by Kerry Postle
Which was why, that night, Doctor Alvaro could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes nightmarish images of punished women appeared to him, and every time they turned to look at him they had his daughter’s face.
The doctor got up, crept quietly to her room and looked at her in the darkness, fast asleep on her bed. She was curled up, her knees tight to her chest, her hands held together as in prayer. He moved closer to her, and the paternal feelings of love and protection became so strong as to cause a strain in his chest. Maria. His daughter. So perfect, so young. Life still hadn’t furrowed her brow. He thought of a time when age would wither this most vibrant of flowers. But the idea didn’t sadden him. He, more than most, knew how a body grows old. There were many trials worse than age, he said to himself. His only hope, as he looked at her at peace in an untroubled sleep, was that he would be able to help her navigate the troubles ahead.
She had health and youth on her side. He had experience.
He went back to his own bed and looked up at the ceiling, wide awake. Her affection for Seňor Suarez, her involvement with the reading programme, that she was his daughter (if his politics came out) – these were things that would all go against her, he feared, if the rebels came into their village and continued to ‘cleanse’ southern Spain.
But she was a child. Surely only the most inhuman of judges would condemn her well-intentioned misdemeanours. And as village doctor, Alvaro hoped that the care he’d shown the inhabitants of Fuentes without exception would be taken into account and sway even the most ardent of rebel supporters in his family’s favour. As he stared into the blackness he reminded himself that he would have to be more vigilant than ever to not ruffle any feathers from this moment on. And anything he did to help so-called enemies of the true Spain would have to be done in secret.
His heart hurt again as he thought of his daughter. Because she had no mother he’d allowed her to grow untethered. She was independent of spirit, unpredictable, outspoken. A wild bloom that knew no bounds. But now he needed her to curb her tongue, rein in her opinions. To persuade her to act with caution would prove difficult, he knew. And he blamed himself for this. He tossed and turned, thinking of ways to contain her.
By the time the sun crept under the shutters the poor man was exhausted. The doctor had wrestled with his conscience for hours over what to do for the best. He got up, pulled his clothes on and let out a sigh. The doctor had wanted to protect his daughter from the horrors of life. But it was no use – de Llano’s little radio chats had told him in the most lurid of terms what was coming to the village. He pulled open the shutters to let the light flood in. He’d made a decision.
It was late afternoon by the time Doctor Alvaro told her that he wanted her to listen to something on the radio.
In truth Maria was excited about the war. Life in a village could be dull, uneventful. Richard Johnson had stirred things up for a while, made her think of love – but not for long. Besides, he would be leaving soon.
And so the idea that battles would be fought, wrongs righted, roused her. Workers of Spain would rise up, united, as they’d done in Russia. That was what she believed. War was coming and it would be good.
Richard Johnson, too, felt the blood pump passionately through his veins at the thought of armies marching towards Fuentes. He had spent a happy time here but that it might soon buzz and crackle into life of a different sort thrilled him. He’d come to Spain hoping to see the strikes and demonstrations he’d read about in the newspapers back in England. But these were happening in the big cities and his parents had had other plans for him. And so now he considered himself fortunate indeed to have war come to the quiet village they’d chosen for him. A war was on its way. He prayed it would arrive soon, before he’d left.
There was a knock on the door. The doctor had asked Richard round: he wanted the boy to hear the broadcast too.
‘Come, children.’ Maria winced and let out a tut while Richard pulled his shoulders back. He opened the heavy wooden door to his study, a grave smile on his face, and ushered them inside, aware of their displeasure and wishing that this could be the only unpleasant blow he was called upon to dish out to the pair.
‘Please, sit,’ he said, careful not to repeat the offence. His daughter smiled at her friend. Her shrug told him she had no idea what was going on. It struck her father how firm and strong the two young people were as they followed him in, whereas the certain knowledge of the disturbing nature of what they were about to hear aged Alvaro beyond his already advanced years. His back appeared rounded, head collapsed forward, legs buckled. ‘It’s nearly time,’ he said.
