Balance of Power

TWENTY-FOUR

Sleepy San Sebastián had been roughly awakened by the sounds of gunfire at the factory.

Father Norberto had remained at his brother’s apartment long after the police had come for his body. He had stayed there, kneeling on the hardwood floor, to pray for Adolfo’s soul. But when Father Norberto heard the gunfire, followed by the cries of people in the street and shouts of “la fábrica!”—“the factory!” —he headed directly back to the church.

As Norberto neared St. Ignatius he looked across the long, low field. He could see the helicopters hovering over the factory in the distance. But there was no time to wonder about them. The church was already filling with mothers and young children as well as the elderly. Soon the fishermen would arrive, returning to shore to make certain their families were safe. He had to attend to these people, not to his own wounds.

Norberto’s arrival was heralded by the relieved cries of the people outside the church and thanks to God. For a moment — a brief, soul-touching moment — the priest felt the same love and compassion for the poor that the Son of Man Himself must have felt. It didn’t alleviate his pain. But it did give him renewed strength and purpose.

The first thing Father Norberto did upon arriving was to smile and speak softly. Speaking softly made the people quiet down. It forced them to control their fear. He got everyone inside and into pews. Then, as Norberto lit the candles beside the pulpit, he asked white-haired “Grandfather” José if he would usher newcomers inside in an orderly fashion. The former salvage ship captain, a pious Catholic, accepted the task humbly, his gray eyes gleaming.

When the candles were lit and the church was awash with their comforting glow, the priest went to the altar. He used it to steady himself for just a moment. Then he led the congregation through Mass, hoping that they would take comfort as much in the familiar ritual as in the presence of God. Norberto hoped that he, too, would find solace there. But as he proceeded through the Liturgy of the Word, he found little for himself. The only consolation he had was the fact that he was giving comfort to others.

When Father Norberto finished the service, he turned to the uneasy crowd, which was already over one hundred strong. The heat of their bodies and their fear filled the small, dark church. The smell of the sea air came through the open door. It inspired Father Norberto to speak to the crowd from Matthew.

In a loud and strong voice he read for the parishioners. “ ‘And He saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was great calm.’ ”

The words of the Gospel, along with the need of the people, gave strength to the priest. Even after the gunfire had stopped, more and more of them came into the church seeking comfort amidst the confusion.

Father Norberto didn’t hear the telephone ringing in the rectory. However, Grandfather José did. The elderly man answered it and then came running up to the priest.

“Father!” José whispered excitedly into his ear. “Father, quickly — you must come!”

“What is it?” Norberto asked.

“It is an aide to General Superior González in Madrid!” José declared. “He wishes to speak with you.”

Norberto regarded José for a moment. “Are you certain he wants to talk to me?”

José nodded vigorously. Puzzled, Norberto went to the pulpit and collected his Bible. He handed it to the elder member of the church and asked him to read to the congregation more from Matthew until his return. Then Norberto left quickly, wondering what the leader of the Spanish Jesuits wanted with him.

Norberto shut the door of the rectory and sat at his old oak desk. He rubbed his hands together and then picked up the phone.

The caller was Father Francisco. The young priest had phoned to inform Norberto that his presence was required — not requested, but required—in Madrid as soon as he could get there.

“For what reason?” Norberto asked. It should have been enough that General Superior González wanted him. González reported directly to the Pope and his word carried the authority of the Vatican. But when it came to matters involving this province and its five thousand Jesuits, González usually consulted his old friend Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao. Which was the way Norberto preferred it. He cared about ministering to his parish, not his own advancement.

“1 can only say that he asked for you and several others specifically,” Father Francisco replied.

“Has Father Iglesias been sent for?”

“He is not on my list,” the caller replied. “An airplane has been arranged for you at eight-thirty A.M. It is the General Superior’s private airplane. Can I tell him that you will be on it?”

“If I’m so ordered,” Norberto said.

