Não diga, filho, não diga. . .! Anedotas da Guerra Cristero no México (1926-1929).

¡Caros leitores, muito obrigado por se darem ao trabalho de ler meus artigos que somam mais de 3.000, graças a Deus, recentemente traduzidos para quatro línguas, ¡como eu gostaria de falar essas línguas!

Infelizmente não estou cadastrado em nenhuma plataforma para atingir mais leitores por falta de recursos financeiros, já que desde o início foi concebido como algo gratuito, esperando apenas a recompensa divina. Mas você pode divulgá-los entre seus conhecidos, basta citar a fonte, sabendo que a união torna maior a difusão das verdades divinas.

Já se passaram 100 anos desde o início da luta pela liberdade religiosa no México, embora, para ser mais exato, 1923 tenha sido apenas um prólogo do que em 1926-29 já era a própria guerra. Esses artigos que aparecerão esporadicamente no blog pretendem lembrar aos católicos mexicanos que o México é católico e guadalupano e que novos desafios nos esperam atualmente diante de um governo que quer não apenas descristianizar nossa nação, mas também afundá-la o boot.comunista como eles queriam fazer anteriormente. Hoje, como ontem, os poucos ou muitos católicos que restam, só Deus sabe, digamos não, não digamos, Filho, não digamos! Como se Nossa Senhora de Guadalupe nos dissesse: ¡Filho, não permita, ¡não permita!

 

Naquela fresca e alegre manhã de 29 de janeiro de 1927, em pelas vielas empoeiradas de um subúrbio de Guadalajara, um humilde menino da cidade, de camisa e calças gastas, caminhava rapidamente, de pés descalços, em direção à escola, como indicava uma espécie de mochila, que carregava pendurada seu ombro, no qual você poderia adivinhar um monte de livros ou cadernos.

Não sei o nome dele, mas Deus sabe: e os fatos a que vou me referir me foram garantidos por uma carta de um notável padre missionário do Coração de Maria, que então caminhava naquelas direções.

De vez em quando, ao cruzar com algum transeunte, que também estava correndo para o trabalho, o menino parava e oferecia-lhe uma folha solta, um jornalzinho de combate chamado Desde mi Sótano. . . difundido por toda parte na propaganda, que os inimigos de Cristo chamavam de "boicote ridículo", a arma escolhida na época, pela "Liga de Defensores da Liberdade Religiosa", para obrigar os governantes a cessar sua perseguição sem sentido aos católicos, e que com todas as suas "ridículo", colocou os perseguidores em apuros, a ponto de o deputado Gonzalo Santos, declarar na mesma Câmara, que aquilo que "chamamos de boicote ridículo é algo gravíssimo".

Os transeuntes olhavam a folhinha que aquele menino vivaz e simpático lhes dava, e quando o viam, rapidamente, sem rejeitá-la, mas com toda cautela, guardavam-na na bolsa para depois lê-la.

Mas Deus quis que um daqueles transeuntes que o menino encontrou, e a quem corajosamente entregou a folha de propaganda, fosse um daqueles capangas da tirania, uma espécie de espião disfarçado, maus mexicanos, que, por alguns centavos, eles venderam suas consciências ao perseguidor.

Vendo do que se tratava e pegando o menino pelo braço, abrindo sua bolsa e tirando dela, ao invés de livros, um pacote com as ditas folhas, tudo era um só.

"Quem te deu isso?"

Mas o menino, à guisa de resposta, fitou-o, desafiador e sereno.

"Você não vai me dizer?" Bem, você verá como se diz na delegacia. Vamos.

E, sem largar o bracinho, levou-o ao gabinete do comissário de polícia.

O menino estava pálido, mas sereno.

O Comissário acabara de tomar seu farto café da manhã e estava satisfeito, sentado em sua cadeira à mesa da Delegacia, contemplando os fios de fumaça de seu cigarro perfumado.

"O que você está me trazendo aí?" ele perguntou ao capanga que trouxe a criança.

“A esse moleque, que está distribuindo esse lixo na rua, e não quer dizer quem deu a ele”, respondeu, jogando o pacote de propaganda sobre a mesa.

— ¿Mas você vai me contar, certo? Eu sou o Comissário.

O menino cruzou os bracinhos atrás das costas; Ele olhou para o policial destemido e selou os lábios.

— ¡Se não me contar, vou te dar umas palmadas, ¡você vai ver! Se o menino tivesse se transformado em uma estátua de pedra, não teria mantido sua atitude mais firme e silenciosa.

"Eh? Você não me conta? Bem, você vai ver." E, levantando-se, pegou seu chicote, que tinha em uma das cadeiras próximas, e deu com ele uma tremenda chicotada no inocente, que apenas soltou um gemido de dor.

Diante de tal atitude, o comissário redobrou seus golpes duas ou três vezes, e como não derrotou o menino, entre ele e o capanga, arrancaram sua pobre camisa e calção e redobraram os golpes em carne viva até que suas costas ficassem roxas.

"Não seja mau, senhor!" Não seja mau! Não me bata assim! — gritou o menino.

"Então me diga quem te deu aquele anúncio, e eu não vou mais bater em você."

O menino franziu os lábios e até parou de lamentar, para que não saísse uma palavra comprometedora.

Admirado, mas não arrependido, o comissário, pela integridade do menino, parou de chicoteá-lo, mandou que se vestisse e disse ao capanga:

"Tranque-o naquele quarto vizinho." A mãe dele virá procurá-lo e veremos se ele fala ou não.

Com efeito, a mãe da criança, que desde cedo fora vítima de um doloroso e inexplicável pressentimento, ao chegar o meio-dia e não vendo o filho regressar, como sempre fazia, satisfeita e feliz por ter ajudado o máximo possível à boa causa, ele saiu procurando por ele.

Não faltou uma conhecida ou vizinha, a quem a pobre perguntou se não tinha visto a criança por acaso, que lhe disse que antes vira o menino com endereço dado pela mãe, sendo levado pelo braço por um homem na direção da delegacia.

Seu coração deu um tombo, pois ele imaginou que havia sido pego em sua galante missão e, correndo para casa, preparou um pouco de comida para levar ao menino, considerando que eles poderiam prendê-lo por algumas horas ou um dia, no máximo, e o criança estaria com fome agora.

Correu ansioso para a esquadra com o seu pobre embrulho e apresentou-se ao comissário, perguntando-lhe se lá estava o seu filho, pois tinham-lhe dito que o tinham prendido por trote.

O sorridente policial, por não ter se enganado ao prever que a mãe do menino viria procurá-lo, disse:

"Não é qualquer travessura, senhora." É que ele estava distribuindo papéis subversivos para a sangrenta "Liga" dos católicos; e precisamos saber quem deu a ele para distribuir aquela propaganda; e o menino não quer dizer isso.

"Eu dei a ele, senhor", disse a mãe, atordoada com a revelação da principal causa do abuso de inocentes.

