by Diana Rosie
Jorge’s eyes widen. ‘What are you going to do with that?’ he asks.
I know he is hoping I will share it with him. And for a moment I am tempted. I can’t remember the last time I tasted chocolate – probably not since before the war began.
‘I’ll know when the time is right,’ I say. I fold the wrapper carefully round the precious squares and pop it into my apron pocket.
Jorge tries to hide his disappointment as he nods his consent. ‘I’ll go and set up the chairs for dinner,’ he says quietly as he limps out.
Poor Jorge. He told me he was injured in a farming accident as a young boy. He says his limp has never bothered him, but I know it does. He rarely talks about it, but others do, and I know it was his leg that stopped him from fighting for the Nationalist forces. Now he feels he’s failed to do his duty.
I know this because every Sunday, Señora Peña allows me to have the morning off to go to church. After the service, sitting in the shade of an old tree, the women sit and gossip. One day, I asked them about my friend at the orphanage and the story came out.
Jorge had a younger brother. An idealistic young man, he had become a local member of the Socialist Party. He had driven Jorge demented with his talk of oppression and rights for workers. Jorge is a religious man, and when his brother had spoken of a godless society, Jorge had not been able to hold his tongue. Their bitter argument turned violent and Jorge had thrown his brother out of the house.
The young man left for the city and became a political activist. Two years ago, Jorge heard that his brother had been arrested. The family have not heard from him since. Jorge still does not know if his brother was executed while a political prisoner, or if he was released when the Coalition of Socialists won the elections last year. Either way, Jorge believes the Republican movement took his brother from him.
When the war began, Jorge tried to join the army to fight for the Nationalists. I think he saw it as his chance to exert revenge on the Republicans – to beat the Rojos. He was rejected because of his limp. He tried again in two different towns but was told the pride of the Spanish National Army would not allow it. He argued that his passion for the cause would make him a better soldier than if he had two good legs. He was still refused.
Looking for another way to serve the Nationalists, he found work at the orphanage. He provides as much food as he can from the grounds and helps out as a handyman. I know he smuggles a few of the vegetables home to his wife and children, but he is a good man and cares for the orphans.
And the good Lord knows the poor little things need someone to care for them. They range in age from toddlers barely able to feed themselves to young adults who will soon be sent back out into the world. Many have been taken from their parents; some have seen their parents shot; all have witnessed things a child should not see.
The Church directs a strict programme of reeducation at the orphanage, which the priests and Señora Peña follow enthusiastically. So the children are taught, often cruelly, that their parents were evil Rojos whose actions have condemned them to an eternity in hell. The father drills the children until their generalísimo salute is perfect.
Jorge and I are not allowed to spend time with the orphans. We keep our heads down and provide what we can from the garden and the meagre rations the Church sends. It is our small contribution to the war.
But despite knowing the fight against the antireligious Republicans is right and just, my heart hurts when I see the little ones. They are constantly hungry, their shoes are worn through, and despite our best efforts, they are crawling with lice. And while the grand old house should be filled with their laughter and play, it is often silent with fear. These children have learnt to accept their lot. While the country fights on, their war is already lost.
As some of the older children and I finish serving the measly stew to the orphans, the bishop arrives at the dining room, flanked by the father and Señora Peña. Quickly, I withdraw to the kitchen and start the washing-up.
Jorge’s face appears at the window. ‘Isabel, another one’s just arrived.’
Nodding, I dry my hands on my apron and hurry through the back door. The last thing Señora Peña will want is a scruffy orphan arriving unannounced in the middle of the bishop’s visit.
Outside, a truck is parked on the driveway. Jorge is talking to the driver, a tall soldier, smart in his uniform. Beside them is a small boy. He is covered in dust and dirt, his shorts and jacket are torn, and one knee is caked in dried blood. He stands, looking at his boots.
‘Good afternoon, señorita,’ says the soldier as I approach.
