The Guardian of Secrets

by Jana Petken

  The body on top of him was lifted. Miguel remained deathly still, holding his breath, and thought that it was now or never. He let his bloodied body grow limp. He felt invisible hands grab his feet and arms; he was being lifted off the ground. The men carrying him were talking about the party they were going to have that night and didn’t seem to be paying him much attention. His newly found will to survive helped him to continue to hold his breathing in check and to relax every muscle in his body. His eyes were closed and caked in blood, but the sunlight penetrated his eyelids. He was outside. He landed with a thump on top of the mangled flesh and bones of other bodies and presumed that he was now on the truck. Another body fell on top of him … and then another. He exhaled, but it was getting darker and darker. The weight of the bodies made it almost impossible for him to start breathing normally again, but still he didn’t move a muscle. He lay awkwardly beneath the remains of what had been his friends and officers for what seemed like hours. The truck he was on bumped along uneven roads, and the heavy weight on top of him becoming unbearable. He could only manage to take short, sharp breaths.

  After a while, Miguel lost all consciousness, but only for a few moments. Then, in his drowsy state, he felt himself being lifted once again. He floated on air for just a second, and then landed awkwardly on top of what he could only imagine were other bodies. He was still blind, still unable to open his eyes, but he felt once again the weight of every arm, leg, head, and torso that came after him, covering him with sickening accuracy. The pain was excruciating now, and he almost cried out. A booted foot from somewhere had broken his nose, but he couldn’t let the enemy know he was still alive. More bodies followed, landing on top of him, until his lungs almost ceased to function. He finally opened his eyes to the darkness and heard a muffled voice.

  “We’ll cover them tonight. It’ll be cooler then.”

  He stopped breathing, stifling wretched sobs rising from deep in his stomach. He was in a grave; he was going to die!

  After the shock had worn off, Miguel began to breathe again in short, shallow gulps of air and attempted to concentrate on what to do next. Should he get up? he wondered. Should he try to get out from under the bodies? Were there still guards around? Would he suffocate? He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions. He was confused and had lost consciousness four or five times. Muffled voices that sounded far away could still be heard talking and laughing, but he decided that if he were to have any hope of survival, he would have to make a move.

  Slowly and painfully, he began to dislodge body after body to worm his way to the top of the pile. Coupled with the glaring light beyond, the darkness confused his eyes, and the heat of the sun on his face made him aware that he was shivering with a coldness that comes with shock.

  He was almost at the top now and could see through the broken limbs that guarded his body’s secret. He breathed deeply, drinking in the air. Then, very cautiously, he looked around him. He was in a field surrounded by trees. There were republican assault guards behind the treeline, about two hundred metres in front of his position. They were still laughing, but they were farther away than he’d first thought. He craned his neck like a goose and scanned every point on the horizon. There was a river behind him, winding its way like a snake across the countryside. To the left was a narrow dirt road; the trucks were parked there, facing north. If he could just get to the river, he thought, he might be able to swim safely to the other side and hide there until nightfall. The landscape was reasonably flat and was covered in pampas grass, which confirmed that the river close by was his best option.

  He looked again at the tree-line and saw that only two or three Republican guards remained; they were the burial party. If he waited any longer, he would be waiting for death, and he wasn’t prepared to die just yet. He studied the movements of the enemy soldiers for a minute or so and then slowly began to crawl on his elbows and stomach across the top layer of bodies. The grave was shallow; and he was able to pull himself into the tall rushes that surrounded it without having to change his body’s position. He turned and looked once more into the faces of his Phalanx brothers, squeezing his eyelids closed in a quick, silent prayer.

  Tears blinded him as he crawled through the rushes and cacti until he came to the edge of the embankment that sloped down to the water’s edge. He slithered into the murky water like a sea snake and swam underneath the surface until the pain in his arm became so bad that he couldn’t use it anymore. He floated on his back and stared up at the sky. The tide was with him, and he eventually reached the shore on the other side. He found a spot of ground that was covered by long grass and rocks and, without the strength to move farther, curled his body into a tight ball and let the darkness take him.

  He awoke with a start just as dusk fell, and he watched the sun go down behind the distant mountains. They reminded him of Valencia. Tears fell in a jumble of strange, alien emotions. He had survived … Why? How? As he lay there, the sudden realisation hit him hard: war was not the noble or glorious adventure that he’d imagined it to be. War was not the one-sided battle where he and his kind would emerge unharmed and unaffected by death. Death was real and would come to both sides. Skin would bleed, bones would break, and enemies would suffer in equal terms. This was reality, and he was no longer a terrorist. He was a soldier fighting for his life against an enemy that now deserved respect in battle …

  Chapter 49

  La Glorieta and its inhabitants braced themselves for the news that would surely come. The end of La Glorieta’s glorious history was near, and a dire future was just around the corner. A small garrison of Guardía Civil Guards now housed themselves in the guesthouse, guarding, protecting, and punishing any man or woman who threatened the Martinéz family. Ernesto had fought against the idea. He’d never needed the protection of the Civil Guards before, but he’d conceded that they were living in dangerous times and the peasants’ loyalty and obedience towards their masters no longer existed.

