Alberto's Lost Birthday (2 page)

‘And what happened? Who won?’

‘The people who wanted to keep things as they were. A man called General Franco won the war.’

‘Does he still run Spain?’

‘No,’ said Alberto. ‘Franco died many years ago and Spain has changed a great deal since then.’

‘Apu?’ said the boy.

‘Yes.’

‘Which side were you on?’

‘I was just a boy. I wasn’t on a side.’

‘But you must have wanted one side to win more than the other.’

‘Well,’ said Alberto thoughtfully, ‘I lived in an orphanage that was run by the Church, so they taught me that we must believe in God and anyone who didn’t was an evil
person. But when the war was over, I worked with farmers and workers who had fought on the other side. I knew what it was to be hungry, and can understand why they fought for a better
life.’

‘But, Apu, you can’t be on both sides.’

The old man sighed. ‘I do not like violence, but I suppose if I’d had to fight for one side, it would have been the
Rojos
.’

‘The
Rojos
? Which side was that?’

‘The Republican side. The ones who wanted change.’

‘Why the
Rojos
, Apu? Why choose that side?’

‘It’s just a feeling that it was the right side. When it comes to difficult decisions, you can listen to your head or your heart. I am not an educated man, so I listen to my
heart.’

The old man smiled at the boy and kissed the top of his head.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘time for sleep.’

‘But, Apu, you didn’t tell me about your papá.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. He probably died in the war. Many people did.’

‘Probably?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember when your papá went to heaven?’ said the boy.

‘I was brought up in an orphanage, but I don’t remember anything before I arrived there. It’s as if my memory was wiped clean. I’ve tried to remember, but I can’t.
Not a face, not a name. I tried to find out, but many records were destroyed during the war.’

‘How old were you when you went to live at the orphanage?’

‘About your age, maybe? I don’t know.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the boy. He shook his head in puzzlement.

‘I know which year I arrived at the orphanage. But I don’t know what year I was born.’

Tino thought for a moment, his brow wrinkled. ‘So,’ he said hesitantly, ‘so you don’t know how old you are? Even now?’

‘No.’

‘And you don’t know when your birthday is?’

‘No,’ said Alberto. ‘I don’t have a birthday.’

I
SABEL

Afternoon, 7 March 1937

I look at the pitiful box of vegetables and my stomach sinks. How am I going to feed nearly a hundred orphans on such a meagre amount?

‘Jorge!’ I shout through the open kitchen window.

‘Señorita?’ comes the reply as Jorge’s face appears outside.

‘Are there any more vegetables in the garden? Look at this delivery we’ve just received – I can’t feed them all on this.’

‘There’s not much, señorita, but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Jorge,’ I smile. At least I know I can trust someone to help.

Rummaging around in the pantry, I find some old potatoes. With the eggs, I can make some dumplings. Thank the good Lord for our chickens.

Before she died, my mother had taught me how to make a meal from barely nothing. As the oldest child, it was a skill that helped me feed my father and five siblings. When my sister turned
fifteen, I taught her all I could about running the home so that I could leave – our father needed one less mouth to feed.

My sister and I had been in the market one day when I’d overheard two women talking.

‘Did you know they’ve turned the old house on the hill into an orphanage?’ one had said to the other.

‘Yes,’ the second had replied. ‘I heard they were bringing children from both sides.’

‘Republican children too?’

‘That’s right. They want to teach them the mistakes of their parents. And the priests will make them accept God into their lives.’

‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it? At least there will be a chance of salvation for the children. Can you imagine? Those poor things having no Communion, growing up without
faith? I think it’s disgusting. What kind of parent—’

I had interrupted the women to ask if they thought the orphanage would be taking on staff, and they told me where I could go to find out.

I’d been hired by Señora Peña, a large, red-faced woman whose husband was an administrator for the Nationalists. The orphanage had already taken in children from all around
the region and she needed a cook to run the kitchen.

As the war has gone on, I’ve noticed more children arrive, and the food boxes become smaller. Every mealtime is a challenge, but I do my best to see these children have as good a meal as I
can serve them.

As I set to preparing the dinner, the señora waddles into the kitchen and places a large silver tray on the table.

‘The bishop has finished taking coffee with the father and is doing a tour of the classes. He wishes to visit the dining room when the children are eating their dinner, so make sure the
meal is on time and plentiful.’

‘Yes, señora,’ I reply. There is little point in showing her the half-empty box of vegetables; she would only say there was more than enough for such small stomachs.

‘And tidy this mess up in case he wishes to see the kitchen.’ She waves her plump hand over the tray before bustling out of the room.

I finish making the dumplings and prepare a stew with the vegetables from the box. Jorge arrives with a handful of carrots, which I gratefully accept and add to the stew.

‘Jorge, you deserve a cup of coffee,’ I say, picking up the coffee pot.

‘There’s coffee?’ asks Jorge, surprised.

‘The bishop is here,’ I reply.

‘Ah,’ says Jorge, nodding as he sits at the long kitchen table.

While the stew and dumplings bubble and the coffee brews, I clear the best china from the tray. As I pick up the plates, a glint of colour catches my eye. There, nestling under a saucer, is a
piece of paper I recognize immediately. It is a chocolate-bar wrapper.

Holding my breath, I gently pull the paper, praying it isn’t empty. It isn’t. Unnoticed, the last few squares of chocolate have been left, hidden and forgotten.

‘Look, Jorge,’ I whisper, holding up the chocolate.

Jorge’s eyes widen. ‘What are you going to do with that?’ he asks.

I know he is hoping I will share it with him. And for a moment I am tempted. I can’t remember the last time I tasted chocolate – probably not since before the war began.