‘Good afternoon,’ I smile at him. The soldier’s eyes are implausibly dark and the sunlight makes them twinkle. He smiles back – so warmly and generously that I stop, realizing how rare such a smile is these days.
‘Who is this?’ I ask, nodding at the boy.
The soldier ruffles the boy’s hair and says, ‘My friend here doesn’t talk much. He didn’t seem keen on telling me his name. Or anything else for that matter. But he needs a new home. This is the only orphanage I could think of, so I brought him here.’
Bending down, I look at the boy. Sun-bleached curls frame his face.
‘Hello,’ I say cheerfully. ‘My name is Isabel. What’s yours?’
The boy doesn’t even seem to register my existence and continues to look at his boots.
I try again. ‘Where are you from, child?’
He continues to ignore me.
After a pause, Jorge asks the soldier where he found the boy.
The soldier glances around, but realizing there’s no one to hear, he says quietly, ‘I heard the fighting had reached my home town. I was delivering supplies not far away, so I took a detour to check my family were all right. Father Francisco from my family’s church was looking after him. He wouldn’t tell me how the child had come to him, but he asked that I take him out of danger.’
The soldier looks down at the boy sadly. ‘He hasn’t spoken a word, and we’ve been driving most of the day.’
‘He’s probably seen things he doesn’t want to talk about,’ says Jorge softly.
‘We passed a stretch where there had recently been a battle. There were dead Rojos near the road. It seemed to affect him quite badly,’ agrees the soldier.
As I reach to stroke the boy’s face, he flinches and, in his terror, looks at me for an instant. His eyes are soft brown, flecked with green. I hear a rustle from his pocket and notice a piece of paper flutter to the ground.
Picking it up, I see it is the torn triangle of an envelope. On one side, the name ALBERT ROMERO is clearly written. There is more writing on the other side. This is a little harder to decipher, but with a gasp I realize that it is an address in England.
Quickly, I squirrel it into the pocket of my apron and look up. The soldier is sharing a cigarette with Jorge and chatting about whether the fighting will reach us. I don’t think they’ve seen the piece of paper.
Grasping the boy’s hand, I say loudly, ‘Jorge, I’m taking the boy into the kitchen to get him cleaned up. Don’t be long – the señora may need you.’
I turn to the soldier. ‘Thank you, señor.’
The soldier smiles back as I turn and walk away.
The boy trots along obediently beside me. As I open the back door, I turn and see the soldier is still looking at me. I lift my hand in a small wave before shooing the child inside.
In the kitchen, I motion the boy over to the long oak table, where he sits, still looking at his boots. I open the bread bin and take out the last crust. I was saving it for my supper, but I can do without. With my finger I drill a hole into the middle of the hard bread and then reach into my apron pocket and take out the chocolate. Unwrapping it carefully, I stuff the chocolate into the bread and pop it into the warm oven.
Then I rinse a cloth in water and approach the boy, who eyes me suspiciously.
‘I’m just going to wash your face, Alberto,’ I say gently.
I lift his
chin and start to wipe the grime off his face. He looks around slowly, taking in his new surroundings.
‘This is an orphanage, Alberto. There are lots of other boys and girls like you here. You’ll soon have friends. How old are you, Alberto? Have you been to school? You will have lessons here. The priests take the classes and will teach you to read and write.’
I continue cleaning the boy and speaking gently to him as I do so, although he does not respond. Eventually, his face and hands are clean and I rinse the filthy cloth in the sink. Then, opening the oven, I take out the toasted bread, wrap it in a little paper and hand it to the boy.
He accepts it sceptically and sits, holding it.
‘Alberto,’ I say quietly, hunching down to his level. ‘Alberto, the orphanage is run by people who do not like the Rojos.’ I reach into my pocket, bring out the piece of paper and hold it in front of him. ‘Who gave you this?’ I ask.
The boy looks at me intently but remains silent.
