1937

“Te ves Hermosa” A woman says to me as she pauses momentarily to stare at my reflection.

My presence felt wrong. Trapped `in a life already lived.

This awareness mimicked the annoyance of hearing a song you recognize, humming the melody but not quite sure of the words.

Where was I now? My inner thoughts questioned, searching for any familiarity in the tiny space. The structure was built in a clay-like stone, rough to the touch. Sharp, broken tiles lined the perimeter that poked my bare ankles on the uneven flooring. A rusty basin before me was filled with clipped black curls in a lifeless rubble assembled in its middle, waiting to be washed away.

The woman places her arms around me, laying her head on my shoulder. The warmth of her body was comforting, the rhythmic beat of her heart against my back. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath for just a second and, without much effort, became aligned with the role I was ordained to play.

My mother's aura was unusual, her grumpiness absent. She stepped away from our embrace and resumed brushing my hair. Her movements were slow and deliberate, the sensation of the bristles against my scalp soothing. Mother’s eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, her lips pursed as she worked through a particularly stubborn knot. When victorious, she eases into a smile, a sacred ritual between mother and daughter.

The simple act meant so much more than usual; the world's weight was suddenly my burden. I stare at my image, focusing on the white dress I wore that fluttered every time the wind gushed through the narrow hallway. An altered cotton silhouette that once belonged to my mother.

A great pain rose from my chest, and I began to cry without warning.

“Silencio ahora!”

Hush now! She scolded.

“¿Por qué estás llorando?”

Annoyed that I was crying, Mother demanded to know why.

“I don’t want to marry him!” I say in Spanish. “He is ugly, old, and I don't love him!"

 “¿Estas loca?”

She asks if I am crazy, her firm grip on my hair increasing as she yanks it back, pulling my head to face her. I wince in pain, but her objective was not coated in tenderness.

"You have no choice; it's done!" her voice harsh and unforgiving. "He’s a General, comes from a good family, and is willing to care for you. What more do you want?"

Although I knew her mind was made up, I pleaded anyway.

"I want to be happy, mama, fall in love, have a family; you heard the rumors just as I have that he is impotent!" My final justification.

Mother slaps me across the face. The sensation stings; I cradle the internal wound with my hand, fall to my knees at her feet, and wail louder.

"You need to forget these childish things, girl…I did not love your father, but I grew to care for him over time. Marriage is about responsibility and fulfilling your duty to your family. You are only 17; soon enough, you will realize; comfort brings happiness!"

Mother held my forearms and guided me to my feet once again. She takes a handkerchief from her bosom and wipes my tear-soaked face, then stoops down to ensure I did not soil the rims of my dress. 

"Carmen, you are beautiful! He could have had anyone and chose you; this is an honor and privilege."

I was placed back in position, mother dragging the brush along my hair, this time with the harshness of her displeasure, bursting through the knots at the end. Again, she lectured me about my obligations, her voice a blur to the fleeting thoughts that came and went in my mind.  

Beneath my olive skin was a foreign entity that traveled along my veins, my face hot to the touch. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, scrutinizing every inch of what people in my village consider a blessing.

My dark, almond-shaped eyes were engulfed in tears framed by thick, luscious lashes that curled upwards. My full lips are painted in a deep, rich shade of red, courtesy of my aunt Maria, contrasting sharply against my golden skin. My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, coated in rosemary and lavender oils.

Any girl with my features, including my mother, would have been grateful. But all I could see were the downsides of being bonita and the constant attention, expectations, and scrutiny that came with it.

Men constantly leer at me, offering a life of promise and prosperity. Eventually, my parents chose the highest-paid man, who was wealthy and could protect us from the pending war brewing close by. But, unfortunately, many young men had already been recruited, some never to be seen again.

I wish to blend in, disappear into a crowd, and be forgotten like those lost boys in the war, but where would that leave my mother and father?

So I took a deep breath and tried to embrace my pending faith. At least we would be protected; I reminded myself, and if I had to give up my freedoms for my family, then I must.

General Unceta had been waiting in the living room for me.

‘Not customary!” My father exclaimed when he came to inform us of his arrival.

"But we cannot say no; he insists he wanted to see his bride before the ceremony!"

Papa had aged considerably over the last two years. Nevertheless, he leads the way, slowly trying to maintain his diminished presence as the head of the household.

He pressed the cane along the unsteady ground while placing most of his weight on the wall, dragging his body forward. Every movement took an enormous effort, his face construed, pain evident as he gritted his teeth.

I wanted to help, but he batted my hand away. Even in his weakened state, pride wouldn’t allow it, as he insisted on making the journey alone.

