by Jana Petken
At eight o’clock exactly, Sister Teresa came for them and told them to line up for inspection. Once in position, they were led in procession to the outer courtyard where the Gothic chapel sat, surrounded by tall weeping willow trees and palms swaying in the cold breeze.
“Thank goodness we’ve got these warm bloomers on. It’s freezing!” Marta remarked to Christina with stifled laughter.
They marched on in a small disciplined line until they were told to stand still at the threshold of two chapel doors. Sister Teresa passed each of them, and her eagle eyes missed nothing.
As soon as they’d stepped over the door, they could hear the organ playing a soft melodic hymn. Marta thought she’d die of contentment; she was totally at peace with the world. The pews were already full of nuns who sat with their heads bowed in prayer, each one consumed in her own conversation between herself and God. They neither looked up nor registered any interest in the new arrivals. As Marta neared the altar, she passed four pews that were filled with white-veiled novices, and her excitement grew in the knowledge that she’d soon be wearing the same. She waited for the ceremony to begin, looking with curious eyes around the small chapel. The biggest crucifix she’d ever seen stood in the centre of the altar on a wooden tripod.
The altar itself was surrounded by stained glass windows and was undoubtedly the main focus inside the building. She twisted her neck to the side and noticed that unlike other small chapels, this one did not have the statues and effigies that one often saw in the purpose-built alcoves. The alcoves were bared of all such beauty. There were no flowers, no Virgin Mother smiling sweetly, no candle altar of remembrance. There wasn’t even a holy water font.
They were ushered silently to kneel at the iron altar rail just in front of the tabernacle. Marta’s dream was realised. She felt so close to God that she could almost touch him:
“I’m here. I’ll always be here with you,” she whispered.
For the next half hour or so, prayers were offered for the new postulants. Marta, with eyes squeezed shut joined in the great wonder of her new life of complete obedience and unwavering devotion to God’s will. She heard ‘Ave Maria’ being played at the back of the chapel, her mother’s favourite hymn. She tried to block out the pain and hurt she must have caused her parents and her sister and wondered what they would be doing right now. Would they be comforted in knowing that she was serenely happy? Could they imagine her feelings of complete joy at this very moment? She felt the white veil being placed on her head. This was her family now, her family for life. This is where she would die.
After tea, the convent’s mother superior visited the girls. She was old, extremely old. She hobbled on two sticks towards the front of the large dining room, where she stopped and looked around her, nodded her head in approval, and sat down. When the meal had ended, she stood once more, adjusted her veil, and then spoke in a voice loud enough to wake the dead.
“Sisters, I welcome you all. Usually at this time of the evening, we allow you an hour of recreation, when you may converse with each other on any subject you choose. However, as it’s your first night, you will forgo this routine and retire now to your cell, where silence will be upheld until prayers tomorrow morning.”
Marta awoke before the morning bell rang. She said a quiet prayer and wondered at the same time what life as a postulant would mean. She would be tested, she was well aware of this. She was also very conscious that not all girls who had the vocation made it to the status of nun; it was going to be a difficult road ahead. She washed in the freezing cold water and decided that in order to get through the probation period of six months and ask for the privilege of the habit and for the honour of becoming a nun, she would have to show every second of every day that she was truly acceptable. During that first week, Mother José and the two postulant mistresses instructed the new intakes in the ways of becoming a good nun, but after the first week, Marta received the hardest test of a postulant yet. Mother José adjusted her veil, just as she always did, stood on the same spot at the top table at exactly the same time as always, and raised her un-nun-like voice, which silenced the room.
“Sisters, I see that you are all settling in nicely and that you have made friends during your daily conversations,” she bellowed.
Marta thought about that briefly. Yes, she had made friends. It was so easy to talk to all of the girls, as they were all in tune with each other and all wanting to reach the same goals. Three of the girls who’d joined with her had left after the third day, unable to accept the harsh reality of what they’d believed would be an instantly beautiful and fulfilling life. Christina was her closest friend. They would have had nothing in common on the outside world, but they had bonded together here with a common joy to serve Christ. Mother José’s voice rang out again, startling Marta.
“But now I must instruct you in the rule of silence. This will require great discipline from all of you, and your need to communicate and express yourself will be, from now on, a limited experience. We are allowed to talk freely twice a day. The first hour will be after the midday meal, and the second will be after supper, when you will have your formal recreation.”
Marta looked around her at the faces of the other postulants. Two of the girls were trying hard to hold back tears. Marta realised that she was homesick for the lively debates in the Martinéz household. She tried to dismiss the questions and thoughts running rampant through her mind and instead wondered how many others were questioning the validity of the rule of silence. Would it be chaos not being allowed to share any feelings but twice a day, when everybody would be so eager to talk? She probably wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways. She wasn’t at all as outgoing as some of the others were.
