A Long Petal of the Sea Page 11

  Victor stayed in the camp with a small team of doctors and nurses, because on that infernal beach they had a mission: to serve the sick, the wounded, and the crazy. The legend that he had restarted the heart of a dead young soldier at the Estacion del Norte had preceded him, and this gave his patients a blind trust in him, although he always insisted that if they were seriously ill they should see one of the doctors. There were never enough hours in the day for his work. The boredom and depression that were the scourge of most of the prisoners didn’t affect him: on the contrary, he found in his work a stimulus that was close to happiness. He was as skinny and weak as the rest of the men in the camp, but didn’t feel hungry, and more than once gave his ration of dried cod to someone else. His comrades said he must have been eating sand. He began work at first light, but after sunset still had several hours to fill, so he would pick up his guitar and sing. He had done so only rarely during the years of the Civil War, but he remembered the romantic ballads his mother had taught him to combat his shyness, and of course revolutionary songs, during which others joined in for the chorus. The guitar had belonged to a youngster from Andalusia who kept it with him throughout the war, went into exile without letting go of it, and played it at Argeles-sur-Mer until the end of February, when he was carried off by pneumonia. Victor cared for him in his final days, and so the boy left him the instrument by way of inheritance. It was one of the few real instruments in the camp; most were fantasy ones whose sounds were imitated by men who were good mimics.

  As the months went by, overcrowding in the camp gradually diminished. The old and infirm died off and were buried in a cemetery adjacent to the camp. The luckiest among the prisoners obtained sponsors and visas to emigrate to Mexico and South America. Many of the soldiers joined the French Foreign Legion, despite its brutal discipline and its reputation for harboring criminals, since anything was better than remaining in the camp. Those with suitable qualifications were recruited for the Foreign Workers Companies created to replace the French workforce called up in preparation for the coming war. Later on, others were to go to the Soviet Union to fight with the Red Army or join the French Resistance, and thousands of them died in Nazi death camps or Stalin’s gulags.

  One day in April 1939, when the unbearable winter cold had given way to spring and the first warmth of summer was on the horizon, Victor was called to the camp commander’s office. He had a visitor. It was Aitor Ibarra, wearing a straw boater and white shoes. It was almost a minute before Aitor recognized Victor in the ragged scarecrow standing in front of him. When he did, they embraced with great emotion, both with moist eyes.

  “You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve had finding you, brother, you’re not on any list; I thought you were dead,” Aitor said.

  “Almost. And you: how come you’re all dressed up as a pimp?”

  “As a businessman, you mean. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Tell me first what happened to my mother and Roser.”

  Aitor told him how Carme had disappeared. He had made inquiries but had not heard anything concrete, except that she had not returned to Barcelona. The Dalmau house had been commandeered, and another family was living there now. He had good news about Roser, though. He briefly told Victor about how they had escaped from Barcelona, then crossed the peaks of the Pyrenees on foot, and how they were separated after reaching France. For a while, he’d had no news of her.

  “I escaped as soon as I could, Victor. I don’t know why you haven’t tried: it’s easy.”

  “They need me here.”

  “Thinking like that means you’ll always be in trouble.”

  “That’s true, but what can I do? Tell me about Roser.”

  “I had no difficulty finding her once I remembered the name of your friend the nurse. Roser was here, in this same camp, but she got out thanks to Elisabeth Eidenbenz. She’s living in Perpignan with a family who took her in, working as a seamstress and giving piano lessons. She had a healthy baby boy, who’s a month old already and is a fine-looking fellow.”

  Aitor had got by as ever, buying and selling. During the war he got hold of the most saleable items, from cigarettes and sugar to shoes and morphine, and bartered them for other things in an exchange that was laborious but always left him with a profit. He also picked up real treasures, similar to the German pistol and the American penknife that had impressed Roser so much. He would never have relinquished them, and was still angry when he remembered how they were taken from him. Eventually he had managed to get in touch with some distant cousins who had emigrated to Venezuela several years earlier, and they were going to sponsor him and find him work in that country. Thanks to his innate talent he had already saved enough money for the passage and visa.

