The Return (47 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
The two men surveyed them with disbelief. Several photographs showed the twisted wreckage of buildings, and human and animal corpses strewn across the street; it had been market day. The most shocking image of all was the body of a lifeless child, a small girl. There was a label around her wrist, like a price tag on a doll. It recorded where she had been found, should her parents ever turn up to find her in the morgue. It was the most appalling image they had seen, either with their own eyes or reproduced in newsprint.
The town had been systematically attacked by wave upon wave of mostly German and some Italian bombers, which over several hours dropped thousands of bombs and machine-gunned civilians as they fled for their lives. An entire community had been wiped out, with whole families perishing in their flaming homes. There were reports of victims staggering through the smoke and dust to try to dig out their friends and relatives, only to be killed as another wave of bombers passed over. More than fifteen hundred people died in that single afternoon.
The massacre of innocents disgusted them more than the death of comrades whose lives had been lost in some kind of equal if unjust combat.
‘If Franco thinks he’ll win by destroying all these towns,’ said Francisco, his hatred all the more intense with every Republican defeat, ‘then he’s wrong. Until he walks into Madrid, he has nothing . . .’
The obliteration of Guernica was keenly felt by Antonio and Francisco, and everyone else who supported the Republic, and reinforced the determination of the militia to stand against Franco.
If the massacre in Guernica strengthened resolve in Madrid, in Bilbao it instilled terror.The effect on the residents of this northern city, and on those who had gone there for refuge, was measured panic. If Franco could wipe out one town in this manner, then he would presumably not hesitate to do the same with another. The thoroughness of the bombing shocked even those who had been exposed to the relentless daily attacks in Bilbao, and in the streets and the queues no one talked of anything else.
‘Did you hear what they did? They waited until it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Everyone was coming out of their houses to go to market, and they chose that moment to drop their bombs.’
‘And they came again and again and again. For three hours . . . until everything was flattened and almost everyone was killed.’
‘They say that there were fifty planes and that the bombs came down like rain.’
‘There’s nothing left of the place . . .’
‘We have to try and get the children out,’ said Mercedes, to Señora Sánchez.
‘There isn’t anywhere safe for them to go,’ she responded. ‘If there was, I would have sent them there a long time ago.’
Señora Sánchez had become so resigned to the state of affairs in Bilbao that her imagination could not look beyond the present. Survival, for her, was not a question of planning an escape route but of living day to day and praying for deliverance.
‘I’ve heard there are some boats going, and that they’ll be taking people to safety.’
‘Where will they take them?’
‘Mexico, Russia . . .’
There was a look of sheer horror on Señora Sánchez’s face. She had seen a photograph of children arriving in Moscow by train. It looked so unfamiliar: banners in an alphabet she could not decipher, little communist children meeting them with flowers, the faces of the people waiting for them so different, so foreign . . .
‘How can I even think of letting my children go to any of those places? How could you even suggest it?’
Outrage and fear made tears form in her eyes. She could not even contemplate the distances that they would have to travel and could not picture what was at the end of such a journey. Her instincts told her to keep her children close.
‘It would only be for a while,’ Mercedes assured her. ‘It would keep them out of harm’s way while all this is going on, and they wouldn’t be starving.’
People were now lining up to apply for places on these boats for their children, and the queues were even longer than those for bread. The horrors of Guernica, the bombing of innocent people and the methodical destruction of an entire town had made everyone in Bilbao face the brutal truth: the same could happen to their own city.
Such complete annihilation could be perpetrated by land, sea or air, and there was no safe haven for them - not in Spain at least. Like so many other parents in Bilbao, in the past few days Señora Sánchez had faced the fact that the best thing for her offspring would be for them to leave for a safer place. After all, people were saying that it would only be for three months.
For more than eighteen hours, Mercedes waited with Señora Sánchez and her four children to be seen about their application for evacuation abroad. Everyone was nervous, occasionally glancing up at a bright, empty sky, and wondering how many minutes’ grace they might have between the first glimpse of a bomber and the earthquake rumble of an explosion. They were queuing up for places on the boat that was to go to England, the
Habana
. Though Señora Sánchez had no image of it in her mind, she knew that Great Britain was much closer than some of the other places on offer and for that reason she would see her children again much sooner.
Habana
. Though Señora Sánchez had no image of it in her mind, she knew that Great Britain was much closer than some of the other places on offer and for that reason she would see her children again much sooner.
After all these hours of patience, it was finally María Sánchez’s turn to make the case for her precious sons and daughters.
‘Tell me the ages of your children, please,’ demanded the official.
‘They are three, four, nine and twelve,’ she answered, indicating each one in turn.
The official scrutinised them.
‘And what about you?’ he asked, addressing Mercedes.
‘Oh, I’m not one of her children,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just been helping look after them. My name isn’t on the application.’
The man grunted, marking something on the form in front of him.
‘Your two youngest are below the age requirement,’ he said, addressing Señora Sánchez. ‘We’re only taking them between the ages of five and fifteen. Your older two might qualify but first I need you to answer a few questions.’
After that he barked out a list that demanded instant, truthful answers: father’s occupation, his religion and the party he had belonged to. María answered them truthfully. There seemed no point in lying now. Her husband had been a trade union member and a member of the socialist party.
The official put down his pen and picked up a file that lay on his desk, opened it and ran his finger down a column, counting silently. For a few minutes, he continued to make notes. There had to be an allocation of children from parents of all the various political parties in proportion to the voting patterns in the most recent election. The children were signed up for one of three groups: the Republicans and Socialists, the Communists and Anarchists, and the Nationalists. It seemed that the boat was not quite full, and that there was space for some more from the Socialist party.
