The Sands of Time

It was during the war that Acoca had been sent for by a member of the OPUS MUNDO.

‘I want you to understand that we’re speaking to you with the permission of General Franco.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ve been watching you, Colonel. We are pleased with what we see.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘From time to time we have certain assignments that are – shall we say – very confidential. And very dangerous.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘We have many enemies. People who don’t understand the importance of the work we’re doing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sometimes they interfere with us. We can’t permit that to happen.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I believe we could use a man like you, Colonel. I think we understand each other.’

‘Yes, sir. I’d be honoured to be of service.’

‘We would like you to remain in the army. That will be valuable to us. But from time to time, we will have you assigned to these special projects.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You are never to speak of this.’

‘No, sir.’

The man behind the desk had made Acoca nervous. There was something overpoweringly frightening about him.

In time, Colonel Acoca was called upon to handle half a dozen assignments for the OPUS MUNDO. As he had been told, they were all dangerous. And very confidential.

On one of the missions Acoca had met a lovely young girl from a fine family. Up to then, all of his women had been whores or camp followers, and Acoca had treated them with savage contempt. Some of the women had genuinely fallen in love with him, attracted by his strength. He reserved the worst treatment for them.

But Susana Cerredilla belonged to a different world. Her father was a professor at Madrid University, and Susana’s mother was a lawyer. Susana was seventeen years old, and she had the body of a woman and the angelic face of a Madonna. Ramón Acoca had never met anyone like this woman-child. Her gentle vulnerability brought out in him a tenderness he had not known he was capable of. He fell madly in love with her, and for reasons which neither her parents nor Acoca understood, she fell in love with him.

On their honeymoon, it was as though Acoca had never known another woman. He had known lust, but the combination of love and passion was something he had never previously experienced.

Three months after they were married, Susana informed him that she was pregnant. Acoca was wildly excited. To add to their joy, he was assigned to the beautiful little village of Castilbanca, in the Basque country. It was in the autumn of 1936 when the fighting between the Republicans and Nationalists was at its fiercest.

On a peaceful Sunday morning, Ramón Acoca and his bride were having coffee in the village plaza when the square suddenly filled with Basque demonstrators.

‘I want you to go home,’ Acoca said. ‘There’s going to be trouble.’

‘But you –?’

‘Please. I’ll be all right.’

The demonstrators were beginning to get out of hand.

With relief, Ramón Acoca watched his bride walk away from the crowd towards a convent at the far end of the square. And as she reached it, the door to the convent suddenly swung open and armed Basques who had been hiding inside, swarmed out with blazing guns. Acoca had watched helplessly as his wife went down in a hail of bullets, and it was on that day that he had sworn vengeance on the Basques. The Church had also been responsible.

And now he was in Ávila, outside another convent. This time they’ll die.

Inside the convent, in the dark before dawn, Sister Teresa held the Discipline tightly in her right hand and whipped it hard across her body, feeling the knotted tails slashing into her as she silently recited the Miserere. She almost screamed aloud, but noise was not permitted, and she kept the screams inside her. Forgive me, Jesus, for my sins. Bear witness that I punish myself, as you were punished, and I inflict wounds upon myself, as wounds were inflicted upon you. Let me suffer, as you suffered.

She was near fainting from the pain. Three more times she flagellated herself and then sank, agonized, upon her cot. She had not drawn blood. That was forbidden. Wincing against the agony that each movement brought, Sister Teresa returned the whip to its black case and rested it in a corner. It was always there, a constant reminder that the slightest sin had to be paid for with pain.

Sister Teresa’s transgression had happened that morning as she was rounding the corner of a corridor, eyes down, and bumped into Sister Graciela. Startled, Sister Teresa had looked into Sister Graciela’s face. Sister Teresa had immediately reported her infraction and the Reverend Mother Betina had frowned disapprovingly and made the sign of discipline, moving her right hand three times from shoulder to shoulder, her hand closed as though holding a whip, the tip of her thumb held against the inside of her forefinger.

Lying on her cot that night, Sister Teresa had been unable to get out of her mind the extraordinarily beautiful face of the young girl she had gazed at. Sister Teresa knew that as long as she lived she would never speak to her and would never even look at her again, for the slightest sign of intimacy between nuns was severely punished. In an atmosphere of rigid moral and physical austerity, no relationships of any kind were allowed to develop. If two sisters worked side by side and seemed to enjoy each other’s silent company, the Reverend Mother would immediately have them separated. Nor were the sisters permitted to sit next to the same person at table twice in a row. The church delicately called the attraction of one nun to another ‘a particular friendship’, and the penalty was swift and severe. Sister Teresa had served her punishment for breaking the rule.

