I write this on Saturday, April 12, 2025, the day the Church calls Saturday of the week of Passion: the time in which Christ, already persecuted by his future executioners, continued in Jerusalem along a path that would in the end take him to the Golgotha, where he would be crucified.
For young people we had between eight and fifteen years in the times of the 1940s, Holy Week was very different from today. And without mine a family that was said very religious, in the school to which they were already occupied that we had spiritual exercises and special teachings.
Anyway where one was we got a burst of a certain fervor, and sometimes rage, religious. As happened to me in Don Benito, province of Badajoz, where I lived a year and a half to recover from the feeding rickets of the war in Madrid. There, in the parish we saw how the images with violet fabrics were trimmed and they covered their eyes so that they did not see the destruction of the figure of the Savior on the cross. And I also remember how the most absolute silence was breaking, suddenly the carracks were crashed in their mechanism, wood conjunctions, with a dry and hurtful sound.
In another Holy Week, which I spent in Almeria, working in the Rodalquilar Gold Mines, of the INI, led by the disciples of Father Llanos, and especially by the then Professor Eduardo Zorita, great diffuser of Christianity of the workers’ priests, we had a work prior to the sacral dinner. Consistent that the students wash their feet to a dozen people, representative of the very apostles.
We will deal with the subject, because I am remembering many things, and we will have a second part of this article.