The Guardian of Secrets and Her Deathly Pact

by Jana Petken

  “Just tell me,” she heard herself whisper.

  “No, no, you mustn’t think it is bad news. It’s just that I had to be sure that no one else would read this. Here, read it for yourself. You’ll see.”

  20 October1936

  My darling Lucia,

  I miss you so much and think about you all the time. I have seen so many terrible things and cannot begin to tell you of their horrors, except to say that because of what I witnessed in the first days of this war, I have finally found my way, and my way is not to kill innocent workers and their families. The man who delivered this letter to you was in my unit until recently. He has been drafted to your region, while I must stay here and fight my way back to you.

  First of all, I must tell you that I am no longer with the army of Africa or with the rebel nationalist forces. After thinking long and hard about it, I realised that my father’s and grandfather’s words never rang more true than they do at this moment:

  “All men are equal in the eyes of God, no matter their rank or station at birth.” I always did believe that, as I know you do.

  I cannot tell you where I am or what I’m doing at this moment, but I can tell you that I am in the good hands of men who believe in the same ideals as I do. I am with some foreign fighters, and at first I didn’t know what to expect from them. They are an unlikely brotherhood of Englishmen, Frenchmen, Russians, Germans, and Italians, and their stories have made my admiration for them grow with each passing day. They are a proud group of fighters with no other motive than to help the republic.

  Times are hard and will be harder still in the following months, but my priority is and will remain the same, and that is to come home to you, safe and well. Please try to get this letter to a member of my family so that someone can see that I am well and still fighting. It is so hard not knowing how my sisters and brother are. I know that my parents are in England, and I found that out only because a young boy called Peter Butcher told me. Apparently, he knows of my mother and the name Merrill Farm, her childhood home.

  I have received no news from you, and I pray that you are all right. Pray for me, my love, and believe that one day you will see me walk past your window bearing flowers and chocolates. But until then, wait for me. Please wait. You are all I live and fight for.

  Yours always,

  Peter Merrill

  “Peter Merrill. He’s using his English name?” María said, looking up.

  “Yes, that’s the name he seems to be known by. The soldier, an Englishman, delivered the letter and said it was from Peter from Kent.”

  “It would make sense. I mean, if Pedro suddenly walked into a republican encampment from the other side …”

  She read the letter again, relieved to have heard something at last about one of her brothers. But there was so much more she wanted to know. She felt the frustration that a blind person must feel fumbling in the dark, unable to see anything clearly. Pedro was somewhere, but where? He was doing something, but what? He was now on the republican side, but how did he get away from the rebel nationalists?

  “Where do you think he is?” she asked Lucia, who had sat down beside her.

  “I really don’t know, but I think my father is still in the South somewhere.”

  “No news from him?”

  “No, not recently. My mother wrote to him, but there has been no reply yet. We don’t even know if he’s getting our letters. And your family … Have you heard anything?”

  María sipped her coffee. She didn’t want to go into any details about her family. She didn’t know Lucia well enough yet, and apart from that, she didn’t want to talk about Marta, as she would break down.

  “No, nothing,” she told her firmly.

  “Look, María, I know we don’t know each other that well, but I feel that I’m closer to Pedro when I talk to you. The rest of my family are staunch rebels to the core, and they’ve all gone to God knows where, so it would be so lovely if we could stick together for Pedro’s sake. Will you think about the nursing job? You are welcome to live here during your training, when you are not at the hospital, of course.”

  “Yes,” María said at once, surprising even herself. “Yes, I’d like that, and I don’t need to think about it. Just tell me what I need to do. I’m going to have to contribute something towards this war, even if it’s just rolling bandages … anything. Just tell me.”

  “María, it’ll be a lot more than rolling bandages. I can assure you of that.”

  Chapter 55

  Miguel sat in the corner of the small bar two doors from his house. He had just attended the most important meeting of his career and wanted no interruptions while he went over it again in his head, right down to the smallest detail. All the remaining Phalanx leadership had been there, discussing the problems that had arisen because of the continuing imprisonment in Alicante of their founder, José Antonio Primo De Rivera. It was clear that the most powerful parties were worried about takeovers and infighting between the most ambitious. When Miguel looked round the table, he had seen all the hidden ambitions and plots already staring him in the face, and the transparent greed and lust for power sickened him. He had sat at the bottom end of the table, involved but not expected to say anything of any significance. He was the leader of a squad of men now but took no political or military decisions as such and was at the meeting only because of Mónica’s influential father. However, the fact that he did not have to speak allowed him to listen to all sides of the argument, and as he looked back on the night, he was convinced that the compromise agreement to set up an interim council of those present was a dangerous one.

  As he walked back to his house, he decided that if he were to fight this war, it would be on the battlefields, not in an office or in a dirty game of back-stabbing and ambitious power struggles. In truth, he was tired of the summary executions that went on every day and found no self-respect or glory in being party to them. He wanted to leave Valladolid and all its political intrigues and ask for a transfer to a command just outside of Madrid, as that was where the war would be won or lost, fair and square.

