by Jana Petken
“He will, darling. If anyone can, he can. You must believe that. You’ve been so brave; don’t give up now.”
Aunt Marie hurried Celia to the waiting truck without another word. María led her Auntie Rosa, who, in her dreamlike state, couldn’t quite understand what was going on. Ernesto watched Celia hesitate at the door of the truck. She stood anchored to the spot with disobedient feet that would not move an inch, and he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Let’s get going before these people overrun us,” he told her sternly. “We’re no good to our daughter if we’re dead.”
“I won’t leave without Marta. Do not make me do it.” She was sobbing now. “We can’t leave our daughter behind. We can’t!”
“Mother, get in the truck,” María told her.
Aunt Marie tried to push Celia from behind. Having been through evacuations before, she knew that speed was everything.
“Celia, get in, will you? Ernesto’s right. We’ll all be killed, and what will Marta do then?”
“God will protect her. She is safe in God’s arms.” Rosa, already on the truck, then told her.
Ernesto looked again at Celia’s frightened face. She knew they were right, he thought. Defeat was written in her eyes. The masses would kill them. Memories of the past were not in the minds of the young peasants or republican assault guards, and they were the enemy of the republic now, whether they liked it or not.
“Come on, darling, we must leave now.”
“But we can’t,” she said almost as a whisper. “We can’t leave her …”
Ernesto pulled her to him and encircled her with his arms. His heart was breaking too, but he had to get her to leave before it was too late.
“Darling, please. Marta is in a safe place at the moment. We are not.”
“Promise me, Ernesto; promise me on your life that my daughter will get out of that convent alive.”
Ernesto nodded. He was lying to her. He couldn’t promise. He couldn’t even promise that they would survive the night!
María stared blindly out of the truck’s dirty windows. There was nothing to say and no more to be done. They were refugees now, huddling together with no more than the clothes on their backs and the four small bags filled with the most personal and important belongings. Ramón stood passively, watching her. She opened the window and stuck her head out, and Ramón stared into her eyes with his own unfathomable expression.
She looked at the house and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of jasmine from the bushes that climbed its walls, and that’s when a moment of clarity hit her. Carlos, her home, and her sister needed her. She opened her eyes and looked at her father, who had also been watching her.
“I’m staying,” she heard herself say, opening the door of the truck to get out.
Celia grabbed María by the arm and screamed, “Get back in the truck! Get in now!”
María jumped out and swung the door closed behind her. Looking at her mother’s ashen face, guilt flooded her mind, but the more she thought about what she was doing, the more she knew she was doing the right thing. Somehow she had always known that this moment would come.
“No, Mother, I’m not going. I’m going to stay. Ramón will look after me, won’t you, Ramón?”
He nodded.
“They won’t hurt me, not while I’m with Ramón.”
“Please, María, get in. You must come with us, please,” Celia begged. Her voice was now soft and weak.
“No, Mother. I’m sorry, but I’ve thought about this. I won’t leave my country. This is my home, and if Ramón can convince the mob that’s coming that I’m with them, that I can be of use to them, that La Glorieta is theirs, maybe they won’t burn it to the ground like they have poor Doña Isabella’s house. These are my people, and they know me. I’ve worked with them in the fields my whole life. They trust me.”
Celia was blinded by tears. She pulled on Ernesto’s sleeve and tried to push him out of the truck after their daughter, but he was strangely quiet, accepting even.
“Don’t allow this, please, Ernesto … God no!” she cried again, watching helplessly as María put distance between herself and the truck. Ernesto held Celia and stared at his daughter’s face.
“Are you sure?” he asked her.
“This is the work of the devil!” Rosa cried, clutching her rosary beads to her breast. “The devil and the communists. They’ll kill us all! And we’ll be martyrs in the eyes of God!”
“Oh, shut up, you stupid woman!” Aunt Marie told her sternly. “For once, just keep your holier-than-thou mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”
“She is one of us!” Ramón shouted to them all, shocking them all into silence. “Don’t worry about her. We’ll keep her safe. She has nothing to fear. I give you my word, Señor Martinéz.”
María stood in the doorway, watching the lights of the truck fade into the darkness as the distant torchlights of the mob grew brighter. She hadn’t even kissed her family goodbye or told them how much she loved them all. Her mother had left, a broken woman, held tightly in the arms of her father, a deeply saddened man, yet all she could think about was that she was happy. She was happy! It was as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. All she’d heard during the last couple of weeks was talk of leaving, and she’d been dreading the moment. But now that heavy weight of dread had gone.
She went inside the house and sat on the marble floor, trying to banish her mother’s tear-stained face from her mind. There were many reasons why she’d decided to stay, she thought, looking around her and feeling slightly dazed still. She had to keep the house intact. She had to get her sister back. And she knew in her heart that this was where she belonged, at La Glorieta and with Carlos. They were her destiny.
