The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (50 page)

Chapter 49

L
a Glorieta and its inhabitants braced themselves for the news that would surely come. The end of La Glorieta’s glorious history was near, and a dire future was just around the corner. A small garrison of Guardía Civil Guards now housed themselves in the guesthouse, guarding, protecting, and punishing any man or woman who threatened the Martinéz family. Ernesto had fought against the idea. He’d never needed the protection of the Civil Guards before, but he’d conceded that they were living in dangerous times and the peasants’ loyalty and obedience towards their masters no longer existed.

Ernesto had made a few hasty trips into Valencia, meeting with friends at his club, where the news was grim. He listened to the stories of attacks on his neighbours, venting years of anger and frustration, by their own workers. They left him with a chilling recognition that it was only a matter of time before La Glorieta was targeted, before they too felt the wrath of a people too long enslaved.

Most nights after dinner, the family huddled together by the radio in Ernesto’s salon. Reports were sketchy, often biased, and in Ernesto’s opinion, most were probably untrue. The telephone wires had been cut days earlier, making it impossible to contact Marta’s mother superior at the convent, and they’d received no news at all of Miguel or Pedro. With their sons in mind, they waited for news of any altercations in Valladolid and in Spanish Morocco. All that they could ascertain was that violent street fighting was happening just about everywhere, and that there had been victories and defeats on both sides.

Celia’s days were spent in a blur of tears mixed with anger. She wrote to Marta, ordering her to come home. She also wrote to Miguel’s last known address in Valladolid, but she’d heard nothing back from either of them. Her journals spoke of her fears and sadness:

26
July
1936

All
we
hear
is
the
sound
of
men
marching
to
war
with
their
victory
songs.
What
victory
is
there
in
war
for
any
side?
I
have
heard
nothing
from
Pedro
since
the
seventeenth
of
this
month
and
nothing
at
all
from
Miguel
since
the
beginning
of
June.
I
am
finding
it
difficult
to
sleep
for
fear
of
them
lying
somewhere
in
Africa
or
Valladolid
or
wherever
they
are,
bloodied
or
dead.

Why
do
politicians
and
generals
have
the
power
to
say
who
may
live
and
who
must
die?
I
was
born
naked,
as
were
all
my
children
and
everyone
I
know
in
the
world.
We
all
came
out
of
our
mothers’
wombs
alone,
and
when
we
die,
each
of
us
shall
be
placed
into
a
box
alone.
Does
it
therefore
follow
that
any
man
with
rank,
fame,
or
wealth
should
be
given
the
right
to
choose
what
we
do,
where
we
live,
how
we
think
while
we’re
on
this
earth,
or
how
we
die?
No,
I
don’t
think
so!
My
boys
have
gone
from
me
at
a
time
when
we
should
all
be
together.
Isn’t
that
what
families
do
—
stay
together
in
times
of
trouble?

I
am
dreading
tomorrow
and
the
day
after
and
the
day
after
that!
Thank
God
Marta
is
safe,
tucked
away
in
her
little
corner
of
heaven,
shielded
from
this
madness,
although
I
have
insisted
that
Ernesto
must
go
and
bring
her
home,
no
matter
what
she
says
this
time!
Thank
God
for
my
darling
Ernesto,
who
holds
me
in
his
arms
at
night
and
comforts
me
when
I
fail
to
stop
the
tears
from
falling.
Without
him,
I
would
be
lost.

I
am
sure
that
my
entire
family
think
that
I
have
not
one
realistic
thought
in
my
tiny
brain,
but
I
know
exactly
what’s
going
on.
It’s
just
that
someone
in
this
house
has
to
maintain
an
atmosphere
of
normality,
so
I
act
the
way
I
do
for
them.
Is
that
so
wrong
of
me?

Today
Aunt
Marie
suggested
that
we
go
home
to
Merrill
Farm
for
a
while.
The
thought
hit
me
that
the
idea
was
not
so
unpleasant
to
me,
but
then
I
realised
that
my
family
are
Spanish
through
and
through,
and
if
they
are
involved
in
this
atmosphere
of
hate
which
is
choking
the
life
out
of
us
all,
then
I
should
of
course
be
here
for
them
all,
in
my
home.
It’s
strange,
but
I
feel
that
Merrill
Farm
is
no
longer
my
home.
It’s
just
a
distant
memory,
and
if
it
burned
to
the
ground,
I
shouldn’t
really
worry
too
much
about
it.

María
still
works
in
the
fields
from
morning
‘til
night,
not
allowing
herself
to
think
about
what’s
going
on.
She
has
become
quiet
and
distant,
as
though
something
is
lying
heavily
on
her
heart.
She
barely
talks
about
Marta
now,
but
I
know
that
she
is
grieving
terribly,
and
I
don’t
know
what
to
say
to
help
her.

Ernesto saw the danger coming closer to home with every passing day. However, when the war did arrive at his doorstep, it was like a sudden gust of wind that took even him by surprise. The launch of violent altercations and strength of hatred from peasants and unionists throughout the region was fast and furious. Most of his workers were now on strike, as was the biggest workforce under the CNT, the dockyard workers. He guessed that if the CNT and the Popular Front formed some sort of alliance, the republic would take the region, so he listened to the radio every waking hour until it was clear that negotiations had begun between the two groups.

A neighbour told Ernesto that when a group of Civil Guards sent with some workers to help in another area reached their destination, they shot the workers and ran off to join the rebel nationalists. That same neighbour was dragged out of his house and killed along with his own family two days later. The supporters of the republican government had, by far, the bigger numbers in the area, and they easily overpowered the small garrisons of Civil Guards loyal to the rebel nationalists. On hearing this news, Ernesto, with a heavy heart, recognised and accepted the need for his family to escape the region. Reprisals had been swift against the smaller landowners who were shot or dismembered in front of their families, with their wives and children then suffering the same fate. Priests in the area also suffered cruel and often agonising torture before death for their support of the elite aristocratic caciques group. Ernesto would not risk his family to the same fate. He loved his home, but their safety was more important to him than bricks and mortar. His only plan now was to get his family, including Marta, to safety.

Ernesto sat in his conservatory and went over everything again. He had managed to get a message through to his friend Francisco, a port customs officer who had dealt with his consignments for years. Ernesto asked him to wire Jack Rawlings’s son George with a view to leaving for England at the earliest opportunity. There was a curfew around the docks in Valencia, so the port of Gandía would be their only option. Francisco had explained to him that even if one of the Rawlings’s line ships could anchor, there was no guarantee that it would be allowed to leave, but he would take that risk; so would George Rawlings.