Before lunch we went to the chapel for a mass for the departed soul. The students were all standing, dressed in our Falangist orphanage uniforms. The director got up and spoke from the pulpit.
“Today is a day of mourning for our entire boys’ home. A member of our family has left us. Young Tomás is now in heaven with the Virgin Mary and all the saints. Social Aid was created to help the children of Spain, regardless of their parents’ ideologies. Christian, Falangist values are above the sins committed by one’s parents. You boys are here to become proper Spaniards and Falangists. The caudillo has given each of you a second chance. Viva Spain! Viva Franco!”
We dutifully answered his rallying cries, and then Father Onésimo got up to officiate Mass. He seemed less put-together than usual.
“Poor Tomás has left us, but we who remain behind in this valley of tears will keep fighting to spread the light of the gospel to the world. Franco won much more than a war; he waged a campaign to restore the people’s true faith. Tomás is one small sacrifice burning on the sacred altar of this great, free Spanish nation!”
After the ceremony, four of the boys lifted the coffin and carried it to the small cemetery behind the chapel. The grave had already been dug, and it took me aback to see how deep it was. It felt like the ground would literally swallow us up after we died. They lowered the simple pine box with rope we ourselves had made in workshop, and we heard a thud when the wood met the ground below. Then, one by one, each boy threw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. The priest said a few closing words to bid Tomás farewell, then the groundskeepers started shoveling the rest of the dirt over the casket.
That afternoon broke our hearts. Hardly anyone talked in the hallways or rooms. I thought about Morelia and the day Paquito had been electrocuted. The entire student body had revolted against our wicked director. Back then we still had the courage to stand up to evil. But there in the orphanage, we were a docile, frightened flock.
Daniel came up to me and put his arm over my shoulder. We were sitting on one of the beds. I didn’t feel like talking, but he kept at it.
“Just don’t think about it anymore. It could’ve been you, or me, or any of us. Sometimes I think about it, about doing myself in, you know. I mean, just try to imagine how many people have died. But we’re here alive, you know? Alive and kicking.”
“Alive? You call this life?” I asked, my temper rising.
“You haven’t been here long. I swear, things on the outside aren’t much better. Both boys and girls sell their bodies for scraps of stale bread. Others die on construction sites for miserly wages. And most everybody is starving to death. At least here we get to eat and—”
“And get raped, stomped on, abused, and brainwashed into their fascist ideology and religion. Yeah, sure, this is way better.”
“Well, what are the options? They won the war, so what can we do about it?”
“Resist, not let ourselves get trampled on. They can control our bodies and try to control our minds, but we still have our souls. And they can’t have those.”
“It’s a pretty thought,” Daniel said, sighing and standing up.
As he walked away, I thought over what he’d said. I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to admit it. In spite of everything, I could not just stand there idly.
The next day, the last day of 1940, we had class in the morning, then workshop like normal, but they gave us a nice meal that night. The rice was actually fresh, and for the first time since I’d gotten to the orphanage, we had meat. It was pork, and it tasted divine. They even gave us half a glass of sweetened wine and something chocolate for dessert. All together we counted down ’til the new year, and they let us have twelve pine nuts since we didn’t have any grapes.
By midnight, most of the professors were drunk. I had developed the habit of scanning the adults for the priest to always keep him in sight, but tonight I couldn’t find him. I slipped out of the main building. It was bitterly cold. I saw a light on in the chapel and went in quietly. The priest was on top of somebody on a pew. In my hand, I gripped a fork I’d taken from the dining hall. I snuck up and, before he had time to react, jammed the fork toward his groin with all my strength. I twisted the fork, and he screamed like a madman and then passed out. The boy ran away as soon as the priest’s weight was off him, and I stood there quietly, not sure what to do. Finally, I went back outside, got a ladder from the workshop, and took it over to the spot where the dirt was mounded up against the wall. The ladder wasn’t tall enough to reach the top, but as I stretched my arms up, I could grab hold of the barbed wire. My hands started to bleed, but I didn’t feel any pain. Then I let myself fall down the other side. My leg throbbed but not enough to keep me from walking. I didn’t know where I was going. I only knew I had to escape from that house of horrors as fast as possible.
Chapter 44
The Party
On the Way to Madrid
January 1, 1941
Walking around lost can be better than being in the wrong place. Most people prefer the security of a terrible life over the uncertainty of starting down the road with no plan or clear destination. Yet, often enough, desperation rescues us from disgrace. Something inside us compels us to escape, despite the fear and doubt. It might seem like our basic survival instinct, but it’s actually the exact opposite. It’s essentially a struggle between instincts and principles.
At dawn, I found an intersection that announced I was near Alcalá de Henares. From there I knew I could hop on a train that would take me to Madrid. My sisters were in San Fernando de Henares, not far from Alcalá, but I couldn’t just show up dressed like I was and get them out. I’d attacked a priest and run away from a state orphanage, and I was the son of a man condemned to die. I thought about going to my grandparents’ house, but I didn’t want to bring trouble to them or cause them any more grief. The only place I could think of where I would feel somewhat safe was in the house of my mother’s former troupe director.