  “I’m leaving in a week, Victor. We have to get out of Europe as quickly as possible: another war is on the horizon, and it will be far worse than the last one. As soon as I get to Venezuela I’ll sort out the paperwork so that you can emigrate, and I’ll send you the boat ticket.”

  “I can’t leave Roser and her child.”

  “For them as well, of course.”

  Aitor’s visit left Victor speechless for several days. He was convinced he was trapped yet again, stuck in limbo, unable to control his fate. After hours walking on the beach, weighing up his responsibility to the sick in the camp, he decided that the moment had come to give priority to his responsibility toward Roser, her child, and his own destiny. On April 1, Franco, as Caudillo of Spain (a title he had bestowed on himself in December 1936), had declared an end to the war that had lasted nine hundred and eighty-four days. France and Great Britain had recognized his government. Victor’s homeland was lost; there was no hope of returning.

  He bathed in the sea, rubbing himself clean with sand because he had no soap, had his hair cut by a comrade, shaved carefully, and asked for a pass to go and fetch the medical supplies provided by a local hospital, something he did every week. At first a guard had always accompanied him, but after several months of coming and going he was allowed to go alone. He left the camp without a problem, and simply didn’t return. Aitor had given him some money, which he spent on his first decent meal since January, a gray suit, two shirts, and a hat, all of them secondhand but in good condition, as well as a pair of new shoes. As his mother used to say: good shoes, warm welcome. A truck driver gave him a lift, and so he reached Perpignan and the Red Cross office, where he asked for his friend the nurse.

  * * *

  —

  ELISABETH EIDENBENZ RECEIVED VICTOR in her makeshift maternity home with a baby on each arm. She was so busy she didn’t even remember the romance that had never happened between them. Victor had not forgotten it, though. Seeing her calm, clear-eyed, and in her spotless uniform, he concluded she was perfect and that he must have been an idiot ever to think she would notice him: Elisabeth had the soul of a missionary, not a lover. When she finally recognized him, she handed the children to another woman and embraced him with genuine affection.

  “How changed you are, Victor! You must have suffered a lot, my friend.”

  “Less than others. I’ve been lucky, all things considered. You, on the other hand, look as well as you always did.”

  “You think so?”

  “How do you manage to stay looking so impeccable, so tranquil, and keeping a smile on your face? You were like that when I met you in the midst of battle, and you’re still the same, as if the evil times we’re living through didn’t affect you at all.”

  “These evil times force me to be strong and to work hard, Victor. You came to see me about Roser, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done for her, Elisabeth.”

  “There’s nothing to thank me for. We’re going to have to wait until eight o’clock, though; that’s when she finishes her last piano class. She doesn’t live here. She’s with some Quaker friends.”

 
While they were waiting, Elisabeth introduced him to the mothers living in the house, and then they sat to have tea and biscuits while they talked about everything that had happened to them since they last saw each other at Teruel. At eight, Elisabeth drove him in her car, paying more attention to their conversation than to the road. Victor thought how ironic it would be to have survived the war and the concentration camp only to die squashed like a cockroach in his improbable girlfriend’s vehicle.

  The Quakers’ house was twenty minutes away; Roser herself opened the door to them. When she saw Victor she gave a loud cry and buried her face in her hands, as though having a hallucination; he folded her in his arms. He remembered her as being skinny, with narrow hips and a flat chest, thick eyebrows and strong features: the kind of woman who has no false pride about her looks, and who, with age, would become lean or masculine. The last time he had seen her was in December, with a bulging belly and a face covered in acne. Becoming a mother had softened her, giving her curves where before she had only angles. She was breastfeeding her baby, and had large breasts, clear skin, and lustrous hair.