‘And you,’ said the official, looking at Mercedes, ‘would you like to join the boat as well?’
Mercedes was completely taken aback. It had not occurred to her that she would be given a place. She was too old to qualify for one of the children’s places and had resigned herself to staying in Bilbao. She had had no ambition to get herself onto one of the boats that took adults to faraway places. In her mind, such journeys would have been an admission to herself that she would never find Javier.
But she had to cling on to the ever-shrinking hope of finding him, given that the other option, to retrace her steps, was now ruled out.
‘We need a certain number of young women to look after the younger ones and there is a space. If you have been taking care of children for a while, you might be just the sort of person we need,’ said the official.
Mercedes could only dimly hear his voice, so filled was her mind with this new dilemma.
‘Mercedes!’ exclaimed María. ‘You must go! What a chance!’
For the first time since she had known her, Mercedes saw the colourless expression of resignation melt away from the woman’s face.
Mercedes felt as though a hand was being held out to her and it would be ungrateful of her not to take it. People were clamouring for spaces on these boats. She told herself she could be back in a few months’ time, reunited with her family. But to abandon the search for Javier was unthinkable.
The two older children, Enrique and Paloma, whose fates had already been decided, stood looking at her, with pleading expressions. They badly wanted her to come with them to this unfamiliar destination and instinctively knew that their mother would be happier if she was on the boat with them. Mercedes looked at their wide, hopeful eyes. Perhaps for the first time she would do something really useful, and take responsibility for someone other than herself.
‘Very well,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ll go.’
There were a few formalities. Firstly a medical. Mercedes took her two charges to the office of the
Asistencia Social
and they waited in line until the English doctor was ready to see them. There was not much conversation since neither spoke the other’s language.
Asistencia Social
and they waited in line until the English doctor was ready to see them. There was not much conversation since neither spoke the other’s language.
Paloma and Enrique were each given a clean bill of health. A hexagonal card with the words ‘
Expedición a Inglaterra
’ and their own personal number was pinned to their clothing, and they were instructed to wear it at all times.
Expedición a Inglaterra
’ and their own personal number was pinned to their clothing, and they were instructed to wear it at all times.
‘What are you going to take?’ Paloma asked Enrique excitedly, as though they were going on a pleasure trip.
‘Don’t know,’ he said miserably. ‘Chess set? Not sure. Don’t know if there’ll be anybody to play with.’
They were allowed only one small bag each, with a change of clothing and a limited number of possessions, the choice of which would have to be very carefully thought out. For Catholic children a small Bible had to be fitted in too.
‘I’m going to take Rosa,’ said Paloma decisively.
Rosa was her favourite doll and her imaginary friend. If Rosa came on this journey, Paloma knew everything would be fine. Her older brother was not so confident. He was anxious about where they were going but his seniority in the family obliged him to put on a brave front.
Mercedes’ only possessions already fitted into a small bag, so she had no decisions to make. The boat was leaving in two days’ time, and in every one of those forty-eight hours there was always a chance that she might find Javier. In those two last days in Bilbao she scanned every crowd and every queue in case she caught a glimpse of his face.
At six o’clock on the evening of 20 May, thousands of people thronged at the railway station of Portugalete. Six hundred at a time, the children were taken on special trains to Santurce, Bilbao’s main dock, where the
Habana
was waiting. Some of the parents had travelled no further than Pamplona in their entire lives, so seeing their children leaving for the unknown was almost unbearable. A few children clung to their mother’s skirts but often the distress was more on the mother’s side than on the child’s. Some children were cheerful, happy and smiling and anticipating seeing their parents again soon; they viewed this as a boat trip with a picnic, a short holiday, an adventure, and for them the atmosphere seemed exciting and festive. President Azaña had even come to wave them off.
Habana
was waiting. Some of the parents had travelled no further than Pamplona in their entire lives, so seeing their children leaving for the unknown was almost unbearable. A few children clung to their mother’s skirts but often the distress was more on the mother’s side than on the child’s. Some children were cheerful, happy and smiling and anticipating seeing their parents again soon; they viewed this as a boat trip with a picnic, a short holiday, an adventure, and for them the atmosphere seemed exciting and festive. President Azaña had even come to wave them off.
Enrique remained glum right until the moment of departure, unable even to raise a smile for his mother, who struggled to hold back her tears. Señora Sánchez was not going to accompany them on the train to the dock. Her farewell would be on the station platform.
By contrast with her brother, Paloma was full of excitement. She was sick of the sirens and the aching hunger. ‘It’s only going to be for a few weeks,’ she kept saying to him. ‘It’s an adventure. It might be fun.’
As far as all the children were concerned, they were going on a journey to keep them safe. Many of them were smartly dressed: little girls wore ribbons in their hair, their best floral frocks and white ankle socks, and the boys looked neat in crisp shirts and knee-length shorts.
The
Habana
seemed huge to the children, looming darkly over their heads, ready to swallow them up like a whale. Some of the smallest of them could not even reach up to catch the rope that ran the length of the gangplank. Sailors took tiny hands in their own and, squeezing them tight, escorted the smallest children along the narrow strip of wood to stop them plunging into the canal of dark water between the dock and the ship.
Habana
seemed huge to the children, looming darkly over their heads, ready to swallow them up like a whale. Some of the smallest of them could not even reach up to catch the rope that ran the length of the gangplank. Sailors took tiny hands in their own and, squeezing them tight, escorted the smallest children along the narrow strip of wood to stop them plunging into the canal of dark water between the dock and the ship.
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