by Jana Petken
The bishop whispered something else in her ear and she continued.
“The evildoers and communists, who have never worshipped God in the way we do, are dangerous and evil, and it seems that they are in charge now. They should have no reason to bother us here, as we have nothing to do with any of this, but nonetheless, we should be on our guard and pray harder than ever for God to keep us safe.”
She paused, drank some water, and then continued.
“There is a small garrison of Civil Guards in the village, and they shall protect us. Soon the troublemakers will be caught and punished. God will punish them and will show no mercy to those who defile our country. Some of you will take the veil tomorrow and become novices. You must not be distracted from that goal, and this must be your only thought. The ceremony will go ahead as planned, and you must not think about what is happening in a world that has nothing to do with us here. Now I’m sure that you will have questions, and for that reason, I am willing to allow you to speak to me for the next fifteen minutes.”
The silence that followed was deafening to the listening ears. Mouths gaped open, and eyes searched for more answers. Soft whimpers of fear took hold until a young postulant stood to face the mother superior with a maturity beyond her years.
“Mother, our families may need us now, so maybe we would better serve God in our own communities at this time. I feel that God would want us to go to them.” The young postulant’s voice trailed off, and she swallowed uncomfortably. Marta had never seen such a scowl on Mother José’s face. The sisters, Teresa and Juan, looked nervously around the room and then both concentrated their gaze on their feet, waiting but not wanting to see the senior nun erupt.
“Do you not have a vocation to God, Sister Sara?” Mother José asked the young postulant, who was now shaking from head to toe.
“Yes, of course, Mother,” she answered submissively. “I want nothing else but that.”
“Then do you not think that God is more important than mortal families who, at this very moment, must need our prayers here in the house of God more than ever? After all, if a family member is sick or even dying, is that good enough reason to go to him or her and leave your vocational promises behind? If one does it once, one could do it again, and a commitment to religious life must be forever, whatever the difficulties. Do you not think?”
“Yes, Mother,” the young girl answered, visibly trying to contain her tears.
Marta listened to the questions being asked. Everyone was speaking and crying, and the dignified and religious silence had turned to mayhem. She covered her ears. She wasn’t used to all the noise, but it wasn’t just the noise that upset her, she thought to herself. It was the sadness and fear that filled the whole hall.
She shut herself off from what was going on around her and concentrated on her own thoughts, which were becoming just as noisy as the voices: What was she to do? she asked herself. Should she go home? Would it help her family if she did? Was that so bad an idea? Was she being evil and selfish? Yes, she decided in the same moment, she was being selfish. Mother José had always told them that to be a good nun, one had to pray harder when one felt at one’s most vulnerable. That’s what she would do. She’d pray twenty-four hours a day, here in the convent. She’d remain safe as long as she stayed within its walls, and her prayers would keep her family safe too. How could she even think about leaving?
“Be quiet, Sisters!” she heard Mother José shout even louder this time. “If you decide to leave these walls, you will never be welcome within them again and your soul will be damned for its selfishness! Those who wish to accompany me to the chapel will be those of you who have decided to stay. If I do not see you there, I will presume that you have packed your bags and left, and I only hope that you are not eaten whole by some waiting communist in a dark corner of the road.”
The mother superior had read her mind, Marta thought as she watched the nuns that wanted to leave scurry from the tables. There were not many, Marta noted, but there were enough to drive the mother superior into a fit of rage.
“Everyone to the chapel now! To the chapel!” the mother superior cried.
The following morning, there was an eerie silence in the great hall. It was not the normal, comfortable rule of silence but a void of unspoken words, a great gaping hole filled with voices desperately trying to climb out to air their fears but who couldn’t. There were ten empty spaces on the bench that lined Marta’s table and another three or four at the other side of the hall, where the second-year novices sat. Marta knew who was missing, just as they all did, and she guessed that their flight had taken place sometime during the night, guessing that they’d all be on their way home or dead by now. Most had left before taking the veil, knowing that had they stayed, they would never have had the conscience or conviction to leave after becoming a novice and taking a step closer to God. Marta suddenly felt a surge of excitement; she would be a novice within hours, and her family was coming!
After breakfast, Marta gathered her water and basin and cleansed her body before putting on her novice day robes. She tried to instil the great wonder and joy that she should be feeling on this most important day, but the excitement had left her, and now all she felt was fear and exhaustion. She stood in her cell, behind the curtain that separated her from the other girls, and looked down at the long flowing white dress and veil lying regally across the bottom of the bed. She’d been so looking forward to wearing the garments and thought of the pride she’d feel when her family saw her in them. Would her family attend the ceremony? She sat on the edge of the bed, and tears dribbled down her cheeks.
“I’ll just die if they don’t come.” She whispered.