  Mónica and Miguel had married shortly after his return from the Madrid defeat and his miraculous escape. How he had got back alive was still a mystery to him, as he still couldn’t remember anything about his journey home, apart from the pain and fever that had gripped his body and mind. He remembered falling into Mónica’s arms, being driven to the hospital through a hazy fog, and hearing that he would probably lose his arm to gangrene. For weeks, he had floundered somewhere between life and death, never sure which one would claim him and not really caring either way, but Mónica had always been by his side. He remembered that clearly enough.

  Miguel had basked in Mónica’s love during those days, and her devotion towards him had become more important than going into battle for his glorious cause. She was his cause; she was the person he now wanted to end this war for. Since his recovery, he’d changed somewhat. He was no longer the foolhardy, arrogant idealist who’d gone off to conquer Madrid in July with no thought or possibility of defeat in his mind. His respect and fear of his enemy had grown, and although it hadn’t been tested since, he believed that his slice of humble pie would ultimately make him a better soldier in the long term. He still wanted to fight and win. Although that agenda had not changed, his reasons had. He would fight now for his way of life, his wife and for his family. They were all worth dying for; being a pompous ass was not. He’d tasted defeat and stared death in the face. It had been a life-changing experience, making him think back to his former life in Valencia. He’d led a shallow, overindulgent life, where nothing and no one mattered but him.

  Having a new family in Valladolid had also made him realise just how important his parents, sisters, and brother had become to him. He had tried to call home for the first time since leaving them, but the lines had been cut, so he then sent two Phalanx agents to Valencia in the hope of finding out how and where the Martinéz family were. When his spies returned, he had fe
lt both relieved and saddened at the news they brought with them. His home was now a republican hospital and a central military base. His parents had fled to England, and his sister María was well and openly aiding the republicans and was now the enemy, so the spies had said. Miguel had laughed at that. How little he knew about María or about her political leanings. How little he knew about either sister. Maybe, he thought, if he had taken the time, he could have influenced María and changed Marta’s mind about going into a convent. Marta was fragile, not like María or his Mónica. He admitted now that he had never listened to anything either of his sisters had to say or spoken to them with any measure of respect, but he would make it up to both sisters when this was all over, even if María was the enemy.

  Miguel thought about Pedro too, and he was ashamed of himself for mentioning Joseph Dobbs to him on that last night at home. His brother hated the very name, as did he. “God, I’m an arsehole sometimes,” he said, stumbling at the edge of the kerb.

  Pedro was his greatest worry because he was probably in the thick of things and would be fighting on the front lines, courageous and determined to be a good soldier.

  “A good soldier,” he said to himself, spitting on the ground.

  He was not a good soldier, not like Pedro, who, in the face of defeat, would have honour and guts. No, he was a bloody executioner, and it was making him feel sick to his stomach.

  His mentor, Onésimo Redondo, was now dead, murdered by a republican hit squad. Since then, brutal revenge and executions of leftist workers had spiralled out of control. Trials were now being held every day. Names were read out, the charge and sentence, quickly and without diligence. The condemned republicans were then taken out early in the morning and driven in trucks to the Campo de San Isidro on the outskirts of the city, and Miguel felt a vile, bitter taste in his mouth at the memory of the murder of so many innocent men.

  “The whole city has gone mad,” Miguel told Mónica one night in bed. “They’ve even set up chocolate and doughnut stands in the stadium to watch the executions!”

  “They deserve what they get. They all deserve to die,” she had retorted, telling him to go back to sleep.

  But he couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept well in weeks. Every morning he got up for the dawn patrol, and day after day, they killed more Reds, more communists and socialist troublemakers. In fact, they would kill anyone who disagreed with them. The names arrived on his desk every night, and he did sometimes wonder exactly what these people had done or if they’d done anything at all. They didn’t even bury the bodies now, Miguel had pointed out to his superior. It was dishonourable to leave the dead in such a way, not to mention the scare it was causing to public health officials. As he reached his home, he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. Mónica had been a bit touchy, not herself lately.

  In his living room, visitors were lounging on sofas and discussing current events. When he eventually set his unsteady feet in the hallway, he noticed the rancid smell of tobacco and stale wine floating in the air and deduced that the people who were talking with raised and angry voices had been in his house and entertained by his wife for hours. Mónica was in the kitchen dishing up some cold cuts of meat and bread, and when he found her, she was sullen and tetchy, a side of her character that he was seeing more and more often. She turned when he entered, and that sullen look was there, plain for him to see.

  “Where have you been?” she asked him with icy coldness in her voice. “I expected you hours ago!”

  “I’m sorry,” Miguel told her, kissing her on the cheek, smelling of whisky and sounding contrite. “The meeting went on longer than I expected.”

  “You’re lying, Miguel Martinéz. The meeting finished two hours ago. I know that for a fact. You do know you’ve caused me a lot of embarrassment by not being here. What will my friends think of you?”

  “Well, my dear, as I don’t seem to know any of them, I don’t really care what they think. What’s this little gathering about, anyway?”

  “We’ve decided that some of the communist women in this town are just as guilty as their men, and we’re going to root them out and deal with them.”

