The bishop was aware that Colonel Acoca had misquoted Ortega y Gasset. The full quote had included the army and the government; but he wisely said nothing. He turned to the prime minister again, hoping for a more rational discussion.
“Your Excellency, the Catholic Church—”
The prime minister felt that Acoca had pushed far enough. “Don’t misunderstand us, Bishop. In principle, of course, this government is behind the Catholic Church one hundred percent.”
Colonel Acoca spoke up again. “But we cannot permit your churches and monasteries and convents to be used against us. If you continue to allow the Basques to store arms in them and to hold meetings, you will have to suffer the consequences.”
“I am sure that the reports that you have received are erroneous,” the bishop said smoothly. “However, I shall certainly investigate at once.”
The prime minister murmured, “Thank you, Bishop. That will be all.”
Prime Minister Martinez and Colonel Acoca watched him depart.
“What do you think?” Martinez asked.
“He knows what’s going on.”
The prime minister sighed. I have enough problems right now without stirring up trouble with the Church.
“If the Church is for the Basques, then it is against us.” Colonel Acoca’s voice hardened. “I would like your permission to teach the bishop a lesson.”
The prime minister was stopped by the look of fanaticism in the man’s eyes. He became cautious. “Have you really had reports that the churches are aiding the rebels?”
“Of course, Your Excellency.”
There was no way of determining if the man was telling the truth. The prime minister knew how much Acoca hated the Church. But it might be good to let the Church have a taste of the whip, providing Colonel Acoca did not go too far. Prime Minister Martinez stood there thoughtfully.
It was Acoca who broke the silence. “If the churches are sheltering terrorists, then the churches must be punished.”
Reluctantly, the prime minister nodded. “Where will you start?”
“Jaime Miró and his men were seen in Ávila yesterday. They are probably hiding at the convent there.”
The prime minister made up his mind. “Search it,” he said.
That decision set off a chain of events that rocked all of Spain and shocked the world.
CHAPTER THREE
Ávila
The silence was like a gentle snowfall, soft and hushed, as soothing as the whisper of a summer wind, as quiet as the passage of stars. The Cistercian Convent of the Strict Observance lay outside the walled town of Ávila, the highest city in Spain, 112 kilometers northwest of Madrid. The convent had been built for silence. The rules had been adopted in 1601 and remained unchanged through the centuries: liturgy, spiritual exercise, strict enclosure, penance, and silence. Always the silence.
The convent was a simple four-sided group of rough stone buildings around a cloister dominated by the church. Around the central court the open arches allowed the light to pour in on the broad flagstones of the floor where the nuns glided noiselessly by. There were forty nuns at the convent, praying in the church, and living in the cloister. The convent at Ávila was one of seven left in Spain, a survivor out of hundreds that had been destroyed by the Civil War in one of the periodic anti-Church movements that took place in Spain over the centuries.
The Cistercian Convent of the Strict Observance was devoted solely to a life of prayer. It was a place without seasons or time, and those who entered were forever removed from the outside world. The Cistercian life was contemplative and penitential; the divine office was recited daily and enclosure was complete and permanent.
All the sisters dressed identically, and their clothes, like everything else in the convent, were touched by the symbolism of centuries. The capuche—the cloak and hood—symbolized innocence and simplicity; the linen tunic, the renouncement of the works of the world, and mortification; the scapular—the small squares of woolen cloth worn over the shoulders—the willingness to labor. A wimple—a covering of linen laid in plaits over the head and around the chin, sides of the face, and neck—completed the uniform.
Inside the walls of the convent was a system of internal passageways and staircases linking the dining room, the community room, the cells, and the chapel, and everywhere there was an atmosphere of cold, clean spaciousness. Thick-paned latticed windows overlooked a highwalled garden. Every window was covered with iron bars and was above the line of vision, so that there would be no outside distractions. The refectory—the dining hall—was long and austere, its windows shuttered and curtained. The candles in the ancient candlesticks cast evocative shadows on the ceilings and walls.