‘Thank goodness you’re here!’ Mama said, kissing la Rusa’s cheeks.
‘I had one last duty to perform,’ la Rusa told her. ‘The Republican soldiers in Vallcarca hospital were deserted by the staff. I saw them attempting to flee, men without legs and arms crawling on the street, terrified of what Franco’s troops would do to them if they remained in the city.’
‘So you put them ahead of us?’ Conchita asked. ‘My goodness, how sincere you are. Does Xavier know that his family are a lesser priority?’
La Rusa regarded her contemptuously. ‘Those men fought bravely for the Republic. They were deserted and left to die. I used my van to take them to a Red Cross station.’
‘Well, I hope you will defend us as bravely,’ said Conchita with a strange smile.
I could have slapped her. How Xavier could have conceived that his mistress and his wife would be able to cooperate on such a dangerous journey, I didn’t know.
La Rusa stared Conchita down with her piercing eyes. ‘Xavier believes that the Republic lost the war due to inferior armaments,’ she said. ‘But I know differently. It was a loss of spirit. How could the men go on fighting knowing that their women and children back home were starving, while families like yours feasted on black-market goods? Those men were like my brother who died in Morocco. They were tricked into fighting for their class enemies. Even the bravest souls lose courage when they don’t know what they are risking their lives for.’
‘And the point of this story is?’ said Conchita, folding her arms.
I jumped with fright when la Rusa pulled a revolver from her coat and pointed it at Conchita’s face.
‘When I was transporting those injured soldiers to the Red Cross station, two government officials tried to commandeer my van to drive themselves across the border. I shot them,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Just as I will shoot anyone who endangers this mission. I’ve been asked to get you out of Barcelona and that is what I will do. Understood?’
I was relieved that Conchita remained quiet for once. I don’t know what she had wanted to do to la Rusa — intimidate her with her wealth and place in society? This was hardly the time for a showdown with her husband’s mistress.
La Rusa lowered her gun and put it back in her coat pocket. ‘Now go get the children,’ she told us.
Although her manner was intimidating, I trusted la Rusa could get us out of Barcelona safely. It was devastating to be abandoning my home, my city and my life, but la Rusa’s strength of purpose helped me conquer my emotions.
I roused the children from their sleep. With Julieta in one arm and Feliu clinging to the other, I stepped out onto the street. Mama was grasping the handles of the small cart in which I’d packed blankets and basic supplies. ‘Put Julieta on top,’ she suggested.
Julieta was two years old and heavy to carry but I didn’t want to let her go. She was fidgeting less than she normally did and the warmth of her body pressed against mine gave me comfort on that bitterly cold night.
The city was deserted: either people were hiding, or we were amongst the last to leave. Torn party cards and burned piles of documents littered the street. I realised this might be the last time I ever saw Barcelona.
Mama looked nervous, and my pulse thrummed in my ears, but la Rusa was chillingly calm. I turned to her but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. I was wondering why she wouldn’t look at me when I heard the sound of car engines starting up.
Two vehicles approached from a side street. The first was a plain black car, but the second was a Bentley with wood panelling on the doors. It could be anyone, I told myself. Just another family leaving the city. But as I thought it, a man jumped out from a doorway in front of us. Mama screamed. The cars stopped and three policemen leaped from the first one. In a few seconds we were surrounded.
‘You Montella women!’ the larger of the policemen shouted. ‘You are under arrest as enemies of Spain!’
He grabbed Mama and pushed her towards the black car. I was shocked to see my mother being treated so roughly. I tried to pull the policeman off her while still holding on to Julieta with one arm. He turned around and punched me in the face. The pain was so sharp that I thought he had broken my nose. Dazed by the blow, I didn’t resist when the man who had jumped out from the doorway seized my shoulders and pushed me into the car after Mama. Conchita and Feliu were thrust inside after us. In the confusion, I didn’t see what had happened to la Rusa, but she wasn’t in the car with us as it sped away. I tried to glimpse the second car, which was falling behind us. All I could see was the chauffeur; he was wearing a Nationalist army uniform.
THIRTY-TWO
Evelina
We were taken to a prison; not Les Corts as that was already full, but a convent that had been converted for the purpose. Conchita and Feliu, despite our protests, were led away with another group of women, while Mama, Julieta and I were put in a cellar with other women as disoriented and as dishevelled as we were.
Our cart had been confiscated when we were arrested, so we had no blankets to sit on, only the stone floor. The coldness of it made my kidneys ache. Poor Mama! It broke my heart to see her. Always so elegant and composed, she stared at her surroundings with a bewildered look on her face. I took my scarf and rolled it into a pillow for her, and we slept that night with Julieta cradled between us.
The next day, some nuns brought us a meal of gruel and stale bread. One of the nuns, seeing that we had a young child with us, returned with a cup of goat’s milk for Julieta. I was about to thank her when she put her finger to her lips. It didn’t take me long to realise why. The Mother Superior of the convent was a sadist.
That afternoon she came to speak to us. ‘You are here because you have committed crimes against Spain and against God,’ she said with a spiteful glint in her eye. ‘Those of you who cannot be reformed will be executed.’
