Stolen Lives: Zahara Series, #2

By Joyce Yarrow

First Place in International Suspense - Firebird Award

 

Journalist Alienor Crespo pursues an intriguing and explosive story about the tons of gold shipped to the Soviet Union during the Spanish Civil War and the endangered children who made the same journey. When Alienor uses her second sight to connect past events with her present-day investigation of Spain's "stolen babies," she puts her life in danger.

Stolen Lives begins during World War II on the Island of Rhodes and takes the reader on a suspense-filled journey through the decades to present day Spain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: All Bilingual Press
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224295982

Book preview

List of Characters

Alcides Benveniste—Astera Benveniste’s brother, from the Island of Rhodes

Alienor Crespo—Journalist from Seattle, Washington

Astera Benveniste Sandoval—Alienor’s distant cousin from the Island of Rhodes

Bashir (the honey maker) —12th century trickster

Bettina Benveniste Deri—Sarah’s daughter

Celia Crespo—Alienor’s second cousin, silk-maker, and one of Zahara’s Librarians

Enrique Fernández—Inspector, Granada National Police

Fabiana Carrasco—Director of Vidas Robadas (Stolen Lives)

Ja’far Siddiqui and Luzia Crespo—Celia’s grandparents, Alienor’s great aunt and uncle

Jimmy Sandoval—International Brigades photographer, Astera’s husband, Sarah’s father, and Lea Benveniste’s godfather

Kanzah Siddiqui—12th century poet from Granada, grandniece of Samuel ha-Nagid

Lea Saavedra Benveniste—Astera’s cousin, one of the Niños de Rusia

Malik al-Bakr – A Zaharan Librarian

Mico Rosales—Notary and Human Rights activist, Alienor’s lover

Miguel Ramos—illegal adoptive father of Lea’s daughter, Natalia aka Soledad and Director of Security at the Vocational School for Girls

Natalia aka Soledad Benveniste Ramos—Lea’s stolen daughter

Roberto Ramos—Natalia aka Soledad’s husband

Pilar Pérez Crespo—Celia’s mother, Ja’far and Luzia’s daughter

Saleema al-Garnati—A Zaharan Librarian

Sarah Benveniste Sandoval—Astera and Jimmy’s daughter

Solbella Benveniste Crespo aka Nona—Alienor’s grandmother, Astera’s cousin

Velasco Ramos—Miguel Ramos’s son and Natalia aka Soledad’s stepbrother

Chapter One

October 2019

Careful now, take it slow.

Under Celia’s watchful gaze, I swept the straw brush through the brown water, snagging all the loose fibers I could find. I pulled out the bristles and with a flick of the wrist gave them a good shake to dislodge any clinging cocoons. Then came the tricky part where I wrapped the captured silken filaments around my hand in one continuous motion, just like my cousin had taught me.

Nice work, Alienor. Should I take it from here?

Celia, whom I’d grown close with during the troubles that engulfed us when I first came to Spain, was a strict supervisor, as devoted to performing tasks in their correct order as she was to living in bib overalls and torn t-shirts.

No thanks, Cuz. I’ve got this.

I threaded the raw silk through the eyelets attached to the spinning machine and pressed the well-oiled foot pedal. Then I stood back and let the mechanism take over the repetitive work of unwinding the cocoons still floating in the water. The chrysalises within them would lose the final twenty-four hours of their life spans. I sympathized, given how in the recent past my own tenure on earth had come nerve-rackingly close to ending.

Aside from my empathy for the massacred pupae, I’d found that working amidst trays filled with Mulberry leaves and hungry silkworms provided the relaxation I needed to recover from my recent ordeal. How could I have known that on my first trip to Spain I would risk my life to protect a treasure trove of books?

Most every weekend I drove to Celia’s house from the apartment in Granada that Mico and I shared. He was working seven days a week for We Remember and frequently out of town.

Since my first solo collection of raw silk was to be the last batch of the day, Celia and I cleaned the equipment, tidying the shed before taking turns under the refreshing outdoor shower. Dressed in clean clothes, heads wrapped in bright towels, we shared a lunch of pan con tomate and beer, shielded from the sun by a red and yellow patio umbrella. We clinked our glasses before draining them and Celia smacked her lips.

Before she could protest, I reached for the new DSLR I’d treated myself to and took a quick selfie of the two of us. The towel suits you and shows off your high forehead, I kidded.

Fine. But no fucking way are you going to post that photo on social media.

It had taken me a while to get acclimated to the casual curse words uttered by my Spanish friends, who always enjoyed a good laugh at the consternation of the bewildered American.

So tell me, what are you working on?

So she did listen when I rambled on about upcoming assignments.

"On Monday I’ll be interviewing Fabiana Carrasco, the founder of Vidas Robadas—Stolen Lives."

Celia frowned. I didn’t know you were interested in the stolen babies.