 "Isso não é verdade, senhora. Você não poderia ter esses papéis sem que outra pessoa ou pessoas os tivessem dado a você, e você ou o menino vão nos dizer agora, quem são os que os entregam para distribuir.

E dando ordem ao capanga, que havia aparecido de novo no escritório, para trazer o menino, libertou-o de sua prisão.

A criança apareceu toda chorosa e sofrida diante dos olhos de sua pobre mãe, que imediatamente entendeu que ele havia sido atormentado, e já o abençoou interiormente por sua nobre atitude.

"Vamos ver", exclamou o comissário, "diga ao seu filho para nos dizer aqui mesmo quem são essas pessoas, ou vou dar-lhe um exemplo, do qual você sempre se lembrará."

A criança olhou para a mãe e a mãe olhou para a criança. Um ao outro fortalecido com aquele olhar de firmeza inigualável. . . e ambos ficaram em silêncio!

"¿Eles não dizem isso, hein?" Bem, agora você vai ver.

E despiu o menino novamente. A mãe começou a chorar amargamente ao ver as costas machucadas do menino, e mais ainda ao ver o bárbaro policial erguer o chicote para recomeçar os golpes. Cega, corajosa, como uma leoa ferida, ela se lançou entre o chicote do policial selvagem e seu filhinho; mas o outro capanga estava pronto e agarrou com força a mulher, que lutava inutilmente para se livrar das garras do bárbaro.

"Basta dizer quem lhe deu os papéis e tudo está acabado", gritou o comissário, espancando furiosamente o pobre coitado.

"Não bata nele!" gritou a mulher, "bate-me, se for um homem e não uma criança!"

— ¿Bem, o que você diz?

E então algo incrível aconteceu, algo que deve ter ressoado no Céu como as vozes da mãe dos Macabeus ressoaram em outro tempo, encorajando seus filhos ao martírio. . . “Não diga, ¡filho. . . não diga. . .! gritou a mãe através de uma torrente de lágrimas. . .

O comissário, furioso por ter sido espancado por uma mulher e uma criança, largou o chicote e, agarrando a criança pelos bracinhos, torceu-os furiosamente até que se quebrassem... A criança desmaiou.

Então o Comissário, assustado, disse à mãe:

— Velho infame. . . leve seu filho... assim mesmo. . .

A mãe imediatamente se lançou a erguer o corpo do menino e abraçando-o com dificuldade, carregou-o nos ombros, e saiu correndo da delegacia feito louca, para ir tratá-lo em sua pobre casa. Ela o cobriu  com seu xale, pois ele estava nu e ensanguentado. . . E ele correu, ele correu. . . repetindo como um refrão

sublime. . . Não diga, filho. . . não diga! A certa altura, o corpinho da mártir estremeceu notavelmente, e a mãe enlutada, enfatizando toda a ternura de seu heróico

coração. . . ela lhe repetia angustiada: ¡Não diga, filho. . . não diga!

Quando, ao chegar em sua casa, depositou o corpo ferido de seu filho na pobre caminha. . . estava morto!

 

 

Ne dis pas, fils, ne dis pas. . .! Anecdotes de la guerre des Cristero au Mexique (1926-1929).

Chers lecteurs, merci beaucoup d'avoir pris la peine de lire mes articles qui s'élèvent à plus de 3 000, grâce à Dieu, récemment traduits en quatre langues, comme j'aimerais parler ces langues!

Malheureusement, je ne suis inscrit sur aucune plateforme pour atteindre plus de lecteurs par manque de ressources financières, car depuis le début, il a été conçu comme quelque chose de gratuit, n'attendant que la récompense divine. Mais vous pouvez les répandre parmi vos connaissances, il suffit d'en mentionner la source, sachant que l'union rend plus grande la diffusion des vérités divines.

Cent ans se sont écoulés depuis le début de la lutte pour la liberté religieuse au Mexique, même si, pour être plus exact, 1923 n'était qu'un prologue à ce qui, en 1926-1929, était déjà la guerre elle-même. Ces articles qui apparaîtront sporadiquement sur le blog ont pour but de rappeler aux catholiques mexicains que le Mexique est catholique et Guadalupano et que de nouveaux défis nous attendent actuellement face à un gouvernement qui veut non seulement déchristianiser notre nation mais aussi la couler sous la botte communiste comme ils voulaient le faire auparavant. Aujourd'hui comme hier, le peu ou beaucoup de catholiques qui restent, Dieu seul le sait, disons non, ne dis pas, Fils, ne dis pas! Comme si Notre-Dame de Guadalupe nous disait: Fils, ne permets pas, ¡ne permets pas!

Ce matin frais et gai du 29 janvier 1927, à A travers les ruelles poussiéreuses d'un faubourg de Guadalajara, un humble garçon de la ville, en chemise et pantalon usés, marchait d'un pas rapide, pieds nus, vers l'école, comme l'indiquait une sorte de cartable, qu'il portait en bandoulière son épaule, sur laquelle on devinait un tas de livres ou de cahiers.

Je ne connais pas son nom, mais Dieu le sait: et les faits auxquels je vais me référer m'ont été confirmés par une lettre d'un notable prêtre missionnaire du Cœur de Marie, qui se promenait alors dans ces directions.

De temps en temps, en rencontrant un passant, qui se précipitait aussi au travail, le garçon s'arrêtait et lui offrait une page volante, un petit journal de combat appelé Desde mi Sótano. . . répandue partout dans la propagande, que les ennemis du Christ appelaient le "boycott ridicule", l'arme choisie à l'époque, par la "Religious Liberty Defender League", pour contraindre les gouvernants à cesser leur persécution insensée des catholiques, et cela avec tout son "ridicule", il a mis les persécuteurs dans une impasse, au point que le député Gonzalo Santos, a déclaré dans la même Chambre, que ce que "nous appelons boycott ridicule est quelque chose de très grave".

Les passants regardaient la petite page que leur offrait ce garçon vif et gentil, et quand ils la voyaient, rapidement, sans la rejeter, mais en toute prudence, ils la gardaient dans leur sac pour la lire plus tard.

Mais Dieu a voulu qu'un de ces passants que l'enfant rencontra, et à qui il tendit courageusement la feuille de propagande, fût un de ces sbires de la tyrannie, une sorte d'espion déguisé, de mauvais Mexicains, qui, pour quelques centimes, ils vendu leur conscience au persécuteur.

Voyant de quoi il s'agissait et saisissant le garçon par le bras, ouvrant son sac et en sortant, au lieu de livres, un paquet desdites feuilles, tout était un.

«Qui t'a donné ça?¿Mais le garçon, en guise de réponse, le dévisagea, défiant et serein.

«Tu ne me le diras pas? Eh bien, vous verrez comment vous le direz au poste de police. Allez.

Et sans lâcher son petit bras, il l'emmena au bureau du commissaire de police.

Le garçon était pâle, mais serein.

