The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (72 page)

“It would not have been fair to you had I walked in and out of your life without reason or explanation,” he’d said. “My duties take me far beyond the front lines, far beyond anything you’ve seen in this war. I did think about staying away today, of not contacting you at all, but I missed you so much, and it was the thought of lying here with you that’s kept me alive all these months. So, you see, I had to come. I had to see you.”

“But what could keep you away from me, Carlos?” she’d asked at that point. “What’s more important than love? I would die for you or lie and cheat. That’s how much I love you!”

“Forgive me, María, but I stupidly believed that it would be better for you if I just disappeared and gave you no hope of seeing me again. I was prepared to let you think I was dead rather than have you think of me or mourn for me each time I left you. I love you with all my heart, but I honestly thought that I would be dead by now, and you’ve suffered enough already.”

“You are not the only person who risks death, Carlos!” She’d surprised him with her anger. “There have been times when I thought that I would die within seconds, when bombs were dropping all around me and when I could hear the whistling of the incoming shells, the noise so close that I was sure they had brushed my ear. How could you be so selfish? I am suffering now because Pedro is missing and I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, so how can you knowingly put me through the same thing? I love you, and nothing will change that. Why can’t you understand?”

“I’m not worth loving.” He’d stared at the ceiling then, and his next damaging words had slashed her like a knife.

“María, I have to leave tomorrow morning, and I will not tell you where I’m going. Suffice it to say that we will not meet in Madrid again and I will not contact you again. Don’t wait for me this time. Promise me you’ll get on with your life and forget about me!”

Now she looked at his face while he slept, and just as the light started to filter through the ripped curtains, he opened his eyes and cast them around the room until he found her. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and held out his arm, motioning her to him. She lifted her tired body out of the high-backed chair in the corner of the room and went to him.

“María, there are two things that I need to tell you,” Carlos said, still groggy from sleep.

María nodded her head and sat on the edge of the bed.

“First promise me that you’ll not ask questions I can’t answer.”

She nodded again, not taking her eyes off his face. Carlos rubbed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling as though trying to put off whatever it was he had to say to her. She cupped his face in her hands and made him look at her.

“Tell me,” she said.

“The moment I leave you, I want you to go back to Valencia. Your papers are waiting for you at the hospital. Don’t ask. Just do as I say,” he warned when she tried to speak. “The second thing is that Pedro is alive; I saw him with my own eyes. He is safe and looks well, but he is now with a nationalist army unit.”

María shook her head, trying to digest these words.

“No, no, he can’t be,” she told him, shaking her head in disbelief. “He was with the International Brigades… I saw him. He would never go back to the nationalists, ever!”

“He didn’t go to the other side by choice, María. He was captured in battle along with the remains of his unit. They were taken to a holding camp, and he, along with the other Spaniards, was transferred into the nationalist garrisons. That’s why you haven’t heard from him; they won’t officially declare his existence to our side.”

María closed her mouth and swallowed hard. It was wonderful news, wonderful yet quite unbelievable, she thought.

“When did you see him? How is this possible? Where is he now? Can you at least tell me that?”

“No. I’ve said enough, more than enough. Now it’s up to you how and when you’re going to tell your family about him. All I ask is that you don’t mention where your information came from. This is very important. Do you understand me? No one must know how you came by this information.”

María sobbed uncontrollably with happiness, with sheer relief, and with tired frustration at all the secrecy surrounding the man she loved.

“I can’t bear this, Carlos. I don’t understand. How can I tell my family that Pedro is alive and not tell them where he is and what he’s doing? Why won’t you tell me anything?”

“María, I’ve said enough! Please stop asking me questions that I can’t answer!” He appeared to be instantly sorry for shouting at her. He averted his eyes and stared out the window as if unwilling to display his true feelings to her.

“I love you,” he added. “Whatever happens, please believe that.”

She fell into his arms. She knew he loved her, but it was so hard. It was all so hard. They made love again, and all thoughts of Pedro were banished from her mind. She would think about the how, the where, and the why later, she thought, but for now all she wanted was to feel the warm glow of happiness that Carlos brought and hold on to it for as long as she could—hold on to it forever.

The rest of the day and night passed in a blink of an eye, and although there was so much they wanted to say to each other, so much was left unsaid. She hadn’t asked him why he’d demanded that she return to Valencia, but she knew by the tone of his voice that it had been more than just a request. She would take no notice of what he’d said about forgetting him, and she was sure that he suspected she never would. She was eternally grateful to learn that Pedro was still alive, yet his reasons for knowing that fact were a mystery to her.

When they reached the hospital, he kissed her and smiled. “You will always be the best part of me, the best part of my life,” he told her before walking away.

Her papers, along with a release document signed by the most senior nursing sister, were lying on her bed. A truck with supplies for La Glorieta had been organised, and the driver was waiting at the entrance to the hospital. He recognised her immediately, even though she had never seen him before, calling her Señorita Martinéz before helping her into the truck. She looked at the Madrid hospital building through the truck’s window, knowing instinctively that she would never see it again. She stifled a sob as she thought about all the wounded people she had encountered in this war and in this hospital. She wondered if the patched-up men in uniform survived to fight another battle. Had the dead men’s families been informed of their loss? Would the nurses she worked with inside this building of death remember her desertion? Carlos had told her to leave. It was his decision yet her choice to obey or disobey.

