Authors: Victoria Hislop
Tags: #British - Spain, #Psychological Fiction, #Family, #British, #Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, #General, #Granada (Spain), #Historical, #War & Military, #Families, #Fiction, #Spain
The Return (29 page)
It was 15 August. In another year, the date might have meant something to him but now it was meaningless. It was the Feast of the Assumption, the celebration of the day that the Virgin Mary was taken up to heaven, and for the hundreds of faithful that gathered around the cathedral doors, trying to hear the Mass that was being sung inside, this was one of the most revered days of the Church calendar; there simply was not enough room inside to accommodate them all.
From within came the sound of clapping.The ripple of applause spread into the square and soon the crowd joined their hands in response.The appearance of the Archbishop’s procession at the main door was greeted by the perfectly timed blast of a military fanfare.
Now blocked in by the dense-packed flock, Antonio struggled to extricate himself. He was sickened by this blatant display of military and ecclesiastical co-operation and pushed his way out of the square. As he turned back into the main street and up towards the Plaza Nueva he almost collided with a troop of legionaries, marching down towards the cathedral, their hard, chiselled faces streaked with sweat. His own step almost turned to a run as he sped back towards home. He was scarcely aware of the groups of elegantly dressed people standing on their flag-bedecked balconies, though some of them noticed him, a sole figure moving against the steady tide of soldiers.
When he arrived back at the café, his parents were sitting together at a table. Pablo smoked, gazing into space.
‘Antonio,’ said Concha, with a smile for her eldest son, ‘you’re back. What’s happening out there now?’
‘People celebrating, that’s what,’ he said, almost choked with disgust. ‘Catholics and Fascists. It’s awful. I can’t stand it. That smug, fat-arsed Archbishop . . . God, I’d like to run him through like a pig!’
‘Ssh, Antonio,’ said his mother, noticing that a few people were now coming into the café. Mass was over and the bars would now fill with people. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘But why, Mother?’ he hissed. ‘How can a man who is head of the Church here ignore all this killing . . . this
murder
? Where’s his compassion?’
murder
? Where’s his compassion?’
Antonio was right. Monsignor Agustin Parrado y García, Cardinal Archbishop of Granada, was one of many senior members of the Catholic Church who sided wholeheartedly with Franco. These people saw the insurrection of the army generals as a holy crusade and for that reason alone would not intervene to save the lives of anyone falsely imprisoned and sentenced by the Nationalists.
Concha had tied her apron and was soon behind the bar, followed by her husband, and by the time they had taken orders, Antonio had disappeared out of the door.
It may have been no real comfort to Antonio, but Franco soon began to make demands on those who supported him, to the tune of tens of thousands of pesetas. There were subscriptions for the army, the Red Cross and for the purchase of aircraft, and some even had to share their homes with senior army officials. The cost of war was not cheap for anyone and the banks themselves were in crisis. No one was depositing money. They were only making withdrawals and their vaults were being drained of their reserves.
Pablo and Concha listened to the grumbles of their few wealthy customers. The café had always had a mixed clientele and the couple had worked hard to maintain their image of absolute neutrality. Anything else would have been suicidal in this climate and atmosphere.
‘They took away my husband’s Chrysler last week,’ said one well-coiffed woman of about fifty-five.
‘How dreadful,’ responded her friend. ‘And when do you think you’ll get it back?’
‘I’m not sure I’d want it now,’ she replied, the disdain evident in her voice. ‘I saw it only this morning - crammed full of Assault Guards.You can imagine what a filthy mess they’ll be making of it. It already has a big dent in its side!’
Both sides were feeling the cost of this conflict. Many people had relatives in other cities and for some time now communication between Granada and the outside world had been restricted. No amount of brandy that they served could fully calm the anxiety of people who sat in the café fretting about the wellbeing of sons or daughters, uncles and parents in Córdoba, Madrid or distant Barcelona, from whom they had received no word. Mercedes was becoming desperate for news of Málaga.
Now that Granada was firmly in their hands, the Nationalists were sending out troops to other towns. Antonio and his friends were heartened to hear that many of them were putting up strong resistance. Although the narrow passage between Sevilla and Granada was held by the Nationalists and heavily guarded, much of the rest of the region was still holding out against Franco’s troops, and fierce combat went on even in small towns that they had assumed could be taken without a fight.
The sinister task of keeping watch over people in Granada was now shared with members of the fascist Falangist youth party, who happily participated in denouncing and persecuting anyone they suspected of being Republican. Crimes against the new regime could consist of anything from having communist propaganda daubed on your walls, which might even have been put there by the Falangists themselves to stir up trouble, to having voted for the socialist party in previous elections. The terror of arbitrary arrest and imprisonment was intense.
For Emilio, the day after the Feast of the Assumption, 16 August, was the worst of the conflict so far. Within twenty-four hours, both his close friend Alejandro and his hero, Lorca, were arrested. The poet had travelled to Granada to stay with his family just before the coup, but realising the danger he might be in because of his socialist sympathies, he left his home and took refuge with a Falangist friend. Even being with someone who supported the right did not protect him. His detention took place on the same day as the execution of his brother-in-law, the Mayor, Montesinos, who was shot against the cemetery wall.
The news of Lorca’s arrest had got round quickly and for three days his family and all of those who loved him waited anxiously. He belonged to no political party so there was slim justification for his detention.
Emilio was working in the café when he overheard two customers talking. At first he thought he must have been mistaken, when he realised who they were talking about.
‘So they shot him in the back, did they?’ asked one of the men.
‘No, in the backside . . .’ the other murmured. ‘For being a homosexual.’
They were unaware that Emilio was listening to their every word.
