Golden Earrings (44 page)

‘Promise me,’ I said, grasping Evelina’s arm, ‘that you will always let me see her. You will never keep her away from me?’

‘Of course,’ said Evelina, stroking my brow. ‘You have given me the greatest gift. Julieta will be yours too,
secretly
.’

The following day, my breasts ached for Julieta. I offered to feed her, but senyora Montella had already organised a wet nurse.

‘It will look better that way,’ she said, picking up her handbag.

So the day after I had given birth to the child I had carried for nine months, she was taken away from me. After everyone had left, I was alone in the apartment. Even my maid was not there; I had sent her away before the birth.

A telegram arrived from Xavier saying that he would come as quickly as he could. But I was alone in a way I had never been before. My family were dead; my gypsy clan was on the other side of the world; my lover was married to someone else. I paced back and forth in the room. For the first time it struck me that without the noise and activity of people around me, my life was bleak and pointless. I stood by the window and stared out at the street, wringing my hands as tears flooded my eyes.

The new year arrived but brought no joy. Losing Julieta gave me an overpowering wish to die. Every time I walked past the Seine, I imagined filling the pockets of my winter coat with rocks and throwing myself into it. I had lost my urge to dance, and my heart bled for Spain. The news was bleaker every day. Málaga had been attacked by the rebels, who had committed horrific atrocities against the people. I watched Xavier and Margarida
come and go from Paris on diplomatic and governmental business, trying to save the Republic.

What’s the point of living if one’s life has no purpose? I wondered. I knew I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. No more! If I wanted a purpose in life then I needed to do something useful.

‘No, Celestina,’ Xavier said when I told him that I wanted to drive ambulances, if not for the army then at least for the rear echelon troops. ‘Do you know how dangerous that is? Franco does not differentiate between soldiers and civilians. Even if you are transporting injured women and children, the rebels will still bomb you.’

I took his hands. ‘Why is it acceptable for others to risk their lives but not for me? Am I superior in some way?’

He rubbed his face. ‘No … it’s not that.’

‘Then what?’

He shook his head and looked at me with tears in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t survive if something happened to you.’

I pressed my head to his chest. I felt the same way about him.

I remembered the joy of the people on the streets after the April 1931 elections, when the Republic was first declared. ‘How did it ever come to this?’ I whispered. ‘How did this insanity ever get unleashed?’

When Xavier realised that he wouldn’t be able to change my mind about serving in Spain, he organised for his French chauffeur to give me driving lessons.

‘Is Mademoiselle thinking of competing in the Concours d’Elegance this year?’ the chauffeur asked.

The Concours d’Elegance was a prestigious event where society ladies displayed their Bugattis and Rolls-Royces.

‘No, I want you to train her more like someone preparing for the Grand Prix
and
the Monte Carlo Rally,’ said Xavier. ‘She needs to know how to drive fast in all conditions. Mademoiselle Sánchez wants to serve the Republic as an ambulance driver.’

The idea both amazed and impressed Xavier’s chauffeur.

‘I drove an ambulance in the Great War,’ he confided during my first lesson. ‘If you want to drive ambulances, you’ll also need to know how to fix them.’

He gave me instruction on the parts of an engine and showed me how to empty and refill the radiator so it wouldn’t crack in freezing temperatures overnight.

‘And you have to learn to drive in the dark with the headlights off,’ he told me. ‘That’s probably the most important thing you’re going to need to know.’

Xavier bought a Ford truck and had it fitted out with stretchers.

‘It’s waiting for you in Perpignan, to drive across the border,’ he told me. ‘There is a pistol hidden in the box beneath the driver’s seat. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to get one in Spain, and you’ll need it for self-protection. The bullets are under the bandages in the first-aid kit. The supply kit is stocked with iodine, soap, matches and cigarettes.’

‘Cigarettes? But I don’t smoke.’

‘Cigarettes — real cigarettes — are useful for bartering in Anarchist-run villages where money has been abolished,’ Xavier explained. ‘Is there anything else from the volunteers’ manual that you need?’

