The Snow Gypsy(57)
Don’t die, Mama.
She’d heard the child’s voice, so clear she had sat bolt upright on her bed in the cell. Oh God, she thought, I’m losing my mind.
It was then that her body had taken over, moving trancelike, in the only way she had ever known to obliterate anguish. She got to her feet, unsteady at first, and stood in the center of the tiny room. She stretched out her arms. There was less than a foot between her fingertips and the walls—but that was enough. Then she raised her arms above her head. A naked lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, only an inch or two higher than her hands. But if she was careful, she could avoid hitting it.
She made the shape of bird wings with her fingers. She thrust out her chest and angled her hips, holding her head erect and proud. She didn’t need music. It was all there, in her head. With a defiant stamp of her right foot, she launched into the dance sequence she had performed on the last night of the competition in Provence. The one that had won the prize.
She danced with her eyes open for fear of crashing into the walls, but she didn’t see the dingy, graffiti-covered bricks or the rusty barred door. What she saw was Nieve’s face, glowing with excitement as she clapped out the rhythm.
“What’s going on in there? Gypsy whore!”
There was a rattle of metal as the door hatch slid open. She could see a pair of eyes through the slit.
“Nothing,” she hissed.
“It didn’t sound like nothing,” the guard replied. “Sounded like hammering. What have you got hidden away?”
“Nothing,” she repeated, holding out her hands. “I was dancing, that’s all—there’s no law against that, is there?”
“Dancing?” He made a sound like a pig grunting. “Well, there won’t be much time for that where you’re going! The only dance they do at Málaga prison is the shitters’ shuffle!”
Lola stared at him in horrified silence.
“Do you know what they’ll do when you get there?” he hissed. “It’s the same thing they did to the red whores during the war: First they shave your head. Then they force-feed you with castor oil to clean out all the evil shit inside you. Then they strip you naked and march you through the streets on a mule so everyone can see your disgrace.” He huffed out a breath. “You’d be there now, but there’s no space. Still, it won’t be long—something to look forward to, eh?” He slammed the hatch shut.
Lola slumped on the bed, burying her face in the rough blanket.
Don’t cry, Mama. Rose is writing letters. She won’t let them do that to you.
“Oh, Nieve,” Lola sobbed. “Where are you?”
Chapter 21
Pampaneira, Spain: Three days later
The village school was on the northern outskirts of the village, beside a track that led farther up the mountain. Each morning, when Rose, Nieve, and Gunesh made their way there, they passed a fingerpost with three place names carved into it: órgiva, Trevélez, and Capileira. The last one was Lola’s village. According to the sign, it was four miles up the mountain. Rose wondered if she could get there and back by the time Nieve finished school. Given its altitude, the terrain was likely to be even more difficult than the route up from órgiva had been. It would be foolish to set out without food and water, neither of which she had with her.
Glancing up as she waved goodbye to Nieve, Rose caught sight of a group of women coming down the hillside. They carried big baskets on their heads. As they passed by, Rose could smell the herbs they had been gathering—fennel, wild garlic, mint, and thyme. She recognized the leader of the group as one of the people she’d tried to talk to at the Corpus Christi procession.
The silent treatment meted out that afternoon had been repeated at the post office the next day. Rose was beginning to wonder whether the whole village had been on the side of the fascists. That would explain their antipathy to anyone who had fought on the opposite side. But if that was the case, would Nathan really have risked coming here to buy tobacco? And would a girl from a fascist family have embarked on a relationship with an enemy soldier?
The second scenario was not as unlikely as the first—she’d heard of many instances of British girls marrying German or Italian prisoners of war. But perhaps there was another way of interpreting the villagers’ reticence to talk: Could it be that they were still afraid, as Lola was afraid? Were they republican sympathizers, still scared of reprisals? Did General Franco’s network of neighborhood spies extend to a place as small as this?
They were questions that she couldn’t answer. All she knew was that she had come up against a brick wall. Traveling to Lola’s village seemed like the only option left to her. In Capileira at least, Rose knew that there had been people who sided with the partisans—people like Lola’s family, who had risked their lives to help men like Nathan. Surely, they couldn’t all have been executed? There must be some who had survived the war.
She was still thinking about it as she led Gunesh down the path that led back to the village. The route took them through a meadow covered in wildflowers—chamomile, parsley, sorrel, and goat’s rue. And among the creamy whites and pale yellows, swathes of poppies splashed the hillside like bloodstains. It was as if the landscape itself were a silent witness to what had happened in this place.
Rose let Gunesh run free for a while before summoning him back with a shrill whistle. Then they made their way toward the village. Before they reached the houses, they passed a weaving shed with baskets outside, heaped with raw silk. There was a mule tied to a post, and she went to stroke it. But before she could, a surly-looking man emerged from the shed and yanked the animal loose of the rope that tethered it, leading it into the building. Moments later it emerged, its panniers loaded with bales of woven silk. She remembered that today was market day in Pampaneira. No doubt the silk was on its way there.