A moment before, Ignacio had come downstairs. He had caught the last words and could not resist joining in.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened - they shot him in the arse for being a queer, a
maricón
! There are too many of his type in this city.’
maricón
! There are too many of his type in this city.’
Everyone in the room went completely silent. Even the ticking clock sounded embarrassed, but Ignacio could not resist another stab. This captive audience was irresistible.
‘We need
real
men in this country,’ he challenged. ‘Spain will never be strong while it’s full of poofters.’
real
men in this country,’ he challenged. ‘Spain will never be strong while it’s full of poofters.’
With those words he strode through the bar and disappeared into the street. His was a sentiment shared by many on the right. Manliness was a prerequisite for the true citizen.
For a while no one spoke. Emilio stood, frozen to the spot, tears flowing down his face. At one point he wiped them away with his cloth but still they came. When Concha appeared she took her son’s arm, led him into the office behind the bar and shut the door. The muffled sound of sobbing was drowned out as customers resumed their discussions. Pablo appeared to take over at the bar. There had been no news of Alejandro, and for Emilio it was as though the situation could not get any worse.
The death of Lorca was a landmark event in this conflict. Any residual belief in fairness and justice was destroyed. People across Spain were horrified.
At the end of August, just when people in Granada were beginning to feel safe from airborne attack, Republican army planes reappeared. Some thirty bombs were dropped on the city, the anti-aircraft cannons doing absolutely nothing to prevent them. Although their action brought renewed fear and terror to everyone, including those who supported them, it showed that the Republican cause was not yet a lost one.
‘You see,’ said Antonio, appealing to his parents the next day, ‘we can still fight to restore the Republic!’
‘We all know that,’ interrupted Emilio, ‘apart from Ignacio, of course.’
Concha sighed. This bitterness between her sons, which had brewed for so many years, now wearied her. She had struggled so hard not to take sides and to be even-tempered and even-handed.
When the air strikes ceased, the city once again put on a display of normality.
One day, at the end of the month, Ignacio came in looking more satisfied with life than ever.
‘There’s going to be a bullfight next week,’ he announced to the family. ‘My first here as a
matador de toros
.’
matador de toros
.’
Antonio could not resist a tart comment. ‘It’ll be good to see a bullring put to its proper use,’ he said. They all knew to what he was referring.
Earlier in August, in the bullring at Badajoz, a town in the south-west, instead of the blood of bulls the huge ring of sand had soaked up the blood of thousands of Republicans, socialists and communists. They had been herded towards the neat white
plaza de toros
and through the gate where the parade usually entered, and into the ring. Machine guns were lined up for them and eighteen hundred men and women were mown down. Some of the bodies lay for days until they were dragged away and their blood turned black in the sand. Reports mentioned that passers-by had retched at the sickening smell of spilled blood and that the only thing the victims were spared was the sight of their town being ransacked and looted.
plaza de toros
and through the gate where the parade usually entered, and into the ring. Machine guns were lined up for them and eighteen hundred men and women were mown down. Some of the bodies lay for days until they were dragged away and their blood turned black in the sand. Reports mentioned that passers-by had retched at the sickening smell of spilled blood and that the only thing the victims were spared was the sight of their town being ransacked and looted.
‘Whatever happened in Badajoz,’ retorted Ignacio defensively, ‘those
rojos
probably deserved it.’
rojos
probably deserved it.’
He pushed past Antonio and put his hands on his mother’s shoulders.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ he asked imploringly.
‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it. But I’m not sure your brothers will be there.’
‘I wouldn’t expect them to be,’ he said, spinning round to look at Antonio. ‘Especially him upstairs.’
The mood in the bullring the following week was euphoric.The stands hummed with excitement as the spectators, dressed in their best finery, talked animatedly and waved to friends across the crowd. For the predominantly conservative
aficionados
of this sport, the reopening of the ring symbolised a return to some form of normality and they savoured the moment.
aficionados
of this sport, the reopening of the ring symbolised a return to some form of normality and they savoured the moment.
Pablo and Concha were there that afternoon to watch their son. Antonio, Emilio and Mercedes had chosen to stay at home.
From where they sat on this late afternoon, securely enclosed in the perfect circle of the Plaza de Toros, the devastation that had taken place in parts of their city was out of sight. What mattered to the majority of people there at that moment was that they could enjoy the resumption of their old way of life, a sense of their élite position, a re-establishment of the old traditions and hierarchy. Even the choice of seat, in the sun or the shade,
sol o sombra
, reflected social standing in the city.
sol o sombra
, reflected social standing in the city.
‘Whatever happens in the next few months,’ went one conversation overheard by Concha, ‘at least we’ve got rid of those awful lefties in the town council.’
After that she tried not to listen to the two elderly men next to her, who clearly had no idea how brutally and thoroughly some of the socialist town councillors had been eliminated, but snatches of conversation kept drifting across to her and they were hard to ignore.
‘Let’s pray that the nation will see the light and give in to General Franco,’ said one of them.
‘We live in hope,’ responded the other.‘It would be much better for everyone. And the sooner it happens the better.’
‘Try not to listen to them,’ said Pablo, overhearing too. ‘There’s nothing we can do about the way these people think. Look! The parade is going to start . . .’
The pageantry seemed more scintillating than ever, the men more handsome, the costumes more vivid. For the past hour, Ignacio had been preparing himself in his dressing room. He was laced into his trousers and his hair was dressed and pinned before he put on the smooth felt
montera
hat. He admired himself in the mirror and lifted his chin. The gleaming white of his costume accentuated his dark hair and tanned skin.
montera
hat. He admired himself in the mirror and lifted his chin. The gleaming white of his costume accentuated his dark hair and tanned skin.
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