The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (69 page)

Pedro and Carlos walked on.

“I said to wait up. I’m Joseph Dobbs. That’s my son, Peter!”

“Sit down!” Carlos shouted to Joseph in Spanish.

Joseph reached them, ignored Carlos, and tugged sharply on Pedro’s shirtsleeves.

“Where do you think you’re going without me?” he asked, still ignoring Carlos with the gun. “We’ve still got scores to settle.”

Pedro refused to make eye contact with Joseph; instead, he continued walking with his eyes on the ground, knowing that he would be safe only when he got onto the truck. Joseph followed, holding his aching belly and zigzagging on unsteady feet.

“Hold up, I said!”

Carlos spun round and hit Joseph in the face with his rifle butt, and a gash opened up on his swollen cheek. Joseph moaned, wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, and scowled through unchecked tears of pain.

“Where are you taking him?” he shouted again. “He’s my son. Take me too! Me papa, padre… Me father! Do you understand?”

Carlos pushed Pedro and both continued to march towards the truck. Joseph was right beside them again, and Carlos noted that prisoners and guards alike were now watching and listening to Joseph’s protestations.

“Halto… Halt.”

Carlos hissed to Joseph in a dangerously quiet voice this time. “One more word and I will kill you.”

Joseph grabbed Carlos by the arm. Joseph’s eyes were seething with anger and crazed with thirst and fever. His body, panting and breathless, raised itself in height and stood eyeball to eyeball with the taller man. All reason was lost to him, all measure of sanity gone. He stepped closer and wiped the blood from his face again; nobody ignored him! He was Joseph Dobbs, and he was going to get out of here with his son, even if he had to kill every fucking enemy soldier on the way! His son was his passport. Without him, he wouldn’t stand a chance, and he couldn’t go to his grave knowing that Celia was living and, worse, happy. He couldn’t survive without the boy either now. He would be able to use his Spanish to save them both. Then, when it was over, he would kill the bastard. He would kill the entire Merrill line!

He shouted at Carlos again. “Do you know who I am? I’m not Harry Miller. My name is Joseph Dobbs, and this is my fucking son. Now take me with him. Where he goes, I go. Do you get it now, you stupid fucking Spanish halfwit!”

Carlos took a step backwards and pulled Pedro back with him until Joseph stood in front of them both. Pedro watched the faces of the two men and knew that there was only one way this could end. Carlos looked to Pedro for permission. Pedro nodded his head slowly, which meant it’s all right. Do it. Carlos understood. They stared at each other for a second longer, communicating with unspoken words, but Joseph was oblivious and continued to shout.

“That’s my son, you git! I’m not supposed to be here!”

The gun glinted in the sunlight, and Carlos pointed it at Joseph’s head. Joseph’s face was creased in confusion. He stared into the barrel of the gun, then at Pedro.

“Son, save me,” he pleaded.

The gun fired. The bullet hit Joseph between his eyes, just above his nose. He fell to the ground dead, lifeless eyes staring up at the sun.

Pedro sat on the truck’s floor and looked one last time inside the corral where Joseph’s Dobbs’s dead body lay surrounded by blood. Carlos’s face appeared at the back of the truck, and for just an instant, Pedro saw a slight curve of his lips before the truck’s flap swung shut. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hand; it was over for one of them. Joseph Dobbs was dead, and all he could feel was relief. He smiled.

They bumped along rocky terrain, flat deserted fields, and highways strewn with burned-out tanks and army trucks. Refugees with belongings wrapped in old sheets eyed the convoy with caution and fear. Pedro lifted the torn flap on the side of the truck, watching and listening to insults being thrown at the walking wounded and old women begging for food or water. Shouts of ‘¡Viva España!’ and ‘¡Viva Franco!’ echoed around the convoy, and the nationalist soldiers stood with arms outstretched in fascist salute, killing the defeated refugees who refused to salute back. Pedro slumped back and closed his eyes.

Jaime, a tool worker from Albacete, sat beside him. Every now and again, he lifted the torn flap and peered from left to right. He had a quizzical expression and nudged Pedro, who had dozed off from sheer exhaustion.

“I don’t think they are going to kill us, you know. We’ve come too far. We’re almost at the Madrid suburbs. I don’t get it, do you?”

Pedro looked through the holes in the flap and shrugged his shoulders. For the first time in days, he dared to hope that maybe, on this occasion, he’d survive. Carlos’s presence in the corral had been a shock to him. He still had no idea why he was with the nationalists, but he was sure of one thing: today he had saved his life.

“Beats me,” he said to Jaime. “But as long as we’re not being shot, I don’t really care where we’re going! What do you think happened to the foreigners?”

