‘The baby won’t be Gaspar’s,’ I said, ‘but you will have a child to love. And one that shares your family’s blood. And,’ I added with a smile, ‘who might even turn out to be a good dancer.’
Evelina grabbed my hands and kissed them. ‘I now know what a true friend you are,’ she said, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You are the answer to my prayers.’
She and I made our arrangement. Only Xavier and Evelina’s mother were to know. Everyone else could be fooled if she padded herself convincingly and mimicked the symptoms. I would go to France when I began to show, and she could join me at the close of her supposed pregnancy. She could use the good reputation of French doctors as an excuse to give birth to her first child in Paris.
After Evelina left, I was stunned at what had taken place. How perfect, I thought. Evelina would be a beautiful, doting mother, and the child would be brought up in the midst of Xavier’s family without anyone except Xavier and his mother being any the wiser. A sense of calm came to me: I had made the best decision for the life that had taken root in my womb. But when I undressed for my bath that evening and placed my hand on my stomach, a sense of loss swept over me; a feeling so profoundly sorrowful it was as if I had pledged not only the baby but my soul.
‘I wish we could have kept the baby,’ Xavier said when I told him. ‘But you did the best possible thing in the circumstances, and my sister is blissfully happy.’
Most of the time I felt that way too. Evelina would be the perfect mother; I was simply carrying the baby for her. She feigned everything so well, from the dreamy look that came to her face whenever she rested her hands on her belly, to the fainting spells, which, ironically, I never experienced. But sometimes I felt angry in a way I hadn’t expected. This child would be brought up in the Montella house, Xavier’s house, but I would not be there. I would be on the outside. When I thought like that, I almost hated Evelina. I wanted to tell her, ‘The baby is growing under my heart, not yours!’ But most of the time, I numbed myself to all emotions. I had to accept things as they were. After all, this had been my choice.
I had always been slim, but the baby hardly showed under my flamenco skirts and loose dresses. No one seemed to suspect my pregnancy. I decided to take myself and my gypsy clan to Paris in the summer of 1936. They had grown to over forty adults and children now. Once there, I took a separate apartment, hoping to continue to keep my pregnancy hidden. Still, I wondered how I was going to absent myself for the birth.
Being so preoccupied with what was happening inside me, I hadn’t paid much attention to what was going on in Spain, where dark and dangerous forces were at work. No sooner had my clan and I arrived in Paris than we heard that a military uprising had taken place in Spain. It was unbelievable to me. The mood in Barcelona had been festive when we’d left: the city was about to host an alternative Olympic Games to those to be staged by Hitler in Berlin. The city had taken on the air of a popular beach resort and had been crowded with athletes and foreign tourists. How could a military coup take place in such a holiday atmosphere?
I sent a telegram to Xavier but did not receive a reply. I didn’t know then that the army had disrupted communications.
I read the French newspapers with trepidation and a sense of outrage. The coup had started in Morocco and spread to Spain in the form of garrison revolts. There had been some hesitation by the Republican government in arming the workers, but once they were given weapons, both men and women formed militias along with the loyal elements of the police and army. They managed to quell the revolts in industrial areas like Barcelona and Madrid, but Spain was not out of danger. The Republic had been weakened.
‘Franco and his army had no right to attack the legitimate government of Spain!’ I shouted, even though there was no one to hear me.
While the mainstream French newspapers preached the need to stay calm lest intervention on the part of France bring on a full-scale European war, French workers and students took to the streets. If Fascism isn’t stopped in Spain, it won’t be long before the whole of Europe is burning, read the pamphlets they handed out. Every day, volunteers from around the world arrived in Paris, preparing to go to Spain to fight for the Republic that had been the dream of my father, Anastasio and Teresa. I ached to think the Republic had been attacked, but I was in no condition to do anything to help now that the baby was kicking and moving.
Xavier was eventually able to send a telegram, but he arrived in Paris before it did.
‘I’m here on a diplomatic mission to try to persuade the French to change their policy of non-intervention,’ he told me. ‘They are afraid to do anything without the British, who in turn are scared of provoking Hitler.’
When I listened to Xavier’s stories of how the workers had fought the army in Barcelona and brought down the coup, I felt as if a flame ignited in me. I wanted to be there fighting with them.
That night as we lay together, Xavier rested his head on my stomach. ‘It will be fine, won’t it?’ he asked me. ‘We’ll respect Evelina and Francesc in how they bring the child up … but it will be special knowing that it is a little bit of you and me.’
It comforted me that Xavier felt that way. I had never thought that I wanted a child, but as the baby moved inside me and became real, I found the idea of giving it away much harder.
‘Listen,’ said Xavier, ‘I have some unpleasant news. I think you’d better send your clan to America. Through the committee I’m on, we’ve received intelligence that the Nazis have set up a central office “For the Suppression of the Gypsy Nuisance” in Berlin. They are passing new race laws by the day. The Romani people are being herded into work camps to make armaments. According to the reports, they are being forcibly sterilised there.’
‘What?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘But surely my clan is safe here in Paris? They can hardly be accused of being criminal vagabonds when they live in an apartment near place Vendôme.’
