetery, a repair shop for farm machinery, a windmill and even a soccer field. The land adjacent to the monastery was used by the monks to grow a variety of vegetables. There was a farm to keep the cows, chickens, and pigs used to feed the seven-hundred monks of the City of Mary as well as the monastery’s many guests. And the huts of Polish peasants dotted the landscape of Nieopokalanow, all of them blessed by an image of the Immaculata. With the passage of time, various businesses managed by virtuous and hard-working men sprouted like flowers in the City of Mary. Against all odds, contradicting all the naysayers, Father Maximilian’s outlandish vision of a Marian village had become a reality. However, the City of Immaculate Mary was in Poland, and it could not escape the fate of Poland when the Nazis took over the country in September 1939. Father Maximilian, by then the superior at the monastery, allowed fifteen-hundred Jews to hide in Niepokalanow in anticipation of the arrival of the German war machine. Father Maximilian also expanded the infirmary knowing the Nazis’ bombs would soon begin to pound Warsaw, which was only sixty kilometers away, and that the number of casualties would be massive. And soon, even from his cell at the monastery, Father Maximilian could hear the explosions of bombs rained from the sky by German warplanes. As usual, his first instinct was to pray. He prayed for his beloved homeland, the land between two powerful and diabolical regimes, that of the German Hitler and that of the Russian Stalin, who had both gone mad at the same time. But he also prayed for the souls of the men who were bringing agony to Poland, the two totalitarian monsters included, for they knew not what they were doing. At one point, the monastery in Mary’s village was bombed as well, but miraculously no one was hurt, and the physical damage was minor. Father Maximilian attributed it to the intercession of the Immaculata. One afternoon on a sunless day, the Gestapo arrived, asking for all the Jews to be turned over. Father Maximilian violently protested, especially when he realized the Nazis were prepared to take the women and the children with them. The frail priest marveled at the efficiency of the Gestapo operation, ready with a large group of black buses to take the Jews to the train station and from there to take them to their deaths. Father Maximilian was sure that the trains would arrive at their destinations on time, for the Germans were known for their punctuality. Yes! Known for their punctuality and for Goethe, Beethoven and Bach! The most cultured nation on earth had become the most depraved, engaged in a collective frenzy against the hated Jew and the inferior Pole, against the Catholic priests and nuns who objected, against the disabled and the feeble-minded who were ripe for martyrdom and could be eliminated like so much useless flotsam. “At least let me give them some food,” pleaded Father Maximilian as he struggled not to cry. “How far are you taking these poor men and women, these little kids?” “I wouldn’t worry about that,” responded the German soldier. “After all, they’re just despicable Jews. Just be thankful we’re not taking you as well. The next time, you might not be so lucky.” After the Jews were taken, Father Maximilian convened all the monks in the monastery to tell them he had decided that they had to leave. “You are no longer safe in Niepokalanow,” he said. “I feel I must remain in my role as the superior. A shepherd must never abandon his flock. But all of you have lives to live, relatives to take care of, souls you have to save. So I have decided to disband the monastery. The German wolf will soon come upon us, and I refuse to allow you to be endangered. I have one final piece of advice, my friends. In these trying times, wherever you find yourselves, no matter what happens, do not forget to love.” In due course, what Father Maximilian predicted became a reality. A group of German soldiers arrived on motorcycles at the monastery, with a black bus trailing them. About fifteen monks had remained with Father Maximilian, and he told them to exit the monastery arm-in-arm to welcome the Nazis. Some of the monks began to weep in fear. There was no need for cowardice or despair at this moment, he told them. Their courage should be such that the Germans would be ashamed. The Immaculata was with them, he added with a voice that did not tremble. So even before the Nazis could proceed to enter the cloistered halls of Niepokalanow, Father Maximilian and his priests were ready for them. Father Maximilian made a final appeal for his fellow priests. “I know you have come for me,” he said to the Nazis. “But why don’t you spare my brothers?” One of the Nazis responded, “You are all guilty of trying to undermine the Fuhrer’s message. Don’t think that what you print in your little newspaper has gone unnoticed.” “The newspaper,” replied Father Maximilian, “never contains any political messages. Its only purpose is to spread devotion to the Immaculata. And we haven’t written a word about Hitler or even about the invasion of Poland.” “You have written that the Polish people must prepare to lift their heavy Cross and to prepare for better days ahead,” answered the Nazi. “Your religious prattle is sowing the seeds of insurrection. Do you take me for a fool?” “I am planting seeds of hope, not insurrection. With the constant bombing, the people are desperate. Their country has been partitioned between you and Stalin, and the children are starving. Faith in Mary Immaculate will get them through the difficult days ahead. At all events, I’m the guilty party. Let my men go and take me where you will.” Father Maximilian recalled the red crown of martyrdom which he had accepted from the Virgin of Czestochowa when he was a child. And he remembered the Christ words to Saint Peter: “When you grow older, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will gird you and carry you where you don’t want to go.” “You’re all going,” announced the Nazi. “We plan to use your monastery as a military base. You’ve had more than enough time to leave.” “Where are you taking us?” asked Father Maximilian. “To Auschwitz,” responded the Nazi. “To Auschwitz-Birkenau.” The fifteen monks got on the bus without resistance, since they all knew it would be futile to resist. They were all wearing their medals of the Immaculata and continuously prayed the Rosary. Some six hours into their journey, the bus stopped in front of a large structure encircled with barbed wire. That was where the monks were to spend the night. As soon as they entered the barracks, the Nazi who had led the invasion of the monastery addressed Father Maximilian directly. “Listen, swine,” he said. “Are you prepared to abjure the Christ and pledge your devotion to the cause of the Fuhrer? Say that you no longer believe.” “I believe in Christ and the Immaculata,” pronounced Father Maximilian without a hint of fear. The Nazi – his name was Gunther – struck the priest hard across the face. Father Maximilian’s nose began to bleed. “Let me ask the question once again,” said Gunther. “Do you renounce your faith in Jesus and swear allegiance to Adolf Hitler?” “I believe in Christ and the Immaculata,” the priest repeated. “I pay homage to no earthly ruler but to our King who is in Heaven.” Gunther punched the priest once again across the face. This time Father Maximilian fell to the ground. But he rose immediately. Without cowering he lifted up his face in the air, prepared to receive more blows. The Nazi repeated his question a third time. Once again Father Maximilian expressed his faith in Jesus. Gunther pummeled the priest with a limitless fury, and Father Maximilian fell to the ground again. The Nazi proceeded to kick his head relentlessly. But to the priest’s great surprise another Nazi came to his defense. “Come on, Gunther,” he said. “You’re going to kill the man. Just let him be. You’ve made your point.” Father Maximilian prayed to the Lord in thanksgiving, not because he had been spared for the moment, but because compassion despite everything still existed in the German heart. And he said a small prayer to the Immaculata. “I am ready to accept the crown of martyrdom,” he said, “which I promised as a child. But do not tarry, Mother Mary. Let the moment come sooner rather than later. Do not let me suffer much.” * * * On the fourteenth day, only three prisoners remained alive in the Starvation Bunker: Prisoner 16670, who did not stop praying; Prisoner 45900, who still sang; and Prisoner 12200, who had lapsed into despair. Three days earlier, the Nazi guards had moved the seven corpses from the bunker and had announced that the escapee had been found and had promptly been drowned in a latrine. Prisoner 12200 had immediately asked if that meant the three survivors would be released, and one of the Nazi guards had laughed in his face, telling him the plans for their starvation had not changed. And the other guard had added scornfully that if they made it past the fourteenth day, a doctor would be sent to finish them off with an injection. “One way or another, your days are numbered,” the Nazi promised. “That will show the other prisoners never to attempt to escape again.” So the fourteenth day was one of apprehensive expectation. All three men had spent the previous night wide awake, with Prisoners 16670 and 45900 praying without ceasing while Prisoner 12200 paced the small space of the Starvation Bunker without respite. Prisoner 16670, a mere skeleton by then, had prayed only a little for himself – asking the Black Madonna to give him the courage to meet his fate – but had mostly prayed for the soul of the desperate Prisoner 12200. All his life Prisoner 16670 had spent his days working for the salvation of souls and felt that his last day should be no exception. The Immaculata had placed him in the Starvation Bunker for a purpose – to save Prisoner 12200’s soul from perdition – and Prisoner 16670 would not shirk his duty. No matter how weak he felt, no matter how much blood he coughed, no matter how little time he had, he was determined to accomplish his purpose. Prisoner 12200 had to be saved from his fatalistic despair, the stubborn belief that he was no longer in the hands of God. Prisoner 16670 approached Prisoner 12200 some time after the break of dawn. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but now you must think of things of God,” said Prisoner 16670. “Admonishing the sinner is one of the greatest spiritual works of mercy. I can’t let you go to your death without trying to persuade you to return to Jesus and give a full Confession so that you can die a holy death.” “Confession? What do I have to confess? What have I done to confront this punishment? My only sin was to make love to Julia without being married to her, but that is only because the Nazis have closed all of the churches in Poland and the priests have been hunted down or exiled. It was impossible to marry her. Beyond that, I was a faithful Catholic, kept all the Commandments, went to Mass and firmly believed in God.” “That’s all the more reason to implore God’s succor at this moment. That’s all the more reason to tell me your sins so that they may be forgiven. You don’t want the devil to snatch away a prize you have sought after for so long.” “I don’t know. I feel like I’m suffering from the hatred of God. Why else would he permit that I go through such a monstrous trial and lose my life at the age of twenty-five in a German bunker, completely alone in my misery?” “You are not alone. I am at your side. We’ll both receive the injection from the doctor at the same time. More importantly, you are not alone because Jesus walks with you. It may be hard to believe, but the Lord is present even at Auschwitz – especially at Auschwitz. You must remain strong. Trust in God. Ask the Blessed Mother for protection. Lift up your heart to God even when you are afraid.” “I am so afraid,” Prisoner 12200 confided. “There are so many things I don’t want to lose.” “If you believe and pledge the remainder of your life to God, however short it may be, the Lord Jesus will await you in Heaven. You have to remember you’ve suffered – we’ve suffered – for fourteen days. That is a small drop in the vast ocean of eternity. That is why it so important you immediately become reconciled with Christ crucified now, in whose power you can do anything.” “You are fearless, aren’t you?” asked Prisoner 12200. “I was very afraid of a slow, grueling death by starvation,” responded Prisoner 16670, “but frankly a shot in the arm doesn’t frighten me at all.” “At least we won’t be tortured,” said Prisoner 12200 as if in an effort to persuade himself. “A quick shot in the arm, and we’re gone.” “You won’t be gone. You’ll be entering the hereafter, welcomed by the angels and escorted by the saints of Heaven.” “All right,” said Prisoner 12200, “listen to my Confession, and then give me the Viaticum. You’re right. What do two weeks of suffering matter in the vast sands of eternity? And if there is a Heaven –” “Don’t doubt it for a minute,” Prisoner 16670 interrupted him. “If there is a Heaven,” Prisoner 12200 continued, “we shall be able to rest peacefully in the arms of God.” “These two weeks won’t even be a bad memory,” Prisoner 16670 assented. Around three o’clock in the afternoon, two guards arrived at the Starvation Bunker accompanied by a slight, sixtyish physician who didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from what he was doing. He looked at the three men with a melancholy expression and recognized Prisoner 16670, for he had once tended to him in his clinic at the concentration camp. “Oh, you’re here,” the gray-haired doctor said in a soft voice. “I suppose it could happen to anyone. Come, let me see your arm.” “I want to go last,” stated Prisoner 16670. “Not because I am afraid, but because I want to be with my two friends at their last moment.” “That’s fine,” said the physician in a voice which was almost inaudible. Then Prisoner 16670 hugged the young Prisoner 45900. “May we meet again and hear your songs in Heaven,” said the priest. “I’m sure my ditties will sound a lot better when we get there,” joked Prisoner 45900. And then he extended out his arm and let the needle puncture him. He collapsed at the feet of Prisoner 16670. The doctor turned to Prisoner 12200. “It’s your turn now,” he said. “Courage, brother,” said Prisoner 16670 as he placed his hand on the shoulder of his friend. “Everything will be all right, won’t it?” Prisoner 12200 asked Prisoner 16670 in a tremulous voice. “Everything,” responded Prisoner 16670. “Everything will be fine. Just surrender to the will of God and the mercy of His Mother.” Prisoner 12200 pulled up the sleeve to expose his arm. “Have at it!” he cried out at the physician. “You can take my life but you won’t conquer my spirit. Long live the Immaculata!” Prisoner 16670 picked up the cadaver and placed it on a chair. “Are you ready?” Prisoner 16670 asked the doctor. “I wish it hadn’t come to this,” said the physician. “I enjoyed your presence at the clinic. I still keep the medal of the Immaculata which you gave me. I admired the way you tended to the other patients, giving them both spiritual consolation and physical comfort. I try to ease the prisoners’ pain at the hospital, but I am here at the pleasure of the Fuhrer, and sometimes I have disagreeable duties.” “Orders are orders,” said Prisoner 16670 in an effort to make the doctor’s task easier. And then the syringe filled his veins with poison, and he expired. The doctor muttered, “Surely I’ve killed a saint. This man was guilty of no crime.” And then he washed his hands as doctors are wont to do. He comforted himself by thinking the death of Prisoner 16670 was on the hands of the man who had ordered it, Lagerfuhrer Fritsch, the man who ran Auschwitz, and not his own. * * * When the train arrived at Auschwitz, the first thing Father Maximilian saw was the sign at the entrance of the concentration camp which read, “Work makes you free.” Perhaps, he hoped, it was just a labor camp, but he knew better in his heart. He had heard the rumors of massive executions, particularly of the despised Jewish “vermin,” and knew Auschwitz was not a work camp but a death camp. The Poles were not immediately killed, but entire trainloads of Jewish people – men, women and children – were often sent to the gas chambers as soon as they arrived. And the work given to the Poles, in addition to toiling in the fields, was to transport the dead bodies of the Jews from the places where they were gassed – euphemistically called “de-lousing facilities” – to huge trenches dug by the Poles or to enormous ovens where the corpses were incinerated. It was extremely physically fatiguing for Father Maximilian to carry the cadavers of the Jews to their graves, but it was spiritually fatiguing most of all. For the first time in his life he felt utterly incapable of combating evil. He prayed ceaselessly, but there was nothing he could do to help the luckless Jews. He wished that before they were gassed, he could have proclaimed the message of Jesus to them. After all, Father Maximilian saw himself first and foremost as a priest, and his first duty was to ensure the salvation of souls. He was pleased when he discovered that at least he could help a few Polish Catholics maintain their faith in God in the worst of circumstances. Of course, in doing so he was risking his own life. Francis Gajownicsek was one of the first to seek Father Maximilian’s help and spiritual consolation. He was a Polish Catholic who as a sergeant had fought unsuccessfully to stave off the German occupation of Warsaw. When he was caught by the Gestapo as he was trying to flee by crossing into Slovakia he was sent to a work camp at Tarnow and was subsequently transferred to Auschwitz. He first appeared to Father Maximilian in the middle of the night as the priest was sleeping on a metal bed in a sort of barracks where the Polish captives were imprisoned. “I’ve heard you are a priest,” said Gajownicsek in a whisper. “I want you to lead me in prayer.” “I am a priest,” responded Father Maximilian. “Do you want to pray the Rosary together?” “Yes, for the intentions of my two children and my wife. I don’t know how they’re getting