Yet again, she had been deceived. Had allowed herself to believe. Which one was worse—Cristóbal or Zoltan? Cristóbal had not actually lied to her—he had simply withheld the facts. But Zoltan had woven a fabric of lies—a whole fake identity—made even more abhorrent by the fact that he had pretended to be one of the very people he was responsible for murdering.
So why did she feel so empty? Why did it feel like a bereavement, losing him?
A body doesn’t have to leave this world to stir up those feelings. Bill Lee’s words drifted through her mind. That sense of grief, of living with someone who was no longer there, was overwhelming.
She thought how ironic it was that right from the start, it was Zoltan’s compassion that had impressed her—the many small acts of kindness and thoughtfulness that had eased the pain of her search for Nathan. She remembered how he had lifted her spirits at the San Juan fiesta with the simple gift of a flower for her hair. How she missed that feeling of being cherished. But that had all been part of the act, hadn’t it?
I’d never do anything to hurt you.
She had believed him. Trusted him. How could he have thought there was any kind of future for them when he had broken that trust? Not just broken it—smashed it to smithereens.
Her hand strayed to the side of her face, her fingers finding the beaded copper wire hooked through her ear. This earring had once belonged to Jean Beau-Marie’s mother—a woman who had died at the hands of men just like Zoltan. The thought of what Jean would say if he knew that Rose had slept with a Nazi made her feel physically sick.
She got up from the bench and made her way back through the gardens, trying to focus her mind on the future, not the past. This time tomorrow she would be in Madrid. She and Lola would start looking for somewhere to live. And while Lola pursued her dream of getting into films, Rose would need to find work in a veterinary practice. It would take time to build up enough capital to open her own business—perhaps a year or so. It would be quite similar to London, treating the pampered pets of city dwellers, but having Nieve around would make all the difference. Rose pictured her helping after school and on weekends, in her element, surrounded by animals.
The path from the gardens wound down through the trees to the Gate of the Pomegranates. Rose felt her spirits dive again as she approached the towering stone arch. It was impossible to walk through it without remembering what had happened in the shadow of those walls. No wonder Lola was so desperate to leave this city behind.
Rose had left Lola packing up the few remaining things she planned to take with her to Madrid. They had tickets for the afternoon train, which would get them to the capital by early evening. Cristóbal would not be there to see them off. He had left early that morning, on his way to the country to spend some time with Juanita and the children. He had hardly spoken to Rose since she had come back—as if her presence was an uncomfortable reminder of a part of himself he was trying to shake off. Perhaps he was changing. She hoped so.
Nieve and Gunesh came running up to her as she rounded the bend in the Camino del Sacromonte.
“Auntie Rose! The taxi’s here!”
“Already?” Rose glanced at her watch. It was more than an hour before the train was due.
“Mama says we should get there early—just in case.”
Rose quickened her step. The scant possessions she had brought with her from Zoltan’s house were already packed. There was nothing else she needed to do.
Lola was in the hallway, sitting on a suitcase to try and get it shut.
“Here—let me help you.” Rose knelt on the floor and pushed down until the catch clicked into place.
“Thank you.” Lola cocked her head toward the kitchen. “A letter came for you. Aurora brought it round.”
“Aurora?”
“The mayor’s wife—the one who got me out of jail.”
Rose stared at her, mystified.
“It’s from Pampaneira.” Lola lowered her eyes.
Rose stumbled to her feet. The letter was lying on the kitchen table. It was addressed to Rose Daniel, care of Aurora Fernandez, Oficina del Alcalde, Granada. With trembling hands, she flipped it over. There was no name or return address on the back. But it could only be from him—sent via the only person who would know where Lola lived.
My darling Rose,
By the time this reaches you, I will be on a boat to Argentina. But I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.
I asked you to believe in forgiveness. That wasn’t fair. I destroyed the faith you had in me—and that’s something I can never mend. And in my heart, I know that even if you’d never found out about my past, it would have been wrong of me to try to keep you for myself.
