Read The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact Online
Authors: Jana Petken
R
osa demanded that she return to Spain. Her mental decline had happened rather suddenly and had taken even Ernesto by surprise. In the middle of March, she’d turned her back on all earthly things, as she called them, such as mealtimes, afternoon tea, and any social activity that involved the art of conversation. Her entire existence had been confined to the inner sanctuary of her bedroom, and she opened the door only to admit the water from a tray of tempting offerings left outside three times a day. She never washed, and her hair had become a matted white mess that looked more and more like a bird’s nest. Her long black dress began to smell of unwashed body odour, and scabby sores, where she’d beaten herself, began to show signs of infection. Celia had long since given up the fight to get her to eat. Rosa herself barred the doctor from visiting her, calling him secular scum through a crack in the door, and Celia made no bones about the fact that she wanted her committed to a psychiatric facility.
Rosa’s wailing began before dawn on most days and went on into the night without pause. She also began to call out Marta’s name on a regular basis, also singing in an unknown melody ‘Saint Marta the holy martyr, hear my prayers!’ over and over again. Celia and Ernesto were used to her speaking about Marta but this new development, the screeching and wailing non-stop was more than they could stand.
By the end of May, her state of health had declined so much that she was rushed to the nearest hospital, kicking and screaming. Whilst there, she started to babble with wide unseeing eyes in a language that nobody understood. The doctor explained to Ernesto and Celia that apart from being half-starved, she was suffering from a complete nervous breakdown, and so severe were her symptoms that he suggested she be institutionalised. Her destination was a secure psychiatric hospital just outside London where, Ernesto was told, she would stay for an indefinite period.
Celia made daily calls to the Spanish Medical Aid Committee, hoping for information about Pedro. The disappearance of his entire unit was puzzling, even to the organisation itself, but no information was forthcoming, and their own conclusion, although never verbalised, was that it had simply been wiped out.
Aunt Marie still lived most of the time in London, but she had formed the habit of spending most weekends in Kent, where she made it her business to keep the bored and worried family occupied with snippets of information given to her by John Stein.
Celia wrote in her journal:
May, 1938
Aunt
Marie,
who
had
taken
it
upon
herself
to
visit
Rosa
in
hospital
on
a
regular
basis,
brought
us
the
sad
news
today
that
Rosa
passed
away.
She
told
us
that
Rosa’s
dying
words
were
for
Marta,
and
that
information
has
comforted
Ernesto
immensely.
Personally,
I
do
not
know
what
comfort
there
is
right
now
or
what
to
think,
for
nothing
seems
to
appease
my
mind,
which
is
fraught
with
worry.
I
think
that
Pedro’s
disappearance
has
taught
me
not
to
think
about
anything
much
at
all.
Waiting
and
wondering
is
a
torture
that
I
try
to
avoid,
although,
in
essence,
waiting
and
wondering
is
all
I
seem
to
do.
I
have
received
no
word
from
María,
and
I
pray
that
she
survives,
for
should
my
only
daughter
die,
I
will
die
too.
T
he sound of shellfire filled the air at La Glorieta. Wounded men arrived in trucks and were carried into the house on stretchers by drivers and soldiers with frightened faces. María ploughed through the injured with a back that was breaking and legs that felt so heavy that she was sure she was going to drop to the floor at any moment. Her baby, due within weeks, was kicking to get out, yet still she worked on, giving comfort to those in even greater pain than she. This was no time to take things easy, she decided, going against the doctor’s orders.
Her waters broke unexpectedly one morning, and worried doctors and nurses stood above her pain-racked body, attempting, unsuccessfully, to still her fears. It was too early, she told herself. The baby wasn’t due for another two or three weeks. She was going to lose it. The baby, however, had no such fears and arrived safe and well within hours.
María found herself torn between the love she felt for Carlos and the anger she felt towards him. Her baby, a boy, was strong considering that he had arrived early amidst havoc, but as she cradled him in her arms, María couldn’t stop herself from thinking about his father. Carlos remained, as always, elusive and unreachable. He had supplied papers for her return to La Glorieta; therefore, he knew where she was and had the means to contact her by letter or in person, but he chose not to. He chose to keep her in ignorance, and in doing so, he kept himself in ignorance of the fact that he was now a father.
