by Jana Petken
1 April 1939
At last, we’re going home! How I love the sound of that word on my tongue: home to La Glorieta and my children. It has been more than three years since I said goodbye to Miguel. He was always in my heart, of course, but never more so than now. He has become a loving son once again, and I can’t wait to hold him in my arms. My children will need me, and I can only hope that I can help heal their wounds in some small way.
Ernesto has been strangely quiet. I know he is still mourning Rosa’s death, although he won’t admit it, and I also know that he is a little afraid of what he will find in his beloved home and country. I must be strong for him, support him, as he has always supported me. I love him so.
I have asked myself many times in the last few days if I am sorry to be leaving my own country at a time when she may face an enemy we already know too well. I tell myself that everything will be all right and that this new war will not last long, but I know war now, and I pray that England will not suffer the same fate as Spain: torn, ravished, and perpetually saddened.
Marta is constantly in my thoughts, and her death is even more unbearable to me now as I suffocate in the knowledge that I will not see her on our return home. If only we had taken her out of that convent before it was too late!
I shall not return to England. Tonight I will quietly say goodbye to my old country. Merrill Farm shall remain in the family and in the future may once again be occupied by a new generation of Merrills, who will never know the cruel history within its walls …
On 30 March, María received a telegram brought to her by her father’s friend Francisco. Her parents would arrive on board a Rawlings ship on 14 April, and the ship would anchor offshore and then head straight back out to sea after depositing her parents safely on land. Francisco would make sure, he told her, that all the necessary arrangements were made to facilitate this.
Carlos’s death hung over her like a black shadow, following her everywhere. However, it was her son who filled her thoughts. Would her parents be disappointed in her or would they understand that her child was born out of love, she wondered. She had never told her parents about Carlos. They knew nothing about her love for him. Marta and Pedro were the only two people she had ever told, and they had kept her secret. She accepted that in the dawn of this New Spain, she would most probably be branded as a fallen woman, but how many women like her had fallen from grace over the love of a man in time of war? And how many were now faced with a life without a man by her side? Her parents would come home, and they would love little Carlos, just as she did. Her mother would also understand her grief over Carlos’s death, for Celia, more than any one, had always believed that love was the most precious gift a person could receive whilst on this earth.
The remainder of La Glorieta’s occupants looked to María for answers. They had taken a gamble; they had stood by the republic in war and had lost. María understood that, and so did they. Those who had stayed knew that very soon the uniforms of nationalist soldiers and the Guardía Civil would take over. Some had asked for her protection, while others demanded that protection.
María sat in a high-backed chair by the kitchen fireplace and rocked baby Carlos in her arms. She had promised herself not to get upset for his sake, but her pain ran so deep that it was almost like a physical ache that she just couldn’t still. Ramón sat opposite her and, as always, soothed her with brave words and gentle coaching. He took the baby from her and lifted his tiny body until their eyes met.
“I love you, Carlos,” he said with a catch in his voice. “Never forget your old grandfather.”
María cried and could have kicked herself for her display of weakness. She had tried to talk Ramón out of leaving so soon, but to no avail. She understood why he had to disappear, but he had been like a father to her. He had protected her and with his influence had probably saved her home from an angry mob, who might otherwise have burned it to the ground on that very first night of occupation. Ramón and his wife were her child’s grandparents; he needed them as much as she did.
She wiped her tears but couldn’t bring herself to speak about the horrors that would face Ramón and his wife should they remain at La Glorieta. She had seen the first signs of Franco’s revenge that very morning, when a small garrison of Guardía Civil took to the streets of La Glorieta, rounding up men and women deemed unsavoury in Franco’s eyes. Ramón and his wife had been hiding for four days now, and she knew, as did they, that they couldn’t remain hidden forever. Soon, she thought, she would weep for all the poor souls who had dared to defy the great Generalissimo Franco.
Ramón looked at her now, and she saw her beloved Carlos in his eyes. A wave of sadness washed over her, quickly followed by bitterness and anger. She opened her mouth to say something. She wanted to tell Ramón that he was just as stubborn as his son was and to look where that stubbornness had gotten him. Instead, she bit her lip and then tried to convince him to stay one more day.
“Why can’t you wait until my father returns? He will help you. He will know what to do.”
“María, I’ve already explained this to you,” Ramón told her patiently. “Every minute I spend here puts your life in danger. Do you think that Franco’s henchmen care that your father is Don Ernesto? If they find my wife and me here, you’ll be hauled away with us as a conspirator. Whole families have already been taken because mothers have tried to protect sons, wives their husbands, and daughters their fathers. All get put on the back of a truck, regardless of whom or what they are. You have to be able to say that you don’t know where I’ve gone and believe what you’re saying because, believe me, these people can spot a lie just with a blink of the eye. María, that’s why Carlos left you without a word, why he refused to come near you. It was to protect you! You thought he had abandoned you, but you were wrong. He loved you so much that he denied himself of you to keep you safe!”
