The Snow Gypsy(91)

“What? What was it?”

“I heard her shouting at someone. Even through the snow, I heard every word: ‘Are you going to shoot him, even though he’s your son?’ That’s what she said.”

Rose stared at her, uncomprehending. “Your father was in the firing squad?”

“It’s beyond belief, isn’t it?” Lola breathed. “I told myself it couldn’t be true, that I must have heard wrong. But when I got to the bottom of the ravine, there they were, covered in blood.” Her eyes narrowed. “My mother always said our father was dead. She told us he’d died of a fever when Amador and I were too young to remember him. I never questioned it—why would I?” Lola’s hands scooped the air. “It never occurred to me that she would lie about something like that.”

“Do you know who he was?”

Lola shook her head. “They’d all gone by the time I got there. I still have nightmares about him. A man with a gun and no face. A man who would have killed me, too, if I’d been in the house when they came.”

“Was he one of the Escuadra Negra?”

“I don’t think so. They didn’t do the killing—they just rounded people up and handed them over. The Guardia Civil were the executioners.”

“The police?”

“That’s why I’m so afraid.” Her eyes darted to the copse of trees on the hillside above them, as if she thought he might be lurking there. “They still arrest people who were part of the resistance, you know. There are hundreds of them—men and women—in prison all over Spain.

“Sometimes, in those nightmares, I’d dream of seeing his name written on a piece of paper. That was before I learned to read. It was just meaningless shapes—like he was taunting me even while I was asleep. And I would wake up covered in sweat, my fists clenched, because I’d been dreaming of punching him, over and over, until he dropped down dead.”

“I suppose you could find out his name—if you wanted to,” Rose said.

“How?” Lola frowned.

“Well, if it was me, I’d go to Maria—the old woman who sent that purse for Nieve. She’s lived around here for a long time. She was the one who told me what happened to Nathan.”

Lola looked at her, anxiety clouding her eyes. “Does she know who I am? Did you tell her?”

“No—but I think she might have guessed.” Rose raked her hair with her hand. “When I was trying to find out about Nathan, I told her I had a friend whose mother and brother had been executed near here. I never imagined then that you’d ever come back. I’m sorry—if I’d known what was going to happen to Nieve . . .” She searched Lola’s face. “You mustn’t worry, though—she’s on your side. She helped the partisans during the war. Zoltan says most of their food came from her farm.”

Lola didn’t look convinced.

“We could go and see her now if you want to,” Rose said. “The farm’s not far away—just beyond those trees.”

Lola stopped walking. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Isn’t it better to know your enemy’s name? Otherwise you’re frightened of every shadow.”



Nieve hid behind Lola’s skirt when Maria emerged with Rose from the shed where the goats were milked. When the old woman had stood over her bed, she had been too delirious with fever to notice her. Even though Nieve’s eyes had been open, she had no memory of her.

“This is the lady who sent you that lovely purse,” Rose said.

Nieve peeped out, a wary look on her face.

“My, aren’t you pretty now?” Maria smiled. “All those nasty spots have gone!” She paused, her head on one side. Rose saw that her eyes were on Lola now. There was a strange expression on the old woman’s face. As if she recognized her. Was that possible? Rose wondered.

“This is my friend Lola,” Rose said.

Maria nodded. “You’re the image of your mother, my dear.”

Lola flinched. “You knew her?”

“I used to see her in the market. She worked in Pampaneira as a young girl.”

“How did you know she was my mother?”

Maria felt in her pocket for her pipe. She stuffed tobacco into the bowl and put it to her lips without lighting it. “I think we should sit down,” she said. “Perhaps the little girl would like to have a go at milking. Will you show her, Rose?”



Lola’s hands were trembling as she took the glass of wine Maria brought out for her. She felt as though she were standing against a door, trying to hold back an army with a battering ram. The dark images that had haunted her dreams for the past eight years were fighting to burst into the light.

“Your mother was a maid in one of the houses—did she tell you that?” Maria held a match to her pipe, shielding the bowl with her other hand as the tobacco caught alight.

“Not exactly,” Lola replied. “All she used to say was that she worked in Pampaneira before we were born.”

“Did she tell you who she worked for?”

Lola shook her head.

“It was the wife of Diego Batista.”

A flicker of recognition crossed Lola’s face. It was a name she’d heard before. A name that people in her village had spoken in whispers.