The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (57 page)

“Wait till you cough a few times,” he told her. “That’ll curb your rebellious streak.” A couple of minutes later, she coughed and handed the cigarette back to him.

María slept for a while and woke up just as they reached the outskirts of Valencia. The roads had turned into a muddy thoroughfare for columns of foot soldiers, tanks, and armoured vehicles. The truck hit a boulder on the road and swerved onto the muddy bank. They sat there for a while, watching the passing soldiers heading out of the city. María looked at the faces. Some of them looked so young with their wide, frightened eyes, she thought, but they also had determination and anger in their steps, swinging their arms high and thumping down each boot as though they were stamping on the head of the enemy. She had not expected to see anything like this; there were so many of them.

“Where are they all going?” she asked, staring out the window.

“Welcome to the war,” Carlos said.

Before they reached the hospital, María asked Carlos to drive past her father’s palace. When they stopped in front of it, she gasped in horror. It was now a hotel for officers and politicians. Men were talking, laughing, and going in and out of her father’s home as though they owned it! Women waltzed in on the arms of men twice their age, dressed in clothes that barely covered them.

“It’s a brothel!” she declared angrily. “My father’s palace is a brothel!”

Lucia was located easily at the hospital. After greeting María and Carlos, she told them to go away and come back in an hour; she’d be finished then and would take them to her parents’ house. Later, Carlos dropped them both off at the modest town house close to the centre and told María that he had some business to attend to, saying that he’d be back at eight o’clock to pick her up. Lucia said nothing of any consequence until after her mother went upstairs to lie down for a while.

“She does that a lot, ever since father left,” Lucia told María. “She misses him terribly… More coffee?”

“Yes, please.” María nodded and waited for Lucia to speak again.

“María, I’ve asked you here not only because of the nursing thing but also because it was the only way I could get Pedro’s news to you without it being detected by anyone else.”

María was worried now. She knew there had to be another reason for this meeting. She held her breath and waited to hear the words she was sure would follow, that her brother was dead.

“Just tell me,” she heard herself whisper.

“No, no, you mustn’t think it is bad news. It’s just that I had to be sure that no one else would read this. Here, read it for yourself. You’ll see.”

20
October1936

My
darling
Lucia,

I
miss
you
so
much
and
think
about
you
all
the
time.
I
have
seen
so
many
terrible
things
and
cannot
begin
to
tell
you
of
their
horrors,
except
to
say
that
because
of
what
I
witnessed
in
the
first
days
of
this
war,
I
have
finally
found
my
way,
and
my
way
is
not
to
kill
innocent
workers
and
their
families.
The
man
who
delivered
this
letter
to
you
was
in
my
unit
until
recently.
He
has
been
drafted
to
your
region,
while
I
must
stay
here
and
fight
my
way
back
to
you.

First
of
all,
I
must
tell
you
that
I
am
no
longer
with
the
army
of
Africa
or
with
the
rebel
nationalist
forces.
After
thinking
long
and
hard
about
it,
I
realised
that
my
father’s
and
grandfather’s
words
never
rang
more
true
than
they
do
at
this
moment:

“All
men
are
equal
in
the
eyes
of
God,
no
matter
their
rank
or
station
at
birth.”
I
always
did
believe
that,
as
I
know
you
do.

I
cannot
tell
you
where
I
am
or
what
I’m
doing
at
this
moment,
but
I
can
tell
you
that
I
am
in
the
good
hands
of
men
who
believe
in
the
same
ideals
as
I
do.
I
am
with
some
foreign
fighters,
and
at
first
I
didn’t
know
what
to
expect
from
them.
They
are
an
unlikely
brotherhood
of
Englishmen,
Frenchmen,
Russians,
Germans,
and
Italians,
and
their
stories
have
made
my
admiration
for
them
grow
with
each
passing
day.
They
are
a
proud
group
of
fighters
with
no
other
motive
than
to
help
the
republic.