“It is the General Superior’s wish,” Father Francisco gently corrected him.

When it came to ecclesiastic euphemisms, Norberto knew that that was the same thing. The priest said he would be there. The caller thanked him perfunctorily and hung up. Norberto returned to the church.

He took the Bible from Grandfather José and continued reading to the congregation from Matthew. But while the words came, warm and familiar, Father Norberto’s heart and mind were elsewhere. They were with his brother and with his congregation. Most of the members were here now, cramming the pews and standing shoulder to shoulder along the three walls. Norberto had to decide who would help the people through the day and night. This would be especially important if friends or relatives had been lost at the factory — and if the fighting were only the start of something terrible. From the way Adolfo had been speaking the night before, the strife was just beginning.

When a calm had come over the congregation — after seven years, Norberto could sense these things — he closed the Bible and spoke to them in general terms about the sorrows and dangers that might lie ahead. He asked them to open their homes and hearts to those who had suffered a loss. Then he told them that he must go to Madrid to confer with the General Superior about the crisis that was facing their nation. He said he would be leaving later that morning.

The congregation was silent after he made his announcement. He knew that the people were never surprised when they were abandoned by the government. That had been true when he was growing up during the Franco years; it had been true during the rape of the coastal seas during the 1970s; and from all appearances it was true now. But for Father Norberto to be leaving them at a time of crisis had to come as a shock.

“Father Norberto, we need you,” said a young woman in the first row.

“Dear Isabella,” Norberto said, “it is not my desire to go. It is the General Superior’s wish.”

“But my brother works at the factory,” Isabella continued, “and we have not heard from him. I’m frightened.”

Norberto walked toward the woman. He saw the pain and fear in her eyes as he approached. He forced himself to smile.

“Isabella, I know what you are feeling,” he said. “I know because I lost a brother today.”

The young woman’s eyes registered shock. “Father—”

Norberto’s smile remained firm, reassuring. “My dear Adolfo was killed this morning. It is my hope that by going to Madrid I can help the General Superior end whatever is happening in Spain. I want no more brothers to die, no more fathers or sons or husbands.” He touched Isabella’s cheek. “Can you — will you — be strong for me?”

Isabella touched his hand. Her fingers were trembling and there were tears in her eyes. “I–I did not know about Dolfo,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. I will try to be strong.”

“Try to be strong for yourself, not for me,” Norberto said. He looked up at the fearful eyes of the young and old. “I need all of you to be strong, to help one another.” Then he turned to Grandfather José, who was standing in the crowd along the wall. He asked the old sailor if he would remain at the church as a “caretaker priest” until his return, reading from the Bible and talking to people about their fears. He had come up with the term on the spot and José liked it. Grandfather José bowed his head and accepted gratefully and humbly. Norberto thanked him and then turned to his beloved congregation.

“We face difficult times,” he said to the people. “But wherever I may be, whether in San Sebastían or in Madrid, we’ll face them together — with faith, hope, and courage.”

“Amen, Father,” Isabella said in a strong voice.

The congregation echoed her words, as though one great voice were filling the church. Though Norberto was still smiling, tears spilled from his eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness but of pride. Here before him was something the generals and politicians would never obtain, however much blood they spilled: the trust and love of good people. Looking at their faces, Norberto told himself that Adolfo had not died in vain. His death had helped to bring the congregation together, to give the people strength.

Norberto left the church amidst the good wishes and prayers of the parishioners. As he stepped into the warm daylight and headed toward the rectory, he could not help but think how amused Adolfo would have been by what had just happened. That it had been he, a disbeliever, and not Norberto who had inspired and unified a frightened congregation.

Norberto wondered if God had provided this sanctifying grace as a means for Adolfo to overcome his mortal sin. The priest had no reason to believe that, no theological precedent. But as this morning had proved, hope was a powerful beacon.

Perhaps, he thought, that’s because sometimes hope is the only beacon.