I shook my head. ‘You always look after me so well,’ I told him.

He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his cheek. ‘One day, when things are better in Spain, I will devote my entire life to looking after you.’

My poor Xavier. How could he fulfil such a promise? He had too many other people who depended on him. He was the heir of an important family, and he couldn’t divorce Conchita and bring shame on his son. I wouldn’t have asked him to give me any more than he already had.

The next day, Evelina accompanied Xavier and me to the railway station. I was taking a train to Perpignan, from where I
would collect my ambulance. I hoped that Evelina would have some news to tell me about Julieta: how she had grown; how she squealed with delight at bathtime; how she always reached for her favourite toy. Anything! I was desperate for anything. But Evelina said nothing.

Xavier’s lips trembled when he kissed me. ‘In all my life, there has only ever been you,’ he said.

I embraced him and told him that it was the same way for me. Evelina turned to me and I squeezed her hand before I climbed into the train. ‘Kiss Julieta for me,’ I told her.

Evelina nodded but said nothing.

When the whistle sounded and the train began to pull out of the station, I leaned out of the window so I could wave to Xavier and Evelina again. Why was Evelina so reluctant to speak to me of Julieta? Has she fooled herself that the baby is actually hers? I wondered. Had she created in her mind a world in which she had carried Julieta for nine months in her womb and given birth to her? I was happy that Evelina was bringing Julieta up, but I could not forget that the child was the physical manifestation of my and Xavier’s love.

When I arrived at the Barcelona barracks with my ambulance, I was already a seasoned driver. The journey over the Pyrenees had been a challenge and I saw why Xavier had made me do it. Keeping my attention focused on the road was difficult enough when I was travelling alone and not in immediate danger; what would it be like with passengers moaning and screaming in agony at every bump while enemy planes bore down on me?

The officer who signed me in kept glancing at me, on the verge of recognising me, but I’d been careful to dress as plainly as possible. I was constantly receiving requests from the military office to entertain the troops to keep up morale, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do. I was finished with Hollywood-style
extravaganzas and variety shows. If I danced anything in the future, it would be strictly
flamenco puro
.

‘I’ve seen many British and American ladies arriving with converted cars and trucks, but you are the first Spanish woman to offer her services. How did you obtain the ambulance?’ the officer asked me.

‘I took a collection from the factory where I worked in France,’ I told him. ‘A fellow worker taught me to drive.’

He nodded. My fictional account of comradeship appealed to his communist sensibilities. ‘Well, you’ve come at the right time,’ he told me. ‘We need ambulances more than ever.’

Franco was making another attempt to encircle Madrid by crossing the Jarama River and cutting off the city’s communications with the new temporary seat of the Republican government in Valencia. The Republican troops, reinforced by the International Brigades, fought valiantly to prevent the Nationalists from succeeding in their aim. The casualties on both sides were severe. My first assignment was to ferry wounded soldiers from a field hospital to a convalescent hospital that had been set up in an abandoned monastery.

When I arrived at the convalescent hospital, I was greeted by British and New Zealand doctors and nurses, who were relieved to learn that I could speak what they called ‘quite passable English’.

‘Everything is in short supply,’ the head surgeon, Doctor Parker, explained to me. ‘I often have to work in unsterile situations and hope the patient makes it. On more than one occasion I’ve left a bullet or a piece of shrapnel where it is, believing that the patient’s body will cope better with a foreign object than it will a case of septicaemia.’

I was shocked to learn that soap, the item most needed for basic cleanliness, was almost non-existent at the hospital. Doctor Parker and his team nearly fell to their knees and kissed my hands when I gave them my carton of
savons de Marseille.

Initially my duties involved transporting convalescent soldiers and some civilians to hospitals further afield, to make room for the more severely wounded. But war in many ways was like a hurricane: the wind could change suddenly and destruction could come from any direction. One day I was driving back to the convalescent hospital with my ambulance loaded up with supplies. I also had two British nurses with me. The nurses were catching up on sleep when a noise like a thousand bees sounded in the distance. Seasoned by war, both women snapped to attention. One of them pressed her face to the window and looked at the sky.

