“Protest control got a little out of hand,” Luna replied. “These things shouldn’t happen, but it did.”
“The papers said you got hit by accident. There is no such thing. An officer should not have raised a baton to anyone. People have rights, and they deserve to have their voices heard, rich or poor, young or old.”
“Exactamente,” Alysa agreed, her fists clenched. “Luna is new to being assaulted by police.”
“I hope it goes no further for you,” Inmaculada continued. “Luna, you have four young children who need you. Where are they?”
“My husband Cayetano is with them, at his sister’s apartment.”
“Poor Cayetano is deeply affected by the incident,” Alysa remarked. “Cayetano treats his wife like a treasure.”
“Then he is sweet,” Inmaculada smiled. “I know nothing of bullfighting. Antonella, my sister, her husband dabbled in the ring a little in his younger days. But I saw that your husband is one handsome man, Luna. You wouldn’t want to let that one out of your sight for long!”
Luna chuckled, along with the older women, relieved by the light humour; the conversation couldn’t have been grimmer.
Inmaculada smiled and turned to Alysa. “I cannot believe I never got your name.”
“We barely spoke,” Alysa replied. “But that day, all I wanted to do was run. Get the hell away from there while I had the chance.”
“One of the young men, he was upset you ran away. The men accompanied me home in a taxi. Of course, that was when my family disowned me.”
Alysa turned to Luna and took her hand. “The secret I told you about me being in prison; it’s a secret that no one knows. Not my children, not Cayetano, just Jaime, Luis, Pedro and Paco. In 1975, I got arrested for organising a protest against the government, in defiance of their decision to garrotte eleven people convicted of terrorism. There was the man I mentioned yesterday, Alonso Santos de la Vega, but we called him Apolinar. He organised the protest, along with friends, and I was staying with them. It wasn’t an accident; I helped where I could. On the day of the protest, September 20, 1975, the Guardia Civil beat many protestors. The guards wore full riot gear, carried huge weapons. So many got arrested and locked up just for being in the plaza where the protest started. I got arrested trying to pull down the Spanish flag from the Town Hall balcony.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I got thrown in the small women’s prison on Paseo de la Pechina. One day I got pulled from my cell, tossed into a brown sack of a dress and tossed out on the street.”
“I got arrested the same night,” Inmaculada said, her voice at peace. “I worked as a waitress in a café on the edge of the plaza. I went outside to see what was happening, and before I knew it, I got grabbed from behind and threw in a police truck. I had done nothing. I pleaded my innocence, but no one cared. There were plenty more like me, too. I got ignored, stripped searched, hosed down, hit by the guards in there, the officers… It was like a silent hell, where no one could hear your pain.”
Alysa nodded. “I suffered the same. I got locked up in a solitary room. The guards tried to get me to talk about Apolinar, in return for freedom. I denied everything. When release came, I felt stunned; I assumed they had no actual evidence, though that never stopped them.”
“They had nothing on me.” Tears streamed down Inmaculada’s face. “I had done nothing. The men in the prison, so vicious. When I got pushed through a doorway into the daylight, in one of the brown dresses they gave us after our clothes had been torn from us, it was like a miracle. I had two knights in shining armour, who expected nothing in return. Two men who knew nothing about me. I had served them drinks once, that was it. Their souls were so pure that they did this kind act and got me released from prison, gave me a little money, and disappeared.”
“That’s incredible,” Luna muttered.
“Those men were the reason I never lost my faith in God,” Inmaculada continued and wiped her cheeks. “I knew at least two people were good. My adoptive parents were ashamed; they were good Catholics and thought of me as dirty after my arrest. I left them and searched for my real family. I never married; I couldn’t face being with a man.”
“Oh,” Alysa said, wiping her own eyes. “The guards got to you?”
“Sí. You weren’t raped?”
“I got monitored too closely,” Alysa explained. “I was lucky; had I been in the cells much longer, I would have been raped for certain.”
“I got raped twice,” Inmaculada whispered. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe here with us,” Alysa replied.
