When the Matins were over, the nuns returned to their cells to sleep until Lauds, the rising of the sun.
Outside, Colonel Ramón Acoca and his men moved swiftly in the darkness. When they reached the convent, Acoca said, “Jaime Miró and his men will be armed. Take no chances.”
He looked at the front of the convent, and for an instant he saw that other convent with Basque partisans rushing out of it, and Susana going down in a hail of bullets.
“Don’t bother taking Miró alive,” he said.
Sister Megan was awakened by the silence. It was a different silence, a moving silence, a hurried rush of air, a whisper of bodies. There were sounds she had never heard in her fifteen years in the convent. She was suddenly filled with a premonition that something was terribly wrong.
She rose quietly in the darkness and opened the door to her cell. Unbelievably, the long stone corridor was filled with men. A giant with a scarred face was coming out of the Reverend Mother’s cell, pulling her by the arm. Megan stared in shock. I’m having a nightmare, she thought. These men can’t be here.
“Where are you hiding him?” Colonel Acoca demanded.
The Reverend Mother Betina had a look of stunned horror on her face. “Shh! This is God’s temple. You are desecrating it.’ Her voice was trembling. “You must leave at once.”
The colonel’s grip tightened on her arm and he shook her. “I want Miró, Sister.”
The nightmare was real.
Other cell doors were beginning to open, and nuns were appearing, with looks of total confusion on their faces. There had never been anything in their experience to prepare them for this extraordinary happening.
Colonel Acoca pushed the Reverend Mother away and turned to Patricio Arrieta, one of his key aides. “Search the place. Top to bottom.”
Acoca’s men began to spread out, invading the chapel, the refectory, and the cells, waking those nuns who were still asleep and forcing them roughly to their feet through the corridors and into the chapel. The nuns obeyed wordlessly, keeping even now their vows of silence. The scene was like a motion picture with the sound turned off.
Acoca’s men were filled with a sense of vengeance. They were all Falangists, and they remembered only too well how the Church had turned against them during the Civil War and supported the Loyalists against their beloved leader, Generalissimo Franco. This was their chance to get back some of their own. The nuns’ strength and silence made the men more furious than ever.
As Acoca passed one of the cells, a scream echoed from it. He looked in and saw one of his men ripping the habit from a nun. He moved on.
Sister Lucia was awakened by the sounds of men’s voices yelling. She sat up in a panic. The police have found me, was her first thought. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. There was no way out of the convent except through the front door.
She hurriedly rose and peered out into the corridor. The sight that met her eyes was astonishing. The corridor was filled not with policemen but with men in civilian clothes carrying weapons, smashing lamps and tables. There was confusion everywhere as they raced around.
The Reverend Mother Betina was standing in the center of the chaos, praying silently, watching them desecrate her beloved convent. Sister Megan moved to her side, and Lucia joined them.
“What the h—what’s happening? Who are they?” Lucia asked. They were the first words she had spoken aloud since entering the convent.
The Reverend Mother put her right hand under her left armpit three times, the sign for hide.
Lucia stared at her unbelievingly. “You can talk now. Let’s get out of here, for Christ’s sake. And I mean for Christ’s sake.”
Patricio Arrieta hurried up to Acoca. “We’ve searched everywhere, Colonel. There’s no sign of Jaime Miró or his men.”
“Search again,” Acoca said stubbornly.
It was then that the Reverend Mother remembered the one treasure the convent had. She hurried over to Sister Teresa and whispered, “I have a task for you. Get the gold cross from the refectory and take it to the convent at Mendavia. You must get it away from here. Hurry!”