Being with you was something rare and wonderful—like watching those badger cubs by the waterfall or the foxes in the woods. Something to be savored, but not owned. Don’t ever let anyone try to control your destiny, Rose. You should be free—not tied to any man. Especially not a man you could never look in the eye without feeling pain.
I’ll never forget you.
There was no signature. Just a single X.
Chapter 37
Madrid, Spain: Two months later
Lola burst into the apartment, her face radiant. “I got it!” She waved a piece of paper over her head. “We start filming next week!”
“Lola! That’s fantastic!” Rose jumped up from the table to hug her. “I knew you’d do it! They’d have been mad to turn you down.”
“I was worried they’d think I was too thin.” Lola glanced down at herself. “I’ve put on a bit of weight these past few weeks, though, haven’t I?”
Rose didn’t reply. She went back to the table and gathered up the documents spread over it.
“I thought we could go out for a bite of lunch—to celebrate.” Lola pulled out a chair. “How about the place across the road from Nieve’s school? That always looks busy—it must be good.”
Rose nodded without looking up. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat much—I had all that tortilla for breakfast.”
“All that tortilla? You didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive!” Lola tipped her head, trying to catch Rose’s eye. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”
It was something they had both been afraid of. As well as taking the utmost care of Nieve, they had watched each other for any sign of the disease that had almost claimed her life. By now, Lola thought, they should be out of danger—but Rose’s lack of appetite was worrying.
“No, I’m not ill.” Rose tucked the pile of papers under her arm and headed toward the bedroom. “I’ll just go and get changed.”
Lola followed her. “Something’s the matter—what is it?”
Rose sank down on the bed, staring at her feet. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I . . .”
“What?” Lola knelt on the floor, looking up into a face creased with worry.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Rose was glad the tapas bar was so crowded. The babble of other people’s conversations drowned out the incessant whispering inside her head. The voices that taunted her for being so stupid, for throwing caution to the wind despite the lucky escape with Cristóbal. What had possessed her? How had she ever imagined it would be safe to have sex with Zoltan without taking any precautions? Was she so unhinged by the ordeal of Nieve’s illness that she believed the simple rules of human biology no longer applied to her?
“You must try to eat something.” Lola was looking across the table, her eyes round with concern. “You have to keep your strength up.”
“Do I?” Rose pushed the mixture of shrimp and asparagus around her plate. “Why? I’m not going to . . .”
“Don’t say that.” Lola glanced over her shoulder. “That’s not really what you want, is it? To go back to England to find some . . . butcher?”
“No . . . I . . .” Rose heaved out a sigh, pushing the plate away. “I’ve always longed for a child. You know how I feel about Nieve. But how could I . . .” She trailed off, shakin
g her head.
Lola dropped her voice to a whisper. “How could you have his baby? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” Rose murmured. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I suppose my mother said the same thing to herself. If there had been any choice, I would never have been born.” Lola lifted her glass of wine to her lips. “What matters is how you bring a baby up. What values you can give to him or her—not what kind of person its father was. I hope I’m proof of that.”
Across the room someone knocked a plate off the table. It fell onto the tiled floor with a terrific crash. Instinctively Lola turned to the source of the noise. When she looked back at Rose, the chair was empty.
Lola found her crouched on the floor of the bathroom, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Rose! I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you!”
“Y . . . you didn’t,” Rose mumbled. “Wh . . . what you s . . . said—I . . . I needed to hear it.”
It was three weeks later that the letter from Rose’s publisher arrived. He had written to say that he loved the idea of a book about herbal remedies for humans. The letter contained an advance that would tide her over until well after the baby was due.
“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” She passed the check to Lola, who passed it on to Nieve.
They beamed at each other as the child read the amount out loud. “What’s that funny squiggle in front of the number?” She thrust the check up to Rose’s face.
