Golden Earrings (36 page)

‘Oh my goodness!’ Mama gasped, before checking herself.

We passed by the gutted and burned frame of a church. The remnants of a statue of Mary were scattered on the pavement. I felt a strange mix of sorrow and anger when I saw one of Christ’s nail-pierced hands tossed in the gutter.

‘There will be no more churches,’ the taxi driver told us. ‘They are being torn down.’

Mama paled. I took her hand and held it.

While I could understand the anger at the corruption of the clergy, I couldn’t bear to think of Barcelona’s beautiful churches
and cathedrals being destroyed. Our family had made several donations to the construction of the Sagrada Família. Although it wasn’t to everyone’s taste, I loved the whimsical cathedral. I had grown up watching it develop like a giant tree with each passing year. The bell towers were now finished, along with the cypress spire. I shut my eyes against the terrible vision that it might have been painted red and black — or even worse, dynamited.

There were other noticeable changes in Barcelona: there were no priests or nuns to be seen; and when we pulled into the passeig de Gràcia, there were no well-dressed people either. Everyone was wearing workers’ overalls and badly tailored coats. Perhaps the clerics and the rich had fled the city? Or were they walking around in disguise? I wasn’t sure that I liked Barcelona this way, but then in the whole trip from the station to our house, I hadn’t seen any beggars or homeless children on the streets either.

When the taxis pulled up outside my family’s home, I had a terrible premonition that it had been divided up into flats for the working class, as I had heard the Soviets had done to mansions and palaces in Moscow. I wondered what Xavier and Margarida would say if that had happened. They might have liked it, having always been more egalitarian than me. I didn’t like the idea of children starving on the street, or of their parents working like slaves in factories, yet at the same time I was shocked to realise how much I enjoyed the status quo. I wanted to wear beautiful clothes and live in a fine mansion. I might wish for good things for others, but I didn’t want to lose what I had.

I was relieved to discover that the biggest change at home was that the menservants had left for the front and the maids greeted us with ‘
Salud
’, which was considered more revolutionary than
Buenos días
or
Bon dia
.

Unlike the people on the streets, Conchita was stylishly turned out in a dress with diagonal stripes and a tailored jacket with white piping. Despite the fact that she had not seen Feliu
in months, she was as stiff and formal with him as ever. ‘Run along with la senyora Tortosa now,’ she told him, patting his head in an absentminded way. ‘I’ve got some things to discuss with your grandmother and aunt.’

When Feliu and his governess had left the room, Conchita turned to us. ‘You can’t imagine how bored I’ve been here without you two,’ she said. ‘One can’t go out on the streets without hearing those insipid revolutionary songs. Barcelona isn’t fun any more!’

She peeked at Julieta, who was asleep in my arms. ‘She’s dark, isn’t she?’ she said. ‘People would think she was mine not yours and Francesc’s. He’s so blond and you are fair too.’

I prickled at the comment. Having been away from Conchita, I’d forgotten how caustic she could be sometimes, even to people she liked. There were plenty of dark beauties on Mama’s and Pare’s sides of the family.

Mama’s personal maid, Maria, appeared and offered to bathe Julieta for me. ‘You and la senyora Montella must both be exhausted,’ she said. ‘I will bring you some tea.’

‘Well, thank goodness Maria hasn’t changed,’ Mama said when the maid was out of earshot. ‘I half-expected her to tell you to bathe Julieta yourself.’

‘Look, Mama,’ I said, sitting down next to her, ‘it is all a bit strange, but I guess we’ll have to get used to it. It’s far better to have the city run by the Anarchists than to be invaded by Franco’s army. They are murderers.’

I shivered, although it was warm in the house. What I had read in the French papers on the train had shocked me. When Málaga fell to the rebel forces, Italian troops had pursued the fleeing civilian population for miles before massacring them. Such brutality made everything that was going on in Barcelona mild by comparison. Instead of throwing bombs, the Anarchists were trying to create a society of equality and peace where everybody had food and a home.

‘But the churches,’ Mama wept. ‘I agree that it is better for people to be educated and fed, but do we have to become heathens?’

