The Island Villa_The perfect feel good summer read

by Lily Graham

  I stared at her. Something inside seemed to halt at her words. But I didn’t understand any of it. ‘Give up what?’

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head in disbelief as if, somehow, my words confirmed her worst thoughts. ‘Did she never tell you about it – about us?’

  I frowned. ‘Well, she told us a bit. Always reluctantly though. She told me that she used to live here – that all the family had, for many years – even back before the Spanish Civil War, she said, the Alvarez family lived on this island for several generations, but that can’t really be true, can it? I mean, well…’

  She gave me a slow nod.

  I nodded. ‘Exactly – I mean, even in the guidebooks they say that the island was uninhabited for a long time, that it was prone to piracy and the shores were dangerous and it was poor, so no one lived here at one time.’

  ‘Well. They’re half wrong. There was a period of abandonment, yes – but it wasn’t for as long as people think.’

  ‘How could the guidebooks be wrong?’

  What was she telling me? I couldn’t help fearing that perhaps I’d made a mistake. Maybe she was some mad conspiracy theorist. Perhaps there had been some other reason my grandmother had chosen to disown her sister. Perhaps this was it.

  ‘Because not everyone knew the truth, you see, especially the government. There was a time, during the early eighteenth century, when it wasn’t actually abandoned, when a few families came over from Majorca to live here in secret. Including ours. Nowadays it is like people have erased it from history, from existence – many people helped to do it. But you can’t bury everything, oh no, especially not memories, and sometimes if you’re lucky memory can get a little help, too.’

  She got up and went to a chest of drawers across from the table, coming back with a big black album. In it was a scroll, written in a different alphabet. I stared at it in puzzlement.

  ‘You know what this is?’ she asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘It’s a Hebrew scroll, rare and precious, and at one point dangerous to own. It alone would have been proof that could have been used against our family during the Inquisition, if they’d known about it. The family used to keep this one in the cellar in an old stove,’ she said, with a small sad laugh as she remembered. ‘There were others too then, but this is one of the last that survived. Back then, during the Inquisition, if someone had found this – well, it would have been enough, you know.’

  ‘Enough?’

  She looked at me. ‘To prove who we really were.’

  I frowned.

  ‘Who you really were?’

  ‘Chuetas. Marranos. Conversos,’ she said. She raised her eyebrows at my blank stare, then she whispered, even now, after all these years, ‘We were Jews… secret Jews.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Secret Jews. Here on Formentera? I don’t understand. They… we’re Jewish?’ I blinked in surprise. ‘How is that possible? How could I not have known about this?’

  It was no small matter – an entire faith, culture and identity. How could my grandmother never have mentioned it? I shook my head. It wasn’t possible. I remembered her attending mass, the rosary beads she always kept. How she would often besiege the saints when Allan and I pushed her to the limit.

  ‘But my grandmother was Catholic,’ I said, shaking my head.

  She laughed, ‘Ai carai. Aren’t we all?’

  At my shocked look she continued. ‘After the Inquisition, thousands of people were forced to convert to Christianity, to Catholicism. Eventually they were given a choice: convert or leave. Many left, those who couldn’t stayed. What they didn’t tell you is that those who stayed were punished for it, and were never treated the same. The history books will tell you that in the Balearics, the history of the Jews was all the same. Genocide. Torture. Ridicule. It relied mainly on the events of Majorca, which is where our family originated. There, it’s true, there was untold suffering and persecution – but that wasn’t the case on the islands of Ibiza and Formentera.’

  ‘They came here, you mean – our family, Jews?’

  She nodded. ‘They left during a particularly bad uprising in Majorca in the late seventeenth century. There were a few other families who came here, too, to resettle. They had heard that the islanders here were more tolerant, and not so ready to pry. Formentera was mainly deserted, and so they came secretly and resettled the area.

  ‘It was a good choice for them. Of course, they had to be careful. In fact, I’d say the only time they were truly in danger of being found out – which would have meant torture, imprisonment or death – was in the early eighteenth century.’

  I tried to take this in. My family came from a line of secret Jews who’d made their home on the island, and who to this day very few people knew about? How was that even possible?

  ‘No one knows that Jews were living here – even now?’

  ‘Oh, some know, of course, it’s just not advertised. I suppose because a lot of the families left after Franco’s horrible war, and then the salt trade mostly collapsed and people left after that – it was look for work elsewhere or starve. But they say that many of the local inhabitants of Ibiza and Formentera can trace their roots back to a Jewish heritage. The islands were given a choice during the Inquisition – they could give up the names of the Jews living here, they could even do so anonymously… but they never did.’

  I gaped at her, trying to imagine that. Not a single soul betraying them?

  ‘It’s true. They protected them. Here you were an islander no matter what your faith. You were one of them.

  ‘I can you tell you about it if you like – about what life was like then. I think in a way that’s where we should start if you’d like to understand why Alba never told you about her life here – so you can understand who we were first. Would you like that?’