on without me. Frankly I don’t know if they’re still alive, Father, since I heard the village where we lived was bombed by the German air force. My boy is seven, and my daughter five. My wife is only twenty-six. The only thing I can do at this point is pray for them.” “Entrust yourself to Saint Joseph. He is the patron saint of fathers. Don’t forget he saved his own son from being killed by Herod.” The two men prayed the Rosary together in a hushed tone. Father Maximilian well knew that if he was caught leading a man in prayer, the German guards would severely punish him, perhaps even resort to killing him. But Father Maximilian did not care. He was not one to cower in the face of evil. Thereafter, it became vox populi that the thin, frail Maximilian was a priest, and many Poles sought his aid and prayers. Father Maximilian took greater and greater risks. Sometimes he would even say the Mass at night, surrounded by two dozen prisoners. He knew that he was gambling with his life, but he prayed for protection from the Immaculata. The main reason he didn’t want to be caught was not his fear of death, but the feeling his presence and guidance was needed among his tortured flock. But caught he was. One night, as he was saying the Mass, three Nazi guards appeared and began to beat him with their billy clubs in front of all the supplicants. There was a primal hatred in the guards who did not stop the beating until the priest was left unconscious and bleeding on the ground. It was then that Francis Gajownicsek, realizing the priest was still alive, carried him to the infirmary where Doctor Botz tended to his wounds. The old man was fatigued by seeing death and torture daily and sometimes thought of leaving Auschwitz. But then he reasoned that at least with him the prisoners had a clinic, a last bastion of hope amidst the horror. After Father Maximilian was released from the infirmary, he continued to minister to his sheep, caring not a whit about his fate. One night, a gaunt and emaciated man woke him and demanded that the priest hear his Confession. The man’s name was Zygmunt Pilawski, and he told the priest that he intended to escape the following day as he was working in the fields. He told the priest that sometimes he spent hours working with no supervision from the Nazi guards, and that he planned to hide in the nearby forest until the coast was clear and then make his way to Krakow where one of his brothers lived. Since the penalty for attempted escape was death, Zygmunt felt it was necessary to confess his sins before he began his journey. “You realize,” asked Father Maximilian, “that if you escape, ten men shall be killed as a warning for no one else to do so?” “I realize that, Father, but I cannot stand living one more day at Auschwitz. We are not treated like men but like animals.” “Well, I won’t attempt to dissuade you. It is no sin to try to save your own life. Come on, son, let me hear your Confession.” Two days later, Lagerfuhrer Fritsch assembled a hundred prisoners in a courtyard. He announced that Prisoner 00960 had been found missing and asked the prisoners if any of them had any idea where he might be. Father Maximilian said nothing about Pilawski’s plan to make his way to Krakow. Then Fritsch announced that ten men would be chosen from the hundred-man group and sent to die of hunger at the Starvation Bunker. He seemed to derive a macabre pleasure when walking by the prisoners and deciding whom to choose for starvation. Most of the men averted his eyes from his as he passed by, praying not to be chosen. Only Father Maximilian looked at him fixedly in the eyes, without fear, but Fritsch did not choose him. On the contrary, he was discomfited by the priest’s silent act of defiance. After nine men had been chosen, Lagerfuhrer Fritsch chose the tenth. It was Francis Gajownicsek, who nearly fainted when Fritsch pointed at him with his index finger. Then he began to sob. “I have a wife. I have two minor children. I’ve done nothing to warrant my death. Please have mercy on me. In the name of the Immaculata, please have mercy on me! Who will take care of my family?” “So you want me to take another man in your place?” asked Fritsch sardonically. “That’s not what I’m saying,” responded Gajownicsek. “I’m just begging you to spare my life. I had nothing to do with the man’s escape. I work daily in the fields without complaint. What have I done to merit such a punishment? I appeal to your sense of justice.” “I should kill the whole lot of you,” exclaimed Fritsch. “You should be a man and not humiliate yourself further.” Then Gajownicsek dropped to his knees and pleaded to be spared as he sobbed uncontrollably. “I am not a saint,” laughed Fritsch, “that you should direct your prayers to me on your knees. All you Poles are fanatical Catholics. Pray to your Lady of Czestochowa, and see if she will save you.” Suddenly Father Maximilian approached the weeping man and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Courage, brother,” he said. “The Black Madonna has heard your plea.” Then Father Maximilian turned to Fritsch and told him in an even voice, “I want to take this man’s place.” Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023) The Knight and Lady Poverty (Fiction, January 2024) The Crosses of Father Rutilio Grande (Fiction, April 2024) By Sandro F. Piedrahita A story about Father Rutilio Grande, the first priest to be murdered during the political and military turmoil that enveloped El Salvador from 1977 to 1992 “[M]y nervous system is always weak. It is my Cross… In the novitiate I asked for a strong and heavy Cross, and I never imagined that this would be my Cross.” Father Rutilio Grande, S.J. “It is necessary that our congregation (the Jesuits) be truly conscious that the justice of the Gospel should be preached through the Cross and on the Cross. If we intend seriously to work for justice, the Cross will immediately appear…” Father Pedro Arrupe, S.J. I know that my cousin Horacio thinks that I am falling into my nervous condition again, that I am relapsing somehow, when I tell him my life is in danger, that powerful figures in San Salvador would like to see me killed. But it is no divagation. I know my sermons are considered subversive by the oligarchy, know also that they have paramilitary death squads at their command. Haven’t they “disappeared” hundreds of students, union organizers, and rebellious peasants in the last six months? Wasn’t there a massacre in the capital just three weeks ago, where hundreds were killed because they protested against manifest electoral fraud? What difference could it make that I am a priest? It is the priests they fear. Haven’t the staunch defenders of the status quo scrawled their messages on walls all over the country? Be a patriot. Kill a priest. I ask Horacio if I should begin to travel with a bodyguard, and he laughs. “Now you’re really rambling,” he says. “It’s all a product of your imagination. Nobody wants to assassinate a simple rural priest. Remember you suffer from unruly anxieties, that sometimes irrational fears control your mind.” “No,” I respond to my cousin. “It’s virtually impossible to be authentically Catholic in this martyred nation. I should be traveling with a bodyguard.” “As far as I know, no priests have been killed in this country. Not one, Tilo. It’s just your anxiety speaking. You’ve always taught me to combat worry with trust in God’s love and mercy.” “You’re forgetting how they tortured Juan Jose Ramirez three weeks ago because he was a former Jesuit involved in the cause of the campesinos. And I myself was handcuffed – don’t forget that – merely because I had the temerity to continue to preach in Aguilares after the military took over. No, these aren’t the ramblings of a schizophrenic. The Cains have declared war on the Abels in El Salvador. And the saddest thing is, those Cains vigorously claim to be Catholics.” “Well, if you think like that, maybe it’s best just to lie low for a while,” says my cousin. “Don’t keep calling the coffee barons ‘Cains’ in your sermons. Focus more on what the Gospel says. Talk about how Jesus healed the lepers and things like that. Avoid political subjects.” “Don’t you see that’s what I’ve been doing – focusing on the message of Jesus? Social injustice is an affront to the gospel. And that’s why I’m in mortal danger. But I refuse to be silenced.” “Well, your homily in Apopa last week was pretty strident. Again, I think it’s a question of your nerves. You’re calling a whole class of people monsters, and I think you might be exaggerating. All they did was expel a Colombian priest, and you made it sound like they were Judas in the flesh. Father Mario wasn’t tortured or killed. And yet I remember your words: ‘Woe to you hypocrites who pay lip service to Catholicism but inside are disgustingly evil.’ If you weren’t allowing your nervous condition to take over, you wouldn’t have said the deportation of a single priest is somehow a sign that those in power detest Catholicism and are irrevocably doomed to hell.” “It wasn’t just about the deportation of Father Mario. Next they’ll start to kill our priests and nuns. Mark my words, Horacio. Don’t forget the murder of Father Betancourt and Father Cypher in Honduras, the killing of Father Gallego in Panama, the assassination of a Jesuit priest in Brazil. Why do you think it will be different in our country?” “No priest has ever been murdered in El Salvador. It may have happened in other nations, Tilo, but never here. Your examples about what may have happened in Brazil, for example, are completely beside the point.” “The Cains are trying to say all the Jesuit priests in El Salvador are hardcore Marxists, an excuse they’ll use to justify their violence. They even have some bishops on their side. Bishop Barrera accuses us of fomenting class hatred and undermining Christianity. When all we’re demanding is a fair wage for an honest day’s labor. And agrarian reform is not a form of Communism.” “I understand that, Tilo, but you have to realize the rich people think taking away their property is a form of theft. You can’t preach to them from the pulpit that their haciendas should be turned over to the campesinos and not expect a reaction. We’re in El Salvador, after all. The Church has always sided with the landholders.” “The peasants should be able to own the land where they toil and sweat. Everything shouldn’t be owned by a few wealthy families. I told those Cains they’re not fulfilling their Christian duties merely because they donate a statue of the Virgin Mary to a church during the Christmas season. I told them they are guilty of institutional sin. And for saying that, I might be shot.” “I don’t think so, Tilo. We’re not in the 1930s, the time of la matanza when thousands of peasants were butchered. Take a vacation to calm your nerves. When you come back, everything will be back to normal.” “That’s exactly what I don’t want, Horacio – for everything to get back to normal. Normal isn’t good enough. We must seek God’s Kingdom right here in Central America, right here in El Salvador. We must incarnate the Kingdom in our national reality. And don’t worry about my nerves. I’m not afraid of the inexistent boogeyman. It’s the armed agents of the oligarchy I fear – and they very much exist.” * * * At the time, I thought it was an undeserved Cross, a terrible punishment, but now I realize every Cross has a salvific purpose. My mental illness was a good reason for me to develop humility and acceptance of the will of God. And yet when my schizophrenia first appeared, I said with Jesus: “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me. Yet not as I will, but as You will.” The truth is I would have preferred any other Cross – cancer, blindness, the amputation of one of my limbs – and not a malady that assaulted my very mind, my capacity to reason. Like Saint Paul, I prayed that the Lord would rid me completely of the Cross He had given me, but as with the saint, God refused to withdraw my Cross but gave me the strength and fortitude to manage it. The Lord made manifest that His power is perfected in weakness and that His grace is sufficient to me. So I thank Him, after so many years of challenge, for despite my persistent anxieties I have been able to carry on as a pastor to my beleaguered people. Perhaps without my Cross I would have become proud, after studying philosophy and theology all over Europe and Latin America. Perhaps I would have become distanced from the destitute peasants with whom I grew up in El Paisnal. But my mental illness did not allow me to do so, for I learned what it means to be humble, and that made me a better priest, a better man, a better pastor. Even if some people like my cousin Horacio still think I’m a little off, a little loony. My first bout of schizophrenia happened when I was studying theology in Panama. All I recall from that first episode is that I felt dazed and somehow removed from reality until I woke up in a psychiatric ward and came back to my senses. Apparently I had suffered from an attack of catatonia. The vice-provincial of Panama had found me in my room with a blank expression on my face, unable to respond to any stimuli, even as he slapped me in an attempt to rouse me from my strange condition. Then I had begun to speak incoherently, muttering nonsensical phrases, even as the tone of my voice became louder and louder. The truth is I remember nothing from that day of stupor, only what has been reported to me. All I remember is a middle-aged nun sitting at my side in the room at the mental ward – her face was pale and round like the holy host – and the harsh white light from a lamp next to my bed. I asked her where I was, and she responded in an even voice: “You’re in the hospital, Father Rutilio. This morning you had a nervous breakdown.” The three months I spent in the psychiatric ward were painful, not only because I suffered from strange delusions, but also because of the condition of some of the other patients. I had the sense that someone would try to hurt me, that they would assault me in the middle of the night, and I was terrified when I heard the howls of some of the other patients, which I can only describe as fantasmal: ghoulish, ghostly, frightening. I tried to bury my face in my pillow in order not to hear them, but it was useless. Their moaning filled the halls of the hospital with an insistent echo which made me think I was living through a nightmare, all the while my mind being burdened by the most bizarre anxieties. When Father Gregorio came by to check up on me, all I remember is that I pleaded with him to let me leave the psychiatric ward and go back to the Jesuit quarters at San Fermin. But he would say, “Not yet, not yet, we need a little time,” and I hated him for it, hated his rotund figure, hated his squinty eyes, hated everything about him. Oh why, oh why wouldn’t he let me leave the hospital? At the same time, I was terrified that my Jesuit superiors would decide that I was not in the proper condition to become a priest. My vocation had started early in life, when I accompanied my grandmother as she took care of the village church at El Paisnal. I remember playing with my schoolmates when I was a mere nine-year-old, pretending that I was a priest and even replicating the ritual of the Eucharist, sitting behind a wide table with a white sheet on top and handing my friends pieces of bread which symbolized the holy host. When Archbishop Chavez y Gonzalez visited my town a few years later, when I was around thirteen, he instantly recognized that I had a desire to join the priesthood and invited me to live in the seminary even at that young age. I accepted his offer in an instant. I wanted to live for the Lord and in the Lord, and my mind was filled with thoughts of Jesus and of sharing the glorious gospel with my fellow peasants at El Paisnal. In the psychiatric ward, I feared that all of that would be lost irrevocably. How could a confused man with a psychiatric condition – a madman no less – preach to the masses hungry for spiritual direction? I was sure that the Jesuits would not tolerate it, that I would promptly be ousted from the Society of Jesus. When Doctor Alcantara came to examine me, I lied to him entirely. Did he think I was a fool? If I told him what I really thought, he’d keep me in the psychiatric hospital for another six months. So I didn’t tell him, for example, that I thought spies were keeping tabs on me ever since I delivered a speech saying all of the Central American countries should unite to oust their North American oppressor. I still believe it happened – that spies kept me in their crosshairs for years – but I have learned mostly to keep my anxieties to myself. And sure enough, Doctor Alcantara agreed that I should be released from the hospital and transferred to a Jesuit seminary where I could rest and hopefully get cured. The next step, I knew, was to convince my Jesuit superiors that I was healed so that they would allow me to be consecrated as a priest. And I was willing to do anything and everything to accomplish that. * * * This morning I receive an unsigned letter which confirms my fears. Even though I try to hide my anguish from all around me, there is no doubt in my mind that my life is in danger. What other meaning could I give to the thinly veiled message in the letter? Is it my nervous condition that leads me to see it as a threat? “Dear Father Tilo,” the letter begins. “The Church has had its changes. Now it is the market of vilifications, insults and rumors that never fail. Rumors that the distinguished families of El Salvador are predators who suck the blood out of our noble peasants. It seems the situation is driving you crazy, Tilo, Tilo! You know what I mean. Religion has declined! You’re not cultured. It’s unfortunate that you’re using the studies the government financed for you to offend your friends and the people who relieved your hunger in grueling situations. Are you insane again, Tilo, Tilo? Everyone knows of your condition. Do you want it to get worse? We sign here: the womanizers, the drunks, the thieves, the bachelors!” I immediately go to the house of my cousin Horacio with the letter in my hands and knock desperately on the door. He is the only person with whom I discuss