During the night, columns of republican Asaltos and army soldiers, still loyal to the government, took over the house. They arrived in transport vehicles, ambulances, and open trucks filled with guns and ammunition. They carried boxes full of victuals, papers, and medical equipment, making it abundantly clear that La Glorieta had been, possibly weeks earlier, earmarked as a republican base. Its purpose was clear in that it had a strategic position in the mountains that led westwards to the Madrid highway, southwards towards the rebel held regions, and north to Cataluña. Her home was an important foothold for the republicans, and María instinctively knew then that they would more than likely be staying for the duration of the conflict.
María wandered onto the patio area just before dawn on the second day of occupation. It was quiet and peaceful save for a scattering of Asaltos who slept with backs against the walls. The peasants who’d accompanied the assault guards had not been surprised to see her there. Some had spoken to her, and she had detected neither malice nor revenge in their voices. Ramón’s influence went far and beyond any thoughts of revenge they might have, and apart from that, she herself had thought at the time that some were even glad she’d stayed.
Ramón had remained by her side throughout the invasion and had found the earliest opportunity to take her in front of the new master of the hacienda, Captain Raúl Marsal. The captain was a relatively young man who had immediately understood her desire to remain in her home. However, their conversation had been brief, lasting only a couple of minutes. María was told only that she was not to interfere in any way with the running of the newest republican headquarters, that she must not, for the time being, leave its boundaries, adding that she would be allowed to remain only if a useful position could be found for her. She had complied with his wishes; she had no desire to take charge of anything.
She walked back into the house and passed the small pockets of soldiers who were setting up communication posts and surgical rooms. She shivered at the sight of the rooms, once filled with fine art, luxurious couches, and rugs, being turned into cold clinical spaces that would undoubtedly be filled with pain and blood over the next few months. She sat on the bottom step of the winding staircase and tried to put her new priorities in order.
María’s first objective had nothing to do with the house or her father’s land. With the madness over, at least for the moment, her first mission now was to get Marta out of the convent. Ramón would leave for Cocentaina as soon as Carlos returned; his arrival was imminent, Ramón had informed her earlier. María had asked Ramón to go for Marta moments after her parent’s departure, but he had refused to leave her alone. Sadly, she concluded, the ship would be long gone, and even George Rawlings, who loved her family as they loved him, would not, could not, wait another day for Marta, who was now to be brought straight back to La Glorieta. That was as far as she had gotten with her plan.
María now turned her thoughts to La Glorieta. How could she earn her keep and, more to the point, keep out of the way of the occupiers? Huge amounts of fresh produce would be needed to feed the army, and no one knew La Glorieta’s crops better than she did. She could offer her services in the fields, and in doing so would ingratiate herself and Marta. Surely they would leave them alone if she did that?
She walked hesitantly through the halls of the house, trying not to disturb anyone who may still resent her presence. She reached the kitchens and made herself a cup of coffee. Her thoughts then turned to Carlos. She had no idea where he’d gone or why he’d left without a word the night Pedro came home. The memory of his cruel words was still fresh in her mind, yet she knew he loved her. War could not destroy love, for love didn’t take sides. Love was the most powerful emotion a person could have. It was stronger than any weapon, bolder than a hero, and everlasting in hands that cared for it. Soldiers, she guessed, possessed emotions of both love and hate; those feelings were what made a soldier choose his side, and his decisions were made because of the love for his country, a political ideal, or his hatred for the enemy and all they stood for. Those feelings had nothing in common with loving a person, because even if war could change a person’s priorities, as it had hers and Carlos’s, it couldn’t dismiss love in the process. She was sure of that. Carlos had told her to distance herself from him. Instead, she had dug herself in, waiting for his return with a mixture of sweet anticipation and dread. She wondered what he would say when he found her still there.
“So you didn’t go,” a voice said from the doorway. “You should have gone.” Carlos stood in front of her, his face disapproving but filled with relief at the same time.
María jumped up from the chair. “You’re back, then?” she said.
He kissed her on both cheeks, each a cold, dismissive kiss. “Why didn’t you go?” he asked her.
“I didn’t go because of my sister. There wasn’t enough time to get to her, and my father had to get the rest of the family away. I hope you don’t think I stayed because of you. If you do, you’re a vain and arrogant fool. Anyway, where have you been? Why did you leave without a word?”
“We have to talk but not here.” Then he smiled that broad smile she loved so much. “I’ll answer your questions,” he promised.
They walked down the drive, far enough away from the soldiers lingering by the front door, and sat under a tree in the shady coolness of the overhead branches.
Carlos didn’t speak straight away; instead, he drank in the sight of María, thanking God and all the saints. He’d driven all night, terrified of finding her dead with her throat cut by an overeager revenge squad and just as terrified of hearing that she’d left with the others. He’d come back as soon as he could and had spoken first with his father, Ramón, who was now getting things ready for their mission to retrieve Marta from the clutches of the Catholic Church. He stroked her face, feeling his love for her overwhelm him.
“María, I love you. God knows I do, but I’ve seen things, horrible things. I don’t know what’s going to happen, or for how long this will go on, but I do know that Spain is now gripped by a hatred that will cross every boundary of decency and conscience. I cannot tell you where I went, and I don’t want to. You will have to understand from now on that if I’m being secretive, it’s because I have to be. Knowing too much is a dangerous occupation nowadays.”