Now the tolling bell came to Sister Teresa as though from a great distance. It was the voice of God, reproving her.

In the next cell, the sound of the bell rang through the corridors of Sister Graciela’s dreams, and the pealing of the bell was mingled with the lubricious creak of bedsprings. The Moor was moving towards her, naked, his manhood tumescent, his hands reaching out to grab her. Sister Graciela opened her eyes, instantly awake, her heart pounding frantically. She looked around, terrified, but she was alone in her tiny cell and the only sound was the reassuring tolling of the bell.

Sister Graciela knelt at the side of her cot. Jesus, thank You for delivering me from the past. Thank You for the joy I have in being here in Your light. Let me glory only in the happiness of Your being. Help me, my Beloved, to be true to the call You have given me. Help me to ease the sorrow of Your sacred heart.

Sister Graciela rose and carefully made her bed, then joined the procession of her sisters as they moved silently towards the chapel for Matins. She could smell the familiar scent of burning candles and feel the worn stones beneath her sandalled feet.

In the beginning when Sister Graciela had first entered the convent, she had not understood it when the Mother Prioress had told her that a nun was a woman who gave up everything in order to possess everything. Sister Graciela had been fourteen years old then. Now, seventeen years later, it was clear to her. In contemplation she possessed everything, for contemplation was the mind replying to the soul, the waters of Siloh that flowed in silence. Her days were filled with a wonderful peace.

Thank You for letting me forget the terrible past, Father. Thank You for standing beside me. I couldn’t face my terrible past without you … Thank You … Thank You …

When 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, Colonel 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 Jaime 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, Megan 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. ‘Ssh! 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, 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 Sister Betina away and turned to Patricio Arrieta, one of his lieutenants. ‘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. To Megan the scene was like a film 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 their own back. The nuns’ strength and silence made the men more furious than ever.

As Acoca passed one of the cells, a scream echoed from it. Acoca looked in and saw one of his men ripping the habit from a nun. Acoca 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 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 centre 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, the Colonel’s key aide, 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 that the convent had. She hurried over to Sister Teresa and whispered, ‘I have a task for you. Remove the gold cross from the chapel and take it to the convent at Mendavia. You must get it away from here. Hurry!’

Sister Teresa was shaking so hard that her wimple fluttered in waves. She stared at the Reverend Mother, paralyzed. Sister Teresa had spent the last thirty years of her life in the convent. The thought of leaving it was beyond imagining. She raised her hand and signed, I can’t.

The Reverend Mother was frantic. ‘The cross must not fall into the hands of these men of Satan. Now do this for Jesus.’

A light came into Sister Teresa’s eyes. She stood very tall. She signed, for Jesus. She turned and hurried towards the chapel.

Sister Graciela approached the group, staring in wonder at the wild confusion around her.

The men were getting more and more violent, smashing everything in sight. Colonal Acoca watched them, approvingly.

Lucia turned to Megan and Graciela. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I’m getting out of here. Are you coming?’

They stared at her, too dazed to respond.

Sister Teresa was hurrying towards them, carrying something wrapped in a piece of canvas. Some of the men were herding more nuns into the refectory.

‘Come on,’ Lucia said.

Sisters Teresa, Megan and Graciela hesitated for a moment, then followed Lucia towards the front door. As they turned at the end of the long corridor, they could see that the huge door had been smashed in.

A man suddenly appeared in front of them. ‘Going somewhere, ladies? Get back. My friends have plans for you.’

Lucia said, ‘We have a gift for you.’ She picked up one of the heavy metal candlesticks that lined the hallway tables and smiled.

The man was looking at it, puzzled. ‘What can you do with that?’

‘This.’ Lucia swung the candelabra against his head, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

The three nuns stared in horror.

‘Move!’ Lucia said.

A moment later Lucia, Megan, Graciela and Teresa were outside in the front courtyard, hurrying through the gate into the starry night.

Lucia stopped. ‘I’m leaving you. They’re going to be searching for you, so you’d better get away from here.’