Times
are
hard
and
will
be
harder
still
in
the
following
months,
but
my
priority
is
and
will
remain
the
same,
and
that
is
to
come
home
to
you,
safe
and
well.
Please
try
to
get
this
letter
to
a
member
of
my
family
so
that
someone
can
see
that
I
am
well
and
still
fighting.
It
is
so
hard
not
knowing
how
my
sisters
and
brother
are.
I
know
that
my
parents
are
in
England,
and
I
found
that
out
only
because
a
young
boy
called
Peter
Butcher
told
me.
Apparently,
he
knows
of
my
mother
and
the
name
Merrill
Farm,
her
childhood
home.

I
have
received
no
news
from
you,
and
I
pray
that
you
are
all
right.
Pray
for
me,
my
love,
and
believe
that
one
day
you
will
see
me
walk
past
your
window
bearing
flowers
and
chocolates.
But
until
then,
wait
for
me.
Please
wait.
You
are
all
I
live
and
fight
for.

Yours
always,

Peter
Merrill

“Peter Merrill. He’s using his English name?” María said, looking up.

“Yes, that’s the name he seems to be known by. The soldier, an Englishman, delivered the letter and said it was from Peter from Kent.”

“It would make sense. I mean, if Pedro suddenly walked into a republican encampment from the other side…”

She read the letter again, relieved to have heard something at last about one of her brothers. But there was so much more she wanted to know. She felt the frustration that a blind person must feel fumbling in the dark, unable to see anything clearly. Pedro was somewhere, but where? He was doing something, but what? He was now on the republican side, but how did he get away from the rebel nationalists?

“Where do you think he is?” she asked Lucia, who had sat down beside her.

“I really don’t know, but I think my father is still in the South somewhere.”

“No news from him?”

“No, not recently. My mother wrote to him, but there has been no reply yet. We don’t even know if he’s getting our letters. And your family… Have you heard anything?”

María sipped her coffee. She didn’t want to go into any details about her family. She didn’t know Lucia well enough yet, and apart from that, she didn’t want to talk about Marta, as she would break down.

“No, nothing,” she told her firmly.

“Look, María, I know we don’t know each other that well, but I feel that I’m closer to Pedro when I talk to you. The rest of my family are staunch rebels to the core, and they’ve all gone to God knows where, so it would be so lovely if we could stick together for Pedro’s sake. Will you think about the nursing job? You are welcome to live here during your training, when you are not at the hospital, of course.”

“Yes,” María said at once, surprising even herself. “Yes, I’d like that, and I don’t need to think about it. Just tell me what I need to do. I’m going to have to contribute something towards this war, even if it’s just rolling bandages… anything. Just tell me.”

“María, it’ll be a lot more than rolling bandages. I can assure you of that.”

Chapter 55

M
iguel sat in the corner of the small bar two doors from his house. He had just attended the most important meeting of his career and wanted no interruptions while he went over it again in his head, right down to the smallest detail. All the remaining Phalanx leadership had been there, discussing the problems that had arisen because of the continuing imprisonment in Alicante of their founder, José Antonio Primo De Rivera. It was clear that the most powerful parties were worried about takeovers and infighting between the most ambitious. When Miguel looked round the table, he had seen all the hidden ambitions and plots already staring him in the face, and the transparent greed and lust for power sickened him. He had sat at the bottom end of the table, involved but not expected to say anything of any significance. He was the leader of a squad of men now but took no political or military decisions as such and was at the meeting only because of Mónica’s influential father. However, the fact that he did not have to speak allowed him to listen to all sides of the argument, and as he looked back on the night, he was convinced that the compromise agreement to set up an interim council of those present was a dangerous one.

As he walked back to his house, he decided that if he were to fight this war, it would be on the battlefields, not in an office or in a dirty game of back-stabbing and ambitious power struggles. In truth, he was tired of the summary executions that went on every day and found no self-respect or glory in being party to them. He wanted to leave Valladolid and all its political intrigues and ask for a transfer to a command just outside of Madrid, as that was where the war would be won or lost, fair and square.

Mónica and Miguel had married shortly after his return from the Madrid defeat and his miraculous escape. How he had got back alive was still a mystery to him, as he still couldn’t remember anything about his journey home, apart from the pain and fever that had gripped his body and mind. He remembered falling into Mónica’s arms, being driven to the hospital through a hazy fog, and hearing that he would probably lose his arm to gangrene. For weeks, he had floundered somewhere between life and death, never sure which one would claim him and not really caring either way, but Mónica had always been by his side. He remembered that clearly enough.

