Confused, Juanico asks, “But what have I done?”
Pedro pulls out the chair and pushes him into it. He smacks his open hand across the back of the boy’s neck and shouts, “Do as you are told before I beat you as well.” Bewildered by the suddenness of events, Juanico freezes in the chair. Sitting at the table, Soledad watches on in silence. Pedro drains the coffee cup while still standing and then leaves without saying another word. The front door slams shut behind him.
When Pedro reaches the hut in the fields his workers are already clearing away their breakfast things. He takes Raul to one side and tells him, “The boy has been punished for disrespecting me.” Raul feels the muscles in his stomach tighten as he tries to stop his rising anger from outwardly manifesting itself. “Show him no sympathy today. He must learn his place,” Pedro continues.
Raul looks down at the ground and almost imperceptibly nods his head. In his mind he keeps repeating the words over and over again like a mantra, “Now is not the time. Their time will come.”
Pedro watches the other man closely as he speaks. He is unable to discern any emotion on the dusty, expressionless face in front of him. “None of the animals I feed have the right to bite me. Do you understand?” he commands rhetorically. Without looking up and maintaining his silence, Raul nods his head again. As Pedro turns away he leaves one comment hanging, “Get the woman to dress the wounds properly.”
Raul watches him walk away with a slightly puzzled expression furrowing his brow. He stands in silence for nearly a minute watching Pedro walk the horse alongside the fields towards the village. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some coins; he counts them and then hands them to Maria Dolores. “Go to the pharmacy and get some bandages and disinfectant.”
“Why?” she asks.
The other men watch the conversation closely as they half-heartedly prepare for their day’s work. Raul looks back towards the village. “That son of a whore has beaten Salvador. Go quickly, and collect him from the corner of his street if the bastard isn’t with him. Hurry, he’ll be there soon and you will need to dress the wounds,” he tells her.
*
Juanico sits in silence at the dining room table studiously eating his breakfast. His grandmother watches him closely, listening out for the girl’s footsteps to come back into the house. Her son is angry with the maid and that gives her an opportunity to chastise the girl. She hears the noise she has been waiting for: the beaded curtain over the back door rustle. She cries out, “Girl.”
Marianela runs into the dining room. “Yes, Dona Soledad.”
The old woman looks at her with contempt painted across her face. “Don’t you talk to me like that,” she barks.
“Forgive me,” the woman responds from beneath her fringe, terrified of making eye contact in case she starts crying again. She struggles to stand, with exhaustion weakening every muscle and joint in her body.
“Don’t just stand there. Clear the breakfast things away and ready the boy for school,” the woman barks. Marianela hastily starts picking up the plates and unused cutlery when Soledad picks up a spoon and throws it at her. It bounces off her shoulder and clatters to the floor. “Faster, you wretched girl. Is the master’s son to be late for his lessons because you don’t have the sense of a street dog?” she shouts.
Juanico stares at his grandmother with eyes wide and mouth hanging open as she unloads her pent-up anger on the maid. Marianela rushes around the table with the plates in one hand and takes Juanico’s hand in the other. “Come along, young sir. You mustn’t be late,” she says as she pulls him out of his chair.
Dazed by the flurry of activity occurring around him, Juanico allows himself to be led from his chair and the dining room. Marianela, with head still bowed, scuttles out of the room ahead of him with her hands full, saying, “I am sorry, Madam. I will see to him immediately.”
“See that you do and be quick about it,” the woman roars after her.
*
Salvador pulls himself up gently, being careful not to put too much stress on the wounds. His mother’s makeshift dressing pulls tight against the scabbing skin on his back and shoulders. The pain makes him wince and he feels the tears welling in his eyes. He remains silent, refusing to make a sound in case any of the adults hear him. He vows to himself that he will kill the man for what he has done to him. His seething fury gives him the strength he needs to silently pull the overalls up over his shoulders and not give into the pain gripping at him.
He lets himself out through the back door of the storehouse and slowly walks around to the front of the house. He checks around the corner before walking more quickly past the front of the house, crouching so as not to be noticed through the windows of the dining room. Inside, he can hear Soledad shouting at his mother and he promises God that he will make them all pay.
At the end of the road he finds Maria Dolores waiting for him. It couldn’t be better timed as he starts to feel his strength waning again. She puts one arm under his and holds him up. The moment her arm makes contact with his back he lets out a whelp like a whipped dog and flops into her arms. She struggles to keep him standing and walks him slowly towards the fields. She whispers to him so only he can hear, “Use all your strength to get to the hut in the fields and you can rest once I have dressed your wounds. Don’t let the bastards see that you are in pain.”
Fighting to stop himself from crying, he mumbles through the pain, “I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
As soon as Raul sees them walking along the path towards the fields he runs across and takes the boy’s weight from her. With one arm around his waist and the other holding the wrist of the arm around his shoulders he lifts the boy’s feet from the ground and walks him briskly to the hut. The boy starts to cry, “I don’t want the men to see me like this.”
Raul keeps walking. “Don’t you worry about that. You have nothing to be ashamed of. We have all taken such a beating at one time or another. Don’t you worry about the other men; we are all here for you.”