María suddenly felt ashamed; Ramón was right. She couldn’t lie to the nationalist soldiers or the Guardía Civil if they turned up at the house looking for him, and they could come at any moment. She had seen with her own eyes that innocent people were being taken simply because of their association with wanted dissidents or indeed anyone who didn’t dance to their tune with fascist salutes. She stared at her baby in Ramón’s arms. He had no father; she would not leave him motherless now too.
“Ramón, at least take the money. How far do you think you’ll get with no money and no food inside you? At least allow me to do that for you and your wife and for your grandson,” she urged him.
Ramón took the brown paper bag from her without a word and then handed the baby back to her. María kissed the baby’s head and wrapped her shawl around him. The kitchens were cold, she thought, for there had been no cooking done there in days. She kissed Carlos again and put him in his carrycot, sitting behind her chair. She turned, looked up, and saw that Ramón had gone.
María and Lucia sat on the front patio. María smiled indulgently at Lucia, shaking her head at the same time. Her friend had been driving her crazy all morning. Pedro was due home any time now, and she wouldn’t sit still for a second or let a second go by without asking what time it was, and since neither of them knew what time Pedro would arrive, it was to María a redundant question.
They sat on the grubby armchairs once used by invalid soldiers, deep in thought and filled with a peaceful contentment that had been absent for so long.
“Whatever happens,” Lucia said, “you and I will always be friends now. We can’t undo the past, María. It’s done, and all we must hope for now is a reasonable future, and that Franco is not as bad as everyone says he is. Do you think he is all bad, as bad as everyone says?”
“Lucia, hush. Let’s enjoy a quiet moment,” María told her. “We need this moment. At least I do.”
María watched the trees that lined the driveway, swaying noisily in the wind. Trees never ceased to hypnotise her. Their branches, filling with spring leaves, danced in unison, mesmerising her with their natural
, rhythmic elegance, and the orchestra of sound coming from the branches was like that of soft violins. She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly until the soft violins began sounding more like a rumble of thunder.
María opened her eyes, shaded them from the white sunlight sparkling between the branches of the trees with the palm of her hand, and looked down the long curving drive.
The noise of the motor vehicle alerted her first to an imminent arrival, and then she saw the dust kick up in front of and behind an army jeep.
“Pedro!” Lucia said, jumping up and smoothing her hair. “I can’t see properly for the dust. How do I look? María, can you see?”
María ignored the question and instead walked to the patio steps, where she had a better view. She now saw more clearly that there was not just one vehicle but four and that it was not her brother arriving but something else, something that made her skin crawl and her stomach lurch in panic.
She stood shakily on legs that she was sure were about to give way at any time. Lucia shrank in the chair and for once said nothing.
“It seems we will not have our quiet moment after all,” María said.
The unit of Guardía Civil arrived at the house and consisted of three truckloads of men and a jeep carrying what looked like an important officer, who, after stepping resolutely from the jeep, strode towards them with an arrogant, patronising expression that only a victorious soldier could display.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” the officer said without smiling, “Captain Morales at your service.”
María nodded, thinking at the same time that what they wanted was clear by the armed guards standing nonchalantly by his jeep.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” she said calmly. “What can I do for you?”
Captain Morales put his foot on the first patio step and took his time lighting a cigarette. María watched his slow, methodical hand movements. He was so young, she thought, yet he had an aristocratic and snobbish air about him, reminding her of her brother Miguel, who at times had an air of superiority that was cold and thoughtless. “To what do I owe this honour? Is there something I can do for you?” she asked again.
“Yes, Señorita, there is, actually. I need to see your papers and those of your peasants outside and inside the house. The entire estate must be investigated. You will see to this.” He gestured to María with his fingers, making it clear that he wouldn’t wait for a response.
María stood, walked slowly into the house, and picked up the two identity papers lying on top of her father’s desk in the conservatory. A million and one thoughts were going through her mind. Ramón had left her not one hour ago. Had he left the village yet? Had the others left with him? She prayed that this was the case, for if they had been delayed for some reason, this captain would waste no time in rounding them up.
Once outside, she handed Lucia’s and her own papers to Captain Morales. The one-page documents stated family name, address, and profession. María waited for Captain Morales to finish studying them and then said, “We are alone here, and as you can see, there are no peasants in sight, inside or outside. We don’t have house servants anymore.”
“Where is the rest of your family? You have two brothers, do you not?” he asked her suspiciously.
María endured a moment of panic, which she was sure they would detect in her voice, but she strove to hide it with her words.
“My brother Miguel was with a Phalanx unit in Madrid, but I have not heard from him in over a year, and my other brother, Pedro, was with General Franco’s army somewhere in the north, although I believe my brother may be home soon. My father and mother went into exile under the threat of death from republican mobs, and my sister, a nun, was murdered at her convent.”