‘Alberto, this is an address in England. Did you meet a Republican soldier? Did he give you this?’
The boy just looks at me.
I sigh and brush a dusty curl off his face.
‘Alberto,’ I say seriously, holding the paper in front of his face, ‘this orphanage is run by the Church and supported by the Nationalists. When you do decide to talk again, do not speak of this.’
I stand, open the oven door and throw in the paper. It instantly curls and blackens; then a small orange flame flares, eating the paper until just a grey sliver of dust is left to settle on the floor of the stove.
I shut the door and turn back to the boy, but he is not looking. He has taken a bite out of the chocolate-soaked bread and is chewing it slowly.
He looks up at me, and I think I see the tiniest trace of a smile.
Chapter Three
Alberto held the little boy’s hand tightly as they walked along the corridor. The smell of disinfectant was pervasive and the child wrinkled his nose. Towards the end of the walkway, they reached a long window and Alberto slowed, looking in.
A large metal bed stood in the middle of the room. Lying on top of the white sheets, bound in white bandages, lay a motionless figure. Wires and tubes appeared from under the wrappings and were connected to a machine beside the bed. A woman in blue pyjamas, cap and face mask was adjusting a drip.
Sitting in a chair beside the bed was Juan Carlos’s mother. A semi-transparent yellow garment covered her customary black dress, and plastic booties concealed her black slippers. She too wore a blue face mask and cap. Her eyes were shut and Alberto couldn’t tell if she was deep in prayer or dozing.
Leaning over the bandaged head, talking gently to the man within was his daughter. She was wearing the same clinical garments as her mother-in-law, her long, dark curls swept up into a cap.
Absorbed in watching his daughter, he didn’t notice Tino let go of his hand, stand on his tiptoes and peer into the room – not until he heard a small gasp. Looking down, he saw the boy’s mouth open in shock and his wide eyes filling with tears. Juan Carlos’s mother’s head snapped up in time to see the old man pulling the reluctant child away from the window.
Leading him to some nearby chairs, Alberto helped the boy into the seat and sat next to him.
‘Apu, was that really Papá?’ he whispered. Large tears ran down his cheeks.
‘Yes, it was,’ he replied gently.
At that moment, the door opened and Tino’s mother walked out of the room. He jumped up and ran to her, and she took off her mask and bent down to hug him.
Alberto stood. After some quiet words, his daughter wiped the tears from her son’s eyes and led him back to Alberto.
‘Well?’ he asked.
Rosa sighed. He could see she was exhausted.
‘The doctor was worried Juan Carlos would go into shock last night. But he’s done well over the past few hours and they say he is stable now. The pain relief is very strong. He’s not conscious, but we speak to him constantly, so he knows he’s not alone.’
Alberto nodded.
‘I’ve been talking to the nurses. They say over the next few days it is essential that he avoids any risk of infection.’ She stopped speaking and looked down at her son, who held her hand with both of his. ‘I cannot leave Juan Carlos. Could Tino stay with you a little longer?’
‘You know he can stay as long as is necessary.’
Smiling weakly, Rosa nodded gratefully to her father.
Tap, tap, tap – the long stick struck the top branches and a hard brown shower of nuts bounced onto the green netting under the tree. Tino waited until the last almond had fallen, then, picking out the occasional leaf, gathered the nuts and put them into a large plastic bucket. Then he stepped back to the edge of the netting as his grandfather moved over to some other almond-laden branches and began tapping again.
When the tub was full, Alberto carefully put down the stick. Nodding to the boy, he picked up the tub and carried it over to the edge of the terrace, where they sat, in the shade of a lemon tree. The sun was still in full heat, and the pale brown earth on the terrace was cracked like an over-baked cake.
Alberto opened a bottle of water he had brought and handed it to the boy, who took a long drink. The old man took a few gulps and settled the bottle in the shade. Then he and Tino set to peeling the hard, leathery husks from their harvest, throwing the skins on the ground and putting the nuts with their distinctive pitted shells into a canvas bag.
