The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (54 page)

Do
not
blame
yourselves,
I
implore
you.
If
anyone
is
to
blame,
it
is
I,
for
had
I
not
stayed,
Ramón
may
have
got
to
her
sooner.
Please
forgive
me,
for
I
don’t
know
if
I
will
ever
forgive
myself.
Mama,
be
comforted
in
the
knowledge
that
Marta
and
her
beautiful
soul
will
always
be
with
us,
and
that
while
she
was
on
this
earth,
she
gave
us
all
so
much
joy.
Papa,
you
did
everything
you
could
to
save
Marta,
but
sometimes
a
higher
force
works
against
us.
God’s
power
over
Marta
was
stronger
than
her
love
for
the
family,
and
whilst
she
lived,
we
could
not
fight
him.

I
am
so
sorry
to
have
to
give
you
this
news,
but
keeping
it
from
you
would,
in
my
opinion,
be
even
crueller.
I
will
write
if
and
when
I
can,
I
promise.
Carlos,
Ramón’s
son,
has
assured
me
that
my
letters
will
reach
you
safely.
He
has
also
promised
to
take
it
upon
himself
to
see
to
their
dispatch
personally.
I
will
look
for
news
of
Pedro
and
Miguel
and
will
send
it
straight
to
you,
but
for
now
be
strong
and
brave
and
pray
for
us
all.

Ernesto retreated into Hyde Park, in central London, walking for hours, attempting to make some sense of his daughter’s death. He tried to forgive himself for not getting to her sooner, to understand why he hadn’t taken her from the convent by force before it was too late, but he couldn’t find any answers. He had failed her, he kept thinking. He was just as guilty as the man who had held the gun and fired the shot. He had killed her with neglect and cowardice. He had let her die.

He wandered aimlessly until he came to a lake bordered by wooden benches. He sat down for a while and watched the ducks swim with protective eyes on newly hatched ducklings, thinking about his own children. The rain drove in horizontal sheets, and he let it soak him, even lifting his face to meet it. He cupped his hands and watched the puddle of water in his palms grow. When they could hold no more he lifted them and splashed his face, forcing a smile. He couldn’t sit there forever. He wouldn’t be any good to anyone if he caught pneumonia.

He got up to leave and then sat down again with a paralysed look on his face. The thought struck him like one of the bolts of lightning that streaked across the sky above him. What was he doing here? This was not where he was supposed to be. Counting bandages in London was not what he was supposed to be doing. He’d come to England with Celia. She and the aunts were safe now, but he felt that he had no good reason to remain. He nodded his head and then shook some rain from his hair. He had to go back and do something for his country, something that would atone for his shameful neglect as a father. He wouldn’t fight, and he wouldn’t kill, but he could try to help save a life. Even if he could save just one life, he would find some comfort. He was going home, and not even Celia, whom he loved above all else, would be able to stop him.

Ernesto walked through the London streets with his head bowed and a million thoughts coursing through his mind. He had always liked John Stein but his friendship with him had deepened further since coming to London. John was both intelligent and resourceful, a man of conviction and high morals, and he made a point of gathering bits and pieces of information for Ernesto through his numerous contacts with government ministers and businessmen. His club in central London was a place that politicians and businessmen frequented nowadays in order to air their views freely, away from a glare of parliamentary publicity and incorrect journalism, and it was also where the most important pieces of information came from.

Ernesto and John walked into the Savoy through the revolving doors. Ernesto’s mood was dark; it had been dark for days, ever since the news of Marta’s death. However, on the way to the restaurant, he’d heard about a clandestine meeting between top politicians at John’s club, and his grief was momentarily overshadowed by anger.

They sat at their usual table and ordered dry martinis.

“John, how can they get away with even saying these things?” Ernesto asked him.

John sipped his drink and shook his head. “Ernesto, what can I tell you that you don’t already know? There are members of the British government who, for reasons of class and education, sympathise with the aims of the rebel nationalists as they do with those of Hitler and Mussolini,” he told him. “They are determined to avoid war at any cost, so the adoption of a policy of non-intervention is a logical step as far as they are concerned.”

Ernesto banged his fist on the table and then apologised. He thought about the crisis in his own country until he also thought his head would burst. Today was different, though, for after hearing what the committee had just come up with, he began thinking about the rest of Europe too, and he had to admit that it scared the hell out of him:

“And have these so-called politicians thought about what Hitler and Mussolini could and probably will do after they’ve finished testing their weaponry in my country?” he asked, making an effort to tone his voice down. “Does the committee really think that the two of them will just go home, play golf, and grow old by the fire? Are there really that many fascists in Britain? Or are they just blind to the danger of allowing Hitler and Mussolini to roam free, sticking their fingers up at every other government in Europe? Your politicians are a bunch of hypocrites! They don’t care about anything or anyone except for their own business ventures. They are ignoring the rebels because of their investments in Spain: our mines, our dates, sherry, olive oil, cork! Their main concern is to protect British investments from the anarchists and revolutionaries who would no doubt want to collectivise all British holdings, should they win the war.”

