The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (53 page)

At six o’clock, the new novices were led to the great wooden doors of the novitiate. Here they would finally cut themselves off from the outside world. Marta stroked her new cincture, and all thoughts of her family were banished from her mind. She crossed the threshold. The key turned in the door and closed silently behind her…

Peasants and a group of assault guards, who had just taken the Civil Guard garrison at the edge of Cocentaina, climbed the walls of the convent at around four in the morning. They came silently, deadly, and angry at the recent stories of rape and killings of some republicans and their families just outside Valencia by a group of rebel nationalists who had refused to lie down and die after Valencia had become a republican zone.

The Church, for most of them, had long since become a sword at their throats, choking them with its dictatorial all-powerful rule of fear, and as they crossed the lawn towards the convent doors, their only mission was one of revenge and pleasure.

Marta woke to the sound of the first screams and dressed quickly. She prayed for a moment by her bedside and then tiptoed to the adjacent cell to check on one of her sisters. The rule of silence was forgotten now, for this was no time for following rules that could put their lives in jeopardy, she told herself.

“Wake up, Magdalena,” Marta whispered. “Please wake up. You have to get up.”

The girl stirred and jumped at the sight of Marta’s frightened face. She sat bolt upright and listened to Marta’s hurried words, stopping her when she couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“Sister Marta, slow down. What are you saying?” she whispered

“I heard screams. There’s something going on downstairs,” Marta said. “Listen.”

The two girls spoke in frightened whispers, huddling together in the corner of the cell. They were being invaded. That was now clear. The noise coming from the ground floor was louder now, so loud that thought for a moment that whoever it was had climbed the stairs and was coming towards them. Things were being thrown around, furniture was being dragged across the floor, and the sound of breaking glass was terrifying. The screams continued, but who was doing the screaming was still unclear. Loud, gruff voices then echoed around the walls.

Marta retreated to a corner of the curtained cell shrouded in darkness. There was nowhere to run to, she thought. The windows were too high from the ground, and doors leading to open hallways were not an option. She closed her eyes and gripped her rosary beads with shaking fingers.

“Lord Jesus, keep me safe and deliver me from evil.” She whispered the same mantra over and over, without pausing for breath.

Downstairs in the great hall, a soldier dragged the bishop across the floor. He was then disrobed and held spreadeagled by four republicans who each spat in his face. A group of peasants yanked the four-foot-tall wooden crucifix off the wall and carried it towards the bishop, who was writhing on the floor and screaming insults. Three men lifted the giant cross up above the bishop’s head and laughed as its weight fell on top of him, crushing his skull. They had wasted no more time with him; it was the nuns they were after. The women married to Christ were the ones they had come for, and when they spilled their blood, it would be in return for the blood of their sisters and daughters killed by the Civil Guard and the Phalanx.

Mother José appeared in the great hall, serene and committed to silent prayer amongst the mayhem that surrounded her eyes. She too had been dragged from her bed, robed only in a long cotton nightdress and crucifix that dangled between her breasts. Two villagers threw her unceremoniously on top of the dead bishop and the cross that covered him, then holding her wrists above her head. The mother superior didn’t speak or utter a sound. She didn’t even break her rule of silence when one of the peasants spat on her face and ripped off her nightdress.

She could hear the laughter that surrounded her, but she kept her eyes closed, unwilling to look into the faces of evil. She continued to pray until she was kicked in the stomach. The impact made her lose her breath, and she struggled to regain it.

“Open your eyes!” she heard someone shout. “I said to open your eyes, whore of Christ!”

She opened her eyes slowly, blinded momentarily by the torchlight in the assailants’ hands. She looked around her without moving her head, with eyes wide in fear, and then arched her neck and looked down the length of her body. She was naked, naked as the day she was born. She had not looked at her naked body for over thirty years, and the sight of it scared her more than her torturers did. Her piercing scream echoed loud and long, rising up into the wooden rafters of the high ceiling and corridors outside. Some of the looters stopped in their tracks and crossed themselves, still unable to let go of their fear of the Church. They dropped their bags and joined the others, gloating over the mother superior’s nakedness, and then they called for her death.

Mother José mumbled incoherently, a mixture of prayers and protests, and then suddenly shouted out with a voiced laced with authority and indignation, “My children, you are in the house of God, and I am his instrument!”

“No, you old bitch, you are our instrument!” a peasant said before kicking her in the ribs. She screamed in pain.

“And it’s time you shut your whoring mouth!” he shouted. You and your Church are going to pay for what you’ve done to us all these years. We won’t listen to you or your bishops any longer. Do you understand me, you fucking bitch!”

The mother superior’s long silver crucifix and chain lay on the ground beside her. The peasant picked it up and spat on it as she watched with wide-eyed, innocent terror. Another held her head still while the man knelt beside her and slowly inserted the crucifix and chain into her open mouth. She choked and coughed, unable to breathe, scream, or beg for mercy. The crucifix was pushed deeper down her throat until only a piece of the chain was visible, dangling precariously from the side of her mouth and swinging from side to side. The men took turns pulling the cross out slowly and then reinserting it back down into her throat. Her blood and saliva gurgled, bubbled, and ran down her chin to coat the chain hanging down past her neck.

A young assault guard stepped forward, tears running down his face and anger in his bloodshot eyes. “Enough!” he shouted to the others. “We’re not animals!” He stood over the mother superior, looking down at her bloodied face, and whispered, “Sorry. Please forgive me, Mother.”

He then pulled sharply at the chain until the crucifix became dislodged from her throat. It dangled at the end of the blood-soaked chain in mid-air in front of the mother superior’s eyes. Her mouth streamed blood. Her breathing was shallow, a rattling noise that made even the most ruthless of the men turn away from her. Her wide-eyed stare gazed upon the crucifix for the last time as she took her last breath.

By the time the invaders reached Marta and the others upstairs, they had worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement and hatred. They shot every nun in sight. Exhumed coffins were strewn across the lawn, and skeletons were mounted on poles like trophies. Marta prayed in the corner of the darkened cell. Her body was as stiff as a statue and inadequately hidden by a habit draped over a chair. She hardly dared to breathe. She thought that maybe she would be overlooked. She prayed that they would leave before they reached the novices’ cells… and then she heard the men approach.

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

C
elia, 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.