It took a moment to register what she had said. When we realised the meaning of her statement, a stunned silence fell over the group. My stomach sank. If they shoot me, I thought, what will happen to Julieta? Will they kill her too?
‘And you can be sure that your men will be hunted down and shot like rabbits,’ the Mother Superior continued. ‘Franco will cleanse Spain of evil, and we are his helpers in doing so.’
A woman with a pale, freckled face spoke up. ‘I worked in the hospital, helping to deliver babies. That’s all I did. I never belonged to any party.’
‘You delivered Republican babies; that is enough,’ the Mother Superior replied, lifting her eyes heavenward.
When the Mother Superior left, the prisoners started to tell each other their names and what they had been arrested for. The group was a mix of dressmakers, housewives, factory workers and shopkeepers. There were even three schoolgirls who had been arrested with their mother. Most of the women had committed no crime other than to have been related to a man who had leftist leanings, or who had fought in the army, even if he was conscripted.
I was surprised when Mama spoke up.
‘I am Rosita Montella,’ she said. ‘The wife of the late Leopold Montella. We are a faithful Catholic family. We have contributed significant sums to the construction of the Sagrada Família and other public works. I supported Carmelite charities. And yet we are here too, imprisoned in a convent of all places.’
The other women stared at Mama in awe. I had thought it would be better not to reveal our social standing, but I realised that the women’s frowns came not from the fact that they despised us but because a terrible truth had dawned on them. If the women of one of the most powerful families in Barcelona had been imprisoned and possibly condemned, what hope did anybody else have?
That evening, an officer of the Civil Guard and a policeman came to our cell and read out ten names. A young pregnant woman was first on the list. Another of the women, assuming she was to be released, went to pick up her bundle of belongings.
‘You won’t need those,’ the guard told her.
When the woman realised what the guard h
ad meant, she hesitated for a moment and then passed her bundle to Mama. ‘Live for your children and grandchildren no matter how short the time is,’ she told her.
It was awful to look into the faces of women marked out for death. Some of them wept for their loved ones but most of them remained quiet, having resigned themselves to their fate as soon as they had been arrested. Only the pregnant woman screamed and struggled. ‘Let my child be born first!’ she shouted. But she was subdued by the policeman. I hated myself, but I wanted the women to leave as soon as possible. I was terrified that if they lingered, the guard would choose more of us.
The women were led away and the cellar door was locked again. There was a grille near the roof of the cellar. By securing my feet between some of the stones in the wall, I was able to climb up to it and peer out onto the ground of the courtyard. I saw the women being led towards a truck and ordered to get into it. The woman who had given Mama her belongings stumbled and had to be lifted on board.
After the truck had left, I climbed down and sat on the floor with the others. About half an hour later, shots rang out into the night.
‘They must have killed them in the rail yards,’ one woman said.
I wondered if Conchita and Feliu were all right. Then my mind went blank. I could not fathom the reality of the situation.
‘What do you think happened to la Rusa?’ Mama asked me later.
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t allowed myself to think of her. She was a famous figure on the side of the Republicans. They probably shot her straight away … or tortured her for information.’
I cringed at that last possibility. La Rusa was the only person who knew Xavier’s whereabouts. But she was strong and she loved my brother; I put my faith in that.
That night, as I lay with Julieta pressed against me, I wondered if it might be better to suffocate her now to save her from prolonged suffering. If I left it too late, I might not be able to help her. A more courageous woman would have acted on that thought, but I did not have the strength to do it. I wept myself to sleep.
Although another ten women were executed the following night, more arrived to take their place. The pace of the killing seemed to be speeding up, but there was no apparent logic to it. There was a priest at the convent, but I didn’t believe any of those killed were allowed confession or received absolution. I realised how awful that must have been for the religious ones. What I had seen had not made me lose my faith in God — he simply seemed very far away — but I had no love left for the Church or its rituals.
The new arrivals brought stories of merciless killing sprees carried out by the sons of aristocratic families against peasants and workers.
‘The port and dock areas are brimming with bodies,’ one woman told us. ‘And there are hundreds of corpses in the fields outside the city. Entire families in some instances.’
I didn’t think the nightmare could get any worse, until one night I heard trucks pull up in the courtyard. There were so many of them that I thought they were intending to finish us all off that night. Then I heard men’s voices.
‘Pedro, who bred song canaries,’ one voice called out.
‘Juli, who baked the best bread in la Barceloneta,’ another yelled.
I realised what was happening. The men were condemned prisoners who had been brought to the women’s prison to be processed by the superintendent. They were calling out their names and something about themselves with the idea that the women prisoners would hear them, but not enough information that the Nationalists could identify their relatives. Perhaps they were hoping that through some of us, their families might find out what had happened to them; they would not be anonymous bodies in a mass grave.