T
he republican forces were once again pushed back towards the river Ebro. Wounded and dying were left lying where they fell, and medical stations were unable to get to them, as they too were trapped, at times ahead of their own front lines.
The republican government also took the decision at that time to dismiss the International Brigades, hoping to achieve some form of international mediation. On 14 September, 1938, Carlos was ordered on to the higher ground, which was dominated by nationalist forces. The remaining British in the unit, now greatly depleted by deaths and injuries, laughed that this would be their final day’s work and that they would be only too happy to go out on a high note. Morale was high, but the tiresome effort to dig in and secure a good defensive position was hindered by stony soil, which made it difficult to dig trenches, and the task was made even more difficult by the arrival of some heavy thunderstorms and torrential rain.
Carlos was stationed in a defensive position with a couple of Englishmen, two Spaniards, and a shared machine gun. For hours on end, a nationalist artillery barrage that left them deaf and disoriented pounded them, and because of this, they ceased to hear the noises that surrounded them and failed to see the approaching tanks until they were almost upon them. Their fate was sealed. It had long been a nationalist policy to shoot machine-gunners on sight, and they knew that they would not be allowed to live if captured.
Carlos looked about him, dazed and confused by ringing ears and a gash above his right eye caused by shrapnel. In his possession were official papers, maps, and identity cards of the SIMS and SEIP, the hated spy and interrogation units he served in. He knew that even if he was lucky enough to survive with his life intact, he couldn’t afford to be captured with any of the sensitive material on his person. As a member of the communist-run intelligence forces, he would be important to the nationalists and would most likely be kept alive until they got their fill of information out of him.
The noisy engines and crunching wheel belts of the approaching tanks grew louder and more distinguishable to Carlos’s still-ringing ears. He picked up his binoculars and, with shaky fingers, scanned the area to ascertain just how close they were. They would be on top of them in a few short minutes, he deduced quickly. Later, the infantry would come to finish them off, and they would step over their dead bodies as though their remains were no more than irksome boulders. He lay back down with his back against the wall and stared at the sky for the last time. Above the smoke, he saw fluffy, peaceful clouds tinged with yellow in a reflection of the hidden sun. He saw María’s face floating, smiling down at him, and he smiled back. He then watched the men around him, noting that they too were engrossed in their own worlds, blocking out the horrors that surrounded them.
The two British men spoke to each other in hurried tongues, both so sure that they would die any minute. One of them took a photograph out of his tattered shirt pocket and showed it to his comrade. He looked at it again, kissed the image, and put it back inside his jacket pocket and was then lost once more in a lifetime of memories. Beside them lay a dead Spanish soldier, wounded before they had even reached their position, later dying in agony from his injuries. Huddling in the corner against the trench wall was a frightened teenager who was, in Carlos’s opinion, far too young to be anywhere near a battlefield. He offered the boy a cigarette, and he took it with quivering fingers.
“What are you doing here?” Carlos asked him.
“I’m killing rebels! They killed my parents at the beginning of the war, but I’ve killed plenty of them since,” he told Carlos with a triumphant smile.
Carlos attempted to still the young boy’s fears with questions about his family. His name was Bernardo. His mother and father had both been killed early on in the war, shot by some Civil Guards who then ransacked and burned their house, which, he added, was in fact a two-roomed metal shack that leaked water in the winter and burned like an oven in the summer. Carlos laughed; Bernardo was describing his own house at La Glorieta. He was, he continued to say, the only member of his family to survive, and in memory of his family, he would fight to the death and take as many rebels with him as possible.
The tanks’ noisy engines grew louder, and the turrets were now clearly visible as they trundled over the top of the rise. A fountain of dust and dirt from the machines filled the already smoke-filled air, and Carlos covered his face with his arms. There was no time left to talk about anything, he thought. The end was all that mattered now, and the way in which he conducted himself in the face of death was important to him. María flashed through his mind, calling his name, begging him not to die. He knew the vision wasn’t real, but something in her voice quietened his pounding heart. He grabbed his rifle and told Bernardo and the British men to man the machine gun.
