February 11, 1945prev home
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8 p.m.
In the midst of my agonies I see these other agonies.
A sort of circular shaft occupying only a few square meters. It must have a diameter of four, or at most five, meters and about the same depth, with no windows. A small, narrow iron door is situated in the massive wall, almost a meter thick. In the center of the ceiling a round hole, with a diameter of half a meter at most, provides ventilation for this shaft, in whose beaten-earth floor there is another hole from which a stench and the gurgling of deep waters emerge, as if there were a river nearby or a sewer heading towards the river were passing underneath. The place is unhealthy, humid, and fetid. Moisture oozes from the walls, and the floor is soaked with repulsive substances, for I understand that the hole in the ceiling serves as a drain for wastes from the cell above.
In this horrid jail, where the deep gloom barely enables one to make out essential details, there are two people. One is lying on the ground, in the moisture, next to the wall, with one foot chained. But he is not moving at all. The other is sitting nearby, with his head in his hands. He is old, for I see that the top of his head is completely bald.
Above, in the other cell, there must be several people, for I hear voices and bustling. Men’s and women’s voices. The voices of children and the elderly intermingled with the fresh voices of young girls and the robust voices of adults.
From time to time they sing melancholy hymns which, in spite of their sadness, possess an element of great peace. The voices resound against the thick walls as if in a harmonious hall. Of great beauty is the hymn which goes:
Lead us to your fresh waters.
Take us to your flowering gardens.
Give your peace to the martyrs
Who hope, who hope in You.
On your holy promise
We have based our faith.
Do not disappoint us, Jesus our Savior,
For we have hoped in You.
We joyfully go to the martyrs
To follow You into lovely Paradise.
For the sake of that Country we leave all
And want nothing, want nothing but You.
When this last song slowly fades out, a light appears in the hole and an arm dangles out with a little lamp. A man’s face also appears. He looks. He sees that the man lying on the ground is not moving and the other with his head in his hands does not observe the light, and he calls out, “Diomedes! Diomedes! It’s time.”
The sitting man rises to his feet and, dragging the long chain, comes under the opening in the ceiling. “Peace to you, Alexander.”
“Peace, Diomedes.”
“Do you have everything?”
“Everything. Priscilla dared to come, disguised as a man. She shaved her head to look like a gravedigger. She brought us what we needed to celebrate the Mystery. What is Agapitus doing?”
“He is no longer moaning. I don’t know if he is sleeping or if he is dead. And I would like to see.... To say the martyrs’ prayers for him.”
“We’ll send you down the lamp. Wait. It will be a joy for him to receive the Mystery.”
With a cord made of knotted belts they lower the little lamp into the hands of Diomedes, who - I now see him clearly - is an old man with a thin, austere face. Very pale, with little hair, he has two eyes which still shine expressively. In his wretchedness as a man in chains in that fetid lair, he possesses the dignity of a king.
He detaches the lamp from the cord and goes towards his companion. He bends over, observes him, and touches him. And he opens his arms, after having set the lamp down on the ground, in a broad gesture of commiseration. He then takes the hands of the corpse, which are already nearly stiff, and crosses them over his chest. The poor yellow, skeletal hands of an old man who has died of privations.
He turns towards those waiting near the hole and says, “Agapitus is dead. Glory be to the martyr of the putrid pit!”
“Glory! Glory! Glory be to the one faithful to Christ,” reply those in the cell above.
“Lower what we need for the Mystery. The altar is not lacking. No longer his hands, extended to provide support, but the motionless chest, which until the final hour throbbed for our Lord, Jesus.”
A bag made of precious material is lowered, and from it Diomedes takes out a small linen cloth, a large, flat loaf of bread, an amphora, and a little chalice. He prepares everything on the dead man’s chest, celebrates, and consecrates, saying the prayers by heart while those above respond. It must be in the early times of the Church, for the Mass is more or less like Paul’s in the Tullianum.12
After consecration has taken place, Diomedes pours the wine in the chalice (which is slightly jug-shaped, perhaps selected precisely for this purpose) back into the amphora, puts the Hosts into the bag once more, and takes everything back to the place where the cord is waiting to lift the bag up again. As it rises, lifted cautiously, Diomedes absolves his companions. The singing - almost entirely by little girls - sweetly resumes while the Christians receive Communion.
When it ceases, Diomedes speaks:
“Brothers and sisters, I understand that the time has come for the circus and the eternal victory. For Agapitus it has already come. For you it will be tomorrow. Be strong, brothers and sisters. The torment will be an instant. Blessedness will be unceasing. Jesus is with you. He will not leave you even when the Species are consumed in you. He does not abandon his confessors, but remains with them to receive their souls, cleansed by love and blood, without delay. Go. Pray in the hour of death for your executioners and for your priest. By my hand the Lord is giving you final absolution. Do not be afraid. Your souls are whiter than a snowflake falling from the sky”
“Good-bye, Diomedes!”
“As a saint, help us with your prayer.”
“We’ll tell Jesus to come and get you.”
“We’re going ahead of you to prepare the way”
“Pray for us.”
The Christians take turns appearing in the opening. They say good-bye, receive a farewell, and disappear....
The little lamp is finally hoisted back up, and darkness, even deeper than before, returns to the cavern, where someone is slowly dying alongside the other who is already dead, in the midst of the stench and the murmur of the underground water. Above they resume their slow, soft singing.
On my own I cannot tell where the scene is taking place. I would say Rome, in times of persecution. But I don’t know which jail it is. Just as I do not know who this priest with such a venerable appearance, Diomedes, is. But the vision, because of its sadness, impresses me even more than the one at the Tullianum.13
12 See the entry for January 29 in The Notebooks. 1944.
13 We pass over seven handwritten pages containing the episode entitled “Jesus at Mary of Alpheus’ House Makes Peace with His Cousin Simon,” with a short dictation involving commentary, pertaining to The First Year of the Public Life.