Richard and Maria arranged themselves on the floor in front of a large wooden cabinet that was home to a transistor radio with shiny knobs. It was clear that some radio address was about to start. Maria’s hand span out on the floor, her head giddy with the thrill of expectation at what she was about to listen to. Richard fidgeted as he tried to get comfortable.
Doctor Alvaro crouched over the cabinet and twiddled with the radio knobs, catching then losing tunes and foreign voices. ‘The reception is not good,’ Maria complained as she wound her arms in and placed her hands together in her lap. Eventually the voice her father was looking for crackled into life, freed from the soaring, discordant sounds either side of the wavelength. ‘Russian interference,’ he said jokingly. Maria and Richard laughed. Neither of them had any idea that it would be a long time before they laughed again.
Alvaro took a last fleeting look at them. There sat Richard, cross-legged in front of the radio, his hair sticking up from his head in tufts, his colour high, face eager. Alvaro noticed for the first time that the boy was attempting to cultivate some sort of beard on his chin but it only made him seem younger, so unnatural did it look. And there sat his daughter, legs folded to her left, hair braided to the side, her expression serious. Alvaro ached to protect them. But they had to know. He braced himself for the attack on their innocence they were about to receive. He smiled at Maria, gave her a knowing nod. She smiled back, behind her eyes a look that said I’m ready although she had no idea for what.
Maria’s father waited, head in hands.
Maria and Richard glanced at each other. Their excitement tinged with the first signs of fear.
Then the great General began. He spoke of ‘my triumph, my heroism’. He was not just a man, he was ‘an emissary sent by God to save Seville … to save Spain … to save Western civilisation.’
Maria sniggered. Richard arched his eyebrows.
‘Pacification’ was coming their way, the shrill voice promised over the radio waves, and, he assured them it would be ‘brutal.’
Maria’s father pushed his fingers against his skull, a need to reach into his own mind and stop this madman with a microphone from sullying everything good within but the excited, angry little voice continued. It threw up fervour, passion, bloodlust. Talked of God and country. Threatened punishment. Promised annihilation.
The harsh voice blasted out of the radio and shrieked in their ears.
Maria shivered. Richard felt a chill. Alvaro got up, unable to bear it. He turned the radio off.
‘Can’t we hear the rest?’ she asked, strangely drawn into the darkness of de Llano’s vile world. Richard nodded to show that he too needed to listen. Alvaro turned the radio back on and walked out. He’d heard enough over the past days and no longer had the stomach for tales of squealing Red women with kicking legs. He didn’t want his daughter to know about them either. But war was always evil, ugly. And she had a right to know how evil and ugly it was becoming.
The young pair sat and listened. When the broadcast had finished neither of them said a word, did not even exchange a glance because they could not bear to look at one another. Maria’s body had lost its youthful, hopeful tingle of only minutes before; Richard felt sickened at the memory of his. De Llano had banished them from paradise.
The English boy got up and left the house. It was perfectly understandable that he should go
out and get some air.
Chapter 11
Doctor Alvaro was apprehensive about the impending arrival of the army to their village, now more than ever. He knew a peaceful takeover had been agreed upon by the leading councillors, that there shouldn’t be any trouble. God knew he’d attended enough meetings, made his voice heard. The mayor would surrender, there would be no violence. People who had done nothing wrong would have nothing to fear. But his contacts from elsewhere in the area thought otherwise. They’d heard the rumours. Of looting, rape, murder, even when villages had gone for peace. And then there were the broadcasts made by the Commander of the South, like the one his daughter and Richard Johnson had not long listened to, where there was more talk of the same.
But, he told himself, they were only rumours in some cases, dangerous boasts in others. These atrocities were surely only carried out in areas where the army had met with resistance. Reason told him this was so. He would not give in to the fever. And Fuentes would show no resistance. They couldn’t. There were a few old hunting rifles to pass round, and an assortment of farming tools. That was all. The village was not equipped to defend itself in any meaningful way. The sooner the Rebels, Nationalists, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, took over, the sooner the war would come to an end. It was the will of the people. That imbecile de Llano had said as much.