my anxieties. “What’s wrong?” he asks as soon as he sees my face. “What has you so perturbed?” I say nothing and hand him the letter, which he quickly reads. “So what?” he asks. “Some asshole sent you a nasty letter. I don’t think it should make you feel afraid. They just want you to stop delivering sermons like the one you delivered at Apopa ten days ago, exciting the anger of the peasants. You ruffled a lot of feathers, you know. What else did you expect in this screwed-up country?” “Last night I dreamed that they hanged the carcass of a dog from one of the lampposts next to the rectory.” “So now you’re telling me it’s your dreams that are hyping up your fears? Come on, Tilo, I thought we were well beyond that.” “I didn’t tell you this before because at first I made nothing of it. But a couple of days ago I discovered that someone had traced a cross with a razor blade on the plastic window of my car. And now I’m thinking maybe it was a warning of some sort.” “Listen, Tilo. Perhaps you should leave the country for a while. I’ve said this to you before. Right now in El Salvador it’s a messy time. What with the contested elections and the new archbishop and all this fuss about the foreign priests, it’s getting a little crazy. For a person with your nervous condition to be in the thick of it is simply not a good idea.” “Don’t forget I’m a pastor. Should a shepherd abandon his sheep?” “It’s just that it seems that it’s getting on your nerves. Some folks are pissed off at you right now because of your sermon at Apopa. In a couple of weeks, they’ll forget all about it. So maybe go to Costa Rica for a month. Or take those classes at the Jesuit university in the United States you’ve discussed for years.” “You don’t seem to understand. They’re not pissed off, as you say, because of a single sermon I delivered. They’re angry because of all my pastoral work in Aguilares. The peasants were resigned to their condition, they accepted it as the will of God, and then I, along with a bunch of other priests, told them they had a right to a better life on earth. We told them that misery is never the will of God, and that they should demand improvements. We told them they had no obligation to accept oppression. And the campesinos have responded to our call. That’s what has the oligarchy so riled up. I think they fear a revolution.” “I don’t know what to say,” Horacio answers. “If you think it is so bad…” “Look at what happened to Barahona last week. They’re not just expelling American and Spanish Jesuits any more. They tortured Father Barahona, a man born in El Salvador just like me. And it’s going to get worse. Already you hear the clamor in the government-affiliated media about punishing subversive and Marxist priests. How do you think they intend to punish us? Do you think they’ll limit themselves to sending nasty letters? Their message is clear. Either leave El Salvador or face the consequences. And the consequences couldn’t be more dire.” “All the more reason for you to leave the country for a while,” says Horacio. “Have you heard about Saint Peter’s crucifixion?” I ask. “How he was about to leave Rome to avoid Nero’s wrath?” “I know nothing about it.” “Saint Peter had learned that Nero blamed the Christians for the burning of Rome and that he intended to kill all of them at the Circus Maximus. Saint Peter began to make his escape, but then he encountered the Christ at the Appian Gate. The Lord asked Peter why he was abandoning his flock, and Peter immediately returned to Rome, where he was crucified upside down, along with hundreds of other Christians. I can’t leave my beloved campesinos alone to their fate at this crucial time. Things are going to get a lot worse for them too. If I have to be martyred with and for my people, perhaps I should accept it as the will of God.” “Beware of delusions of grandeur,” says Horacio. “I know you’ve thought for years that spies are tracking you. You’re giving yourself too much self-importance. You’re not Saint Peter. You’re an ordinary priest. Christ isn’t forcing you to sacrifice your life for the peasants of El Salvador.” “Depart from me, evil one,” I tell him. “You’re not telling me things of God but things of man. Of course every man, not just priests, must emulate the saints.” * * * After I was discharged from the mental hospital in Panama, I tried as best I could to conceal my nervous condition from others. I learned to hide my Cross. Fortunately, on the few occasions when I suffered from catatonia again, the episodes did not last very long, and no one was able to witness them. When I felt I was about to lapse into such a state, I immediately sought refuge in my room and avoided the company of others. However, in the light of the years I realize that I suffered from – still suffer from – some sort of bipolar disorder, although it has never been diagnosed by a psychiatrist. I often feel alternating periods of elation and depression, and this I have been unable to conceal from my fellow priests. But my Jesuit superiors have been kind to me and mostly ignored the fact that from one day to another my mood could completely change. They attributed my days of depression to my excessive scrupulosity – my great and abiding fear of lapsing into sin – and they assigned lighter duties to me because they reasoned that the state of my nerves was often worsened due to mental exhaustion. They also realized that my condition was greatly improved when I was among the peasant people as opposed to performing merely academic duties. So at the right time they approved my proposal for a special pastoral ministry among the destitute peasants of Aguilares. Only Father Zalba was aware of my constant torment, my abiding pain. This was mostly because I doubted that my ordination as a priest was valid. I felt that when I had received minor orders – a necessary step before full ordination -- my desire to become a priest had not been honest or complete. As a result, I worried that my priestly ordination was annulled from the outset, that I was not really a priest. Doubting about the priesthood is the cruelest torture possible for one who loves his vocation and the priesthood. I feared that I had actually committed a sin when I accepted ordination given the insufficiency of my minor orders. I wrote Father Zalba in Spain because he was the man that had performed my ordination in Oña and he knew about the doubts which had bedeviled me from the day I was ordained a priest. I told him that I was horrified by the idea that the major orders I received were invalid or at least doubtful. The good Spanish priest was very confused by the concerns stated in my first letter and initially chalked them up to my nervous condition. He wrote to me saying I was legitimately a priest and should not worry about the matter any further, stating that I had certainly not sinned when I accepted ordination. “Just dedicate yourself to the pastoral work you so love,” he wrote at the end of his letter. “You’re not only a valid priest, Rutilio, you’re an excellent messenger of the gospel for the poor of your native nation. I know of the wonderful work you’ve been doing among the peasants.” But my doubts were not so easily abated. To this day, I harbor the suspicion that perhaps I am not legitimately a priest. I fear that I live in a state of perpetual sin, that I am not habilitated to deliver the Eucharist or hear confessions. My second letter to Father Zalba was more explicit, a fifteen-page missive explaining exactly why I felt my ordination was invalid. Initially, I had written an eight-page letter, but I felt I was omitting several important points. So I rewrote the letter, underlining the additions in red ink so Father Zalba would know what I had added and understood the additions were important. In that letter, I reiterated concerns which the Spanish priest already knew. I finished the letter with a desperate request that he respond unless he “wanted to kill me or drive me mad.” At the time I was made a priest, I wanted to add a phrase stated during my ordination to express my fears that my priesthood might be invalid given the potential inadequacy of my minor orders. In particular, I desired to state during the ordination that “I wanted to receive major orders even under the supposition that by receiving them I would be committing a grave, material and formal sin.” Father Zalba, at the time, had told me I was overly scrupulous, but suggested I merely add that by receiving major orders “I might be receiving them illicitly.” Father Zalba had thought the matter was resolved, but I continued to feel I should have added the reference to committing a “formal sin” by receiving major orders. That thought continued to rack my mind years after my ordination, and I just wanted to make sure Father Zalba understood my position perfectly. On the one hand, I understood that my doubts and worries might be scruples that I had to drive away. On the other, they seemed to be not scruples but the proddings of my conscience. I’m sure that I was exasperating Father Zalba. Two days after I sent him the letter, I sent him another duplicate of it, since I was afraid someone would open the previous letter and mix up the pages so that the priest could not follow them as he should. In retrospect, I understand that my actions were a reflection of my terrible confusion and must have been maddening to the Spanish priest. To me, it was an existential issue: was I a priest or was I not? I hoped Father Zalba could resolve the issue in my mind, but he could not. He merely reiterated that it was all a product of excessive scrupulosity and left it at that, probably knowing that any further explanation would be useless anyway. As a result, I would be left with a strange and hidden fear which pained me for the rest of my life. * * * I always say Central America is a good place for schizophrenics to hide, for even the most sane among us must constantly question whether they might be giving in to delusions of persecution. This afternoon, the Catholic comunidad de base of El Paisnal got together at the home of Doña Juana – a small group of about forty members – and I know that I wasn’t the only one in the group who feared there might be informants among us. I know my cousin Horacio would laugh if I told him this, since he is of a skeptical nature. I know he would probably accuse me of letting myself succumb to my nervous condition. But I know for a fact that many comunidades de base have been infiltrated by peasants who are paid handsomely by the military to identify the “subversives” among us, especially the intrusive priests and nuns so despised by the oligarchy. And of course once the “subversives” are identified, they can be easily eliminated. This is not a product of my imagination. It isn’t a secret that our military forces have a “thousand eyes and ears,” that you never know who might be a spy reporting to the death squads. No priests and nuns have been assassinated – yet – but I know it is only a matter of time, since the comunidades de base established by the clergy have already been loudly and publicly denounced as enemies of the ruling classes and of the Catholic Church itself. This afternoon I initiate the discussion by asking the group to read the parable of the insistent widow. According to Luke, “in a certain town there was a judge who neither feared God nor cared what people thought. And there was a widow in that town who kept coming to him with the plea, ‘Grant me justice against my adversary.’ The judge kept denying justice to the widow, and yet she continued with her pleas. So the judge finally said that because the widow kept bothering him, he would see to it that she got justice so that she wouldn’t come back and attack him. I ask the group to discuss the meaning of the parable from a religious and political point of view. I always want the peasants to apply the message of the gospel to their own lives. I see the parable of the insistent widow as an allegory of what is happening to the peasants in modern-day El Salvador. But the ultimate meaning of the parable as it applies to the conditions of our country isn’t necessarily clear. Doña Juana is the first one to opine. She is known as a rezadora – a pious person – and was elected by the comunidad de base to lead the group in prayer and reflection. I try to let the members of the ecclesial community participate as much as possible, and once I start a discussion, I make an effort to let them speak instead of controlling the discussion. “I see the story as having two different meanings,” Doña Juana says. “First, it tells us that we must never cease in our prayers to God. We must keep asking until He grants our prayers no matter how long it takes. But I also see it as having something to do with the situation we face today in El Salvador. We must keep clamoring for justice until the authorities in San Salvador listen to our requests. I see the government as the judge who did not fear God. And we – the peasants – are like the insistent widow who never tires in her pleas. Ultimately, if we do not tire, if we do not become fatigued, the government in San Salvador will have to respond to our demands.” Then Alvaro Gomez speaks. He’s a twenty-year-old son of peasants who somehow was able to enroll at a university. “I think there’s another important point to be made,” he says in a calm but authoritative voice. “The judge only listened to the insistent widow because he was afraid she would come back and attack him. If the judge hadn’t feared her, he never would have delivered justice. I think that applies our country today. Nothing will be accomplished unless we instill fear in the ruling classes, in those Father Tilo calls the ‘Cains.’” “That invites a question,” I intervene. “Do we instill fear in the oligarchy through threats and acts of physical violence, or do we do so through Christian means?” “I think it’s clear-cut,” says Doña Juana. “Christ said to turn the other cheek.” “Nothing will be achieved without violence,” Alvaro objects. “I think that’s clear by now. And it’s just an answer to state-sponsored violence anyway. We aren’t the instigators. No, we’re the ones who have suffered. And it’s our Christian duty to provide a vigorous response. We must not forget that in the end, Cain killed Abel. If we are Abel and the powerful are Cain, then we must kill Cain before Cain murders us first.” “Can’t we achieve our purpose through nonviolent means?” don Manuel Solorzano asks. He’s a seventy-year-old man with calloused hands. “After all, the insistent widow never resorted to violence. And I don’t think the Good Lord intended us to read His parable as an invitation to armed struggle.” “We must just keep making our demands,” says a young woman by the name of Betty. “We must insist, insist, just like the widow, but we must do so through lawful and peaceful means.” “What if nonviolent means accomplish nothing?” I probe her mind. I want the members of the comunidad de base to think through the issue, although I myself don’t think peasant violence is necessary or permissible. “Well, in that case I’m not sure,” says Betty. “Surely Jesus’ parable can’t be read as an instruction to kill our enemies. Didn’t he say blessed are the peacemakers because they shall be called the sons of God?” “That’s right,” I say. “Jesus taught us to seek justice through nonviolent means.” “That contradicts everything you’ve taught us about the need to become aware of our status as oppressed people,” Alvaro says. “You have told us again and again that the poor must abandon their fatalism and demand humane conditions. Don’t you see the only logical conclusion to be drawn from your words is that we need a revolution? Why do you think the oligarchy is so afraid of you Jesuit priests? Your efforts to develop a social consciousness among the peasants have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. The persistent widow has finally had enough!” Then a man appears, as if out of the shadows, a stout, red-bearded man I have never seen before. “You’re teaching these people Communism and rebellion,” he says to me. “If I were you, I’d watch my back, Rutilio.” “Who are you?” I ask. “A warning,” he responds. He picks up his straw hat and disappears. * * * I have learned to manage my malady, and the ruthlessness of those in power is no illusion. I know my sermon about the kidnapping and subsequent deportation of Colombian priest Mario Bernal has been received with fear and hatred by those who rule El Salvador. As far as my nervous condition, my people have healed me, for as Saint Francis of Assisi said, “It is in giving that we receive.” I remember a suicidal man who learned to love life when he was forced to care for a sick brother with a horrible skin disease. During all his months attending to his brother, cleaning the bloody pustules on his face and arms, the suicidal man forgot all about himself, and in the process, his suicidal ideation disappeared completely. And so it is with me. By giving my love to the campesinos, by living among them during my last five years in Aguilares, I have learned to conquer my mental illness. My Jesuit superiors realized that when I was doing pastoral work with the peasants, all the symptoms of my stubborn schizoid condition seemed to go away. I was never nervous when I was teaching my indigenous brothers and sisters to write and read, to learn their catechism, to realize that God did not willingly consent to their destitution. I may still suffer from scrupulosity and occasional panic attacks, but the worst is over. My fear of the death squads is not a result of my schizophrenia, but a reaction to an undeniable reality. Here it is perilous to preach the message of the gospel honestly. It is an uncomfortable message, no doubt, especially to those modern-day Cains who might pray novenas once a month and occasionally donate their crumbs to charities but grievously sin against God through their abuse of power and their exploitation of the campesinos. Hadn’t Christ said that whatever is done to the “least of these” is also done to Him? I wanted El Salvador’s rich to learn and live that lesson. I wanted to teach them that salvation could be reached by helping the downtrodden. And I did it with full knowledge that my life was at risk for preaching