“But I was so worried about you,” María told him.
“And I was worried about you too, but you must not ask me questions that I can’t answer … won’t answer.”
María nodded her head in submission. She didn’t understand what he was saying; after all, they were on the same side now. “Must I distance myself from you even now?”
Carlos smiled. “Maybe I was wrong about that, but at the time, I thought it would be for the best. You know I can’t stay away from you. I want you and need you in all this madness, but you have to think carefully about your future here. You will be safe at La Glorieta in the short term, but you should think about joining your family in England. This won’t be over anytime soon.”
She stopped his words and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Marta must go to England, but please don’t ask me to leave again,” she told him. “I’ve told you before that my place is with you.”
He kissed her into silence then, with all the passion and hunger that had grown over the last few weeks, and then, breathless, he pushed her gently from him. “Thank God. Thank God for your stubbornness and courage.”
They walked hand in hand, passing curious onlookers on the way, but there was no need to hide their love anymore. This was, for them, a declaration to the world that they were not divided by class. He wore a republican soldier’s uniform, and she was his woman. It was as simple as that.
María was impatient for the men to leave now. Ramón stood by the truck waiting for Carlos, who knew every shortcut, every rock, and every dirt track in the area. They would need to take a route devoid of checkpoints, Carlos had told María. They could not afford the time in delays caused by trigger-happy men who had probably never fired a weapon before. He also told her that they had no authority to remove Marta against her will, and that there would be dangers involved should they attempt to abduct her. María knew this and gave him a sealed letter at the truck.
“Give this to the mother superior,” she told him. “It states that her sister – me – has been shot by a republican militant. She is very ill, and her dying wish is to see Marta again. If that doesn’t work, nothing will! You must bring her home, Carlos, even if you have to knock her out to do it.”
Chapter 50
Marta glanced at the clock; it was almost the time for vespers and evening prayers. She had spent the afternoon sewing, and it was something she’d become very good at; she had been told that on many occasions. She crossed herself and asked for forgiveness. Why could she not get rid of this one particular sin? The sin of pride was so easy to forget, for it was not like any other, such as greed, lies, theft, or murder. Pride was a thought, and she was often too late to stop herself from thinking it. She was miserable since her closest friend, Christina, had decided to leave the order and not take the veil. She’d been quite shocked when Christina told her the news during recreation. She would miss her terribly, but her friend had been adamant. Although she loved the life at the convent and thought that being a nun was the most worthwhile thing to do in the world, she just couldn’t see herself as one. She wouldn’t see Christina tonight. She was now a secular and most probably was already packing her things.
Marta put down her sewing, a lace tablecloth, and packed it neatly away in its box. She would be lonely without Christina, she thought. But being lonely was one good reason to grow closer to God. He was all she would ever need. She rubbed her eyes and unthreaded the needle before sticking it into the padding on the lid of the sewing box. She wouldn’t sew anymore today. Her eyes were stinging, and she felt far too sad to concentrate.
She began to walk slowly to vespers and paused to think for a moment in front of the herb garden that she and Christina had so lovingly cared for. She reflected that in her first few months as a postulant, the route to God had seemed so simple – that if she tried as hard as she could and paid strict observance to all the rules, she would be half way to attaining all her goals.
But now, if she was truly honest with God, as she was absolutely sure she was being, he must know that all she wanted to do right now was to see her family and her home. She crossed herself, asked for forgiveness again, and all the while kept thinking that she was home right now. She was supposed to be spending the rest of her life in the convent – there was no other home. Maybe, she thought, she was just feeling this way because her friend was leaving her … or was she failing in her vocation? She’d speak to Sister Teresa about it later. She’d know what the problem was; she always knew.
After vespers, the nuns gathered for their hour of recreation. Marta noticed immediately that the mood in the great hall was even more sombre than usual. Mother superior sat in the same place at the top table but without her usual stance. The normal chatter was absent, the sisters were whispering furiously with one another, and even the bishop who’d come to perform the veiling ceremony had a distinct frown on his face.
Marta watched him speak now to Mother José in those same annoying whispers, with that same frown on his face. The mother superior’s eyes darted nervously around the room. She wrung her hands, crossed herself continuously, and then clapped her hands together in such an abrupt manner that it caused Marta to drop her spoon.
“Sisters, sisters, I need your undivided attention!” The mother superior shouted in a shrill voice. “I have some very disturbing news to impart so please listen carefully. It appears that our countrymen are fighting one another. The trouble began two weeks ago, and as far as I can gather from our bishop, the situation is getting worse every day. You must all be aware that from now on, things will be very different. It will be hard for you, I know, and I’m sure your thoughts will be with your families, friends, and communities in general, not to mention the violent and bloody evil in the streets of our great country. But you must banish these thoughts. We will pray to God for his protection all night tonight, and there will be no recreation period. Indeed, I do not believe we should break silence at all until further notice. All our energy must now be directed at God and his countenance, which I think you will agree will be much more beneficial than anything I, or any of us, could have to say to one another. There is, of course, the matter of our safety that must also be discussed, and I shall keep nothing from you.”