‘Ours?’ her companion asked nervously.

The nurse answered with: ‘Get out! Head for the embankment!’

I turned the engine off and ran after them, then slid down the side of the embankment on my haunches. There was a natural hollow that we could squeeze ourselves into for protection. I copied the way the nurses huddled themselves into a ball, covered their ears and opened their mouths to reduce the effects of concussion. The explosions rocked the ground and threw us against each other. For once, I had a full tank of petrol; I was terrified a bomb would hit the ambulance and it would explode. I hadn’t expected the planes would fly so low. There were two of them. I could see the face of one pilot as his plane swept past us.

‘Italians,’ said one of the nurses. ‘Lucky for us! They’re bad shots.’

I stood up to see what had happened to my ambulance.

‘Sit down!’ the women shouted at me. ‘They’ll be back! There’s nothing those bastards like better than a non-military target!’

Sure enough, the planes turned and came for us again. This time they opened fire, riddling the ambulance with bullets before disappearing into the distance. I stared in horror at the damage
to my vehicle. What would have happened if I’d been travelling in the other direction with patients on board?

To my amazement, the ambulance was still in working order and the nurses and I could continue on our way. When we arrived at the convalescent hospital, dozens of vehicles were parked outside and orderlies were hurrying to and fro with stretchers. There had been another offensive.

The officer in charge sent me straight to the field hospital. ‘Be careful,’ he said, eyeing the bullet holes on the roof and side panels of my Ford. ‘We’ve lost two ambulance drivers already.’

When I reached the field hospital, I reported for duty, then opened up the back of the ambulance, ready to receive patients designated for the convalescent hospital.

‘We don’t have any idea who’s ready to go,’ said a medical officer, ushering me into the hospital.

I was swept into the triage area, where a nurse handed me a pair of scissors and told me to cut off the uniforms of the wounded so the nurses could assess them and get them ready for surgery. Everybody on hand was brought in to help the nurses in this way, including the hospital’s housekeeper and cook. All blood had to be mopped up quickly, lest it spread infection. Even worse, one of the surgeons could slip in it and break a much needed hand.

I found myself seeing up close what shrapnel and bullets could do to the human body. Some men’s limbs and abdomens looked as if they had exploded from within. Many had been lying on the battlefield for several hours before the stretcher-bearers could get to them and their wounds were crawling with maggots. It terrified me to see how quickly gangrene could set in. There were other wounds — chest wounds, head wounds, severed spinal columns, massive burns. For years, the screams of the wounded and the smells of faeces, blood and infected flesh stayed with me.

‘You’re an ambulance driver?’ one of the medical officers asked me. When I nodded, he waved me into the operating theatre.

Minutes later, I was carrying out legs, arms, hands and other body parts and throwing them onto a fire. There was no time to be shocked. No sooner had one group of men been treated than more ambulances were returning from the front.

We worked through until the evening. Then my ambulance was loaded up with men who could be transported that night. As we were about to leave, a Spanish medical officer performed a blood-pressure check on the wounded. One of the men was removed.

‘He’s dying,’ the medical officer told me. ‘I saw him in surgery. His stomach was slit open by shrapnel and all the intestines came out. The doctor squeezed them back into his abdominal cavity and sewed him up again.’

I looked at the young man on the stretcher. He had chiselled features and dark, broody eyes. I thought instantly of Anastasio. This soldier was about the same age that my brother had been when he was shipped off to Morocco. I helped the medical officer carry him back inside to the now empty triage area. I could see from the colour of young soldier’s skin that he was fading. I hated the thought of him dying alone. A priest had been with Anastasio when he died. I sat down next to the young man and took his hand.

‘I don’t regret for one moment going to fight,’ he said. ‘For once I was treated as something better than peasant dirt!’

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ I asked him. ‘Is there someone you want me to send a special message to?’

‘I’d like to kiss a beautiful woman.’