  “Who’s given you permission to mount such an operation? You know you can’t just grab people off the streets. There is a process, a command structure to follow.”

  “Why should you be told everything that goes on?” she spat. “You think you know everything, Miguel, but ever since you got back from Madrid, you’ve not been the same person. I don’t even think I know who you are anymore. You question everything and everybody. You want to be important and have responsibility, yet you’re not open to some of the ideals that we stand for; you’re a hypocrite! You attend important meetings, which I should be at, only to get back from them drunk and moody.”

  She tossed a piece of meat on to a plate and continued. “What do you want? Either you’re one hundred per cent behind the Phalanx or you’re not. I’m not convinced of your allegiance anymore, not at all. I’ve been told you didn’t shoot that unionist the other morning.”

  Miguel looked at her, struck dumb by her outburst and mention of his role in the dawn patrols, but as she continued to slice the bread, it was clear that she wasn’t even waiting for an answer. She had spoken to him as though he were a subordinate, and his pride and male ego felt as though they had taken a brutal beating.

  Miguel continued to watch her, and the thought struck him that he didn’t really know her either. Even her pretty face had grown sharp and rigid, with eyes that were cold and uninviting. She was so engrossed in the movement that he wondered if she ever saw past it or if he’d been nothing but a comrade that had turned her on with his ambitious rhetoric. That was how he had been in the beginning: ambitious, obsessed, and totally committed. Had he changed as much as she said he had? Or had she?

  “Mónica,” he heard himself say in a tone of voice he had never before used with her. “Now is not the time for this. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t want to argue, but what I will say is that what I do on the dawn patrols is none of your bloody business!”

  “Oh, yes it is!” she screamed, brandishing the bread knife in front of his face. “Everything that happens in the Phalanx is my business! You’re not doing your job. You’re being sloppy, and I’m ashamed of you!”

  Who was this woman? he thought angrily. Who the hell did she think she was?

  “Did it ever occur to you that my reasons for not killing that man were valid, that maybe he shouldn’t have been taken to the execution site in the first place?” he shouted.

  She laughed. “You disgraced yourself! Why, even your unit are not happy with your performance, and if you start getting squeamish in front of them, you’ll not only lose their respect but the party’s and mine too! Do you understand?”

  “Mónica, what’s wrong with you? What are you getting at? This is me you’re talking to, not a Phalanx operative but me, your husband.”

  Mónica lifted the plate of ham from the table and turned towards the door, speaking with her back towards him. “I told you right from the beginning that the Phalanx is more important than us, and I will not go in there and tell my friends that you couldn’t be bothered to join us because you’re too busy getting drunk. These people are important to me, more important than your stupid, misguided conscience. So get in there right now and support the cause!”

  Miguel did as he was told that night, he supported the cause. He sat and listened to the rhetoric about the upcoming slaughter of communist women or women who flaunted socialist values. All those in attendance appeared to be Phalanx members, which confused him and irritated him at the same time. He had the ear of the high command, yet he had heard nothing about this new order, so where was it coming from? Were these people in his sitting room taking this momentous decision all by themselves? He’d wondered. Mónica hadn’t spoken to him for the remainder of the night. The men and women in the room with her didn’t give him a second glance, nor did they ask his opinion about the proposed
arrest and massacre of known republican women with eyes that spoke with sublime pleasure at the prospect. Still, did his wife’s bidding. He secretly felt disgusted but outwardly supported the cause.

  Who is this woman? he asked himself again after everyone had left his house. She was not the vivacious, courageous woman he’d first fallen in love with. She was not even the intelligent spokeswoman he had heard on the stage, committed to medical aid projects, with purity in her mission to rid Spain of communists and socialist upstarts. She was much more than that person now, and he didn’t like the bits that had been added on.

  Chapter 56

  Celia went alone to Goudhurst to attend Tom Butcher’s funeral. She was saddened but also acknowledged that he had outlived just about everyone she had ever known from her childhood days and had lived a good life. It was during the funeral that so many old and painful memories came back to haunt her. After the mourners had left the cemetery, she found herself sitting alone at her mother’s and father’s graves, remembering the day of her father’s burial and the reading of the will that had followed it.

  She recalled that on that day, she’d thought her life was over. She’d had nothing left but a lifetime of misery with Joseph Dobbs. If only she’d known then what wonders were to follow him and what joy she would experience. The last twenty-four years had been the best years any woman could have hoped for in a lifetime, she thought, yet she found herself crying in the rain. Her husband and her children were her life, and she didn’t even know where they were now or even if they lived.

  She was in a sombre mood when she arrived back at London Bridge station. The rain drove in horizontal sheets, and she couldn’t find a taxi to take her to Mayfair. When she eventually arrived home, however, it was just in time to see the postman leave his afternoon delivery. Her eyes lit up, and she felt the clouds lift and the sunshine break through. She had a letter. Still in her coat and hat, she opened it with greedy hands and sat on the edge of the chair in the sitting room. She had been waiting for what seemed like a lifetime to hear from Ernesto, and even though she was still a little angry at his deception, telling her he would return after dropping off the aid, she’d come to terms with his decision to remain in Spain.