Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “When did you discover that secret?” Jorge asked they inched down the dark hallway, past closed doors Luna assumed to hide more windowless bedrooms.

  “I remember my aunt and uncle discussing it before the flood.” Montserrat led them into a kitchen that had natural light from a small window over the sink. The adjacent dining room had a door that opened out into a small courtyard. The trio trailed outside to sit on basic metal chairs in the triangular space. The walls of other buildings all butted against the courtyard, and above them hung the laundry of the higher apartments. The blue sky above gave the whole miserable place a little happiness.

  “So,” Montserrat crossed her feet at the ankles, and she wore black slippers, which looked past their use-by date, “tell me what you know, and maybe I can help you.”

  “But we know very little,” Luna began.

  “But you know something.”

  “The association digs up civil war graves…” Jorge said.

  “I know,” Montserrat interrupted him. “But my parents died in ’57, well after the war.”

  “Do you remember much about their deaths?” Luna probed.

  “I’m old, my girl, not senile. I remember everything, after all, it’s not every day your parents vanish, and your four sisters die.”

  “The flood? Here, in this house?”

  “Not here. My sisters – Fernanda was 20, ugly, so no one had married her yet. Daniela was 18, a good girl, Flora was 14 and Joséfina was 12. I was ten when they all died. My sisters and I were at my aunt’s place, over in Plaza de Santa Cruz, in the Barrio del Carmen. The family were attending church, and our parents would meet us there. But the night fell, and they never arrived, and our aunt offered for us to stay with her, in her wonderful ground floor apartment. That night was the great flood, October 14, 1957.”

  “Plaza de Santa Cruz is close to the riverbed,” Luna said.

  “Do you know much about the flood?”

  “I do.”

  “But I don’t,” Jorge admitted.

  “Just after midnight, the river burst its banks. Not a little; it was a tsunami of water. We were a few streets from the water, but right here, a long way from the river, was no safer. This place filled with mud and water. At my aunt’s place, we heard water gushing, but we weren’t sure what to do. Tía Magdalena suggested we go upstairs to the neighbours, just in case. But my tío, a drunkard at the best of times, said his wife was being alarmist. The cabrón of a man opened the front door! Water came rushing in, and the power got cut. I couldn’t see a thing; it was completely black in the apartment. I heard water, and everyone was screaming in panic. Fernanda grabbed me and pushed me on top of a huge cabinet my aunt had, covered in books. I sat in the small space between the top of the cabinet and the ceiling. The water pushed everything around the room.” Montserrat paused and took a deep breath. “It wasn’t just water, but mud, too. A raw, rural smell filled the darkness, along with our screams of terror. The water seemed so cold, but I think that was my nerves. I got wet up to my waist before my taller sister had grabbed me and put me on the cabinet. The water just kept coming, swirling around the apartment. I put my hand down just a few inches to touch the water. That is how high the level was, right to the roof. I don’t know how long I sat there, but the sounds of the river rushing past the house become normal. That’s when the silence was terrifying. No screaming. I could hear my aunt calling out to anyone who could hear, but I was too scared to call back to her. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, but there was so much debris, household items, ours and from God knows where, floating around, and everything was just a jumble. At first light, the water receded. I stayed on the cabinet until almost midday, frozen in panic. Fernanda got washed out of the apartment and down the street, found by the tree that used to sit in the plaza. Daniela got found near the stairwell; she never made it up before the water got her. Flora had her foot caught in my aunt’s old radiator heater and couldn’t get her head above water. Joséfina was floating face down when I saw her, not far from me. None of us could swim. Tío Salvador died too, found in the kitchen near the back door. Tía Magdalena was okay; she had been holding onto a washing line she had rigged up in the kitchen; she held the rope all night, clutching on until her fingers bled. We were the unluckiest family in the city, I reckon.”

  “I’m so sorry to drag all this back up,” Jorge muttered.

