The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (45 page)

She worked each day in the gardens. The earth inside the monastery, a rich red soil, was perfect for growing just about any edible vegetable, and it was in sharp contrast to the brown dirt-filled desolate fields outside. Marta tugged and pulled roots, picked tomatoes, and turned the soil over with hands blistered and caked in dirt that refused to depart even after the most arduous scrubbing.

She tried not to, but she looked forward to lunchtimes most of all. Every one of the postulants ate with unladylike speed, waiting for the bell to announce the commencement of the conversational hour. A rising crescendo of voices filled the long stone hall with subjects ranging from holy dreams to what they’d experienced in Mass that morning. Everyone took that time to get to know each other. Where they’d come from was the most frequent question, followed by what made them decide to become a nun. There was no outside communication on any level: no newspapers, no radio to listen to, and no family with comforting words. The world outside the walls of the convent became a receding, distant place that Marta once knew.

Chapter 41

M
iguel’s arrival in Valladolid heralded a new beginning for him. Just like his sister Marta, he too had a vocation, only his would be one of politics and, if necessary, violence. He could hardly contain his excitement, for not only was he now in the heart of the movement he loved, but he was also going to be at the very heart of the long-awaited elections and their outcome. The elections would take place on 16 February and it had been decided that the Phalanx would join with the JONS: Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional Sindicalista, the National-Syndicalism Offensive movement. With his legal skills, Miguel found himself in a position of proximity to one of his heroes, Onésimo Redondo Ortega, a man who’d not only founded the anti-republican newspaper,
Libertad,
but had also successfully joined these two groups together.

As far back as 1932, Miguel had followed the reports and progress of the Phalanx. He had tried to make his father understand that his decision to join them was not based on a recent whim or notion but was based on years of study. But he hadn’t wanted to listen; his father never listened to him. He was always too busy boasting about Pedro’s military career, María’s agricultural aptitudes, and Marta’s pathetic vulnerabilities. Here, he’d have like-minded people to talk to. He understood them, and they would understand him. They would bond together like brothers in a united family.

Miguel was desperate to meet Onésimo Redondo. His speeches were legendary, and many young men from Valencia had already joined him. In 1934, Redondo had given his momentous speech to the thousands of followers who had come from as far as Madrid and other far-off Castilian provinces. Miguel had harboured regrets in his life, and one of them was that he hadn’t been able to attend that famous rally. Now he was part of it all, in the thick of history in the making.

After two weeks, Miguel had opened enough doors to secure a position of trust in Onésimo Redondo’s inner circle and attended no less than five different meetings with him, but on the evening of the 16 February, his world began to crumble. Defeat at the hands of the republicans, who had won with a handsome majority, had left him shocked and disillusioned, and his aspirations of political power were fading with each passing day. He had worked tirelessly, in a democratic fashion, in a way that would have made even his father and brother proud. He’d been promised a minor position in government had they won; now, the only promise he received was one of incarceration at the hands of a government they had hoped to topple.

On 7 March, he and several other members of the Phalanx planted a bomb outside the police station in Valladolid. Onésimo Redondo was later arrested along with the local Phalanx leaders and put in prison, but this only encouraged Miguel to take bolder and more dangerous measures against the new republican government. He had analysed his position and his options. The opposition had made it clear that they would go to war with the Phalanx and attempt to stamp out their cause without a moment’s hesitation. He made his decision without any lingering doubts. He linked up with the more militant end of the Phalanx Party, refusing to sit in an office writing rhetoric and printing leaflets, and he also refused to accept the corrupt republican win.

The Phalanx terror squads, as they were known, made every effort to cause fear amongst the people, and as spring warmed the air and the almond blossoms flourished, so did the violence. Miguel had his goals firmly placed in his mind: the Phalanx would make sure that every meeting and discussion between the warring parties was brought to naught, that they would be rendered a complete waste of time. He and his colleagues would breed hatred and mistrust until war became necessary for all parties. A violent and total destruction of the republican government was, in his mind, the only way forward.

Chapter 42

“
E
rnesto, hurry—we don’t want to be late!” Celia shouted to her husband through his impenetrable conservatory door.

