“Have the priests said anything about the scapulars?”
“They are not about to deny such an obvious message; after all, the pews are filled, and many candles are being lit these days.”
“Has anyone mentioned this theory to the members of the town council?”
“Some have tried,” Mendiola said, shaking his head. “But after this second death, they are becoming harder to find.”
CHAPTER 23
Annie Bingham, Charley Swan, and Mrs. Esther Bingham watched as Mr. Harry Bingham delicately tuned the wireless. Each reflexively extended their right hand with fingers bent around an invisible dial, helping to make the final adjustment to capture the purest signal. Edgar exercised, flying between the open door of his cage on the mantel and Annie’s shoulder. It had been an important day for the British, particularly those whose collection of loved ones included someone in the services, and they were eager to hear the historic announcement.
At flight school that afternoon, news spread of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s return to Heston Airport from the Munich meeting with German chancellor Adolf Hitler, Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, and French prime minister Édouard Daladier. Charley had been informed of Chamberlain’s pronouncements of peace secondhand, through several of the radio men working in their windowless hut. The Sudetenland was to be ceded back to Germany. Hitler would be satisfied, and a war that could engulf the continent had been avoided.
“Just like the Spanish,” Annie objected. “We didn’t know them, so it didn’t matter what happened to them. Well, Mr. Chamberlain, I know them now. We should have done something to help them.”
Her parents and Charley, surprised by her passion on the matter, were unable to respond. Charley hoped that the evening broadcast would temper Annie’s anxiety.
From the steps of No. 10 Downing Street, Chamberlain’s voice filled the Binghams’ parlor.
“We, the German Führer and chancellor and the British prime minister, are agreed in recognizing that the question of Anglo-German relations is of the first importance for our two countries and for Eu rope. We regard the agreement as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”
The broadcast picked up the cheers of the gathered crowd as someone in attendance shouted, “Hip-hip-hooray for Chamberlain!”
“We are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference and thus to contribute to the peace of Europe.”
Charley and Mr. Bingham joined the cheers on the wireless.
More casually, no longer reading from his prepared statement, Chamberlain continued. “My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British prime minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honor. I believe it is peace for our time. Now . . . go home and get a nice, quiet sleep.”
The four in the Bingham parlor exhaled. The prime minister assured them of peace and bade them a quiet sleep.
Annie and Charley removed the tea service and cups from the parlor, buying private time for closeness in the kitchen. As directed by Chamberlain, Mr. and Mrs. Bingham nodded off in their chairs, breathing in time to the ticking mantel clock upon which Edgar now perched, fast asleep himself.
Emilio Sanchez held no aspirations of political power in the service of Franco. A squad leader in a garrison in the south of Spain, he had joined Franco’s rebellion because it appeared he would be shot if he acted otherwise. Politics and deep beliefs were not a factor, since he had neither. He had merely followed the path of least resistance that day. The most fanatical of the rebel officers pointed weapons wildly and fired without much provocation, so it would have been foolish to protest. Such was the birth of many indifferent rebels.
As commandant of the forced labor unit in Guernica, Emilio Sanchez now appreciated his job. He was delighted to hold a position that gave him authority without pressing responsibility on him. There was little oversight because none of his superiors cared about the speed or quality of the reconstruction. The implied mandate was keep them at work, feed them as little as possible, and don’t come around asking for more resources. If they die, get new ones. If they protest, shoot them. If more food is needed for the guards, confiscate it from the locals.
He was now the law, and the rules were his to make and amend as required. Emilio Sanchez had no moral problems with the spoils-of-war theory. His side won. He was surprised, in fact, given the nature of the times, that his uniform was getting tighter. He was gaining weight.
Officers in his unit had commandeered a small, undamaged home at the edge of town for their headquarters. Sanchez’s office was in the largest room at the back, off a porch where one could enjoy a view of the pleasant neighboring hillsides. At times, in the evenings, he would retreat to a chair on the porch with a bottle of confiscated wine, have a smoke, and look out on the pastoral setting and unwind from the day.
His evening reflection ended abruptly one evening. He was discovered the following morning by his aides, who noted immediately that there was nothing accidental about his death. His chest had been run through by the two-tined Basque hoe, the laia, with such force that he had been pinned to the wall. Blood drained in parallel paths down the front of his uniform. Hanging from the laia handle was a green scapular of the Virgin Mary, swinging in the morning breeze.
Charles Swan brooded over his secret. Before the holidays, he was to be sent to Norwich for training in the Blenheim bombers. Even as his mates clustered to congratulate him, he fretted over Annie’s reaction. He decided to present her with the news at a time when he sensed she was at her most understanding. It just never arrived, and he had held the news for a fortnight.
She went on with such enthusiasm about the children that whenever Charley met her after work he never had the chance to tell her. Annie instructed the children in conversational English. At times, she took small groups to markets, where they could use their new language skills. They often went to a nearby park on sunny days, where keeping track of the boisterous children challenged her energy, if not her patience.
