by Diana Rosie
‘Now, now, little one. It was just a bad dream. Dreams like that don’t come true. Forget about it and think of things that make you happy. Think how when your papá is better, you’ll play football with him at the park.’
Tino snuffled noisily.
‘Think about your birthday party,’ whispered the old man. ‘Your cake, covered with cream, and all those presents waiting to be opened. And the party with your friends and the games you’ll play.’
‘And your party too, Apu,’ sniffed the boy sleepily. ‘When we find your birthday.’
Alberto smiled, relieved that something had distracted the child from his distress.
‘Yes,’ said Alberto quietly. ‘We’ll have a party when we find my birthday.’
He felt the exhausted child relax in his arms and laid him down on the pillow, tucking the bear into the crook of his arm. Then he stayed awhile, making sure the boy was sound asleep, before going back into the living room, leaving the door open.
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes, picked up the glass of brandy and swallowed the remainder, relishing the sensation as the liquid slid down his throat.
Over the next few days, Alberto and the boy spent all of their time together. The old man was concerned to see Tino subdued and tense, so spent as much time as possible on his land keeping the child busy.
Together, they visited tree after tree, tapping the almonds to the ground. When all the nuts were harvested and rid of their husks, the old man loaded the last canvas bags onto the moped and walked the heavy bike along the road.
Back at the apartment, Alberto took two chairs downstairs to the street outside his apartment. He and Tino sat on the pavement, the bags of nuts between them. The old man gave the boy a simple nutcracker.
‘Mind your fingers,’ he told him.
While the boy set to cracking his first nut, Alberto stood a tall log between his legs and took a small hammer out of his pocket. Lifting an almond out of the nearest canvas bag, he placed it on the top of the neatly cut log and brought the hammer down on it with a swift rap. The almond shell split neatly, and he swept the broken bits onto the ground as he dropped the wrinkled nut into a large glass jar next to the boy.
‘Apu?’ said Tino as he emptied broken shells onto the pavement.
‘Yes.’
‘Where was the orphanage you lived at?’
‘Inland. It was a big hacienda surrounded by farmland. In the summer, it was as hot as here, but in the winter, it was bitterly cold and often snowed.’
‘But, Apu, now you live by the sea. Why did you come here?’
‘When the war ended, we were moved to a bigger institution in the city. That was a terrible place and I left as soon as I could. But the country was very poor then and there were no jobs. I was young, but I went looking for work and took it where I could find it. At harvest times, I would work on the farms for my food and keep. At other times, I would work in towns to help the builders reconstruct everything that had been destroyed in the war.
‘I travelled all over the country, sometimes walking, sometimes catching a lift on the back of a cart. After a while, I came to the coast. I found work at a farm during the olive harvest. It was at that farm I met my wife, your grandmother.’
Alberto remembered the farm and the long, sunny days he’d spent plucking the fat black olives from the trees, chatting easily with the farmer’s youngest daughter. She’d had curvy hips, a sassy attitude and a raucous laugh. She’d made him smile, and at lunch when the family and workers had sat at a long trestle table to eat, she’d served him larger portions than anyone else.
Her father had joked that if María Luisa continued to feed him so well, Alberto would become too fat to work and they’d have to let him go. Alberto had blushed, not used to being included in the lively banter of close family and friends. But the family had warmed to the shy boy María Luisa adored, and when the olive harvest had finished, her father had found more work for him on the farm.
‘And so you wanted to stay?’ asked his grandson.
‘And so I wanted to stay.’
‘And you never went back to where the orphanage was?’
‘No.’
‘We should go there.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s where we should start looking for your birthday.’
‘Why do you think I’ll find my birthday there?’
‘I don’t know. But I think it’s the only place to start, Apu. Don’t you?’
Alberto smiled and nodded at the boy.
‘Well, if I were going to go looking for my birthday, you’re right – it’s the best place to start,’ he said.
