The door burst open, and the republican soldiers, who were now licking their lips in sexual anticipation, stormed in. They dragged Magdalena from under the bed and threw her on top of it. They found Marta and laughed at her pathetic attempt to hide from them. One of the men dragged her by the collar to another cell.
Marta screamed, but in her mind, all she could think about was that the bed she now lay on wasn’t hers. The soldier undid his trouser buttons, and his trousers slipped to the floor. He stood for a moment, looking down on Marta’s nakedness, drinking in every curve of her body whilst licking his lips and grinning with contentment. “I’m going to have fun with you,” he told her. “You’re the nicest one I’ve seen yet.”
Marta didn’t answer him. Instead, she watched with silent wide-eyed fear as he got on the bed with her. She turned her head to the side and thought about her mother. Her mother had endured all kinds of torture at Joseph Dobbs’s hands, and she had been strong and had survived. Now she would be strong for her mother. She would think about her, of her kind face, her loving embrace, and her strength in the face of cruelty.
When he slipped inside her with one painful thrust, she winced but said nothing, did nothing, to stop him. She endured in silence with her eyes closed and her body involuntarily moving under him. Others then joined the man and repeatedly raped her, one after the other. She lost count of just how many violated her body, but she told herself that her belief in God was stronger than the pain and humiliation she felt at their hands. She prayed for the first time since being thrown onto the bed, mouthing, “God will protect me. God will protect me.”
She stopped praying and opened her eyes, ignoring the man on top her and his violent thrusts invading her body. Shots were being fired, and they came from every direction, along with the sound of high-pitched screams. The man on top of her had finished, and she looked up at his sweaty face and eyes filled with satisfaction. He reached for his gun, lying on the floor on top of his trousers, and checked it for bullets.
“Pity, I liked that,” he told her, stroking her face with the gun.
Marta knew she was going to die. The pistol touched her forehead and the man made the sign of the cross on it with the butt. It felt cool and somehow comforting to feel the sign of Christ upon her. and she looked into the man’s eyes and smiled her forgiveness.
“Go to God, you Catholic whore!” she heard before the darkness.
Corpses hung from the walls. Dismembered legs and hands, still clutching crucifixes, were strewn throughout the building in cells, in common rooms, and on the stairs. Holy relics lay smashed on the lawns, and burnt-out timbers still smoked in the great hall. Marta’s body lay on top of the bed. Her head was devoid of its habit, and her dark auburn curls were bright with blood. She was gone … They were all gone.
Chapter 51
Celia, Ernesto, and the aunts finally arrived at Merrill Farm on a warm August morning with only their small bags and lives intact. Ernesto had hardly spoken on the journey, and his first sight of the beautiful and peaceful rolling hills of the English countryside did little to lift his spirits. These were not his mountains or valleys, he told Celia. This was the alien landscape of a country to which he’d fled like a frightened coward, leaving his family behind to fight for what was his.
Merrill Farm was little changed. The hop gardens were in full bloom. Apple orchards and vegetable gardens were bursting with produce, and hundreds of hop pickers, camped down by the river in their huts, were doing what they had done for a hundred years.
Tom Butcher’s son and his grown-up grandsons had looked after the farm as though it were their own. The house was crowded now, but Celia decided that for the first few days at least, the country air would suit them better than the smoggy skies of London, where they would eventually live until the Spanish conflict was over.
Ernesto’s mood darkened with each passing day. Reports in the English press became even more gloomy and pessimistic about a quick end to the fighting in his homeland, and with each new report, his frustration grew.
Celia walked aimlessly around the old farm where she’d been born and found herself wishing for her home in Valencia. Nothing had really changed at the farm in all the years that had passed, since her own flight to safety, but she found herself somewhat detached from the once familiar surroundings that had meant so much to her.
Most of the furniture was the same. The bedrooms housed the same views over the village, which had grown somewhat since her last visit. Wood still lay at the side of the large kitchen stove, well used by Tom Butcher’s son and his growing family, and the walls that once spoke with hatred and death stood newly painted but bland. She felt nothing.
She walked down to the hop gardens, trying to recapture sights and smells long imprinted in her memory. She saw the huts filled with summer hop pickers and children stealing apples just as she used to do as a child. But she, like Ernesto, had become displaced and disoriented. She longed for her children, and she was desperate for news, any news …
After two weeks, it was decided, unanimously, that they would take up residence in London. Ernesto had been adamant that London was the only place that he would tolerate, adding that once there, he would be able to keep up with the news through various groups and connections at the Spanish Embassy. John Stein had arranged everything, and the three-storey Mayfair town house was theirs for as long as they wanted.