  Ernesto had made a few hasty trips into Valencia, meeting with friends at his club, where the news was grim. He listened to the stories of attacks on his neighbours, venting years of anger and frustration, by their own workers. They left him with a chilling recognition that it was only a matter of time before La Glorieta was targeted, before they too felt the wrath of a people too long enslaved.

  Most nights after dinner, the family huddled together by the radio in Ernesto’s salon. Reports were sketchy, often biased, and in Ernesto’s opinion, most were probably untrue. The telephone wires had been cut days earlier, making it impossible to contact Marta’s mother superior at the convent, and they’d received no news at all of Miguel or Pedro. With their sons in mind, they waited for news of any altercations in Valladolid and in Spanish Morocco. All that they could ascertain was that violent street fighting was happening just about everywhere, and that there had been victories and defeats on both sides.

  Celia’s days were spent in a blur of tears mixed with anger. She wrote to Marta, ordering her to come home. She also wrote to Miguel’s last known address in Valladolid, but she’d heard nothing back from either of them. Her journals spoke of her fears and sadness:

  26 July 1936

  All we hear is the sound of men marching to war with their victory songs. What victory is there in war for any side? I have heard nothing from Pedro since the seventeenth of this month and nothing at all from Miguel since the beginning of June. I am finding it difficult to sleep for fear of them lying somewhere in Africa or Valladolid or wherever they are, bloodied or dead.

  Why do politicians and generals have the power to say who may live and who must die? I was born naked, as were all my children and everyone I know in the world. We all came out of our mothers’ wombs alone, and when we die, each of us shall be placed into a box alone. Does it therefore follow that any man with rank, fame, or wealth should be given the right to choose what we do, where we live, how we think while we’re on this earth, or how we die? No, I don’t think so! My boys ha
ve gone from me at a time when we should all be together. Isn’t that what families do – stay together in times of trouble?

  I am dreading tomorrow and the day after and the day after that! Thank God Marta is safe, tucked away in her little corner of heaven, shielded from this madness, although I have insisted that Ernesto must go and bring her home, no matter what she says this time! Thank God for my darling Ernesto, who holds me in his arms at night and comforts me when I fail to stop the tears from falling. Without him, I would be lost.

  I am sure that my entire family think that I have not one realistic thought in my tiny brain, but I know exactly what’s going on. It’s just that someone in this house has to maintain an atmosphere of normality, so I act the way I do for them. Is that so wrong of me?

  Today Aunt Marie suggested that we go home to Merrill Farm for a while. The thought hit me that the idea was not so unpleasant to me, but then I realised that my family are Spanish through and through, and if they are involved in this atmosphere of hate which is choking the life out of us all, then I should of course be here for them all, in my home. It’s strange, but I feel that Merrill Farm is no longer my home. It’s just a distant memory, and if it burned to the ground, I shouldn’t really worry too much about it.

  María still works in the fields from morning ’til night, not allowing herself to think about what’s going on. She has become quiet and distant, as though something is lying heavily on her heart. She barely talks about Marta now, but I know that she is grieving terribly, and I don’t know what to say to help her.

  Ernesto saw the danger coming closer to home with every passing day. However, when the war did arrive at his doorstep, it was like a sudden gust of wind that took even him by surprise. The launch of violent altercations and strength of hatred from peasants and unionists throughout the region was fast and furious. Most of his workers were now on strike, as was the biggest workforce under the CNT, the dockyard workers. He guessed that if the CNT and the Popular Front formed some sort of alliance, the republic would take the region, so he listened to the radio every waking hour until it was clear that negotiations had begun between the two groups.

  A neighbour told Ernesto that when a group of Civil Guards sent with some workers to help in another area reached their destination, they shot the workers and ran off to join the rebel nationalists. That same neighbour was dragged out of his house and killed along with his own family two days later. The supporters of the republican government had, by far, the bigger numbers in the area, and they easily overpowered the small garrisons of Civil Guards loyal to the rebel nationalists. On hearing this news, Ernesto, with a heavy heart, recognised and accepted the need for his family to escape the region. Reprisals had been swift against the smaller landowners who were shot or dismembered in front of their families, with their wives and children then suffering the same fate. Priests in the area also suffered cruel and often agonising torture before death for their support of the elite aristocratic caciques group. Ernesto would not risk his family to the same fate. He loved his home, but their safety was more important to him than bricks and mortar. His only plan now was to get his family, including Marta, to safety.

  Ernesto sat in his conservatory and went over everything again. He had managed to get a message through to his friend Francisco, a port customs officer who had dealt with his consignments for years. Ernesto asked him to wire Jack Rawlings’s son George with a view to leaving for England at the earliest opportunity. There was a curfew around the docks in Valencia, so the port of Gandía would be their only option. Francisco had explained to him that even if one of the Rawlings’s line ships could anchor, there was no guarantee that it would be allowed to leave, but he would take that risk; so would George Rawlings.

