The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (56 page)

Chapter 53

P
edro received a dinner invitation from Captain Mora, whose tent stood at the far side of the encampment just outside Toledo. Pedro swung his tired legs out of his makeshift bed of straw and cotton sheeting and yawned. He had been up all night on a probing mission and afterwards had walked seven kilometres, there and back, to cut some strategic telephone lines going into the town. He didn’t particularly want to eat or sit in company, he thought, getting dressed. All he wanted was some sleep and blissful forgetfulness of the killings and the slaughters he had seen.

Captain Mora, who sat outside his tent at a small table with two chairs, welcomed him. His tent was twice as large as Pedro’s and luxuriously decorated inside, with a real bed and table and chairs. A couple of boiled rabbits and some potatoes had been brought, and for the first time in days, Pedro felt hungry.

The night was balmy for late September. For a while, they ate and casually spoke about home, their families, and Lucia. Pedro had asked for her hand one day after some particularly fierce fighting, and they had celebrated with a bottle of red wine of a particularly good vintage, but now, as Pedro spoke about his plans, the atmosphere suddenly became tense. Captain Mora was cagey and began asking questions that Pedro instinctively felt would lead him into a dangerous trap for some unknown reason.

Captain Mora struggled with his conscience every day; he didn’t particularly agree with the rebel nationalists’ cause. He was a soldier employed by the republican government and had been stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fate had dictated this for him, and now, as a point of honour, he would not desert his post.

He studied Pedro’s face over the dying embers of the fire and decided that the time had come. Pedro wanted to change sides. He could see it in his eyes and sense it in his tired, heavy-laden shoulders. He wanted him to go too, to do what he couldn’t. He had always thought very highly of the young man who sat beside him and knew that he would someday make a good husband for his daughter. He poured some more wine into the mugs and then removed his boots, sighing luxuriously as he did so.

“Pedro, do you believe in the cause?”

“I believe that I’d rather not answer that question on the grounds that the last person to get the answer to that question wrong was shot!” Pedro told him with a sardonic smile.

Captain Mora smiled and turned the rabbits on the spit. “You’re a good man Pedro, so I am going to ask you again. Do you believe in what you are doing right now?”

Pedro put down his mug of wine and cast a sly look around the area before sitting closer to the fire. He wasn’t sure why he was being asked the question. Captain Mora had always known about his political ideals, ever since that first time he had dinner at Lucia’s house.

“Sir,” he began hesitantly, “as you well know, I’m not a fascist, a communist, a supporter of the Phalanx, or left of socialism. I am certainly not a Stalinist or a fan of Hitler and Mussolini. I’m just a soldier, Lieutenant Pedro Martinéz of the Seventh Regiment of Engineers, who, like you, was caught up in all of this. However, having said that, I do support the peasants in their fight for fairness and better pay. I also support the idea that all men should be given a chance to make something of their lives, no matter where they come from. I believe that traditions should be protected but that a modernisation of those traditions is also necessary. I hope that answers your question, sir.”

“Yes, Pedro, it does. It does indeed,” Captain Mora answered.

The night was dark, one of those nights when stars lay hidden behind black clouds, unable to make their presence known to the world below. It was the kind of night that soldiers hated and feared, for there were no guiding specks of light to aid them on their dangerous missions.

Pedro led a probing patrol into the woods just south of their encampment. He had been surprised at the orders, as he had completed his fair share of sleepless nights in the woods and was not due to go out for another two nights. Captain Mora had ordered him to cut the communication lines between the republican front line and the centre of the town, and it meant going into enemy territory. Just after midnight, Pedro had stood inside the command tent, studying a map of the area. Captain Mora gave him some coffee and shook his hand, an unusual gesture.

“Pedro, a man could get lost in these woods, so if I don’t see you again, I want you to know that it has been a pleasure serving with you. Follow your heart, son, always follow your heart,” he said.

The first sound of gunfire rang through the dense woods just as Pedro and his men reached the target. Flares lit up the dark sky, and they fired into the tree-line directly in front of them. Pedro reloaded his weapon but was thinking about something else entirely; this was his window of opportunity. He could disappear now, like the moon behind the clouds. No one would have the time or desire even to look for him or to find out what had happened to him. The woods were dangerous and so dark; it would be foolish for his men to try to find him. He had been waiting for this moment.

He ordered his men forward, and when they ran towards the trees, he fell behind. He could see them take cover behind a row of trees to the left of him, but he stayed where he was, crouching unseen behind some rocks at the edge of the forest. After a while, he heard his sergeant’s voice shouting his name. He didn’t make a sound. He then heard the order for retreat. His men were in trouble, yet he remained still. A few minutes later, his men ran past his position. They were panting with fear and being followed by the republican militia; the mission had failed almost before it began.

Sometime later, from his vantage point, he saw the republican militia returning to their lines. His men had run, retreated in a hail of bullets, and he had deserted them. He wondered what they would think when they reported to Captain Mora. What would Captain Mora think when the men told him that he was missing? Would he think him dead or would he suspect what he’d always suspected?