Le commissaire venait de prendre son copieux petit-déjeuner et était satisfait, assis sur sa chaise à la table du commissariat, en contemplant les volutes de fumée de sa cigarette parfumée.

"Qu'est-ce que tu m'amènes là?" demanda-t-il à l'homme de main qui avait amené l'enfant.

"A ce gamin, qui distribue ces ordures dans les rues, et il ne veut pas dire qui les lui a données", a-t-il répondu en jetant le paquet de propagande sur la table.

— Mais tu vas me le dire, n'est-ce pas? Je suis le commissaire.

Le garçon croisa ses petits bras derrière son dos; Il regarda le policier sans se décourager et ferma les lèvres.

— ¡Si tu ne me le dis pas, je vais te fesser un peu, ¡tu verras! Si le garçon s'était transformé en statue de pierre, il n'aurait pas gardé son attitude plus ferme et plus silencieuse.

«¿Hein? ¿Tu ne me dis pas? Eh bien, tu verras. Et se levant, il prit son fouet, qu'il avait sur une des chaises voisines, et en donna un coup de fouet terrible à l'innocent, qui ne poussa qu'un gémissement de douleur.

Devant une telle attitude, le commissaire a redoublé ses coups deux ou trois fois, et comme il n'a pas vaincu le garçon, entre lui et l'homme de main, ils ont arraché sa pauvre chemise et son short et ont redoublé les coups à vif jusqu'à ce que son dos soit violet.

«Ne soyez pas méchant, monsieur! Ne sois pas méchant, ne me frappe pas comme ça, cria le garçon.

"Alors dis-moi qui t'a donné cette publicité, et je ne te frapperai plus."

Le garçon pinça les lèvres et cessa même de se lamenter, pour qu'un mot compromettant ne sorte pas.

Admiré, mais pas désolé, le commissaire, pour l'intégrité du garçon, a cessé de le fouetter, lui a ordonné de s'habiller et a dit à l'homme de main:

"Enfermez-le dans cette pièce voisine." Sa mère viendra le chercher et nous verrons s'il parle ou non.

En effet, la mère de l'enfant, qui dès le début avait été en proie à un pressentiment douloureux et inexplicable, alors que midi était venu et ne voyant pas son fils revenir, comme elle l'avait toujours fait, satisfaite et heureuse d'avoir aidé le plus possible à la bonne cause, il partit à sa recherche.

Il ne manquait pas une connaissance ou voisine, à qui la pauvre femme demandait si elle n'avait pas vu l'enfant par hasard, qui lui dirait qu'elle avait vu plus tôt le garçon à l'adresse donnée par la mère, se faisant conduire par le bras par un homme en direction du commissariat.

Son cœur se serra, car il devina qu'il avait été pris dans sa commission galante, et se hâtant de rentrer chez lui, il prépara de la nourriture à apporter au garçon, considérant qu'ils pourraient le faire arrêter pour quelques heures ou un jour au plus, et l'enfant aurait faim maintenant.

Il courut anxieusement vers le poste de police avec son pauvre paquet, et se présenta au commissaire, lui demandant s'il y avait son garçon, puisqu'ils lui avaient dit qu'ils l'avaient arrêté pour une farce.

Le policier souriant, parce qu'il ne s'était pas trompé dans son anticipation que la mère du garçon viendrait le chercher, dit:

"Ce n'est pas n'importe quel méfait, madame." C'est qu'il distribuait des papiers subversifs pour la sanglante «Ligue» des catholiques; et nous avons besoin de savoir qui l'a donné pour distribuer cette propagande; et le garçon ne veut pas le dire.

"Je le lui ai donné, monsieur", a déclaré la mère, stupéfaite par cette révélation de la causé principale de l'abus d'innocents.

"Ce n'est pas vrai, madame. Vous ne pouviez pas avoir ces papiers sans qu'une autre personne ou des personnes ne vous les aient donnés, et vous ou le garçon allez nous dire maintenant, qui sont ceux qui les donnent pour les distribuer.

Et donnant l'ordre à l'homme de main, qui était de nouveau apparu dans le bureau, d'amener le garçon, il le libéra de son enfermement.

L'enfant apparut tout larmoyant et souffrant devant les yeux de sa pauvre mère, qui comprit aussitôt qu'il avait été tourmenté, et le bénit déjà intérieurement pour sa noble attitude.

«Voyons, s'écria le commissaire, dites à votre fils de nous dire ici même qui sont ces gens, ou je vais vous donner un exemple dont vous vous souviendrez toujours.

L'enfant regarda la mère et la mère regarda l'enfant. L'un et l'autre renforcés par ce regard d'une fermeté inégalée. . . et les deux se taisaient!

«Ils ne le disent pas, hein? Eh bien maintenant, vous verrez.

Et il déshabilla à nouveau le garçon. La mère se mit à pleurer amèrement lorsqu'elle vit le dos meurtri du garçon, et plus encore lorsqu'elle vit le policier barbare lever son fouet pour reprendre les coups. Aveugle, brave, comme une lionne blessée, elle se jeta entre le fouet du policier sauvage et son petit fils; mais l'autre homme de main était prêt, et il serra fort la femme, qui luttait inutilement pour se débarrasser des griffes du barbare.

«Dis simplement qui t'a donné les papiers, et tout est fini», cria le commissaire en battant furieusement le pauvre.

«Ne le frappez pas! ¡cria la femme, frappe-moi, si c’est un homme, ¡et pas un enfant!

— ¿Eh bien, qu’en dites-vous? . . .Et puis quelque chose d'incroyable s'est produit, quelque chose qui a dû retentir au Ciel comme les voix de la mère des Maccabées ont retenti dans un autre temps, encourageant ses enfants au martyre. . . «Ne dis rien, fils. . . ne dites pas. . .! s'écria la mère dans un torrent de larmes.

Le commissaire, furieux d'avoir été battu par une femme et un enfant, lâcha le fouet, et saisissant l'enfant par les petits bras, les tordit furieusement jusqu'à ce qu'ils se brisent... L'enfant s'évanouit.

Alors le commissaire, effrayé, dit à la mère:

— Ancien infâme. . . prends ton fils... juste comme ça. . .

La mère se lança immédiatement pour soulever le corps du garçon et le serra avec difficulté, le chargea sur ses épaules, et courut hors du commissariat comme une folle, pour aller le soigner dans sa pauvre maison. Elle le couvrit de son châle, car il était nu et ensanglanté. . . Et il a couru, il a couru. . . répéter comme un refrain

sublime. . . Ne dis pas, fils. . . ne dites pas! À un moment donné, le petit corps du martyr trembla sensiblement, et la mère éplorée, soulignant toute la tendresse de son héroïque coeur. . . elle lui répétait angoissée : Ne dis pas, fils. . . ne dites pas!

Quand, arrivé chez lui, il déposa le corps blessé de son fils sur le pauvre petit lit. . . il était mort!

