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MAMA !
WHY DID YOU KILL US
(Part III by Fr. D. Mondrone)
"Then I am insane?"
"It is not my place to say; but I would advise you to see a good
doctor. A psychiatrist would be advisable."
"Such as?"
He mentioned a well-known name.
"Meanwhile, why don't you go to Confession so as to receive the grace
of God?"
"Now, Father, I just cannot . . ." I almost ran out of the
confessional and out of the little church.
It was still dark outside. I was walking like a woman of the street.
Some lonely pedestrians eyed me suspiciously. It was evident that I was
tired and was walking aimlessly. At the corner a policeman, in a matter
of fact way, asked me what I was looking for.
"Where can I find a restaurant, please?"
"Just a few doors to your right." I followed his directions. The
proprietor was just opening up. "Espresso with cream."
"The espresso machine isn't ready yet; just have a seat for a few
minutes."
I sat in a comer which seemed to be sufficiently out of sight. It
worked the other way and drew attention to me as soon as the customers
began to come in.
"Women who work at night . . ." I heard the proprietor whisper to a
tall, bald-headed man who seemed ready for some fun. I felt like
slapping their faces. I could hardly wait for the tall man to leave.
Instead, after drinking his coffee, he came straight to me with the
evident intention of starting a conversation.
"May I sit here. Miss?"
"I would like you to know that I am a 'Mrs.' and would like to be
left alone."
"May I help you in some way?"
"Yes, by going away and leaving me in peace."
"You must be very tired—perhaps from some great sorrow or too much
work; one or the other."
To get rid of him, since he had malicious suspicions about me, I
answered quickly: "I am in great distress: because of a false accusation
my husband has been arrested and is in confinement."
At these words the man became perceptibly serious and sympathetic. He
took a seat across from me.
"When did this happen?"
"Eight or ten days ago."
"Could you tell me where they sent him?"
"What would be the use?"
"I might be able to help you: I have some good friends in the Party.
What's your husband's name?"
I told him, but with open distrust.
"Why I know him! We worked together for about three years."
The details he gave me were quite accurate.
"Madam, I am very sorry that this has happened. I hope that I can do
something for you.
Perhaps I'll be able to let you know something even today. Give me
your address. Would you rather I wrote to you, or may I come in person?"
"Whatever you prefer, as long as you can get me some information."
I gave him my address at once, and he left immediately.
That same evening, while I was examining some of my husband's papers,
the door bell rang. It was the man I had met at the luncheonette that
morning. He looked as if he had bad news.
"Well, tell me the bad news right away."
He was amazed: "How did you know? . . . Did they notify you already?
. . . How come?"
"No one has told me anything. Sir," I replied, inviting him to sit
down.
"Then how did you know I had bad news?"
"A premonition"
"The word came just a little while ago. Did your husband have heart
trouble?"
"Yes, slightly, for some years."
"He died of a heart attack. Madam."
"When, at what time?"
"Last night"
I must have fainted, stricken by that confirmation and even more by
the dismay in realizing that those mysterious beings had made the
announcement to me at the very moment that my husband was dying.
"I am afraid I'm losing my mind!" That is all I had the strength to
cry out. I didn't see or know anything else after that.
When I recovered consciousness, I was undressed and in bed, my
daughter was sleeping near me wrapped in a blanket and at my side was a
Sister, who was a nurse. She had been called in that same night.
"How do you feel, Madam?"
My throat was constricted, so that I could not speak.
"Do you want a cordial? Try it; you will feel better" She took my
silence for assent. After swallowing it, I vomited violently.
"Tell me what the trouble is, Mother!" said my daughter, who had
awakened and thrown her arms around me.
I realized that she didn't know as yet about her father's death. With
a sign I signaled silence from the others.
After the nausea had passed, I felt better. I looked at the clock; it
was five in the morning.
"It was nothing, dear. Yesterday I was a little tired and I just had
a fainting spell. Don't worry. I'll get up a little later; but I feel
much better already. Now go and get some sleep in your own room. Don't
say no. The Sister will stay with me."
