by Jana Petken
Ernesto stopped dead in his tracks. The only word he had heard was ‘tomorrow’. He had thought maybe a week or two. “Tomorrow? So soon? It’ll kill your mother. You know that, don’t you?”
“Mother is strong, though we all seem to wrap her up in tissue paper, believing she’ll break at life’s slightest obstacle. She’ll get over it, and it’s not as if I haven’t been there before.”
“What’s going on, you two? I can smell a conspiracy in the air,” Celia said, appearing from nowhere.
Ernesto took her by the arm and sat her on the couch. Then he went to the drinks cabinet and poured her a sherry. She would have to be told right now, he decided.
Celia said nothing, but her suspicious eyes stared into Pedro’s face, and she just knew that something was terribly wrong. She continued to watch him, remembering the last time she saw him like this; it was when he told her he was going to Morocco.
“What is it? Tell me,” she said in a dead voice.
“I don’t want you getting all upset,” Ernesto said.
“Well, now I am upset. Whenever you say not to get upset, it’s because you know I’m going to get upset!”
“I’ve been posted back to Morocco,” Pedro told Celia without looking at her.
“No! I won’t allow it. Tell them you can’t go. You’ve spent enough time down there. Tell them to send someone else. Ernesto, talk to him.” She began to sob.
“He’s got to go,” Aunt Marie said, stepping out of the shadows in the doorway after listening to the entire conversation. “Celia, he’s in the army, for God’s sake. It’s his job.”
“And I’m his mother and I say no, categorically no!” Celia shouted angrily.
Pedro listened to the raised voices. No one was taking any notice of him, and he made a quick exit on to the patio. Outside, he thought about his mother. There was no point talking to her when she was having one of her episodes. He knew her so well and that look in her eyes that said, I don’t want to discuss it further. Make it go away. She’d never been good at coping with anything that encroached on her perfect, uncomplicated world, but this time she would have to. There was going to be many changes in her world, and she would not be able to ignore them any longer. He thought about the changes to come, and his heart went out to her. He would be the third child to leave her this year. Marta would never come back home, and Miguel was lost to an obsession that could last for years. He’d have to be very tactful if he were to get through the evening without upsetting her further.
He lit a cigarette and rested his head against the patio’s stone wall. The army wasn’t the only thing on his mind tonight. He had so much to do, other people to see. Lucia came floating into his head and danced in front of his eyes. Lucia Mora. He’d met her at his garrison two months previously, at a dinner party hosted by Captain Salvador Mora, his captain and, her father. Salvador was a military man through and through but had not wished to climb the ranks beyond captain for various reasons, the most prevalent being that he didn’t want to sit at tables with men who were soldiers yet equally insistent that they were the political answer to Spain’s problems. Captain Mora was not a politician; he was just a soldier doing his job.
Pedro secretly believed that Mora was a strong supporter of the republican government. He’d overheard him speaking one night to another officer in his office and it was clear that Mora thought the republican government was the only way forward, democratically and in gaining closer ties to Europe. Personally, Pedro agreed with this sentiment and had admired him ever since then. Since that dinner party, where he’d first met Lucia, he’d spent many evenings at Captain Mora’s house. Lucia was the most enchanting girl he’d ever met. She was beautiful outside and inside. She made him laugh and experience longings so strong that they kept him awake at night. She was clever too, he thought with pride. She had just graduated from her nursing course, and her caring nature would make her an excellent nurse. His career had always been his priority. Women and marriage had always been at the bottom of his list, but Lucia had come into his life just after his return from Spanish Morocco and had washed away his ambitions into insignificance. He had planned to tell his parents about her and had even thought about bringing her home tonight for a formal introduction, but he knew that his mother wasn’t up to hearing any more news of any kind. He was going to marry Lucia one day, and had it not been for the dangerous and unpredictable times they were living in, he would have asked for her hand already. He smiled. This spate of uncertainty would be over soon, and then he’d bring her home.
Pedro walked over to the window and peered inside. His mother was standing in the corner of the room, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and María was talking to her. His sister was strong, free-spirited, intelligent, and so level-headed. He had often thought that should things erupt, it wouldn’t be his father or his mother who would hold the family together. It would be María. María knew all about Lucia. He’d shown Lucia’s photograph to her on his last visit home. María thought her pretty, although she also said that beauty was only skin-deep and that she would have to meet her in person before giving him her blessing, typical of María, Pedro thought. For as long as he could remember, María was always asking why, never accepting things at face value. She digested every piece of information given to her, still questioning, until she had absolute proof that the information was correct. She would have made a great soldier.
Pedro waved to María through the glass, and she spotted him and waved back before continuing to give their mother her full attention. María was having a hard time of it. He could see from his vantage point that his mother was becoming more and more agitated. He had talked to María for hours about what was going to happen and sharing their mutual disappointment in Miguel, who had run off to become a fascist. She was probably the one who would suffer most in the coming weeks; she was the only one left. Miguel and Marta had already gone, and now he was leaving home at a potentially dangerous time, and it was more than his mother, any mother, should have to bear. Through the window, Pedro could also see his father talking to Aunt Marie. “Don’t upset Celia,” he imagined his great-aunt saying right about now. His father’s indignant reply would be, “Of course I won’t upset her. I know how fragile she is.”