 

 

Don't Say, Son, ¡don’t Say . . .! Anecdotes of the Cristero War in Mexico (1926-1929).

 

Dear readers, thank you very much for taking the trouble to read my articles that add up to more than 3,000, thank God, recently translated into four languages. How much I would like to speak these languages!

Unfortunately, I am not registered on any platform to reach more readers due to lack of financial resources, since from the beginning it was conceived as something free, waiting only for divine reward. But you can spread them among your acquaintances, just mention the source, knowing that the union makes the diffusion of divine truths greater.

It has been 100 years since the beginning of the fight for religious freedom in Mexico, although, to be more exact, 1923 was only a prologue to what in 1926-29 was already the war itself. These articles that will appear sporadically on the blog are intended to remind Mexican Catholics that Mexico is Catholic and Guadalupano and that new challenges currently await us in the face of a government that wants not only to de-Christianize our nation but also to sink it under the boot. communist as they previously wanted to do. Today, like yesterday, the few or many Catholics that remain, only God knows, let's say no, don't say, Son, ¡don’t say! As if Our Lady of Guadalupe were telling us: Son, don’t allow it, ¡don’t allow it!

 

That fresh and cheerful morning of January 29, 1927, at Through the dusty alleys of a suburb of Guadalajara, a humble boy from the town, in a well-worn shirt and pants, walked quickly, with his bare feet, towards school, as indicated by a kind of satchel, which he carried slung over his shoulder, on the that you could guess a bunch of books or notebooks.

I do not know his name, but God knows: and the facts that I am going to refer to have been guaranteed to me by a letter from a notable missionary priest of the Heart of Mary, who was then walking in those directions.

From time to time, upon running into a passerby, who was also rushing to work, the boy would stop and offer him a loose page, a little combat newspaper called from my basement. . . widespread everywhere in propaganda, which the enemies of Christ called the "ridiculous boycott", the weapon chosen at the time, by the "Religious Liberty Defender League", to force the rulers to cease their senseless persecution of Catholics , and that with all its "ridiculousness", it put the persecutors in a bind, to the point that the deputy Gonzalo Santos, declared in the same Chamber, that what "we call ridiculous boycott is something very serious".

Passers-by looked at the little page that that vivacious and nice boy gave them, and when they saw it, quickly, without rejecting it, but with all caution, they kept it in their bag to read it later.

But God wanted that one of those passers-by whom the child met, and to whom he bravely handed the propaganda sheet, was one of those henchmen of tyranny, a kind of disguised spy, bad Mexicans, who, for a few cents, they sold their consciences to the persecutor.

Seeing what it was about and seizing the boy by the arm, opening his bag and taking out of it, instead of books, a package of said sheets, everything was one.

"Who gave you this?"

But the boy, by way of answer, stared at him, defiant and serene.

"You won't tell me?" Well, you'll see how you say it at the police station. Come on.

And without letting go of his little arm, he took him to the office of the Police Commissioner.

The boy was pale, but serene.

The Commissioner had just had his abundant breakfast and was satisfied, sitting in his chair at the table at the Police Station, contemplating the wisps of smoke from his fragrant cigarette.

"What are you bringing me there?" —She asked the henchman who brought the child.

"To this kid, who is handing out this rubbish in the streets, and he doesn't want to say who gave it to him," he replied, throwing the package of propaganda on the table.

—But you are going to tell me, right? I am the Commissioner.

The boy crossed his little arms behind his back; he glared at the policeman and sealed his lips.

—If you don't tell me, I'm going to spank you a bit, you'll see! If the boy had turned into a stone statue, he would not have kept his attitude more firm, and more silent.

"Eh? Don't you tell me? Well, you'll see." And getting up, she took his whip, which she had on one of the nearby chairs, and gave the innocent a tremendous lash with it, who only uttered a groan of pain.

 Faced with such an attitude, the Commissioner redoubled his blows two or three times, and since he did not defeat the boy, between him and the henchman, they ripped off his poor shirt and shorts and redoubled the blows raw until his back was purple.

"Don't be mean, sir!" Don't be mean! Don't hit me like that! —the boy cried.

"Then tell me who gave you that advertisement, and I won't hit you anymore."

The boy pursed his lips and even stopped lamenting, so that a compromising word would not come out.

Admired, but not sorry, the Commissioner, for the boy's integrity, stopped whipping him, ordered him to get dressed, and told the henchman:

"Lock him in that neighboring room." His mother will come looking for him and then we will see if he speaks or not.

Indeed, the child's mother, who from early on had been prey to a painful and inexplicable foreboding, when noon had come and not seeing her son return, as she always did, satisfied and happy to have helped as much as possible to the good cause, he went out looking for him.

There was no lack of an acquaintance or neighbor, to whom the poor woman asked if she had not seen the child by chance, who would tell her that earlier she had seen the boy with the address given by the mother, being led by the arm by a man in the direction of the Police station.

His heart sank, for he guessed that he had been caught in his gallant commission, and hastening home he prepared some food to take to the boy, considering that they might have him arrested for a few hours or a day at most, and the child would be hungry by now.

He ran anxiously towards the Police Station with his poor package, and introduced himself to the Commissioner, asking him if he had his boy there, since they had told him that they had arrested him for a prank.

The smiling policeman, because he had not been mistaken in his anticipation that the boy's mother would come looking for him, said:

"It's not just any mischief, ma'am." It's that she was handing out subversive papers for the bloody "League" of Catholics; and we need to know who gave him to distribute that propaganda; and the boy doesn't want to say it.

"I gave it to him, sir," said the mother, stunned by this revelation of the main cause of the abuse of the innocent.

"That's not true, ma'am. You could not have those papers without another person or persons having given them to you, and you or the boy are going to tell us now, who are the ones who give it to distribute.

And giving the order to the henchman, who had appeared again in the office, to bring the boy, he released him from his confinement.

The child appeared all tearful and suffering before the eyes of his poor mother, who immediately understood that he had been tormented, and already blessed him inside for his noble attitude.

"Let's see," exclaimed the Commissioner, "tell your son to tell us right here who these people are, or I'm going to give you an example, which you will always remember."

The child looked at the mother and the mother looked at the child. Each other strengthened with that look of unmatched firmness. . . and both were silent!

"They don't say it, huh?" Well now you will see.

And he undressed the boy again. Her mother began to cry bitterly when she saw the boy's bruised backs, and even more so when she saw the barbaric policeman raise his whip to resume the blows. Blind, brave, like a wounded lioness, she flung herself between the savage policeman's whip and his child; but the other henchman was ready, and he grabbed the woman tightly, who was struggling uselessly to get rid of the barbarian's clutches.

"Just say who gave you the papers, and everything is finished," the Commissioner shouted, furiously beating the poor thing.

"Don't hit him!" The woman shouted, "hit me, if he's a man, and not a child!"

—Well, what do you say? . .