The day had finally arrived; they were going to see Marta. Celia tapped the heel of her shoe against the floor with an impatient scowl crossing her face. She had been waiting for this day for so long that she’d thought it would never come. Maybe, just maybe, she’d kept telling herself, Marta would see them and suddenly decide that they were more important than her vows. She had told the family to be ready at precisely nine. It was now ten past nine, and still she waited.

“Come down right now, María Martinéz, or we’ll go without you!”

Ernesto closed the door of his conservatory and stood in front of Celia to be inspected.

“Good, at last!” she said furiously.

“Celia, we have plenty of time to get there, and it’s not as if Marta’s going anywhere.”

“I know that! But a lot depends on today. I just want to get to there and bring her home.”

Ernesto tactfully reminded her, “Now, we talked about that last night, all night, and you promised not to get your hopes up. We’re going to see her. That’s the most important thing.”

“Stop patronising me!” Celia snapped back. “All I have is hope. I want her back, Ernesto! Why can’t you understand that?”

“I do understand. She’s my daughter too, you know!”

“I know. I know you do, but you don’t believe that today’s mission will be successful. Marta’s already been there for over three months, and I know that you think she won’t change her mind now, but I do. I think she’ll see us and decide to come home then and there. She loves us.”

Celia put her arms around Ernesto’s waist, sorry for losing her temper. In her mind, she didn’t believe her own words, but she had to keep saying them. She wanted to cling to the hope that her husband had lost. She had to believe for both of them, for this was their very last change to grab Marta back from the Church.

“As quick as you can, Jávier,” Celia told the driver as soon as María appeared at the front door.

“Celia, we won’t be late. We’ve got plenty of time,” Ernesto reminded her again.

Stepping into the car, a grumpy María told her, “Father’s right. Stop fussing, Mother. Can’t you sleep a little on the way? Father, tell her to sleep. She looks tired. She kept me up all night drinking hot chocolate. I’m drowning in the stuff.”

Celia raised her eyebrows at María. She had told her specifically not to mention the fact that they were up half the night.

“I can’t sleep. I don’t want to miss a thing. I want to see the almond blossoms on the way. They’re beautiful this time of year. Darling, read the letter again.”

Ernesto took the folded letter, which Celia had read at least fifty times, out of his jacket pocket. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

Only
three
people
will
be
allowed
to
visit.
There
is
a
strict
dress
code
that
must
be
adhered
to,
and
there
is
to
be
no
talking
until
you
are
officially
inside
the
designated
area.
Your
transport
is
to
be
parked
outside
of
the
village
but
not
too
close
to
the
convent’s
walls.

It’s like receiving orders from a high-ranking general conducting an undercover mission,” he said sarcastically.

“I know, but at least they’re allowing us to see her,” Celia pointed out.

“Then we should be grateful for small mercies.”

After a drive that seemed to go on forever, the car stopped on the outskirts of the small inland village of Cocentaina. They left the driver to lock up, telling him to go for a coffee. They walked up the hill like three brave soldiers facing defeat but not admitting it, clutching hands and speaking in whispers, afraid of being discovered by the enemy.

“It’s all right to talk now, Mother,” María said to Celia, who wore a scared and somewhat reverent expression. “It’s only when we get inside that we have to do all that weird stuff.”

“All right, so I’m practising,” Celia told her, being perfectly serious.

Marta sat inside the small chapel praying for forgiveness: the previous night she had spoken after recreation finished. She had been properly punished, having forgone breakfast, but she was still reeling with the shame of it all. She’d failed miserably. She had sinned, and to make matters worse, all she could think about was the pending arrival of her family. Concentrate, Marta, she kept telling herself. Concentrate. Don’t think about them. Think about your sin and pray for mercy.

Marta left the chapel and crossed the gardens to the monastery’s main building that housed the nuns, and then she washed and changed quickly into her best robes. Today was going to be difficult, she acknowledged, straightening her veil. The world had faded away recently, and everything she remembered and loved about it had been tucked nicely into the very back of her mind. True, she had thought about her family, especially María, but they hadn’t seemed real. Only the convent was real now. Today her mother, father, and María would be here, and she wondered how she’d feel colliding once again with the real world and real people. She looked forward to seeing them, but in some ways, she dreaded seeing their familiar faces. Her mother’s anxious smile would melt her heart. Her father’s kind eyes that had always comforted her would make her want to run into his arms. And María’s teeth, chewing her lip in outspoken condemnation of the convent, would make her realise just how much she missed her.