such a “demented” and “radical” lesson – for teaching such a Christlike lesson! A week after the deportation of Father Mario, I delivered a sermon in the church of Apopa where he had served as a parish priest. I called it a “demonstration of trust in God,” and so it was. The Mass was attended by multitudinous masses, Father Mario’s angry rural flock, people from every hamlet in the vicariate of Quezaltepeque, all seeking the return of the pastor they so loved and demanding justice from the government and from the church. In my homily, I did not focus exclusively on the disappearance of Father Mario. I emphasized it was his message that had been silenced. I warned the crowds that the Cains would continue to try to silence that message no matter who tried to spread it, be they priests, peasants or students. The Cains – those in power – would fight to the death to crush the idea that the land was God’s gift to all humanity, that as children of God all of us are equal with one another, that the poor peasants of El Salvador should no longer be treated as slaves. Even the birds fared better, I told the throngs, for the birds could fly all day in liberty and make their nests in the branches of trees without having to toil all morning and afternoon in the sweltering sun. After the conclusion of the Mass, the Salvadoran press, an instrument of the oligarchy like so many other institutions in the country, twisted my words to suggest that I was a Communist and snidely suggested that I was desvariando – that I was demented – perhaps alluding to rumors of my madness which, unfortunately, many Salvadorans had already heard. While I called for “moral violence,” clearly distinguishing it from physical violence, the newspapers announced that my homily called for revolution through violent means. While I denounced class hatred, they suggested I was an adherent of Karl Marx’s call for a fratricidal war between the classes. While I said that if Jesus appeared in contemporary El Salvador, He would be flogged, beaten and crucified again because of His demanding call to love, that he would be called a rebellious subversive and a foreign Communist, they claimed I was echoing the words of Father Camilo Torres Restrepo of Colombia, the revolutionary priest who had once said that in Latin America, Jesus would come back as a guerrillero. In the end, many newspapers concluded that the procession before the Mass, as well as the Mass itself, was organized by atheistic Communists, and thus the Salvadoran people – the rich and the poor – could ignore its deeper meaning. All I was asking for was an end to the peasants’ misery. The fact that some hard-left groups had participated in the ceremony, among many others, allowed the right-wing press to dismiss my message entirely. * * * This morning, I wake up sweating and hyperventilating. I feel a sharp chest pain and at first think I am suffering from a heart attack. I feel dizzy, unsteady, lightheaded and experience an intense fear, the certainty that I am about to be killed. My heart palpitates and I begin to tremble. I have a vision of the red-bearded man who warned me about my work with the comunidades de base. “You better watch your back,” he had said. I imagine him saying, “I will murder you, damned Jesuit.” My stomach begins to ache, and I feel a sudden nausea. I begin to vomit. Everything around me gives me a sense of impending doom – the darkness of my bedroom, the grayness coming through the window, the rattle of the fan attached to the ceiling. I feel a strong urge to escape but have no idea where to go. I know that I am in greater danger outside my bedroom. “I shall kill you, damned Jesuit,” I hear again and again as I continue to have flashing visions of the red-bearded man smiling at me. I feel my heart is about to explode – it is beating so hard – and feel I cannot breathe. Surely I am going insane. Surely I am losing all control of my senses. I have to keep calm. I have to remember these panic attacks are fleeting. I have to tell myself that they usually last no more than half an hour. I know that they happen when I am subjected to intense psychological pressure. Nobody is going to kill me. It is all in my mind. These last three weeks have been grating on my weak nervous condition. So many things have happened – the expulsion of Father Mario, the torture of a former seminarian, the massacre of the protesters in San Salvador. The ruling classes do not want to give an inch, and the peasants have been awakened from their slumber. I am beset by fears that a bloody civil war is on the horizon, the murder of many priests and nuns. And yet I have to keep reminding myself that I am a recovering schizophrenic, that it is my Cross to imagine fearful happenings. I decide to pray, even as my heart continues to palpitate. Please remind me, Lord, that everything is in your hands. Cure the pain that afflicts my soul. I fall on my bed and manage to fall asleep. The worst is over. I wake up several hours later, when my cousin Horacio knocks on my door. I tell him nothing of my panic attack. I don’t want to be institutionalized. And there is nothing a psychiatrist can do for me anyway. “You’re going to El Paisnal tonight?” he asks me. “Yes,” I answer. I make an effort to appear composed. “The peasants are praying a novena to Saint Joseph, and Father Carranza is unavailable.” “How are you feeling? Are you still afraid of death squad violence?” “Much better, thank you,” I lie to him. “You’re right. A priest has never been assassinated in our country. And nobody is going to kill me just because I delivered a fiery sermon. They’re not even mentioning it in the papers any more. The biggest story is Oscar Romero becoming the Archbishop of El Salvador.” “Do you want me to drive you?” “No, that’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just drive the Volkswagen Safari myself. Don Manuel Solorzano and the teenager Lemus Nelson have been accompanying me to El Paisnal. They’re both very devoted to Saint Joseph. Tonight is the third night of the novena.” The truth is that I tried to dissuade them from going with me. I didn’t want their lives to be in danger. The dirt road between Aguilares and El Paisnal was deserted, and it would not be difficult to ambush us as we went on our way. But they had made nothing of the fears which I expressed to them. Don Manuel Solorzano, a seventy-year-old peasant, told me that at his age he had few years left and that he was not fearful of martyrdom for the Church. Lemus, like all teenagers, thought he would live forever, and he made short shrift of my warnings. “Nothing is going to happen,” he reassured me. “Saint Joseph will protect us.” At six o’clock, we begin our trek to El Paisnal. At some point we see three peasant children walking in the direction of the town. Don Manuel suggests we pick them up, but I am hesitant. I don’t want to imperil their lives. Don Manuel is insistent, however, and I accede to his demand. The three sit in the back of the Safari. Don Manuel and Lemus sit with me in the front of the vehicle. For the first hour of our journey, I notice nothing unusual. But at some point, I notice a Ford Pinto with foreign license plates following us closely on the road. I try to accelerate my speed to see if we could lose them, but they remain close behind us. I am sure they are following us with dark intentions, but I say nothing to don Manuel or to Lemus. Perhaps my fear, once again, is a product of my nervous condition. The license plates mean nothing. And then it happens. The Ford Pinto appears next to our vehicle and forces us off the road. My little Volkswagen Safari rolls down a slope and lands at the bottom of a ravine. Everybody seems to be fine, and only don Manuel seems to recognize the gravity of what has happened. “They did that intentionally,” he says in a nervous voice. “And they’re not playing games.” Then we see the men appear. They are led by the red-bearded man who had warned me at the meeting of the comunidad eclesial de base. Lemus recognizes him as a man named Peralta, rumored to be a secret member of a Salvadoran paramilitary group which infiltrated the peasant classes to gather intelligence. “Get out of the car,” he orders, and we promptly comply. Immediately he kills the seventy-year-old don Manuel. Then he shoots Lemus in the face, and the lad collapses on the ground. He lets the three children run away, a small act of mercy which I did not expect. Then he addresses me directly. “You are the first, but you won’t be the last, Rutilio Grande. Don’t believe your fellow Jesuits will remain unscathed.” “You won’t be able to silence the Church,” I respond, flashing anger more than fear. “You want to silence the gospel, but Jesus won’t allow it. Christians have been persecuted many times in human history, but never have they been silenced.” Peralta fires at my left shoulder, and I wince. “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit,” I say as he fires a second shot at my right shoulder. I get the sense that he wants to kill me slowly, but then the other death squad members appear, and they crucify my body with bullets. “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,” I mutter under my breath as I turn over my soul to the Holy Spirit. It is finished. * * * Author’s Postscript Father Rutilio Grande was the first priest to be murdered during the political and military turmoil which enveloped the nation of El Salvador during the period from 1977 to 1992, but he was not the last. The most notorious assassination was that of Archbishop Oscar Romero in March 1980 as he was celebrating Mass. Other infamous cases include those of the rape and murder of three American Maryknoll nuns and a lay missionary in December 1980 and the killing of six Jesuit priests in November 1989. Overall, the turmoil in El Salvador was to claim the lives of twenty priests, four nuns and hundreds of catechists. Many members of the church-based communities such as that organized by Father Rutilio Grande were also killed. The Salvadoran civil war, which began in 1980 and ended in the Chapultepec Castle peace accords of 1992, resulted in the loss of over 75,000 civilian lives, many of them poor peasants persecuted for their faith in Christ. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023) The Knight and Lady Poverty (Fiction, January 2024) By Zaher Alajlani The feeling began rising within Dimitris Dimitropoulos. He’d read that the first week would be the hardest, but this was the middle of his fifth, and it had been utter hell. Something felt heavy in his chest as he sat behind the steering wheel. When he turned the ignition key, he heard it again like he had done thousands of times before. It was never old or bland. That sound, the car’s roar, was like a battle cry. And of all people, he could relate to both: battles and crying. The engine noise had always brought about the memory of his father. It was as though his dad’s voice was reverberating from beyond the grave, “Don’t forget me. I’m with you.” He recalled how his father, shortly before departing, had unlocked the apartment door and entered the living room, smiling at him and his mother. “You got good grades, and you’re going to a good college. You deserve your own car, Son.” Before Dimitris or his mother could say anything, he threw something shiny on the coffee table, and a look of satisfaction surfaced on his face when it clanked. “Here. These are the keys. The car is ten years old but still in great shape.” It was still in great shape now after four years—surprisingly, very surprisingly, for those who sunk deep into a whiskey bottle, then drove; those who spent nights at strip clubs watching damaged women twisting like snakes under faint lights, then drove; those whose grief had a touch of insanity like him often ended up driving on the wrong side of the road, into a streetlight, or off a cliff. He was aware of that, all right. Two of his collegemates had it that way. One died upon impact when his car veered into oncoming traffic, while the other shattered both legs and had to re-learn walking after driving straight into a traffic island. He lost both friends, still. God, merciful as He is, decided that no one could communicate with the dead, and so he lost the first one. As for the other, it was a mutual decision. Dimitris didn’t want a reminder that his behavior was akin to attempted suicide. The thought terrified him because he was not naïve nor foolish. He knew that life was fragile and that self-destruction was always wrong: wrong when you’d do it out of sheer stupidity, wrong when you’d do it out of spite, and absolutely wrong when you’d do it to cope with loss. Dimitris began driving towards the office, his hands and forearms feeling the warm Athenian summer sun pouring onto the dashboard. The dust particles were visible, especially around the cross hanging from the rearview mirror. While stopping at the traffic light, he opened the glove compartment, pulled out his sunglasses, and wore them. The tinted view brought on another painful memory: the girl stood in the narrow corridor, her short hair and petite frame making her look almost juvenile. She wasn’t juvenile, I assure you, but twenty. However, what’s the difference between twenty or seventy when it comes to heartbreak or loving someone who is always in an unrelenting existential crisis and whose emotions range from dread to spite, anger, and despair? With every step he took toward her, her tears looked more visible. “What I said was terrible, Agapi. I didn’t mean it. I just got terrified because I felt I was not good enough. I love you. I’d never say that word again. Please forgive me.” She hugged him. “With you or without you, I’m having this baby and raising it.” He embraced her tighter and whispered in her ear as though he were praying, “Forgive me, please. I promise I’ll step up emotionally and mentally. No more drinking. No more smoking. No more guys’ nights out. No more self-destruction. No more that awful word, I promise.” “Abortion” was that horrible word. What Agapi had just witnessed was his nervous breakdown. What he’d just witnessed was a terrific young woman showing the courage and wisdom he lacked. The feeling transmuted into feelings: shame, anger, bitterness, and spite. And those dreadful emotions were supposed to be as familiar to him as driving. Yet, they became suddenly unbearable, like walking on pins and needles. The road he’d taken a thousand times before was now also different. Everything he saw struck him as bizarre—the buildings, the traffic lights, the random faces, and the clear blue sky melting with the heat of the golden sun. Even the potholes he’d gotten so used to were now as repulsive as bird droppings on one’s face. “It’s a boy, the doctor told me,” Agapi’s words thudded in his head. He embraced her in his mind, feeling the warmth of her body and smelling her blemishless Mediterranean skin. “There’s so much to do before the baby comes,” he remembered her words. Financially, there wasn’t. He was fine. Even in the lousy Greek economy, any good IT specialist would’ve been. Of course, there’s so much to do and resolve. Yes, a lot to fix. So much to let go of, he thought. Now his stomach felt like a rope getting twisted and knotted into a noose. Like all men, Dimitris began thinking of familiar vices to find relief. Maybe, I should have one—only one. It would relax me. I won’t drink, not even a drop. But cigarettes are different. All artists smoke, and I’m an artist—an IT artist. I make good money. Why should I deny myself simple guilty pleasures? I can afford to smoke two packs a day, even four. That’s nothing to me. But then again, I’d be exactly like my father. I’d smoke like him. I’d suffer like him. I’d die young like him. And I’d leave my son way too soon like him. This inner monologue absorbed him until he suddenly found himself parking the car by the entrance of his workplace. He looked at the cross. It glistened in the bright light as though not belonging only to this world. He prayed, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven.” He held his tongue, then let go, “And I pray that your will would be that I live better, become less bitter, let go, and have the courage to accept my agony.” He breathed deeply while massaging his forehead, then exited the car. “Please have some, Mr. Dimitropoulos,” said the old security guard at the main gate, extending a tray of chocolate. “No need for formalities. Dimitris is fine.” He took one and thanked him. “What’s the occasion?” The man’s smile carved two dimples on his chubby, red face. “My son got great grades and received his acceptance letter from the medical school. I’ve always wanted him to be a doctor, to be someone. You know what I’m saying.” “Of course, congratulations. I’m happy for you both.” All the negative feelings within Dimitris began receding. He looked at his car and smiled. “Does he have a car?” “A license, yes. A car, no. We can’t afford one, but he got his license when he turned eighteen a few months ago.” Dimitris winked at the man. “Now he has one.” “What do you mean?” “I’ll give you my car, and you’ll gift it to your son.” The man laughed like someone who suspected he was being mocked but was still not quite sure. “No, of course not. I can’t accept that.” “Why not? I was thinking about selling it anyway. But I won’t get much money for it because it’s old. It’s in great shape, though.” “But—” “No buts. Pass by my office during the lunch break, and we’ll go together to the town hall, and I’ll transfer it to your name.” “At least, let me pay you something. How much do you think you’d sell it for?” “Three chocolates.” “Huh?” Dimitris took three pieces of chocolate from the tray in the man’s hand. “You’ve just paid me.” “But—” “Again, no buts.” The guard’s eyes lit up. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you . . .” Dimitris walked towards his office with steady steps, with a sense of purpose he’d never had before. Each breath was as cleansing as a rebirth. By the time he was sitting in his chair, he knew that he’d already let go and that a transformation, much like the accident that killed his friend and the heart attack that stole his father, had happened in an instant. He was sure his life would be different and more challenging from then on, but above all, it would be better—much, much better. Zaher Alajlani is a Syrian short-story author, editor, researcher and translator living between Romania and Greece and writing primarily in English. His work has been featured in various international publications. Besides contributing to The Way Back to Ourselves, he is a prose editor for Agape Review and a proofreader for Metacritic Journal for Comparative Studies and Theory. Zaher has a Ph.D. from the Comparative Literature Department at Babes-Bolyai University, Romania, and speaks English, Arabic, Romanian and Greek.