“I think they’re probably dead by now,” Jaime said matter-of-factly. “They didn’t separate us for nothing, did they? Anyway, what use are they to the rebels alive?”

“Shut your filthy communist mouth!” a guard told Jaime before hitting him with the butt of his rifle. “One more word out of you and it’ll be your last. You’ll all find out where you’re going soon enough.”

Just before dawn, they arrived at a nationalist garrison and were quickly hosed down with water and disinfectant. They were then given nationalist military uniforms to put on before receiving bowls of hot murky liquid with beans floating on the top. Pedro laughed, and the sound threatened to bubble over into a fit of hysterical giggles. With every passing minute, the reason for being there became more and more apparent to him. He wasn’t going to be shot; he was going to join the other side again!

A nationalist officer, the highest ranking there, marched towards them with great pomp and ceremony. Pedro watched the man’s slow progress through the lines of prisoners and stifled another giggle; he was as short and fat as General Franco, he thought, finding the whole situation bizarre. Christ, he really was suffering from hysteria now.

It was morning, and the sun blinded the prisoners’ eyes, which were already red and irritated due to lack of sleep. The officer stood on top of the back end of a tank and pushed out his chest in a display of exaggerated authority.

“We have captured more than one hundred thousand prisoners such as yourselves, and I have the pleasure of informing you that you will now be re-educated and will fight with nationalist units. So you see, the next time you scum of the earth hold a gun, it will be to kill the communist and socialist masters you once served! And if you’re feeling sorry for yourselves, think again. You’re the lucky ones. Half the prisoners brought here have been sent to labour camps. Now if you don’t like this idea, we will not force you to join us. We will simply shoot you and put you out of your misery. It’ll mean that I’ve got fewer mouths to feed. If I had my way, I’d shoot you all right now and be done with you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Fight with them or be killed by them,” Pedro whispered to Jaime later. “What do you think history will say about us? Will we be known as traitors? That we sold ourselves to the nationalists for the price of our lives? Or will they understand our actions and say that we did what any man who wanted to see his family again would do?”

Jaime shook his head and smiled. “To tell you the truth, friend, I don’t really care what history says. I’m just glad to be alive and glad that I wasn’t killed last week by some communist bastard for taking too long to have a shit. Anyway, the first chance I get, I’m going to make a run for it back to Albacete. I’ve had enough of this fucking carry-on!”

The next morning, the ramifications of Pedro’s forced transfer into the enemy camp came in waves of disbelief, ironical amusement, and finally depression. He could make a run for it too, he supposed, but run where and to whom? His commitment to and belief in the war had subsided. He had always sympathised with the plight of the peasants, but he now hated the thought of the Russians using the Spanish military as though they were nothing more than puppets on strings, which they could pull and cut on a whim. The other and more personal damage that the situation had caused was that he had witnessed his own father’s death and felt nothing but relief. What kind of a man did that make him?

“Where do you think they’ll send us?” Jaime asked, interrupting Pedro’s thoughts.

“I don’t know. They’ll probably use us as gun fodder on the front lines,” he told him absently, still thinking about Joseph Dobbs.

Chapter 77

M
aría found a letter from Carlos. It sat on top of the bed in the tiny room she shared with another nurse. She picked it up and shook her head. As usual, Carlos knew her movements even before she did! The note read:

Please
meet
me
in
our
cafe
at
two
o’clock
tomorrow.

I
love
you,

Carlos’

A week after Jack’s death she’d returned to Madrid’s general hospital. She had gone through periods of mourning, incredible loneliness, and the intense war-weariness that living in the capital now brought. On the first day of their return, Lucia decided to go back to Valencia. They had been given the news about Pedro missing in action, but Lucia was convinced that he was still alive and that ‘missing in action’ meant exactly that. Her decision to move back to Valencia was one that had been immediate and unbending.

“If Pedro is missing, I just know that he will try to make it home, so that’s where I’m going to wait for him,” she told María.

María had greeted the news with pessimism. She believed her brother was dead. She knew Pedro was not like Carlos. Pedro would never have gone this long without finding a way to make contact. There were couriers who ran between the lines, just like postmen. They travelled for miles, delivering mail and orders, and she and Lucia were not difficult to find.

As though reading her thoughts, a courier knocked on her door just before she left the hospital to meet Carlos. He handed her a letter from Lucia, who had apparently arrived safely in Valencia, wished her well, and left for some unknown destination. There was also a letter in the mailbox from her mother, dated weeks before; she recognised the writing on the envelope. She put both letters into her bag, not wanting to read them until she reached the cafe and had a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her. It was a grand occasion now when a letter came.

