The Return (31 page)
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Tags: #British - Spain, #Psychological Fiction, #Family, #British, #Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, #General, #Granada (Spain), #Historical, #War & Military, #Families, #Fiction, #Spain
As the older brother, it would be his duty to tell their parents what had happened. Ignacio would remain in the background, his views of the matter as shadowy as the street.
It was more than a month since the Nationalists had taken over in Granada but the number of people being arrested daily and taken off in trucks to the cemetery to be shot was still rising. It seemed unbelievable that this could happen, least of all to someone so close to them.
‘Perhaps they just want to question Emilio about Alejandro,’ offered Mercedes helpfully, desperately clinging to a straw of hope. There had been no news of Emilio’s best friend since his arrest.
Concha Ramírez’s grief overwhelmed her. She could not contain it. An active imagination and the terror of the unknown filled her mind with visions of what might be happening to her son.
Pablo, however, refused to accept that he might never see Emilio again and talked as though his son might appear again at any moment.
Sonia and Miguel had long since drained their second and third coffees and, from time to time, the waiter approached to see if they needed anything more. Two hours had passed since they arrived.
‘They must have been so distraught,’ said Sonia.
‘I think they were,’ murmured Miguel. ‘It meant that these terrible events were not just happening to other people but to them. And the arrest of one family member meant they were
all
in danger.’
all
in danger.’
Sonia looked around. ‘It’s getting quite smoky in here. Do you mind if we get some fresh air?’ she asked.
They paid the bill and wandered out. Miguel continued to talk as they strolled across the square.
Chapter Eighteen
FOR DAYS CONCHA prayed for her son’s return. She knelt at his bedside, her hands clasped in supplication, muttering to the Virgin to have mercy. She had little faith that anyone was listening.The Nationalists had claimed God, and Concha was sure He could not be answering prayers on both sides of this conflict.
The room was in the same state as it had been the night Emilio was torn out of his bed. His mother had no plans to rearrange anything. The sheets were rumpled, swirled like cream on the surface of coffee, and the clothes he had been wearing the day before his arrest were carelessly slung across an old chair. His guitar lay on the other side of the bed, the sensuous curves of its lovely body so like a woman’s. It struck Señor Ramírez as ironic that this might be the closest Emilio had ever got to having something so feminine and voluptuous in his bed.
On the second morning after Emilio’s arrest, Mercedes found her mother in his room, crying. For the first time in weeks, she thought about something other than Javier and, possibly for the first time in her life, she began to emerge from her childish introspection.
Over eight weeks had now passed since Mercedes had seen Javier and she had not smiled since that day. As far as she knew, Javier had been at home in Málaga when the rebel soldiers took over Granada and there was no reason for him to risk his skin coming back. Even for her. So she was torn between anxiety that something terrible had happened to him and growing irritation that he had not contacted her. She did not know what to think. If he was safe and happy somewhere, why had he not contacted her? Why had he not come? For Mercedes, it was a curious state of uncertainty and made her sad and dissatisfied, and just about everything in between, but the sight of her mother’s tears shocked her into the realisation that people around her might be suffering as much as she was.
‘Mother!’ she said, putting her arms around Concha.
Unaccustomed to such tenderness from her daughter, Concha wept all the more.
‘He’ll come back,’ whispered the girl into her mother’s ear. ‘He’ll come back.’
Feeling her mother’s shuddering in her arms, Mercedes felt suddenly afraid. Perhaps the loving, gentle brother with whom she had shared so much was not going to return.
A few days passed in this state of unknowing. Pablo buried himself in the business of running the café. It was as busy as ever, and now he did not have Emilio helping him out.Though heavily weighed down with anxiety, a whole day would pass where he could keep his mind occupied with other things. From time to time, the sharp recollection of Emilio’s absence came almost like a physical blow, and when this happened he could feel a lump rising in his throat and tears, such as his wife could shed so freely, had to be fought back.
On the fourth morning after Emilio’s arrest, Concha decided that this stalemate in their lives could not continue. She had to know the truth. The people who might hold some records were the Civil Guard.
She had always regarded these sinister individuals, in their ugly patent leather hats, with great suspicion, and since the conflict had begun, her dislike of them had intensified.They always lurked on the edge of treachery and betrayal in this city.
She went alone to the Civil Guard offices.Tremblingly she gave Emilio’s name and the guard on duty opened the ledger on his desk to find the log for the past few days. He ran his finger down the list of names and turned several pages. Concha’s heart lifted. Her son’s name was not there. Perhaps this meant he had been released. She turned to leave.
‘
Señora!
’ he called out in a tone that might have sounded friendly. ‘What did you say your surname was?’
Señora!
’ he called out in a tone that might have sounded friendly. ‘What did you say your surname was?’
‘Ramírez.’
‘I thought you said Rodríguez . . .’
For Concha Ramírez, the world stood still at that moment. Her hopes had been held so high but now she knew by the tone in his voice that they had been in vain. It was almost an act of deliberate cruelty that he had raised them and now they were to be crushed, like an insect beneath his boot.
‘There is an entry for a Ramírez.Yesterday morning. Sentence has been passed. Thirty years.’
‘Where is he?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘Which prison?’
‘I can’t give you that information yet. Come back next week.’