By the time they reach the hut the other men have laid out a bedroll and brought fresh water from the irrigation channel. Raul lays Salvador down on his front. The last thing the boy hears as he starts slipping into an exhausted sleep is Raul barking orders at the others. “Bring me the bandages and the alcohol. Get the overalls and dressings off him. Esteban, get me some clean overalls for him. Maria Dolores, get some of the broth on the fire; he’ll need to eat before he sleeps.”
*
Marianela rushes to prepare Juanico for his lessons. The young boy stands still, staring at her, asking over and over the same question through the large tears rolling down his cheeks, “What have I done wrong? I don’t understand what I have done wrong.”
Marianela tries to reassure the boy as she rushes around him but her mind is very much on her own son and getting back to him as soon as she can. “Nothing. You have done nothing wrong. You are to get ready for your lessons and it will all be explained when you return home tonight,” she says.
Once the boy is ready she waits by the bedroom door to hear Dona Soledad close the bathroom door. As soon as she hears the door click closed she runs through the house pulling the boy behind her. She doesn’t stop rushing until she reaches the church where she places the boy in the last pew alongside the other boys attending mass before their lessons.
The priest watches her closely from the front of the church. His gaze lingers on her as she bends over to wipe the tears from the boy’s face. When she stands back up, she glances back towards the altar. The priest stares back at her, the same earthly stare burdened with lascivious longing he had so often had when he punished her for falling pregnant. The memory of him brings bile to the back of her throat and makes her skin crawl. Unable to stop herself, she recollects how he left his hand pressed against her for a few moments after each smack. The monotonous, damp voice droning Latin scripture
from behind her, echoes through her mind. She feels the nausea rising within her and she quickly leaves the church.
She runs through the streets of the village, fighting with herself not to start crying. The memories of the weeks of punishment the priest had doled out claw their way towards the front of her mind, and as they do, the same fear and shame that she had felt when he punished her reawaken. She runs as fast as she can alongside the fields towards the hut, struggling with the guilt. She enters the hut and pushes past the men.
The image that greets her is too much to bear and she falls to her knees, wailing. Her son is lying face down on the floor, his back torn to ribbons like a flayed piece of meat. Raul is kneeling beside him, cleaning the wounds as the boy whimpers like a dying dog.
Raul finishes and he leads Marianela from the hut, ordering the others out at the same time. “Give the boy some time to sleep. Maria Dolores, keep an eye on the road in case he comes back. Marianela, come with me and I’ll explain everything.” He leads her away from the others with one arm around her shoulders. He offers her his neckerchief. She takes it and holds it tight to her mouth.
Once out of earshot of the others he starts speaking, “Are you all right, did he touch you?”
“No. It is my fault. What happened to the boy is my fault,” she replies in a fragile tone.
He tries to reassure her, “It is not your fault. I should have known the city would be too much for him and he would be angry and upset when he returned. Forgive me, Marianela; this is my fault.”
With tears rolling down her cheek she shakes her head from side to side, “No. It is my fault. I told the master that my boy was ungrateful. It was me that made the master beat him.”
Raul takes her shoulders in his hands firmly and holds her facing him. Looking directly into her eyes he speaks over the top of her, “No, Marianela. The man is an animal. How dare he raise a hand to your son! What gives him the right to…?”
Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence she whispers three words, “A father’s right.”
Raul stops in mid-sentence. Staring at her, his brain races through the possible events that could prompt her to say this. “I don’t understand what you are telling me. I don’t understand why you are telling me,” he says.
She looks up at him, her brown eyes glistening with tears, “I don’t know why, I have never told anyone. Raul, I lied to the priest and he said God would punish Salvador for my sins.” The sobs rumble up from her chest, “What am I to do, Raul? God is punishing my beautiful boy for the whore I am.”
Raul puts his arms around her and draws her tight against his chest. His eyes start welling up with tears and he whispers into her hair, “Do not say such things. These bastards have abused you and your boy. They are the animals. They have treated you as less than human.”
He can feel her hair and the skin of her ear against his lips. “Marianela, you must not blame yourself for this,” he says as he strokes her long, brown hair. He feels her breathing slowing against his chest. “I need you both to calm down. Salvador is saying all sorts of things. I promise I will make this right,” he tells her.
She pulls back away from him and straightens her clothes and hair. “Of course. Forgive me. I am sorry you had to witness this, please don’t say anything to… ”
Raul puts one hand on her shoulder and looks into her eyes. “I will say nothing to anyone. I would ask that you trust me though.” As she wipes the tears from her face with his neckerchief she looks down at the floor and nods her head once.
Chapter 12
Between 1932 and 1934 the divide between the powerful and the powerless grows. The anarchist trade union calls a general strike to which the army responds by shutting down newspapers and arresting union organisers. An army general attempts and fails a military coup and a group of anarchists attempt and fail an insurrection. In the final months of 1933 a right wing government wins the general election. Emboldened by their perceived electoral mandate, the CEDA, the catholic fascist organisation, sends its uniformed youth militia onto the streets and the two main fascist organisations in the country, the Falange and the JONS, merge to create the FE de las Jons.