  “This incident will never leave my mind,” Montserrat said and wrung her hands together. “I hoped my parents would come for me, but they never did. Never found, the Guardia Civil said. No trace. Washed away perhaps. But over the years, my opinions changed. Tía Magdalena and I moved in here; she couldn’t bear her place anymore. People would come by; food, second-hand clothes, little things to help us. But so many people came looking for Padre. Patients at first; that’s how we learned of the drug trade he was doing. Stealing from the rich to sell cut-price to the poor. The fact he vanished kept swirling in my aunt’s mind. Tía Magdalena thought her brother had been into something suspicious with those drugs. But my aunt passed when I was 17, so I married the first man I could. There wasn’t much in the way of work, so I needed a husband. We were married for fifty years, until three months ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Luna said.

  “Don’t be; he was a bastard. I’m happy to be rid of Gonzalo. A brute of a man. We only had one child; he preferred whoring. I was pleased to have Gonzalo go anywhere but to my room! Gonzalo was religious, as is my daughter; my Republican parents would have the hated that. Divorce was illegal when my daughter was young, and when it became legal, I was too old to find another husband, so I stuck with Gonzalo. Now, I have peace here with my daughter, her husband and their two daughters; they’re 20 and 18. Remind me of my sisters, they do. Times are tough.”

  The ageing apartment, with peeling wallpaper and rusting kitchen, attested to tough times. The clothes fluttering in the slight breeze, which wormed its way down the shaft between the buildings, all looked well used.

  “I’m not complaining,” Montserrat continued. “I’m happy; the river can’t hurt us, my sisters are at peace, my bastard husband is dead, and my daughter is happy. My granddaughters will go to university one day; once they have saved some money. I’m happier now than I have been in years.”

  “Where are your sisters buried?” Luna asked.

  “Here in Valencia cemetery. Padre had enough money that we could bury my sisters.”

  “Señora,” Jorge said and rested his hands on his knees, “we believe we have found your parents.”

  “But they’re dead, I assume. What happened?”

  “Two bodies fitting their description got dug up in a mass grave on Luna’s property on Rebalsadors mountain in the Sierra Calderona.”

  “What on Earth were they doing out there in the mountains?”

  “They got found with two other bodies,” Luna explained. “These people seem to have no connection to one another.”

  “Obviously a connection somehow, to the killer I suppose,” Montserrat scoffed.

  “Perhaps that is true,” Jorge added. “The association can’t be certain the bodies found are of Adán Lugo Gil and Rosalía Sueño Agron. We looked up records of missing persons after the flood, and the age of the bodies matches your parents. But we can’t be certain without a DNA test.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Montserrat muttered, no expression on her face.

  “All costs will get covered,” Luna assured her.

  Montserrat sat back in her seat and put a hand over her mouth. Her nails looked short and well-kept on wrinkled hands. She stared at the concrete ground; a few stray cigarette butts had blown from an overflowing ashtray in the corner. “So many people have come looking for my father over the years. I thought you would be like the rest.”

  “The rest?” Jorge asked.

  “People born in Valencia, and my father was the attending doctor. Padre had signed their birth certificates. He was a doctor at the hospital; Padre delivered many children. But
some had come looking for Padre; these people thought they were adopted, and the paperwork got forged.”

  “Really?” Luna leaned forward with interest; the babies stolen from left-wing families or single mothers, those deemed unsuitable parenthood by the church, greatly interested her. Poor mothers had their children stolen away at birth and received closed casket burials, never seeing their babies. The babies got whisked away to a paying Catholic family somewhere else, sometimes even overseas. Babies stolen to order, to rear the ‘poor breeding’ out of them.

  “I couldn’t help any of these women seeking children, or children seeking parents. Padre delivered a few babies here at home, women who came to him, unable to make it to the hospital. Padre was always happy to help. I remember, just before he died, Guardia Civil officers used to come to visit. One night they brought a baby with them. I remember that night clearly; I don’t know why. Two men, both tall, but one was really big. The big man carried the baby. The other guard had blood on him. I remember seeing his face down the hallway while they went into my father’s office. Sorry, none of this is relevant.”

