The Return (28 page)
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Tags: #British - Spain, #Psychological Fiction, #Family, #British, #Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, #General, #Granada (Spain), #Historical, #War & Military, #Families, #Fiction, #Spain
He pulled out the chair next to her, sat down and took her hands in his. For years, Concha had been the practice ground for her son’s now famed charm. She did not have a favourite son, but she did have one whose ability to win her round far surpassed that of the other two.
Ignacio had been due to appear in a number of bullfights that summer; for a while at least, the season was suspended and this meant he was a man at leisure. He seemed positively at ease with life and with himself.
‘It isn’t going to be so awful, is it?’ he said. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘I wish I believed it, Ignacio,’ she said, holding him at arm’s length and looking into his eyes. His dark, seductive pupils swam with affection.
A week or so of this conflict had been more than enough to fray her nerves right to the very edge, and even the sound of a door banging was enough to make her jump out of her skin. She was still haunted by the sight of their neighbours being dragged away from their home.The previous day they had heard that both Luis and Julio had been shot, and the Pérez home was looted on the same night. Poor María now lived in fear of her life and would not leave her home. Concha had visited every day since the arrests of her loved ones and that morning the woman had been beyond consolation. Francisco was too angry to be able to comfort his mother and Antonio spent the day with him trying to keep the lid on his friend’s fury. Now Ignacio was trying to tell her that things were not going to be ‘so awful’.
In some ways, their nerves had yet to be tested. First thing in the morning on 29 July, an aerial bombardment of Granada began that was to last on and off until the end of August. The worst thing about it was not the wanton destruction of their city. It was the fact that many of them were on the same side of this conflict as the Republican planes now bombing them.
Occasionally, the bombers’ targets met the approval of those who still supported the legal government.
Antonio was out on the street one morning with his father and saw Republican planes flying overhead. They opened their machine-gun fire on the cathedral tower.Though it was the most beautiful and celebrated of holy places, the damage to Isabella and Ferdinand’s great edifice and burial place did not stir either of them. Like most people who supported the rightful Republican government, they had long since stopped kneeling down in front of the altar, so disgusted were they with the collusion of the priests in this rebellion. Right from the beginning, the Catholic Church had sided with the army in this coup.
Newspapers continued to play their role in stirring up aggravation in the Ramírez household.
‘It’s that fascist rag again,’ said Emilio, casting a disdainful look at the newspaper that lay on the bar. ‘Why does he have to bring it here?’
On that morning it provided detailed coverage of a victory for the Nationalist troops.The Republicans had landed some of their planes at Armilla, not realising that it had already been taken by the army.When they descended from their planes they were taken prisoner and the Fascists gleefully celebrated the ‘delivery’ of some magnificent new aircraft.
‘What a gift for Franco,’ commented Antonio, under his breath.
Such stories did nothing for the morale of anyone who supported the Republic.Though they were battling to retain their ground, it seemed that things could still go either way.
For the next few days, Granada continued to be bombed from the air and more innocent people died, their houses collapsing around them. Sirens sounded the alert, but even though the arrival of planes was advertised, there was no real place of refuge. Occasionally a member of the Civil Guard might be buried in the rubble, but it was mostly the innocent citizens of Granada who were terrorised by the daily routine of bombs that seemed to increase in destructive power as the day went on.
On 6 August, a bomb fell close to the café in the Plaza Nueva. One of the upstairs windows shattered, spraying the room with shards of glass, and everything in the building was violently shaken. Glasses fell off shelves in the bar and bottles crashed to the ground; brandy flowed across the floor in a dark river.
Concha cleared up the mess, helped by Emilio and Mercedes. For the first time in their lives they saw their mother weep and were disconcerted by the sight of her despair.
‘I hate all this,’ she began tearfully.
Her children exchanged glances. They could see that she was about to launch into one of her occasional tirades.
‘Our country’s a mess! Our city’s a mess - and now our café . . . just look at it!’ she cried.
There was no doubt that these catastrophes were all linked but the only one they could resolve was the one in front of them.
‘Look, we’ll all help clear this up,’ said Emilio, balancing on his haunches to pick up the jagged remains of a dozen or so bottles. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’
Mercedes went to find a broom. For the first time in weeks, something had distracted her from thinking of Javier. He had occupied the central-most part of her mind for almost every waking moment since the coup but the proximity of the bomb had jolted her.
But as she swept the floor, even the musical jangling of the shards of glass brought her mind back to the man she loved.What had dominated her mind before she met him? She hated this wretched conflict for separating them.
Antonio had appeared and made his mother sit down. He was now pouring her a drink from the only surviving bottle.
‘I don’t know how long we can carry on . . .’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Antonio, anxious to calm his mother down.
‘. . . running the café. It’s all so . . .’
Antonio could tell his mother was tired, but they all needed to keep going. Each day everyone looked for signs that the situation in the city might be getting more stable and there was a determination on Antonio’s part to ensure that some part of their lives continued without disruption. At this point, supplies of food were still relatively plentiful in the city so there was no difficulty feeding their customers; fish was the only thing that they could not get hold of as the city was cut off from the coast at present, but meat, bread, vegetables and fruit were easy to obtain.
