The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact
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Authors: Jana Petken
The Guardian of Secrets
Jana Petken
AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.
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© 2013 by Jana Petken. All rights reserved.
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Published by AuthorHouse 09/10/2013
ISBN: 978-1-4918-7792-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4817-7574-8 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4918-7793-7 (e)
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Contents
To the men and women killed during the Spanish Civil War, 1936-1939.
To the survivors who rebuilt Spain with determination and courage.
To all those killed and forced into exile after the war and to those who suffered imprisonment under General Franco’s rule.
To the kind elderly men and women who graced me with stories of their own civil war experiences. You have my deepest gratitude and respect.
To the International Brigades, who fought side by side with the Spanish republic. They travelled from countries all across Europe and some came to help from as far off as, The United States of America.
To all women in this world who have suffered or are suffering from domestic violence and sexual abuse.
To all persons who are suffering from alcoholism. They are sometimes unaware that their own self-destruction can also destroy their families and those they love.
Thank you, Jane Coleman, Pat Wardrop, and Jack Wardrop for your contribution, advice, and unwavering faith in me.
Thank you also to Stevie Mitchell and Adam Simmons; your help and guidance are much appreciated.
Thank you, Andrew Gulde, my consultant from AuthorHouse, for your professional diligence throughout the publishing process.
Thank you to my editor from AuthorHouse, Shellie Hurrle, for your great work and patience.
Thank you, Karen Osman and Darrel A Butler, for you have both been solid friends during one of the worst periods in my life.
To my mother, Rena—gone but not forgotten. You were a great woman and a wonderful mother. I will miss you always.
“Memories of the past shall never fade from sight”
Valencia,
Spain
—
The
Present,
2010
I am
dying.
Life’s
milk
curdling
in
my
veins
barely
pumps
a
heart
that
no
longer
wishes
to
beat.
My
crippled
body
yearns
for
the
quiet
depths
of
eternal
sleep.
I
long
for
death,
for
its
peace
and
quiet,
for
the
end
of
my
long
journey.
I
squint
with
the
last
vestige
of
dwindling
sight
at
the
world
outside
these
four
colourless
walls
—
walls
that
have
kept
me
safe
and
housed
a
thousand
secrets
and
a
thousand
lies.
Outside,
the
vast
landscape
before
me
has
changed
beyond
recognition,
but
I
try
to
ignore
the
ugly
skyline
and
see
only
what
I
want
to
see:
the
old
world,
my
world!
In
my
mind’s
eye,
the
green-carpeted
valleys
that
house
the
citrus
groves
and
vineyards
are
lush
with
morning
dew
rising
above
a
misty
floor
and
sitting
beneath
a
rainbow
of
skies
that
constantly
change
colour
from
dawn
to
dusk.
Beyond
the
mountains,
the
sea
and
the
pine
forests
climb
steep
slopes
above
a
mosaic
of
silvery-white
granite,
still
ruggedly
virginal
in
places,
where
even
the
heavy-laden
Romans,
Iberians,
and
Moors
dared
not
interfere.
The
village
of
La
Glorieta
nestles
peacefully
between
two
small
hills,
and
every
morning
an
endless
stream
of
leather-skinned
peasant
workers
leave
straw-roofed
hovels
and
march
like
soldier
ants
towards
the
tree
line
bearing
the
citrus
fruit
so
coveted
by
our
foreign
neighbours.
These
land
treasurers
toil
for
my
father,
the
landowner,
without
self-pity,
malice,
or
envy.
They
love
him.
He
is
their
master,
their
protector,
adored
and
feared.
Greed
and
a
lust
for
power
have
long
since
destroyed
my
land
.
My
bitterness
and
resentment
towards
Spanish
and
foreign
residents,
whose
selfish
disregard
for
nature’s
beauty
has
infected
my
family’s
land
like
an
unstoppable
plague,
and
brings
now
my
utter
determination
to
foil
the
plans
of
those
I
hold
most
dear—I
shall
have
the
final
word
and
this
place
shall
remain
standing
long
after
I
have
left
the
earth—I
will
sell
my
deepest
secrets
now
to
make
this
so.
The
Trojan
horses
came
bearing
gifts
after
the
war
and
then,
in
the
blink
of
an
eye,
cruelly
devastated
a
land
that
no
guns
or
cannon
fire
could
conquer.
Destruction
was
total,
without
sympathy
or
conscience
.
.
.
Housing
estates,
undistinguished
and
regimented,
replaced
orange
groves.
Roads
criss-cross
through
a
formerly
quiet
terrain
where
only
donkeys,
horses,
and
carts
once
travelled.
Cars
and
buses
now
deafen
my
fragile
ears
and
blight
my
eyes.
And
the
stars
.
.
.
Even
the
stars
have
disappeared
into
a
nightly
smoggy
grey
mist.
I
am
not
innocent
of
these
crimes.
I
am
just
as
guilty
as
the
powerful
constructors
who
flattened
the
groves
and
cut
into
the
mountainside
as
though
it
were
butter.
I
am
rich
because
of
them—very
rich,
yet
I
have
gained
nothing
with
wealth
and
leave
it
all
behind
for
others,
for
the
only
possessions
I
will
take
with
me
on
my
journey
are
my
memories
and
my
deeds
—
and
with
these
I
shall
be
judged.