And then something incredible happened, something that must have resounded in Heaven as the voices of the mother of the Maccabees resounded in another time, encouraging her children to martyrdom. . . "Don't say, son. . . do not tell. . .! cried the mother through a torrent of tears. . .

The Commissioner, furious at having been beaten by a woman and a child, dropped the whip, and seizing the child by the little arms, twisted them furiously until they broke... The child fainted.

Then the Commissioner, scared, told the mother:

— Old infamous . . . Take her son... just like that. . .

The mother immediately launched herself to lift the boy's body and hugging him with difficulty, loaded him on her shoulders, and ran out of the police station like crazy, to go and treat him in his poor home. She covered him  with her shawl, since he was naked and bloody. . . And he ran, he ran. . . repeating like a refrain

sublime. . . Don't say, son. . . do not tell! At one point, the little body of the martyr trembled noticeably, and the grieving mother, putting into her accent all the tenderness of her heroic heart. . . she repeated to him anguished: Don’t say, ¡son. . . do not tell! When, upon arriving at his house, he deposited the wounded body of his son on the poor little bed. . . ¡He was dead!

 

 

Don't Say, ¡Son, ¡Don’t Say...! ANECDOTES OF THE CRISTERA WAR IN MEXICO (1926-1929)

 

That cool and joyous morning of January 29, 1927, at

In the dusty streets of a suburb of Guadalajara, a humble little boy from the town, wearing a worn shirt and trousers, hurriedly walked, with his bare feet, towards school, as indicated by a kind of satchel, which he carried over his shoulder, in the that you could guess a bunch of books or notebooks.

I do not know his name, but God knows it: and the facts that I am about to refer have been guaranteed by a letter from a notable missionary priest of the Heart of Mary, who was then walking in those directions.

From time to time, when he ran into a passerby, who was also in a hurry to his work, the boy would stop, and offer him a loose leaf, a combat newspaper called From my Basement... widely spread everywhere in propaganda, what the enemies of Christ called the "ridiculous boycot", a weapon then chosen by the "League for the Defense of Religious Freedom" to force the rulers to cease their senseless persecution of Catholics , and that with all its "ridiculousness", it put the persecutors in a bind, to the point that the deputy Gonzalo Santos, declared in the same Chamber, that what "we call ridiculous boycot is something very  serious".

Passersby looked at the little leaf that that vivacious and friendly little boy gave them, and when they saw it, quickly, without rejecting it, but with all prudence, they kept it in their bag to read it later.

But God willed that one of those passers-by whom the boy met, and to whom he bravely held out the little propaganda sheet, was one of those henchmen of tyranny, a kind of disguised spies, bad Mexicans, who for a few cents, they sold their consciences to the persecutor.

Seeing what it was all about and grabbing the boy by the arm, opening his satchel and taking out of it, instead of books, a package of the said sheets, it was all one.

"Who gave you this?"

But the boy, in response, stared at him, defiant and serene.

"Won't you tell me?" Well, you'll see how you say it at the police station. Go.

And without letting go of his arm, he led him to the office of the Police Commissioner.

The boy was pale, but serene.

The Commissioner had just had his abundant breakfast and was satisfied, sitting in his chair at the table in the police station, contemplating the wisps of smoke from his smelly cigarette.

"What are you bringing me there?" He asked the henchman who was carrying the boy.

"To this kid, who is handing out this rubbish in the streets, and it doesn't mean who gave it to him," he replied, throwing the propaganda package on the table.

"But you're going to tell me, right?" I am the Commissioner.

The boy crossed his arms behind his back; He looked undaunted at the policeman and sealed his lips.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to spank you a bit, you'll see!" If the boy had turned into a stone statue, he would not have kept more firmness in his attitude, and greater silence.

"Eh? Won't you tell me? Well, you'll see." And getting up, he picked up his whip, which he had on one of the nearby chairs, and gave it a tremendous whip to the innocent, who only gave a groan of pain.

Faced with such an attitude, the Commissioner redoubled his blows two or three times, and as he did not defeat the boy, between him and the henchman, they tore off his poor shirt and shorts and redoubled the blows in raw flesh until his back was blue.

"Don't be bad, sir!" Don't be bad! Don't hit me like that! —The child cried.

"Well, tell me who gave you that propaganda, and I won't hit you anymore."

The boy pressed his lips together and even stopped lamenting, so that a compromising word would not come out.

Admired, but not regretful, the Commissioner, for the boy's fortitude, stopped whipping him, ordered him to get dressed, and said to the henchman:

"Lock him in that neighboring room." His mother will come to look for him and then we will see if he speaks or not.

Indeed, the child's mother, who from early on was prey to a painful and inexplicable foreboding, arrived at noon and did not see her son return, as she always did, satisfied and happy to have helped the mother as much as possible. good cause, she went looking for him.

There was an acquaintance or neighbor, whom the poor woman asked if she had not seen the child by chance, to tell her that early on she had seen the little boy of the mother's signs, being led by the arm by a man in the direction of the Police station.

His heart skipped a beat, for he guessed that he had been caught up in his brave commission, and hurriedly returning home he prepared some food to take to the boy, considering that perhaps they would have him arrested for a few hours or a day at the most, and the child would already be hungry.

He ran eagerly towards the Police Station with his poor packaging, and presented himself to the Commissioner, asking him if he had his boy there, since he had been told that he had been arrested for a prank.

The smiling policeman, because he had not been mistaken in his prediction that the boy's mother would come looking for him, said:

"It's not just any prank, ma'am." It is that he was distributing subversive papers of the accursed "League" of Catholics; and we need to know who gave him to distribute that propaganda; and the boy doesn't want to say it.

"I gave it to him, sir," said the mother, stunned by this revelation of the main cause of the hit on the innocent.

"That is not true, ma'am." You couldn't have those papers without someone else or people having given them to you, and you or the boy are going to tell us now who are the ones who give it out.

And giving order to the henchman, who had returned to the office, to bring the boy, he was released from his confinement.

The child, all weeping and suffering, appeared before the eyes of his poor mother, who immediately understood that he had been tormented, and was already blessing him in her interior for his noble attitude.

"Let's see," exclaimed the Commissioner, "tell your son to report to us right here who these people are, or I'm going to teach you an example, which they will always remember."

The child looked at the mother and the mother looked at the child. Each other was strengthened with that look of unparalleled steadfastness... and they both shut up!

"They don't say, ¿eh?" Well now you will see.

And he undressed the boy again. The mother began to cry bitterly when she saw the boy's bruised back, and even more so when she saw the barbarian policeman raise his whip to resume the blows. Blind, brave, like a wounded lioness, she launched herself to interpose herself between the whip of the savage policeman and his little son; but the other henchman was ready, and held tightly to the woman, who was struggling uselessly to free herself from the claws of that barbarian.

"Just say who the ones who gave you the papers are, and it's all over," the Commissioner shouted, beating the poor man furiously.