With so much death around me, it would have been easy to give in to hopelessness. But, for the sake of Mama and Julieta, I refused to let the situation get the better of me. To remain calm, I would close my eyes and picture our home on the passeig de Gràcia. In my mind, I walked through the rooms, touching the damask curtains and running my hands over the furniture. Pare was at his desk and Xavier was at the piano. What is he playing today? I’d ask myself, before a hauntingly beautiful nocturne came to my ears. I’d imagine Olga giving me a ballet lesson in the ballroom and me performing dazzling fouettés for her. Margarida was usually to be found in the library reading a book, while Mama arranged bouquets of sweet-smelling gardenias. Conchita was invariably sitting before her mirror fixing her hair, while Feliu crouched on the rug playing with a toy train. I’d feel the weight of Julieta’s body as I lifted her from her cot and brushed my cheek against her feather-soft hair. I knew heaven once, I told myself, and now I know hell.
On the fifth night of our imprisonment, after the lists had been called, I kept my mind from dwelling on the women who would shortly be lined up against a wall and shot by imagining Xavier ten years from now. It was always my hope that he was safe. In my fantasy, he and Feliu had been reunited and were now adventurers together — flying across the globe, exploring the jungles of the Amazon, sailing the seas to Australia. I imagined that Margarida had become a famous writer and was living in a cottage somewhere with dozens of cats. She would write about us, and we would live on in her fiction.
Of course, I was to realise later how misguided my daydreaming turned out to be. Feliu would never have been reunited with his father. The children of Republicans were put in orphanages where they were forced to wear the uniforms of the Nationalists and spit on pictures of their parents.
‘Xavier, who loved his family and worshipped the music of Granados.’
I opened my eyes and sat up, convinced that I was imagining things. Surely that wasn’t Xavier’s voice I had heard? I hadn’t noticed the trucks bringing the men into the courtyard. They were much later than usual, and the few women left in our cell had gone to bed assuming that there would be no executions of male prisoners that night. Mama and Julieta were asleep too.
‘Let my family know that I die a man of clear conscience who devoted his life to make Spain better for all people,’ Xavier’s voice went on. ‘Tell my son to rise above the memory of my fate by becoming the finest human being that he can.’
I was tempted to wake Mama, but what good would it do for Xavier to know that we were here? It was far better for him to go to his death thinking that we hadn’t been able to reach him but were all safe somewhere.
I climbed to look out of the cellar grille. The men had been unloaded from the truck directly in front of it. One of the guards had given them a cigarette to share. Xavier was standing so close to the grille that I could push my finger through it and lightly touch the hem of his trousers. My fingertip felt the cloth and for a split second we were reunited, then he was marched away. All fell silent again. The moonlight glistened over the stones of the courtyard.
A short time later, shots rang out into the still air and I knew that my beautiful brother, Xavier Montella, who loved his family and worshipped the music of Granados, was dead.
With Xavier’s death, I could no longer maintain my outer appearance of bravado. My grief at his execution was so great that everything drained out of me. I sat there, awake and still, until dawn. Mama had no idea what had taken place, while I knew that our hour had come. When the officer of the Civil Guard and the policeman arrived at first light to fetch us, I wasn’t surprised. It was usual for the women of a family to be executed the day after their men, although they had never come so early before to issue the death call.
I held Julieta with one hand, and with the other helped Mama to stand. Mama was pale with dread. She faltered and came close to fainting. I kissed Julieta, and regretted not having been brave enough to kill her earlier. For a moment, I considered passing her to one of the remaining women, but something stopped me. All I could do was pray that our deaths would be quick and that she would not suffer.
We were taken to the prison office, where the superintendent, a heavy-set man with bloodshot eyes, and the Mother Superior were waiting for us.
‘Know th
is,’ the Mother Superior told us. ‘The Montellas were once one of the great families of Barcelona. But you chose to side with the Reds and betray Spain. You are nothing now. The Montella name will be wiped from all records, your properties will be divided and auctioned off to the highest bidders. History will forget you and you will live no better than prostitutes.’
If we had heard those words a few days before, they might have had an effect. Now, we were too numb to care.
‘Go!’ the Mother Superior ordered.
To my surprise, there was no truck waiting for us in the courtyard; only Conchita and Feliu. Conchita’s eyes were wide open with terror. Feliu was not the boy that he had been before we were arrested. He tucked his chin into his neck as if he didn’t want to look at the world any more, and when Conchita tried to take his hand he swiped at it like an animal. Was he behaving that way because he knew that his father was dead?
‘I managed to make contact with one of my father’s friends in the Falange,’ Conchita said under her breath. ‘He signed our release documents, but he said it’s not safe for us to go back to the house. The ways things are, we could be arrested again in twenty-four hours.’
I led her away from the others. ‘Do you know about Xavier?’
She nodded. ‘They brought him here last night. Feliu recognised his father’s voice calling from the courtyard.’
I hadn’t thought it was possible I could feel any more grief, but I did then. Poor Feliu. I hoped that he would remember the words his brave father had said for him.
‘I haven’t told Mama,’ I confided in Conchita. ‘I don’t want to just yet — we have to get out of here first.’
Conchita nodded. She looked upset about something, but I sensed it wasn’t Xavier’s death. I thought of la Rusa and how much she had loved my brother. She would have cried rivers for him. Julieta came to me and rested her head against my leg. I pulled her closer.
Golden Earrings Page 38