The Poet's Wife (16 page)

‘Civil war has just been announced. Spain is in a state of emergency.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’ Joaquín asks sharply. I turn round to see that everybody has walked into the room and is now standing around the bedposts.

‘The government tried to call a general election yesterday…’ Eduardo continues slowly, taking care over each word he chooses ‘…but rebels have risen up against it and the army officers are proclaiming a state of war against the Popular Front.’

‘But surely they can’t succeed?’ Isabel asks, a catch in her throat. ‘The Popular Front is the legal government.’

‘
Sí
,’ Eduardo replies in a small, high voice. ‘
Sí
, it is.’

‘I think,’ I say loudly, trying to sound confident although my legs feel numb beneath me, scarcely able to hold the weight of my body, ‘I think that it is far too early to say which way the uprising will go. And in the meantime,’ I take a deep breath, ‘we must sit tight and wait and see.’

‘But that’s what we’ve been doing for all these months,’ cries Joaquín. A dark lock of his hair has fallen in front of one eye and I think he looks more like Mar at that moment than ever.

‘Joaquín,’ I say gently, ‘I know this is difficult for you. It is trying for us all. But it cannot help by getting angry.
¿Entiendes?
We shall get through this together.’

Joaquín sighs and walks over to the window, leaning heavily against the pane and staring out over the sierras. ‘I understand that. But why can’t you just be honest and tell us what you really think is going to happen?’

Eduardo has by now fully regained his composure and he stands up from his chair, trying to assume an authoritative voice.

‘Your mother is not a fortune-teller. How can any of us possibly predict what’s going to happen?’

I find myself glancing over at Aurelia who stares back at me, her mouth set into a tight, grim line.

‘All we can do for now is stay together,’ Eduardo continues. ‘After all, with any luck all this may have blown over in a few days.’

Joaquín scowls. ‘But you don’t
really
believe that, do you?’

‘Listen, Joaquín,’ I say. ‘As soon as other countries hear about this rebellion against the Republic, countries like France will help us. It will be impossible for them to ignore something as serious as this.’

‘But what can France or England or anyone do when the Republic is up against the likes of Germany and Italy’s fascist forces? It’s a lost cause.’

I turn to Joaquín sharply. ‘
Por favor
. I do not wish to hear you talk that way.’

He stares back, his dark eyes defiant. Everyone shifts uncomfortably and Aurelia begins to briskly fan herself.

‘Well, Father,’ he continues, ‘you haven’t yet answered my question. Do you truly believe this may blow over in a few days.
Truly?
’

Eduardo looks directly into the face of his adopted son, full of pained frustration and anger. ‘No, Joaquín. No, I’m afraid I do not.’

T
hat sense
of euphoria we lived and breathed with the Second Republic was so real. Education, jobs, prospects, freedom, women being given the vote,
libertad!
But it has all gone. Everything. This transition happened so quickly it almost feels as though the Republic never existed. Did we imagine it all? For a short while, we let ourselves dream and believe, but it seems that we fell asleep for just one second too long, and in that lost second everything changed beyond recognition.

And in the meantime, people are suffering, and people are starting to disappear; vanish into nothing. Even from my bedroom I’ve heard screams in the night; we all have, though we don’t talk about it. And then there’s Conchi. Ever since she left Carmen de las Estrellas, I’ve missed her. There’s something so constant and safe about her presence. She always seemed to be more male than female to me with her square jaw and strong shoulders and the way she effortlessly wrung the neck of a chicken in the yard made me feel rather sick, but I couldn’t help admiring her for it. I’ve always assumed that Conchi would just reappear one day, roll up her sleeves and carry on as normal. But one day, Mother confides in me that Conchi’s father and two of her brothers have been murdered and Conchi herself has gone into hiding. I feel sick to the very pit of my stomach, not only because of what Conchi must be enduring, but also because my hopes that she might return to us are finally dashed.

Our city is taken on a sweltering day in July. Not long after the nationalist rebel forces have invaded from North Africa and a state of civil war has been declared, the streets around our house fill up with workers demanding arms to protect themselves from the rebels. All the reports that reach us at the house through Radio Granada are confused – hardly surprising as the situation is changing so rapidly. In these early days, we have to rely on information from the workers who pass up and down outside our house whilst we hang from the top windows, calling out for news.

‘The military governor’s asking the army to remain loyal to the Republic,’ one man calls up whilst the rest hurried on towards the city. ‘But the officers have turned against him. They’re refusing to hand arms over to us!’

‘Where are you going now?’ asks Father, his face strained.

‘To demand again that we are given arms,’ the man shouts, pulling his cap down on his head. ‘
Viva la Republica!
’
he cries before running on.

Father slumps down in front of the window. ‘
Viva
,’ he whispers in a barely audible voice.