"Don't hit him!" Cried the woman, "hit me, if you're a man, and not a child!"

"Well, let me say.” …

And then something incredible happened, something that must have resounded in Heaven as the voices of the mother of the Maccabees once resounded, encouraging her children to martyrdom... "Don't say it, son!” … do not tell...! The mother cried through a torrent of tears...

The Commissioner, furious at having been defeated by a woman and a child, dropped the whip, and taking the child by the arms he twisted them furiously, until they broke ... The child fell unconscious.

Then the Commissioner, scared, said to the mother:

"Infamous old woman.” … take your child ... as for as...

The mother immediately threw herself to lift the boy's body and, hugging him with work, carried him on her shoulders, and left the police station like crazy, to go and heal him in his poor home. She covered him with her shawl, for he was naked and bloody... And ran, ran... repeating like a chorus sublime... Don't say, son... do not tell! At one point, the little body of the martyr trembled sensibly, and the grieving mother, putting in her accent all the tenderness of her heroic heart... she repeated anguished: Don’t say, ¡son!... do not tell!

When, when he got home, he placed the wounded body of his son on the poor little bed... was dead!

 

A RESTROSPECTIVE LOOK AT OUR MEXICO CRISTERO

 

In these historical moments of our days, it is necessary to look at our historical past to take value from it, but, since then here, that essential element has not changed except in its exterior facade, in its public name. The same governing group in which individuals succeed each other when the scythe of death has followed the first; the same goal: to end the Christian order; the same doctrines leading to atheism; the same war tactic: hypocrisy and lies. Everything has remained the same, under the mask of the French Revolution, that of Babeufism, that of utopian and radical socialism, that of the Commune, and now under that of communism. Incarnated this element during the great Masonic Congress of Wilhemsbad of 1871. in Enlightened Masonry, by the work of Bode and Knigge, two of the first conspirators, has continued,always the same, working in the shadows, although in recent times he no longer keeps the secret regarding his very end, that is, the destruction of the Christian order; And it is this same conspiracy, the same identically the one that has caused all the terrible tragedies of the world revolutions during the "century of lights", and the one that in this last half century, in which we have lived, has bloodied the whole earth with the generous blood of a very large number of martyrs.and the one that in this last half century, in which we have lived, has bloodied the entire earth with the generous blood of a very large number of martyrs.and the one that in this last half century, in which we have lived, has bloodied the entire earth with the generous blood of a very large number of martyrs.

 

Having understood this, it is seen that I am not committing any anachronism in pointing to the executioner of our Martyrs of Christ the King, with the name of communism, which he now uses. Indeed, on October 24, 1934, the Hon. Mr. Apostolic Delegate in Mexico, Dr. D. Leopoldo Ruiz y Flores, launched a "Protest message" to all Mexican Catholics, for the crimes of the so-called Mexican Revolution in which he said: "The purpose of what they have come to call “the Revolution.” It is no longer the so-called clericalism that they are persecuting, nor is it the Catholic Church, it is the same God against whom his deceived creatures and his ungrateful children are revealed. , has turned every problem to the advantage of its antireligious policy; and to take possession of consciences,she tries to put an end to all religion and even to erase the name of God declaring herself an infallible teacher of dogma and morals; all with an unbearable luxury of tyranny and despotism. The rulers do not care about the most sacred rights of citizens in matters of worship, instruction, thought, association, and even private property. . . "What else is this but to describe the work, doctrine and technique of the communist conspiracy, as we now know it? That it was indeed that same conspiracy, embodied in Enlightened Masonry by Bode, as I said before, you can see clearly by the following fact:The rulers do not care about the most sacred rights of citizens in matters of worship, instruction, thought, association, and even private property. . . "What else is this but to describe the work, doctrine and technique of the communist conspiracy, as we now know it? That it was indeed that same conspiracy, embodied in Enlightened Masonry by Bode, as I said before, you can see clearly by the following fact:The rulers do not care about the most sacred rights of citizens in matters of worship, instruction, thought, association, and even private property. . . "What else is this but to describe the work, doctrine and technique of the communist conspiracy, as we now know it? That it was indeed that same conspiracy, embodied in Enlightened Masonry by Bode, as I said before, you can see clearly by the following fact:can be clearly seen by the following fact:can be clearly seen by the following fact:

 

On May 28, 1926, Gral. Calles received from the Supreme Grand Commander of the Scottish Rite (Enlightened Masonry), D. Luis Manuel Rojas, the medal of Masonic Merit, and when he was awarded it he said: "The order that I have the honor of presiding does not has never granted this high distinction. It has been decreed to the extraordinary merit, of which you have become creditor as President of the Republic, solving, in such a short time, the most serious problems. We will solemnly make known to governments and societies Masonic with whom we are in friendly relationship, the reward you have deserved ". Why should Mr. Rojas communicate to the Masonic societies the distinction and merit of Gral. Calles in his presidential administration? Simply,because he had quickly and effectively fulfilled the slogan of Enlightened Masonry. Indeed, in 1924 the Supreme Council of Freemasonry (Scottish or enlightened rite) held a solemn session in Geneva and decreed: The de-Romanization of Latin America, beginning with Mexico. In 1926 the Tribune of Rome published a sensational article reproduced in all the press in the world, except that of Mexico, which established the following thesis: International (illuminated) Freemasonry accepts responsibility for everything that happens in Mexico, and it is arranged to mobilize all his forces for the complete, total execution of the program he has set for that country.The de-Romanization of Latin America, starting with Mexico. In 1926 the Tribune of Rome published a sensational article reproduced in all the press in the world, except that of Mexico, which established the following thesis: International (illuminated) Freemasonry accepts responsibility for everything that happens in Mexico, and it is arranged to mobilize all his forces for the complete, total execution of the program he has set for that country.The de-Romanization of Latin America, starting with Mexico. In 1926 the Tribune of Rome published a sensational article reproduced in all the press in the world, except that of Mexico, which established the following thesis: International (illuminated) Freemasonry accepts responsibility for everything that happens in Mexico, and it is arranged to mobilize all his forces for the complete, total execution of the program he has set for that country.of the program you have set for that country.of the program you have set for that country.

 

We could adduce many other testimonies, but I think these are enough to leave no one in doubt that that executioner who caused so many martyrdoms in our land and that they called "the Revolution", was none other than the conspiracy against the Christian order, embodied since 1781 in Enlightened Masonry, and now known under the guise of "communism." Let's see, for the last confirmation that it was communism or Enlightened Masonry that caused the Mexican martyrdoms, something at least, of that program that had been set for this country.

 

The Masonic Congress of Latin America held in Buenos Aires in 1906, was the one that fixed it, and in number 10 of the Masonic Journal of Caracas published the resolutions of said Congress, among which we copy the following:

 

Art. 5. —Latin American Masonry will combat by all means the establishment and activity of religious congregations, and will coordinate their efforts for their expulsion from Latin America.

