He was in
perfect health at the beginning of the battle. He knew that this was so
from a friend who had conversed with him . . . and he did not wish to
talk further about him.
Dona Luisa was spending a part of each day in the churches, trying to
quiet her uneasiness with prayer. These petitions were no longer vague
and generous for the fate of millions of unknown men, for the victory of
an entire people. With maternal self-centredness they were focussed
on one single person--her son, who was a soldier like the others, and
perhaps at this very moment was exposed to the greatest danger. The
tears that he had cost her! . . . She had implored that he and his
father might come to understand each other, and finally just as God was
miraculously granting her supplication, Julio had taken himself off to
the field of death.
Her entreaties never went alone to the throne of grace. Someone was
praying near her, formulating identical requests. The tearful eyes of
her sister were raised at the same time as hers to the figure of the
crucified Savior. "Lord, save my son!" . . . When uttering these words,
Dona Luisa always saw Julio as he looked in a pale photograph which he
had sent his father from the trenches--with kepis and military cloak, a
gun in his right hand, and his face shadowed by a growing beard. "O
Lord have mercy upon us!" .
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