Ernesto didn’t want his business to be taken from him either, but he also didn’t want to live in a fascist state and hated the thought of any Spaniard being involved with Hitler and Mussolini.

“Ernesto, I know how you feel, believe me, but my government still remembers the Great War a little too clearly; Christ, I know I do. I still have nightmares about it. So you must understand that Britain is not ready for another conflict of any kind.”

“I understand what you’re saying, John, but it doesn’t mean that their hypocrisy is justified,” Ernesto spat with uncontrolled rage. “They deny both sides arms and aid even though the republic has the right to buy arms and supplies through international law. And they know damn well that Hitler and Mussolini are doing more than just sending supplies. They’re sending men, machines, aircraft, and money.”

John lit a cigarette and tapped his glass to signal to the waiter that they were ready for another drink. “Ernesto, you are right, and I understand your anger, I really do,” he said sincerely. “To tell you the truth, I’m bloody terrified that this is going to lead into a European crisis in the end, whether Britain wants to admit it or not. As you said, don’t Britain and France realise that Hitler and Mussolini could be the new Europe, a fascist Europe? Doesn’t that frighten them just a little?”

Ernesto understood what was happening, and what could happen, even though a lot of what they were talking about was pure conjecture. However, what was strange about their conversation was that he hadn’t the guts to actually air his own political leanings. Ernesto was beginning to admit to himself that he really didn’t like the rebel generals’ involvement with Hitler and the Italian fascist Mussolini; they were both dictators of sorts, and that was not what he wanted for Spain. He also didn’t like the intertwining of the rebels with the Church and monarchy under a banner of nationalists. Their rise to power would be a step backwards, not forwards into a modern era. He also admitted that both the rebel nationalists and the republicans had agendas that would, at the end of the day, only benefit a select few and not the country’s general population.

“I don’t trust the rebel nationalists,” Ernesto finally told John. “And should they win, Spain could be drawn into a much bigger conflict within Europe and my lands could and almost certainly will be requisitioned by whatever government is in power, but better the devil you know.” He finished his drink and murmured, “And that would be my weak and indecisive government.”

Coffee and brandy arrived, and both men sat back to listen to the band. Some people danced whilst others mouthed to the words of the haunting song sung by a young woman. Both men looked at each other,.

“I know, it sounds just like her, doesn’t it?” Ernesto said.

John nodded in agreement. “She had such a beautiful voice, like an angel.”

Ernesto forced a smile. “Sometimes I think Marta was an angel, sent here for just a short while and then snatched back again to punish us in some way. God has a sense of humour, it would seem. I miss her so much. I miss all of them. My children, John, are so far away, and I am here useless and helpless.”

John studied Ernesto’s face. His mouth was set in a thin line. His eyes were watery, and lines not there before were now deep with grief.

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” John said finally.

“I believe in him, John. It’s his messengers here on Earth that I’m having trouble with. God would not have wanted my daughter to spend her beautiful life on her knees in a world of silence and without those she loved. God is not that cruel; only his Church is!”

“I just wish there was something I could say, something I could do, to help you get through this,” John said.

“There is. I’m going back to Spain, and you can tell me that you think I’m doing the right thing. Tell me you agree with my decision.”

John nodded his head. “You’re doing the right thing, and if I were you, I would be going back too. But it’s not my approval you should be asking for.”

After the long lunch with John, Ernesto went to the bank and took out sufficient funds to leave with Celia. He then went to the Spanish Medical Aid headquarters to check that his ambulance had been filled to the brim with medical supplies, cigarettes, and food. Now all he had to do was tell Celia that he was leaving. John was right; it was her approval he wanted.

After the news of Marta’s death, Celia retreated to her room, refusing to speak to anyone except to her journals, in which she feverishly described her hatred towards her daughter’s murderers. Aunt Marie, solid and dependable as ever, spent her time cooking meals that lay uneaten, making cups of tea that no one drank, and trying for hours on end to get Celia to say something, anything. Rosa remained in her own room, turning it into a shrine to Marta, whom she now considered a saint. She prayed all day and was heard saying ‘Marta the holy martyr!’ at all hours of the day and night. She also refused to eat; however, in Aunt Marie’s opinion, Rosa starving herself to death would be the kindest favour she could do for all of them.

Now Celia stood in the doorway. After days of crying, her eyes were swollen and surrounded by dark shadows, but they lit up when she saw Ernesto walk up the path towards her. She had awoken that morning realising that she hadn’t said more than two words to him in the last three days. She missed him, and they needed to talk now.