After a while, Pedro was alone. There was an eerie silence broken only by the weak cries of dying men lying somewhere in the darkness and the odd echo of gunfire from the town itself. He rose from his position, searched the area for bodies, and found a dead republican just inside the tree-line. He was dressed in civilian clothes but wore a red scarf around his neck and a beret that still sat on his head. Pedro checked the man’s pulse. He was definitely dead, already growing cold.

Pedro removed his uniform, exchanging it for the dead man’s trousers, shirt, and jacket, which bore no insignia and no telltale military allegiance. He put the man’s black beret on his head and tied the scarf around his neck. He was still unsure about the rest of his plan as far as which way to go or how to proceed. He was now dressed in a dead man’s clothes; the night was still and dark; and he knew he’d have to be careful about the direction he took, for if he went the wrong way, he could easily bump into a rebel column and be shot as a republican. That would be ironic.

In front of him, in the distance, he saw small patches of sky lit up by campfires. He knew that all the nationalist lines were behind him, apart from small reconnaissance units, which he would be careful to avoid by skirting the edge of the woods. He was also aware that if he were even to think of backtracking, he would be back where he started. He looked up at the sky and noted that there was now a sliver of a new moon, still partially shrouded in clouds but helpful nonetheless. He checked his compass, then the dead man’s rifle for bullets, and took his first hesitant steps towards the other side.

Chapter 54

A
fter the death of her sister, María’s mood changed from one of compliance to one of determination. She was itching to do something, anything, and the more she thought about doing nothing, the more frustrated she became. La Glorieta no longer needed her protection, and she no longer wished to sit around and do nothing in a barracks filled with men who refused to allow her any decent employment apart from cooking and cleaning. She must have some part and some say in the war raging around her, she decided. There had to be something she could do.

In the days following Marta’s death, she couldn’t quite believe or accept that her republican comrades had been the ones to end Marta’s life. For weeks, she had hated them, and herself, for believing in their so-called righteous cause. She had wanted nothing more than to run away and join her parents in England, but then there was Carlos, always Carlos.

The home she once knew and loved was barely recognisable now, and all the treasures it once held had been looted during the first few nights of the republican occupation. She lived in the attic room, which was comfortable, but it had become her prison, for she was not free to go anywhere without asking permission first. She was even refused entry into her father’s conservatory, as it now belonged to Captain Raúl, who yielded his supreme power over all who lived on the estate. For the first time since the conflict began, she questioned her role and determined that staying at home, hidden away from the world, was not what she would call playing an active role in the war.

She sat beside Marta’s grave one morning. The sun had barely risen but she had felt compelled to go there. She had to talk to someone about her fears and frustrations, for they were threatening to overwhelm her. She put some flowers that she’d picked into the stone urn that marked the grave and tidied up some weeds that had overrun the piece of earth that covered Marta’s remains. Carlos had dug Marta’s grave himself and had sat with her for hours after Marta’s body had been put in the ground. Carlos understood her frustrations, and she knew that she would lose her sanity entirely if he were to leave her. Her home and her land were now being divided up into little pieces and given to the peasants who used to work for her father. There was even talk of her being evicted because more soldiers and medical teams were due to arrive. Nothing would ever be the same, but as long as Carlos was with her, she could survive any situation.

Carlos quietly walked towards where she sat and then halted his step just behind her. He noted that she always wore that same air of dignity and pride. She had never asked for any special privileges or for anything, for that matter, from the hordes of people who now lived in her house, and she had borne her grief with great bravery.

“María,” he said gently, not wanting to startle her. “María?”

She turned to face him. “Carlos, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Is everything all right?” she asked, plainly startled nonetheless.

“Yes, I came to give you this letter. It arrived just now. I’m sorry, but it’s already been read by Captain Raúl.”

“Of course it has. Who’s it from?” she asked him, rising to her feet.

“Read it.”

She sat down again, took the letter from its envelope, and began to read:

Señorita
Martinéz,

My
name
is
Lucia
Mora,
and
I
am
a
friend
of
your
brother
Pedro.
He
used
to
talk
about
you
all
the
time,
and
I
feel
as
though
I
know
you
already,
so
I
do
hope
that
you
don’t
mind
my
writing
to
you
like
this.

I’m
desperate
to
meet
you,
you
see,
and
I’m
hoping
that
you’ll
agree
to
come
to
Valencia
so
that
I
can
talk
to
you
about
your
brother
and
about
how
you
can
help
our
government.
I
am
a
nurse
and
hope
to
serve
in
this
capacity
alongside
our
brave
soldiers
when
I
am
called
upon
to
do
so.
Pedro
always
told
me
that
you
are
a
loyal
supporter
of
the
republican
government,
so
I
wondered,
as
you
are
cut
off
there
in
the
countryside,
if
you
would
be
willing
to
put
your
name
to
the
register
of
the
Medical
Association;
I’m
sure
they
will
be
looking
for
volunteers
very
soon.
If
you
are
interested,
please
get
a
message
to
me
at
the
general
hospital
in
Valencia.
My
full
name
and
staff
number
are
on
the
back
of
this
page.