But de Llano was a liar. The republican-turned-excellency of the southern territories did not have a reputation for trustworthiness. And so Alvaro – and the rest of the village along with him – watched and waited as the army drew ever closer. They could almost smell the sweat and boot polish, hear the sounds of crackling guns across rivers, on the other sides of mountains, over plains. And it was making everyone go slightly mad.
As for Maria, the shrill voice of de Llano still echoed around the dark recesses of her mind. Around the house she appeared dejected, fearful. Her father didn’t like that he’d disturbed her so but it was timely, necessary. She needed to not draw attention to herself in these most sensitive of times and that the broadcast had subdued her could only be to the good.
Especially when she encountered citizens such as Seňora Gonzalez.
Seňora Gonzalez was married to a businessman of small stature but great wealth. And, as always with those in possession of a great amount of money but very little brain, she believed this gave her the right to make judgements and spread gossip. She had airs. Maria did not like her and made her feelings very apparent, as a rule. And the feelings were fully reciprocated. But where the young woman was mocking so the older woman was vindictive. She bore a grudge and everyone knew about her little black book where she recorded the names and offences of all the people who had ever crossed her. It was said that to be caught looking at Seňora Gonzalez in a strange way was enough to warrant an entry. Before the uprising this would have been seen as a badge of honour by many. But given that her husband was a leading light in the local Falange party, it didn’t do to cross her now. The Falangists were for hierarchy, authority and order; they backed Franco and his generals, the very men responsible for the war that was now eating its way through the country. The Falangists fully supported the rebel invasion no matter the loss of lives. Communism, democracy and liberalism were the enemy.
Like Richard Johnson, Maria had needed some air. She was out in the street and she really couldn’t care less if she upset Seňora Gonzalez or not. She’d heard the radio broadcast only two hours before and her mind was still plagued by nightmarish images. She needed to see Paloma, if only to make sure her friend was all right.
‘Maria!’ The woman’s cry was attacking, in anticipation of the confrontation to ensue. But no confrontation came. Before she could stop herself Maria had said ‘Good morning, Seňora Gonzalez,’ her voice quiet, expression distant. The older woman, mistaking the girl’s tone for deference and her glazed expression for respect, stopped and made a note of it. Quite literally. She took out her notebook and pencil from her bag and wrote down ‘Maria’, adding a tick next to the name. ‘Good morning to you too Maria, my dear.’ Her father would have been proud of her. Maria watched Seňora Gonzalez scuttle away, beetle-like, away from view, then turned and carried on in the direction of Paloma’s.
As she got closer to her friend’s home, Maria crashed into a flustered Cecilia. The collision brought her to herself. Her friend’s mother was pushing a pram piled high with crockery, glasses and necklaces Maria knew she’d never worn. Neighbours from either side ran after her, like ageing bridesmaids their arms full of beads and bowls. ‘Good morning,’ Maria shouted after them as the dimple-armed women ran, hobbled and limped out of sight heading out of the village, weighed down by all their worldly goods. If their intention had been to be discreet Maria didn’t think they’d managed it.
‘I saw your mother and her friends.’ Maria was at Paloma’s house. As she followed her into the kitchen, her young friend swept her arm up towards the empty shelf on the wall, a magician showing her latest trick. ‘She’s taken all the cups and although we didn’t have many glasses she’s taken those too. To hide. In a field. Or somewhere. She’s been acting odd, odder than usual, like a cat before an earthquake. But it was only after Richard left not long ago that she started piling everything into the pram.’
‘Richard?’ Maria asked, surprised. ‘My Richard?’
Paloma reddened, realising what she had said. ‘Unless you know another,’ she answered, hoping directness would disarm Maria and that would be the end of it.
‘What is it to do with him?’ Maria asked. ‘What was he doing at your house?’
‘He was … He wasn’t …’ Paloma paused, momentarily flustered. ‘He told Lola that when the soldiers came there would be looting.’ Her eyes sought out the floor as she spoke her sister’s name. ‘And Lola went and told Mama.’