She wrapped the scarf around her head and pulled on her boots. Madrid was freezing over in one of the coldest and bleakest winters in living memory. The city had deteriorated into a hovel of homeless, starving people, and despite the evacuation programme a year ago, it was crammed with refugees, swelling the population by more than half. Various committees had supervised the construction of the shelters, mainly in empty houses and apartments, and they had also organised food supplies. Committee members, foreign journalists, and Soviet advisers were generally well looked after, but for the majority of the population, the daily allowances were hardly sufficient. Desperate to feed hungry children, women stripped the bones of horses and mules killed by the bombing or shellfire. Cats and dogs were also eaten and put into thin watery soups to improve the taste. Most people, however, were still trying to achieve some normality in their lives. They went to work and used the trams, even though their tracks had to be repaired on a daily basis. The metro was also still being used, although the people joked that the line went even farther than the front line, and if one missed one’s stop, he could come out on the far side of it.

After trudging through the snow, which had arrived in a blizzard the night before, María reached the cafe, grateful to be out of the cold and misery of the streets where the dead and starving people lay. This cafe held great affection for her not only because it was her and Carlos’s meeting place, but also because it was the only place where one could still find a hot drink and occasional meal, if one had the right connections, she thought, and Carlos apparently did.

She was much too early for her meeting with Carlos and didn’t expect to see him for another hour. She was also hungry, but the waiter informed her that only hot and cold drinks were being served. How different things were now, she thought. She remembered the sumptuous lunch she had shared with Carlos at their last meeting almost a year ago, the last time she had seen him.

After ordering her hot chocolate, she ripped open the first envelope and settled herself comfortably in the corner of the bustling cafe, filled with foreigners and communist officials.

Dearest
María,

We
have
received
the
wonderful
news
that
your
brother
Miguel
is
alive
and
well.
I’ve
enclosed
a
copy
of
his
letter
and
hope
it
brings
you
as
much
joy
as
it
did
us.

Her heart soared. She unfolded the enclosed letter and began to read:

Dear
family,

It
has
taken
me
far
too
long
to
pluck
up
the
courage
to
write
to
you
all.
I
only
hope
that
I
have
your
forgiveness
and
your
love
and
that
it
is
not
too
late
to
tell
you
all
that
I
am
sorry.
Although
I
have
not
spoken
to
you
in
almost
two
years,
I
want
you
to
know
that
you
have
been
in
my
heart
and
mind
constantly,
even
though
sometimes
I
put
you
all
to
the
back
of
it.
I
know
some
in
the
family
disagree
with
my
views,
but
my
views
are
who
I
am,
what
I
am.
You
have
never
told
me
to
change
them;
you
are
not
guilty
of
that
crime.
I,
on
the
other
hand,
am
guilty
for
shutting
you
out
of
my
life
because
I
did
not
accept
that
you
too
have
your
views
which
make
you
different
from
me
but
nonetheless
still
family,
still
loved.

War
has
taught
me
so
many
things,
mostly
about
the
importance
of
having
something
and
someone
to
fight
for.
Without
family,
a
man
fights
for
nothing
but
his
own
gratification.
I
tried
that
once,
and
it
led
to
nothing
but
self-loathing.
To
hear
your
voices
and
see
your
faces
around
the
dinner
table
again
is
what
now
keeps
me
going.
I
have
met
with
shallow
and
false
people
who
have
made
me
realise,
perhaps
too
late,
that
you
are
the
most
important
people
in
my
life
and
that
they
were
not.

I
think
about
María
and
her
passionate
love
affair
with
the
land
as
well
as
her
wonderful
sense
of
humour,
which
used
to
amuse
me,
although
I
never
showed
it,
and
a
sense
of
knowing
that
I
wish
I
too
could
possess.
Marta,
with
her
desire
to
serve
God
and
her
sweet
tender
nature
that
calms
us
all,
never
knew
how
much
I
loved
her,
for
I
did
not
give
her
the
time
of
day.
I
will
rectify
this
and
hope
that
I
may
have
the
opportunity
to
know
her
better
in
the
future.
Pedro
is
strong
and
idealistic
yet
with
a
sincerity
I
envy
and
lack.

Mother
and
Father,
you
have
always
been
there
for
me
no
matter
what
I’ve
done,
so
please
don’t
give
up
on
me.

I
cannot
tell
you
where
I
am
or
what
I’m
doing,
but
I
can
tell
you
that
I
pray
every
night
for
your
good
health.
You
can
write,
if
you
want,
to
the
address
on
the
back
of
this
sheet
of
paper.
It
would
mean
so
much
to
me
if
you
did.
I
love
you
all.