Pedro went back inside, crossed to the drinks cabinet in the far corner of the room, and poured himself a sherry. He looked at his mother and thought, again, that she had the uncanny knack of being able to shut things away in the back of her mind and pretend that they weren’t there. He never really knew what she thought about anything, as she had so little opinion about most things. She was simply a mother of four, six if he included Aunt Marie and Auntie Rosa. He smiled, correcting his mistake. His mother was the most sensitive woman he’d ever met. She was like a tiny fragile bird that had to be protected at all costs. He would play her game tonight, the ‘Let’s pretend everything is all right’ game. He continued to watch her and was filled with love and pity. He wondered how she was going to take the war when it came. She’d been through so much in her life already.
He suddenly recalled the night she had told him about Joseph Dobbs. He’d been about eight years old at the time and had walked into her room unannounced whilst she was dressing for dinner. She had been naked, with her back to him, and he had walked silently over to where she stood. It was then that he saw the scars on her back for the first time. He’d gasped aloud in shock, and then he’d cried. No, more than that, his body had trembled with loud, painful sobs. The scars looked as though they were painted on, deep red in colour and surrounding raised white-tipped skin. They travelled from her shoulders right down to the small of her back, criss-crossing in perfectly straight lines. She’d turned, aware of him, and he would never forget the look on her face.
They sat on the bed, and she told him everything. They cried together for a long time, but she told him over and over again that no matter what had happened between them, Joseph Dobbs was his father, and he’d loved him right up to when he died –
was executed, more like.
“You are staying for dinner, aren’t you, darling?” Pedro heard his mother say, appearing in front of him.
“Yes, of course, Mother. I’m starving, and I’m not going back until morning.”
“Wonderful. But I don’t want to hear any talk on nasty subjects such as strikes, or gunfire, or peasants’ risings, or you going back to that godforsaken place. Is that clear, everyone?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Yes, dear,” Ernesto told her.
Pedro decided to enjoy the evening, make his mother happy or happier if he could, hold on the his father’s every word and badger, laugh and chat with Maria, whom he adored. The conversation settled on mundane everyday things like the price of oranges, the latest gossip from Valencia, a planned holiday his parents were taking to the South of France, and of course Marta’s ceremony on 4 August.
Pedro noted that his mother did most of the talking, probably afraid to still her tongue for fear of hearing anything that would upset her even more. Even his Aunt Marie found it difficult to get a word in edgeways.
Heand his father listened, smiled, and frowned when they thought they ought to, looking astounded when that particular expression was called for. But Pedro guessed that his father’s mind was on different matters entirely; he knew his own was.
He laughed with María, she was her usual bubbly self, and he listened to her when she read a letter that she’d recently received from Marta, informing the family about her days and underlining the part where it stated that she was in a small earthly corner of heaven and loved her new life.
Pedro was glad when his Auntie Rosa refused to stay for the meal. Rosa told everyone at the table that she would prefer to go to her room and quietly contemplate the mysteries of the universe, or words to that effect. She had become intolerable, Pedro thought, watching her leave the dining room. Ever since Marta had left, it was as though all her preaching and praying had finally paid off, and she never let them forget it. According to her, she had personally given Marta to God as a gift, and because of that, she would receive everlasting life and thanks for her act of kindness. He knew that his father had grown to hate his own sister, although he did his best to hide his feelings. Maybe, Pedro thought, trying to hide a smile, God’s one act of kindness towards his Aunt Rosa would be to throw her to the anarchists. That would be doing them all a favour!
At around midnight, Celia, María, and Aunt Marie decided to retire for the night. At the door, the three women stopped in their tracks. Celia cried openly for the second time that evening and, unable to stop herself, ran once more into Pedro’s arms.
“I love you. Write to me and don’t stay away for too long. And promise me you’ll stay safe and that you won’t volunteer for anything dangerous.”
Pedro promised, and after his mother had left the room, still sobbing, he turned to his Aunt Marie.
“Auntie, look after her for me,” he said with a catch in his voice.
Marie whispered in his ear, “God bless you, darling. I know you won’t be back for a long time so listen very carefully. I want you to watch your back, keep your head down, and for God’s sake, don’t give an opinion. Opinions are dangerous in this madness, and madmen might not like them. Do you understand me?”
Pedro nodded to indicate that he did. He understood completely.
Pedro and Ernesto faced each other, sitting in the high-back leather armchairs in Don Miguel’s salon. Each had a brandy and cigar in his hands, and each wore serious, anxious frowns. Pedro had been thinking a lot about La Glorieta, specifically about the family’s continuing residence there. Would they remain safe with angry mobs roaming the countryside? he wondered.