  I nodded. ‘Very much.’

  Her dark eyes softened. ‘It’s important to tell the young about the past, before it’s forgotten.’

  I couldn’t help but agree. It had pained me that much of my family history was lost after my grandmother’s death, and this was a chance now for me to understand – and perhaps to understand my grandmother more, something I’d been trying to do ever since I was a young girl, when all I encountered were heavy silences and a wooden chest filled with memories she wouldn’t share.

  Maria got up to turn the heat down low, adding in fish and carrots and red and green peppers to the buttery tomato mix, tucking a strand of black and grey hair behind an ear.

  ‘I heard the stories from my own mother and hers before her. I think they stayed with me so much because I looked so much like the woman they said had risked it all.’

  I frowned, remembering something my grandmother had said. ‘Someone with dark hair? My grandmother said that she brought shame on the family… though she wouldn’t go any further no matter how much I pressed.’

  Maria nodded. ‘Yes. Well I suppose that was because to her it was a repeat of what happened between us.’

  I stared at Maria, blinking, and she shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you about that later. Maybe.’

  I hoped she would. I couldn’t come this far and not know why my grandmother had left it all behind, why she’d never mentioned that she had a sister at all.

  It felt strange and oddly full circle to be sitting here in my grandmother’s sister’s kitchen with the scent of her seafood stew bubbling, and outside the sounds of children playing, hearing, at last, the sorts of things I’d tried so hard to discover from my grandmother as a child.

  ‘She told you that all Alvarez people had red hair and green eyes, and skin that was pale?’

  I nodded, then smiled. ‘Except for one, who was dark and very beautiful. She was a bit of a black sheep, or at least that’s what I’d thought… the way that she spoke of her.’

  ‘Well, it was because of her – and the man she fell in love with, Benito Nuñez – that we were almost discovered. It threatened to expose the community th
at had lived here peacefully for over a hundred years, without the authorities being any the wiser. At the heart of that story were two sisters.

  ‘My mother used to say that in some ways we were like them, Alba and I. As different as night from day. From our colouring to our temperaments. But the truth is, like with our own brother, who cost us the family home when he gambled it away – which is a story I will tell you too, another day perhaps – it was their brother who put them in the predicament that was to shape the rest of our lives. I think that is where we should begin.’

  Chapter Ten

  Formentera, 1718

  There were rumours of a stranger on the island.

  The young woman’s dark eyes darted behind her, scanning the coastline as she ran silently over flat scrubland to the old church where her mother was waiting. Her feet in their soft leather shoes barely made a sound. She’d learned to be silent very young, and very fast.

  Strangers meant one thing on this small, often forgotten Spanish island.

  Caution.

  She could see it in the eyes of everyone she’d passed that morning. The subtle shifts that only an islander would know.

  The carefully visible addition of rosary beads peeking out of a pocket, and the sudden appearance of simple crosses tacked to the doors of the small white houses that dotted the landscape like sugar cubes.

  ‘Remember,’ whispered an old man wearing the traditional garb that most men reserved for special occasions, white trousers with a wide belt sporting a knife, a red hat and a black jerkin. He didn’t look up as she passed, just sat outside his home, carving a small wooden flute. He put it to his lips to test the sound, and she heard the haunting melody as she ran. She hadn’t responded to him. It wasn’t as if anyone could ever forget.

  Her mother was waiting by the church door, her mouth pressed into a firm, anxious line, her hand making a peak over her eyes as she peered into the early-morning sun to better see her. Her eyes showed relief when she did. Once she was safely inside, the girl helped her bolt the door.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’ she asked, bringing the kerchief she wore on her head lower down her forehead. Her hair, like that of many of the women on the island, was worn in a long plait down her back.

  The young woman shook her head. She didn’t mention the old man – that wasn’t who her mother meant. She saw the addition of the cross to the gonella her mother wore, the gold necklace that ran in over eighteen ropes from shoulder to shoulder, but said nothing about the addition. Her mother’s dark eyes softened. ‘Good. Come. They are waiting for us inside – it might not be what we fear.’

  Despite her words, the young woman could see how her mother’s mouth tightened.

  As the young woman hurried after her, her gaze took in the rows of empty pews as they rushed towards another door in the wall ahead, almost concealed by the panelled wood. Her fingers found the secret groove, and she lifted the panel to reveal stairs to the basement and the small room where the others were gathered. At the entrance was a box full of discarded rosary beads. Her mother laid hers on top, ready for her to pick up when she left, like a mask.

  Together they went and sat on a bench next to the other women. The men were seated to the right.

  Where the young woman sat there was a crude carving of a pointed star lightly scarring the old wood. A Magen David, she knew. One of the few words she’d collected over time, words that were forbidden and could only ever be whispered down here where it was safe, where no one could hear. She wondered at who had dared to draw it. Her fingers traced the raised edges as a short man up at the front smiled his welcome. A handkerchief was placed over the back of his head, and as he turned back to the rest of the community his face resumed its worried expression.