We hear later that evening that the military governor has been arrested and after a single shot is fired into the air outside the town hall, the workers are forced to return home, unarmed. Because of all the working-class people who live around our home in the Albaicín, our district holds out bravely for four more days. They are the most terrifying and longest hours of my life. I can’t sleep, not even for a moment. My parents barricade the heavy wooden doors that lead into the garden and the courtyard from the street. They place barbed wire along the length of the crumbling brick wall that is our final contact with the outside world. We drag mattresses along corridors so we can all spend the nights together, huddled in just two rooms, and we are allowed to eat our meals (or what little food Mother can find) in the bedrooms.

And then we’re paid a visit by my Tío Miguel. It is Mar who first hears the banging on the door and the calling. She rushes into the conservatory where most of us are sitting.

‘Miguel is outside!’

‘Miguel?’ Father’s forehead crumples. ‘Are you sure?’

‘
Sí
. I’m sure.’

‘What the devil does he want from us?’ His words trail off as Mother shoots him a look and throws her shawl around her shoulders.

‘
Vamanos
,
let’s go and find out, shall we?’ Her voice sounds calm but I hear a tremor in it.

Mar sinks into a chair and Abuela Aurelia hands a jersey and ball of wool to her that she is in the middle of darning, a scowl on her face. With all eyes on the two of them, I seize my opportunity to slip out of the conservatory behind my parents. I stay at the back of the courtyard behind a pillar, shocked to hear the volume of Tío Miguel’s hammering against the door.

‘Luisa! Eduardo!’ he shouts in between bangs. ‘You must let me in. Immediately. I know you’re in there.’

‘Miguel!’ Mother calls sharply as she hurries to the door and starts to battle with the locks and barricades that she and Father have constructed. ‘I’m opening up.’

As Mother heaves open the door and Father stands slightly back, his forehead a tangle of knots and creases, my uncle steps into the courtyard. The first thing I notice about him is how well groomed and healthy he looks. I had imagined that the trials everyone has been going through the past months couldn’t fail to have physically touched everyone, even my wealthy uncle. But apparently not.

‘Luisa,’ he says, his eyes narrowing. ‘Eduardo.’ He nods briskly to Father who lurks in the shadow behind Mother. ‘I’m sure I do not need to explain to you both that Granada is now under the control of the nationalists. Our politics have never…’ Tío Miguel stares at my parents with his steely grey eyes and pushes his shoulders back, ‘merged, shall we say.’

I hear Father cough and move to the other side of the pillar so I can see his face. His cheeks are burning deep red and I hope he isn’t going to shout at Tío Miguel before he’s even told them the purpose of his visit. Or he might never tell them and then I might never find out. I know that my uncle is now a prominent member of the Falange party because it came up in conversation one evening in the conservatory when neither Father nor Mar were there. (We are not allowed to talk about Tío Miguel in front of either of them – nobody has ever said this, we just know.) The Falange are becoming more and more popular and Mother says that it represents everything that Tío Miguel stands for: tradition, the Catholic Church, the military and the return of the monarchy. As I stand there and listen to my uncle talk to my parents, I wonder how it is possible to have two such different brothers.

‘I am telling you this for your own good,’ Tío Miguel is saying in a low voice so that I have to strain to hear him. ‘I want you to listen to me very carefully. This little…
fiesta
,’ he waves his hand dismissively through the air, ‘that the Albaicín is hosting up here is doomed to failure. In two days’ time, it will all be over.’

‘What do you mean,
over
?’ Father practically spits out.

‘I mean, Eduardo, that full surrender will be demanded. Or,’ he speaks to Father but I can see that he is staring at Mother, ‘the consequences will be faced. I have never been more serious.’

He is silent and his cold mask slips slightly. For a moment his face suddenly looks more worried than intimidating, but within seconds he has composed himself once more.

‘You are in an extremely dangerous situation here in the Albaicín,’ Tío Miguel says, ‘and for that reason, I have placed a safeguard on your house.’ I hear myself gasp and hurriedly hide behind the pillar. But I needn’t worry, because it is probably the same reaction as my parents, who are staring at him in shock, Mother’s hand covering her mouth. ‘But this is under the condition,’ my uncle continues, ‘that you remain quiet, do not make a fuss, that you forget about your
rojo
ideals,’ a shudder passes through him, ‘and that you do as I say.’

Father glares at his brother with open hatred and I will him not to lose his temper and say something he’ll regret.

‘I am under the orders of General Franco now,’ he adds, ‘and so are you. Do I make myself clear?’

Mother hesitates then she nods briefly. Father is leaning back against my orange tree, still as a statue.

‘What about our friends, and our neighbours?’ Mother asks quietly.

Tío Miguel laughs bitterly. ‘This is not a game, Luisa, this is a war. You think I can protect every communist you’ve dallied with over the years? Or
want
to? I do this only because your husband, because
you
,’ he turns to Father and jabs the air in an accusing way, ‘are my brother.’

Father’s head suddenly falls forwards and his cheeks turns crimson as though he has been physically slapped. I feel my heart beating rapidly and take a step back. We are trapped and my parents know it. To refuse his help will be as good as signing our own death warrants, but to accept it feels like a betrayal of everything our family stands for. Both my parents remain silent and I try to steady my shallow breathing.