She turned and started towards the mountains that rose in the distance, high above the convent. I’ll hide out up there until the search cools off and then I’ll head for Switzerland. Of all the rotten luck. Those bastards blew a perfect cover.

As Lucia made her way towards higher ground, she glanced down. From her vantage point she could see the three sisters. Incredibly, they were still standing in front of the convent gate, like three black-clad statues. For God’s sake, she thought. Get going before they catch you. Move!

They could not move. It was as though all their senses had been paralyzed for so long that they were unable to take in what was happening to them. The nuns stared down at their feet. They were so dazed they could not think. They had been cloistered for so long behind the gates of God, secluded from the world, that now that they were outside the protective gates, they were filled with feelings of confusion and panic. They had no idea where to go or what to do. Inside, their lives had been organized for them. They had been fed, clothed, told what to do and when to do it. They had lived by the Rule. Suddenly there was no Rule. What did God want from them? What was His plan? They stood huddled together, afraid to speak, afraid to look at one another.

Hesitantly, Sister Teresa pointed to the lights of Ávila in the distance and signed, that way. Uncertainly, they began to move towards the town.

Watching them from the hills above, Lucia thought: No, you idiots! That’s the first place they’ll look for you. Well, that’s your problem. I have my own problems. She stood there for a moment, watching them walk towards their doom, going to their slaughter. Shit.

Lucia scrambled down the hill, stumbling over the loose scree, and ran after them, her cumbersome habit slowing her down. ‘Wait a minute,’ she called. ‘Stop!’

The sisters stopped and turned.

Lucia hurried up to them, out of breath. ‘You’re going the wrong way. The first place they’ll search for you is in town. You’ve got to hide out somewhere.’

The three sisters stared at her in silence.

Lucia said impatiently, ‘The mountains. Get up to the mountains. Follow me.’

She turned and started back towards the mountains. The others watched, and after a moment, they began to trail after her, one by one.

From time to time Lucia looked back to make sure they were following. Why can’t I mind my own business? she thought. They’re not my responsibility. It’s more dangerous if we’re all together. She kept climbing, making sure they stayed in sight.

The others were having a difficult time of it, and every time they slowed down, Lucia stopped to let them catch up with her. I’ll get rid of them in the morning.

‘Let’s move faster,’ Lucia called.

At the Abbey, the raid had come to an end. The dazed nuns, their habits wrinkled and bloodstained, were being rounded up and put into unmarked, closed trucks.

‘Take them back to my headquarters in Madrid,’ Colonel Acoca ordered. ‘Keep them in isolation.’

‘What charge –?’

‘Harbouring terrorists.’

‘Yes, Colonel,’ Patricio Arrieta said. He hesitated. ‘Four of the nuns are missing.’

Colonel Acoca’s eyes turned cold. ‘Find them.’

Colonel Acoca flew back to Madrid to report to the Prime Minister. ‘Jaime Miró escaped before we reached the convent.’

Prime Minister Martinez nodded. ‘Yes, I heard.’ And he wondered whether Jaime Miró had ever been in the convent to begin with. There was no doubt about it. Colonel Acoca was getting dangerously out of control. There had been angry protests about the brutal attack on the convent. The Prime Minister chose his words carefully, ‘The newspapers have been hounding me about what happened.’

‘The newspapers are making a hero of this terrorist,’ Acoca said, stone faced. ‘We must not let them pressure us.’

‘He’s causing the government a great deal of embarrassment, Colonel. And those four nuns – if they talk –’

‘Don’t worry. They can’t get far. I’ll catch them and I’ll find Miró.’

The Prime Minister had already decided that he could not afford to take any more chances. ‘Colonel, I want you to be sure the thirty-six nuns you have are well-treated, and I’m ordering the army to join the search for Miró and the others. You’ll work with Colonel Sostelo.’

There was a long, dangerous pause. ‘Which one of us will be in charge of the operation?’ Acoca’s eyes were icy.

The Prime Minister swallowed. ‘You will be, of course.’

Lucia and the three sisters travelled through the early dawn, moving north-east into the mountains, heading away from Ávila and the convent. The nuns, used to moving in silence, made little noise. The only sounds were the rustle of their robes, the clicking of their rosaries, an occasional snapping twig, and their gasps for breath as they climbed higher and higher.

They reached a plateau of the Guadarrama mountains and walked along a rutted road bordered by stone walls. They passed fields with sheep and goats. By sunrise they had covered several miles and found themselves in a wooded area outside the small village of Villacastin.