  There was no admonishment of their lateness, not from him or any of the others. They understood. Caution trumped everything here.

  Because here in this room, where above their heads sat the empty church with its rows of wooden pews for some phantom congregation that never would materialise, lay the truth, the secret at the heart of the building – it wasn’t a church at all. It was a synagogue.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Mediterranean Sea, 1718

  The island pirates hid themselves not in coves or in tempests, but in plain sight. The capture of the Moorish sloop vessel was over before they had a chance to load their guns. They hadn’t seen the pirates coming in the summer haze until it was too late. It was an old island trick, one they played very well.

  They raided the sloop in minutes, carrying their bounty on board to the gleeful shouts of the bloodthirsty crew. A human bounty that consisted of two prisoners from Majorca, who’d long been on the run and smelt of sick and defeat, the kind of defeat that crumpled men, and conquered souls.

  The prisoners were traitors to the crown, their country and the religion they’d sworn their allegiance to.

  They were chuetas.

  A word that on the Spanish mainland caused many to gasp and make the sign of the cross. It was a word for swine, a word for a faith-breaker. A word for a secret Jew.

  The prisoners were the reason the pirates had decided to change course and go after the Moorish ship in the first place. The reason they decided to risk discovery with the Invictus, one of the Mediterranean salt route’s most recognisable ships, and to raise their secret pirate flag, one that could have them put to death if discovered. But the risk was worth it, everyone agreed. The chuetas’ ransom would fetch a heavy price, one the Holy Office would gladly pay for such wanted criminals.

  But there wasn’t a single man aboard who would consider taking the money or handing them over.

  Because chueta meant only one thing aboard this ship. It meant brother.

  Antoni had become captain of the Invictus in the spring. And, in a moment that was true to form for the young, handsome sailor whose impetuous nature had been a source of both delight and worry to those who loved him best, his first voyage began with him risking the lives of every member of his crew.

  They’d traded their cargo of red salt and were due to set sail for Genoa with the rest when he’d heard about the Moorish sloop and its cargo of Majorcan chuetas and decided to change course to go after them.

  Antoni had learned how to be a sailor from his father. ‘Out here, on the high seas, a man can be free,’ he always used to say, his dark eyes solemn, his face weather-beaten, and proud. Freedom was something every Ibicenco – the name given to people who came from the islands of Ibiza and Formentera – valued more than gold.

  Freedom was why Antoni’s father had become a sailor in the first place. He hadn’t had an easy life and, unlike some of the crew, who were the sons and uncles of some of Ibiza’s most distinguished leaders, important officials of the salt trade, Antoni’s father had started out poor. His first job had been mining the salt pans. Under the harsh sun for months on end, he’d work the white gold that had shaped the island in back-breaking shifts, twelve hours a day. There were no days off, and his father said that he never got used to the painful red eyes and the salt-dried skin that burned with every step. His back would never recover either, and he suffered especially on cold days. As soon as he’d heard that a local ship needed a crew and were willing to take untrained swabs, he volunteered, making a mad stab at freedom. He’d work all day and all night on the deck of the ship, scrubbing, if it meant that he didn’t have to work the salt pans any more.

  It was the best decision he ever made. He’d worked his way up through the ranks to rigger, and fast. It wasn’t long after this that he climbed his way to first mate and, finally, captain, shortly before he died in the Spanish War of Succession, which put the present King, Philip V, on the throne. Antoni was glad in some ways his father never saw this occur – it meant that the salt trade was now no longer under the islanders’ control.

  Antoni liked to think that, had his father heard that there were Majorcan Jews on board, he would have gone after the Moorish ship, too. After all, they had been Majorcan Jews th
emselves, once, many years before.

  Now, three weeks later, Antoni was making a promise to a dying man. A promise that wouldn’t just affect his crew but his family as well, as it was them who would have to pay the price.

  That’s the trouble with freedom, it always comes with a cost.

  ‘Promise me,’ said Paulo, his feverish eyes locking on to Antoni’s own. Antoni nodded. The two men had struck up a friendship soon after the prisoners realised their good fortune in being rescued by the Ibicenco traders masquerading as pirates. But now, despite the crew’s best efforts, Paulo was about to die, and if Antoni didn’t help, Paulo’s brother might die as well. Antoni had to get him off the boat to the only person he knew could save his life. His sister, Cesca, who’d trained as a nurse with the island doctor. The trouble was that if he took the prisoner to her, he’d be risking her life in the process – and all of his family’s.

  But he’d given his word to Paulo, as the man lay dying, that he’d keep his brother safe no matter what it cost. So Antoni made the promise, because he believed, the way his father had before him, that freedom was something worth dying for.

  Chapter Twelve

  Formentera, 1718

  The cold wind skipped over the flat rocks, where it picked up the scent of rosemary and salt and spread its slithery fingers down the small patch of skin that exposed her neck, making her shiver as she walked close to her mother’s side.