‘Apu?’ asked the boy as they worked.
‘Yes.’
‘If you don’t know when your birthday is, do you still get birthday presents or have a party?’
‘No.’
‘But just because you don’t remember the date doesn’t mean you can’t just pick another date.’
‘Hmmmm.’
‘It’s my birthday soon. I’m going to be eight.’
‘I know.’
‘Apu?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to share my birthday with me? We could have a party together.’
The old man stopped and looked at the boy. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said.
He remembered the years that his wife had tried to do the same thing. Although the government had given him a date for his papers – 1 January – he had never thought of it as his birthday. Instead, María Luisa had suggested dates, both random and those that were important to them. He had never agreed, saying it was silly and pointless. But when their children had come along, he had enjoyed the presents and parties she’d organized for them, glad when they’d taken it for granted. That was how a childhood should be.
‘I’m too old for birthday parties now,’ he said, smiling.
‘But, Apu,’ continued Tino, ‘everyone should have a birthday. Even Grandma has a birthday every year – that’s how we know she’s so old.’
‘Do I need a birthday to know that I am old?’ asked Alberto.
‘No,’ agreed the boy. ‘But don’t you want to have a birthday?’
The old man shrugged. ‘I have managed all these years without one.’
‘Everyone should have a birthday, Apu.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because a birthday is your day. It’s the day when everybody comes to visit you. They bring gifts, and food, and you are with the people who love you. It’s a special day, Apu.’
Alberto looked at the boy, bemused.
‘You don’t know, Apu. Because you’ve never had a birthday. You don’t know how it feels. It’s a good day. I want you to know how it feels.’
Alberto nodded. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. But I would need a date for a birthday.’
‘You can share mine.’
‘No.’ The old man shook his head. ‘That is your special day, not mine. It’s good of you to offer to share it, but that day is just for you.’
Tino frowned, peeling the tough coat off an almond. ‘Then we will have to find your birthday,’ he said.
That evening,
Alberto sat in his weathered armchair, sipping a glass of brandy. His other daughter, Cristina, had married well and she and her husband lived in Madrid. Each year at Three Kings, they would visit with their family. They would present Alberto with an expensive bottle of brandy, which he accepted uncomfortably and savoured in private.
The television shouted the results of the lottery, but Alberto paid it no attention. The conversation about his birthday tap, tap, tapped at his mind. It had unsettled him, and he could not understand why. He had spent so many years not knowing his birthday. Why should the idea of it start to nag at him now? Was it that he was getting old, that he wanted to know before he died?
Suddenly, a shriek came from the other room.
Running next door and switching on the bedroom light, he saw the boy sitting up in bed, glossy with sweat. They had been to Rosa’s apartment earlier and picked up a bag of clothes, so the child was dressed in his own pyjamas. A small, tatty brown bear lay discarded beside him on the bed.
Alberto moved the bear so he could sit down and gathered the boy into his arms, stroking his damp head.
‘Was it a dream?’ he asked gruffly.
The boy started sobbing, clinging tightly to his grandfather.
Alberto hushed the boy, rocking him gently.
‘Tell me,’ he urged in a whisper.
Hiccupping air, the boy burrowed his head deeper into his grandfather’s chest. ‘It was Papá. He was trying to get out of the bandages, but they just kept wrapping more and more round him. I was shouting to let him out, but they didn’t hear me. Apu, they wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘Shhh,’ said the old man. He held the child tightly and rocked him. He tried to reassure him with words he believed to be true. ‘The doctors and nurses are helping him get better. They’re looking after your papá. Soon they’ll take the bandages off and you’ll see him again.’
Reluctantly, the old man remembered in the years after the war seeing men horribly disfigured by burns. But, these days, the medics could do so much more for the victims. At least, he hoped they could. He felt the child’s tears soak into his shirt.