“I got raped upon my arrival, and once again about a week later. Two different guards. The thought of marrying repulsed me after that; I dedicated myself to my nieces and nephews and reaffirmed my devotion to God. It healed me.”
“I’m so sorry,” was all Luna could say.
“It was a different time,” Inmaculada said. “Now, injustice is being bashed in the face. We should be pleased; things have improved since the Franco regime. Now, you young people need to be out on the streets, making sure we don’t revert to the evil ways of the past.”
“I’m sure Jaime and Luis would love to see you again,” Alysa added.
“Have you kept in contact with the angels?” Inmaculada asked. “But you ran off that day when they had us released.”
“Jaime and Luis bailed you from jail?” Luna asked. “Just last week, Jaime told me he got someone out of jail in Valencia. The pair used Paco’s bullfighting name and José’s Brigada Especial past to get women out of prison and had to keep it a secret.”
“So you’ve met the angels Jaime and Luis, my dear,” Inmaculada said. “How are they?”
“Jaime is my husband,” Alysa replied. “We married in 1977 after my second stint in prison. Luis married a local girl from the Madrid region where they lived. Both have children; Jaime and I have two sons, two daughters, and ten grandchildren. Luis has a son, three daughters and six grandchildren now.”
“Dios mío,” Inmaculada made the sign of the cross again. “You married one of the angels! Never have I heard such a story. If they are ever in Valencia…”
“They would be delighted to meet you again, Inmaculada,” Alysa said. “It’s a time we don’t speak of; we try our best to erase the black parts of our lives.”
“And now, this happy moment, when my mother returns to me, is connected to finding the men who saved me, and the woman who shared my fate. And the woman who found my mother is busy defending Spain’s honour, even if it gets her beautiful face bashed. I turned to caring for the poor and protecting women’s rights after my time in prison. I became an activist myself. I’m glad all we fought for is being carried on by the next generation.”
“Well, I’m doing what I can,” Luna shrugged.
“Use your face to speak out for people, Luna,” Inmaculada said. “I’m sure you are in pain. Your wound is raw. But be proud of your bruises; you are next in a line of people who have fought for the freedoms of this country. The fight isn’t over.”
“I’m nothing compared to you two women.”
“Everyone’s life is worth something. Everyone’s voice is worthy of a mention. You never know where one action can lead you. We are already together through a series of amazing coincidences. Luna, you have a voice, so use it to share stories; you may feel okay, but plenty of people are not okay in today’s climate. People need to be heard if Spain will ever change.”
23
Madrid, España ~ Octobre de 1975
A roar seemed the sole way to describe the jubilation. Jaime’s ears burned with the all-encompassing sound of untold thousands of voices. He stood next to his father, a pillar of a man, Alazne at his side. At the foot of the Royal Palace was Plaza de Oriente, in the heart of Madrid. The plaza had become a seething mass of people, some seemed dressed in uniform; police, military, others the cassocks of priests. Others seemed dressed in their best, mostly men, of a variety of ages
. Every millimetre of the rectangle plaza was full of people, all looking to the balcony of the palace, one door open against the otherwise locked up façade of tall cold stone. The grey and white walls of the palace dwarfed the plaza flanked by police, who stood hand to hand, to hold the hysterical crowd back from the man they longed to see. Homemade signs blocked the view for plenty – Franco brings Spain dignity, Franco gives his people peace and justice, Spain is a new country thanks to Franco. Spanish flags waved; as did the black and red striped flags of the Falange fascist party. Men in full military uniform stretched for a glimpse of the balcony, along hundreds of priests; Jaime felt suspicious of them – why so many? Were they brought in by bus? Did people dress as clergy or military to make a statement? José stood near the front of the enormous crowd, brought forward thanks to his previous career with Franco. He stood in his full dark green uniform, from his time in the Brigada Especial, his hat perched on his greying hair. The wind in the city, notorious for being biting cold that froze through to the bone, couldn’t squeeze between the masses, but still, Jaime felt utterly freezing underneath his black coat. He kept his hands tight in his pockets and tried to ignore the sensation of ice on his nose and ears. Alazne stood next to him, the only woman Jaime could see from his advantageous location. She wore one of Inés’ old pale grey sweaters, something Consuela had knitted years ago. Alazne had visited Rebelión with almost nothing and Inés had been keen to wave Alazne off that morning with something warm to wear in the bitter city in October. Alazne had wanted a ride to Madrid and nothing more, but with Consuela unable to go along with her husband, José offered Alazne the chance to see Franco up close. José still didn’t know of Alazne’s trouble or political beliefs, and Jaime never wanted to have that conversation with his father. Alazne seemed keen to see Franco give a speech, and Jaime prayed that morning before he left Rebelión at first light, that Alazne would not cause trouble. It would bring great shame to José if Alazne were to go against the thousands of people who had turned out to see the Caudillo.