As soon as she had gone and the door of her room was closed, I asked:
"Sister, how long have you been here?"
"I was called right after you had the spell. They told me what
happened, so I advised them to say nothing to the young lady. In fact, I
think you should tell her yourself—my poor dear."
"Thank you; thank you with all my heart! But what of the voices I
thought I heard in my sleep? They were calling me."
"It was just a spell. Madam. Surely your daughter didn't call you,
for she never stirred, once she fell asleep."
I could have sworn that I heard those voices calling clearly, and
very close to me, as during the previous nights.
Later the Sister woke the housekeeper and asked if she could leave.
"I don't think you require my presence anymore. What you need is a
great deal of strength from the Lord. I shall pray for you. It was,
indeed, a cruel blow. I am sure that your husband is praying for you
right now. They say he was such a good man. Have courage! Our Lord will
not abandon you."
I listened as if in a stupor. When she said goodbye to me, I
responded with a faint nod and a vacant stare.
About ten o'clock I had strength enough to get up. After a good
cup of coffee, I even felt that I could go out, in spite of the
remonstrances of my daughter and the housekeeper.
I told them that I had to go. I went to the convent nearby, and asked
for the chaplain. I told him the whole story: the voices I had heard
again, what I had seen, what they had said and how it proved to be true.
"And now, before going to the doctor, I am here to see you. Tell me,
please, what I should think. How should I behave toward these phenomena?
If I go straight to the doctor, you know, he'll think me insane and
nothing will keep me from an asylum. At very least he'll think I have
hallucinations."
"To tell you the truth, my daughter, I don't know what to think. It
may be a warning from God; it could be a phenomenon of telepathy."
"But has God ever permitted beings from the other side to appear and
deliver a message to us on this side?"
"He has, my daughter, I think I already told you that. It is within
the realm of possibility. But in your case, I would prefer the help of a
physician.
The name I gave you seems to be the one you need. Now, won't you make
your peace with God through a good Confession? This is the time you
should feel the need of it. Try above all to merit the dear Lord's
help."
"They, too, told me that when they urged me to pray," I blurted out.
"And what does this show? What do we know about the ways of the Lord?
Could He not be using all this to draw to Him a soul who is in need of
His mercy?"
"Why should God care about the salvation of my soul after I took
seven away from Him? Can you prove to me that I can be forgiven?"
This outburst of mine must have been a very strange and painful
experience for the priest; but it proved to be Providential. While
before he had seemed quite cold and almost without feeling and perhaps
not too interested in my case, now his attitude changed. He found
himself called upon to defend God's infinite and inexhaustible Mercy
against one who never had had a true concept of it and who was on the
brink of despair.
A sort of lengthy sermon followed to which I listened willingly and
which did me good then and later on during certain periods full of
sorrow when that horrible temptation reappeared. He ended by saying
something that I would have never believed before:
"Put on one scale of the balance all your past sins, and on the other
this one sin of despair into which you are about to fall; God would be
hurt more by this one sin, which strikes straight at His Heart, than by
all the others."
Quite overcome by such touching and convincing language, I told him
that I would be glad to make my Confession.
"But how can I tell such a sad story?"
"Nothing is easier if you have good will. I am here to help you."
It would not be enough to say that the Father got out of me all I had
to say. He helped me to reveal even the most forgotten details regarding
certain sins. I had the feeling that he was inspired from above. In
placing myself in his hands, I felt a new and deep relief. Each
revelation was like a load falling from my soul. At the end I felt that
I was reborn—and I wept.
"Of course your past has been very sad, my poor daughter, but see how
good the Lord has been to you. Instead of getting tired. He has been
waiting for you with infinite patience. He wanted to make you an example
of His mercy, and the strong feeling you have of not deserving it is a
proof that you have made a good Confession. I assure you with my
priestly authority: God has forgiven you everything. Do not dwell on the
past except to thank God and to love Him sincerely. Begin a new life
today. It will probably be a life of expiation, but you will be
sustained by Our Lord's grace."
