Chapter 5
“Mr. Ashmore, a . . . newspaper of sorts has arrived for Mrs. Ashmore,” Burnsey said as he stood in the doorway of Peter’s study.
“For Ana? Are you certain?” Peter asked, reaching out his hand. “From whom, I wonder.”
“I haven’t the foggiest. But it be in Spanish, so it must be for your lady.”
“I see. Thank you, Burnsey, I’ll show it to her myself.”
Peter’s hands trembled as he grasped the folded paper.
The print was disorderly, rushed. It didn’t seem like a product of a regular print shop but rather an individually constructed manifesto.
Who had delivered this item to them? How had they known that Ana was here?
Nobody knew of her existence, her origin.
Fear clenched in his stomach as he reached Ana’s door and knocked.
“Pasa,” she called, indicating to him to come in.
“Ana, a newspaper has arrived in Spanish. I wondered if you might take a look at it.” He placed the paper into her outstretched hands. “I suspect it is some sort of report. The length and form of it indicate as much.”
“It is from San Sebastián.” Ana’s face was shadowed with fear in an instant; the lightness in her eyes that had welcomed his arrival had disappeared entirely.
“You know that my Spanish is absolutely horrid. Would you just translate a bit of it, please?” Peter stood tall and firm, but he could not stop the nervous tapping of his foot. What would the paper contain? Perhaps some proof of the fault of the British and Portuguese armies?
“I no want to read this.” Her eyes widened pleadingly.
“But this report very well could be a blessing to us. It could provide a way for me . . . for us to make right all that was done in San Sebastián.” All that was done to her. A twinge of pain settled in Peter’s chest, his breathing increasing in excitement and desperation.
“Very well. I translate un poco, sí?”
“Gracias, Ana.” Peter reached for her hand and squeezed firmly. He smiled, harboring the hope that this newspaper would bring them good news and save them from the memories that haunted them both.
“The town of San Sebastián was put on fire by the Allies,” Ana began, her voice trembling and halting.
“After, these troops started an attack very horrible . . .” Ana begun, her voice trembling.
She was much more practiced in translating from text, Peter realized, than in forming English sentences on her own.
It must have been part of her education and role as a translator.
“The people of San Sebastián were controlled for so long time by the French,” Ana continued.
“So they welcome the Allies with much gratitude, but these soldiers responded to them with gunfire at their doors, and many people die.” Ana’s voice cracked with emotion, as faces of the Basque and Spanish victims, young and old, paraded through Peter’s mind.
“When it became dark and the French retreated, there was much horror. All around could be heard the sound of crying women who were being attacked.” Tears soaked Ana’s face now, but her voice continued in an automatic, learned fashion.
“No matter their age, wives were hurt in the view of their husbands, girls attacked in front of their parents . . .”
Peter pulled the paper from her hands as bile rose high in his throat. “Forgive me, this was a grave mistake. I should not have you read such things. Not after what you endured.”
“Por favor, Pedro. I no want to remember these things terribles.”
“I am sorrier than I can say. I hadn’t the faintest idea that it would be such a . . . descriptive account. I merely hoped it would give us some names or remind us of specifics to help bring to punishment those who were at fault.”
“San Sebastián is siempre in my mind. I no need to be reminded of this.”
“I know,” Peter said, squeezing Ana’s hand.
Her brow was furrowed, her jaw set with concern.
If he could not somehow take away the pain inside that caused this reaction, he wished he could at least reach over and smooth the lines himself.
Even worse, Peter had caused her distress without gaining any of the evidence that he had been hoping for.
And he had forced his tender wife to relive such terrible events.
He was not rescuing her from her fate in the slightest when he requested she read such things.
It appeared Peter would have to continue his efforts on his own.
But first he needed to comfort his wife.
“It is nearly time for your siesta, correct?”
Ana nodded mutely as she wiped at her tears. Peter helped her over to the bed, pulling back the bedclothes and preparing the pillows for her.
Peter experienced an actual physical pain at seeing his wife cry. It seized and squeezed his chest. “Deuced fool,” he muttered, cursing himself and shaking his head. Never again would he be the cause of his wife’s tears.
“Please allow me to fetch you some drinking chocolate. That would take your mind off these horrid things, would it not?”
“I hope yes,” Ana whispered as she climbed into bed and collapsed onto the pillows.
Peter eased the door open, started down the hallway, then raised the paper to his view, squinting. He strained to understand and caught bits of each sentence.
“The sack endured for days. . . . They appeared to be authorized by the commanders. . . . The stolen items were sold by the English, and right beside their military headquarters.”
That was a bit of information Peter had not witnessed himself. Perhaps that had occurred after he and Ana had already started fleeing to the coast. The words came easier now, context aiding him.
“When we thought it had finished, the Allied troops threw our precious belongings into the fire, a fire which grew so fast . . . it appeared deliberate.”
“Of the hundreds of houses . . . there were less than forty left. . . . Fifteen hundred families were abandoned without food and shelter.”
“Everything had fallen to violence or flame. . . . San Sebastián exists no more.”
Then the manifesto ended in the most heartbreaking of manners. The language was too simple, too straightforward, too devastating for Peter to miss its meaning.
“When, on 25 July, we saw Allied armies arrive, we wanted to help them; the women ran to the camps and hospital to give them clothes, food, and care. Our loyalty has been repaid with the destruction of our home.”
“Mr. Ashmore, is something the matter?” Mrs. Thompson hovered in front of him, concern marring her normally happy features. Peter felt the tension hunched in his shoulders and the anger bunching his brow. Even his jaw was clenched. Little wonder she assumed something was the matter.
“Oh, Mrs. Thompson. I was just seeking you out.”
“You look to ’ave seen a great fright indeed.”
“No great fright at all. Only a bit of bad news.” He tapped the paper and then folded it, shoving it into a pocket. “An unwanted reminder of difficult days.”
“Aye, ’tis how it be when you’re a soldier. My own father often had night haunts of the battlefield, again and again. Wake the whole house with his screaming, he would.”
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Thompson. I never knew your family bore such a difficult past, particularly one I am well familiar with.”
“No matter, dear. Pop be in his grave, sleeping peacefully now. And we are safe here in England, isn’t we? No cause for this kind of concern.”
“Indeed,” Peter said, wishing his mind would agree with his words. If there would ever be a time he was free from the guilt and pain of San Sebastián, he would be more than glad for it. But he would never forget the sight of seeing Ana, dress torn, stumbling toward him through the flames.
“Now, what were you seeking me about?”
“Mrs. Ashmore requires some drinking chocolate.”
“Feeling ill, is she?”
“I don’t believe so, at least not physically. She is quite tired and a bit emotional.”
Mrs. Thompson cast a knowing glance at the pocket where Peter had stored the newspaper. “I see. I’ll have drinking chocolate to her in just a moment.”
“Thank you,” Peter said, squeezing Mrs. Thompson’s hand.
It was more likely than not that this mysterious paper had arrived at their house through someone who knew that Peter had spent many months in Spain and wanted him to read the report.
It testified of truth, despite the misinformation that was already spreading through England regarding the events.
Now that he knew the contents of it, he doubted that any of the few individuals who knew Ana would intentionally cause her grief by alerting her to such horrid events.
And besides that, none of them knew that his wife had been at San Sebastián.
That was a secret well-locked away by Peter alone.
Still, remembering the pain of the trauma so many innocents had endured there made anger boil in his stomach.
He had never been so affected before by a war event, but he had also never witnessed such atrocities for himself.
Worst of all, the woman he cared for would be scarred forever by its injustices.