Jaime glanced down at Alazne, huddled in Inés’ sweater, far too big for her rarely-fed body. Her teeth chattered; her arms folded across her chest to stay warm. The trio kept being pushed from behind as the crowd kept surging, people flocking into the plaza from all avenues. While José looked proud of the gathering, Jaime wondered it was real. Were these people all fans of Franco? Or people brought in to make the crowd look bigger than it would otherwise have been?
A trumpet burst into life, and the crowd roared again, all calling out with pride. Thousands of white handkerchiefs waved at the palace, José’s among them. Jaime noticed the glistening of tears in his father’s eyes as he strained to see the man on the balcony. Cries and chants made Jaime organs vibrate inside his cold body, the air a mix of chill and eerie, evil, sensations.
The balcony seemed covered in people. There stood the future leader of Spain, Prince Juan Carlos and his wife, Sofía; plus men in green, or white, military and naval uniforms. Older men wore unbuttoned tuxedos, blue sashes over their white shirts. These were the people who had benefited from Franco’s time in power, the same people Alazne hated deep into her soul. Several men climbed the pillars either side of the double glass doors, cameras in hand to capture the moment. Franco’s wife, Carmen Polo, stood just back from the centre as Francisco Franco himself shuffled out into the cold and stepped up onto a box, to be tall enough to reach the microphone. The crowd chanted to him, to his greatness, to their country as Franco’s feeble hand whimpered out a wave to his legions.
“Atención, atención, atención, Españoles,” Franco tried to speak to the crowd, who continued to cry out to him. Jaime felt surprised at how angry Franco’s voice sounded. Franco looked weak; his skin the colour of a ghost, his head bald, his features sunk deep into his face. Franco repeated himself, and the crowd heeded the old man’s words.
“This is the great leader of our nation?” Alazne yelled into Jaime’s ear. “This decrepit little man, who has grown old and pathetic, while so many innocents had to rot in the ground or in jail? How can people stand here and be proud of Franco?”
Jaime had no answer for her as Franco spoke of the shaky political state of the country. Franco’s hand shook as he held it out to the crowd, which stopped yelling to listen. The huge red and golden cloth that hung from the balcony fluttered a little in the icy breeze. The crowd replied to Franco’s words, with yells, angry voices in retaliation to the vicious left-wing ‘terrorists’ Franco mentioned. Generals and henchmen on the balcony looked at the Caudillo, some concerned, some delighted with the angry responses. The moment Franco said ‘Viva España’, the rowdy crowd roared ‘Viva’ back to him. José’s voice seemed so loud it caused one of Jaime’s ears to sting, a combo of volume and cold. Tears poured down José’s face. Jaime had never seen his father so emotional, not even during Paco’s greatest fights in the bullring.
Jaime turned to Alazne, but she had gone. He scanned the crowd, frantic to find her, but her short blonde hair didn’t stick out among the crowd anywhere; she was the sole young woman Jaime saw in the plaza all day. She had turned and gone without a word, and Jaime had lost her. He felt a deep panic in his chest as he looked, but José grabbed his shoulder. The old dictator on the balcony was waving, and the crowd sang on, each with an arm raised in a fascist salute to the dictator. Among all the raised hands, stiff and outstretched to Franco, Jaime couldn’t find Alazne. Jaime raised his hand to Franco, instructed by his tearful father, and experienced hate for his arm in doing so. He noticed both Juan Carlos and his wife hadn’t raised an arm in salute, the only ones on the balcony not bowing to pressure to conform.
