Fatima: The Final Secret. Juan Moisés De La Serna
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and choosing a career. She never doubted it for a moment, and of course nobody in the family was surprised, although my mother protested saying:
“Girl, that way we’re never going to get you married. Who’s going to want to be weighed down by a little know-it-all who knows so many laws?”
But everyone had assumed that it was truly what she wanted to do, and they always supported her.
Our life was simple, all things considered. Before I was born, my parents and Carmen lived in my grandparents’ house. Some houses were built; I think they said they were for civil servants. My father requested one, and he was lucky enough to be allocated one. It was a great delight for them, although my grandmother Sagrario wasn’t very happy about it. She asked how she would see her granddaughter grow up if they took her away from her, that they didn’t have to leave, that there was room for everyone in her house, which was indeed very large.
Those houses were a little outside the center of Santiago de Compostela, and of course my grandmother said:
“That’s why they’re so cheap, because no one can get there. That’s just a field for animals, not for people to live in.”
They were accustomed to always living in the heart of Santiago, right next to the cathedral, which of course has its advantages, but I’ve always wondered how they could sleep with the bells ringing every so often.
When I stayed in the house for the night every now and then, it seemed to me that they never stopped ringing. When I heard it I would think to myself, who cares what time it is in the middle of the night, when everyone is supposed to be asleep? Who was listening? Of course I don’t think anyone would be listening for the first bell, but surely everyone would hear the bell after it. Just being in those rooms we would already be lying there with our eyes wide open and then the bells; at one, at two, at three… Yes, we already knew that every night has those hours, and no it wasn’t necessary to remind us.
My grandmother found my protests amusing, but said:
“Young Manu, the bells are good company.”
I never understood. I always wanted to tell her that they were really annoying and that they sounded awful.
Shortly after being in the new house, my parents had me, according to what I’ve been told, because as you would imagine, I was too small to remember. It was an excuse for a big party. My father invited all of his colleagues and my grandparents also came with a friend. It was unusual for a son to have his own house, rented yes, but to own it? That was unheard of. Where would a young man get the money to pay for it?
We’ve been a family like so many others, very close, but also like many other Galicians, we’ve had an emigrant; my uncle Carlos, my mother’s only brother. He said one day that he was leaving and there was no way to convince him otherwise. That’s what my mother told us, when any of us asked her about why he had left.
I have a memory from those happy years of my distant childhood. When I was little, “Evita Perón,” at that time the wife of General Perón, who was the leader of Argentina, was going to come to Spain. At school they told us how after the war, she had insisted that meat be sent from her country to Spain, and it seems that thanks to that, many people were saved from starvation.
Because of their visit, they showed us where Argentina was, and I still remember those old pictures the teacher showed us. Depictions of gauchos with those big pants, mounted on their horses with their bolas in hand, those cords with the little ball at the end. Even though Don Juan, the teacher, explained to us how they used them, none of us could understand how they could hit their target from a running horse. What an aim they must have had.
He also showed us pictures of the Argentine pampas, those enormous plains without a single mountain, something that really fascinated all the children in my class, accustomed as we were to seeing mountains everywhere.
We could not imagine that there was a place without mountains and we told the teacher that surely someone had erased them from that picture.
What our teacher told us that day became etched on my memory, that it didn’t matter what you believed in, that you just had to always be a good person and think about helping others.
How did those two things relate to each other? At first I didn’t understand it, but I think it clicked in time.
That lady, being an artist, because I think she did theater, must not have been viewed very positively at that time by the Church, but in spite of that she persisted, and had helped to stave off famine for people so far from where she lived and so unknown to her.
I was remembering all of this now that I was so involved in the search for answers. Why are people compelled to perform a task, like helping others in a distant country? What would it matter to them? While others, who are nevertheless nearby, don’t bat an eyelid when they see someone at the side of the road with a problem, and they continue on with their lives as if nothing happened.
They had always taught us at home to help, to listen and, above all, not to believe ourselves to be better than others.
I remember that very well, that’s why on that long ago day when I told my mother that I was an atheist, I had also added when she had calmed down and I could continue talking:
“Mom, relax. I’ll never forget what you’ve taught me since I was little, to be good to others, but I feel that having faith is something different. I have to experiment for myself, and see things from my own point of view. I don’t know what I want, it’s something, but I don’t know what it is yet. There was a day when I was having a chat with Carmen about these matters,” I went on telling my mother, “and she told me that she’d had a discussion with Don Ignacio (our parish priest) and he’d replied that the important thing was to be a good person, regardless of your beliefs. I think that answer is very wise, I’ve always liked that priest, but since that day, I tell you I’ve liked him more. That doesn’t mean I’m going to go see him. I don’t want to be his friend or anything like that, but I liked his answer, because it coincides with my way of thinking.”
After waiting a few minutes to give her time to absorb what I’d said, I continued saying to my mother:
“Listen, one day at the university, some girls were talking. They were saying that when us boys left our parents’ house, we forgot everything, and in order to make ourselves seem tough, we would say that we didn’t believe. I interrupted them and told them that it wasn’t like that. What happened was that there came a point in our lives when we raised issues that we didn’t know how to respond to, and that lead us to distance ourselves from everything we knew, to clarify our ideas.”
“And how did they respond to you?” my mother asked me, and it seemed to me that she was interested in what I was saying.
“Nothing, they were silent, and they continued walking down the corridor, then they went into their class which was about to begin.”
“And you, what’s gotten into you that you’re now leaving me with the idea that you’re an atheist? To tell you the truth, it sounds like you’re a communist, a Russian, or I don’t know what. Of course, call it what you will, I don’t like it at all, I don’t think it’s a good thing,” she was saying a little angrily.
“Mom, they’re completely different things. A Russian is like a Spaniard, a Spaniard was born in Spain and that’s why he’s Spanish, and a Russian was born in Russia and that’s why he’s Russian. If I had been born in France, I would be French, and so on for all of us just because of the place where they were born.”
“Why do they call them communists?” she asked interrupting me.
“Look, that’s a different matter altogether, why are you Catholic?” I asked.
“What a nonsensical question, what else am I going to be?” she asked half irritated.
“Yes, you call yourself a Catholic,” I went on, “because you profess the Catholic Religion, you’ve been baptized and you go to Church.”
“And