“It’s a pound sign—in England we have pounds instead of pesetas.”
“How much is it—in pesetas?”
When Rose told her, Nieve gasped. “Just for writing a book?”
“It’s going to take me quite a long time.” Rose smiled.
“And when she’s finished it, she’s going to need a rest.” Lola scooped Nieve up and sat her on her lap.
“Why?”
“Because next year—in the spring—Auntie Rose is going to have a baby.”
Nieve turned to Rose, her mouth open. “Will it be a girl or a boy?”
Rose laughed. “I don’t know! We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Can I choose its name?”
“Well, if it’s a girl, yes, you can—but if it’s a boy . . .” Rose glanced at Lola. “I already have a boy’s name.”
“I think I can guess,” Lola said. “Nathan.”
Rose nodded. “And his middle name will be Joseph, after my father.”
Nieve was staring at her. “But the baby won’t have a father, will it?”
“No, cariño—but it’ll have me and you and your mama. It’ll have a family.”
Chapter 38
Pampaneira, Spain: February 2001
Wild rosemary is in flower along the road that winds up the mountain, the pale lilac petals interspersed with the darker purple hue of lavender and the bright amber of marigolds. Rose smiles as she glances out the window of the car, thinking what a good thing it is that a road now connects the villages of the Alpujarras. At eighty-five, she’s a little stiff to go anywhere on the back of a mule. But wild horses would not have prevented her from making this journey—and she knows that Lola feels just the same.
After decades of hiding the past away, the Spanish authorities are finally facing up to what happened during the Civil War. It’s the children and the grandchildren of those who died who have campaigned for change. They want answers. They want proper burials for the dead.
Petitions have been sent to the government, and a new law has been passed. And so today, in Pampaneira, people are gathering to see the remains of those who were executed in the ravine laid to rest in proper graves.
As the car rounds a tight hairpin bend, Rose glimpses a field of almond trees whose branches are covered in blossoms. In the wind they look like brides dancing with confetti in their hair. And further on are groves of orange trees, heavy with ripe fruit.
“Are you okay, Mama?” Nathan catches her eye in the rearview mirror. “It’s a bit like being on a rollercoaster, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine!” Rose smiles back, watching the sun glance off his forehead as the car takes another bend, lighting up the peppering of gray in his hair. He reminds her so much of her brother. And he inherited his uncle’s love of horses. Rose’s latest home is a cottage on the grounds of the stud farm he has set up in Segovia. It’s good to be living close to him. And it means that the grandchildren can pop in to see her whenever they feel like it.
“You know, I don’t remember any of this.” Nieve is sitting in the passenger seat, craning her neck at the view. She still has curly hair, but it’s white now. She’s due to retire next year from a long and distinguished career in the law.
“I do,” Lola replies. She shoots a heartfelt glance at Rose. “I’ll never forget that ride up the mountain, the day you sent the telegram. It was the worst day of my life.”
Rose thinks how glamorous Lola looks, even though she’s dressed for a funeral. In her late seventies, she can still turn heads.
As the car slows down, Rose notices Lola reaching into her handbag for a pair of dark glasses. But it’s a futile gesture. The paparazzi are out in force. Rose was expecting a few photographers—for an event of such significance. But word must have got out that Lola Aragon is going be attending. The news hounds are not going to miss the chance to capture an international celebrity coming to pay her respects to the recovered remains of long-dead family members. They still call her “the face of flamenco.” Even if she lives to be a hundred, that will never change.
There’s a welcome committee standing by to make sure that the photographers and the TV cameras don’t intrude on what is supposed to be a private ceremony. The cemetery is cordoned off, and once they’re inside the whitewashed walls, the atmosphere becomes more serene.
Nathan takes his mother’s arm as they make their way down the few steps to the Garden of Rest. Nieve is just ahead of them, helping Lola. When they are all safely down, Nieve glances at a woman who is standing a few yards away, handing out booklets. “That’s Ortiz Chanes,” she whispers. “She’s from the Granada wing of the Association for the Recovery of Historical Memory.”