In less than two minutes, Franco had disappeared from the balcony, along with his aides. José didn’t seem to wish to leave the plaza, nor did anyone else. The crowd continued to sing and raise their hands in the cruel salute to all things evil, and Jaime seemed trapped. She had gone; the girl who drove him crazy and intrigued him at the same time had just disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Alazne was safe at Rebelión; now just God himself knew what would happen to her. What if the police spotted her? The plaza had a conglomeration of officers, of all types, in the square. Did Alazne wish to be caught? Why would she run?
José tapped on Jaime’s shoulder, and he looked up at his father. José handed him a handkerchief; he had one for himself, to wipe the tears from his cheeks. José must have mistaken the worry on Jaime’s face to be emotion about seeing Franco give his speech, defiant to the world ready to crush the frail man. Jaime took the handkerchief from his father and said nothing.
“Franco is a great man,” José said to his son, his voice almost lost to the ridiculous calls of the crowd. “If any man could steer Spain through these troubled times, Franco is that man.”
“Franco looked old and sick,” Jaime replied.
“The Caudillo is 82 years old! Of course he is looking a little tired.”
A little tired? “Sorry, Padre, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Nonsense, it is normal to feel shaken after meeting our leader. Where is the girl?”
Jaime looked around, and half-hoped Alazne would have returned. Nothing. “I lost her, Padre. She slipped away from me while everyone was saluting.”
“What a shame,” José said and looked around, far taller than his darker-skinned son. “She was a nice girl.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Jaime yelled to his father, and hoped the crowd would thin out a little, to give him room to breathe. “Alazne is troubled.”
“As was her father, Fermín,” José sighed.
After hours of waiting, the two minute speech from Franco left thousands of people in need of somewhere warm to sit. As Jaime pushed his way through the people with his father, it occurred to him that now was a good time to speak to his father. Emotional in his uniform, José seemed far less than his usual angry, powerful self, despite the outfit. Jaime had never been close to his father, unlike Pedro and Luis. Since their youngest days, the three brother
s all wondered if they were on a probation period, as if in testing to see if they were fit to be Morales Pena men.
The pair walked in silence for about ten minutes. Jaime was aware of José’s direction, a bar he liked to visit run by an old friend, Sebastian, who hailed from Cadiz, in the south. Sebastian ran a bar dedicated to bullfighting, and Jaime and Paco had visited many times. The crowd thinned as they walked, zig-zigging through small streets until they got swallowed by the warmth of the bar. Sebastian stood by the barrel of sherry behind the counter and looked José up and down in surprise, the old uniform a moment to savour.
“My old friend,” Sebastian cried as he tiptoed to kiss both of José’s cheeks with a hearty laugh and did the same to Jaime with a sharp slap on the back and double kiss. “I am not surprised to see you here today, but you look like your old self again!”
“Remembering days past,” José said, with a smile, and he and Jaime sat on stools against the wall. A short, but thick, wooden counter lined the brick to hold the dishes Sebastian’s wife and son cooked in the back. “My son and I were proud to show our allegiance to Franco today.”
Sebastian smiled, and Jaime caught the man’s nerves. If José thought Sebastian was a Franco supporter, he was mistaken. Jaime smiled at the old man, his apron splattered with dark red sherry, and Sebastian relaxed a little.
“The usual?” Sebastian asked.
“Sherry, plus whatever is freshest,” José said and removed his green hat with a satisfied sigh.
“That would be the buñuelos de camarones,” Sebastian said.
“I love the shrimp fritters,” Jaime smiled. “Any salmorejo cordobés?”
“For you, of course, but wouldn’t you like something a little warmer?”
“I can’t resist my favourite cold tomato and bread soup.”
“I will sprinkle plenty of jamón and egg on top, the way you like it,” Sebastian said and retreated to the kitchen.
Secrets of Spain Trilogy Page 108