  Their meeting was so charged with emotion that even Elisabeth, who was more than accustomed to heartrending scenes, was moved. Victor’s nephew was plump and bald: all babies that age looked like Winston Churchill to him. A closer look, though, showed he had some familiar traits, including the deep black eyes of the Dalmaus.

  “What’s his name?” he asked Roser.

  “For now we call him ‘little one.’ I’m waiting for Guillem to appear so we can name him at the Registry Office.”

  This was the moment to give her the bad news, but yet again Victor’s courage failed him.

  “Why not call him Guillem?”

  “Because Guillem warned me that none of his children were to be called that. He didn’t like his name. We agreed that if it was a boy he’d be Marcel, and if it was a girl, Carme, in honor of your mother and father.”

  “Well, there you are then.”

  “I’m going to wait for Guillem.”

  The Quaker family, consisting of the father, mother, and two children, invited Victor and Elisabeth for dinner. Despite being English, they served an edible meal. They spoke Spanish well since they had spent the war years in Spain helping children’s organizations and, since the Retreat, had been working with refugees. That is what they would always do, they said: as Elisabeth had insisted, there’s always a war somewhere.

  “We’re truly grateful to you,” Victor told them. “It’s thanks to you the child is alive. He would never have survived in the Argeles-sur-Mer camp. And I don’t think Roser would have either. We hope not to have to abuse your hospitality for very long.”

  “There’s nothing to thank us for. Roser and the boy are already part of the family. What’s the rush to leave?”

  Victor explained about his friend Aitor Ibarra and the plan to emigrate to Venezuela once he had succeeded in helping them. It seemed to be the only viable solution.

  “If you want to emigrate, maybe you could consider going to Chile,” suggested Elisabeth. “I saw an item in the newspaper about a boat taking Spaniards to Chile.”

  “Chile? Where’s that?” Roser wanted to know.

  “At the far end of the earth, I think,” said Victor.

  The next day, Elisabeth found the article and sent it to Victor. On the Chilean government’s instructions, the poet Pablo Neruda was fitting out a boat called the Winnipeg to transport Spanish exiles to his country. Elisabeth gave Victor money to take the train to Paris and try his luck with the poet, whose work he didn’t know.

  * * *

  —

  THANKS TO A CITY map, Victor Dalmau found his way to the elegant Chilean Legation at No. 2 Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, near Les Invalides. There was a line at the door, controlled by a bad-tempered porter. The employees inside the building were equally hostile, and didn’t even respond to a greeting. To Victor this seemed like a bad omen, just like the heavy, tense atmosphere of this Paris spring. Hitler was gobbling up European territories, and the storm clouds of war were already darkening the sky. The people in the line spoke Spanish, and nearly all of them were holding the press announcement. When Victor’s turn came, he was pointed toward a staircase, which began with marble and bronze on the bottom floors and ended as narrow, bare steps into a sort of attic. There was no elevator, and Victor had to help another Spaniard who was much lamer than he was—he had a leg missing and could barely climb the stairs holding tight to the banister.

  “Is it true they only take communists?” asked Victor.

  “So they say. What are you?”

  “Simply a Republican.”

  “Don’t complicate matters. Better tell the poet you’re a communist and be done with it.”

  In a tiny room furnished with three chairs and a desk, he was received by Pablo Neruda. The poet was still a young man, with piercing eyes and drooping Arab eyelids, hefty shoulders and a slight stoop. He looked more weighty and portly than he really was, as Victor realized when he stood up to say goodbye. The interview lasted only ten minutes and left him feeling that he had failed. Neruda asked him several routine questions: age, marital status, education, and work experience.

  “I heard you’re only taking communists…” said Victor, surprised that the poet had not asked his political affiliation.

  “You heard wrong. We’re working with quotas for communists, socialists, anarchists, and liberals. The decision depends on the Spanish Refugee Evacuation Service and me. What’s most important is the person’s character and how useful they can be in Chile. I’m studying hundreds of requests, and as soon as I’ve made a decision, don’t worry, I’ll let you know.”

