“May God bless you,” replies the priest.
Rafa exits the confessional. He feels lighter, grateful to be absolved of sin.
Rafa loves confession.
47
Julia kneels in the confessional.
“Hail Mary the Purest.”
“Conceived without sin,” says the priest.
“It has been two weeks since my last confession. Padre, I am withholding truth from those I love in an effort to protect them.”
“And these truths you are withholding, do they relate to your own actions?”
“No, Padre. They relate to actions during the war . . . and current actions by those of authority in our beloved country of Spain. I have told no one what I suspect. The risk is too great. As a result I am forced to be dishonest with my siblings in order to protect them. But each lie leads to another lie. The pressure is mounting and soon it may all explode.”
“You are not alone, my child.”
“But, Padre,” says Julia. “The children of Republicans—we’ve been alone for years, frightened and hiding, punished for something we had no role in.”
“But you are not alone in your hardship. You are safe in the arms of Vallecas.”
Fear is Julia’s constant companion. But with Father Fernández, she feels peace and freedom to unburden all that troubles her. Since it is presumed difficult, some clergy avoid Vallecas. But so moved by the desperation and needs of the people, Father Fernández wrote to the bishop. He asked to delay his next assignment in order to stay with the flock in Vallecas.
The priest issues Julia’s penance of three Hail Marys.
She is grateful for Father Fernández.
Julia is grateful for confession.
48
Ana steps into the confessional.
“Hail Mary the Purest.”
“Conceived without sin,” replies Father Fernández.
Ana pauses. Could she ever be truthful about her sins? She imagines the confession:
Bless me, Padre, for I am full of rage. I am seen by many but understood by few. My heart, so capable of love, is instead lined with hatred for our country’s leader. I detest that the coins I earn bear his image and the phrase “Caudillo by the grace of God.” I detest that my future is determined by the past. I detest that I am made to feel unworthy and unable to pursue my heart’s desires. I dream constantly of leaving Spain, of being wanted, yet the hands that have reached for me have never loved me. My sole intimacy is with silence and the taste of tears. Where, dear Padre, is the Grace of God for the children of war, the children judged so unfairly? Am I allowed to ask that?
The priest clears his throat. “Shall you make a good confession today?”
His voice revives Ana from her daydream.
“Sí, Padre. I told two lies, gossiped once, and engaged in flirtatious behavior with an American boy.”
Ana is too frightened to confess her true feelings to anyone but herself.
Ana fears confession.
49
Puri parts the heavy drapes and enters the confessional of the Madrid church. She kneels and her pulse begins to tick. If faith is so easy, why is confession so difficult? She clears her throat.
“Hail Mary the Purest.”
“Conceived without sin,” responds the priest.
“It has been one month since my last confession.”
At the priest’s invitation she reluctantly begins.
“I judge the behavior of others. I am resentful of parents who forsake their children. It angers me when people are ungrateful for all that our great country offers them.” Puri prattles on until the priest interrupts her.
“You speak easily of the sins of others. And what of your own sins?”
Puri stares into her lap. She cannot bear to look at the shadow of the priest before her. She has tried so hard. Puri knows it is her sacred duty to defend purity. Those before her have confronted it successfully. Saint Francis of Assisi rolled in the snow, Saint Benedict threw himself into a thornbush, and Saint Bernard plunged into an icy pond. Why, oh why, thinks Puri, is it all so hard?
“I’ve had . . . impure thoughts,” she whispers to the priest.
Puri loves being a good Spaniard. Puri loves the Catholic Church.
Puri hates confession.
50
Staying at the hotel, instead of traveling to Toledo with his parents, is conditional upon his mother’s one requirement: Daniel must attend Mass on Sunday.
The concierge provides a list of three churches. Daniel selects the one closest to the hotel. He arrives before Mass in order to give confession.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins: I entered an argument that was not my own and caused bodily harm to two men while defending another. I opened a telegram with private information, I harbored anger toward my father, and”—he lowers his voice—“there’s a girl I can’t stop thinking about.”
“It is not for you to fight the battles of others,” says the priest. Following penance, the priest imparts absolution. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
“Amen,” says Daniel.
Daniel appreciates confession but feels most content when sharing truths with someone he feels close to.
As he parts the drapes and exits the wooden booth, Daniel has a strong feeling that what he’s about to do could send him back to the church.
Daniel may need confession.
Despite his success, Hernando remembers growing up in hunger-stricken post-war Spain as if it were yesterday. He lived in a tin-roofed shack in Vallecas, a working-class quarter of Madrid. “We were always hungry,” he says. “I had to rummage for food in the rubbish dump like the other children. I ate banana skins and cheese crusts from the bins outside the houses of the rich.” To feed his five children, his father hunted rabbits at the gates of Franco’s El Pardo palace; had he been caught he would have been beaten by the Guardia Civil.
—ALFONSO DANIELS
“Property in Spain: Castles in the Sand,”
The Telegraph, February 19, 2009
51
“Ay, no, señor, that area is not for tourists,” cautions the concierge with a wagging finger. “Do not go there. Instead, enjoy this Sunday weather and go to Retiro Park or the Prado Museum.”