By Sandro F. Piedrahita AMDG “There can no more be a knight without a lady than a tree without leaves or a sky without stars.” Don Quixote “I am thinking of marrying and the girl to whom I intend to plight my troth is so noble, so rich and so good that none of you ever have seen her like.” Saint Francis of Assisi From his earliest youth, Francesco had dreamed of becoming a knight errant, to engage in glorious battle for the defense of his city and the honor of his lady. He had read all the romances of chivalry and hoped for a chance to imitate their heroes. He longed to make war for the sake of love and virtue, for God and glory. So when the opportunity arose and Assisi and Perugia began a fratricidal war, Francesco was ready to engage in battle. Nobody could dissuade him from his purpose, not even his mother Pica, who told him that battle was nothing like it was described in the books of chivalry. She warned him that war was ugly, painful, bloody, that it invited men to sin and kill, and yet her son would not desist. “Waging war against a perfidious enemy is sanctified by God,” he said. “Otherwise why would the Pope send thousands to fight against the Saracens in the Crusades? The only thing that matters is the justice of the cause.” Francesco’s father Pietro, a wealthy merchant, approved of his son’s decision and bought him a magnificent war horse and the raiment of a knight. Only the richest persons could afford to become knights, for the cost of the horse, the weapons and the armor was prohibitive. On the night before he left to do battle in Perugia, Francesco appeared below the balcony of his beloved, a lovely seventeen-year-old named Cristina. He was dressed like a knight errant and sitting on his horse next to his squire. Francesco’s armor was of chain mail made up of small interconnected iron rings. He also wore a hooded coat, trousers, gloves, and shoes all made from chain mail which covered his entire body except his face. Over the top, he wore a sleeveless velvet surcoat, which allowed him to show off his family coat of arms. He carried with him a long, triangular leather and wood shield and a wooden lance. In his gilded scabbard there was a heavy sword. “Oh, Lady Cristina,” he cried out. “Tomorrow I shall go into battle to pay homage to you and to right some wrongs. The citizens of Perugia have taken up arms against Assisi, and we must respond in kind. As a knight, I pledge to you that I shall fight nobly, and always remember that I am fighting for your honor. For you, who has made a prisoner and captive of my heart, I shall reap eternal reward and fame. What do you say, my fair Cristina?” The girl went into her room and soon appeared again at the balcony with a bouquet of roses in her hands. “Go and do battle, my gallant Francesco,” she commanded as she threw the roses toward him. “You must fight for the oppressed citizens of Assisi in order to justify yourself in the eyes of God.” “Do you promise that when I return I shall have your hand in marriage? You, Cristina, who are the object of my most chaste desires.” “I am your betrothed,” Cristina responded. “What woman could resist the charm of such a knight? You are dressed in glory, and I am sure that you shall return from battle glorious in your victory.” “The knight has a sublime mission,” responded Francesco. “One must abide by the code of chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table. One must never kill senselessly nor murder anyone, only taking an enemy’s life in battle when absolutely necessary. One must give mercy to him who asks for it, even if the plea comes from an implacable foe. One must always protect the fair ladies, the orphans and the widows. One must never fight in battles that are not for God or country, certainly not for plunder or treasure. And one must fear God and safeguard His Church above all else, always remembering that salvation is the ultimate purpose of life.” “May God grant you success in battle,” replied Cristina. “With the aid of God, I promise I shall gain the victory.” At that point Francesco’s squire Sandrino Pancia interfered. He was nicknamed “Pancia” – Italian for belly – because of his bloated midriff. “We must be getting on,” he said. “Tomorrow Assisi’s army is to convene at five in the morning in the Piazza Commune next to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, where Bishop Guido is to bless our troops before they go into battle.” “Yes, that’s important,” replied Francesco. “A knight must be in the good graces of God so that he can achieve his noble quest.” “I for one need some sleep,” said Pancia. “If we are going to be at the Piazza Commune by five, the least we can do is go to sleep before midnight. Don’t forget it takes a while for me to put your chain mail armor on. That means we’ll have to be up by four. As you know, I am rather lazy.” “How can you be thinking of something like sleep at this time?” queried Francesco. “On the eve of battle, the only thing we should think about is how to fight to defend our city.” Then Francesco turned to his fair lady Cristina. “I must bid you adieu,” he said. “I shall return soon to tell you about our swift victory. With the strength of my mighty arm and the help of God above, I should be back within a month.” “Godspeed,” said Cristina as she threw a Rosary into his hands. “Farewell, my conqueror.” “Farewell, my lady,” said Francesco as he wrapped the Rosary about his neck. * * * After Bishop Guido blessed them, Francesco and his fellow soldiers made their way to the outer perimeter of Perugia, only twenty-five kilometers away from Assisi. The Perugians had been amassing troops at the border for weeks, and the people of Assisi had realized that war was imminent. There was simply no other reason for so many armed Perugians to congregate in such a manner. By ten o’clock in the morning, Assisi’s troops had arrived at their destination. Among them were infantry men with crossbows and knights in sartorial splendor accompanied by squires who hoisted the flags bearing Assisi’s coat of arms. Once they arrived, Assisi’s soldiers encamped at a site about a hundred meters away from where the Perugians were waiting for them. At first, nothing happened. The two opposing camps merely waited, nobody daring to go into the no-man’s land between the armies of Perugia and those of Assisi.As the days passed, Francesco became impatient and his squire expressed his hunger. Francesco was eager to do battle, although he had no idea what battle meant. On the fourth day, a Perugian knight entered the space between the two armies, riding on a white steed with a resplendent image of the Virgin Mary on his shield. Francesco marveled at the fact that both sides were seeking heavenly intervention, but decided to charge against the Perugian knight in any case. So Francesco advanced with his horse, and the joust began. The two horsemen lunged at each other and attacked each other with their lances. Everyone was in rapt attention as the two men participated in a ritual the townspeople had seen many times before in friendly competitions, knowing this time it was but the first step in a much larger war. Francesco acquitted himself honorably and managed to throw his rival off his horse. The knight from Assisi did not proceed to kill his enemy and manifested the mercy of a knight errant at the service of God. And for a brief moment – the briefest of moments – he basked in glory and had no doubt he would emerge victorious like the knights of the chivalrous romances he had read. But that was before he saw what war really meant, before he met face-to-face with Lady Death. As soon as the Peruvian horseman fell to the ground, another took his place and began to do battle against Francesco. This time it was Francesco who fell off his horse. The Perugian knight unsheathed his sword and prepared to kill him. Francesco, however, made good use of his shield and managed to escape. Soon great crowds from both sides entered the zone between the two encampments and started to fight. In the pandemonium that ensued, Francesco was able to find his horse and join in battle. That was when he first realized that being a knight errant was ultimately inimical to his nature. He simply could not bring himself to kill. The Perugians were his neighbors, and he counted many of them among his friends. So Francesco decided all he would do was to knock Perugia’s knights off their horses, never killing them. He would fight for victory without gambling with his soul. But then something horrible happened, and it would happen again and again, throwing him into the cesspit of despair. A Perugian – a giant of a man – charged against Francesco in fury and ruthlessly pounded on Francesco’s shield with his lance. Francesco had the good fortune of knocking the man off his horse. One of Assisi’s infantry men approached the Perugian lying on the ground and slit his throat with a copper dagger. “How could you?” asked Francesco incredulously. “Why did you take his life? God asks us to be merciful in the battle against our foes.” “Mercy never wins battles,” the infantry man responded. “If we don’t kill them, how do you want us to win the war?” Francesco continued to fight with his lance, knocking Perugian cavalry officers off their horses right and left. He never killed anyone, but he was instrumental in the death of many. Every time a Perugian knight fell off his horse, the soldiers from Assisi would finish him off with their weapons of war. And the Perugians were doing the same thing to the horsemen from Assisi. Everywhere there was death. Francesco saw no glory in the carnage that ensued. So many young men in the prime of their life lying dead on the ground soaked in their own blood. And for what? Certainly not to bring honor to fair ladies. Certainly not for the glory of God. It was a fratricidal war where brother was pitted against brother. They were not reclaiming the Holy Land from the Saracens. They were all fighting against fellow Italians, fellow Christians, men of good will. Francesco retreated briefly from the battle and wept silently in a corner. * * * The Perugians soon defeated the soldiers from Assisi, and Francesco was incarcerated along with Pancia his squire. Francesco expected to be immediately ransomed by his father, but apparently his captors and his father could not reach an agreement as to the amount that had to be paid. Francesco suspected that his father was driving a hard bargain, as was his wont, and that he was willing to let his son languish in jail for a year in order to persuade the Perugians that he would not pay one more cent than what he had initially offered. So the weeks passed, and then the months, and no one appeared to free the two men from their captivity. But that year was not misspent, as it forced Francesco for the first time in his life to seriously think of God. “Do you ever wonder what the purpose of life is?” he asked Pancia one afternoon as they were sitting on a bench in their cramped jail cell. “I don’t worry overmuch as to big important questions,” answered the squire.”I believe in Jesus and in His mother Mary, go to Mass on Sundays, try to follow the Commandments and leave the thinking to others.” “I always thought that being a knight would give meaning and purpose to my life, and yet when I engaged in battle I found it repulsive to no end. If God exists – and I’m sure He does – He could not have been pleased that the citizens of two neighboring towns killed each other in droves without even knowing why. I’m sure humanity’s penchant for war appalls the Christ. In every place that humans live, war is the order of the day.” “Do you think all war is bad?” asked Pancia as he scratched enormous belly. “What about the Christian wars to crush the infidels?” “I don’t know, Pancia, I don’t know. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to ask myself such questions. But I do wonder why the Moslems cannot be converted through teaching and example rather than force of arms. Why don’t we send them missionaries instead of warriors?” “With all due respect, my sire, I think that you are talking foolishly. They are a fearsome bunch. I don’t think they’ll convert to the one true faith even if ten thousand missionaries are sent their way.” “Still, nothing would be lost by trying.” “Other than the heads of all the missionaries,” Pancia replied. “What if I told you that in my dreams Jesus appeared to me telling me never to fight in a war again? What if I told you he said war is always a failure and a defeat?” “I think that’s very good advice, my sire. I for one have no penchant for battle. Or great bravery either. I am a peaceful man, a harmless quiet fellow. My back is still sore from the blows I received from the Perugians as I struggled for dear life. So go back to Assisi and become a cloth merchant like your father. I’m sure your life will be much easier than that of a mighty knight always on the verge of losing his life and limbs.” “I’m not interested in the life of a merchant. Business is an honorable profession as far as it goes. But I don’t want to spend my life arguing over money. I’ve been a great sinner, but greed has never been one of my vices. I’ve never cared too much about money one way or the other. Perhaps I can be an explorer. What do you think, Pancia? Perhaps I can go to Egypt and discuss religion with the Sultan himself.” “It’s easy to say you don’t care about money when your father is so prodigal with you. Earn your bread like every other man, and we’ll see if you begin to care about money. As far as your becoming an explorer, it would be sheer folly. You never know what brigands you might encounter along the way. And if you visit the Sultan of Egypt without an army, he’ll literally have your head on a platter like that of Saint John the Baptist. You won’t come back alive, my master.” “Still, there must be more to life than making money and growing fat, with all due respect. I’m searching for meaning in my life. Do you understand me? I believe that a great destiny awaits me. That’s what I’ll pursue. Perhaps I shall become a poet or a famous troubadour!” “Beware of grand ambitions, my sire. They can only lead to trouble. Humility is the most important of the cardinal virtues. Don’t get drunk on your own vanity.” “I know it! I know it, Pancia. And pride is chief of the cardinal sins.” * * * A year after Francesco was ransomed by his father, all the young men of Assisi were enlisting to fight in Apulia at the orders of Pope Innocent III. A certain Gauthier de Brienne claimed the crown of Sicily and with the Pope’s blessing had formed an army to reclaim it. Francesco’s father Pietro encouraged his son to enlist in order to redeem his honor. Pietro believed that Francesco should have died in battle during the war with Perugia rather than having allowed himself to be captured by his enemies. But the matter was not so clear to Francesco. He felt that two wolves were fighting over his soul and was not sure whether war was glorious or genocidal. On the one hand, there was his thirst for vainglory, the belief that he could achieve great things in battle. On the other hand was his great nobility of spirit, which told him fighting in a war as a mercenary for Gauthier de Brienne was sinful rather than glorious. The war which de Brienne was preparing would result in massive bloodshed, much worse than what Francesco had experienced in the little war with Perugia. When he expressed his doubts to his father, Pietro told him he was being a coward. “I think a year in a Perugian prison has made you lose your knightly brio. You are now afraid to kill or be killed. But such are the exigencies of war. And there is nothing sinful about a just war.” “I’ll pray about it,” replied Francesco. “What is there to pray about?” his father asked. “The Pope himself has given de Brienne his blessing. I thought you always wanted to achieve great things in life.” “And I still do. But I’m no longer sure that felling young men in battle is the way to do so.” Taking leave of his father, Francesco retired to the cave where he often prayed. “Please, Lord,” he said. “Give me a sign. Do you think it would be sinful pride for me to engage in a bloody war in Sicily, or would I be fighting for your greater honor?” After meditating for hours, Francesco finally fell asleep and was graced with a vision as he slept. He saw his father’s house had become a magnificent palace, full of golden swords, golden shields and spears, helmets which shone brightly. He did not fail to notice that two of the bright shining swords formed the image of a cross, as in the banners of the Crusaders, nor that the shields and armor were decorated with crosses. He also saw a lovely lady, resplendent in her beauty, beckoning him to some great battle. Francesco awoke in a cold sweat and was sure it was a message from God telling him that he should not only engage in war but that it would be glorious to do so. He would put on the armor of chain mail and ride his horse into battle once again, although he did not understand the apparition of the lady. He would no longer be fighting for the honor of Cristina, as that relationship had ended long before. Little did Francesco realize at the time that his betrothed would be Lady Poverty, for he had not met her yet and had no idea she would become his mistress. When he returned to his father’s house, Francesco was immensely happy. In his mind, the Lord had chosen to resolve his quandary and to remove any and all scruples about joining de Brienne’s expedition. His father was elated, purchased the suit of chain mail for his son as well as all the necessary weapons and a new war horse, as well as a small ass for his squire Pancia. The