Rose nods. She has followed reports of this organization in the news. They’ve been uncovering Civil War mass graves around Spain since the late 1990s. But it’s only a few months since legislation has been passed to support those who want to excavate the remains of their loved ones. As a high-court judge, Nieve has been a driving force behind that new law.
Rose, Lola, and Nieve were among the first people in the country to undergo DNA tests to enable their dead relatives to be identified. Burial vaults have now been made ready for Nathan, for Lola’s mother, and for her twin, Amador. There’s also a grave for Heliodora, Nieve’s biological mother. And Rose has asked for Adelita’s name to be added to Nathan’s gravestone, although there was no means of identifying her remains.
Lola turns to Rose with a wistful smile as Nieve goes to greet the woman who has campaigned alongside her. “When I was growing up, there was an old saying in these mountains—that children fostered by goats grow up to be noble adults.”
“You must be so proud of her.”
“I am. I don’t know how she did it, raising a family and making such a success of herself at the same time.”
“Well, she had a pretty good example in you, didn’t she?”
“Not to mention her Auntie Rose.” Lola’s eyebrows arch over the dark glasses. “Are you still getting all those letters from the States?”
“Yes—they’ve asked me to be the keynote speaker at a convention in Chicago this summer. The American Herbalists Guild. I don’t know if I’m up to going all that way.”
“Yes, you are!” Lola takes Rose’s gloved hand in hers and squeezes it. “Nathan told me you did an emergency caesarean on one of his mares last week—how many vets are still doing that in their eighties?”
“I think they’re about to start.” Nathan has been reading the names on the vaults. Nieve come
s back at the same time. They all link arms as the priest begins to recite the words of the committal.
They watch the coffins slide, one by one, into the vaults. When the priest reads out the name of Lola’s mother, Rose feels the grip on her arm tighten. Then Amador. Rose hears Lola release a long breath. There is a sense of the past finally being laid to rest.
Next is Heliodora’s coffin. How sad for Nieve, Rose thinks, that she has never even seen a photograph of the woman who gave birth to her.
And then it is Nathan’s turn. Rose offers up silent thanks that her search for him brought her the family she longed for—in a way she could never have anticipated. And in her heart, she knows that if his spirit is nearby, looking down on them, it won’t stay here for long. No. Nathan will be up there on the mountain, his soul gliding through the scented meadow, where the cherry stone she planted all those years ago has grown into a fine, strong tree.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Snow Gypsy is a work of fiction inspired by someone who really existed. The character Rose Daniel is based on Juliette de Baïracli Levy (1912–2009), a British-born herbalist and author noted for her pioneering work in holistic veterinary medicine. After training as a vet, she left England to study herbal medicine in Europe and beyond, living with Gypsies and nomadic farmers, from whom she acquired a wide knowledge of herbal lore.
She went to live in Spain’s Alpujarras region in the decade following the Second World War with her young son Rafik. Her daughter, Luz, was born there. Nieve’s near-death from typhus in The Snow Gypsy is based on Juliette’s successful treatment of Luz, who almost died as a baby from the disease.
Like the fictional Rose, Juliette had a brother who was killed after enlisting as a soldier. Many other incidents in the novel reflect Juliette’s real-life experiences. Those who wish to distinguish fact from fiction might like to read the autobiographical books she wrote. The ones I particularly drew on were As Gypsies Wander (1953) and Spanish Mountain Life (1955).
In her later years Juliette gave workshops in the United States on herbal medicine and became known there as “the grandmother of the herbal renaissance.” Growing interest in her ideas and her unusual life has led to several of her books coming back into print, including Common Herbs for Natural Health (originally published in 1974), which provided useful material for The Snow Gypsy.
The Snow Gypsy Page 30