I jumped onto the train when it was already in motion and spent the thirty-plus minutes of the ride avoiding the inspectors. When I got to Atocha Station, I again had that strange feeling of being free. It’s one of the most mysterious sensations in the world. It might seem like the natural state of human beings, but most of the time that’s not the case. We’re slaves to so many things, to social conventions that pressure us, to the moral principles we were taught as children, to imposed fears and taboos, to not living up to what our parents expect of us . . . In short, slaves to leading unworthy lives. Sometimes death seems like liberation, though at the core it’s the ultimate abdication. As long as we’re alive, we’re fighting and struggling, and there’s the possibility of changing and trying to transform the world. Dying, however, is life’s greatest act of impotence; death, the final unvanquishable foe.
I got to Jacinto’s gate and paused. I was thinking about my sisters and all the hope we’d had when we arrived in Madrid not many days before. The city seemed to slumber in the New Year’s Eve hangover. Still shackled to desperation, I was hardly aware of the fact that a new year had begun. Desperation is atemporal, a kind of purgatory where minutes become years and centuries become an eternity.
I knocked at the door, and the maid opened after a minute or two. Angelines was shocked to see me, as if staring at a ghost. In a way, I did look like a ghost in that absurd Falangist uniform.
“Good heavens, what . . . How?” she began.
“I’m fine. Can I see—?”
“He’s asleep. He got pretty drunk yesterday. It’s New Year’s Day.”
I nodded and started to cry. “I need help.”
She brought me inside. She fixed me some hot chocolate and cookies, and I started to feel much better after sitting down in the warmth.
“Jacinto got into some pretty bad trouble. Some friends got him out of it, but he was accused of harboring fugitive children.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“You know how he is. Well, maybe you don’t kno
w, but he’s very melodramatic. It’s in his blood. Where are your sisters?” Angelines asked. Her question brought me back to reality like a hammer falling on my thumb.
I gulped. “Locked up in a Social Aid center. My mom’s in prison, and my dad’s been condemned to die,” I said, dissolving into tears again.
“Oh, honey, I’m so, so sorry. These are wretched, terrible times we’re living in. Thank God I’m old and don’t have much longer to go. I hardly recognize this country anymore.”
We heard some footsteps, and Don Jacinto entered the dining room. He rubbed his eyes when he saw me. “Well, New Year’s brings mysterious gifts,” he said, smothering me in a hug.
I told them what had happened since I’d last seen them. Jacinto’s eyes were wide in disbelief as I talked about the orphanage and how the children were mistreated, especially the day of Blondie’s death.
“After they found you three in the costume warehouse, they asked me so many questions—but thanks to my connections, nothing came of it. You know how angry I was about your mother’s situation in the women’s prison. I haven’t been able to do much, for which I’m so sorry. She’s not been sentenced to death, but for now she’ll have to stay there.”
The tears came again, great gasping waves of them. I couldn’t take it anymore: my sisters locked up in an orphanage, my parents imprisoned. I was completely powerless. Throughout those many years I had faced terrible things and managed to overcome them all, but the current situation was beyond my control.
“I’m so sorry, my boy,” Jacinto said. “I could seek custody of your sisters, though I’m not sure they’d grant it.”
“Thanks, but you’ve done enough for us,” I said between sniffing and wiping my nose. “Sometimes we just have to leave things in the hands of fate.”
He asked Angelines for a glass of port, longing to forget the things I’d just told them. The country where we lived no longer belonged to us.
“I can get you some money. Maybe with a little help . . .”
“Thanks,” I said despondently. But money wasn’t going to change anything.
Jacinto let me sleep at his house that night, and the next morning, before he or Angelines awoke, I slipped away. At first I wandered through the city, though every corner and each street recalled some happy memory from when I was young. People are never aware of happiness when they’re experiencing it, only later—like walking through dense fog and sensing a glimmer of light, some small lamp to light your way.
I ended up walking around University City. The vestiges of war were so evident in that area of northern Madrid. Mortar shells and the craters of bombs were strewn about the place. Then I walked through a pine grove and came to a well-to-do neighborhood with high-end villas. Dogs growled and barked from behind the fences, baring their sharp teeth at me, but I hardly glanced at them. I felt completely absent, unconnected to my body, watching everything around me with the indifference of a death wish.
Eventually I sat down on a fallen trunk and stared out at the field and the villas of the new masters of Spain. Then I heard the voices of children behind me. Turning, I saw a maid pushing a baby carriage while little twin boys walked beside her. I watched them play for a few minutes, remembering when my sisters were younger. The memories got me crying again.
“Are you okay?” a female voice asked. I didn’t bother lifting up my head. I knew the person would walk on by and leave me alone. But she didn’t. “Can I do anything for you?” the voice insisted.
I looked at her shiny black shoes, dark stockings, and the hem of a pink satin dress. I shook my head, but then the woman bent down. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
My eyes were clouded with tears as I looked at her. I was a ball of anger. I didn’t want any compassion from the victors. Instead I wanted to spit in her face, but I didn’t have the energy.
“I live nearby. Those are my boys playing over there. Do you need work? My gardener is looking for some help,” she said.