two men immediately joined a caravan of soldiers making their way to Rome, en route to southern Italy. Francesco, letting his pride take over once again, promised his father that he would come back a prince. But once they arrived at Spoleto, something happened which threw all his plans of earthly glory into disarray. He received another vision. This one told him he had not understood God’s prior message. “Return to your own country,” the voice said. “There it shall be revealed to you what you are to do, and you will understand the meaning of these visions. Why follow the servant instead of the Master on whom he depends?” Francesco was crestfallen and dejected to no end. Not only would he fail to attain the prize he so desired, but he would be humiliated by all of Assisi for being a coward. He cringed at the idea of returning to his city in such dishonor. And yet he was sure it was the Lord’s directive that he return to Assisi, though Francesco racked his brain and could not understand God’s purpose. If the golden weapons of his first vision did not signify that he should return to war, what could they mean? Who was the beautiful woman he had seen in the dream if not a lady for whose honor he had to engage in battle? As he and his squire arrived at the gate leading to Assisi, children pelted them with eggs and laughed at them with scorn, crying out “Codardos! Codardos!” That was the first time Pancia realized that his master’s new persona was no safer than the rollicking knight errant. Nor did he doubt that he would share in his master’s fate. * * * For months, Francis had no idea as to what his two visions meant. He was now a pariah, berated by all including his father for being a coward. And yet he was as far as possible from being a coward, unless refusing to kill your fellow man makes of one a coward. On the contrary, he still dreamed of great and valorous feats, sure that if the Lord was giving him messages in his dreams, it must be because God still had a grand purpose for him. So if the messages came from God, he resolved that the best way to decipher their meaning was to seek the answer from God. He visited all the churches of Assisi, often accompanied by his loyal Pancia, and prayed for a divine revelation. Pancia thought he was overdoing it with the prayers but said nothing. At first, the Lord was silent, but then, in the dilapidated church of San Damiano, Francesco heard a voice. “Francesco, don’t you see that my church is in ruins? Go restore it for me.” The knight turned to his squire. “Did you hear Him?” asked Francesco. “No, my Lordship, I heard nothing.” But Francesco jumped for joy, although in truth, he failed to understand the message. Nevertheless it gave him something useful to do with his time. It saved him from the terrible lethargy he had experienced on an ongoing basis after his disastrous return from Spoleto. And perhaps, thought Francesco, this latest apparition could help him understand the two prior visions. “Come,” he said to Pancia. “We must obtain the stones and mortar.” “For what, my Lord?” “We must rebuild this church,” replied Francesco. “It is a request from God.” “Where are you going to get the materials to refurbish it?” asked the ever practical Pancia. “Those things cost a good deal of money. This church is barely standing up.” Francesco, with joy painted on his face, responded simply, “I have a plan. Come follow me.” The two men returned to the shop owned by Francesco’s father, and Francesco took as many bales of cloth as he could carry on his horse and instructed Pancia to do the same. Then they went to the central marketplace and in a few hours sold all the fabric for a hefty price. Then Francesco sold his horse as well as the ass on which his squire rode through the neighborhoods of Assisi. “Your father isn’t going to like this,” said Pancia. “You’ve sold his best merchandise and the war horse too. Your father doesn’t suffer fools gladly, especially when it comes to his money.” “I’m doing this at the orders of my heavenly Father. Don’t you understand? His demands prevail over those of my earthly father. I must rebuild God’s church according to His instructions.” Thereafter they returned to the church of San Damiano, where they found the priest and told him they had obtained money to repair the church. “We shall use the money to repair your church. I myself will obtain the mortar and the stones and with my squire I shall commence the project.” “Your squire?” asked the priest quizzically. “My assistant,” responded Francesco. He was still in the habit of calling Pancia his squire, even though their engagement in war was over. “Thank you,” replied the priest, not expecting such a sudden boon. “The church could use a little rebuilding.” Francesco and Pancia did not immediately return home, for they knew Francesco’s father would be incensed. Instead, they hid in a cave for over a month. Finally Francesco and Pancia, ravaged by hunger and cold, returned to the house where Francesco lived with his father. Francesco was bursting with joy, singing one of the songs of the French troubadours which he so admired. Pancia, on the other hand, was apprehensive, for he suspected the day would end with a flogging. Upon their arrival to Assisi, dressed in rags, they were greeted with taunts from a group of boys. “Madmen! Fools! Pazzos!” they shouted as they threw stones and mud at the two men. It would not be the last time Pancia would be pelted with stones for following his master, nor was it the last time he would be called a madman for following his master’s vision. “Pazzo d’amore!” retorted Francesco as the stones struck him. “Crazy in love with God!” When the two arrived, Francesco’s father Pietro was waiting for them, cross-armed in the living room, having heard the noise of the boys taunting his son through a window. “I have a question for you,” he addressed his son in an even voice. “All of the finest fabric from my shop disappeared a month ago. That was very valuable cloth which I brought from France on my last trip. What did you do with it?” “We sold it,” Francesco responded with an expression of delight. “You sold it?” Pietro repeated. “I hope you obtained a good price. Show me the money.” “The money is not mine to return. According to God’s wishes, it must be used to repair the church at San Damiano.” Pietro could not believe what he was hearing. Incensed, he told his son to return the money immediately. “I can’t do that,” replied Francesco. “The money now belongs to Mother Church.” Pietro struck Francesco hard across the face. “That money belongs to me, and you shall return it. You’re nothing more than a common thief.” “You can strike me all you want,” Francesco resisted, “but it is the divine will that the church of San Damiano be rebuilt.” “Don’t tell me you’ve had another one of your foolish visions. Like the one that ordered you to return from Spoleto with your tail between your legs. Your conduct brought nothing but shame to our house.” “I haven’t made up any of my visions. At first the Lord’s messages were somewhat cryptic, I’ll admit it. But now He has given me specific instructions to fix the church of San Damiano. You should be happy. You can share in the exquisite joy of knowing your money will be used to make God’s wishes a reality.” Pietro then called two of his valets and directed them to chain down his son and throw him into a dungeon. As for Pancia, Pietro decided he should be flogged. The terrified man argued that he had done everything at his master’s bidding and had no choice in the matter, but it was to no avail. It was not the last time Pancia would be flogged for following Francesco’s outlandish wishes. At some point, Pietro brought the matter up with Bishop Guido and asked for the redress of his grievances. After listening to both sides, he told Francesco he had to return the money even if he intended to use it for a noble purpose, for the money was not his to give. Francesco nodded his head in agreement and took off all his velvet clothes without further ado. He threw his clothes in a heap, and on top of them, he threw the money. As he was standing completely naked before the bishop, he said in a peremptory voice, “Up to now I have called Pietro Bernardone my father, but now I have a purpose to thank God. I give him back not only this money he wants so much, but all the clothes I have from him. I am no longer the son of my father Pietro but only of my Father who is in Heaven.” Bishop Guido placed a shawl upon Francesco’s shoulders. His father left, taking the clothing and the money, never again to speak to a son he considered a madman and a fool. And the knight Francesco, for the first time in his life, was to meet face-to-face with Lady Poverty. * * * Sandrino Pancia, ever the squire, accompanied Francesco in his newly discovered destitution. They had no salary, no roof over their heads, no money for a bit of cheese or even a loaf of bread, certainly no guarantee for the morrow. When Pancia suggested that they seek employment as farmhands or as laborers in one of the monasteries, Francesco waved his hand in the air dismissively and said, “God will provide.” When his squire remonstrated that God helps those who help themselves, Francesco responded without hesitation. “We shall help ourselves indeed. And in honor of Lady Poverty, we shall do it by begging.” “So you mean you don’t intend for us to work? You expect us to survive based on the benevolence of passersby? Didn’t the Lord say, ‘By the sweat of your brow you will eat your bread’?” “We shall work repairing the church at San Damiano and other churches in the zone. So many of them have been neglected and left in disrepair. But we shall not earn our living from work, for that would not be pleasing in the eyes of Lady Poverty.” “Who is this Lady Poverty? I have never heard of such a woman. Why would she prevent us from seeking some material comfort through an honest day’s work?” “Remember the dream I had,” Francesco responded, “where I saw a beautiful woman surrounded by instruments of war, and I concluded she was sending me to battle for Gauthier de Brienne? Well, it turns out I misunderstood the vision. It is only in the last few days that I have figured it out. The lady was not inciting me to military battle for an earthly prince but to a peaceful war on behalf of the prince of princes, our Lord Jesus Christ. So from now on we shall not only be mendicants, but we shall publicly preach Christ’s message of repentance. In fact, we shall start tonight.” “All right,” said Pancia, “but it is not Lady Poverty that I fear. The one who terrifies me is Mistress Hunger. How shall we be able to eat if we do not work?” That night the two men went to the Piazza Commune, and Francesco began to sing and dance, encouraging Pancia to follow suit. He sang chivalrous songs about doing battle for one’s lady, but in his mind the songs were all about Lady Poverty. Then he began to preach, encouraging people to repent and to seek the Eternal Kingdom. And he laughed with joy, laughed like a madman, as some in the crowds began to call him crazy, for the preacher was dressed in rags. “I think it’s time to leave,” said Pancia. “I don’t think the townspeople of Assisi like your dancing or your message.” But Francesco was unperturbed. “Yes, I am a madman,” he exclaimed, “a madman for Christ. Let us all follow the folly of the Cross. Welcome to the lunacy of love. Do not keep gold or silver or money in your girdles, nor wallet for your journey nor two tunics nor sandals. What did Jesus say? If anyone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his Cross and follow me.” Then Pancia mustered the courage to intervene. He was brief, for he was not a man used to public discourse, but Francesco encouraged him to do so. “Do everything this man tells you to do,” he said simply. “No one can tell you anything better.” Francesco repeated another injunction of the Christ. “Take nothing for your journey, neither staff nor knapsack, shoes nor money.” Suddenly a large group approached the two men and began beating them with their walking sticks and pummeling them with their fists. “Madmen!” they cried out. “Crazy fools!” “I thought something like this would happen,” Pancia lamented as the men furiously attacked him, and he made an effort to run away. “You should be pleased,” Francesco responded as if he didn’t feel the pain of the canes across his back. “You are suffering for the sake of the Lord. What greater glory could there be? What greater homage to our Lady Poverty? Don’t you realize that the contempt of others is a blessing?” Once they escaped, Pancia complained bitterly about the incident, but Francesco accepted it with unbridled joy. “Happy are those who are persecuted,” he exclaimed, “because the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.” But the night was not over. As the two men fled to the cave where they had found refuge, they encountered three ruffians in tattered clothes. Francesco mistook them for disciples of Lady Poverty and greeted them with mirth. “I am a herald of the Great King,” Francesco boisterously announced. “Come and follow me, fellow knights of Lady Poverty!” The three men were perplexed by the man’s words, as the truth was that they were thieves. “Herald of the Great King,” they mocked him, “turn over all your money.” “If I had any money, I would willingly give it to you, since you are obviously poorer than me. My poverty has not forced me to become a thief. But I’ve made a vow to Lady Poverty and reject the use of money, so there’s nothing for me to share.” “And what about you?” they asked, turning to Pancia. “What are you carrying in that bag?” “Just a piece of cheese I received from a generous soul.” “Well, turn it over,” one of the thieves demanded. “Give it to them,” ordered Francesco. “They are obviously hungry.” “I shall not,” Pancia protested. “That’s all I have for the morrow. I am hungry too. Don’t you see that I’m a shadow of my former self?” The three robbers proceeded to beat the two men up and throw them into a ditch. Francesco was once again unperturbed – he thought he was earning Heaven’s treasures – but Pancia violently protested that his whole body was stinging as a result of the night’s events. “I never imagined this new life we’re living would lead to so many blows. Your Lady Poverty is certainly a demanding mistress.” “Following this path won’t be easy,” responded Francesco. “I perfectly understand if you don’t want to follow me on this journey. But let me tell you that turning your life over to Christ and Lady Poverty will lead you to receive a jewel of immeasurable value. She can provide you with treasures you cannot imagine. You must decide if you want to join me not only as a squire but as a knight for Christ with all the joy and suffering that entails.” “When you say I shall become a knight and receive a treasure, what do you mean? Knights are often given islands to administer. Is that the kind of bounty I should expect from Lady Poverty?” “No, you’re getting it all wrong, Pancia. The treasure is the poverty itself. You must imitate the Christ born in a simple manger and crucified nearly naked on a Cross. You must put to bed all fear and worry and just have faith in the one true Christ.” “Well, I won’t leave you alone on such a difficult journey,” said Pancia. “I have followed you into battle in the past, and I shall follow you into battle in the future.” “You’re a fool,” said Francesco mirthfully as if the word was not an insult but an accolade. ”We shall both be fools for Christ and Lady Poverty.” * * * As the months passed, Francesco continued to joyfully suffer through insults, blows and taunts every time he preached, sang and danced in the Piazza Commune, but among many of the citizens of Assisi his message began to strike a chord. Some wondered whether he might be a saint, for they had never seen anyone imitate Jesus to such an extent, and they approached him in all humility to kiss his hands. He was taking the injunctions of the Christ quite literally rather than metaphorically, as many of them did. Francesco’s extreme conduct also made the citizens of Assisi feel a certain shame, for they realized how far they were from the example set by this new apostle and by inference the Christ. And there were a few – a very few – who decided not only to emulate him but to join him. Among them were some of the wealthiest men in Assisi, who sold all their goods and distributed the proceeds to the poor in order to live with Francesco and Lady Poverty. Bernard of Quintavalle for example was one of the richest men in town. After a night with Francesco when they discussed the purpose of his life, Francesco suggested he open the Bible at any page to see what plans Jesus had for him. The answer could not have been more peremptory. “If you will be perfect,” said the passage they had found, “go sell what you have and give it to the poor.” Bernard liquidated all his assets the very next day and turned over all the money to a leprosarium in need of funds. Soon he put on an old brown tunic and began to beg with Francesco to the amazement of all of the citizens of Assisi. Next came Peter of Catanii, a well-known jurist who also sold all he had and put on a brown robe to seek alms in the streets. Eventually nine other men joined Francesco in their pursuit of Lady Poverty. That is when an outlandish idea came to his mind. As Francesco and Pancia were putting the final touches to the church of San Damiano – they had paid for the materials with money obtained by begging – Francesco turned to Pancia and told him he had finally understood what the Christ had meant when He ordered him to repair his Church, which had fallen into ruins. “Repairing the church of San Damiano is all well and good,” said Francesco, “but that is not what the Christ asked me to do. When He spoke of repairing His church, He didn’t mean this little chapel, but the universal Church itself. He was referring to Peter’s barque, which is tossed on the sea of disbelief, worldliness and persecution. The Good Lord wants me to restore His Church, to preserve the boat from the hunger of the sea.” “With all due respect,” said Pancia, “that sounds like a pretty tall order. You’re a humble man who lives by collecting alms. You’re not the Pope or even a