“Give it everything you’ve got!” he shouted above the noise. “Take as many of the bastards as you can with you into hell!”
Pedro flanked the left side of the tank, carefully stepping over dead republican bodies. He had made it his own policy not to look into their faces; he had probably served with some of the republicans scattered on the waste ground. He had probably laughed with them, eaten with them, and shared stories of family and home. He couldn’t look, for if he did, the memory of those faces would haunt him forever.
He passed one of the republican dead, lying unnoticed, half in and half out of a shallow trench. The dead man’s eyes were half open, looking skywards. His hair blew across his face in the wind, and his shabby jacket fluttered, opening and closing against his chest. He had been shot three times in the upper part of the body. His face was red with blood from a wound to his cheek, which lay open like flaps on a tent. The chain with a silver identity tag stuck to his bloodied chest, clearly visible beneath the remnants of his shirt. It read Carlos Pons nrep17349…
T
he nationalists had managed to cut off the republican forces that were trapped in the hills around the Ebro without sufficient food, arms, or medicines. The republican hierarchy ordered the troops not to retreat, telling them to fight on and throwing out propaganda in an attempt to keep morale high, but after four months of continuous shelling that killed thousands, Hitler’s Condor Legion aeroplanes bombarded them from the air and wiped them out completely.
Just before Christmas, 1938, the republican government moved up to the north and then on to Gerona, a town bordering France, and from there they crossed over, leaving Spain without any government at all. With the total breakdown of the republican government now public knowledge, soldiers from every front line were surrendering where they could or just going home. Many of the soldiers occupying the garrison at La Glorieta had deserted in such large numbers that only a handful were left. Some hid in the hills, while others headed to Valencia in the hope of securing passage on a ship to anywhere.
In Valencia, Gandia, and Alicante, people thronged the ports, trying to get on board ships leaving the country, and although several ships approached the harbour, they turned back when they saw that too many desperate and frightened people would storm them. Some of the republicans on the dockside, fearing Franco’s reprisals, committed suicide, while others waited, exhausted and resigned to their fate.
At La Glorieta, Ramón urged the registered communist land labourers to escape before it was too late, but most of them had lived on Martinéz land all their lives, and the majority refused to leave. María and Lucia waited desperately for news of family and lovers. María prayed daily at Marta’s grave for a miracle. Neither woman received letters, and the lack of news from abroad, and in the battle areas of Spain, was a sure sign to María that the infrastructure had broken down and that the end of the war was imminent. Lucia, ever the optimist, wholeheartedly disagreed with this assumption and believed that everyone was just too busy fighting to write.
In the last week of March, 1939, Ramón found María and the baby at Marta’s grave. She watched him approach with a stony expression, and his swollen bloodshot eyes told her all she needed to know. He sat on the ground beside her and held her trembling hands in his own, but neither spoke. María closed her eyes, allowing the tears to fall.
“So it’s confirmed.”
“Yes,” Ramón said, nodding his head and handing her an envelope. “I received the official letter this morning. It was hand delivered. Here, read it.”
María shook her head. She couldn’t bear to look at it, didn’t want to touch it, for that would make it real.
“No… I can’t… You read it.”
Ramón nodded his head and cleared his throat:
Gobierno
Legitimo
de
España
Death
Certifícate
This
is
to
certify
that
Carlos
Pons
of
La
Glorieta,
Valencia,
and
Combatant
under
the
orders
of
the
Spanish
Republican
Government,
DIED
in
the
Ebro-Gandesa
sector
on
the
29
October
of
the
year
1938
as
a
result
of
wounds
sustained
in
action.
This
certificate
is
issued
in
Barcelona,
January
1939.
María stared at the ground, her only thought being why it had taken the government so long to certify Carlos’s death.
“October? Such a long time ago,” she said.
“Yes, yes, it is,” Ramón agreed. “But its delay is probably due to the intense fighting that has been going on.”
María nodded her head and then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The baby began to cry, as though he too felt the sadness that surrounded him. She rocked him in her arms and kissed the side of his head.