At this time something that the Sister Portress at the Institute
where I took my daughter had said came back to me: "They criticize
Confession so much. But who are they? Those who do not know it. You'll
never find anyone who frequents this Sacrament speaking ill of it or
seeking excuses to stay away from it."
"And now. Father, what do you advise me to do? Should I go to the
doctor or not?"
"Do as you think best."
"I'd rather have you tell me."
"Should these strange phenomena reappear, it would be better, or even
necessary for you to go and see him. Otherwise, I don't see any need."
"So, may I feel safe about the past?"
"You must not worry. Realize that the First and best amendment you
can offer to the Heart of Our Lord is to believe in His mercy and in the
forgiveness He has granted you."
"But what about those poor souls?" Here his voice again became stern
and strong:
"Let bygones be bygones. Now obey God's minister. Go in peace and try
to sin no more."
Never in all my life had I made such a Confession.
"The Lord has given you an immense grace," the chaplain had told me,
"and to prepare you to receive it, I would not be surprised if He has
allowed you in an exceptional way to hear the voices of your children
who were killed before birth—but I might be wrong. Perhaps it isn't safe
to pry into the mysteries of God."
As I knelt alone in the little Chapel of Adoration, I went through
the words one by one, as they were spoken by that man of God. I found
them so true and consoling. And I also remembered what he had said: "I
told you that the Lord has forgiven you everything, but I did not say
that He would spare you the expiation for your past. If this comes,
remember that it is a sign of grace."
About a month passed without any special occurrence. The nuns'
chaplain had become my confessor and my adviser in many matters. One day
I asked him what I could offer to the Lord in exchange for those poor
souls. "What you can do in substitution," he replied, "is to adopt many
pagan children to be baptized with the names you would have given to
your own children."
I accepted this suggestion with enthusiasm. Thus I began to send each
month to a missionary priest all the help I could to have some children
baptized and supported in an orphanage. I remember teaching this
practice to my daughter, who also became the godmother of quite a group
of children baptized with names chosen by her—and the majority were
named after her father. Then when we received pictures of our distant
godchildren, we gave them the place of honor on our living room walls
and often had flowers in front of them.
After a period of relative calm and tranquility, the vexation by the
voices started again. I did not hear them in my sleep, nor in the state
between sleeping and waking, but at different times when I was alone and
was the only one to hear them. "Mama, why did you kill us?" What could I
answer? Cringing, I remained silent and wept, while I felt those voices
like a blade turning in an old wound. One day I burst out: "Yes, my
children, I recognize my guilt and ask your forgiveness." But although I
repeated these words over again, there was no reply.
Once I asked instead: "Tell me if I can be saved."
"What do you mean by 'saved?' " I was asked. What a strange question,
I thought, and I did not dare to bring it up again.
As was to be expected, these repeated apparitions made me become so
depressed that at the insistence of my confessor I had to see a
psychiatrist. A few days after his long, accurate and scrupulous visit,
I was committed to a private sanatorium.
This was a sort of treachery on the part of the physician and of some
of my close relatives. I can swear, however, that I never lost my mind
for a moment. Today I am able to relate all that was said or done around
me. Above all I remember how I was hurt by the words with which my
daughter tried to comfort me; she believed that her mother was ill, and
together with her fiancé, she had consented to keep me there.
I spent three years in tormented seclusion and martyrdom.
I remember that there was not one day that I did not think of the
expiation foretold to me by the nuns' chaplain. He continued to give me
his spiritual assistance in a very fatherly way. At times I was
submissive, at times rebellious, but my habitual disposition was that of
reparation. Meanwhile I was still hearing the voices at intervals, and
the reactions caused by that could not but confirm the opinion of the
nurses and of the doctors that my condition was doubtless a pathological
one.