I put my arm around her, wondering if it would have been better if we had stayed in Paris. ‘Go rest for a while, Mama. You are exhausted from the trip.’

I turned to Conchita. ‘I’m not sure who to go see first: Pare or Francesc?’

‘Go to your father,’ Conchita replied. ‘He is the one who needs you most.’

I couldn’t find another taxi, so I caught the tram to the outskirts of the city where Pare’s main textiles factory was located. Revolutionary songs blasted from the tram’s speakers the whole trip. People kept staring at me, at my handmade shoes and tailored clothes, and I realised that I was going to have to find some different attire if I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Near the factory tram stop was a women’s clothing store. I bought a shapeless coat to wear over my dress. The material was scratchy and stiff and I could smell the chemicals that had been used to dye it. I felt dowdy in it but I reminded myself that people all around the country were dying, and that kept my discomfort in perspective.

I found Pare in his office, which he now shared with his secretary and clerk.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said, when he saw me.

He took me around to the side of the factory where we sat on a bench. ‘They’ve collectivised all the Montella factories in Barcelona,’ he said, looking more bemused than angry. ‘Almost all the other factory owners have fled or joined the Nationalists. But I’m not going anywhere. I built these factories up from nothing, and even though nobody wishes to call me “senyor” any more, I’m not going to let them run my life’s work into the ground.’

‘I don’t like Barcelona this way,’ I told him. ‘It’s lost its charm.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he assured me. ‘The revolutionary atmosphere is dying down. It’s much calmer now than it was a couple of months ago. I think the government is finally understanding that they have to get the workers under control. The Republic could have been harnessing Barcelona’s industrial power to manufacture matériel for the war effort. I think the workers here need to wake up to the fact that it’s more important to repel the massive death squad that is marching towards them than worrying about whether or not people speak to them nicely.’

‘Do you really think Franco’s army will reach Barcelona?’ I asked. ‘The Republican army seems to have regained some ground.’

Pare shook his head. ‘Franco is taking his time, letting the Republicans exhaust themselves. He doesn’t want to destroy the infrastructure of Spain. What he wants to destroy is his enemies. And if he has to kill two-thirds of the Spanish population to do that, it seems to me he is prepared to do so.’

On our way back to the passeig de Gràcia together, I thought about what Pare had said. He wasn’t a revolutionary or a leftist; he was a die-hard Catalan who hated Barcelona being beholden to a centralist government. That was why he hadn’t deserted his factories. But if the Nationalists reached Barcelona, he would certainly be executed as a traitor for keeping his industries running.

I did my best to put those thoughts out of my mind when we arrived back home and Pare laid eyes on his granddaughter. ‘She’s a true beauty, all right,’ he said, cradling her in his arms and touching her hands and feet. ‘Look at her delicate fingers and toes.’

When I returned to the Cerdà household, Francesc was waiting there for me. The furniture, what was left of it, was covered in white cloths and all the servants were gone.

‘They are fighting in the popular army,’ Francesc said. ‘Poor devils! The maids have all taken roles in the factories and transport.’

‘Where are your parents?’ I asked.

He motioned for me to come into his study. ‘May I see her?’ he said, indicating Julieta. I pulled the blanket away so he could see her rosy face. He smiled. ‘She’s very beautiful, Evelina. You should be proud.’

Francesc had aged since I had last seen him: the grooves around his mouth had deepened and he looked tired. He’d always appeared so healthy and fresh.

‘My parents, along with Penélope and her husband, have decided to leave for Argentina,’ he told me. ‘Barcelona isn’t what it used to be and, although we are a noble family, we don’t support murderers. I know I can’t ask you to leave your family, Evelina, so I want to grant you a divorce.’

My heart plummeted. ‘But I’ve just had a child. You can’t abandon me.’

He lifted his hand in a reassuring gesture. ‘You have been a wonderful wife, Evelina. I can’t say a word against you. I’m only doing this because the Republic has made divorce legal and there is no shame in it any more. I know that you have not been happy with me. Gaspar is Julieta’s father and you should be free to marry each other.’

I stared at him.

‘I’m made for different things,’ he said. ‘We both know it.’