I’ll leave them here, Lucia decided. Their God can take care of them now. He certainly took great care of me, she thought bitterly. Switzerland is farther away than ever. I have no money and no passport, and I’m dressed like an undertaker. By now those men know we’ve escaped. They’ll keep looking until they find us. The sooner I get away by myself, the better.

But at that instant, something happened that made her change her plans.

Sister Teresa was moving through the trees when she stumbled and the package she had been so carefully guarding fell to the ground. It spilled out of its canvas wrapping and Lucia found herself staring at a large, exquisitely wrought gold cross glowing in the rays of the rising sun.

That’s real gold, Lucia thought. Someone up there is looking after me. That cross is manna. Sheer manna. It’s my ticket to Switzerland.

Lucia watched as Sister Teresa picked up the cross and carefully put it back in its wrapping. Lucia smiled to herself. It was going to be easy to take it. These nuns would do anything she told them.

The town of Ávila was in an uproar. News of the attack on the convent had spread quickly, and Father Berrendo was elected to confront Colonel Acoca. The priest was in his seventies, with an outward frailty that belied his inner strength. He was a warm and understanding shepherd to his parishioners. But at the moment he was filled with a cold fury.

Colonel Acoca kept him waiting for an hour, then allowed the priest to be shown into his office.

Father Berrendo said without preamble, ‘You and your men attacked a convent without provocation. It was an act of madness.’

‘We were simply doing our duty,’ the Colonel said curtly. The Abbey was sheltering Jaime Miró and his band of murderers, so the sisters brought this on themselves. We’re holding them for questioning.’

‘Did you find Jaime Miró in the Abbey?’ the priest demanded angrily.

Colonel Acoca said smoothly, ‘No. He and his men escaped before we got there. But we’ll find them, and justice will be done.’

My justice, Colonel Acoca thought savagely.

Chapter Five

The nuns travelled slowly. Their garb was ill-designed for the rugged terrain. Their sandals were too thin to protect their feet against the stony ground, and their habits caught on everything. Sister Teresa found she could not even say her rosary. She needed both hands to keep the branches from snapping in her face.

In the light of day, freedom seemed even more terrifying than before. God had cast the sisters out of Eden into a strange, frightening world, and His guidance that they had leaned on for so long was gone. They found themselves in an uncharted country with no map and no compass. The walls that had protected them from harm for so long had vanished and they felt naked and exposed. Danger was everywhere, and they no longer had a place of refuge. They were aliens. The unaccustomed sights and sounds of the country were dazzling. There were insects and bird songs and hot, blue skies assaulting the senses. And there was something else that was disturbing.

When they first fled the convent, Teresa, Graciela and Megan had carefully avoided looking at one another, instinctively keeping to the rules. But now, each found herself avidly studying the faces of the others. Also, after all the years of silence, they found it difficult to speak, and when they did speak, their words were halting, as though they were learning a strange new skill. Their voices sounded strange in their ears. Only Lucia seemed uninhibited and sure of herself, and the others automatically turned to her for leadership.

‘We might as well introduce ourselves,’ Lucia said. ‘I’m Sister Lucia.’

There was an awkward pause, and Graciela said shyly, I’m Sister Graciela.’

The dark-haired, arrestingly beautiful one.

‘I’m Sister Megan.’

The young blonde with the striking blue eyes.

I’m Sister Teresa.’

The eldest of the group. Fifty? Sixty?

As they lay in the woods resting outside of the village, Lucia thought: They’re like newborn birds fallen out of their nests. They won’t last five minutes on their own. Well, too bad for them. I’ll be on my way to Switzerland with the cross.

Lucia walked to the edge of the clearing they were in and peered through the trees towards the little village below. A few people were walking along the street, but there was no sign of the men who had raided the convent. Now, Lucia thought. Here’s my chance.

She turned to the others. ‘I’m going down to the village to try to get us some food. You wait here.’ She nodded towards Sister Teresa. ‘You come with me.’

Sister Teresa was confused. For thirty years she had obeyed only the orders of Reverend Mother Betina and now suddenly this sister had taken charge. But what is happening is God’s will, Sister Teresa thought. He has appointed her to help us, so she speaks with His voice. ‘I must get this cross to the convent at Mendavia as soon as possible.’