“Let us in! In the name of Jesus, open up!”
“What’s going on?” cried Jaime’s father.
“The priests have locked the church. They won’t let us in.”
“Let’s break the door in!”
“No!”
Jaime looked at his father in surprise.
“We don’t break into God’s house,” his father said. “He will protect us wherever we are.”
Too late, they saw the squad of Falangists appear from around the corner and open machine-gun fire on them, mowing down the unarmed crowd of men, women, and children in the square. Even as Jaime’s father felt the bullets tear into him, he grabbed his son and pushed him down to safety, his own body shielding Jaime from the deadly hail of bullets.
An eerie silence seemed to blanket the world after the attack. The sounds of guns and running feet and screams vanished, a trick of magic. Jaime opened his eyes and lay there for a long time, feeling the weight of his father’s body on him like a loving blanket. His father and mother and sisters were dead, along with hundreds of others. And in front of their bodies were the locked doors of the church.
Late that night, Jaime made his way out of the city, and two days later when he reached Bilbao, he joined ETA.
The recruiting officer had looked at him and said, “You’re too young to join, son. You should be in school.”
“You’re going to be my school,” Jaime Miró said quietly. “You’re going to teach me how to fight to avenge the murder of my family.”
He never looked back. He was battling for himself and for his family, and his exploits became legendary. Jaime planned and executed daring raids against factories and banks, and carried out the executions of the oppressors. When any of his men were captured, he conducted daredevil missions to rescue them.
When Jaime heard about the GOE being formed to pursue Basques, he smiled and said, “Good. They’ve noticed.”
He never asked himself if the risks he took had anything to do with the cries of “Your father is a coward,” or if he was trying to prove anything to himself and to others. It was enough that he proved his bravery again and again, that he was not afraid to risk his life for what he believed in.
Now, because one of his men had talked too freely, Jaime found himself saddled with a nun.
It’s ironic that her Church is on our side now. But it’s much too late, unless they can arrange a Second Coming and include my mother and father and sisters, he thought bitterly.
They walked through the woods at night, the white moonlight dappling the forest around them. They avoided the towns and main roads, alert for any sign of danger. Jaime ignored Megan. He walked with Felix, talking about past adventures, and Megan found herself intrigued. She had never known anyone like Jaime Miró. He was filled with such self-assurance.
If anyone can get me to Mendavia, Megan thought, this man can.
There had been moments when Jaime had felt pity for the sister, and even a reluctant admiration for the way she handled herself on the arduous journey. He wondered how the other men were getting along with their charges from God.
At least he had Amparo Jirón. At night Jaime found her a great comfort.
She’s as dedicated as I am, Jaime thought. She has even more reason than I do to hate the government
Amparo’s entire family had been wiped out by the Nationalist Army. She was fiercely independent, and filled with a deep passion.
At dawn they were nearing Salamanca, on the banks of the Tonnes River.
“Students come here from all over Spain,” Felix explained to Megan, “to attend the university. It’s probably the best in all of Spain.”
Jaime was not listening. He was concentrating on his next move. If I were the hunter, where would I set my trap?
He turned to Felix. “We’ll skip Salamanca. There’s a parador just outside town. We will stop there.”
The parador was a small inn set away from the mainstream of tourist traffic. Stone steps led to the lobby, which was guarded by an ancient knight in armor.