For the first time I looked directly at her, and her face seemed somehow familiar to me, but I couldn’t remember where I would’ve seen her before.
Finally, she led me over toward the maid and the children, then we walked for a few minutes and stopped before a high wall. The wall was painted black and gold, and two lions sat atop the pillars flanking the gate.
The woman led me to the gardener’s small hut and introduced me. “Javier, this boy can help you with the grounds.”
“But, miss, I need someone with experience. I don’t have time to train this boy,” the man huffed. Despite his age, he looked to be strong and able.
The woman frowned, then pushed me forward gently so I was standing in front of the gardener. “This boy looks strong and capable. I hope you teach him the trade well.”
When the woman was out of earshot, Javier let loose. “That stuck-up witch! Treats us all like we’re her slaves. The Gonzagas are one of these new regime families. Her husband’s one of Franco’s right-hand men, though a guy like the Caudillo only has right hands—nothing left about him. Anyway, where the hell did you come from?”
I didn’t know how to answer. My head was still spinning. I had decided to just let myself float along since I had no idea what to do with my life. Maybe a job would help me get things in order and retrieve my sisters from the orphanage sooner rather than later. I cleared my throat and began, “I’m Marco Alcalde, and the lady—”
“Another one of these poor wretches from the country who’s come to the city looking for a better future. Well, let me tell you, there’s no future here, or anywhere else for that matter. The world has lost its mind.”
He let me into the house and pointed to a pallet with threadbare blankets in the attic. “I’ll get you some work clothes. You’ve got to remember four simple rules: First, never go in the master’s house unless you’re invited; second, never speak to them unless they speak to you first; third, do everything I tell you without complaining; and fourth, don’t go in the yard when the Gonzagas are having a party. Is all of that clear?”
I nodded and tried to make myself invisible. The boys were still on holiday from school for Christmas and New Year’s, and the mistress of the house played with them in the yard in the mornings. I hid behind the shrubs and watched them, thinking about my family. I felt a measure of comfort seeing the kids happy. Very few families could say the same about their children in our country devastated by war and hatred.
The masters held a party the night before Three Kings Day. It wasn’t one of their bigger parties, Javier explained, just something for family. Luxury cars started arriving and parking at the front door in the afternoon. The women who got out of them wore elegant evening gowns, and the men, suits or the Falangist uniform. The butler greeted them formally in the entryway and led them to the great hall. The cloudy sky made the afternoon feel darker than usual, and night would soon stretch its shadows over the dead winter lawn.
Going against Javier’s instructions, I slipped out of the small house where I now lived and got close to the back of the big house. Hidden in the shadows, I could see the great hall through the huge picture windows. The guests were drinking wine from fine glasses and eating canapés from silver trays. I watched for a while, not believing so much luxury and excess existed in such proximity to the poorest neighborhoods of the capital.
Children ran around wrapped presents circling a Christmas tree while older adults sat and chatted on silk-lined armchairs. The mistress of the house went back and forth between guests, gushing over each.
Furious at such waste while most of the population was starving, I turned to leave and ran smack into one of the guests. She was holding a cigarette and was frightened half to death by my sudden appearance.
“I’m so sorry, please forgive me. Don’t be afraid, I’m just the gardener. I was just—”
“It’s fine,” the woman said, calming down from her fright and waving away my apologies.
“I’ll be going now,” I said.
“Do you
like the party? I despise these superficial gatherings. But my husband’s brother is a very powerful man and likes to show it off every chance he gets.”
As she spoke, I had the strange sensation of déjà vu. I had heard that voice before, though I couldn’t remember where.
I kept my opinions to myself. It was difficult for me to believe or trust a woman dressed in something that was worth more than what a worker could earn with a year or more of hard work.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, noting my face pinched with annoyance.
“Forgive me, I should be going.”
I was walking away when she called to me, “Marco?”
I turned, terrified. How could she know my name? I hadn’t mentioned it.
“How do you know me?” I asked nervously. I hadn’t thought there were many people left in Madrid who knew who I was.
“You won’t remember me. I was leaving class one day and you’d gotten lost in the middle of University City. My sister-in-law, your new boss, was with me that day. I took you to your house after we got a bite to eat. You told me your parents had been arrested . . .”
I froze. This woman was the girl who had taken me back home in the trolley all those years ago. How in the world had she recognized me after so long?
“You’ve changed a lot, but your eyes are hard to forget,” she said, reading my thoughts.
“Miss . . . ?”
“Rosa Chamorro, though now I’m Mrs. Artola. I ended up getting married to a . . . friend.”
“I think I should go now.”
“Yes, and I should get back inside. Here,” she said, taking something out of her tiny purse. It was a card with her phone number and address. “Call me if you ever need anything. My husband has helpful contacts.” Then she walked away, her silky dress swaying.
As she came into the light of the great hall, I had the feeling that my luck might be about to change. I went back to the gardener’s hut practically skipping with joy inside. I marveled at how fate toyed with us. Two casual but life-changing encounters six years apart with the same person—a truly uncanny coincidence.
Remember Me Page 24
