7
Dear Diary,
Last week, I turned eighteen, and my brother Vicent gave me this notebook. And, because it was also my name day, Mrs. Leonor, my boss, gave me a book about a certain Clara Campoamor[4] and a spool of embroidery thread. She told me to start reading the book as soon as possible because, in five years, I will be able to vote in the elections or even run for office. When I told my mother about it, she thought it was hilarious. “You, going into politics?” shesaid, laughing. Mother doesn”t like Do?a Leonor, who is not only bourgeois but also a feminist… and divorced. I, however, am fond of her, and I know that I’m her favorite of all her employees. She’s the only one who tells me that I’m not going to be a humble seamstress all my life, that I’m too smart for that. Mother says that she puts weird ideas in my head and that it”s time for me to settle down like my sister Teresa, who is obsessed with finding a wealthy boyfriend and spends the day humming love songs with a dreamy air. It’s no wonder she can”t find one, though, because all the boys we know are poor farmers who can barely write.
But I’m not writing to you because of this, my diary, but because of the events from this morning. When we left home on the way to the workshop, Teresa and I found the center of Valencia crowded with workers and farmers shouting, “Long live the Republic!”
Teresa, as always so cowed, wanted to turn straight back, but I convinced her to go to work. I don”t think it was a good idea because everything started to go wrong: before lunch, I pricked myself twice on the same finger; the needle slipped from my sweaty palms, and the thread wouldn”t spin, no matter how much I sprinkled my hands with talcum powder. Teresa offered me her handkerchief, and when I got up to take it, I saw several neighbors through the window, running down the street as if they were fleeing from something. Just at that moment, someone started banging on the door. I went out to open it and found my brother Vicent with sweat pouring down his forehead and a worried expression on his freckled face.
“What”s up, Vicent? Why aren’t you at work?” I asked him, smiling, happy about his unexpected visit. I pulled his cap down to cover his face, but instead of playing along, he pulled it off impatiently and gave me a scornful look.
“Carmen, Father says you must both go home right away. And tell the other girls to leave, too. The Moroccan army has revolted against the Republic.”
“What are you saying, Vicent?”
I went to look for Do?a Leonor, but she was nowhere to be found.
“Shut up and get a move on,” said Vicent at last, grabbing Teresa and me by the arm. “You”re coming home with me. Father will explain it to you if he wants to. I”m just an errand boy. Come on, let”s go.”
On the way to our house on Calle de Las Barcas, we saw children playing hopscotch as if nothing was happening. But we also saw many soldiers, and all the stores were closed despite the hour.
At home, Mother was boarding up the windows, and Father was sitting at the kitchen table with a circumspect expression, reading the newspaper.
“What”s going on?“ I asked.
“Shh!”
They told me to be quiet and pointed to the radio, which at that moment was announcing the news:
“General Franco”s army has risen against the Republic, urging all the garrisons to revolt...”
Teresa started to cry.
“The Cathedral has been attacked, and the church of Santos Juanes has been burned to the ground...”
This time, it was my mother who let out a scream and crossed herself. She and Teresa embraced each other, scared to death.
But I, dear diary, am not afraid. Do?a Leonor says that dark times always bring opportunities for greatness. And all I know is that my life here in Valencia is becoming too small for me. I dream of traveling, seeing the world, and studying for a degree. Do?a Leonor says that one day I will be able to do that and much more, to have faith in humanity and the future... and I have it.
I”ll write more later. Mother is calling me.