“And another thing: novices and postulants are not allowed to speak to any person outside the religious order,” Mother José said sternly and with an undisguised warning. “They are seculars, and if they attempt to speak to you, you must not reply. It is only by cutting yourself off completely from the world that you can begin to shed some of its values, and in this world there are not very many values left, are there? You will also, on no account, speak to the professed nuns unless you are working with them, and even then the conversation must be kept to a few necessary words that are essential to the work.”
Marta looked about her again and held Christina’s hand. Her friend was fighting back tears and was becoming more and more distressed. Marta was fighting her own conflicting emotions. She had known about the silences, but now that they had actually been given the order to begin them, she was unsure if she could be ruthless enough to reject the world completely. After all, she told herself, the world wasn’t altogether bad. Her family were good people. Why did she have to condemn them? Surely God wouldn’t want her to do that?
The first few weeks were harder than Marta could ever have imagined. Every morning at five, she scrubbed herself with carbolic soap that made her skin itch. She dressed in the cold and damp air that never seemed to get any warmer. She joined the others for morning prayers, fighting eyes that sometimes refused to stay open. Sometimes she thought she’d go mad with the silence that surrounded her. She began to read the faces of the other postulants, imagining what they were thinking, but as always, her imagination was all she had. Cleaning duties were long and strenuous, with never-ending corridors of ceramic tiles to scrub on knees which by now had become hard, grazed, and permanently red.
She worked each day in the gardens. The earth inside the monastery, a rich red soil, was perfect for growing just about any edible vegetable, and it was in sharp contrast to the brown dirt-filled desolate fields outside. Marta tugged and pulled roots, picked tomatoes, and turned the soil over with hands blistered and caked in dirt that refused to depart even after the most arduous scrubbing.
She tried not to, but she looked forward to lunchtimes most of all. Every one of the postulants ate with unladylike speed, waiting for the bell to announce the commencement of the conversational hour. A rising crescendo o
f voices filled the long stone hall with subjects ranging from holy dreams to what they’d experienced in Mass that morning. Everyone took that time to get to know each other. Where they’d come from was the most frequent question, followed by what made them decide to become a nun. There was no outside communication on any level: no newspapers, no radio to listen to, and no family with comforting words. The world outside the walls of the convent became a receding, distant place that Marta once knew.
Chapter 41
Miguel’s arrival in Valladolid heralded a new beginning for him. Just like his sister Marta, he too had a vocation, only his would be one of politics and, if necessary, violence. He could hardly contain his excitement, for not only was he now in the heart of the movement he loved, but he was also going to be at the very heart of the long-awaited elections and their outcome. The elections would take place on 16 February and it had been decided that the Phalanx would join with the JONS: Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional Sindicalista, the National-Syndicalism Offensive movement. With his legal skills, Miguel found himself in a position of proximity to one of his heroes, Onésimo Redondo Ortega, a man who’d not only founded the anti-republican newspaper, Libertad, but had also successfully joined these two groups together.
As far back as 1932, Miguel had followed the reports and progress of the Phalanx. He had tried to make his father understand that his decision to join them was not based on a recent whim or notion but was based on years of study. But he hadn’t wanted to listen; his father never listened to him. He was always too busy boasting about Pedro’s military career, María’s agricultural aptitudes, and Marta’s pathetic vulnerabilities. Here, he’d have like-minded people to talk to. He understood them, and they would understand him. They would bond together like brothers in a united family.
Miguel was desperate to meet Onésimo Redondo. His speeches were legendary, and many young men from Valencia had already joined him. In 1934, Redondo had given his momentous speech to the thousands of followers who had come from as far as Madrid and other far-off Castilian provinces. Miguel had harboured regrets in his life, and one of them was that he hadn’t been able to attend that famous rally. Now he was part of it all, in the thick of history in the making.
After two weeks, Miguel had opened enough doors to secure a position of trust in Onésimo Redondo’s inner circle and attended no less than five different meetings with him, but on the evening of the 16 February, his world began to crumble. Defeat at the hands of the republicans, who had won with a handsome majority, had left him shocked and disillusioned, and his aspirations of political power were fading with each passing day. He had worked tirelessly, in a democratic fashion, in a way that would have made even his father and brother proud. He’d been promised a minor position in government had they won; now, the only promise he received was one of incarceration at the hands of a government they had hoped to topple.
On 7 March, he and several other members of the Phalanx planted a bomb outside the police station in Valladolid. Onésimo Redondo was later arrested along with the local Phalanx leaders and put in prison, but this only encouraged Miguel to take bolder and more dangerous measures against the new republican government. He had analysed his position and his options. The opposition had made it clear that they would go to war with the Phalanx and attempt to stamp out their cause without a moment’s hesitation. He made his decision without any lingering doubts. He linked up with the more militant end of the Phalanx Party, refusing to sit in an office writing rhetoric and printing leaflets, and he also refused to accept the corrupt republican win.