Eight young postulants walked through the doors of the chapel dressed as brides of Christ. They each held a candle, and as the sun streamed through the windows of the church, their veils shone like haloes around their heads. Marta kept her unwavering eyes on the altar and on her invisible bridegroom, who would be waiting there for her, but she couldn’t help noticing that some pews were empty and that the local schoolchildren had not attended to sing the hymns they always sang on these occasions. She saw the sea of black robes of the nuns flanking the aisles on her way. A few stony-faced parents were sitting at the back of the chapel, but she didn’t see her own family in those few seconds between the door and altar.
Marta reached the great altar and tried to focus on her commitment to God. He was all that mattered now, she thought. This was her formal goodbye to the world and to her family. Today they and the world they lived in would allow her go into this other life of, hopefully, an everlasting state of grace.
It was her turn. She stepped into the sanctuary and knelt at the bishop’s feet.
“What do you seek, my daughter?” he asked her.
“The grace of God and the habit of holy religion,” Marta answered with confidence.
“And do you intend to persevere in all the rules and the constitution of this order?”
“With the help of divine grace, I do intend to and thus hope to persevere.”
One more question and then it would be over. She had done it.
“And do you truly desire to enter the state of holy religion for all time?”
“I desire it with all my heart.”
“What God has begun in you, may he himself make perfect.”
After the blessing of the habits, they walked slowly back down the aisle and into the sunlight. She shielded her eyes from the light and focused them on the faces in the congregation. Her family hadn’t come. She panicked. Where were they? She had never doubted their presence, not really.
There were only a scattering of relatives, and they were looking around nervously at the walls of the convent and at the faces of their daughters. She walked up and down the edges of the patio and, without any warning, began to cry. She stood facing the patio wall, trying to stop the tears that would embarrass her and anger the mother superior, looking prouder than all the other mothers there. This was not
how she’d imagined this day would turn out. She sniffed into her lace handkerchief. Her family were supposed to be embracing her at this very moment; instead, none of them had come, and all she could think about was that they were all dead or dying somewhere. She took a deep breath, calmed herself, and looked about her again.
To her horror, she saw that some mothers and fathers were not embracing their daughters but were arguing with them, pulling at them and stripping them of their new veils. Heated arguments between the mother superior and some of the working-class parents who had made no effort to look their best reached a crescendo of insults.
Marta watched in disbelief. Respect had gone. Instead of devotion, she saw hatred in the eyes of some and fear in others, who still couldn’t quite believe the surreal situation that was unfolding before their very eyes.
“Leave now. Leave this house of God!” Mother José shouted above the noise. “Your daughters are now in my care. They have nothing more to do with you. The visit is over!”
There was silence for a moment, and then one of the new novices began crying. “I want to go home,” she whimpered.
“Then go to hell with your parents and all your family, for God will close his eyes and ears to you from now on,” the mother superior screeched at her.
Parents began to walk towards the wooden doors to the outside world. Some of the novices went with them, their hands gripped by fathers who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Others chose to go, overwhelmed by the sight of their family and wanting nothing more than to be with them.
It was over. Mother José walked towards the great hall without looking back. The last of the parents and departing novices left, and the great doors were closed behind them. Marta followed meekly behind the mother superior and all the other nuns heading towards the great hall and could think of nothing but her disappointment. There would be no goodbyes now; she would give no words of comfort to her mother and sister. She would receive no congratulatory speeches from Aunt Rosa or cheeky banter from her brothers, and she would never again see love in her father’s eyes. She had now passed through the door and into the inner circle of God, and no one had been there to witness it.
At six o’clock, the new novices were led to the great wooden doors of the novitiate. Here they would finally cut themselves off from the outside world. Marta stroked her new cincture, and all thoughts of her family were banished from her mind. She crossed the threshold. The key turned in the door and closed silently behind her …
Peasants and a group of assault guards, who had just taken the Civil Guard garrison at the edge of Cocentaina, climbed the walls of the convent at around four in the morning. They came silently, deadly, and angry at the recent stories of rape and killings of some republicans and their families just outside Valencia by a group of rebel nationalists who had refused to lie down and die after Valencia had become a republican zone.
The Church, for most of them, had long since become a sword at their throats, choking them with its dictatorial all-powerful rule of fear, and as they crossed the lawn towards the convent doors, their only mission was one of revenge and pleasure.
Marta woke to the sound of the first screams and dressed quickly. She prayed for a moment by her bedside and then tiptoed to the adjacent cell to check on one of her sisters. The rule of silence was forgotten now, for this was no time for following rules that could put their lives in jeopardy, she told herself.
“Wake up, Magdalena,” Marta whispered. “Please wake up. You have to get up.”
The girl stirred and jumped at the sight of Marta’s frightened face. She sat bolt upright and listened to Marta’s hurried words, stopping her when she couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“Sister Marta, slow down. What are you saying?” she whispered
“I heard screams. There’s something going on downstairs,” Marta said. “Listen.”
