A Forbidden Love

by Kerry Postle

‘Time to die, Alonso!’

  But then again perhaps not.

  The time Maria had taken to distract Sandoval from his task was the time needed to save an innocent man’s life.

  ‘Gun down, Sandoval.’ A broad Asturian accent boomed in the freshness of the morning air. Ramon had got word to Juan Mendez about this travesty of justice after all and it was the heroic military commander El Campesino (the Peasant) who had turned up to settle it. Sandoval kept his gun aimed at his quarry. His hand trembled, a sign of the turmoil provoked by the recent arrival. But he would not stop now. He was so close. Maria looked on, horrified. He was still going to do it.

  Click. ‘Gun down comrade. You know I won’t tell you again.’ In an instant everything changed. The familiar sound of a gun, the Peasant’s gun, this time aimed at Sandoval’s head, persuaded Sandoval that vengeance would not be his today. Maria heard the air escape from her lungs as her eyes watched Sandoval’s arm drop to his side.

  She collapsed, momentarily losing all feeling in her legs. Manu instinctively shot out his arms to support her. The Peasant shot her a look as if noticing her presence for the first time. Recognition and acknowledgement worked their way across his features. Strong girl, he said to himself. She’d done well, this granddaughter of Mendez’s. ‘Take the girl home.’

  *

  An innocent man had very nearly been murdered that morning. A friend’s father, a family friend. Ironic that it was because she was friends with Antonio Jimenez that she was allowed to get involved with Sandoval and the group in the first place. Friends, enemies, all tangled together.

  She clutched her chest as it contracted involuntarily with the horror of what might have been. That something so icy had been growing where her heart used to be she saw quite clearly now. But what if the man had been guilty? What then? Would that have made it any better? She’d thought so. But now … something had changed within her.

  She lay back on her bed and let the tears coat her eyes. They welled up at the ducts, trickled over her temples, soaked into her hair. She had lost so much. Self-pity. It was an easy emotion to indulge. She turned on her side and curled herself up into a ball. So many ugly images, so many confused thoughts. She reached out to sleep to escape the torment.

  ‘Maria?’ She was awoken, what seemed to her, seconds later – it was six hours. She put one hand to her matted hair. She cradled the back of her skull. She had a pounding headache. She squinted towards the voice. It was her father’s. He was due to return to the front the following day. She blinked, forced her eyes to look at him, to see what she’d been putting him through. Everything about him seemed smaller to Maria somehow. It was as if sorrow had slowly eaten away at him from the inside leaving a stretched and sagging carapace. He was doing the only thing he could do – saving lives. It was draining him. But so was she. She tasted the bitterness that comes before tears lining up in preparation at the back of her throat as she realised that she always had. She swallowed it back down. Crying wasn’t going to make his sorrow go away. It wouldn’t erase all the hurt she’d caused him.

  She’d been part of something hideous that morning. That was undeniable. But she’d also stopped something far uglier still from occurring. Paloma wasn’t coming back. Her grandmother was gone. They were dead and she could do nothing to make it otherwise. But she could, like her father, help the living. She had much to think about.

  Over the next few days she spent time with her grandfather, remembering her mother, her grandmother. They read to one another. Looked through the pile of newspaper cuttings she had kept ever since her arrival in the city. Most were of pictures of milicianas posing for photos with rifles thrown across their shoulders, smiling broadly. But one was an article from Mundo Obrero that dated back to 5th October 1936. She read it out loud:

  ‘… The law of war is a brutal one, but we must adopt it without sentimentality, with neither aggressiveness nor weakness. We cannot sink to the sadism of the fascists.’ Maria winced with the memory of how close she’d come to this. ‘We will never torture prisoners’ She winced again. ‘Nor will we humiliate the wives of traitors, nor murder their children. But we will inflict lawful retribution rapidly and impressively so as to tear out the very roots of treachery.’