  “I can assure you, it’s very relevant,” Jorge said. “The association located a Guardia Civil uniform button at the grave site.”

  “My God,” Montserrat mumbled. “Do you know what happened to my parents?”

  “Your father had a neck wound, possibly from a knife,” Jorge said, his voice measured and gentle. He couldn’t afford to get involved in the emotional aspect of each person he uncovered, but he still sounded sincere. “Your mother, it is hard to see how she died from her remains. Perhaps a flesh wound; the bones held no clues.”

  “But they didn’t drown,” Montserrat said rather than asked.

  “No, we have no reason to suspect they drowned.”

  “Murdered.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Any idea who did them in? The Guardia Civil? Was it over the stolen drugs? Or the stolen babies?”

  Luna assumed José Morales, Cayetano’s grandfather, was the killer. But they had no proof. But one of the other bodies, Aná Munoz, lived in José’s building in 1957, and she was in the grave. The fourth body was the mother of José’s three adopted sons. José had to be the killer of the doctor and his wife. But José was dead, and there was no proof. “It’s possible we can identify the killer but since so much time has passed…” Luna started.

  “I don’t even care,” Montserrat sighed. “I’ve carried the weight of their disappearance my whole life. Now, I want to see out my days in peace. That’s what I am doing now Gonzalo is in the ground. Besides, if the Guardia Civil killed my parents, who will care? Who would investigate? My parents are drops in the corrupt ocean we used to live in.”

  “Would you be prepared to submit to a straightforward DNA test? It’s a swab; we can do it today…” Jorge ventured.

  “Yes, of course I could, they’re my family. What’s more important than that?”

  “I appreciate that, Señora. I realise this must have come as a shock.”

  “Life has had enough shocks. This is nothing.” But it was something; Montserrat’s eyes glistened with tears.

  “Gracias, Señora Lugo,” Luna said, her voice quiet. “Thank you for telling us your story.”

  “Why is a fancy rich girl like you digging up bodies? A charity you support?”

  “Luna owns the land where the bodies were found. Her family is buried there, too. Luna almost died in the pursuit of this dig,” Jorge defended Luna.

  “Gonzalo was a fan of bullfighting. I’ve seen you in the magazines and in the papers, Luna. Rich wife with a cause, are you?”

  “My mother died when I was a five,” Luna said. “I can’t recall anything about her. But when I smell cigarette smoke I can remember her. I can see an outline of what I think she looked like. My father pined to death, slowly. Though I don’t understand your happiness at the death of your husband, Señora; my first husband got killed at a young age, and I mourned him in pain.”

  Montserrat sat upright again and smoothed her skirt. “I apologise.”

  “Finding my grandfather’s murdered body buried in Valencia was tough, so I hope we haven’t flustered you too much,” Luna continued. “I know first-hand how hard this is to hear.”

  Montserrat nodded and realised she had misjudged Luna. “Please, what I said of my father, the birth certificates, the drugs, say nothing on the subject. It is just conjecture now, and the dead can’t tell the truth. But yes, if the bodies are of my parents, I would like them buried properly, with my sisters, with some luck.”

  “We’ll cover the costs,” Jorge said. “This dig is already funded.”

  “Let’s get this done.” Montserrat’s stoicism was obvious. “Perhaps they aren’t my parents, so I won’t get my hopes up. I always knew they got murdered. But this is Spain; old justices won’t get settled now. Evil has already won.”

  14

  Madrid, España ~ Septiembre de 1975

  Jaime always loved Rebelión. He remembered the day his parents brought him and his siblings to the isolated property, fifty kilometres east of Madrid city, where they lived in a cramped apartment. Jaime had only been nine at the time, but the day stuck in his memory. A late summer’s morning, the sun high in the sky, Jaime ran around the 150-year old stone shack of a property. Pedro had mentioned the house looked like a 300-year-old haunted castle, and for years Jaime, Luis and Inés believed him. Now, ten years on, the house was a mansion for the whole family to love. Gone was the apartment in Lavapies; José had saved every peseta he earned so Rebelión could have a restored home. José quit the secretive Brigada Especial and turned his attention to the bull breeding and then managing Paco’s career. One day, Paco would take over as head of the family and continue the work on Rebelión’s main house. The small town of Corpa, about ten kilometres south of Rebelión, had plenty of people looking for work. Villagers were eager to help any way they could; maids, housekeepers, building and farm labours. Rebelión was a hive of activity and Jaime loved that it was his home – when he wasn’t touring the country with Paco.

