The San Sebastian Chronicles, Part IX
By: J.P. Melkus
Tags: Humor, Fiction, Fiction Series, World War I, Satire

Upon entering the church, I could tell I was late. The usual queue was gone but the lamp outside the confessional was still lit. I checked my watch. Confessional hours were still on for ten more minutes. It shouldn’t take half that long with Father Koblenza.

Father, I did this that and the other, it usually went. Well, this is wrong, it separates you from God, but God is loving and infinitely merciful and he understands temptation for he was tempted himself after all, and he certainly understands the temptations of this new modern world, and the hardships and stresses of war, and so on and so on, Father Koblenza would usually say, And, of course, many of us act out of habit, which can lessen our fault, for you are perhaps not fully in control of what comes in your mind or even your actions in many cases. So, the important thing is to try. Always to try to do better, he would say. Ten Hail Marys. Maximum. Every time.

I removed my cap as I stepped from the narthex into the nave. I crossed myself with Holy water from the stoup. I took in the echoes from my footfalls and the smell of damp granite, candlewax, stale incense, and the pews’ long-farted-on oak — together it smelled of God.

I walked softly to a pew near the confessional. I knelt near the aisle and prayed.

“O most merciful God! Prostrate at your feet, I implore your forgiveness. I sincerely desire to leave all my evil ways and to confess my sins with all sincerity to you and to your priest. I am a sinner, have mercy on me, O Lord. Give me a lively faith and a firm hope in the Passion of my Redeemer. Give me, for your mercy’s sake a sorrow for having offended so good a God. Mary, my mother, refuge of sinners, pray for me that I may make a good confession. Amen,” I recited quietly and kneeling.

I crossed myself. Then, after confirming it was empty, I stepped quietly into the confessional, twisting the lock behind me and kneeling before the screen. I began the penitential act.

I began, just above a whisper, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight days since my last confession. These are — ”

“Have you had abortion?”

…I froze.

This was not Father Koblenza! This was some priest who sounded as if he’d been interrupted eating a soup of split peas and miniature boulders. His Sebastiano accent was not Italian. Not even Friulian. Ladin, maybe? Croatian? I made a strange sound myself. Almost a laugh.

The gargly gurgle came again from across the screen, “Abortion is not a laughing matter.”

“Of course, not… Of course not, Father, it is only that I was shocked, for I am a… a male. I have not had an abortion.”

“Have you done abortion?”

“No, father. I cannot do so. I am not a doctor.

“Many do abortions who are not doctors.”

“I do not know about that, Father.”

“Have you procure an abortion for another? For a woman?”

Who is this man? Where is Father Koblenza?

“No, Father.”

“I hear there is a communist Milanese doctor doing such a thing to women near the front, war often bringing out such nasty business as it does. You are not this man?”

“No, Father.” I knew he should not be asking who I am. “I have not procured an abortion.”

“Very well. I hope you are truthful. Consider whether you may have done so, indirectly, through your actions. Or put another, a woman, in a position to consider it, through your actions… You understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Go on.”

It took my a moment to regain my composure. I was struck with an urge to lie. To condense my confession to the barest and flee. Or just to flee. How quickly could I unlock the panel and vamosz? The priest sounded like he would have trouble exiting the confessional fast enough to know who I was. He would have to first put down his throatbound rock remoulade and clear his throat. Perhaps also mount his wheeled chair. Yet it was possible someone would be in the nave now. I could not cause such a scene. And it would only lengthen the next confession. And surely fleeing a confession is a mortal sin itself. I would be excluded from communion in the face of death at any moment from Austrian balloon bombs and induced avalanches.

“Yes, Father. It has been eight days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Continued…