Miguel had basked in Mónica’s love during those days, and her devotion towards him had become more important than going into battle for his glorious cause. She was his cause; she was the person he now wanted to end this war for. Since his recovery, he’d changed somewhat. He was no longer the foolhardy, arrogant idealist who’d gone off to conquer Madrid in July with no thought or possibility of defeat in his mind. His respect and fear of his enemy had grown, and although it hadn’t been tested since, he believed that his slice of humble pie would ultimately make him a better soldier in the long term. He still wanted to fight and win. Although that agenda had not changed, his reasons had. He would fight now for his way of life, his wife and for his family. They were all worth dying for; being a pompous ass was not. He’d tasted defeat and stared death in the face. It had been a life-changing experience, making him think back to his former life in Valencia. He’d led a shallow, overindulgent life, where nothing and no one mattered but him.

Having a new family in Valladolid had also made him realise just how important his parents, sisters, and brother had become to him. He had tried to call home for the first time since leaving them, but the lines had been cut, so he then sent two Phalanx agents to Valencia in the hope of finding out how and where the Martinéz family were. When his spies returned, he had felt both relieved and saddened at the news they brought with them. His home was now a republican hospital and a central military base. His parents had fled to England, and his sister María was well and openly aiding the republicans and was now the enemy, so the spies had said. Miguel had laughed at that. How little he knew about María or about her political leanings. How little he knew about either sister. Maybe, he thought, if he had taken the time, he could have influenced María and changed Marta’s mind about going into a convent. Marta was fragile, not like María or his Mónica. He admitted now that he had never listened to anything either of his sisters had to say or spoken to them with any measure of respect, but he would make it up to both sisters when this was all over, even if María was the enemy.

Miguel thought about Pedro too, and he was ashamed of himself for mentioning Joseph Dobbs to him on that last night at home. His brother hated the very name, as did he. “God, I’m an arsehole sometimes,” he said, stumbling at the edge of the kerb.

Pedro was his greatest worry because he was probably in the thick of things and would be fighting on the front lines, courageous and determined to be a good soldier.

“A good soldier,” he said to himself, spitting on the ground.

He was not a good soldier, not like Pedro, who, in the face of defeat, would have honour and guts. No, he was a bloody executioner, and it was making him feel sick to his stomach.

His mentor, Onésimo Redondo, was now dead, murdered by a republican hit squad. Since then, brutal revenge and executions of leftist workers had spiralled out of control. Trials were now being held every day. Names were read out, the charge and sentence, quickly and without diligence. The condemned republicans were then taken out early in the morning and driven in trucks to the Campo de San Isidro on the outskirts of the city, and Miguel felt a vile, bitter taste in his mouth at the memory of the murder of so many innocent men.

“The whole city has gone mad,” Miguel told Mónica one night in bed. “They’ve even set up chocolate and doughnut stands in the stadium to watch the executions!”

“They deserve what they get. They all deserve to die,” she had retorted, telling him to go back to sleep.

But he couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept well in weeks. Every morning he got up for the dawn patrol, and day after day, they killed more Reds, more communists and socialist troublemakers. In fact, they would kill anyone who disagreed with them. The names arrived on his desk every night, and he did sometimes wonder exactly what these people had done or if they’d done anything at all. They didn’t even bury the bodies now, Miguel had pointed out to his superior. It was dishonourable to leave the dead in such a way, not to mention the scare it was causing to public health officials. As he reached his home, he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. Mónica had been a bit touchy, not herself lately.

In his living room, visitors were lounging on sofas and discussing current events. When he eventually set his unsteady feet in the hallway, he noticed the rancid smell of tobacco and stale wine floating in the air and deduced that the people who were talking with raised and angry voices had been in his house and entertained by his wife for hours. Mónica was in the kitchen dishing up some cold cuts of meat and bread, and when he found her, she was sullen and tetchy, a side of her character that he was seeing more and more often. She turned when he entered, and that sullen look was there, plain for him to see.

“Where have you been?” she asked him with icy coldness in her voice. “I expected you hours ago!”