A few days after the creation of the FE de las Jons, the Minister of the Interior closes down the headquarters of the socialist youth, the communist party and the CNT. The CEDA starts assembling files on communist and anarchist activists while the government lifts price controls on bread, causing large scale malnutrition. In response, the workers take to the streets. The large landowners and factory owners respond by hiring non-unionised labour to break the strikes and further drive down the wages. The police imprison anarchists and trade unionists in ever-increasing numbers across the country.
As 1934 draws to a close the fog of war begins to lift and the battle lines become clearer. The right wing government begins systematically removing socialist mayors from office across the country and replacing them with local fascists and sympathisers. In October, the left wing unions of Spain come together to call a general strike. On the 5th October the miners striking in Asturias move to open rebellion against the government and the full might of the Spanish armed forces is mobilised by the government against the workers in the north.
As the years passed Pedro felt his family’s new-found status ever more insecure. Out of fear, he responds by increasingly draping himself in the opinions of those he thinks are his peers. In the bars at night he agrees with the ongoing commentary, blaming the Jews and the Bolsheviks for everything; when he walks home at night he looks the other way when the gang of CEDA youth drag peasant boys and girls screaming into darkened alleyways.
Each night the bile from his stomach burns like acid in his throat as he lays his head down against the pillow. Each night he welcomes the soporific embrace of an alcohol-sodden semi-consciousness. In his drunken logic and the privacy of his widower’s bed he thanks God that his family is spared, before quickly damning the god that allows such cruelty. The troubled sleep that would otherwise elude him waits patiently for him in the wineskin hanging on the bedpost, studiously refilled and replaced each day by Marianela.
*
As the years pass and the authorities crack down with increasing ferocity, Raul feels the noose tightening around him and his comrades. With each piece of news his intent becomes more focused and his brow more furrowed. Accepting the reality of his situation, he stays in the village, under the assumed identity that with each day becomes harder to distinguish from his true identity. The months pass and Raul makes a life for himself in the village.
Raul and Salvador rent a one room hut in the field backing onto the railway lines. With each day Raul’s respect and admiration for Marianela grows, as her ceaseless fortitude in light of her daily torments inspires him. Most evenings, after finishing her day’s work, she cooks dinner for the two men. Most evenings, standing with her back to the men as she stirs the broth, she matter-of-factly describes her day and the ongoing verbal and physical abuse she is forced to suffer.
Raul lets his gaze move from the back of her head to her son’s face. As he listens he feels his admiration for her and his anger towards them growing in equal measure. When she brings the pot of beans from the fire to the table she gets to see her son and Raul greet her offering with warm and loving smiles. It is the one moment of the day she looks forward to.
Each night, after the meal has been cleaned away, the two men walk her back to Don Pedro’s house and the bedroll waiting for her in the pantry. In the moments she has to herself before falling asleep, she lets herself imagine lying next to Raul. She feels the stubble of his unshaven chin resting against her forehead and his sinewy muscles and sunbaked skin pressing against her naked body. She falls asleep, imagining the security and the warmth of Raul’s arms around her and the reassurance of her son snoring gently in the next room. More often than not, as sleep slowly takes her, she imagines a family home where she c
an love and be loved. Most evenings a small smile turns up the corners of her mouth and her shoulders relax back onto the floor as she wishes herself asleep.
Over the same two years Salvador grows into a strong and broad shouldered young man of sixteen. The warmth of the one room hut imbues him with certainty and strength which he has never found before. During the day the young man takes pride in his work; afterwards, his tired muscles relax into the familial surroundings of the evening meal with his mother and Raul and then, finally, he invariably goes out to join his friends in the bar. For the first time in his life he feels part of something bigger than himself. Salvador wakes each morning and strives to be the son his mother can be proud of, the comrade his brothers and sisters can trust and the companion that Cati can love and respect.
Almost every night when he lies down on his bedroll, he reads a few chapters of the most recent book Cati has sent to him. When he closes it, he pauses to compose his thoughts and then he writes back to her. Once a week he collects up all the sheets of paper he has written and he sends them to her. In two years they have seen each other four times: three times in the city and once in the village. On each occasion they have managed to steal some time away from the others, just for themselves. Away from prying eyes for a few short hours, they hold each other tightly, kissing until their lips are chapped and reddening.
The years had been unkind to Juanico. His father had grown increasingly distant, his best friend had deserted him, and with each day his nursemaid had spent less and less time waiting for his call. The house had grown quiet, dark and cold since Salvador had left. During the evening Juanico would often sit in the dining room, reading and copying out his lessons, listening to his grandmother sitting on the street outside the window talking with the local women. He would try to ignore the daily analysis of how this person had done this, and that woman had done the other. And when they weren’t complaining about the villagers, they were spitting curses at the Jewish whores leading the workers astray, the pathetic men unable to bring their own workers to heel and the godless Bolsheviks fermenting ill will across the country.
A Most Uncivil War Page 12