In turmoil, she just managed to get to the door before she fell to her knees. The news had winded her like a physical blow. She gasped for air and it was some moments before she realised that the animal howls she could hear were her own cries. In the echoing vestibule of the Civil Guard offices, the sound of her anguish reverberated from the high ceiling. From behind the counter, a bespectacled man regarded her with total lack of concern. He had seen several other weeping mothers already that morning and their troubles elicited little sympathy from him. The only reaction they provoked was one of irritation. He did not like ‘scenes’ and hoped that this woman, like the others before her, would get out of here soon.
Once in the street, Concha had just one purpose: to make her way back home to share this news. Stumbling along, the familiar buildings provided her with much-needed support as she took each clumsy step towards her destination. Passers-by took her for a drunk woman and steered clear as she staggered from one shop doorway to the next. She hardly recognised the roads of her own city but, by instinct, through the haze of her own tears made her way to the familiar frontage of El Barril.
There was little need to tell Pablo what was wrong. He could see from the look on her face as she pushed open the café door that the news was bad.
For nine nights they lost sleep, and each day Concha sought confirmation of where Emilio had been taken. She was now a familiar figure at the government offices. Eventual confirmation that her son was in a prison close to Cádiz brought a strange sense of relief. The prison was more than two hundred kilometres away, but at least they knew something for certain.
Concha’s first thought was to make the journey to see her son. If she could take him some food, at least he would not starve.
‘But it’s a ridiculous distance to travel,’ said Ignacio. ‘Particularly on your own.’
‘I have no choice,’ said Concha.
‘Of course you have a choice!’ insisted Ignacio.
‘One day you will understand,’ she responded patiently, ‘when you have your own children.’
‘Well, God help you. That’s all I can say.’
The journey there took her two days. Despite the papers she had, which were meant to allow her safe conduct, the frequent checks by soldiers and Civil Guards were often carried out with aggression, and on several occasions she was certain she would have to turn back to Granada.
When she eventually arrived, Concha’s request to see her son was denied.
‘He is in solitary,’ barked the officer on duty. ‘He has currently lost all his privileges.’
Quite what those ‘privileges’ might be in this awful place, she could not imagine.
‘How long will that last?’ she asked, numb with disappointment.
‘Could be two days, could be two weeks. Depends.’
She did not have the heart to ask what it depended on. In any case, she would not have any faith in the answer.
The basket of food was left. She had no idea if it would ever reach him. Inside one of the walnuts she had packed in the bag, she had concealed a note. It was just a mother’s letter, with superficial news of family life and messages of love sincerely meant, but when it was found his time alone in a cell was increased by a week.
Tales of conditions inside prisons reached Pablo and Concha from many sources. Occasionally someone succeeded in escaping but the more common stories were of the daily firing squads and the arbitrariness of the lists of victims.
While Concha was preoccupied with the personal drama of her son’s imprisonment, mothers were losing sons all over the country. Sons were losing mothers too.
By the autumn, Nationalist bombers were terrorising the defenceless people of Madrid and nobody was safe. Even mothers queuing for their children’s milk were blasted to eternity. The capital city was Franco’s real goal and Nationalist troops had reached the outskirts of the city. Leaflets had been dropped warning the population that unless they handed the city over, it would be wiped off the face of the earth.The relentless air raids were beginning to wear the population down. They were sitting targets.
Everyone, whether they supported the Republic or Franco, followed what was taking place in Madrid.What happened to the capital city could determine the outcome of this conflict for the whole country.
At the beginning of November, the first Russian planes arrived and counterattacks began. Though the Republic was now doing better in the air, the Nationalists began to have some success on the ground.That same month they took one of the city’s suburbs, Getafe, which gave them hope that they were on their way to complete victory.
Antonio studied the newspapers more closely than ever and often read out extracts to his mother as she dried the glasses in the morning.
‘“In spite of bombardment from Republican troops the Nationalist army has taken the area of Carabanchel and significant bridges have been gained, which could allow access to the inner city,” ’ Antonio read. ‘“Hand-to-hand combat has been taking place on the streets and losses run into thousands on both sides. Franco’s troops have pushed through Republican lines into the University City.” ’
Antonio did not know that his mother was already well abreast of events from listening early each morning to a banned radio station broadcasting from Málaga.
‘It could be the end of it all,’ said Antonio. ‘Perhaps Franco is about to get his way.’
Ignacio, who had come into the café and heard Antonio’s comment, saw the opportunity to comfort his mother. ‘Well, Mother,’ he said, ‘as soon as Franco can declare victory, you might have your Emilio back.’
‘That would be a relief,’ she said, smiling at the thought. ‘But doesn’t it depend what the charges against him are?’
‘I suppose it might. I’m sure they weren’t serious, though.’
It sometimes suited Ignacio to take a conciliatory position with his mother. It assuaged his occasional pangs of guilt that his indiscreet talk over his brother’s homosexuality might have led to his arrest. If he had anticipated the severity of his brother’s sentence and the grief it would cause, he might have been more careful, however much Emilio sickened him.
Franco’s victory in Madrid was not as imminent as Ignacio thought.The exhausted citizens of Madrid saw uniformed soldiers marching past them, and assumed these men were battalions of Nationalist troops. With some astonishment and much joy, they soon realised their error. The strains of their revolutionary songs and the distinctive tune of ‘The Internationale’ told them that these were
Brigadistas
, members of the International Brigades, who had come, as if by magic, to their rescue. Among them were Germans, Poles, Italians and English, and it was said that, to a man, they were going fearlessly to the frontline.
Brigadistas
, members of the International Brigades, who had come, as if by magic, to their rescue. Among them were Germans, Poles, Italians and English, and it was said that, to a man, they were going fearlessly to the frontline.
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