When Marta approached the recreation hall, she altered her veil again, tucked in her blouse, checked at least a dozen times that her bloomers were not bulging under her skirt, and opened the door.

Her mother sat underneath the window looking tense, sitting upright and stiff in her chair. Her father was looking around him, studying the great shelves of books that seemed to fill the whole room, making everything and everybody in it look so small and insignificant. María sat opposite her mother with a horrified look on her face, which read,
God,
what
is
my
sister
doing
here?
She knew her so well. She wanted to run into their arms, but she had given up that part of her life, so instead, she walked slowly and sedately towards them.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, kissing them all in turn. “You’re all looking well.”

“And you, darling. Are you well?” Celia said, trying to hold on to her for as long as she could.

“Are you happy?” Ernesto asked, searching her eyes.

“Yes, I’m very happy. I’ve never been happier.”

María grunted with thinly disguised disapproval. “Well, I think you look a little pale, but that may be because of the colour of your outfit. It’s very white…”

“Are you eating well?” Celia asked, ignoring María completely.

“Yes, very well.”

“So, darling, what do you do all day?” Ernesto joined in.

Marta watched their expectant faces drill into her own.

“Well, I sew and do a lot of housework. My sewing has really improved.”

“Really?” Celia said, not quite understanding what sewing had to do with being a bride of Christ.

“Yes, and of course I spend a lot of my time in the chapel. There’s meditation, three examinations of conscience, a rosary, evening prayer, spiritual readings… Oh, and that’s not counting office. It’s all so fulfilling,” Marta finished proudly.

Marta looked expectantly at all three faces. Her father shook his head, her mother and sister made faces at each other, and she felt as though she ought to say something else to break the uneasy silence. How could they understand? How could they know what it was like to be so close to God’s spiritual being that sometimes she felt he was her entire universe?

“I’m really very happy,” she protested, resenting the pity she neither wanted nor needed.

“Don’t you get a little bored saying all those prayers every day?” Celia asked her, clearly hoping to make Marta believe it was so.

“It is hard sometimes, Mama,” Marta told her honestly. “But then I just keep trying, and even when I feel I’ve prayed long enough, I try harder. It’s the only way to be.”

“It doesn’t have to be the only way. You could come home with us and pray whenever you liked, couldn’t she, Ernesto?” Celia said, turning to Ernesto for help.

“Yes, Marta, yes, you could, quite easily. I’ll even build you your own chapel and we’ll have it blessed by the bishop,” he told Marta in desperation.

“I don’t want to come home. I am home.” Marta hoped that she sounded convincing. She wanted them to stop asking her questions. She wished the visit were over so that she could block them out of her mind and get on with her life, but the questions just kept coming.

“So what time do you get up?”

“Do you have a regular bath?”

“Are you sure you’re eating enough?”

By the time the visit neared its end, Marta was exhausted. She wasn’t used to talking this much after all her long silences, and she was actually glad that she’d been given two nights’ recreational silence as punishment for breaking the silence rule.

“Can we not persuade you to come home?” she heard her father ask from some distant place.

Once again, Marta looked at the three of them in turn. She couldn’t bear to see the sadness in their eyes, but she knew she had to confront them.

“No, you can’t, Father. I won’t be going home with you at all, not today, not tomorrow or the day after. I wish you’d all stop trying to persuade me. You see, I really am happy. I really am. This is what I want.”

Celia let her tears trail down her sad face and tried one more time. “I think I’m making myself ill with worry. Oh, I know I’m being silly, but I really need you at home. Please reconsider, Marta. This is breaking my heart. Please just tell me you’ll think about it.”

“Mother, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t cry for me and don’t have any false hopes. I don’t want you to have hope. Please don’t make this any more difficult for me. Try to be happy for me. I’m not dead. I’m living a full life. I’ve never felt so alive. I need your blessing.”

Marta sighed with relief when the bell rang and her family were forcibly removed from the convent by etiquette and solid rules. As Marta watched them walk towards the outer walls, she felt herself about to give way to tears, but that would not be acceptable. She sighed and went to the chapel, where she found the ever-comforting hand of God.