When Charley arrived at the end of her shift, she buried him in all the trivialities of her day. How could he listen to her happy ramblings for half an hour and then break in and unload important news on her?
They spent almost every evening together in a tentative courtship. It took weeks before they held hands and a month before they were seen walking arm in arm in the village. They visited the cinema once a week, where, in the darkness, they interlaced freckled fingers until they cramped. After clenching and stretching his hand and drying his palm on his pant leg, Charley sought out her small fist once again, and they would smile at each other.
But on a mild late-autumn afternoon, Charley reached the point where further silence would be inexcusable. He would arrive as she finished for the day, they would walk together across a nearby park, and he would tell her of his move. Having rehearsed his speech, Charley Swan stepped into chaos. Children’s screams echoed through the old rectory.
A child had opened Edgar’s cage. The bird circled the room once and alighted on the sill of an open window. The niños shouted, “Pretty bird! . . . Pretty bird!” Annie ran toward him, holding an index finger horizontally in the air, creating a perch that always attracted Edgar whenever he fl ew around the parlor. Edgar looked at the screaming mob and made a hasty exit without so much as a “docka, docka” for a farewell.
Annie Bingham could not blame the children, or Edgar. And she contained her emotions until Charley walked her out of the rectory. Sniffles led to sobs and then to tears. Charley produced a handkerchief and hugged her to his chest. He kissed the top of her knit hat, and then her forehead, and then her moist cheeks. Annie hugged back until the energy of their closeness overwhelmed her sense of loss. Charley took Edgar’s empty cage from her, and they held hands as they walked slowly through the park. It was not an appropriate time, Charley decided, to tell her that he would be gone soon as well.
After the Immaculate Mother sen
t three Fascists to their graves, she changed her tactics. The message had been sent, the point had been made; those who had taken part in the destruction of this historic town were vulnerable to death at the hands of a vengeful spirit.
Guernica town council member Angel Garmendia drowned in the river, Guardia Civil head Julio Menoria was found dead in a hole, and forced labor commander Emilio Sanchez found himself skewered by a farm implement. All were discovered with Immaculate Heart of Mary scapulars.
Townspeople knew this to be the work of a divine avenger. No mortal person could bring about the demise of three of the most heinous individuals in the town without a trace. The scapulars said it all. Miracles happen. They heard about them all the time at mass. What better place for her appearance? The Mother of God sees all, they said; they agreed that she was there, and it was very clear that she was in a sour mood.
Further convincing the populace that this was the work of Mother Mary was that she was not unendingly vengeful. After her initial thinning of the Falange herd, the curious deaths ended. But the messages continued.
Not more than a few weeks passed before certain individuals began receiving reminders, which added to the growing mythology. One morning, when a Guardia commander headed off to work, he discovered a green medallion hanging on his front door. He retreated to his bedroom for three days.
A council member opened the desk drawer in his office and found a scapular lying there, with the inscription facing him: PRAY FOR US NOW AND IN THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH. He had an immediate physical response and then resigned his position.
Amid his customary daily dispatches, the commander of the local army garrison found an envelope with no name or address. With his letter opener, which resembled a small saber, he sliced through the envelope to reveal a religious pendant.
The threatening visits quickly became public knowledge in the small and gossipy village, fomenting greater fear and suspicion among the oppressors, as well as considerable satisfaction among the locals. At a time when the people of the village found little cause for happiness, the news that a protective deity had so frightened a pipsqueak Francoist that he wet himself in his office was enough to cause the day to brighten immeasurably.
The queue waiting to see the painting snaked several blocks down Whitechapel High Street, with forward motion limited to a few small steps between long pauses in place. Except when plotting his plan to propose to Annie Bingham, Charley Swan had been focused on the specific physical and mental mechanics of piloting the Blenheim bomber.
After two weeks of holiday, even as he headed toward an art exhibit, his mind flashed to the varied demands of flying. He walked around corners as if banking hard; he felt the wind direction and calculated how its velocity would affect his airspeed. His months in training changed him. But he had not changed more than Annie, who had inexplicably blossomed during his absence. He could not help but think of her as an engine that now idled at higher RPMs.
The daily exposure to the Basque children energized her. Sucked into the social squall created by several dozen children, Annie found no time for stifled comments or reserved expressions. Charley noticed the difference when he returned to Pampisford to start their holiday trip to London. He discovered an assertive woman in place of the sheepish girl he had left a few months before.
She greeted him with a shout of “Red!” a lengthy double-armed embrace, and a kiss on the lips, followed by a withdrawal for inspection and then another forceful kiss. Although they had written every day since Charley left for his RAF base, Annie still chattered the entire train ride to London, telling Charley of the children and her excitement over spending the holidays with his family.
If anything, Charley edged in the other direction, as he now carried more thoughts that needed to be withheld. With “Blens,” learning to fl y was no longer about physics and geometry; it was the study and practice of dropping bombs. No one could confuse it with anything but war and killing the enemy. The reality of war’s peril caused him to plot his next waypoint. He wanted to marry Annie before bombs dropped and bullets flew.