bishop. How do you think a lowly man like you could restore a church of millions of people?” “You’re forgetting the Christ built His church with twelve disciples. But after Pentecost Sunday, those few apostles multiplied and conquered the world.” “Beware of your wild ambitions,” said Pancia. “You’ve been like this all your life. In your deepest heart, you desire honor, fame, success. But that is not the humility which you have taught me again and again. Leave the barque of Peter to Peter’s heirs. You devote yourself to smaller tasks.” “I shall consider what you’re saying, but aspiring to greatness is not the same thing as sinful pride. God created man to do great deeds. And I see no other meaning to God’s command that I repair His Church. The problem with you is that you aspire to too little, that you’re stuck on earth and don’t see things of Heaven.” “If you say so,” replied Pancia. “But even if excessive ardor is not a manifestation of vanity, your plan is an impossibility nonetheless.” “I had a dream,” responded Francesco. “Another dream?” “The Lord revealed to me that our little Order is going to spread all over the world.” “We’re not even an Order yet,” answered Pancia. “Don’t you need approval from Pope Innocent III?” “Don’t worry about the minutiae,” said Francesco. “The Pope will approve our Order.” “And then what? Do you propose to send Bernard to France, Giles to Castile, Angelo to England, Morico to Portugal, Sabbatino to Germany? You don’t have enough disciples to convert men to the cult of Lady Poverty throughout the world as you propose.” “To men it may be impossible. But don’t forget that to God all things are possible. Trust in Him, and become willing to let Him guide us. I assure you we will gain many more adherents.” “You’re still the knight errant of old, my lord, still fighting imaginary battles for your Lady.” * * * Francesco and his eleven disciples began to make their way to Rome a sunny day in August in order to meet with Pope Innocent III and seek his blessing for their Order. Assisi is about two-hundred kilometers from Rome, and it took Francesco and his fellow mendicants about forty hours to make the trek. By the time they arrived, their brown tunics were covered in dust, and their faces were dirty. But that did not stop Francesco from immediately appearing at the palace where Pope Innocent III lived. Francesco wore his old tunic, patched and repatched a dozen times, and apologized to the Pope for arriving unannounced. The Pope sitting on a throne looked at him as if he were an insect. “How dare you come to the Holy See dressed in rags and with an unwashed face? And there’s a stench about you! Do you live with pigs?” “This is my only tunic, your Holiness. I travel light in accordance with the Lord’s directives. I wish my tunic wasn’t so old and ragged, but that is all I have. As far as the smell, I apologize, your Holiness. I live on the streets and don’t always have a place to take a bath.” “What is your business with me?” “My name is Francesco of Assisi. I come to beg for you to approve my request that you allow the small group with whom I share the Gospel to become a Catholic order.” “I’ve heard about you,” replied the Pope. “Your group lives in complete poverty and lives off alms. And you have a reputation of being a bit of a madman. I’ve heard that you preach to the birds and converse with wolves. Tell me, Francesco, do you think animals have souls?” “One never knows, your Holiness. Birds are beautiful creatures, and I’m sure Heaven is full of beautiful things. I’m sure there are birds in Paradise. As to the wolf of Gubbio you’ve heard about, I merely convinced the animal not to attack the villagers or their livestock.” “That certainly does not comport with traditional Catholic teaching, but I suppose it’s a harmless imagination.” “I’ve brought the Rule for our proposed Order, your Holiness. Would you like to read it? In a dream, the Lord told me to rebuild His Church.” “Before we discuss anything, go back and take a bath and come back in a new tunic. Your attire is an affront to the Papacy.” “With all due respect, your Holiness, would you have refused to see me if I had come dressed like the Christ as He was crucified? My poverty is merely an emulation of the Christ. Jesus did not live in a palace, nor was he ever dressed like a king. He died nearly naked on a Cross. Why should His followers be dressed any better? I know it is an extreme idea, but it is a logical extreme.” “Don’t tell me you’re one of those heretics who criticize the Pope and the bishops for supposedly living in luxury.” “That would not be me,” replied Francesco. “I honor you as the Vicar of Christ on earth and would not dare to reproach you for anything. My proposed Rule says explicitly that the Order shall be governed by the Pope. But I do think that some in the Church have forgotten the example set by the Christ and His earliest followers. Money has polluted the Church. Ecclesiastical privileges are bought and sold rather than earned.” “Are you accusing me of simony?” “Far from it,” replied Francesco. “I am but a little beggar for Christ and would not presume to give your Holiness advice. But I don’t think that dressing like a poor man is a sign of disrespect.” “Well, come back tomorrow. You’ve taken up enough of my time, and I have other matters to take care of. But let me tell you that based on what I’ve heard, I’m probably not inclined to approve your Order. It sounds like a group of lunatics taking matters to extremes. Have you considered that trying to so thoroughly imitate the Christ might be a sign of forbidden vanity? And please, when you come back tomorrow, don’t do so in the appearance of a swineherd.” On the next day, Francesco did not wear a new tunic or replace his threadbare sandals. Instead, he put on the same old tunic and covered his face with ash. Pancia thought his master had finally become completely demented. This was madder than the time when he had advised friar Juniper to run after a thief who had stolen his cowl in order to hand him his gown. “If you go to the Pope with ashes on your face, he is going to throw you out of his quarters. Why don’t you just wear Bernardo’s tunic instead? It’s much newer than yours and doesn’t have any patches. And maybe put a little ointment on your neck.” “I know what I am doing,” replied Francesco dismissively. “Don’t forget that I am guided by God. I want to remind the Pope that we are destined to become ashes. If such is the fate of our body, who cares about the clothes we wear? And wasn’t Christ’s robe covered with patches?” “If you say so,” answered Pancia. “But I think your conduct will be completely counterproductive. If you go to the Pope in such a condition, your dreams of a grand multitudinous Order will go up in flames. You shall fail spectacularly.” “I’ve had a dream,” Francesco peremptorily replied. And without any further explanation he made his way to the Vatican. The Pope did not receive Francesco with anger. “I see your face is covered with ashes. What does that mean?” he asked. “I just wanted to remind your Holiness of the words of God. “For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ Since our bodies are mere dust, it does not matter how we clothe them. So I have decided to come back wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday, not as a sign of disrespect but to show you there is nothing offensive about poverty, especially when it is a choice.” At that point, the Pontiff did something entirely unexpected. He rose from his chair, kissed Francesco’s hands and suddenly began to sob. “How could I not have seen,” said the Pope amid his tears, “that you are a holy man, a man of God? I understand now what the Lord meant when he told you to rebuild his Church. I myself have struggled to reform the barque of Peter for years, but I always thought change would come from above, from the bishops and prelates of the Church. But now I understand that change must come from the bottom up. It will not be the Bishop of Rome alone who shall restore the Church, but your little army of supplicants and other men of good will. Now let’s see the Rule you propose.” “I am most grateful,” said Francesco, “but if I’m not being impertinent, what brought about this change of heart? Yesterday you were suggesting I preach to the pigs, and now you are ready to approve my Order.” “I too had a dream, Francesco, which showed me that your project of extreme poverty is pleasing in the eyes of God. I saw the huge Lateran Basilica, that thousand year old jewel of Christendom, horribly leaning to one side and about to collapse. Suddenly a little poor man dressed in rags pressed his shoulders against the church to buttress the tottering walls. When I saw the face of the poverello, I realized that it was you, Francesco. Cardinal San Paolo has also recommended that your Order be approved. He has fiercely argued that your Order should not be disapproved on the grounds that it is too extreme, since that would be to say Jesus also was too extreme.” After the Pope inspected the Rule proposed by Francesco, he approved it without making any changes. Francesco and his platoon of penniless friars now had the authority to preach throughout the world. When he was about to leave, Francesco kneeled before the Pontiff. “You kissed my hands, and now I must kiss your feet,” Francesco said, “for it is not right for the master to kiss his servant when it is the servant who must kiss his master.” “May the Lord increase the Order of the Friars Minor,” the Pope replied with a blessing. And Francesco shuddered at the monumental task ahead. * * * Ten years after Francesco’s audience with Pope Innocent III, the Order of Friars Minor had grown exponentially. Young men all over Europe – from Hungary to Aragon, from France to Germany – had been seduced by the charms of Lady Poverty and had sworn their troth to her. Francesco was inordinately pleased by the growth of his Order, but at the same time was afraid so much success might go to his head. He was now at the head of an institution with thousands of members and wielded real power. At the same time, the strictures of Lady Poverty were no longer a burden to him, as he had grown used to them over the years and was accustomed to living a life of voluntary destitution. So he decided to do more, lest he succumb to a sinful complacency. He announced to Pancia that he had decided to join the Christian soldiers who had gone to Egypt in the Fifth Crusade at the orders of the Pope. Francesco’s faithful companion was astonished. Hadn’t Francesco forsworn war ever since he received the message at Spoleto? Did he now intend to fight in a Crusade? “I am not going to Moslem lands in order to engage in physical battle,” Francesco responded. ”I plan to go there to convert those who need conversion, to wage a grand spiritual battle.” “Do you plan to convert the Moslems?” asked Pancia. “I don’t see how you can do that. They are fiercely loyal to their faith.” “Yes, I plan to convert them and some wayward Christians too. I intend to put an end to the Fifth Crusade. And I want you to join me.” “With all due respect, my sire, what you propose to do is a fool’s errand. I don’t know what you mean by converting wayward Christians. If you mean you want them to abandon battle, you shall never accomplish that. They believe they are on a God-given mission and enjoy the spoils of war. As far as the Moslems, I’ve heard they’re holed up in Damietta while the Crusaders lay siege to the city. Unless you plan to cross enemy lines, you cannot possibly convert the Moslems of Egypt.” “We shall cross enemy lines if need be,” responded Francesco peremptorily. “We shall enter Damietta and talk directly with the Sultan.” “Have you had a dream again, my lord? If you haven’t received a message from God, what you’re proposing is sheer folly. As soon as we enter lands occupied by the heathens, we shall promptly be decapitated by their scimitars.” “In that case we shall be martyrs for the cause of Christ. What death could be more glorious?” “You intend to take us on a suicidal mission,” said Pancia, shaking his head. “I don’t think God requires so much of us.” “If you don’t want to join me, I shall not order you to do so. But you too have grown complacent in your faith. Maybe the Lord wants us to risk all to prove our fealty to Him.” “I’m sorry to say so,” responded Pancia, “but that is the zaniest idea you’ve ever had. You think you’re just going to enter the Sultan’s camp and make him a Catholic? You won’t even be able to go through his ferocious guards without being killed.” “When life itself seems lunatic,” responded Francesco, “who knows where madness lies? Too much sanity may be madness; and maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be. God does not approve of bloodbaths. And this won’t be the first time people take me for a fool.” “Throughout all these years,“ said Pancia, “I’ve never allowed you to face your perils alone. This new lunacy will not be the exception. We shall march together into the land of death for a heavenly cause.” When Francesco and Pancia arrived in Egypt, the siege of Damietta had already begun. Francesco immediately began to inveigh the Christian crusaders, demanding that they accept the terms of a peace proposal made by Sultan Malik al-Kamil. Francesco boldly told the Christian troops that they were wrong in what they were doing and bitterly complained that they were courting disaster as war was always contrary to the will of God. But as had happened so often in his life, he was met with jeers and taunts, spat upon by those he tried to convert. When the Crusaders launched a battle to control Damietta, they were routed by the Moslem forces as Francesco had predicted, and thousands of Christians died. Francesco remembered the small war with Perugia in which he had participated as a youth and which taught him that war was never justified. But this time the death toll was so much worse – the bloodied corpses of five-thousand Crusaders were strewn everywhere – and the carnage was caused by two armies violently protesting that their actions were commanded and sanctified by God. “Let the princes of the whole world take note of this,” Francesco spoke of the Christian defeat as he wept. “It is not easy to fight against God, that is, against the will of the Lord, as stubborn insolence usually ends in disaster.” When Francesco announced to Cardinal Pelagius Galvani, papal legate and leader of the Fifth Crusade, that he intended to enter Damietta in an effort to convert Sultan Malik al-Kamil to Christianity and end the war, Pelagius readily agreed. He knew that Francesco decried the Fifth Crusade despite the fact that it had been ordered by the Pope. He knew Francesco said the evil of war could never be used to accomplish something good and urged a peace agreement with the Moors since violence was an affront to God. He also knew that the Sultan had decreed that anyone who delivered to him the head of a Christian would be rewarded with gold. If Francesco’s madness ended with his death at the hands of the Saracens, mused Cardinal Pelagius, so be it. * * * When Francesco and Pancia, accompanied by an Arab interpreter, got close to the three-walled Arab stronghold of Damietta, they were spotted by four of the Sultan’s black African guards who proceeded to scuffle with and arrest them. “We’re here to see your Sultan,” Francesco explained to his captors through the interpreter. “We’re here on a mission from God.” The two Italian men were dressed in patched-up brown tunics with white ropes about their waists, looking nothing like emissaries from Cardinal Pelagius. The African guards had no idea who they were. Then they started vigorously arguing with each other. The interpreter told Francesco and Pancia that the four guards were arguing whether or not they should be immediately be put to death. “Now we’re done!” exclaimed Pancia to Francesco as he put both hands on his ruddy cheeks. “They are going to cut off our heads!” “Why are you terrified?” Francesco replied in a calm voice. “Don’t you see that one way or another God will protect us to the end? Oh man of little faith, do you not yet believe?” The guards put the two friars in chains and decided to take them to the Sultan, who would decide their fates. “Who are these men?” the Sultan queried. “They say they are here on a mission from Allah,” responded one of the African guards. The Sultan turned to the two Christians. “So you believe Allah is the only God? You’re dressed like Sufi priests. Or are you Christians bringing an offer of peace to end this war?” “We believe in one God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. But you are right. We are here to propose an offer of peace to end this heinous war. But the offer does not come not from Cardinal Pelagius. It comes from God Himself.” “So you weren’t sent by your leader Pelagius?” asked the Sultan. “On whose authority, then, do you speak?” “I am here on the authority of Jesus Christ, to whose faith I desire to convert you.” “Oh, little mendicant,” the Sultan laughed. “Your madness is matched only by your courage. You have willingly entered the lion’s den on a mission doomed to fail. If all the armies of Europe have not converted me to the Catholic faith, why do you think a little man in tattered clothes will be able to do so?” “On the force of my ideas,” replied Francesco. “If you listen with an open heart, you can learn the wonderful way of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace throughout his life and never war.” “It certainly seems that His followers have not heeded His message. The Christians have brought nothing to these lands other than never-ending bloodshed.” “Alas,” confessed Francesco. “What you say is true. But they are diverging wildly from the message of the Christ. I have repeatedly warned them that their war is not in accordance with the will of God. They have refused to listen, bringing disaster to these lands and dishonor to themselves.” “Well, I shall not order your execution. Why don’t you stay a bit? I will gladly listen to what you have to say. I must warn you that I will not abandon my faith.” Then Francesco made an offer to the Sultan which horrified Pancia. He had thought his master could no longer do anything that would