19
Dear Diary,
Incredible as it may seem, I’m writing this from France. Yesterday, we crossed the Pyrenean border after a journey of several days across the Iberian peninsula and, finally, the treacherous and icy Pyrenees mountains. But we made it, dear diary: half of the trip, we made use of Jakob”s safe-conduct; he limps too much to return to the frontline. The other half we traveled hidden among sacks of rice or potatoes, holding our breath at every stop.
When I left the hospital at the end of December, my colleagues said goodbye to me with mixed feelings: many secretly despised me for leaving my post, but most envied me, even if they didn’t dare to say it out loud lest they be accused of being cowardly.
Whatever they say, whatever they think, no one can judge the wife of a soldier wounded in combat for escorting him home.
Yes, dear diary, what I have just written is correct. Since last week, I’ve been a married woman.
We didn”t get married the day after the proposal, as Jakob wanted. We were given a date for the twenty-sixth of December. After that, it was the fastest wedding in history. A civil servant read the corresponding articles of the civil code; we said I do, signed, and kissed. Done.
‘Comrades Jakob and Maria del Carmen: by the power vested in me by the Government of the Republic, I declare you husband and wife.’
Maria Pilar lent me a suit jacket. There wasn’t a single member of our families among the witnesses. Afterward, we took photos and went to watch a political documentary at the cinema to make the most of my free afternoon. We bought a bag of violet candy and ate it on the way to the hospital. Then we sent a telegram to notify my mother of my marriage. I didn”t write anything about my departure abroad so as not to worry her more than I should, but I’ll tell her when we arrive at our destination. I know she’ll be happy for me when she learns that my life is no longer in danger and that I have escaped from the frontline.
I know she’ll be happy... but my eyes are filling with tears as I write these words. I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by abandoning my family and my country to follow a husband I barely know to a strange place. I may be lying to myself, but the truth is that I’m running away... getting to safety while my family starves and endures hardships. I wonder if I’m nothing more than a coward. A deserter. I wonder if Vicent would have been proud of me or if he would have disowned me.
“Carmen, don”t cry,” Jakob told me when we arrived in France, “I swear you’ll go back home one day. I‘ll make sure you do.”
“I”m not crying, Jakob,” I lied. It”s just the emotion of the moment. This is our honeymoon, after all.”
“Honeymoon into exile,” he muttered in a somber voice.
And I kept silent because exile is, without a doubt, our only certainty.