The truck moved out of the hospital forecourt, and she closed her eyes; the decision to leave was a good one, she thought. She had not deserted, for Madrid was lost, lost to the fascist rebels and religious oppressors, but La Glorieta could still be saved! That’s where she was needed now. That’s where she would continue to fight. Carlos was right. He was always right.

The journey home was long and arduous. Her driver joined a convoy of eight trucks and six open jeeps with machine guns mounted on the back. Soldiers and supplies were inside each of the canopied vehicles. These soldiers were the lucky ones, she thought, listening as they sang their battle songs. They were getting out of Madrid, bound for Valencia coast, still in republican hands.

She had managed to ascertain that her driver’s name was Antonio and that he came from Gandía, but that was all he’d tell her. They took the route to the Valencia coast, well inside republican lines, and stopped only when necessary. She had plenty to think about as they passed burnt-out monasteries and small towns, and as they grew closer to La Glorieta, she felt the conflicting emotions rise to the surface. She had a great desire to see her home, but with that longing came sadness. She dreaded the changes she would find there and the welcome she would receive from war-wearied peasants who might resent her presence, even though she was no threat to anyone. She was also afraid that her father’s house and land would never be returned to him, that he would have nothing to return to.

Chapter 78

P
edro, now integrated into the nationalist army, moved north with Generals Varela and Aranda towards Teruel. At the same time, Miguel’s unit moved closer to Madrid. His Phalanx days were all but over; however, since the death of its leader, he, along with other Phalanx in his unit, found themselves intimidated and resented by the nationalist main body of fighters. His future was unclear. He had lost his prestigious rank, his wife, and José Antonio Primo De Rivera, the man who had inspired him so much that he’d felt compelled to leave Valencia and his family. His ideology had not changed, and he was still committed to the basic teachings of José Antonio’s Phalanx. However, the depression he had felt ever since the night in Valladolid when his world had fallen apart had grown, and his only goal now was to see an end to the war.

In January 1938, after a costly battle for the town of Teruel, where Pedro saw more men dying in trenches of icy snow than from bullets, General Franco turned his eyes towards Valencia. Pedro crossed the river Ebro with the nationalists in March. The river was strategically important, as it had connected the republicans of Cataluña to the north and the seat of republican government in Valencia. The republican population fled before them, with carts laden with furniture and animals tied to them by ropes. The dead bodies of courageous but outnumbered soldiers lay forgotten on conquered ground, and the road to victory and home lay open.

By early April, the nationalists reached Lerida. They then moved down the Ebro valley, finally cutting off Cataluña from the rest of republican territory, and by 15 April, they had reached the sea. Pedro sat at the water’s edge and took off his worn-down shoes. At that moment, he believed that the war had already been won, not only because of the advances being made but because of the rumours that German forces were retiring. He dared to think about his future for the first time in months.

Chapter 79

W
hen María arrived back at La Glorieta, her first task was to inform Lucia and her family that Pedro was still alive. She told Lucia only that she had enough proof that he was not dead, but she would not elaborate further. In her letter to Merrill Farm, she added that her information was reliable, and that when Pedro was able, he would write to them personally. She then received some shocking news of her own: she was pregnant! The war had turned her body clock upside down, and she had not thought twice about the fact that her period was late. Lucia comforted her by saying that Carlos would be thrilled and that they were practically married anyway. However, she was well aware that while Lucia saw the romantic side of everything in life, the repercussions of having a baby out of wedlock was, in her view, a grave mistake, one she shouldn’t even consider.

Carlos had been true to his word, with no further contact from him since November. He’d been missing for over ten months in the previous year, and although María was convinced that he loved her and would of course want to marry her, she was not so sure whether he’d turn up in time to do it before the baby was born.

María lost weight even though she should have been putting it on, and she was sick most days, with sleepless nights becoming a regular occurrence. Her stomach grew, and she tried to hide it by wearing shapeless dresses that hung off her shoulders, but towards the middle of April, Lucia convinced her to seek medical advice from the doctor in charge. He was a kind man, a good doctor, and María had worked with him on many occasions. She knew that as the daughter of Ernesto Martinéz, she would have his respect and his ear. However, she hesitated, knowing that his respect would most certainly dissipate once he found out about her condition.

She weighed up the risks of being shamed, a shame that would undoubtedly stay with her always, and the physical and mental risk of having the baby terminated. She prayed for her mother’s return and wondered what she’d say and what she’d do if she were with her now. Would her mother turn her back on her or would she tell her that it was all right to love, to have a baby with no father’s name or church blessing? After many days of deliberation, it was the thought of her mother’s unconditional love and understanding, coupled with her own love for the baby’s father, that prompted her to see Dr Suarez, not to ask for a termination but to put herself into his care. She was going to have the baby, no matter what.