  ‘La Pasionara,’ her grandfather said. Maria nodded. Dolores Ibarruri, also known as La Pasionara. Guiding light, heroine. ‘Fine words,’ he said. ‘Inspiration for a whole city.’ But fine words didn’t always lead to fine deeds. Words, so easily twisted in a corrupt mind. And that mind had been hers. She remembered Seňor Alonso standing there at the Casa de Campo, genuinely perplexed, the father of her friend Antonio, the man whose goodness, generosity and courage her own father and grandfather admired. She’d left her home on that morning convinced that she would soon be meting out divine retribution to the vile and the wicked. She would be the scourge of the gods, the righter of wrongs. But now, as she read La Pasionara’s words, she realised that she was not. Her grandfather put his arm around her. She closed her eyes with relief. ‘You saved him. Alonso’s alive because of you,’ he told her. ‘Yes,’ Maria said. And he’s also alive because of Luis, she thought.

  As she lay in her bed that night, she thanked the heavens that she hadn’t joined the ranks of the vile and the wicked.

  She rolled back on her bed, filled with a sudden lightness of spirit. Goodness made her mouth smile and her eyes beam. And thoughts of Luis made her soul sing.

  Chapter 49

  It is often said that in order to right wrongs even more crimes have to be perpetrated before the balance between the two is reset. A pendulum swings too far one way; it then must swing too far the other. The laws of physics dictate that it is so, dragging an unstoppable train of events in its wake. Extreme action begets extreme reaction. Only when this has been achieved can any sort of equilibrium be re-established.

  Maria shuddered. She’d been part of that reactive swing. A ghastly mirror image of the ghastly crimes that she had witnessed. She’d believed herself to be on the side of truth and justice. She now knew that that had never been the case. Seňor Alonso had been innocent, the unwitting target of Sandoval’s vicious vendetta.

  Yet while he’d been saved, Maria saw that decay and destruction were getting a firm grip of the increasingly diseased capital. Barely visible men, hats pulled down, coat lapels raised, waited and watched from the shadows. They’d always been there. She hadn’t seen them until now. Drive-by shootings in the street were becoming a regular occurrence, carried out on the say-so of dubious spies with axes to grind. Not so long ago she’d wanted to be part of this angry, violent world.

  Not anymore.

  The government might have long gone, abandoning the capital to set itself up in Valencia; the politicians might have been replaced by journalists and photographers from all over the world greedy to witness, record and photograph the last glorious embers of a dying kingdom; the Germans and Italians might be reducing the city to ashes with a relentless, cruel bombing campaign, but Maria no longer wanted to kill indiscriminately. The terrifying phoenix that was her rage, even that directed inwards, was melting away, leaving nothing but a profound sadness. And a will to do good. For over a year she worked at the food banks, volunteered as an ambulance worker, helped care for orphaned children, assisted at the hospital units … she did anything and everything.

  Then one day there was a knock on the door. ‘Are you Maria Alvaro? Daughter of Doctor Alvaro?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then this is for you.’ And a middle-aged woman embraced a surprised Maria. She handed her a letter.

  Hospital General de Catalunya, August 1938

  Dear Maria,

  If this letter reaches you it is testament to the will and determination of the woman who has delivered it as well as the generosity and faith of her son, the doctor who’s been treating me ever since I turned up at the hospital.

  I remember very little of the first days here but when I regained consciousness Doctor Fuertes knew all about the
time I spent in your small village in Andalucía. He said I should write to you all, no doubt to lift my spirits, give me a reason to live, and when all I knew was that you had family in the Salamanca region of Madrid, he even managed to turn that into the most fortuitous of coincidences: that is where his family live too. Life and hope are all, he tells me, and as I write this I dare to imagine that you will read this letter.

  I’m lying in a hospital bed in Suarezna, shot for the second time. I say that not for any sympathy as in truth I am well on the path to recovery, but because it takes me back to the first time it happened.