I was overcome by a profound sadness. I was sorry that Francesc and I could not have been so open with each other from the beginning.

‘Now,’ he said, rising to take some papers from his desk drawer, ‘unfortunately, the properties that came with your dowry have been collectivised. But I have bought you a house in France, in the Dordogne, and deposited some money for you in a Swiss bank. I want you to go back to France with Julieta
and your family. Gaspar, the fool, returned to Barcelona after you left and volunteered. He’s now an officer in the Republican army. I don’t know where he is but I will try to get word to him. I hope you will be happy together.’

I don’t know which overwhelmed me more: Francesc’s generosity in freeing me to be with Gaspar, or the dangerous position Gaspar had put himself in. Please don’t let him be killed, I prayed. The idea that Gaspar could die before he had a chance to see Julieta made me weak in the legs.

‘In the circumstances, I think it is best that I return to my family home,’ I told Francesc.

He nodded. ‘I imagine that your parents will be upset. I haven’t told mine yet. But it’s for the best, Evelina. We both know that.’

Francesc and I embraced. He walked me to the door and we embraced again. Francesc might not have been an ideal husband, but he was a fine human being. I knew that I would never say a bad word against him.

The Republic of Spain amazed the world. Despite suffering a military revolt, it had rapidly created a disciplined army. In spite of the high-technology arms supplied to the rebels by Germany and Italy and the lack of similar support from its supposed allies, the Loyalist army, along with Madrid’s courageous civilians, had repelled Franco’s forces from the city to the rallying cry of ‘
No pasaran!
’: they shall not pass. By some miracle, the government was even able to recreate a sense of normality in the country’s non-combatant zones. But the Republic was bleeding and its strength could not last. It was the charging bull — courageous and noble, but the odds were hopelessly stacked against it.

Franco and his forces pushed forward into the Basque country, Santander and Asturias. In April 1937, Guernica, a market town of no military significance, was firebombed by the German
Condor Legion as a test to see what damage shrapnel bombs and machine-gunning from the air could inflict on a civilian population. Barcelona and other Spanish cities were bombed too. Still neither Britain nor France would come to our aid.

By October, Republican Spain was cut in two halves. There was the Catalan north-east; and the centre-south, which encompassed the cities of Madrid and Valencia. The government, which had already relocated from Madrid to Valencia, now moved to Barcelona.

This meant Margarida was back living with us when Xavier returned from another unsuccessful mission to France. It was the first time all of us had been together in the house for over a year. One afternoon, we gathered in the drawing room to discuss the progress of the war, except for Conchita, who was nursing a headache, and Feliu, who was having a lesson with his governess.

‘Things are going from bad to worse,’ Xavier said, pouring us each a glass of black-market wine. ‘It looks as if both the Russians and the British intend to make deals with Hitler. They should know that what the Germans did in Guernica is what they intend to do to the rest of Europe.’

‘What will happen if they sign pacts with Hitler?’ I asked.

Xavier’s mouth turned into a grim line. ‘The Soviets will withdraw all aid to us. Then we will have nothing but our bare hands to fight with.’

‘Things are so dire,’ said Margarida, biting at her nails, ‘that I go around with an insane kind of optimism that they simply have to get better.’

Despite the enormous strain she had been under as a member of a government at war, I was relieved to see Margarida had lost nothing of her black humour.

‘Well, those stupid street battles between the Communists and the other factions of the Left didn’t help,’ said Pare. ‘For a moment there it looked as though we were going to have a civil war within a civil war.’

Xavier turned to Margarida. ‘The Anarchists are saying that they are not being as well supplied with weapons as the Communists because the government doesn’t want a revolution; and the Communists are under order from Russia not to cause one.’

‘The approach we are taking is that we need to win the war first, then we can worry about revolutions,’ Margarida told him. ‘That’s why the Loyalist army is gearing up for another offensive.’

‘In God’s name, why?’ asked Pare. ‘We should focus on controlling what we’ve got and making a compromise with Franco. He can have his part of Spain and we can have ours.’

I knew that my father felt that as long as Catalonia was safe, nothing else really mattered. He wanted to get back to business as soon as possible.