  “What are you doing, tío Jaime?”

  Jaime glanced away from the shovel in his hand to his six-year-old nephew, Cayetano. The boy, the image of Paco, with sharp features and curly dark hair, looked up at him with genuine enthusiasm.

  “I have dug holes so we can put a fence around the house. Then you and your baby sister can play safe away from all the bulls.”

  “But the bulls are in the paddocks.”

  “I know, little one, but your abuela wants a garden here, so we will build her a huge wooden balcony and grassy garden with a fence around the edge.” Consuela had yearned for years for a yard area around the house. Until now, all that encompassed the two–storey home of Rebelión was dust, and few olive trees which sprung up of their accord. Jaime glanced up at the grey stone of the huge home, and the glare hurt his eyes.

  “Caya, you aren’t annoying your uncle, are you?” Inés called from the doorway to the living rooms. Jaime noticed his sister holding her infant daughter Sofía on her hip.

  “Caya’s fine with me, Inés,” Jaime called back, “he has just come to help.”

  “Can we go horse riding?” Cayetano asked.

  “Caya, you should ask your Papá. He might want to go for a ride.”

  Cayetano put his hands on his hips. “You know Papá has to stick to his schedule,” he said, his little voice very stern. “Before lunch he must do his time in the practice ring with the calves.”

  “Quite right, little torero,” Jaime chuckled. “My apologies.”

  Inés wandered over, her light pink summer shoes coated in a fine layer of dust in a moment. Baby Sofía buried her face in her mother’s loose-fitting blouse, the sun too bright for her little brown eyes. “Paco is with Papá and Luis over at the ring,” Inés explained. “They are talking about the big news. Papá won’t shut up about the whole sorry business.”

  Jaime nodded as he wiped the sweat from his bro
w and squinted in the sunlight. “Well, it could have been worse.”

  “Five people executed this morning,” Inés sighed. “It was supposed to be eleven killed, but even so... I’m glad the pregnant women got a reprieve.”

  “Imprisonment is not a reprieve.”

  “Papá said the papers in London reported that the terrorists got put to death by garrotte.”

  “Shows what they know.”

  “Firing squads,” Inés muttered under her breath. “Imagine how it would have been for them; five received the message last night they would get killed, the other six with sentences commuted. The horror for their families...”

  “They were terrorists, Inés. Killers. The men shot policemen, they incited violence and concocted plans to hurt people. The person who detonated the bomb, hurting Padre and Pedro, hasn’t been caught. Don’t you want that killer to pay the price?”

  “I do,” Inés said and bit her bottom lip for a moment. “But killing more people, is that the answer?”

  Jaime just shrugged and stabbed his shovel into the dirt. Cayetano tried to pull it out, with no luck. “You know the Basques, Inés. ETA, they want to hurt people.”

  “ETA believes they are in the right, just like everyone on every side of any argument.”

  “The guy they shot in Barcelona this morning; he was your age, 21. The other ETA terrorist shot in Burgos, he was just 33. Six bullets I heard on the radio; it took six bullets before he fell.”

  Inés gave the sign of the cross and kissed Sofía’s forehead. “Where did the other three get killed, the Revolutionary Antifascist Patriotic Front men?”

  “The FRAP guys got killed in Hoy de Manzanares.”

  “Just north of Madrid,” Inés mumbled. “That was where Paco fought a week ago. You went to that big meeting in the Plaza Mayor. All the pictures in the papers… What happens to the six who got commuted last night? Life in prison?”

  “Maybe they will get lucky and Franco will die, setting them free.”