Families at War , livre ebook

Title Page
FAMILIES AT WAR
by
Ken Scott
and
David Rowland



Publisher Information
This digital edition published in 2013 by
Oak Tree Press
www.oaktreepress.co.uk
Copyright © 2013 Ken Scott and David Rowland
The rights of Ken Scott and David Rowland to be identified as the authors of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is based on a true story, the characters depicted therein are real but all names have been changed to protect the privacy of families still living in the Valencian Community, including that of Felipe Albero Gomez. The tragic events during the Spanish Civil War described in this book are historically accurate, to the best of both authors knowledge
Cover photograph of Felipe Albero Gomez aged 19
He is alive and well and living in Altea aged 96
Photographer is unknown



Dedication
Dedicated to Felipe Albero Gomez and the ordinary working man of Spain who had no choice but to fight in a war orchestrated by others



Key Characters
Juan Francisco Cortes - The stolen, abandoned child
Maria Bejerano Aznar - Mother of Juan Francisco Cortes
Felipe Albero Gomez - Father of Juan Francisco Cortes
Inmaculada Aznar Masanet - Maria’s Mother
Miguel Orts Bejerano - Marias Father
Jose and Bertomeu - Maria’s brothers
Father Pascual Bautista Cano - The priest.
Vicente Cortes Ortuño - Adoptive father of Juan Francisco Cortes
Fatima Ausina Devesa - Adoptive mother of Juan Francisco Cortes
Mayor - Nicolas Barber Lloret.



Prologue
Sunday was an altogether perfect day for Maria Bejerano Aznar.
“No work today,” her Mother announced with a smile as she woke Maria from her slumber with a cool cup of orange juice freshly squeezed that morning. Oranges were always in plentiful supply in the tiny mountain village of Abdet in the province of Alicante, one of the few things that were.
Her parents took great pride in tending their small plot of land on which they grew oranges, lemons, olives, almonds and even a lone avocado tree that yielded nearly two hundred fruit each year. They grew tomatoes and peppers and potatoes too and her mother was regarded as a bit of a specialist in tending a small herb garden at the rear of the house. Although an idyllic and peaceful existence it was heavy, backbreaking work tending the land which provided them with barely enough food to sustain the family through the winter and Maria recalled many an evening when she and her brothers and sisters were sent to bed hungry.
But Sundays were different. Her mother would be singing the hymns they’d sing over and over again at church and without fail as Maria climbed down the stairs to the small room on the ground floor her mother and father would be sat at the laden table with smiles on their faces.
She’d look at the fresh bread and eggs and a little ham, tomatoes and oranges, a pot of milk and always, always, always a jug of steaming hot coffee. It was a delightfully pleasant change from the usual crude breakfast of day old bread and olive oil which occasionally, as a midweek treat, had a sprinkling of salt.
They’d say grace and then begin as if they’d fasted for a month, the children continuously scolded for eating too fast.
It mattered not if the family went without for the rest of the week. Sunday was different... Sunday was perfect.
“It is the day of the Lord,” her mother would say. “We must eat drink and be merry for today we show our appreciation to our Holy Father.”
After breakfast the whole family would wash. The children would strip down to their underclothes while father hauled bucket after bucket of ice cold water from the well that was fed by a mountain stream and poured it over them. They’d shriek and scream as the freezing water enveloped their bodies but if the truth be told Maria enjoyed the weekly ritual even if it did take her breath away. Even as her mother scrubbed at her finger nails with a harsh, well-worn scrubbing brush and raked a toothless comb painfully through her long dark hair Maria enjoyed the feeling of being clean and recalled the priest’s words that cleanliness was next to Godliness.
Afterwards the Sunday best clothes would be set out on the chairs and boxes that stood around the eating table but on no account were they to be worn until the church bell struck the half hour mark before midday mass.
The children would yell and cheer as the bell chimes seemed to fill the entire room and they ran to the chairs in a competition to see who could get ready first. Outside they’d be inspected as mother made them line up, armed with a clean white handkerchief which she used to remove the dirt and grime from the faces and hands that the water had failed to shift.
Señora Inmaculada would walk up and down the line like a soldier overseeing her troops and only when she was absolutely one hundred per cent sure that the family had passed muster would she disappear inside the house to shout for her husband.
Maria heard the raised voices again. It was the same every Sunday.
“What are they arguing about?” her young brother asked.
“Money” she replied. “Always money on a Sunday, money that we don’t have.”
Her young brother frowned. “Then why are they arguing if we do not have any?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face.
Maria shrugged her shoulders. “We must give it to the church.”
“But how can we give it if we don’t have it?”
Her brother’s reply was logical and she answered as she always did.
“It doesn’t matter Jose, we still must give. The Church is poor; the Lord needs it more than we do.”
It was a nonsense answer but somehow it made sense to her and as always she backed it up with the same answer that the family had eaten well that day with eggs and ham and fresh bread and it was the Lord who had provided for them.
They’d walk through the dusty, shady streets of the village weaving their way through the small and dilapidated ramshackle houses. The houses were whitewashed and baked by the hot sun; they had hardly altered since the Moors had lived there in the 1200s.
A hundred metres before the church Felipe Albero Gomez would be waiting for Maria.
Felipe and Maria had known each other all their lives. They were very close and plainly very fond of each other. It was hardly surprising as they were born just a week apart and since they were a few days old, their mothers had carried them to the fields, where they were placed together on the same rough straw mats in the shade of the olive trees.
It was underneath the olive trees that their inseparable bond had started.
As they grew older, they walked with their families to the fields taking an active part in the work as they grew stronger and wiser. When they reached their teenage years they were working as hard and as long as their parents. The winters were cold in the mountains and the work unpleasant but mercifully the days were short. In the spring and summer months they worked their fingers to the bone, they started work before daybreak in an attempt to avoid the worst of the heat. The atmosphere was stifling, the sun unrelenting and in the village the sun was hot enough to make the stones and earth in the rough roads too hot to walk on. Maria looked on in envy at the only girl in the village whose parents had been able to afford a pair of sandals. Isabel Morales walked tall and proud, she walked without looking where she placed her feet. Perhaps one day Maria would do the same.
The village church was elegant, pristine, clean looking and shiny. It stood out like a diamond in a rough stone quarry. Its imposing structure towered over the rest of the crumbling houses, reinforcing the idea in Maria’s mind that God was indeed the superior being, the church all powerful.
The church was full, save for the sick and infirm, every single person in the village who could walk the short journey to the place of worship attended the Sunday service. Maria sat with Felipe and their respective families and she enjoyed every minute of the service delivered from under the shadow of the figure of the Virgin Mary which occupied pride of place in the church.
She loved the singing that echoed around the ancient stone building as the sun streamed through the beautiful ornate stained glass windows picking at the dust particles that lingered in the air. Even when Father Cano delivered his sermon and he grew rather animated and shouted at the villagers whom he occasionally called sinners Maria took on board what it was he was saying and convinced herself as long as she behaved and prayed every night she had nothing to fear and the wrath of God would not come tumbling down upon her.
What Maria didn’t enjoy was the school after church, especially when the weather was warm outside. The Church was the sole educator in the village, Father Cano the only teacher. To the smaller children the priest was a fearsome figure, and although Maria enjoyed some of the lessons, Father Cano always seemed to drift off on an angry rant at least two or three times ferociously warning the children of what would happen to them if they dared to stray from the strict rules of the Catholic Church and the ten commandments of Moses. He’d tell the children about a place called hell where if they sinned t