  I intended to write then, to let you know I was fine, to say the goodbye that I never got round to, and to thank you. Instead I wrote and phoned and wrote some more to newspapers, politicians in my own country, to get the truth out there about the plight of yours. It got me nowhere. Ugly facts don’t make it to the front page, when a nation can be seduced by the impossible glamour of a royal marriage and a scandalous one at that. King Edward VIII abdicates British throne to marry American divorcee Mrs Wallis Simpson. The way the press is, it wouldn’t surprise me if such frivolous headlines made it to the front pages of your papers too.

  I felt too ashamed to write to you after that.

  So I joined the International Brigade and threw myself into combat. If my government wouldn’t commit, I would. I needed to do something glorious, you see, after what happened to Paloma, and to do all I could to protect you, Lola, your families …

  But killing a boy in a different uniform is never glorious. I should have learnt that lesson the first time I got shot. It was at the Battle of Jarama. One of Franco’s boys hit me in the leg. He raised his gun to take my face off but then thought better of it. I know it sounds mad but I felt I knew him. He seemed familiar somehow, but perhaps it was simply his humanity that I recognised. It was only after months of freezing days and nights shooting at boys barely big enough to fill out a uniform that I have found any fellow feeling of my own.

  I don’t know who the enemy is anymore. A life for a life, that’s what I wanted when I first started out here, but I’ve seen too many men bleeding to death in cold ditches to believe that is the answer. A man may be on the opposing side but sometimes he’s no more or less of a monster than me.

  Forgive me if I speak too plainly but now is not the time to hide behind sugar-tipped lies. Truth is what is needed and as I lie here in my hospital bed I am thankful to be alive.

  I can’t bring back the dead and to think that I could by killing frightened young boys and so adding to their number now seems absurd.

  The war seems to be coming to an end here and though I can never tell truth from fiction, such is the power of the wordsmiths who spin our propaganda today, it seems the war is drawing to a close all over Spain. That’s why I wanted to thank you for your friendship, the memory of which has helped me through my darkest hours. The day we went on the picnic, you, me, Paloma and Lola, was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I fell in love with her, with Lola. I love her still. It seems strange to be confessing this to you now but, as the sister I never had, I always thought you knew as you were closer to me than anyone.

  I don’t know where she is. All I know is that Father Anselmo made arrangements to get her to safety. I pray that he did.

  There. That’s what I can do. Write, write and write some more to and about the people I love. Tell the truth, and tell you all exactly what you mean to me. Although I don’t know where Lola is, I plan to come and find her when this war is done. It could take some time as not even Doctor Fuertes’s mother will be able to trawl the whole of Spain for her! Stay brave and strong and good, my darling sister Maria. You matter so much to me. I meet you often in my dreams and I long for the day when we meet up again in life.

  I pray that this letter reaches you and if it does, send me your news. I am to be sent home to England soon to convalesce and Doctor Fuertes tells me post can get through, though every word is read. I write my address on the back of this letter in case you have forgotten it.

  Your loving brother,

  Richard

  ‘Well, brother! Thank God for my compassionate soldier and for the Doctor Fuertes of this world.’ Maria said to herself. She sat back and closed her eyes to enjoy the letter a moment longer. It was as if her English friend had looked into her very soul. She smiled.

  Richard was wrong; she hadn’t known about Lola, but now it all made sense. And now Maria knew where Lola was. Or at least knew the whereabouts of someone who could tell her. She went over to her copy of Don Quixote. Hidden within its pages was Luis’ letter and the scrap of paper that she’d used to write down the address that she’d found burnt in the fireplace: Father Anselmo’s. She laughed. She now knew what she had to do. She went over to the bureau in her grandfather’s study and picked up a sheet of paper and a pen. She started to write her first letter.

  ‘Dear Lola …’ she began. The thread of communication had begun.

  Chapter 50

  Olvera, October, 1938

  Dear Maria,

  I hope this letter finds its way to you as yours did to me. You sound different but I still see you between the lines and all that I once found annoying in you I would give anything to be able to throw my arms around now. So much has happened. When I think about it I feel such sadness. But to weary you with my tales of woe and sorrow when you must have so many of your own is not why I’m writing.