Looking up from his nutcracker, the boy smiled at his grandfather. It was only a small smile, but Alberto was relieved to see it.
‘Well, you two look very pleased with yourselves,’ said a cheery voice.
A wide woman walked up the street towards them. She was dressed in a blue-and-white patterned dress and carpet slippers. Her rosy cheeks glowed, and her broad smile revealed a missing tooth. Her grey hair was set in large curls, the rollers only recently removed.
‘Señora Ortiz,’ said Alberto. He politely nodded his head and set down the hammer.
‘We’re going looking for Apu’s birthday, señora,’ said Tino gleefully.
‘Are you? Well, I hope I can come to the party when you find it!’ said the señora. She winked at Alberto.
‘Oh yes, Apu. We’ll have to organize your first ever birthday party! Mamá can make all the food and there will be presents.’
‘That’s a lovely idea, little one,’ said the señora. She reached down and pinched Tino’s cheek. ‘The whole village will come to Alberto’s birthday party.’
Alberto smiled and shook his head at the silliness.
‘But, Papá, I don’t understand,’ said Rosa, frowning.
‘It’s just for a few days. I think it will be good for him.’
The old man had thought long and hard about it. Each evening, they had come to the hospital to look through the window at Juan Carlos, and each night, the nightmares had returned. Despite spending a busy day outdoors in the sunshine, the child had grey shadows under his eyes.
Worried about him, Alberto had let his grandson chatter on about the search for his birthday, happy that it distracted him from the anxiety he felt over his father. Finally, a week after Juan Carlos’s accident, he’d decided to ask his daughter if he could take his grandson away. They would travel inland to the orphanage – if it was still there. Most likely, that would be the end of the search, but at least the journey and change of scene would take Tino’s mind off his father.
‘But a family should be together – especially at a time like this,’ said his daughter. ‘And what about Tino? Shouldn’t he be near his father?’
‘He’s having nightmares, Rosa. Seeing his father like this upsets him. He doesn’t want to say anything to you, but he’s afraid to come into the hospital.’
His daughter looked at him, still confused. ‘But what about me, Papá? Doesn’t he want to be with me?’
The old man looked at his daughter and saw the anxiety in her eyes. Perhaps he shouldn’t have suggested it. A nurse had taken Tino off to the canteen to get a drink and Alberto had seen his opportunity to talk privately to Rosa. But it seemed he had made a mistake. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her more. His daughter knew what was best for her son, not him – it should be her decision.
‘Let him go,’ said Juan Carlos’s mother from across the corridor.
Alberto and his daughter both looked round in surprise. They hadn’t realized she had heard their conversation.
‘But—’ said Rosa.
‘No. It’s not good for him to see his father like this. He enjoys being with his grandfather. And a trip will be good for both of them.’
‘We’ll only be away a few days,’ said Alberto gently. ‘And Cristina arrives tomorrow afternoon. You’ll have your sister with you.’
‘Well . . .’ sai
d his daughter.
‘By the time they come home, his father will be much better,’ said Juan Carlos’s mother firmly.
‘Ask him, Rosa,’ said Alberto. ‘Ask the boy what he wants to do.’ As his daughter looked up at him, Alberto nodded to her. After what seemed like an age, she slowly nodded back at him.
Alberto looked across at Juan Carlos’s mother as she prepared to go back into the hospital room, tying her mask behind the back of her head. He smiled his thanks at her.
‘But,’ said Rosa, ‘where did you say you were going?’
‘He wants to find my birthday.’
‘And, after all these years, you want to look for it?’
‘Rosa, it’s caught his imagination. It’s all he talks about. And I let him, because while he’s thinking about my birthday, he’s not thinking about his father in hospital.’
‘But what about you, Papá? Do you want to go back?’
‘It was sixty-five years ago; we won’t find anything. I expect nothing.’