surprise him, but he was wrong. Just when their safety was assured by the Sultan, Francesco abruptly proposed a solution which could only end in death. It was one of Francesco’s typical flights of fancy, but this time he had gone too far. Francesco suggested that the Sultan prepare a great pyre, then Francesco and Pancia would go through the fire. If they survived, the Sultan’s men were to do the same. The test would show which religion was favored by God. Fortunately, the Sultan rejected the proposal out of hand, laughing once again. “Oh, little man of Christ,” he smiled. “How you amuse me.” Like anyone who spent any length of time with Francesco, the Sultan of Egypt at first thought he was a fool but ended up believing he was a sage. The Sultan, a hardened warrior, detested war and had repeatedly sued for peace, even offering the Christians control of the Holy Sepulcher, the ostensible purpose for the Fifth Crusade. All of his offers had been rejected by Cardinal Pelagius, so the Sultan had reluctantly been forced to engage in a brutal war which decimated the armies of both sides. He marveled at Francesco’s frank admission that the atrocity of the Fifth Crusade had not been ordained by the Christian God but by those who ignored Jesus’ injunction to treat our enemies like friends. Just as the leper, and just as the Pope, had been made in the image and likeness of God, so too the Moslem. * * * In the end, Francesco never knew whether or not he had succeeded in converting the Sultan to the Christian faith. There were rumors among the Crusaders that he had been secretly baptized and that he had made all his concubines depart, not wanting to engage in continuous sin. At all events, after his talk with the poverello – the little poor man – the Sultan treated Christian prisoners with humanity, no longer paying for their heads as he had been his wont to do, but keeping them in comfortable prisons until they could be exchanged for Moslem captives. Still, when he was on his deathbed, Francesco spoke of his inability to establish peace between the Christians and the Moslems as his life’s greatest failure. He had failed to convince the Moslems to accept the Christ, and he had failed to make those who were nominally Christian to avoid the depredations of war. “Perhaps,” said Francesco to Pancia, “perhaps everyone was right in calling me a madman. Forgive me, Pancia, that I led you to seem as mad as myself. I risked your life on an impossible mission to establish peace between the Christian and the Moslem. I now realize they will be warring against each other into the future. The centuries will pass, and the Crusades will continue, and the land where our Lord was born shall be known as the most violent region of the world.” Pancia, weeping bitterly, responded that his master was no madman. “It was noble and brave and beautiful for you to attempt to broker peace between the Christians and the Moslems. I still believe they can be converted to the Catholic faith, and that the Catholics can relearn Christ’s message never to engage in bloody wars.” “How can we convert Moslems to the Christian faith when they are immolated for doing so by their leaders? How can we teach Christians that war is always a defeat when the Pope himself sends them into battle? You were right when you told me that entering Moslem territory to convert the Sultan was a fool’s errand.” “I was wrong, my master, I was wrong. Didn’t Saint Paul preach that we should be fools for Christ?” “We are fools on account of Christ, but you are wise in Christ,” Francesco quoted from Saint Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. “You see?” Pancia queried. “Your famous madness was wisdom in the end. You were imitating the folly of the Christ. “Perhaps that was a sinful vanity, to think that I could live my life as Jesus had lived His. I fell far short of that, Pancia.” “Do you realize how many souls have been saved through your ministry? There are thousands of men in the Order you founded, and each of those men has converted thousands to the Faith. So your sinful vanity – your unflinching commitment to Lady Poverty – has resulted in the salvation of millions. One can never be accused of sinful pride when he is merely a servant at the service of his master.” “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I can gain Heaven yet.” “Of course,” said Pancia, “and I hope you’ll continue to protect me from your celestial home above.” “Blessed be almighty God who has shown me such goodness. In truth, his mercies are boundless and the sins of men can neither limit them nor keep them back.” And with those words Francesco expired. Several years later, while preaching to the Moslems of Morocco, Pancia was martyred for the Faith. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023) By Bryant Burroughs The Day of Vengeance had come at last! The Magdala marketplace vibrated with news that a magnificent dinner-party would be held that very evening in nearby Capernaum, and the host for this party was none other than Simon, the man I hated. The market gossip praised him: Simon the Pharisee; Simon the wealthy lawyer; Simon who had the ear of the High Priest and, it was rumored, that of Herod. To me he was Simon the Murderer, the destroyer of all I had treasured. Hurrying home to pack a rucksack, I stepped into my parents’ room. It was quiet and still, a room of memory. My mother’s carved wooden box with its ivory-encrusted top lay in its usual place on the bedside table. The box had been a wedding gift from my father to his mesmerizing bride. I slid the top open, revealing the ivory-handled hairbrush with which she had brushed our hair every morning and night. Every day, brush and talk and laugh. I caressed the handle, and memories flooded my heart. Sobbing bitter tears of loss, I clasped the wooden box to my chest and collapsed onto the bed. I don’t know how long I wept, but after a time I turned onto my side to look again inside the cherished carved box. One by one, I removed the contents resting on a linen cloth at the bottom of the box. The gold ring that my father gave my mother on their wedding day. A necklace of celestial blue gemstones, a wedding gift from my grandmother in Magdala. Two gold bracelets with fish-shaped clasps. A tiny clutch of red hair. How many times had my mother opened this box, held these treasures, kissed these strands of hair? Love lived in this carved box. It was this precious box that my mother had saved as she and my father frantically bundled me in blankets in the midnight blackness and fled the inn that my father’s father had built. I was not yet a year old. Countless retellings have implanted memories that fill my senses. I feel my father’s shock when his friend Joseph roused him from sleep with frightening news: “I’ve had a dream-warning from God.” I tremble with my mother’s terror upon hearing that soldiers were coming to murder every young boys in Bethlehem. I hear my father’s cries, “There’s not a minute to lose,” as they stuffed a few bags with clothes and food. I sense, too, my mother’s hope as they began their escape northward toward her home village. “We’ll be safe in Magdala,” she said over and over. The small fishing village was their “magic place.” It was in Magdala’s fish market she had met the young innkeeper seeking to secure a good price for a half-dozen barrels of pickled fish. He was entranced by the red-haired woman who won his heart with a glance . Within a few days, he returned to Bethlehem with pickled fish and the woman he would marry. Two years later, harried by fear for their daughter’s life, they again looked to Magdala as a magic place, this time for safety and sanctuary. I recall the day as a young girl that I blurted a question to my mother: “Why didn’t you and Papa go back to your inn? Why did you stay here in Magdala?” She paused a few seconds. “It was an evil time,” she responded. “Many babies were killed. We brought you to a safe place.” Even a twelve-year-old recognized that her answer was incomplete. “Are children still being killed there?” I quizzed. “Oh, no, Mary, dearest daughter. We're safe here. It’s just that….” Mother grasped my hands. “Your Papa’s uncle is not as good on the inside, where it counts, as he appears on the outside. He is a dreadful man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Her words baffled me. What did being good on the inside have to do with their refusal to return to their inn? And why had I never heard of this evil uncle? I tried again. “Mother, I don’t understand.” Catching the hint of my exasperation, she took my hand. “Let’s go up to the rooftop. I promise to tell you what happened.” From our rooftop pallets, the Sea of Galilee shined to the east, its waves shimmering in the sun as fishing boats ambled across the water. To our right, women fetched water from the village well, and beyond the women, a rocky cliff jutted out into the sea. We basked in the warmth of the day and the blue of the water. Then, in a very quiet voice, my mother resumed her story. “When we fled with you in our arms, we were only a few minutes ahead of the soldiers. There was no time to load a cart. We left everything behind. We hurried here, to my village, to my family, to the very spot where your Papa and I met.” She smiled and pointed to a corner of the village square below where we sat. “It was right there.” “I know,” I smiled back. It was our habit to walk to that spot every day. I gave her another moment to collect her words. I sensed that whatever came next had to be said. My mother’s gaze was far over the sea when she said, “The captain of the soldiers had a list. His soldiers went house to house and killed every male child on the list that they could find. Only a handful escaped.” The she exhaled. “Mary, the list...this murderous list…came from Papa’s uncle Simon.” I gasped in shock. “My name was on the list? But I am a girl. He gave them my name?” “Yes. A the end of the list, the very end, Simon wrote ‘the Innkeeper’s child.’ His hatred toward us was such that he would add even our beloved daughter’s name to this list.” Then perhaps it’s a good thing after all that I didn’t know this Uncle Simon. “But that was years ago,” I exclaimed. “Surely the captain of the soldiers has forgotten about the list. Wouldn’t we be safe to return now?” “Yes, the captain of the soldiers may have forgotten,” my mother replied, “but Simon has not. Soon after we settled in Magdala, he sent a letter. Such an evil, treacherous letter. He knew we had escaped, and he knew where we were hiding. He threatened that a single word from him would bring soldiers to our door, and this time you would not escape alive.” I shivered as my mother took my hand and finished the hard words that had to be said. “In payment for keeping our hiding place secret, he demanded our inn. Our inn! And he warned that he had spies – cowards who would alert him if we ever tried to return. We had no choice. We’re safe here. We’ve built our life here.” At last, I understood the whole story, and my heart burst with love for my mother and father. For years Magdala was the safe and happy place my parents had sought. As I grew into a young woman, I never tired of hearing neighbors praise me with “You look just like your mother!” She was beautiful and kind and sure of herself, and I wanted to be just like her, as if she were a conduit to a greater thing. As with all children, I assumed that I would live with my mother and father in peaceful Magdala for the rest of my life. That she and I would brush our hair side-by-side every morning and bedtime, talking as much as brushing. That my father would always call me “Little Red” even after I became a woman with daughters of my own. That the fishing boats of Magdala would go out and in, day after day, as surely as the sun rises and the sea shimmers in its rays. But life is unspeakably fragile, even for lives buttressed by love. A fever swept through the countryside and snatched my mother into death so suddenly that it seemed the angels had needed her urgently in God’s presence. My father, the man everyone considered the strongest soul in Magdala, could not live with half his heart absent, even for the sake of his dearest daughter. Within a few months, I was an orphan. I was not yet twenty. The sun continued to rise and set, and the fishing boats continued to come and go, but there were no more shared brushings, no more “Little Red.” The two people who had loved me since the moment I first opened my eyes had vanished beyond my sight. My mother’s fragrance lingered on the soft linen in the carved box, and her scent roused me from memories. I whispered to her: “If I were permitted to go wherever I wished, I would come to you. I would choose to be with you in the Land of the Dead rather than without you in this land of the living. For there is no living without you.” I placed the ivory-handled hairbrush into my rucksack and kissed the necklace, bracelets, and clutch of hair as I gently returned each to the carved box. Then I opened my father’s desk and retrieved his knife, now gleaming in readiness for this day, and stowed it in the rucksack. A hairbrush for love, a knife for vengeance. I was ready. * * * As I walked along the seaside road that curved north and east from Magdala toward Capernaum, my hopes and fears of vengeance so absorbed me that I failed to notice right away that a stranger had joined me. We walked in silence, the man a step behind and a step to my side. It was he who broke the silence. “You are very quiet for someone who has just reunited with an old friend.” I continued several steps before I realized he had spoken, and another few steps as I considered his bewildering sentence. Just another man, I thought. I’ve rebuffed many like him in Magdala. Shaking my head as I walked, I answered, “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.” “Where are you going, Mary?” he asked. I stopped in mid-stride, and the stranger continued a few paces before turning around. I examined him for long seconds. How could this stranger know my name? His face was unfamiliar. I shook my head again. “I don’t know you. How do you know my name?” His eyes brightened. “I told you. You and I are old friends,” he repeated. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. We were both quite young when my mother and father visited your inn. They’ve told me that even then you had your mother’s red hair.” I frowned and searched my memory. Who was this puzzling stranger who knew my name and claimed to be an old friend? He waved his hand. “Come, let’s keep walking together toward Capernaum. I’ll keep you company.” “Stop!” I shouted. “Stop! Not another step! How do you know I’m walking to Capernaum? I’ve not told you where I’m going.” “Well, I’m walking to Capernaum. You walk with me then,” he said with an amused smile. “I have friends who live there.” He searched my face. “I’ve been invited to attend a dinner-party there tonight.” I froze as if I’d fallen from a Magdala fishing boat into a wintry sea. That’s it! That’s how he knows my name! “You’re one of Simon’s friends, aren’t you?” I lashed out at him. “Aren’t you? You’ve been spying on me in Magdala.” “No, I assure you Simon does not consider me a friend. In fact, he looks at me as a threat, and in one sense he’s right.” He stopped and looked out to sea. “Simon is a violent man. He thinks that violence is the path to greatness. He doesn’t realize he is walking on false ground.” I clutched my rucksack, feeling its contents. False ground! I thought. Is that what I’m walking on? “Wait,” I blurted. “When did you visit my father’s inn? Did you know my mother?” “In a sense, yes,” he said. “She was very kind to my own mother when I was born. Even today, years later, my mother remembers the innkeeper and his wife with affection and gratitude. Both your mother and father were kind and good.” “And there’s something you should know,” he added softly. “You and I both were on your uncle’s list.” I couldn’t breathe. I knew his next words before he voiced them. The man stepped close. “My mother’s name is Mary,” he said. “But you know that, don’t you? Your dear mother told you all her stories.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Dear child, don’t you think your mother’s hairbrush is too precious to be in a rucksack with a knife? And you are too precious, too loved, too beautiful to hold such an ugly tool of hatred. Would you let me help you?” “I can’t,” I breathed. “I can’t.” “Yes, you can. You brim with your mother’s heart. Remember all that she put in the ivory box. Let me help you.” I could not look into his eyes. “I… want… to… kill… him!” I rasped through clenched jaws. He did not let go of my shoulders. “If you kill him, Mary, the knife will pierce your own heart. And you will become as evil as Simon.” I shuddered, breathing in soft gasps. He cupped my chin so that I looked into his eyes. “You are your mother’s daughter, like a star plucked from an angel’s wing. Like her, on the outside you have her red hair, and on the inside, where it really matters, you have her beautiful spirit. Let me help you.” He eased the rucksack from my shoulder and pulled out the knife. I couldn’t move. Stepping back, he flung the knife far into the sea. As it splashed into the waves, I gasped and collapsed to my knees in the pebbles of the road, weeping for my mother, weeping for my father, and weeping for the hate that had blackened my heart. The man gently lifted me to my feet. “Mary, child, you are forgiven all your hatred and hopelessness. Put away your misery and madness. Now you can sing and dance as when you were a little girl. Do you remember?” He pulled me forward. “Come,” he said. “I have friends I want you to meet. It’s a fisherman’s house,” he laughed, “but clean and welcoming.” He peered into the sky as if he had seen something beyond the seabirds that soared above the sea. He laughed. “Your mother is teaching the angels to dance.” Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith, Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022) The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023) The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023) Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023) |
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