 

Art. 6. — Masons will promote the triumph of political men who want to defend their ideals (those of Masonry) by voting the separation of Church and State, expulsion from Congregations, civil marriage, divorce, education. secularism, the laicization of hospitals.

 

Art. 10. - Masonry will fight for the withdrawal of all the representatives of the governments before the Vatican; such governments should not recognize the Papacy as an international power, etc.

 

The execution of this program, or the attempt to carry it out against the resistance of the Mexican people, was the immediate cause of the martyrdoms. And I say well of the martyrdoms, because as you can see, this program is against God, the Christian faith and the Catholic Church, and those who did not want to consent to that and were therefore led to torments and death, are true martyrs in odium fidei.

 

There are three books, which should not be missing in any decent and Catholic Mexican home: The Holy Bible or at least the Holy Gospel of Jesus Christ; a story of the Appearance of the Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe; and a recent book, published in 1947, with the title of "The Cry of the Blood", which is not but a part of the great Catholic Martyrology of the victims of communism in relation to our country. In this book, perfectly documented and written in the form of ephemeris, the glorious names of our martyrs are stamped, and some details (those that have been known so far) of that Christian epic, only surpassed by that of the twelve persecutions in the Primitive Church, which only managed, as we know, to fill heaven with saints, and the whole earth with faithful servants of Jesus Christ.

 

It would be an indignity, a kind of unspeakable felony, for us to ignore, or at least forget, those august names of our brothers painted with their generous blood, shed for defending the rights of Jesus Christ the King, in the face of the impious conspiracy against the Christian order.

 

It is customary to celebrate with expressions of joy and honor, the Silver Wedding, that is, the twenty-five years of some notable event in our lives or in the lives of our brothers and our societies.

 

Today, in this year of 2021, it is 95 years since the beginning of the Christian epic that I have called: The New Catholic Martyrology; The beginning, which by a special blessing of God for our country, took place in it, and which was to be continued, almost without interruption, in other peoples of present-day Christendom: Spain, Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia. Italy, Albania, China, etc., during these twenty-five years, in which the conspiracy against the Christian order, already thought to reach, under the name of communism, not only the frontiers of victory, but victory itself. Of all those martyrdoms of the Catholic nations, I intend to remember with the help of God, the glorious deeds. I cannot forget that, as Catholics, geographic borders, differences in race, customs or languages ​​are nothing to us, all brothers,children of the same Father; all members of a single Mystical Body, the body of a single head that is Jesus Christ; which is the Holy Catholic Church; nor can I forget the consoling Catholic dogma of the Communion of Saints. The pains of any of the members of this great Mystical Body are our own pains, but the glory and greatness of only one of them is our greatness and our glory.

 

But obviously because it was the beginning of the epic, exactly twenty-five years ago, the sublime tragedy of our country, I have to start with it, and speak of the deeds of our Mexican martyrs in the first place. In this way, I intend to contribute to the rejoicing of a Silver Wedding. And no one will be surprised, not even the parents, brothers, widows, children and relatives of those who perished in that hecatomb, speak of rejoicing, remembering such glorious deaths. What are all the torments and all the deaths of this passing and despicable world worth, compared to the bells of glory, which our martyrs reached for them, and which now in the eternal dwelling of the just, "make them shine like stars for perpetual eternities ", according to the Holy Scripture? Y,Why should we not rejoice in this? There has been no lack of martyrs in the history of the Catholic Church, and we will also find them among our own, who, upon receiving the mortal blows from their executioners, thanked them most vehemently, because through them they immediately opened the happy homeland of beatitude. With them, then, we will also rejoice when we remember their martyrdoms, and if, as is evident, they see at the same time disgrace for their executioners, let us dispense with people, many of them deceived, to reserve all our disgust and all our reproof of that conspiracy against the Christian order, of that monstrous communism, which embodies, as Pius XI said, the forces of evil, which is militant atheism, and which vilely deceived one and the other covered them with unfading glory,among our brothers. Before going any further, I think some observations are pertinent. And the first is about the very name of Martyrs, with which I will frequently describe those who succumbed in the tragedy. It is not my intention, far from it, to prevent the trial of the teaching Catholic Church, the only one authorized to declare, and infallibly, the reality of a true martyrdom. I use that name in the vulgar sense that we give it, not as worthy of the honors of Christian worship; in the same sense that nothing less than His Holiness Pope Pius XI gave him as happythe only one authorized to declare, and infallibly, the reality of a true martyrdom. I use that name in the vulgar sense that we give it, not as worthy of the honors of Christian worship; in the same sense that nothing less than His Holiness Pope Pius XI gave him as happythe only one authorized to declare, and infallibly, the reality of a true martyrdom. I use that name in the vulgar sense that we give it, not as worthy of the honors of Christian worship; in the same sense that nothing less than His Holiness Pope Pius XI gave him as happy memory.

¡No Digas, Hijo, ¡no Digas . . .! ANECDOTAS DE LA GUERRA CRISTERA EN MEXICO (1926-1929)

 

Aquella mañana fresca y alegre del 29 de enero de 1927, por las

polvorientas callejuelas de un suburbio de Guadalajara, un humilde chicuelo del pueblo, de camisita y pantalón muy usados, caminaba presuroso, con sus pies descalzos, rumbo a la escuela, como lo indicaba una especie de zurrón, que llevaba colgado al hombro, en el que se podía adivinar un manojo de libros o cuadernos.

Su nombre lo ignoro, pero Dios lo sabe: y los hechos que voy a referir me han sido garantizados por una carta de un notable sacerdote misionero del Corazón de María, que andaba entonces por aquellos rumbos.

De vez en cuando, al toparse con algún transeúnte, que iba también presuroso a su trabajo, el chico se detenía, y le ofrecía una hoja suelta, un periodiquito de combate llamado Desde mi Sótano . . . muy difundido por todas partes en propaganda, del que los enemigos de Cristo llamaron el "ridículo boycot", arma elegida entonces, por la "Liga Defensora de la Libertad Religiosa", para obligar a los gobernantes a cesar en su insensata persecución a los católicos, y que con toda su "ridiculez", puso en un brete a los perseguidores, hasta el punto de que el diputado Gonzalo Santos, declarara en la misma Cámara, que aquello "que llamamos ridículo boycot es algo muy serio".

Los transeúntes miraban la hojita que les daba aquel vivaracho y simpático chiquillo, y al verlo, rápidamente, sin rechazarlo, pero con toda prudencia, se lo guardaban en la bolsa para leerlo después.

Pero quiso Dios, que uno de aquellos transeúntes con quienes el niño se encontró, y al que tendió valientemente la hojita de propaganda, fuera uno de esos esbirros de la tiranía, especie de espías disimulados, malos mexicanos, que por unos cuantos centavos, vendían al perseguidor sus conciencias.