  “If your decision is favorable, Señor Neruda, please take into account the fact that I won’t be traveling alone. A friend with a baby only a few months old would come as well.”

  “A friend, you say?”

  “Roser Bruguera, my brother’s girlfriend.”

  “In that case, your brother will need to come to see me and fill out a request.”

  “We think my brother died at the battle of the Ebro.”

  “I’m very sorry. You do understand I have to give priority to immediate family members, don’t you?”

  “I understand. If you allow me, I’ll come back and see you again in three days’ time.”

  “In three days I won’t have an answer, my friend.”

  “But I will. Thank you.”

  Victor took the train back to Perpignan that same afternoon. He arrived tired after dark, and slept in a flea-infested hotel where he couldn’t even have a shower. The next morning he presented himself at Roser’s workshop. They went out into the street to talk. Victor took her by the arm and led her to an isolated bench in a nearby square. He told Roser about his experience at the Chilean Legation, but didn’t mention the harsh attitude of the Chilean staff or Neruda’s lack of a firm offer.

  “If that poet does accept you, Victor, you must go anyway. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Roser, there’s something I should have told you months ago, but every time I try, I can feel an iron hand throttling me, and I can’t say a word. I wish it didn’t have to be me who…”

  “Guillem? Is it something about Guillem?” Roser asked in alarm.

  Victor nodded, not daring to look at her. He pulled her to his chest and let her weep out loud like a desperate, trembling child, her face buried in his secondhand jacket. Eventually she ran out of tears. It seemed to Victor that Roser was releasing feelings she had suppressed for a long while, that the terrible news wasn’t really a surprise. She must have suspected it for a long time, because that was the only explanation for Guillem’s silence. Of course, in war people get lost, couples are forced apart, families are split up, and yet her instinct must have told Roser that he had died. She didn’t ask for proof, but he showed her the charred bi
llfold and the photograph Guillem had always carried with him.

  “Do you see why I can’t leave you behind, Roser? If they’ll take us, you must come with me to Chile. There’s going to be war in France as well. We have to protect the child.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “Nobody has seen her since we left Barcelona. She was lost in the chaos; if she were alive she would have been in touch with me or you by now. If she does reappear in the future, we’ll work out how best to help her. For the moment, you and your son are the most important thing, do you see that?”

  “Yes, I see it. What do I have to do?”

  “I’m sorry, Roser…you’ll have to marry me.”

  She gave him such a terrified look that Victor couldn’t help but smile, even though it didn’t exactly fit the solemnity of the moment. He repeated what Neruda had said about giving priority to families.

  “You’re not even my sister-in-law, Roser.”

  “I was married to Guillem without any certificate or blessing by a priest.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t count in this case. To be frank, Roser, you’re a widow without really being one. We’re going to get married today, if possible, and register the child as our son. I’ll be his father; I promise I’ll care for him and protect him, and love him as if he were my own. And the same goes for you.”

  “But we’re not in love…”

  “You’re asking a lot, Roser. Isn’t affection and respect enough for you? At times like these, that’s more than sufficient. I’m never going to force you into a relationship you don’t want.”

  “What does that mean? That you’re not going to sleep with me?”

  “Exactly that, Roser. I’m not a scoundrel.”

  And so, in a few minutes on that bench in the square, they made the decision that was to determine the rest of their lives, as well as that of the child. In the rush to flee, many of those forced out of Spain arrived in France without any identity papers; others lost them en route or in the concentration camps; but Victor and Roser still had theirs. Their Quaker friends acted as witnesses to the wedding in a brief ceremony held in the town hall. Victor had polished his new shoes and was wearing a borrowed tie; Roser, who was calm by now although her eyes were puffy from so much crying, wore her best dress and a spring hat. After the ceremony, they registered the child as Marcel Dalmau Bruguera, which would have been his name had his father lived. They celebrated with a special dinner at Elisabeth Eidenbenz’s maternity home that ended with a crème Chantilly cake. The married couple cut the cake and distributed slices to everyone there.