‘There are Nazi supporters all over Europe, even here in France,’ said Xavier. ‘They’ll be better off if they leave the continent altogether.’
It broke my heart to think of sending away the people who had been my family for the past twenty-seven years, but I sensed what Xavier had said was right. Paris had a liberal atmosphere in many ways, but it was true that there were plenty of right-wing extremists, and gypsies were always easy targets for racists.
I arranged for my clan’s passage to New York, from where they would travel to California. It was windy the day that they set sail from Le Havre. Although they were travelling on the luxurious Île de France, the women were nervous about the trip. Gypsies have a terror of dying at sea.
‘If the waves don’t get us, the sharks will,’ lamented Blanca.
Manuel’s other sister Pastora, who was a great-grandmother now, wept openly.
‘You’ll be all right,’ I assured her. ‘It will be like when we travelled to South America on tour.’
‘Yes, but you came with us then,’ she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. ‘I’m more terrified that something bad is going to happen to you than to me. My dreams have been full of bad omens.’
Diego was nearly seventy now and he’d mellowed with age. Perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that, due to Xavier, I controlled my entire income now so he’d had to become more accommodating if he expected to be kept like a king.
‘I hope we will see you soon, little paya,’ he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. ‘Keep safe, eat a bit less and dance a bit more: you are starting to put on weight.’
When I returned to my Paris apartment, I found a note from Xavier saying that he’d had to return urgently to Spain. So I was alone again, with only my memories and the baby inside me.
In late October, Evelina and her mother came to Paris to await the birth of the baby. I had organised a Spanish midwife for my time when it came. If I was going to suffer, I wanted to suffer in my heart language. I went into labour on 7 November, the day Franco’s forces bega
n their assault on Madrid. The pains were severe from the onset and didn’t subside. Evelina and her mother arrived to give me support. The midwife, a woman with muscular arms and a downy moustache, shouted orders at me as if I were a cow she was trying to herd into a field. I pushed and strained to steer the baby through my narrow pelvic area. I had never imagined it was possible to endure such physical agony and not die.
Finally, in the early, quiet hours of the morning, when I didn’t think I had any strength left, the baby emerged into the world.
‘A girl!’ Senyora Montella’s eyes misted with tears when the midwife held the child up.
I glimpsed the baby’s dusky skin and mop of black hair. I couldn’t believe that she had come out of my body. The midwife bathed her and handed her to Evelina. My heart sank.
‘I’m naming you after my maternal grandmother,’ Evelina whispered to the child. ‘Julieta.’
Now the agony of the birth had subsided, a different kind of pain gripped me. What had I done? How could I have given something that Xavier and I had created away? Only the happiness in Evelina’s eyes gave me any comfort.
‘Promise me,’ I said, grasping Evelina’s arm, ‘that you will always let me see her. You will never keep her away from me?’
‘Of course,’ said Evelina, stroking my brow. ‘You have given me the greatest gift. Julieta will be yours too, secretly.’
The following day, my breasts ached for Julieta. I offered to feed her, but senyora Montella had already organised a wet nurse.
‘It will look better that way,’ she said, picking up her handbag.
So the day after I had given birth to the child I had carried for nine months, she was taken away from me. After everyone had left, I was alone in the apartment. Even my maid was not there; I had sent her away before the birth.
A telegram arrived from Xavier saying that he would come as quickly as he could. But I was alone in a way I had never been before. My family were dead; my gypsy clan was on the other side of the world; my lover was married to someone else. I paced back and forth in the room. For the first time it struck me that without the noise and activity of people around me, my life was bleak and pointless. I stood by the window and stared out at the street, wringing my hands as tears flooded my eyes.
The new year arrived but brought no joy. Losing Julieta gave me an overpowering wish to die. Every time I walked past the Seine, I imagined filling the pockets of my winter coat with rocks and throwing myself into it. I had lost my urge to dance, and my heart bled for Spain. The news was bleaker every day. Málaga had been attacked by the rebels, who had committed horrific atrocities against the people. I watched Xavier and Margarida come and go from Paris on diplomatic and governmental business, trying to save the Republic.
What’s the point of living if one’s life has no purpose? I wondered. I knew I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. No more! If I wanted a purpose in life then I needed to do something useful.
‘No, Celestina,’ Xavier said when I told him that I wanted to drive ambulances, if not for the army then at least for the rear echelon troops. ‘Do you know how dangerous that is? Franco does not differentiate between soldiers and civilians. Even if you are transporting injured women and children, the rebels will still bomb you.’
I took his hands. ‘Why is it acceptable for others to risk their lives but not for me? Am I superior in some way?’
He rubbed his face. ‘No … it’s not that.’
‘Then what?’
He shook his head and looked at me with tears in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t survive if something happened to you.’
I pressed my head to his chest. I felt the same way about him.
I remembered the joy of the people on the streets after the April 1931 elections, when the Republic was first declared. ‘How did it ever come to this?’ I whispered. ‘How did this insanity ever get unleashed?’
When Xavier realised that he wouldn’t be able to change my mind about serving in Spain, he organised for his French chauffeur to give me driving lessons.
