25“IT WAS A hot afternoon. We could almost feel the heat toasting our skin, turning our hairs crisp; the dry wind was difficult to take in and this made us tipsy. We were resting under the coconut trees and exchanging jokes to distract us from the unbearable weather. Then she appeared before us, standing under one of the trees. We thought the sunlight was creating a mirage, playing tricks with our head and our eyes. It’s the Blessed Mother, said one of my men. I didn’t find anything wrong with that remark. It was after all Lent. We all made the sign of the cross—there were ten of us in my squad—and were about to venerate the woman when she gave us this confused, almost disapproving look. She began to talk. She was mumbling, in fact. As if she was afraid. How could the Mother be afraid? She