There was a marked change in the captain’s attitude, and his haughty, superior arrogance was immediately replaced by exaggerated sympathy and admiration.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Señorita,” he gushed. “But let me assure you that you are now quite safe and that we are here for your protection, just as we have always been. Many great families have perished under the sword of communist and anarchist barbarism, but they will pay dearly for their crimes, and I will personally make sure that your family is avenged for your sister’s death.”
“Thank you, Captain. I feel much better now,” María lied.
“You may rely on the sincerity of my words but forgive me for saying, Señorita, that you must understand that we cannot allow you to protect communists and traitors, misguided though your allegiance to them may be. They can’t be allowed to roam free. They have to be reined in and disposed of so that order can be restored.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you,” María said before blowing her nose once more for good measure and thinking that she hated the fascist swine.
“You will be seeing a lot of us from now on,” the captain continued, “but for now, I would appreciate your cooperation.”
“My cooperation?” María said innocently.
“Yes, in assisting us in the capture of any remaining republican scum, in order to punish them for their crimes. I’m sure you will be happy to see this done, Señorita.”
María nodded her head.
“Do you have a list of La Glorieta’s workers, those involved in the communist movement, perhaps?”
Lucia’s sharp intake of breath prompted María into immediate action.
“Why, no, not at this moment. You see, my father’s library and all his records were burned,” she told the captain between sniffs. “All his papers were destroyed, and I really don’t know where anything is anymore. My father, Don Ernesto, will be back tomorrow from London, and I’m sure he will be able to supply you with all the information that you need about the estate’s workers. Maybe you can come back then?”
“Yes, we will, but in the meantime, we’ll be taking up residence in the village, sharing the offices of the comisaría. Can you give me any names, any at all?”
“No, not offhand,” María told him innocently. “I never knew their names. First names, maybe, but certainly not their family names. I am only a woman, Captain. I never got involved with the peasants, but I am sure you’ll find who you’re looking for in the village; after all, it’s not that big.”
María sat and pulled her skirt down, covering her bare legs. She could see that the captain had not finished with her, and she dreaded his next question.
“Is there anything else?” she asked him, wishing he would leave.
“No. Actually, yes, just one more thing. Do you know of two men by the name of Pons, specifically Ramón Pons and his son, Carlos Pons?”
“Yes,” she told him, remembering what Ramón had told her to say. “Yes, of course. Ramón Pons was one of my father’s managers, and his son Carlos used to work on the estate. He looked after the horses, but he is dead. Killed at the Ebro, I believe. Why do you ask?”
Captain Morales walked toward his truck and then turned again to face her with an arrogant smirk that turned María’s stomach.
“Tell your father when he returns that he will need a new manager. You will not be seeing Ramón Pons again. We found him and his communist whore of a wife trying to skip out of the village. They have both been arrested for activities against our great leader.”
María’s demeanour changed slightly. Her stomach lurched, and she found it hard to swallow. She nodded her head.
“I see. I will pass this information on.” Ramón had remained until the very last minute for her sake. It was her fault. She had probably caused the incarceration or death of Carlos’s parents because of her own selfishness. She stared straight ahead, unable to meet Captain Morales’s eyes. Her lie about not knowing the names of La Glorieta’s workers had not fooled him, for he he’d suspected her all along. He had tricked her.
“Do you have proof of Carlos Pons’s death?” he asked her, now with a new harshness in his tone.
María stood once more and lifted her head to Captain Morales in defiance.
“Ye
s, that I may have. I believe the republican officer in charge here kept the death certificates of all registered soldiers from La Glorieta. If you give me a minute, I will go to his office and look for you.”
“Interesting … Yes, you do that.” He ordered one of his men to accompany her.
María knew exactly where to look for the paper in question, but she fumbled through a pile of papers, knowing that Carlos’s death certificate was not amongst them. The man who accompanied her looked bored and was growing impatient, so she prolonged the search no further. “This is it, I believe,” she said.
Captain Morales took the death certificate from her hands. He read it, looked at her once more, and then handed it back to her. “When your father returns, tell him to have all papers ready for inspection. Tell him I want the names of troublemakers, living and dead.” With that final command, he ordered his men to get back into the vehicles. “I will not detain you any further; my condolences once again for your sister,” he said.
Chapter 86
The family walked up to the peak of the bluff that overlooked the great weeping willow tree standing tall and proud above Marta’s grave. The women, dressed in black with veils covering their heads and faces, walked in front of the men who wore black suits and black silk ties. They carried flowers, and no one spoke as they climbed over and then down the other side of jagged rocks and crevasses to walk along the dirt path bordered by cactus and geraniums. They came to the grave and gathered around the small rock with Marta’s name engraved upon it. One by one, they placed the flowers beside the rock and on top of the stone mound that housed Marta’s body.
María placed her sleeping baby in the carrycot beside her and then stood quietly next to her mother, Aunt Marie, and Lucia. After some moments of silence, Ernesto and Pedro walked the short distance to a heavy rock that sat at a peculiar angle and slightly apart from the other rocks nearby. They lifted it between them and staggered under its weight before resting it beside Marta’s grave. Carved upon it was one word: Miguel.