  Instead I want to thank you for letting me know Manu is alive. I can’t wait to see him and I can’t wait for this war to be over so that I can introduce him to his niece.

  Yes, I have a daughter and she makes my life a joy. Everyone in the village adores her, not least because she looks so unlike the other children. She doesn’t even look like me. People are curious about her father as a result, but that he’s not around does not arouse suspicion. That’s one good thing about the war – probably the only one when I think about it. People have too many other concerns to spread gossip about whether I’m married or not. Besides, I wear a ring – that was Mother’s idea. She’s changed too.

  That so many men have been wasted makes me weep, not only for myself. You see, I’m different too.

  I’ve told you I have a daughter. I’ve even hinted at what she looks like. Have you guessed her father’s name yet? I hope so as I really cannot bear to say or write it for fear of breaking down. All I will say is that I loved him. I always will and if I never see him again I am so happy to have his child in my life. She reminds me of him every second of every day. She has pink cheeks, lots of freckles and fine red blond curls. There. If you hadn’t guessed already, you’re bound to have worked it out by now, you were always so clever.

  But it’s Paloma she takes after in character. She has the same kind way about her that I used to find so annoying in my sister but which now makes me want to take her by the arms and swing her round. I would love you to see her when the bad times have passed. I would love you to see me. I miss my sister. I miss you.

  Father Anselmo is here too. A Republican priest. Can you imagine such a thing? Yet here a priest is just a priest. He is perfect for this village and this village is perfect for him. He’s the one who helped us escape. All those hours he and Mother spent together yielded some earthly benefit after all. He’s planning our next move, possibly to Malaga, for when the troubles have ended, and he believes that will be soon.

  Tell Manu I miss him. We all do.

  Paloma sends kisses – yes, that’s what I’ve called her. How could I not? I send kisses too.

  Lola

  It was the second letter that Maria had received in two months and it was the second time she had been floored. ‘Well!’ she gasped again.

  Chapter 51

  That Lola had been in love with Richard made sense to Maria. She knew that Richard had been in love with Lola too no matter what the rest of the village had believed. And now to discover there was a child. Nothing could bring Maria’s friend back – what Richard had said in his let
ter was true, no amount of killing would ever resurrect her – but to be able to celebrate a life, that was worth something.

  She re-read the letters she’d received from Lola and Richard and placed them on her desk together. She had one more letter to read, a very important letter that someone had written to her before she’d ever come to Madrid. She turned her sunflower pendant round and round between her fingers then she leant over to pick up her copy of Don Quixote. It did make a damned fine door stop she thought to herself as she picked the sturdy tome up from the floor. She placed it on her desk and let it fall open to reveal a folded piece of paper nestling safely in amongst its many hundreds of pages. She took the paper out, unfolded it, smoothed it the best she could. She played with her pendant once more as she looked at the handwriting distorted by tears and wrinkles from being scrunched up and thrown on the floor years before. It was the letter she’d promised to read. Luis’ letter. And now she was ready to read all of it.

  My darling Maria,

  As you read this I will be far away, or may as well be. Either way we cannot meet up again, not for a while. That’s why I am writing you this letter, to tell you how much you mean to me. If someone had told me I would meet a girl in the way that I’ve met you I would not have believed them, not thought it possible. But I would have been wrong.

  You have touched my soul with your goodness and loyalty. I pray our children take after you.

  There. I’ve written it and I am proud to have done so.

  I love you. That you must surely know. And still I have put you in danger time and time again. Please forgive me. Well, now I cannot, and though the thought of not seeing you every day distresses me more than I can express, knowing that I will not be putting you at risk makes the absence bearable. Yet we will be together again very soon my love. This war that divides our country will come to an end in the next few weeks and when it does I will be by your side once more.