But in truth, he was looking forward to the trip. As a young man, he had spent years on the road, never knowing where the next day would take him. Meeting people and seeing new places had given him an education, and sometimes he wished he’d travelled further to see what the world had to offer. But marrying and settling down had been good for him, and he had cherished the security he had found with his small family.
The thought of the trip filled him with a sense of anticipation he hadn’t experienced in many years.
‘Well, if you do find your birthday, I hope you’re not expecting presents for all those years we missed!’
Alberto smiled warmly – it was the first time since Juan Carlos’s accident that he had seen his daughter’s face relax and her eyes soften. If Tino was happy to go, perhaps this trip would be good for all of them.
Chapter Four
CAPTAIN GARCÍA
Morning, 7 March 1937
Smoothing down my hair, I place my hat carefully on my head. Then I run my thumb and forefinger down my moustache, checking every hair is in place. Next I feel my collar, to make sure there are no creases. And lastly, adjusting my gun holster, I look down and inspect my gleaming jackboots for dust.
A man gains respect by maintaining excellence in everything he does. It is important my men look up to me, not just for my intelligence and courage, but also for my pride in the uniform and all that it stands for.
Perhaps it is because I have been in uniform most of my life that I hold the greatest of regard for it. Born into a military family, there was never any question that I would be anything other than an officer. My sisters are married to soldiers of high rank, and their sons will be enrolled into military academies at a young age, as I was. Like me, they will realize the honour of their duty. They will learn that the military is the guardian of Spain.
Satisfied, I step outside the small house my squadron has commandeered. The village is quiet for the time of morning. A few of my men stroll around the square; they are far too relaxed for my liking. We have been informed the Republican rabble is nearby and we must be ever vigilant.
Two young women scuttle past, their dark shawls pulled around their faces. They avoid looking at me – they are, no doubt, Rojos.
I bark at my men, and startled, they turn and salute me. Instantly their backs straighten and they look like professional soldiers. I command them to patrol the outskirts of the village and report back to me in an hour.
I fully intend to be a general before too long. While my family connections stand me in good stead for promotion, I want to prove my merit to my superiors. My whole life has been designed to take me to the highest levels of the army, and this war has propelled me at even greater speed towards this goal. I will become a general and help Franco achieve a glorious victory.
Scanning the square, I decide to visit the church. Usually, there is a decent cup of coffee and helpful information to be garnered when one introduces oneself to the clergy. They like to show their support in any way they can.
The church sits on one side of the square. I push open the heavy wooden door and stride inside. It is cool and dark and smells of dust and old incense. In the gloom, I see a few elderly women, kneeling, praying and worrying rosaries. To one side of the altar, an ancient man with a crooked back sweeps the floor. He glances at me and brushes his way into a shadowed corner and out of sight.
My heels click on the stone floor as I approach the altar. When I reach the front, I stop, drop to one knee, cross myself and close my eyes. At that moment, I hear murmurings nearby. Rising, I walk quietly towards the noise. By a side door is the priest, dressed in his black robes. He is talking in a low voice to a small, filthy boy.
‘Good morning, Father,’ I say loudly.
The priest jumps at the sound of my voice and turns to me, pushing the child behind him. Probably in his early forties, he is relatively tall with receding hair and silver spectacles. The other priests I have known have generally been portly, but this man is well built for his age. For an instant, I imagine him in an officer’s uniform, and he looks good in it.
‘I am Captain García,’ I introduce myself. ‘My men and I are here to maintain the security of this town.’
The priest nods and smiles stiffly at me. This is not the sort of welcome I am used to from a cleric.
‘Good morning, Captain. I am pleased to meet you. My name is Father Francisco. This is my church, and my village.’
I glance around and notice the old women have slipped out and the church is now empty.
‘Father Francisco, there are reports of Republicans in the area, and as you are a respected clergyman of the community, I wish to discuss with you how my men can defend this town. Are you free now?’ I nod towards the dirty child.
The priest steps behind the boy, putting his hands on his shoulders protectively.