  The house was packed up. Belongings that could be carried were in one of the salons and ready to go, but all other possessions, including family heirlooms and antiquities, were left to the hands of fate. It was late in the afternoon when Ramón, Carlos’s father, appeared at the door. Ernesto let out a sigh of relief. His arrival from Valencia had been expected, and the reply from Rawlings had come back. The message sent from sea to the port authority under Francisco’s name was short but sweet to Ernesto’s eyes:

  Rawlings’s ship will dock in Gandía tomorrow morning. It will wait for four hours, no longer. I will meet you at the docks, 0700 hrs.

  Your friend,

  Francisco

  Ernesto sat in his conservatory and pondered his next move. His first objective was to get Marta out of the convent. She was taking the veil tomorrow. He, Celia, and María were supposed to attend the ceremony, and that was when they would take her. For days, he’d toyed with the idea of bringing forward his plans, going to the convent under some pretext of family business and getting Marta out any way he could, but the mother superior would never have given him access; only when she took the veil would they be invited in. He poured some coffee into his cup and screwed up his face. It was cold.

  His plans for Marta had to be brought forward, as the ship was now coming sooner than planned. He would not be able get to the convent and back in time for its departure, and he could not risk the life of his wife and other daughter on the road to the convent, where militant republican checkpoints had been set up every two kilometres or so.

  He spoke now to Ramón, who was waiting for instructions. The decision was made quickly: they would leave within the hour. Ramón, in possession of a Communist Party membership card, would drive the old battered truck used to ferry workers from different parts of the orange groves. They would take the old inland road, barely used now, and travel over the mountains skirting the town of Játiva until they reached Cocentaina and the convent. They would collect Marta, kicking and screaming no doubt, and he would use force if necessary. Ramón’s youngest son was ordered to leave at five in the morning with the women and was told not to stop until he reached Gandía. There they would meet Francisco, who would be instrumental in getting them on the ship.

  Ernesto cupped the brandy glass and stared at the mountains burnt red from the setting sun. He was running away; loyalty and trust had disappeared. He was no longer master of La Glorieta or of its people. They would come and pillage his house, his family’s treasures, and its proud traditions. An era had ended. The people had spoken.

  “Where is Don Ernesto?”

  Ernesto jumped at the sound of Ramón’s voice and ran into the hallway. Ramón rushed towards him and then stopped suddenly. His eyes, wide with panic, darted around the hallway and refused to meet Ernesto’s face.

  “Don Ernesto, sir, I …”

  “What is it, man? Speak up,” Ernesto said, trying to keep some measure of calm.

  “Don Ernesto, the news is not good. You have run out of time. They’re coming.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “A mob mostly, but government Asaltos are with them … and some men and women from the village.”

  “Damn … damn!” Ernesto spat, thinking about Marta. “Where are they now?”

  “About fifteen minutes away. The main road, down by the east groves. There’re about thirty of them; they’re armed with guns, and some are carrying gasoline. They killed the Guardía Civil, and they know there’s no going back now. They want blood, your blood. You will all have to leave right now. Sir, you cannot delay any longer. The whole countryside is crawling with militia, as far inland as Játiva. They have taken over the province.”

  Ernesto stood open-mouthed, struck dumb. The moment he’d been dreading had finally arrived. He had to remain calm. He had to think, but there was no time to think.

  “Ramón, get the truck round to the front. I’ll get the women. Hurry, Ramon! We have very little time!”

  Ernesto realised that there would be no time to get to the convent for Marta – no time for anything except a hasty departure towards the coast. To go inland with the four women would be sheer folly. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Ramón, promise me you’ll get to Marta, that yo
u’ll get her to the docks somehow. Promise me!”

  “Padrone, you know I will.”

  Ernesto ran upstairs and stood in the centre of the first floor landing shouting for his wife, daughter, aunt Marie, and Rosa The four women appeared at the salon door together, where they had been taking an afternoon beverage. Ernesto wasted no time and spoke with authority.

  “Get your things quickly and I mean quickly. We’re leaving right now. Do you all understand?” The four women nodded and then scattered to their rooms for last minute necessities”

  Minutes later, Ernesto greeted them at the front door. The women carried a small bag each. Nobody spoke, but he could tell that their fear mirrored his.

  “We have to go now,” Ernesto told them with a calmness he didn’t feel.

  “Marta?” Celia asked, staring at Ernesto as though it were the first time she’d ever seen him.

  Ernesto drew her close and stroked her hair. “There’s no time, darling. Ramón will go for her as soon as we’ve left. I’ll tell Jack Rawlings to wait off shore for a few hours longer, and she’ll meet us on board … We have to be positive.”

  “Positive!” Celia shouted angrily. “How can we be positive? There are men coming here to kill us. They’re not coming for a cup of tea, you know, and what if Ramón can’t get to her? What then, Ernesto?”