When we finally arrived, my parents hung back. At the same time, I took a seat across from the general; the veil I wore concealed my face and resentment.

General Unceta was a large man, bulkier than I anticipated. He was sweating profusely, his shirt drenched under the coat he wore. The fat rolls on his body jiggled with every movement as he reached for a glass of water. I couldn't imagine myself lying beside this man; seeing him alone left me slightly nauseous.

¿Puedes levantar tu velo? He asks.

I lift my veil reluctantly, having to relinquish my armor.

He rose from his seat and sat beside me, his arm brushed against mine. Unconsciously I recoiled in disgust, his skin clammy and slick with sweat. Mother instantly pokes me in the back to mind my manners.

My eyes are downcast the entire time as he runs his thumbs along the length of my hair. Internally my heart sank, the inner voice, which has always remained silent, screaming so loud that I couldn’t hear anything else.

 “¡Di algo!”

‘Say something!’ he whispers in my ear. But I do not know how to respond without betraying my feelings.

¡Mírame! Another command. He daps his wet hand on the surface of his pants before he holds my chin to face him.

I stared into kind eyes that tugged on a connection. Confused by an innate knowing that somehow I knew him, my disgust melted away into empathy.

“Lo siento General Unceta, por estar tan callado.”

I apologize for being quiet, and in response, he requested that I call him Pedro. Then, with cheeks flushed slightly, he thanked me for accepting his marriage proposal and was surprised I chose him.

If only he knew I had no say in anything, for I belonged to my parents, and now I belonged to him. Pedro’s words were kind and tender as he promised to take care of me all the days of my life. My parents received a thousand Pesetas for my dowry. They were also informed that he alerted one of the doctors in the neighboring town to pay my father a visit.

This made me happy for them and softened my heart. My mother was right! Comfort did equal some form of happiness.

“The General isn’t so bad!” My mother gloated when he left.

"Come on, put on your shoes; let us go down to the square!"

I stood at the makeshift altar in the town center, overwhelmed by the sight around me. The entire village had turned out for my wedding, filling the small space.

Patrons from our town's Market day gathered to spectate, adding to an already festive air. Various noises, chatter, laughter, music, and children were running around as the villagers mingled and celebrated.

The ceremony was a blur of emotions and promises, which was challenging to pay attention to in everyone else's chaos. Pedro massaged my hands with his thumbs and motioned me to take deep breaths ever so often.

Ultimately, he pulled me in, lifted my veil, and kissed me deeply. I had never kissed a boy before, but I liked it. It stirred feelings I never thought existed, arousing my wanting for him, wishing the rumors were all lies.

The children above us in the building threw flowers, and the crowd erupted into cheers. I glanced at my parents beside us, both in tears, their only child now a married woman.

The music became the focal point as everyone began dancing. Pedro held on to me the entire time, my tiny frame enveloped in the safety of his arms. I felt lost in his embrace, as though we had been apart for centuries. A stranger not yet known but missed dearly.

Pandemonium erupted! A siren in the distance blaring…The crowd quickly disbursed; everyone began running franticly. There was a rumble in the ground, with horses' hooves approaching as soldiers stormed the square, guns in hand, capturing and abusing anyone in their way. They torched buildings and vending stalls, the smoke adding to the turmoil.

Pedro held my arm, pushing aside faceless bodies that were in the way. I searched for my parents, who were now lost in the ruckus.

He quickened his pace, his breath labored. As we made our way to the closes exit I hear them behind us.

¡Alto general! More of a threat than a command.

Pedro keeps going.

Guns were drawn, ¡Alto general! He surrenders after he pushes me through an opening in the wall. I crawl away into the tall grass and stay hidden, peering through the blade of green stalks as they arrest him. Some men and women were also dragged away, their cries for help going on deaf ears. I cradle myself, traumatized; all I wanted was my Papa.

A few hours may have passed when the soldiers left. The destruction was devastating as I stumbled across the rubble to find my parents. Papa could barely walk; I panicked, my heart pounding beneath my chest. People emerged from their havens searching for their loved ones, assessing what came next. I called out their names, but my voice drowned in the sorrow around me. It seemed as though I searched everywhere, my eyes darting wildly from one face to another.

Then I saw a glimmer of hope - a figure in the distance, walking in my direction. I ran towards it, half expecting my Papa to escape the fog. But to my disappointment, it was another elderly man. He was disoriented by it all, bleeding from the head. I set him down at the side of the street, praying that his family would find him, and set out again to find my own.