The Phalanx terror squads, as they were known, made every effort to cause fear amongst the people, and as spring warmed the air and the almond blossoms flourished, so did the violence. Miguel had his goals firmly placed in his mind: the Phalanx would make sure that every meeting and discussion between the warring parties was brought to naught, that they would be rendered a complete waste of time. He and his colleagues would breed hatred and mistrust until war became necessary for all parties. A violent and total destruction of the republican government was, in his mind, the only way forward.
Chapter 42
“Ernesto, hurry – we don’t want to be late!” Celia shouted to her husband through his impenetrable conservatory door.
The day had finally arrived; they were going to see Marta. Celia tapped the heel of her shoe against the floor with an impatient scowl crossing her face. She had been waiting for this day for so long that she’d thought it would never come. Maybe, just maybe, she’d kept telling herself, Marta would see them and suddenly decide that they were more important than her vows. She had told the family to be ready at precisely nine. It was now ten past nine, and still she waited.
“Come down right now, María Martinéz, or we’ll go without you!”
Ernesto closed the door of his conservatory and stood in front of Celia to be inspected.
“Good, at last!” she said furiously.
“Celia, we have plenty of time to get there, and it’s not as if Marta’s going anywhere.”
“I know that! But a lot depends on today. I just want to get to there and bring her home.”
Ernesto tactfully reminded her, “Now, we talked about that last night, all night, and you promised not to get your hopes up. We’re going to see her. That’s the most important thing.”
“Stop patronising me!” Celia snapped back. “All I have is hope. I want her back, Ernesto! Why can’t you understand that?”
“I do understand. She’s my daughter too, you know!”
“I know. I know you do, but you don’t believe that today’s mission will be successful. Marta’s already been there for over three months, and I know that you think she won’t change her mind now, but I do. I think she’ll see us and decide to come home then and there. She loves us.”
Celia put her arms around Ernesto’s waist, sorry for losing her temper. In her mind, she didn’t believe her own words, but she had to keep saying them. She wanted to cling to the hope that her husband had lost. She had to believe for both of them, for this was their very last change to grab Marta back from the Church.
“As quick as you can, Jávier,” Celia told the driver as soon as María appeared at the front door.
“Celia, we won’t be late. We’ve got plenty of time,” Ernesto reminded her again.
Stepping into the car, a grumpy María told her, “Father’s right. Stop fussing, Mother. Can’t you sleep a little on the way? Father, tell her to sleep. She looks tired. She kept me up all night drinking hot chocolate. I’m drowning in the stuff.”
Celia raised her eyebrows at María. She had told her specifically not to mention the fact that they were up half the night.
“I can’t sleep. I don’t want to miss a thing. I want to see the almond blossoms on the way. They’re beautiful this time of year. Darling, read the letter again.”
Ernesto took the folded letter, which Celia had read at least fifty times, out of his jacket pocket. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud:
Only three people will be allowed to visit. There is a strict dress code that must be adhered to, and there is to be no talking until you are officially inside the designated area. Your transport is to be parked outside of the village but not too close to the convent’s walls.
It’s like receiving orders from a high-ranking general conducting an undercover mission,” he said sarcastically.
“I know, but at least they’re allowing us to see her,” Celia pointed out.
“Then we should be grateful for small mercies.”
After a drive that seemed to go on forever, the car stopped on the outskirts of the small inland village of Cocentaina. They left the driver to lock up, telling him to go for a coffee. They walked up the hill like three brave soldiers facing defeat but not admitting it, clutching hands and speaking in whispers, afraid of being discovered by the enemy.
“It’s all right to talk now, Mother,” María said to Celia, who wore a scared and somewhat reverent expres
sion. “It’s only when we get inside that we have to do all that weird stuff.”
“All right, so I’m practising,” Celia told her, being perfectly serious.
Marta sat inside the small chapel praying for forgiveness: the previous night she had spoken after recreation finished. She had been properly punished, having forgone breakfast, but she was still reeling with the shame of it all. She’d failed miserably. She had sinned, and to make matters worse, all she could think about was the pending arrival of her family. Concentrate, Marta, she kept telling herself. Concentrate. Don’t think about them. Think about your sin and pray for mercy.
Marta left the chapel and crossed the gardens to the monastery’s main building that housed the nuns, and then she washed and changed quickly into her best robes. Today was going to be difficult, she acknowledged, straightening her veil. The world had faded away recently, and everything she remembered and loved about it had been tucked nicely into the very back of her mind. True, she had thought about her family, especially María, but they hadn’t seemed real. Only the convent was real now. Today her mother, father, and María would be here, and she wondered how she’d feel colliding once again with the real world and real people. She looked forward to seeing them, but in some ways, she dreaded seeing their familiar faces. Her mother’s anxious smile would melt her heart. Her father’s kind eyes that had always comforted her would make her want to run into his arms. And María’s teeth, chewing her lip in outspoken condemnation of the convent, would make her realise just how much she missed her.