“I’m not surprised, Ramón. I think I’ve been waiting for this day to arrive but praying that it would never come at the same time. Can you understand? I feel as though I’ve already grieved for him; the great Carlos Pons died fighting for his great, useless cause!” She kissed her baby again and cast Ramón a venomous look. “Is this not a great cause?” She pointed to the baby. Is this not worth fighting for? Carlos never knew he was a father, and my son will never know him. I hate him!”
“Carlos loved you with all his heart. I know he wanted to prove that to you after the war. Please believe me—he did love you.”
María’s laugh was laced with sarcasm and bitterness. Ramón’s words were pretty, but they didn’t bring her any comfort, she thought.
“Ramón, it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead,” she said, shocked by her own coldness. “Nothing matters anymore. I look at his son and know that he will never have the comfort of knowing that his father loved him. He should know that at least.”
Ramón ran his fingers through his hair and lit a cigarette with hands that shook so much he had to use both to direct the match to his mouth.
“María, you don’t understand. How could you? Carlos did everything he could to protect you from information that could have endangered both you and little Carlos. He asked me to give you this letter in case he never came home. Will you read it?”
She took the letter from his hand and looked at Carlos’s bold writing. Carlos loved to write. He always believed that it had been one of his greatest achievements. Ramón took the baby from María’s arms and then stared at the ground, unable to look at her.
“Please destroy the letter when you have finished reading it. I’ll take my grandson to the house.”
My
dearest
María,
If
you
are
reading
this
letter,
it
is
because
I’m
dead.
It
is
because
I
want
you
to
have
no
more
wasted
moments
waiting
and
wondering.
I
have
never
hidden
the
fact
that
I
am
a
staunch
believer
in
the
republican
cause,
and
I
have
never
misled
you
regarding
my
loyalty
towards
that
cause.
You
were
born
into
a
life
of
riches,
security,
and
bourgeois
traditions
handed
down
to
you
from
your
ancestors,
and
in
your
quiet,
secluded
world
you
grew,
mostly
unaware
of
your
fellow
Spaniards
and
their
sorry
plight.
I
remember
the
first
time
I
saw
you.
You
were
sitting
on
a
horse
far
too
big
for
you
and
being
led
by
your
father
through
the
valleys
of
La
Glorieta.
You
were
six
years
old,
and
I
was
a
skinny,
hungry,
peasant
boy
standing
by
the
side
of
the
road,
mesmerised
by
your
beauty.
I
thought
you
were
a
princess.
You
spoke
to
me,
remember?
You
asked
me
if
I
would
like
a
drink
of
water
from
your
flask.
I
fell
in
love
with
you
on
that
day
and
have
loved
you
ever
since.
When
you
made
your
decision
to
stand
by
the
republic
at
a
time
when
you
could
have
stood
with
your
aristocratic
peers,
I
had
never
felt
so
proud
of
another
human
being
or
so
lucky
to
have
loved
you
.
.
.
and
have
you
love
me.
Have
I
ever
told
you
how
much
you
mean
to
me?
Or
for
how
long
I
have
yearned
for
you
in
these
dark
unending
days
and
months?
My
love
for
you
has
been
my
strength,
and
it
will
be
with
me
at
the
moment
of
my
death.
We
will
lose
this
war,
María,
and
I
fear
that
we,
the
peasants,
will
once
again
be
oppressed,
but
tenfold.
You,
on
the
other
hand,
will
be
what
you
have
always
been,
a
lady
with
the
most
wonderful
heart
and
purest
of
minds.
It
is
important
that
you
now
know
why
I
abandoned
you
so
cruelly.
First
of
all,
you
must
know
that
I
did
not
intend
for
you
to
be
deserted
in
this
way
nor,
at
first,
did
I
envisage
my
role
in
this
war,
my
despicable
part
in
atrocities
that
go
far
beyond
the
realms
of
human
decency.
It
seems
that
our
allies,
the
communists,
have
taken
the
purity
of
our
cause
and
turned
it
into
nothing
more
than
a
staging
ground
for
their
own
warped
ambition.
They
have
spread
their
communist
doctrine
in
our
country
without
us
really
knowing
what
it
was,
and
in
our
desire
for
their
help
to
fight
the
fascists,
they
have
taken
good
republicans
and
killed
them.