‘I’ll know when the time is right,’ I say. I fold the wrapper carefully round the precious squares and pop it into my apron pocket.

Jorge tries to hide his disappointment as he nods his consent. ‘I’ll go and set up the chairs for dinner,’ he says quietly as he limps out.

Poor Jorge. He told me he was injured in a farming accident as a young boy. He says his limp has never bothered him, but I know it does. He rarely talks about it, but others do, and I know it
was his leg that stopped him from fighting for the Nationalist forces. Now he feels he’s failed to do his duty.

I know this because every Sunday, Señora Peña allows me to have the morning off to go to church. After the service, sitting in the shade of an old tree, the women sit and gossip.
One day, I asked them about my friend at the orphanage and the story came out.

Jorge had a younger brother. An idealistic young man, he had become a local member of the Socialist Party. He had driven Jorge demented with his talk of oppression and rights for workers. Jorge
is a religious man, and when his brother had spoken of a godless society, Jorge had not been able to hold his tongue. Their bitter argument turned violent and Jorge had thrown his brother out of
the house.

The young man left for the city and became a political activist. Two years ago, Jorge heard that his brother had been arrested. The family have not heard from him since. Jorge still does not
know if his brother was executed while a political prisoner, or if he was released when the Coalition of Socialists won the elections last year. Either way, Jorge believes the Republican movement
took his brother from him.

When the war began, Jorge tried to join the army to fight for the Nationalists. I think he saw it as his chance to exert revenge on the Republicans – to beat the
Rojos
. He was
rejected because of his limp. He tried again in two different towns but was told the pride of the Spanish National Army would not allow it. He argued that his passion for the cause would make him a
better soldier than if he had two good legs. He was still refused.

Looking for another way to serve the Nationalists, he found work at the orphanage. He provides as much food as he can from the grounds and helps out as a handyman. I know he smuggles a few of
the vegetables home to his wife and children, but he is a good man and cares for the orphans.

And the good Lord knows the poor little things need someone to care for them. They range in age from toddlers barely able to feed themselves to young adults who will soon be sent back out into
the world. Many have been taken from their parents; some have seen their parents shot; all have witnessed things a child should not see.

The Church directs a strict programme of reeducation at the orphanage, which the priests and Señora Peña follow enthusiastically. So the children are taught, often cruelly, that
their parents were evil
Rojos
whose actions have condemned them to an eternity in hell. The father drills the children until their
generalísimo
salute is perfect.

Jorge and I are not allowed to spend time with the orphans. We keep our heads down and provide what we can from the garden and the meagre rations the Church sends. It is our small contribution
to the war.

But despite knowing the fight against the antireligious Republicans is right and just, my heart hurts when I see the little ones. They are constantly hungry, their shoes are worn through, and
despite our best efforts, they are crawling with lice. And while the grand old house should be filled with their laughter and play, it is often silent with fear. These children have learnt to
accept their lot. While the country fights on, their war is already lost.

As some of the older children and I finish serving the measly stew to the orphans, the bishop arrives at the dining room, flanked by the father and Señora Peña.
Quickly, I withdraw to the kitchen and start the washing-up.

Jorge’s face appears at the window. ‘Isabel, another one’s just arrived.’

Nodding, I dry my hands on my apron and hurry through the back door. The last thing Señora Peña will want is a scruffy orphan arriving unannounced in the middle of the
bishop’s visit.

Outside, a truck is parked on the driveway. Jorge is talking to the driver, a tall soldier, smart in his uniform. Beside them is a small boy. He is covered in dust and dirt, his shorts and
jacket are torn, and one knee is caked in dried blood. He stands, looking at his boots.

‘Good afternoon, señorita,’ says the soldier as I approach.

‘Good afternoon,’ I smile at him. The soldier’s eyes are implausibly dark and the sunlight makes them twinkle. He smiles back – so warmly and generously that I stop,
realizing how rare such a smile is these days.

‘Who is this?’ I ask, nodding at the boy.

The soldier ruffles the boy’s hair and says, ‘My friend here doesn’t talk much. He didn’t seem keen on telling me his name. Or anything else for that matter. But he needs
a new home. This is the only orphanage I could think of, so I brought him here.’

Bending down, I look at the boy. Sun-bleached curls frame his face.

‘Hello,’ I say cheerfully. ‘My name is Isabel. What’s yours?’

The boy doesn’t even seem to register my existence and continues to look at his boots.

I try again. ‘Where are you from, child?’

He continues to ignore me.

After a pause, Jorge asks the soldier where he found the boy.

The soldier glances around, but realizing there’s no one to hear, he says quietly, ‘I heard the fighting had reached my home town. I was delivering supplies not far away, so I took a
detour to check my family were all right. Father Francisco from my family’s church was looking after him. He wouldn’t tell me how the child had come to him, but he asked that I take him
out of danger.’

The soldier looks down at the boy sadly. ‘He hasn’t spoken a word, and we’ve been driving most of the day.’

‘He’s probably seen things he doesn’t want to talk about,’ says Jorge softly.

‘We passed a stretch where there had recently been a battle. There were dead
Rojos
near the road. It seemed to affect him quite badly,’ agrees the soldier.

As I reach to stroke the boy’s face, he flinches and, in his terror, looks at me for an instant. His eyes are soft brown, flecked with green. I hear a rustle from his pocket and notice a
piece of paper flutter to the ground.

Picking it up, I see it is the torn triangle of an envelope. On one side, the name A
LBERT
R
OMERO
is clearly written. There is more writing on the
other side. This is a little harder to decipher, but with a gasp I realize that it is an address in England.