Ernesto’s first plan of action was to take an active role in the war by organising meetings of Spanish dissidents, communists, socialists, and people of the extreme right. But he was not planning a political debate. Instead, along with Rawlings’s shipping, he hoped to gather money for medical and food supplies to send into the Spanish war zones. He had heard that a growing organisation called the Spanish Medical Aid Committee held well-organised conferences at the National Trade Union Club, and he and Celia asked to meet its chairman, Dr Morgan.
It was pointed out to them at that meeting that funds would be necessary for the organisation to succeed. “We will not be given the money by our government. They don’t even want to talk about your war,” Dr Morgan told them. “We will have to raise the funds ourselves, every last penny. We can do this, and with your help and the help of others, we shall succeed in getting the necessary supplies to those who need it most.”
Ernesto’s solution to the money problem had been swift and easy to come by. Fifteen years previously, he had exported a vast amount of his wealth to London banks, for at that time, an economic depression had hit Spain, with land value and agricultural prices plummeting. Some of the London money would now be used to aid his countrymen. Some would see them through the dark days ahead, and afterwards, some would help rebuild what had been lost.
Within the week, enough money had been raised to permit the assembly of vehicles, supplies, and medical personnel. He had also asked Marie Osborne for her assistance. She was a well-known figure in London society. Her paintings were displayed in various galleries around the city, and her connections within the circles of the elite were still strong. Marie agreed that the best way to raise money was to hold a highly publicised function that would include all of her most important friends. She put announcements in the Times newspaper, publishing the plight of her family and drawing attention to what would be the biggest social event in years. With this done, she then went to work on the details with her own indelible mark of precision and diligence.
The first unit left for Spain on 23 August, and at the same time, Ernesto presented himself at the headquarters, offering to help in any way he could. He was given a position in the organisation, which for him was bland and altogether unappealing. His new job would consist of eight-hour shifts in a warehouse, accounting for everything from bandages to cigarettes, but he would do it, he told Celia, for if that was the only way he could be useful to Spain, then that was exactly where he was meant to be.
Celia and Ernesto sat side by side at the breakfast table, discussing the ball that had raised more money than they
had dared hope for whilst listening with one ear to the latest radio broadcasts concerning Spain. News was filtering through a little faster now; however, it was not good news, and Celia reiterated that she sometimes wished they had no radio at all. Aunt Marie listened intently with failing ears, whilst Rosa, lost in her own thoughts, stared out of the window with eyes that spoke disapprovingly of London life.
“There’s someone coming up the path,” Rosa said, using up her quota of words for the day.
The letter from María arrived by courier, and it was the first contact from home. Celia tore open the envelope greedily, anticipating the news inside, whilst Ernesto, Marie, and Rosa waited impatiently for her to begin.
La Glorieta, 7 August
Dear Father, Mother, and Aunts,
I am not sure where or how to begin, but I do know that you will want to know everything; therefore, I shall keep nothing from you. First of all, please let me assure you that I am safe in our home, which has now become a military base and is in the hands of the republican army. I am being treated well, and I can tell you in all honesty that I feel sure I shall remain safe here.
Mama, Papa, I am finding it very difficult to write what I want to say, but I must say the words and put them down on paper. I shall pray for the moment you are forced to hear the news I must give you, and I shall also pray for your forgiveness, for I fear that everything is my fault. Everything!
As I write, I feel your sadness and tears intertwined with my own. We are separated by land and sea, but our hearts beat unanimously in grief. On 5 August, Ramón and Carlos undertook the mission to retrieve Marta from her convent. It was impossible to do anything before then – please believe that. When they got to the convent, they found only death, and I must be the bearer of the inconceivable, terrible news that Marta, our darling Marta, has gone from us forever.
There was no one left alive inside the convent’s ruins. All had been slaughtered. Carlos found Marta, and she had been shot dead. He assured me that her death would have been quick and painless, that she would not have suffered. That brought me some comfort, as I hope it does you. Carlos brought her body back to me, and she lies in peace now under her favourite tree at the bottom of the bluff that overlooks the south grove. Old Father Salvador came and gave her a proper burial, with words and prayers, and I know she would have wanted that.
The willow tree will house her forever, and she will always be among us here in her final resting place, so you see, Mother, she did come back. She lived for God and died in his house, but he did not keep her after all. She is home.
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.