“Why is this happening?” he asked. “I think the whole of Spain has gone stark raving mad. Father, I remember a time when the peasants on this land thought you were God Almighty, but as I drove up the drive tonight, I saw Ramón’s son, Carlos, walking down the drive towards the gates. He was friendly enough – he’s a good man, and I’ve always liked him – but something was different about him. He stared at my uniform as though it were the first time he’d ever seen it, and when I asked him where he was going, he said, ‘Somewhere that doesn’t have anything to do with your father’s empire’. All I see when I come home are eyes that stare with unmasked hatred and a lust for revenge.”
Ernesto shook his head and let out a tired sigh. He knew well what was in the hearts and minds of his workers.
“I know, but I can’t say I blame them entirely for what’s happening. The two-class system in this country has gone on long enough – far too long, if you ask me. Yet we have a republican government which doesn’t seem to be able to get any kind of reforms through the Cortes. Let’s face it, President Azaña and his government are weak. The country is angry, son. Everybody’s so damned angry.”
“It’s going to be war, isn’t it? As if the threat from Hitler’s growing war machine isn’t enough to contend with.”
Ernesto said quietly, “Yes, son, it’s going to be war. What do you think is going to happen now? What do you think the army will do?”
Pedro sipped his brandy and thought about the question. For weeks, he’d gone through every possible scenario in his head and had concluded that it would not be the Phalanx who would start this impending war or the republican government. It would be the high-ranking generals of the Spanish army.
“I think the generals will start an uprising,” he told his father. “I don’t see it any other way.”
“Any in particular, or are you generalising?” Ernesto asked, not looking surprised at Pedro’s answer.
“Well, I believe just about all the major players in the army have been conspiring for months, maybe even years. If I’m right, most of them will be involved. You only have to look at the government’s actions to conclude that they’re scared of the army’s hierarchy. General Sanjurjo is exiled in Portugal. General Franco was sacked as chief of staff and sent to the Canary Islands. General Goded was transferred to the Balearic Islands, and General Mola, who was my commander in Africa, is to be sent to Pamplona, and it is more than just a rumour. The government is trying to separate them, keep them far apart, but if these generals, along with all the other right-wing factions, do get together somehow and come up with a cohesive plan, then God help us all!”
Pedro stopped talking. His father was trying to decide if he agreed or not.
“This is just an opinion, Father, my own thoughts on the matter.”
“I know, son, but I think you might be right,” Ernesto said with a worried frown. “And I also think that if there are conspirators out there, and if they succeed in their plan to overthrow the government, it will be the government’s own fault. The president and prime minister continue to ignore the repeated warnings that they’re receiving about plots. Did you know that General Mola has already been implicated in one?”
Pedro nodded his head. “Yes, but for the most part, what we hear at the base is nothing more than rumours, and they change from day to day.”
Pedro stopped talking. “How did you know about Mola?” he asked Ernesto.
“I still have my sources in Valencia and in Madrid,” Ernesto told him.
He knew about a lot more than just Mola, but he wasn’t sure how much to share with his son. Maybe the less Pedro knew, the less he’d have to worry and the less he would be implicated in, he thought.
“Mola was let off the hook. Do you know why?” Pedro asked with a sly look on his face.
“No, no more than you, but I think no action was taken against him because the government stupidly believe that, as they are the legitimate government, they will be supported by all of Spain, a naive conclusion at best, if you ask me,” Ernesto spat. “They are all a bunch of blind fools!”
Pedro nodded in agreement. “They know what’s coming but refuse to see it, as though ignoring it will make it all go away.”
“What about General Franco? You’ve met him, haven’t you?” Ernesto asked.
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Pedro nodded again and made a face. “Yes, in Morocco. He paid a visit to General Mola.”
“What’s he like?”
“Well, as you know, they like him down there. They’re a tough bunch of bastards in Morocco. They enjoy killing. It’s what they live for. Actually, it’s hard for me to believe that Franco was their commanding officer.”
“Why?”
Pedro smiled and then began to chuckle. “Well, imagine rough-and-ready soldiers who run for hours every day with backpacks filled with rocks … Moorish Rifian troops who would kill you sooner than look at you … And now imagine Franco. Tiny, in comparison, with his little piggish belly that makes him look like an egg. And that squeaky voice of his! He hardly fits the bill.”
“Well, he must have done something right.”
“Yes, I’m sure he did and don’t get me wrong. General Franco’s a bloody good soldier. In fact, the Moors are convinced that he’s invincible! You should hear the way they talk about him … Anyway, enough about that.”
Pedro was quiet for a moment and watched his father get up and pour them both another brandy.“What will you do here?” he asked Ernesto, changing the subject.
Ernesto didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crossed his legs, shifted in his chair, and stared out the open window. He’d asked himself this question many times in the last few months. What would he do? If the right took control of Valencia, he and his family would be safe, but his entire estate would be under the rebels’ control. If the republican government stayed in power, his estate would be dismantled piece by piece, with radical reforms derived from communist notions. Neither of these options sounded very appealing to him.