‘From today onwards,’ Tío Miguel briskly tugs on his shirt sleeves, ‘Carmen de las Estrellas will be under a safeguard. But remember what I have told you, and expect very dire consequences if you do not heed my words.’ And with that, he is gone.

I find myself wondering if he has come for Joaquín’s sake, or whether he is digging behind all those cold layers to really listen to his heart. Either way, he is true to his word and the Albaicín is soon taken. On the first night of our confinement, two days after my uncle’s visit, I am lying on the mattress between Alejandro and Graciana, both nestling into me from either side. The air is stiflingly hot and Graciana is fidgeting, turning over restlessly from one side to the other and swishing her hand through the air at imaginary flies. I comb my fingers through her hair, blowing gently on her hot face to stop the sweat trickling. That’s when we hear it, as clearly as though it is coming from the next-door room: the sound of four bullets being steadily fired. We all lie there, paralysed. Then comes the screaming, a thin ribbon of sound that at first sounds like high-pitched operatic notes, but then starts choking as though the ribbon has become snarled in a machine.

Everyone who has fallen asleep is suddenly wide-awake and we listen as the screaming continued. It is joined by separate cries, rising and falling violently through the hot night air and vibrating in our ears. Graciana begins to cry and as I hug her I feel her tears on my burning skin. I don’t know how long we are locked in silent terror, listening to the banging of doors, shouting and the clatter of footsteps as people run up and down outside. After what feels like hours, the noises subside and a profound silence sets in. It is so intense that I swear I could hear an insect take flight.

Eventually Mother breaks it by creeping out of bed and slipping out of the bedroom door. I hear voices from the next room where Abuela Aurelia is sleeping with some of the others and footsteps walking down the corridor. Moments later, they both appear with a jug of water and several glasses, followed by everyone from the other room. Mother crouches on the floor to light a candle, and as the orange flame throws long shadows around the room, I look up at her face and notice for the first time the lines around her mouth and forehead and the dark trenches under her eyes. She looks exhausted, and it is no wonder. All these months she has put aside her own fears for our sake, to remain cheerful when really there is very little to be cheerful about. María is crying, huge sobs which make her whole body shake. I can’t deny I feel pleased at the sight of her blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes that make her look decidedly ugly.

None of us say a word for a long time. We just sit there and gulp gratefully at the water, trying desperately to take in what we have just heard. After a while, Father speaks.

‘Is everyone alright?’

Silence. He runs his fingers through his curls and sighs heavily.

‘We’re perfectly safe here.’

He is trying to sound calm, but we can all hear the tremor in his voice.

Mother shifted on the bed. ‘Your father’s right. Now try and get some sleep.’

As I lie there and listen to Alejandro and Graciana’s breathing becoming slower and more even, I find that I can’t even close my eyes. It is as though they are being physically pinned open. If not for the little ones beside me, I would have hastily climbed into Mother’s bed as I used to as a child.

That grim night is only an introduction to the three days that remain before our district finally gives in to the rebels. I don’t know how many lives are lost in this time, or how many horrors take place just metres from our house, but I’ll always be haunted by the memory of the sounds we hear. Up until this point, I’ve heard countless stories, yet that is what they remained to be: just stories. When I start to hear life being snatched away in such a brutal and needless way, I am forced to admit to myself that humans can be immensely cruel. Worse, I have to admit that it isn’t even a malevolent force from outside that has fought its way into our peaceful community, but that we are killing our own countrymen; our neighbours. We are at civil war.

The following night as we sit huddled in the conservatory, we hear a loudspeaker coming from the streets below the Albaicín.

‘
All citizens are instructed to tune into Radio Granada
,’ it announces. Father jumps up from his seat and fiddles with the dial before we hear a slow voice, hard as metal, issue a statement.

‘
Women and children of the Albaicín district, you must leave your houses immediately and make your way to designated points in the city below. Meanwhile, the men must hang white surrender flags from prominent positions and take all weapons onto the streets and leave them there with hands above your heads. Failure to comply will result in aerial bombardment of the Albaicín. Once again, you must comply at once or face the consequences.
’

This message is repeated again and again and eventually Mother snaps off the wireless. I hear people crying around me, only I don’t know who it is and I can’t bear to look. Mother whispers something to Mar and they leave the room to start tying a white flag to the balcony.

‘This announcement,’ Father says, his voice shaking, ‘does not apply to us. We are perfectly safe, we have my…my brother’s assurance.’ He continues to stare at the wireless, as though it can somehow give us something we need. Silently, I stand up and walk to the window where, through a crack in the curtain, I watch as a long line of women and children with small bundles in their hands begin to make their way down through the narrow streets past Carmen de las Estrellas. One small child is screaming with all his might and keeps trying to run back up the hill until eventually his mother shakes him so hard that he stops, in shock more than anything else.