And yet I was certain that I was not insane, but that I was being
subjected to an interior indescribable torture.
When I was calmer, I would pray without ceasing; yet this, too, was
taken as one of the symptoms of my "mental illness."
One day—in fact it was between prayers—I was struck with an idea. I
had heard of a holy priest whose prayers were said to be very powerful
with God. I asked a Sister to bring me materials to write a letter. I
obtained them with difficulty. I was just finishing my letter when my
daughter and her fiancé came to see me. I gave him the letter. He kindly
let me see him drop it in the mailbox at the hospital entrance which
could be seen through the iron bars of my room.
I had to wait about twenty days. However, when the answer came, I
don't know what it did to me or to the others; the fact is that shortly
after, I was discharged.
"I am certain that the Lord, through the intercession of the Blessed
Mother, will not fail to send you His grace, and that, soon," this man
of God had written to me. When the incident became known in the
hospital, he received any number of letters from patients and their
families.
Shortly after this my daughter married this young man who had just
received his M.D. As a condition for their marriage I requested that the
new family would live in my husband's house, for there was enough room
to accommodate them and their presence would help to create for me an
atmosphere more conducive to peace of mind.
However, my mental sufferings never ceased completely.
Without doubt my sincere repentance for what I had done, the grace of
hope sustained by the Sacraments, the authority of my confessor—all
helped to keep me from sinking into despair. Nonetheless I could never
completely rid myself of the atrocious remorse for having interrupted
seven pregnancies.
The doubt which caused me the most anguish concerned the destiny of
these souls. There were times at which I was on the verge of losing my
mind.
Once when this thought was particularly tormenting. I rushed out of
the house as if a prey to madness. For a moment the idea of putting an
end to my life by throwing myself under the first street car flashed
through my mind. But without knowing how, I found myself in front of the
little Chapel of Perpetual Adoration where I had gone to Confession. I
went in.
The Blessed Sacrament was exposed high above in a splendor of lights
and flowers. It was very late in the evening and there was no one in the
pews.
Only two white-veiled nuns were kneeling in the sanctuary.
I went to the far corner of the church, and there my anguish
overflowed in desperate tears. I don't know how long I remained there.
Then I gazed at the monstrance and a question came to my lips: "How can
it be, my God ... ! You showed me, the guilty one, so much mercy—and
aren't You going to be merciful to those poor little ones? My Lord, I
can't believe it—and if that is blasphemy, forgive me!"
As I uttered these words I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the
chaplain— the priest I knew and to whom I had so often confessed. "What
is it, child?"
"You know it all . . ." and I went on weeping.
"Do you want to tell me something?"—and he pointed to the
confessional. I flew like an arrow and found myself kneeling before the
grate behind which he was sitting.
Instead of confessing I could only repeat what obsessed me, the
question I had just asked Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament.
"Father, only tell me if I have blasphemed in speaking to Him thus .
. . !"
"No, my child, you have not."
"Then, Father, . . ."
"As a minister of God I can tell you this: Pray, have trust in Our
Lord and leave all to Him . . ."
"May I, then, hope . . .?"
"I told you: Pray, have trust in Our Lord and leave all to Him."
I could not help repeating: "Limbo . . . Eternity . . . You
theologians . . ." I didn't know what I was saying, but he understood at
once and interrupted me.
"My daughter, the theologians teach us what the Lord revealed about
the ordinary ways of salvation. But he did not reveal to theologians
what could be His extraordinary ways. That is why I told you, and I am
repeating it to you for the last time: Pray, have trust in Our Lord and
leave all to Him. I shall give you my blessing . . . And now, go in
peace."
My heart began to flutter again and I was ready to faint. When the
Father came out of the confessional I don't know what kept me from
bugging him. It seemed to me that I would be embracing God Himself. He
had never shown Himself so like a Father as in those words of His
minister.
But this echo of divine mercy would make the sorrowful remembrance of
my deeds even more painful. And this, for the rest of my life! |