The two girls spoke in frightened whispers, huddling together in the corner of the cell. They were being invaded. That was now clear. The noise coming from the ground floor was louder now, so loud that thought for a moment that whoever it was had climbed the stairs and was coming towards them. Things were being thrown around, furniture was being dragged across the floor, and the sound of breaking glass was terrifying. The screams continued, but who was doing the screaming was still unclear. Loud, gruff voices then echoed around the walls.
Marta retreated to a corner of the curtained cell shrouded in darkness. There was nowhere to run to, she thought. The windows were too high from the ground, and doors leading to open hallways were not an option. She closed her eyes and gripped her rosary beads with shaking fingers.
“Lord Jesus, keep me safe and deliver me from evil.” She whispered the same mantra over and over, without pausing for breath.
Downstairs in the great hall, a soldier dragged the bishop across the floor. He was then disrobed and held spreadeagled by four republicans who each spat in his face. A group of peasants yanked the four-foot-tall wooden crucifix off the wall and carried it towards the bishop, who was writhing on the floor and screaming insults. Three men lifted the giant cross up above the bishop’s head and laughed as its weight fell on top of him, crushing his skull. They had wasted no more time with him; it was the nuns they were after. The women married to Christ were the ones they had come for, and when they spilled their blood, it would be in return for the blood of their sisters and daughters killed by the Civil Guard and the Phalanx.
Mother José appeared in the great hall, serene and committed to silent prayer amongst the mayhem that surrounded her eyes. She too had been dragged from her bed, robed only in a long cotton nightdress and crucifix that dangled between her breasts. Two villagers threw her unceremoniously on top of the dead bishop and the cross that covered him, then holding her wrists above her head. The mother superior didn’t speak or utter a sound. She didn’t even break her rule of silence when one of the peasants spat on her face and ripped off her nightdress.
She could hear the laughter that surrounded her, but she kept her eyes closed, unwilling to look into the faces of evil. She continued to pray until she was kicked in the stomach. The impact made her lose her breath, and she struggled to regain it.
“Open your eyes!” she heard someone shout. “I said to open your eyes, whore of Christ!”
She opened her eyes slowly, blinded momentarily by the torchlight in the assailants’ hands. She looked around her without moving her head, with eyes wide in fear, and then arched her neck and looked down the length of her body. She was naked, naked as the day she was born. She had not looked at her naked body for over thirty years, and the sight of it scared her more than her torturers did. Her piercing scream echoed loud and long, rising up into the wooden rafters of the high ceiling and corridors outside. Some of the looters stopped in their tracks and crossed themselves, still unable to let go of their fear of the Church. They dropped their bags and joined the others, gloating over the mother superior’s nakedness, and then they called for her death.
Mother José mumbled incoherently, a mixture of prayers and protests, and then suddenly shouted out with a voiced laced with authority and indignation, “My children, you are in the house of God, and I am his instrument!”
“No, you old bitch, you are our instrument!” a peasant said before kicking her in the ribs. She screamed in pain.
“And it’s time you shut your whoring mouth!” he shouted. You and your Church are going to pay for what you’ve done to us all these years. We won’t listen to you or your bishops any longer. Do you understand me, you fucking bitch!”
The mother superior’s long silver crucifix and chain lay on the ground beside her. The peasant picked it up and spat on it as she watched with wide-eyed, innocent terror. Another held her head still while the man knelt beside her and slowly inserted the crucifix and chain into her open mouth. She choked and coughed, unable to breathe, scream, or beg for mercy. The crucifix was pushed deeper down her throat until only a piece of the chain was visible, dangling pre
cariously from the side of her mouth and swinging from side to side. The men took turns pulling the cross out slowly and then reinserting it back down into her throat. Her blood and saliva gurgled, bubbled, and ran down her chin to coat the chain hanging down past her neck.
A young assault guard stepped forward, tears running down his face and anger in his bloodshot eyes. “Enough!” he shouted to the others. “We’re not animals!” He stood over the mother superior, looking down at her bloodied face, and whispered, “Sorry. Please forgive me, Mother.”
He then pulled sharply at the chain until the crucifix became dislodged from her throat. It dangled at the end of the blood-soaked chain in mid-air in front of the mother superior’s eyes. Her mouth streamed blood. Her breathing was shallow, a rattling noise that made even the most ruthless of the men turn away from her. Her wide-eyed stare gazed upon the crucifix for the last time as she took her last breath.
By the time the invaders reached Marta and the others upstairs, they had worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement and hatred. They shot every nun in sight. Exhumed coffins were strewn across the lawn, and skeletons were mounted on poles like trophies. Marta prayed in the corner of the darkened cell. Her body was as stiff as a statue and inadequately hidden by a habit draped over a chair. She hardly dared to breathe. She thought that maybe she would be overlooked. She prayed that they would leave before they reached the novices’ cells … and then she heard the men approach.