“I’m sorry,” Miguel told her, kissing her on the cheek, smelling of whisky and sounding contrite. “The meeting went on longer than I expected.”

“You’re lying, Miguel Martinéz. The meeting finished two hours ago. I know that for a fact. You do know you’ve caused me a lot of embarrassment by not being here. What will my friends think of you?”

“Well, my dear, as I don’t seem to know any of them, I don’t really care what they think. What’s this little gathering about, anyway?”

“We’ve decided that some of the communist women in this town are just as guilty as their men, and we’re going to root them out and deal with them.”

“Who’s given you permission to mount such an operation? You know you can’t just grab people off the streets. There is a process, a command structure to follow.”

“Why should you be told everything that goes on?” she spat. “You think you know everything, Miguel, but ever since you got back from Madrid, you’ve not been the same person. I don’t even think I know who you are anymore. You question everything and everybody. You want to be important and have responsibility, yet you’re not open to some of the ideals that we stand for; you’re a hypocrite! You attend important meetings, which I should be at, only to get back from them drunk and moody.”

She tossed a piece of meat on to a plate and continued. “What do you want? Either you’re one hundred per cent behind the Phalanx or you’re not. I’m not convinced of your allegiance anymore, not at all. I’ve been told you didn’t shoot that unionist the other morning.”

Miguel looked at her, struck dumb by her outburst and mention of his role in the dawn patrols, but as she continued to slice the bread, it was clear that she wasn’t even waiting for an answer. She had spoken to him as though he were a subordinate, and his pride and male ego felt as though they had taken a brutal beating.

Miguel continued to watch her, and the thought struck him that he didn’t really know her either. Even her pretty face had grown sharp and rigid, with eyes that were cold and uninviting. She was so engrossed in the movement that he wondered if she ever saw past it or if he’d been nothing but a comrade that had turned her on with his ambitious rhetoric. That was how he had been in the beginning: ambitious, obsessed, and totally committed. Had he changed as much as she said he had? Or had she?

“Mónica,” he heard himself say in a tone of voice he had never before used with her. “Now is not the time for this. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t want to argue, but what I will say is that what I do on the dawn patrols is none of your bloody business!”

“Oh, yes it is!” she screamed, brandishing the bread knife in front of his face. “Everything that happens in the Phalanx is my business! You’re not doing your job. You’re being sloppy, and I’m ashamed of you!”

Who was this woman? he thought angrily. Who the hell did she think she was?

“Did it ever occur to you that my reasons for not killing that man were valid, that maybe he shouldn’t have been taken to the execution site in the first place?” he shouted.

She laughed. “You disgraced yourself! Why, even your unit are not happy with your performance, and if you start getting squeamish in front of them, you’ll not only lose their respect but the party’s and mine too! Do you understand?”

“Mónica, what’s wrong with you? What are you getting at? This is me you’re talking to, not a Phalanx operative but me, your husband.”

Mónica lifted the plate of ham from the table and turned towards the door, speaking with her back towards him. “I told you right from the beginning that the Phalanx is more important than us, and I will not go in there and tell my friends that you couldn’t be bothered to join us because you’re too busy getting drunk. These people are important to me, more important than your stupid, misguided conscience. So get in there right now and support the cause!”

Miguel did as he was told that night, he supported the cause. He sat and listened to the rhetoric about the upcoming slaughter of communist women or women who flaunted socialist values. All those in attendance appeared to be Phalanx members, which confused him and irritated him at the same time. He had the ear of the high command, yet he had heard nothing about this new order, so where was it coming from? Were these people in his sitting room taking this momentous decision all by themselves? He’d wondered. Mónica hadn’t spoken to him for the remainder of the night. The men and women in the room with her didn’t give him a second glance, nor did they ask his opinion about the proposed arrest and massacre of known republican women with eyes that spoke with sublime pleasure at the prospect. Still, did his wife’s bidding. He secretly felt disgusted but outwardly supported the cause.

Who is this woman? he asked himself again after everyone had left his house. She was not the vivacious, courageous woman he’d first fallen in love with. She was not even the intelligent spokeswoman he had heard on the stage, committed to medical aid projects, with purity in her mission to rid Spain of communists and socialist upstarts. She was much more than that person now, and he didn’t like the bits that had been added on.