I
received
a
letter
from
Pedro
at
the
end
of
August;
it
was
more
of
a
note
actually.
He
said
he
was
well,
tired
but
well,
and
that
he
had
tried
to
call
La
Glorieta
but
had
determined
that
the
lines
had
been
cut.
He
was
worried
about
your
family,
so
I
wrote
back
immediately
to
reassure
him
that
you
are
fine.
News
travels
fast,
even
without
a
good
postal
service.
I
know
that
your
parents
have
fled
to
England;
it
was
a
good
decision,
and
I
informed
him
of
this
too.

I
will
leave
you
now
in
the
hope
that
you
will
consider
my
proposal.
Please
let
me
know
if
and
when
we
can
meet.

Lucia
Mora

“Well?” Carlos asked her when she returned the letter to its envelope.

“Well, it’s tempting. I might be able to play a part in this war after all.”

This was good news, she thought, as she handed the letter to him. This is what she’d been waiting for—a chance to help, really help. It had been made perfectly clear right from the beginning by Captain Raúl that she’d been extremely lucky to have been allowed to stay in the house at all, never mind have any say in it. She now knew that she had been naive to think that she would have. She also admitted that her home would survive the war because it now had a purpose, whereas she would not survive without one.

“So what do you think?” she asked Carlos, who had just finished reading the letter.

“I think you have to do something. You can’t spend all your days sitting here. Marta is at peace now, but you are not, and you’re being given a chance to help the living. Marta would want that. Anyway, it’s pretty clear that being inactive doesn’t suit you. Would you like to be a nurse?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’ve never thought about nursing. It’s a far cry from agriculture… Do you think I would make a good nurse?”

“I think that you’d be a great nurse as long as it’s not me you’re treating.” He made a horrified face, and she laughed.

“Carlos, be serious for a moment. Should I go and meet her, this Lucia Mora?”

“Of course you should. What have you got to lose?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Do you think Captain Raúl will allow me to go? I want to go straight away. Can you find someone to take me to the city?”

“Slow down. Yes, Raúl will let you go, and I’ll take you myself. I’ll even wait for you and bring you back. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to look after you.”

“Will you really?”

“Yes, really. I’ll arrange an identity pass for you.”

“Then when do we leave?”

“I’m free, I’m free… Well, for a while anyway,” she said later, sticking her head out of the truck’s window.

“María, will you sit still! You’re going to wear out the seat if you keep jumping on it like that. My God, you would think you’d never been to Valencia.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been anywhere?” she said indignantly. “I’ve been cooped up at home for, well, forever. I’d almost forgotten how much fun going into the city is.”

“It’s not fun anymore, María. The city’s now full of soldiers and bureaucrats from Madrid. We are at war, you know. Did you remember your pass? The one I gave you last night?”

“Yes, that’s twice you’ve asked me that, and I told you this morning I had it in my purse—”

“I know I’ve asked you, I was just checking. Without it you’ll be stopped from entering Valencia, and this will have been a wasted journey,” he told her abruptly, cutting her off in midsentence.

“Carlos, what exactly do you do for the republic?”

There. She’d asked the question that had been on her mind for weeks. Sometimes he disappeared for days on end, and he seemed friendly with Captain Raúl. She looked at his strong, handsome features and noticed that little drops of perspiration were running down his forehead. He didn’t like the question, she guessed, wishing now that she hadn’t asked it.

“María, I would do anything for you. You know that. But I will not be drawn into this conversation, not now, not ever. Let’s just say that I’m doing my duty and leave it at that. Are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I won’t ask again.”

“You made the same promise weeks ago,” he told her, with just a little exasperation in his tone.

There was silence. What does he do? María continued to wonder. He’d managed to get letters to her from her mother and father, and there was the one yesterday. He seemed to know a lot about what was going on. He knew more than anyone else she knew, but why was he so secretive? Was he a spy or maybe some undercover agent sworn to secrecy? He didn’t wear a uniform very often and still disappeared for days at a time. Captain Raúl called him lieutenant.

“Are you an officer?” she asked aloud, regretting it immediately.

“María, I said no more questions. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“All right, but I’ll find out. I don’t like secrets. You know that.”

“Sometimes,” he told her, looking deep into her eyes, “secrets keep you alive.”

Carlos lit a cigarette, and she took it from his mouth and put it between her lips, grinning impishly. She looked at him with defiant eyes. He hated it when she smoked, but she didn’t care. She was going to be a part of his war, and if he could smoke, then so could she. But she hated cigarettes; she was doing it to annoy him, and if he tried to stop her, she’d only do it more.