He proposed on Christmas Eve after mass. Annie shouted yes before Charley could open the ring box, and she cried on his shoulder for several minutes. They decided that an early summer marriage would be appropriate, but the location and exact date would be vulnerable to the dictates of the RAF.
Before the presentation of the ring, Charley camouflaged his most important mission with another thoughtful gift: a new budgie. It was young, blue and yellow, and Charley had already named it Blennie. It delighted Annie.
“Maybe I can get Blennie to actually say a few things,” she said.
“You should try to keep his cage in your room where you could talk to him all the time,” Charley suggested.
“But Mother and Father enjoy a bird in the parlor,” she countered.
A week after their engagement, Annie decided she wanted to attend an exhibit at the Whitechapel Art Gallery, where Picasso’s mural Guernica was to be on display.
“Some of my kids are from that town,” she explained.
Charley had heard nothing of the painting and agreed to go so he could enjoy Annie’s company. Once inside the gallery, they understood why the line had moved so haltingly: People were reluctant to give up their place in front of the giant mural.
Annie anticipated the painting being a gory display. Instead, she found an almost cartoonish depiction in black and white. And when they looked more deeply, they heard the soundless screams and the bellow of the horse, and they felt the heat coming off the jagged white disc of light. They stood transfixed until the nudging of those behind them caused them to shuffle ahead. And then they were out the half-open door and onto the street. Changed.
“Could that be us?” she asked Charley, pulling him close.
Charley held her. If he spoke, he might have answered, “Of course it could be. It could happen to any of us. You have no idea how short a flight it is across the English Channel or the kind of weapons the Germans developed while they were flying in Spain.”
But aside from holding his comment, Charley Swan also fought against a realization he hadn’t allowed himself to fully consider: At some point he might be the one dropping the bombs that devastated a village.
Miguel enjoyed the mindless exertion of felling and bucking trees, being lulled by the sound of the crosscut saw as he pushed and pulled, sometimes becoming so lost in thought that he was surprised when the tree fell in front of him. It all took much longer than before, but time was not much of a consideration in his life.
The higher elevations of the woods, where he could be alone with the squirrels and doves, provided a less pressured environment than did the town and even Errotabarri. The trees sought no explanations. They exuded the scent of pitch and sap, and they spit out the fresh wood chips that flew into his hair and down the front of his shirt. The work consumed the energy that might otherwise have been exploited by his mind. It was a welcome exhaustion, and on nights after a day’s sawing, he slept through most of the nightmares and all of the dreams.
Today he had a less cumbersome load on the downhill trip. Alaia Aldecoa had asked him to gather any scented flora he might find while in the forests. Miguel appreciated the diversion, and he found enough flowers to fill a small basket that he carried along with his saw, ax, and canteen.
On his way up the edge of the rill, he saw that her cottage was almost indistinct from the trees clutching at it now. Miguel thought he might come back someday to scale the roof and cut the branches that seemed to embrace her home.
Since the night Alaia had brought soap to Errotabarri, Miguel had seen her only briefly in town. What could he say? What should he say? Should he tell her how Miren had made excuses for her? How she had been loyal to her without question? That now, more than two years after her death, Miren still spoke well of her in his dreams?
She expected his knock and turned from her washbasin once he entered. She sensed his location and walked directly to him, placing
a hand on each cheek.
Freshly washed, she smelled of a lilac soap.
“I’m here, Miguel,” she said, putting her arms around him.
He inhaled until his lungs could hold no more; he heard the stream humming outside, and he breathed deeply again of her skin. He was exhausted from the day of work, diminished by two years of grief, eroded by constant incomprehensible thoughts. And here were the smells, different but still wonderful, and the sounds, and the forgotten touch. They were four unseeing eyes, four uneasy hands, and they made love to the same tender memory.
“I haven’t—”
“I know,” Alaia said. “I haven’t . . .”
Miguel closed his eyes again, and Alaia could feel his breathing catch and buck erratically. He cried without sound, as if he could keep it from her.
“I know, Miguel, I know.” She petted his hair.
This wasn’t Miren and he knew it. There was no confusion. This was different; this was urgency and memory.
“Tell me, say it, you can share it with me,” she said, still stroking his hair.
“Justo and I can’t talk . . . nothing . . . nothing,” he said. “We remind each other of them.”
Alaia held him tighter. “Tell me, tell it to me.”
“We both see that braid hanging on the mantel every day,” Miguel said.
She cried with him, and he buried his head in the pillow of her hair. The stream hummed and the day dimmed into evening before they could pull apart and speak again. It became easier in the dark. They talked of Miren, and a reservoir of thoughts flooded the room. Miguel reminded Alaia of his wife’s energy and her grace and exuberance. Alaia spoke of her voice and her warmth and her caring. They told the stories of how they had met Miren and recounted their favorite times with her. They talked of Mariangeles and her wisdom. Together, they were able to talk of them without being overwhelmed.