‘Look, we need to try and carry on as normal, otherwise they really have won, haven’t they?’ he coaxed his mother.
She nodded with weary resignation.
Bombs had fallen on the Plaza Cristo and on the Washington Hotel, close to the Alhambra, where people had taken refuge from machine-gun fire. Nine people died in the city that day, the majority of them women, and there were numerous serious casualties. At the same time as the deaths of these innocents, other equally blameless people were being tried.The rumble of Republican bombers passing overhead had only increased the resolve of the Fascists to pass sentence on those who still supported the government. Even before the ink dried on the signatures authorising these deaths, their executions were carried out.
The first people to stand trial were the Civil Governor, Martínez, the president of the local council, a lawyer named Enrique Martín Forero, and two trade unionists, Antonio Rus Romero and José Alcantara. From their appearance in front of a jury on 31 July to their court martial, sentence and execution at dawn against the cemetery wall, it was a mere four days. For these men and for their families and friends, these were days of fear and disbelief that such unlawful decisions could be happening in the name of justice.
In the days that followed, numerous other key figures in Granada faced the firing squad - politicians, doctors, journalists. The news of these deaths horrified the Ramírez family.
‘It means that no one is safe,’ said Pablo. ‘Absolutely no one.’
‘If they can justify killing those men, then you’re right,’ said Antonio, who had always sought to reassure his parents.
Even he had now lost hope that this conflict might reach a swift conclusion once the parts of the army that had remained loyal to the Republican government had retaliated and gained control. The ruthlessness of the troops who were carrying out Franco’s orders was breathtaking and without compromise. Idealists like Antonio were only just beginning to realise the nature of their enemy.
By the second week of August, both the heat and the bombing had intensified, but the former now ceased to be a topic of conversation. It was strange how one day, a whole building could be devastated and everyone would emerge miraculously unscathed, and then the next day a single explosion could kill half a dozen people in the street. Such an ill-fated group were the women who died when the Calle de Real Cartuja was targeted. Their deaths were as random as the roll of dice.
For over a fortnight now, Granada had been an island of fascism in a sea of loyal Republicanism. Antonio had held on to the hope that this relatively small area of land could be taken back but he was losing faith. News began to drift in of Nationalist successes in various other places including Antequera and Marbella.
The Nationalist force had now organised its defence against air bombardment of Granada. German cannons were in strategic positions to deter Republican planes, so air raids stopped.
Once the bombs ceased to drop, the streets of Granada were again full of activity. There were more people around than was usual for the time of year. Many would normally have left the city for the duration of the summer but had been afraid to do so because of the uncertainty of the political situation. Combined with the influx of people from surrounding villages the population had swelled.
The atmosphere was clearly not one of celebration, but at certain times of day, the teeming streets and squares were redolent of fiesta.The cafés were full. People sat close to share precious shade, and young women moved about between the tables collecting coins for Red Cross hospitals that had been set up around the city to treat the wounded.
Cinemas were open as usual but were obliged endlessly to repeat the few films that they had in stock, and entertainment-starved audiences had no choice but to tolerate the repetition and to watch the newsreels, which were alarming whichever side of the political spectrum the audience was on.
Ignacio continued to antagonise his family with his own reaction to events. About the total domination of the city and nearby villages by the Fascists, he did not bother to hide his triumphalism, but as time went on he would also rant and rave about atrocities reported to have been committed by those defending the Republic in towns such as Motril and Salobrena.
‘They dragged women into the sea,’ he shouted at Antonio and Emilio, who listened silently to their brother, ‘and murdered their children!’
Whether this was true or merely rightist propaganda, they were not going to give Ignacio the satisfaction of a reaction.
‘And you presumably know they’ve destroyed the harvest - and killed the flocks!’ he added.
Their silence infuriated him. He came right up to his brothers and Antonio could feel the heat of Ignacio’s anger as he spat his next words right into his face:‘If we all starve it won’t be Franco’s fault!’ he said, almost nose to nose with Antonio. ‘It’ll be the fault of you Republicans! Can’t you see it’s all over? The Republic is
finished
!’
finished
!’
All over Granada people sat huddled around radios. Fingers were yellow with nicotine and nails were bitten down to the quick. Anxiety, tension and heat made the city rank with sweat. Rumours of mass executions in other parts of the country intensified the terror.
People feared those who lived in the same street and even those who lived under the same roof. Across the country, families were being torn apart.
Chapter Seventeen
I GNACIO’S REPORTS OF Republican troops abandoning their weapons and fleeing from their positions in the villages up in the hills had more substance than the rest of his family wanted to admit.The effectiveness of Franco’s army in and around Granada had been swift and absolute.
‘I just can’t believe it!’ said Concha one morning, ill-concealed disgust in her voice. ‘Have you been out this morning?’ Her question was addressed to Antonio and Emilio. ‘Go down the street and look! Take a walk down to the cathedral. You won’t believe your eyes.’
Emilio did not react, but Antonio got up and left the café. As he turned right, down Reyes Catolicos, he saw immediately what it was that had vexed his mother so much. Approaching the cathedral, the streets were decked in red and yellow bunting. It must have been put up very early that morning and now the city was dressed as for fiesta.
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