Fatima: The Final Secret. Juan Moisés De La Serna
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them.
Santi, who had inadvertently overheard her, having passed by at just that moment to get some water, told us. I instantly had an idea and I told them:
“Let’s give them a surprise, you’ll all see, let’s take that photograph ourselves and give it to them.”
“How?” Simón asked. “That really is beyond our abilities.”
“No, listen, my father has a device for that, I’ll try to get it from him,” I was telling him, but I was already questioning it as I heard myself say it, it would be very difficult. Surely he would tell me, without even thinking about it, that he wouldn’t dream of letting me take that device.
I was thinking about it for several days, but I just couldn’t decide upon the right moment, and one afternoon while we were returning Jorge asked me:
“What about that photo you talked to us about?”
I didn’t want to tell him that I hadn’t yet dared to ask my father for it and I answered:
“I’m on it,” and as I headed home afterwards, after having said goodbye to the others, I told myself: “If it doesn’t happen today, if he says no, well, at least I tried.”
I summoned up my courage and asked my father for the camera. Of course I had to tell him what it was for. He thought about it for a few moments. I was afraid that he would say no, so I insisted:
“Dad, they’d be very excited to have a photograph of their young son.”
“Yes, you’re right son, I’d also have liked to have one of you all when you were little and that way you would all have some to remember your childhood whenever you saw them, but Manu, you have to be careful not to damage it,” he said in an apprehensive tone, “these things are very fragile.”
Then, after giving me some instructions so that the photo would turn out well, he left it in my care. I handled it with the utmost care because I did not want anything to happen to it. My father would be so dismayed if anything did, he’d only acquired it recently and he took great care of it.
With that, we took a photo of the little one. We placed him in a seated position, sitting well-behaved on the floor next to a hen, which he tried to catch and I took it right at that moment. It came out pretty nice. When my father finished up the film and the photographs were developed, even the photographer where he’d taken the film congratulated him on the photo. He said:
“Look at that, it’s difficult to get a chicken to stand still, how did you manage it?”
“I don’t know,” said my father, “my son took it, and I don’t know the child.”
“Well, congratulate your son, he has a future as a photographer,” the man said.
He smiled and told me that he’d answered:
“Well, it’s the only photograph he’s ever taken in his life.”
I believe the gentleman told him:
“Not a chance, he’ll have done it before without you knowing.”
“No, because the photographs would be here, he doesn’t have another camera,” my father argued.
He had told me all of that, and I was telling the parents of the little boy while they stared enthralled at the photo, which had been put into that little picture frame that the wife had placed on some boxes in a corner. We had taken the frame from there a while ago, and she hadn’t noticed, we had put the photo inside and then the four of us gave it to them as a farewell gift.
The father, who was on the verge of tears, told us:
“It was a pleasure,” and we laughed, so as to keep him from tearing up.
“Let’s see if from now on, it can make you happy,” Simón told him. “You see how everything has been overcome. You have to have more confidence man; life is very beautiful.”
“Well, almost everything,” he said, looking sadly at the sheet that covered him.
“Yeah, but that’s not something we can help you with that,” Simón added very seriously.
“Yes, well we can’t complain,” the woman interrupted. “Thank you for everything, we’ll never forget you.”
We all said our goodbyes. We didn’t want to extend that moment that was difficult for all of us any further. So many hours spent there, so many memories that would safely stay with us forever.
When we were returning home, commenting on the incidents that had happened to us, we said:
“We spent so much time there and we never did find out what was wrong with him, why was he always covered?”
“I know why,” said Santi.
“Tell us, tell us!” we all asked him, eager to know.
“Well, he was a blacksmith, and one day he had an accident. Some chunks of iron fell on him because the wooden shelf they were sitting on collapsed. He was so unlucky that they injured both his arms. He took little notice, but it seems that the iron was rusty. The wounds it caused developed gangrene, so his arms had to be cut off.”
“Oh, is that why he was always covered up to his neck?” asked Jorge. “It did seem odd to me.”
“Come on you idiot! Didn’t you notice that the bedding was flat where his arms should have been?” asked Simón.
“Yeah, but I didn’t think much of it, I thought maybe it was his legs that were bad. Hey, and how come you know that?” he asked Santi looking at him.
“Listen, do you remember that day when we had to break down the wall that connected the new room to the old one? I overheard the woman when she worriedly said:
‘But honey, they’ll have to find out, they’ll help you, I surely can’t do it alone.’”
“‘No, please,’ I heard him say, crying. ‘Please help me on your own, please don’t let them see me like this.’”
“On impulse, I walked in and told them:
‘I’m here to help you for whatever you need.’”
“He was uncovered and I saw him lying there without his arms. The woman rushed to cover him right away, but when she saw that I’d seen him, she told me:
‘Please don’t tell the others, I couldn’t bear to see their faces full of pity, watching me,’ and two big tears ran down her cheeks.”
“‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘keep calm, now I can help you,’ and before anyone could protest, I was uncovering him, and helping him to get up.”
“I put him in a chair in that corner, where he could be sure that no rubble would fall from the wall when we made the hole, and I wrapped him up properly with a blanket so that he wouldn’t get cold, and also so that if you guys came in, you wouldn’t see.”
“The woman was watching me, it seemed that she couldn’t believe what was happening, I’d caught her off guard and all she could say was:
‘Thank you! Thank you! Are you okay, honey?’ She looked at him with such tenderness.”
“He was sobbing the entire time and I asked him:
‘Am I hurting you?’”
“He shook his head, because the words wouldn’t come out. He let me do this to him, and once he was sitting in that corner, he said softly:
‘Thank you son, God will bless you for it.’”
“I tried to smile to calm him down and said:
‘Come on, it was nothing.’ Then I grabbed the straw mattress and pulled it out so that it wouldn’t get in the way, and in turn so that the rubble from the wall wouldn’t fall onto it.”
“When