Ver de lo que se trataba y agarrar por el brazo al muchacho, abrir su zurrón y sacar de él, en vez de libros, un paquete de las dichas hojas, todo fue uno.

—¿Quién te dio esto?

Pero el niño, por toda respuesta, se le quedó mirando, desafiante y sereno.

—¿No me lo dices? Pues ya verás cómo lo dices en la Comisaría. Vamos.

Y sin soltarlo del bracito, lo llevó hasta la oficina del Comisario de Policía.

El chico iba pálido, pero sereno.

El Sr. Comisario acababa de tomar su abundante desayuno y se encontraba satisfecho, sentado en su sillón ante la mesa de la Comisaría, contemplando las volutas del humo de su oloroso cigarrillo.

—¿Qué me traes ahí? —preguntó al esbirro que traía al niño.

—A este chamaco, que anda repartiendo en las calles estas porquerías, y no quiere decir quién se las ha dado—, respondió, echando sobre la mesa el paquete de propaganda.

—Pero a mí sí me lo vas a decir, ¿verdad? Yo soy el Comisario.

El chico cruzó sus bracitos a la espalda; miró impertérrito al policía y selló sus labios.

—Si no me lo dices te voy a zurrar un poco, ¡ya verás! Si se hubiera convertido el muchacho en una estatua de piedra, no hubiera guardado mayor firmeza en su actitud, y mayor silencio.

—¿Eh?, ¿no me lo dices?, pues ya lo verás. —Y levantándose cogió su fuete, que tenía sobre una de las sillas cercanas, y dio con él un tremendo latigazo al inocente, quien sólo lanzó un gemido de dolor.

Ante tal actitud el Comisario redobló dos o tres veces sus golpes, y como no venciera al chico, entre él y el esbirro, le arrancaron su pobre camisa y pantaloncitos y en carne viva redoblaron los golpes hasta amoratarle las espaldas.

—¡No sea malo, señor! ¡No sea malo!, ¡no me pegue así!, —lloraba el niño.

—Pues dime quién te dio esa propaganda, y no te pegaré más.

El niño apretó sus labios y aun cesó de lamentarse, para que no se le fuera a salir una palabra comprometedora.

Admirado, pero no arrepentido el Comisario, por la entereza del chico, dejó de azotarlo, le ordenó se vistiera, y le dijo al esbirro:

—Enciérralo en esa pieza vecina. Ya vendrá su madre a buscarlo y veremos entonces si habla o no habla.

En efecto, la madre del niño, que desde temprano era presa de un presentimiento doloroso e inexplicable, llegado el medio día y no viendo volver su hijo, como siempre lo hacía, satisfecho y alegre de haber ayudado en la medida de sus posibles a la buena causa, salió a buscarle.

No faltó algún conocido o vecino, a quien la pobre mujer preguntaba si no había visto al niño por casualidad, que le dijera que temprano había visto al chicuelo de las señas que daba la madre, ser llevado del brazo por un hombre en dirección de la Comisaría.

Diole un vuelco el corazón, porque adivinó que lo habían atrapado en su valiente comisión, y volviendo rápidamente a su casa preparó algo de comida para llevársela al chico, considerando que tal vez lo tendrían arrestado por algunas horas o un día cuando más, y el niño ya tendría hambre.

Corrió anhelante hacia la Comisaría con su pobre envoltorio, y se presentó al Comisario, preguntándole si tenía allí a su chico, pues le habían dicho que lo habían detenido por una travesura.

El policía sonriente, porque no se había equivocado en su previsión de que la madre del niño vendría a buscarlo, le dijo:

—No es una travesura cualquiera, señora. Es que andaba repartiendo papeles subversivos de la maldita "Liga" de los católicos; y tenemos necesidad de saber quién le dio a repartir esa propaganda; y el chico no quiere decirlo.

—Yo se la di, señor —dijo la madre, aturdida por aquella revelación de la causa principal del atropello al inocente.

—Eso no es cierto, señora. Usted no podía tener esos papeles sin que otra persona o personas se los hayan dado, y usted o el chico nos van a decir ahora, quiénes son los que la dan a repartir.

Y dando orden al esbirro, que se había presentado nuevamente en la oficina, para que trajera al muchacho, lo sacó éste de su encierro.

Presentóse el niño todo lloroso y doliente ante los ojos de su pobre madre, que comprendió inmediatamente lo habían atormentado, y lo bendecía ya en su interior por su noble actitud.

—A ver —exclamó el Comisario—, dígale usted a su hijo, que nos denuncie aquí mismo quiénes son esas personas, o voy a hacer ante usted un escarmiento, del que habrán de acordarse siempre.

Miró el niño a la madre y la madre miró al niño. Uno al otro se fortaleció con esa mirada de firmeza sin igual. . . y ¡ambos callaron!

—No lo dicen, ¿eh? Pues ahora lo verán.

Y volvió a desnudar al chico. La madre se echó a llorar amargamente al ver las amoratadas espaldas del niño, y más aún cuando vio al bárbaro policía levantar el látigo para reanudar los golpes. Ciega, valiente, como leona herida, lanzóse para interponerse entre el látigo del salvaje policía y su hijito; pero el otro esbirro estaba preparado, y agarró fuertemente a la mujer, que forcejeaba inútilmente por desprenderse de las garras de aquel bárbaro.

—Nada más digan quiénes son los que les dieron los papeles, y todo está acabado —gritó el Comisario golpeando con furor al pobrecito.

—¡No le pegue! —gritó la mujer—, ¡pégueme a mí, si es hombre, y no a un niño!

—Pues que diga . . .

Y entonces algo increíble sucedió, algo que debió resonar en el Cielo como resonaron en otro tiempo las voces de la madre de los Macabeos alentando a sus hijos al martirio. . . —¡No digas, hijo. . . no digas. . .! —clamó la madre entre un torrente de lágrimas. . .

El Comisario, furioso por haber sido vencido por una mujer y un niño, soltó el látigo, y cogiendo al niño por los bracitos se los retorció con furia, hasta que se los quebró ... El niño cayó desmayado.

Entonces el Comisario, asustado, le dijo a la madre:

—Vieja infame . . . llévese a su hijo ... tal por cual . . .

La madre se lanzó inmediatamente a levantar el cuerpo del chiquillo y abrazándolo con trabajo lo cargó sobre sus hombros, y salió como loca de la Comisaría, para ir a curarlo en su pobre vivienda. Cubriólo con su rebozo, pues estaba desnudo y sangriento. . . Y corría, corría. . . repitiendo como un estribillo

sublime. . . ¡No digas, hijo. . . no digas! En un momento dado, el cuerpecillo del mártir se estremeció sensiblemente, y la madre doliente, poniendo en su acento toda la ternura de su heroico

corazón. . . le repitió angustiada: ¡No digas, hijo. . . no digas!

Cuando al llegar a su casa depositó en la pobre camita el cuerpo llagado de su hijo. . . ¡estaba muerto!