So Richard had come to warn Lola just as Maria herself was here to warn Paloma now.
‘Mama almost took this too,’ Paloma said, taking something from her pocket and showing it to her friend. ‘Remember?’ she asked her. As Maria looked at what her friend held in her hand, she smiled broadly. It was the enamel sunflower pendant she herself had given to Paloma for her birthday when she was fourteen back in November. ‘But it’s yours, Paloma. I gave it to you,’ she said. ‘I know,’ her friend replied, ‘and it’s very precious to me. I rub it you know, and it brings me luck.’ She smiled. ‘But if you don’t look after it for me she’ll find it and bury it too. You know how fixed she can be.’ It was true, Cecilia was as stubborn as the proverbial mule.
Maria held out her hand, slipped the pendant into her own pocket and leant over to kiss Paloma on the cheek. ‘Who knows, it might bring me some luck too.’
‘Oh! It’s you!’ The moment of peace was shattered by a disgruntled Lola. She made a striking entrance, walking elegantly into the kitchen, a hand running through her hair. She stopped, placed her hands on her hips and thrust out her chest, then walked back out again. The gesture was aggressive. There was no mistaking it.
‘Hello Lola,’ Maria called after her. ‘Goodbye,’ came the reply. It was spoken in English.
Maria shot Paloma a quizzical glance. Her friend shrugged shiftily, looked once more at the floor.
‘Mother is looking after her valuables,’ Lola shouted back down the stairs. ‘You’d better take care and look after what’s yours too, Maria Alvaro. Before it’s not yours anymore.’ And then she slammed a bedroom door.
Chapter 12
Doctor Alvaro listened. Rebel soldiers had reached Cordoba, then Baena. They were getting closer all the time. The business of healing the sick picked up apace. The doctor found himself so in demand, preparing a linctus here, applying an ointment there and generally soothing foreheads hot with the worry, that Maria rarely saw him. And when she did his mood was downcast. ‘They’re coming. They’ll be here any day now, the Rebels,’ he said to her, his voice a violin string pulled too tight.
And that night, as the doctor lay in his bed and Maria lay in hers,
they, along with every other person in the village, went rigid, their eyes wide open, their hearts pounding, as they heard the rumble of war reverberating in the night sky. It was getting nearer and nearer. They lay awake, paralysed. Not one of them could do a thing to stop it.
At six o’clock the next morning on the 24th July 1936 Doctor Alvaro got up to answer two urgent knocks at the door. When he pulled it open he was presented with a choice.
‘Xavi,’ he said in sombre greeting as he looked the mayor’s man in the eye. Xavi was big, broad and weather-beaten and his enormous girth filled the door frame. ‘I’ve been expecting you. So it’s time,’ he said. ‘Indeed it is Doctor,’ Xavi replied. Alvaro went to fetch his hat in readiness to join the other citizens chosen to welcome their military saviours not far now from the village boundaries. As he stepped back towards the door he heard a quiet sniffling sound. It was coming from the other side of the mayor’s messenger. Xavi moved aside to reveal a little boy with sticky up hair, and a face and top lip that, if Doctor Alvaro didn’t know any better, he would have sworn a snail had slid over. ‘It’s Papa,’ the frightened child said, his voice small and tremulous. ‘Something’s happened to him in the night. He can’t move.’
‘Something’s happened to us all,’ said the doctor with a wave to Xavi to go on without him. He reached out to pick up his bag. He’d made his choice. He could always join the ‘welcome party’ (his eyes rolled involuntarily at the thought of it) afterwards. He went to check on Maria. She pulled her eyes from the ceiling to look at him.
‘Do not leave this house,’ he ordered. ‘I will be back soon.’ He squeezed her hand, pain in his eyes, then was off, running to keep up with the little boy with the mucus-covered face and tear-filled eyes. ‘Be careful,’ Maria whispered after him, putting a hand out to touch Paloma’s pendant that she’d placed on her bedside table. She rubbed it for luck. ‘Be careful,’ she said again, her eyes now back on the ceiling.