‘Is Mademoiselle thinking of competing in the Concours d’Elegance this year?’ the chauffeur asked.
The Concours d’Elegance was a prestigious event where society ladies displayed their Bugattis and Rolls-Royces.
‘No, I want you to train her more like someone preparing for the Grand Prix and the Monte Carlo Rally,’ said Xavier. ‘She needs to know how to drive fast in all conditions. Mademoiselle Sánchez wants to serve the Republic as an ambulance driver.’
The idea both amazed and impressed Xavier’s chauffeur.
‘I drove an ambulance in the Great War,’ he confided during my first lesson. ‘If you want to drive ambulances, you’ll also need to know how to fix them.’
He gave me instruction on the parts of an engine and showed me how to empty and refill the radiator so it wouldn’t crack in freezing temperatures overnight.
‘And you have to learn to drive in the dark with the headlights off,’ he told me. ‘That’s probably the most important thing you’re going to need to know.’
Xavier bought a Ford truck and had it fitted out with stretchers.
‘It’s waiting for you in Perpignan, to drive across the border,’ he told me. ‘There is a pistol hidden in the box beneath the driver’s seat. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to get one in Spain, and you’ll need it for self-protection. The bullets are under the bandages in the first-aid kit. The supply kit is stocked with iodine, soap, matches and cigarettes.’
‘Cigarettes? But I don’t smoke.’
‘Cigarettes — real cigarettes — are useful for bartering in Anarchist-run villages where money has been abolished,’ Xavier explained. ‘Is there anything else from the volunteers’ manual that you need?’
I shook my head. ‘You always look after me so well,’ I told him.
He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his cheek. ‘One day, when things are better in Spain, I will devote my entire life to looking after you.’
My poor Xavier. How could he fulfil such a promise? He had too many other people who depended on him. He was the heir of an important family, and he couldn’t divorce Conchita and bring shame on his son. I wouldn’t have asked him to give me any more than he already had.
The next day, Evelina accompanied Xavier and me to the railway station. I was taking a train to Perpignan, from where I would collect my ambulance. I hoped that Evelina would have some news to tell me about Julieta: how she had grown; how she squealed with delight at bathtime; how she always reached for her favourite toy. Anything! I was desperate for anything. But Evelina said nothing.
Xavier’s lips trembled when he kissed me. ‘In all my life, there has only ever been you,’ he said.
I embraced him and told him that it was the same way for me. Evelina turned to me and I squeezed her hand before I climbed into the train. ‘Kiss Julieta for me,’ I told her.
Evelina nodded but said nothing.
When the whistle sounded and the train began to pull out of the station, I leaned out of the window so I could wave to Xavier and Evelina again. Why was Evelina so reluctant to speak to me of Julieta? Has she fooled herself that the baby is actually hers? I wondered. Had she created in her mind a world in which she had carried Julieta for nine months in her womb and given birth to her? I was happy that Evelina was bringing Julieta up, but I could not forget that the child was the physical manifestation of my and Xavier’s love.
When I arrived at the Barcelona barracks with my ambulance, I was already a seasoned driver. The journey over the Pyrenees had been a challenge and I saw why Xavier had made me do it. Keeping my attention focused on the road was difficult enough when I was travelling alone and not in immediate danger; what would it be like with passengers moaning and screaming in agony at every bump while enemy planes bore down on me?
The officer who signed me in kept glancing at me, on the verge of recognising me, but I’d been careful to dress as plainly as possible. I was constantly receiving requests from t
he military office to entertain the troops to keep up morale, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do. I was finished with Hollywood-style extravaganzas and variety shows. If I danced anything in the future, it would be strictly flamenco puro.
‘I’ve seen many British and American ladies arriving with converted cars and trucks, but you are the first Spanish woman to offer her services. How did you obtain the ambulance?’ the officer asked me.
‘I took a collection from the factory where I worked in France,’ I told him. ‘A fellow worker taught me to drive.’
He nodded. My fictional account of comradeship appealed to his communist sensibilities. ‘Well, you’ve come at the right time,’ he told me. ‘We need ambulances more than ever.’
Franco was making another attempt to encircle Madrid by crossing the Jarama River and cutting off the city’s communications with the new temporary seat of the Republican government in Valencia. The Republican troops, reinforced by the International Brigades, fought valiantly to prevent the Nationalists from succeeding in their aim. The casualties on both sides were severe. My first assignment was to ferry wounded soldiers from a field hospital to a convalescent hospital that had been set up in an abandoned monastery.
When I arrived at the convalescent hospital, I was greeted by British and New Zealand doctors and nurses, who were relieved to learn that I could speak what they called ‘quite passable English’.
‘Everything is in short supply,’ the head surgeon, Doctor Parker, explained to me. ‘I often have to work in unsterile situations and hope the patient makes it. On more than one occasion I’ve left a bullet or a piece of shrapnel where it is, believing that the patient’s body will cope better with a foreign object than it will a case of septicaemia.’
I was shocked to learn that soap, the item most needed for basic cleanliness, was almost non-existent at the hospital. Doctor Parker and his team nearly fell to their knees and kissed my hands when I gave them my carton of savons de Marseille.
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