By the end of May, María could no longer hide her pregnancy. She looked and felt well, better than she had in a long time, and Dr Suarez had been philosophical about it all, surprising her with his attitude. She sat now in the garden, lifted her face to the sun, and recalled that day. He had put his fatherly hands on her shoulders and had sat her down on a comfortable chair in his office before telling her that in wartime, anything can happen, including the unpredictable outcome of lovemaking beneath the bombs and horror of death. He did not condone the fact that she was unmarried and expecting, but as he so bluntly put it, in times of conflict, when emotions boil over in a cauldron of fear, passion, and loneliness, things out of the ordinary happen. “It just so happens, young lady, that the pot boiled over and you got burned,” he’d told her.

By the end of May, the morale of the republican soldiers and medical corps at La Glorieta had fallen to an all-time low. They accepted, in an atmosphere of grief, that their position was under threat and that if Valencia fell, all would be lost. María lived from day to day in an atmosphere of defeatism and fear. Soldiers from the front lines were brought in convoys on a daily basis now. Many had suffered botched operations at the hands of surgeons who had neither the time nor the facilities and supplies to treat their injuries properly. Amputees suffering from the effects of unsterile knives lay listlessly, in pain and dying of spreading gangrene. Some who had been sent there to recuperate were impatient to rejoin the fighting again, whereas others were glad that their participation was over and wanted nothing more than to go home and forget the misery that war had brought them.

María thought unceasingly about Madrid and wondered where Carlos was and what he was doing. However, since her return to La Glorieta, her dreams of raging battlefields spewing out the dead subsided and were slowly replaced with peaceful, restful nights and rainbow skies at dawn.

As her pregnancy progressed, she was given a less active nursing role and unwittingly became a symbol of hope in a place where death, not life, was prevalent. She spent much of her time in the wards, sitting by the beds of frightened men and boys, giving comfort to them. Only a few British soldiers were left, but they were her most important patients, and she never tired of seeing their eyes light up when they heard her speak in their native tongue.

She also spent an hour or so every day strolling through her family’s land. She scolded herself for her snobbery, but she couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of resentment at the way they had exploited her family home. They had turned the land to the east into a huge parking area for trucks, tanks, and ambulances. They had cut down orange trees and planted corn seed. The grapes had all but disappeared, and in their place were vast tracts of land filled with vegetables, picked by the panic-stricken land labourers before ripeness and used, along with the corn and wheat, to feed the army. The house was beyond all recognition. The rooms had been painted a sterile white and were devoid of furniture save the rows of beds, which filled every room. The top floor suite of rooms, where her parents had once lived, was now home to the officers, and they’d ripped the age-old wooden panels from the walls and used them as firewood. Her grandfather’s library had been turned into an operating theatre, and the books her mother and grandfather cared so much about had been shredded to fill pillowcases and mattresses.

The only constant in her life was Marta’s grave, and at times the desire to speak to her sister was so strong that unwanted feelings of hatred against those who’d killed her surfaced and spilled over, saturating all republican soldiers.

At the beginning of June, a letter arrived unexpectedly from a nursing friend in Madrid:

Dear
María,

Things
in
Madrid
have
turned
eerily
quiet,
and
we
are
enjoying
a
sense
of
normality
once
again.
I
was
able
to
travel
by
tram
to
the
front
lines
last
week
and
see
my
boyfriend
José
(whom
I’d
not
seen
in
two
months).
I
am
a
little
surprised
at
the
way
in
which
the
population
has
become
almost
immune
and
insensitive
to
danger
and
death.
I
myself
have
become
so
used
to
seeing
dead
and
mangled
bodies
in
the
streets
that
I
quite
often
pass
them
by
now
without
giving
them
a
second
glance,
and
when
an
air
raid
begins,
I
saunter
along
slowly
and
sedately,
with
no
sense
of
the
panic
I
felt
earlier
last
year.

My
boyfriend
did
not
talk
to
me
about
the
end
of
the
war,
and
I,
like
him,
have
a
feeling
that
it
will
never
truly
end.
I
do
not
know
if
this
is
pessimism
on
our
part
or
if
we
simply
cannot
bring
ourselves
to
believe
that
we
will
ever
be
defeated.
But
I
do
know
that
Spain
will
never
be
the
same
again,
no
matter
who
wins.

The
reason
I
am
writing,
apart
from
the
fact
that
I
miss
you,
is
because
last
week
I
saw
your
Carlos.
He
was
sitting
in
the
little
cafe
that
we
used
to
go
to
for
hot
chocolate,
and
he
looked
so
sad.
I
didn’t
speak
to
him,
as
he
seemed
to
be
deep
in
thought,
(thinking
about
you,
no
doubt),
but
I
did
wave
to
him
on
the
way
out.
He
waved
back,
but
I
don’t
think
he
knew
who
I
was
 
.
 
.
 
.

María stopped reading and let the page fall to the floor. Carlos was safe. That was all she needed to know. She stroked her stomach and felt the baby kick.

“Please God,” she said aloud. “Please let him come home to me.”