‘Yes, of course. Please accept my apologies. Alberto here has recently arrived at the church. It seems he has lost his family and I am looking after him while we arrange where he will go.’
‘I’m sure you can find an orphanage near here,’ I reply sharply, annoyed that he puts this child before the welfare of my men and our cause.
A look crosses the priest’s face and I wonder momentarily if I have angered him before dismissing the thought.
‘Yes, Captain,’ he replies politely.
With that, he opens the small door beside him and indicates for me to step outside. The door opens onto a walled cemetery in the church grounds, where stone crosses and gravestones stand to attention in the browned grass. A large carob tree casts a little shade on the rear of the churchyard.
The priest follows me and the boy steps out of the church after him. Pulling the door shut, the priest gestures to a bench leaning against the church wall and the boy obediently sits on it.
I notice the priest look at the ground. I follow his gaze and see I am standing within the rectangular outline of a grave. At its head is a simple cross, but there is no name inscribed on it. It is completely blank.
As I step off the grave and onto the gravel path, the priest asks, ‘So, Captain, how may I be of service?’
‘Father, I have not breakfasted yet,’ I reply. ‘I was wondering if we might take a cup of coffee together.’
‘Captain,’ says the priest smoothly, ‘I’m embarrassed to say that I have no coffee. The cafe on the plaza is still open – they serve chicory coffee – perhaps you would like to talk there?’
‘Do you not receive extra rations, Father?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘What I receive, I share,’ says the priest piously. ‘There are others in more need than myself, and I am more than content with chicory.’
‘Never mind the chicory,’ I snap. I am becoming annoyed at this confounding behaviour. ‘What do you know of the Rojos’ movements in the area? Will they find support in this village?’
‘I’m afraid I have no news to tell of Republicans in this area, Captain,’ says the priest, tight-lipped.
/> ‘Father, I am sure you are aware of your obligation to tell me of any Rojo activity here,’ I nudge. I sense his reluctance to divulge information.
Taking a deep breath, the priest speaks quietly. ‘Captain, as all over Spain, this village is split. Families, friends and neighbours have been divided by allegiances to one side or the other. The young men have all left to fight. The elderly and women who remain do not voice their loyalties, but fear and distrust lie close to the surface. Just yesterday, we had to pull apart two sisters who would have gouged each other’s eyes out if left to fight. Their husbands joined opposing armies, and—’
‘This country is at war, Father,’ I interrupt. I am not interested in tattle tales of his villagers, and I will not be drawn into a discussion about some women. ‘Just tell me what you know about the enemy’s movements around here.’
The priest looks at me, his face set. ‘There have been rumours that the fighting is drawing near, but I know nothing more. In my services, I continue to pray for a conclusion to the war and a lasting peace for the people of this country.’
‘I assume that you are praying for a glorious victory for the generalísimo.’ I scowl at him. I am growing suspicious of this priest. Could it be that he is a collaborator?
‘I do not feel it is my place to take sides. I only know that I am a follower of Christ the Lord,’ he replies softly.
As the man talks, I feel a rage stir in me.
‘Father,’ I say, seething, ‘must I remind you, of all people, of the attacks on the Church, and the brutality shown to Catholic priests? The Nationalists stand with the Spanish Church. Together, we will repel this evil.’
‘Sir,’ replies the priest quietly, ‘my position in this village is to support my flock through these difficult times. My only weapon is the word of the Lord. In His glory He tells us to strive for peace, He teaches us that wisdom is better than the weapons of war, and—’
As he speaks, the fury in me rises and I shout at him, ‘How dare you preach at me! I have personally seen the bodies of men and women who were buried alive – their only crime being their faith in God. I have seen the ruins of churches where Catholics were locked inside, burnt to death as Republican firefighters looked on. Thousands of your brethren have been murdered and you speak the words of a pacifist! Do their deaths mean nothing to you?’
