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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 1970's; 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 Sebastián 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