The further away I got from the square, casted an illusion that it was merely a nightmare. With quickened hast, I ran through a shortcut into the farming fields to my sanctuary beyond the city walls. My house was cocooned in the belly of the valley, away from it all. I kicked off my shoes and dug my heels into the dirt, skating down the steep hill. I see my parents on the stoop waiting. I began to cry and yell at them, tripping over my feet several times.

My mother is the one that approaches me halfway. I try to keep my breathing steady and my hands from shaking, but at that moment, I remember and look down at my dress.

Her anger was always unreasonable, and overreactions and complaints set the idiosyncrasy for most of her daily routines. The once prized possession was now smeared with mud, the lace on the sleeves torn.

“I have ruined your dress!” The pre-planned apology.

Instead, Mother buried her body into mine and, through tears, insisted that I was being ridiculous; all she cared about was me.

My memories were flooded with images of a strained relationship. Tension and bitterness corrupted most of our interactions. Only a mere 15 years older, Mother had always been highly critical of everything I did; my only accomplishment for her was getting married.

Not sure how to act, my limbs remain stiff; her hugs pressed against my rib cage, somewhat restricting my breathing. But, interestingly enough, it was the most love I felt from her in my entire lifetime.

We walk towards my father, and I lay my head on his lap, nestling my face on his bare legs. There were bruises on his knees and scratches around his ankle. I wrapped my arms around him even tighter as he strokes my head.

"Are you okay, Papa?" I say.

He nods and then tells me it’s time for me to leave.

I fall back into the dirt, not caring anymore about the worsening condition of the dress.

Confused, my expression must have prompted a response, for he gave one without asking.

“You need to go to your husband!”

The idea of it was absurd; I had no intention of leaving them again.

“The soldiers took him away. Surely you don’t expect me to go after them?”

“They locked all the prisoners at the Cuerpo de Seguridad y Asalto and left taking the keys with them”

Their sanity was in question, wondering if they were genuinely serious.

“How do I know that's even true? Why would they lock them up and then leave?"

No one had answers, but Papa shared that my Aunt Maria had sent word with her son.

I let out a deep sigh knowing that I must obey. The duties of a wife were vast. But, contrary to all the generic obligations it came with, your husband's life would consistently outweigh the importance of your own wellbeing.

My mother entered the house, retrieved snacks of fruits and water, placed them in a bag, and gave it to me.

“Please hurry!” She says.

Taking the shortcut through the fields again, I arrive at the outpost.

Aunt Maria was correct; no guards were outside, and the holding area gate was open. However, something didn't feel right, a sense of danger lurking in plain sight.

My nerves were on edge, greeted by a sea of cries. The strangers, some of whom I recognize, plea and beg. Outstretched hands from the metal bars clawing at the invisible, trying to grab hold of me. They wanted help, a way out, and information; whatever it was, I did not possess the capacity to fulfill any promises.

I steer deeper into the sterile hallway, confining my steps to the middle so as not to be touched. The air is thick and warm, a sense of despair looming.

“Carmen!” Pedro's voice echoes, bouncing along the screams of the others.

I ran to him and was presented with the weight of his confinement; the cold metal bars separated us.

"There isn't time!" he warns. "You need to run!"

I didn't understand; he squeezed my hand tightly and repeated himself. My parents would not forgive me if I didn't try to figure this out and rescue my husband.

But he began shaking my shoulders, the urgency in the request chilling. 

"They are going to bomb all of us; you need to run now!"

In his final attempt to get me to listen, he pushed me away, and I fell back. The contents in the bag disbursed, rosy plums rolling toward his feet.

"What about my parents?" through tears, I ask. But all Pedro does is yell and yell like a madman to run.

He frightened me; my intuition of danger was imminent. I waver a few times before leaving the building and returned to the cornfield, my legs wobbly and weak.

There was a rumbling of engines in our orbit, an upsurge of wind as warplanes zoomed overhead. 

I grabbed my chest, which ached, and tried to run faster.

An explosion occurred to the east near the valley, and I froze.

The noise was deafening, plumes of smoke and debris flying everywhere.

Another explosion to my right. Bewildered, I looked back to where I came; nothing was left except the fire in a whirlwind of ashes; Pedro was gone. 

My mind bypassed grief and entered fight or flight mode. Should I run? Hide? I didn't know where to go or what to do. The path to my home was now engulfed in flames.

All I could do was stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as the bombs fell closer and closer to my vicinity. Then, finally, I stoop down within the tall stalks asking God to protect me.

I heard another plane fly overhead, and I looked up; a bomb raging down on me. I covered my head in a feeble attempt to brace for impact when suddenly everything around me faded to white. The grim realization that, Carmen or I, met one of our ends in a field of corn in 1937.