I can hear Fred, his soft, low voice as he says, shall we not accept good from the Lord, and not trouble? May the name of the Lord be praised.

I cling to that now, along with the memory of my husband in the glow of the morning light as he kneels by the window, praying, his head bowed, and I realize anew that he has given me something greater than love.

He has returned to me faith. Hope.

The truth that God watches my life.

He will fulfill the desires of the man who fears him.

Even if I do not understand how.

It happened so fast, it has taken months for me to unravel it, to see it clearly.

To find my footing against the grief that would undo me.

Too easily I can close my eyes and hear the voices, the Panzer unit that enters the front gate of the monastery.

The monks simply let them in. They claimed to be bearing gifts for the Abbey, but I believe that Father Cantero lets them in to give us time.

To alert all those harboring within the walls to hide, or perhaps run.

And perhaps, if he is amiable, they will not search for us.

Still, I am shattered, unable to speak as the Waffen-SS drive into the yard, disembark from their vehicles.

The shouting in German begins almost immediately, the ruse broken as soldiers invade the yard, search the buildings.

I am standing in the kitchen, packing our bags for the journey that will take us to the border, to join Fred’s unit. He is still MIA, but he assures me that we will be safe.

I believe him. And not because we will not be found, or executed, but I have realized that safety is not a word meant for earth. It is a state of being. A perspective of the eternal.

The monks are rubbing off on me, perhaps.

In this moment, however, I have no perspective except fear.

If not for Fred, I would yet be in the kitchen, holding our travel food so generously offered by the monks. He arrived, grabbed me up and tore me from my fear into action. We dared not secret ourselves back to our chamber, but instead he led us along the corridors, towards the church, where there is an entrance out of the north transept. I supposed he meant for us to run into the hills and hide, like before.

Certainly, the soldiers will respect the sacred ground of the church.

We reach the Sacristy, and then horror fills my throat. Through an arched window in the yard, I spot Bertie and Arturo. They are picking up goods from the monastery for locals—honey, bread, jams—and most importantly, travelers.