Why? Is it a problem? Think about it, Celia. Thousands of mothers gave birth under anesthesia in clinics only to wake up to the news that their newborns were dead. How could they know that as they wailed and cried, their perfectly healthy children were being given away to families that were loyal to Franco’s regime? And then there are the infants who were stolen in more recent times by corrupt priests to sell to the highest bidder. It’s a huge story.

Celia hugged herself, like someone chilled by dark thoughts. That’s true, Allie. It’s also possible that Grandpa Ja’far died because he knew too much about the fate of those little ones.

Your Grandma Luzia never found his grave, did she? I asked. Celia’s grandmother was also my Great Aunt Luzia, sister to my grandfather, Aharon Crespo.

My cousin scowled. It’s too late. They’ll never find him. Not after all this time. Although my mother did say she’d die happy if she could say a prayer at her father’s grave.

Is Pilar unwell? I asked in alarm. I was one of a handful of people who knew that Celia’s mother, Pilar, was alive and residing in a nearby monastery where she took refuge many years ago from the wrath of her husband, Eduardo. Although he was no longer a threat to her, Pilar had stuck with her choice to remain a nun, living in the Carthusian Charterhouse connected by underground tunnels to the now-empty libraries of Zahara.

I wish I had more contact with her, Celia said. They’re strict about visitors.

There are ways we can help Pilar fulfill her wish to honor your Grandpa Ja’far’s memory and put him to rest. With your permission I’ll ask Mico to present his case to We Remember. They can help you and the town of Almendrales apply for funds and an exhumation permit. But only if you’re sure you’re ready to explore the painful details of your grandfather’s disappearance.

You mean his murder, she corrected me, waving a fork to emphasize the last word. Even as a child I suspected Grandpa Ja’far was in the habit of risking too much. It’s amazing they let him live for so long.

She was right. Luzia and Ja’far had smuggled hundreds of refugees out of France and across the Pyrenees during World War II. After taking refuge in Spain themselves, they’d continued to risk their lives by hiding the Loyalists who lost the civil war and protecting their orphaned children from the Franquistas.

I poured the last of the Alhambra into Celia’s glass since I’d be on the road soon and needed a clear head. Do you think your grandparents kept records of the children they rescued, in case the mothers who survived came looking for them?

To be honest, Allie, if you dig too deeply you’ll discover for yourself why so many Spaniards embrace the pact of forgetting. There are those in our country actively opposed to digging up the past and some of them have a lot to lose. Can you blame me for being protective? We’ve only just found each other. I don’t want to lose you.

The emotion threaded through Celia’s voice erased my fear of breaching her natural reserve and I reached across the table to grip my cousin’s hand. Thank you for saying ‘our country.’ Now that I’m a Spanish citizen and free to do as I please, a significant part of me wants to stay here in La Alpujarra with you. I’d love to learn how to weave silken thread into cloth, take hikes through the meadows and spend my afternoons drinking beer and watching the clouds pass over the mountains. But I’m also a journalist unwilling to abandon my profession. And what about the stolen babies who are growing older every day? Are we to leave them in ignorance of the fate of their parents?

I cleared the table and stacked the plates, waiting for Celia to make up her mind.

Alright, then. Maybe Grandpa Ja’far kept some records. We can start by taking a look at what he and Grandma Luzia left behind.

Celia rose and motioned for me to follow her into the house. We stopped in the kitchen to put our dishes in the sink and continued to the back bedroom, where my stomach fluttered at the sight of a wide-open trapdoor in the closet floor. Six months ago this entrance to Zahara was cleverly concealed by a colorful pattern of inlaid Islamic tiles, an invisible portal to an underground world known only to a few trusted librarians.

I followed my cousin down the ladder into what had once been an old salt mine. Flashbacks to last year’s raid by the Guardia Civil at the instigation of the Cisneros Society threatened to crowd out more welcome memories. Although we’d defeated the extremists and found a safe place for the books, our adversaries were still out there.

Have you heard the talk about opening the Zahara tunnels to the public as an historical landmark? I can’t believe they would do such a thing. It might be for the best but it will feel like an invasion and I’m not ready for it—not by a long shot, Celia said.

The lights flickered on, revealing wall-murals cleverly rendered to look like the red and black archways of a mosque, expanding into infinity. Every time I visited I experienced what it was like to walk back through time and I understood Celia’s discomfort at the thought of strangers trampling through these history-soaked passageways.

She pressed her thumb on the biometric lock securing the heavy rosewood door and we entered the Library of Tif’eret and Jamal, the words for compassion and beauty in Hebrew and Arabic. I could almost hear the empty shelves crying out for new occupants.

I miss all of our books but I’m also grateful to the University of Granada for creating a safe haven for them as we prepare to move them to the Palacio de la Madrazah.

She was talking about the Convivencia Center Library, where the illuminated manuscripts and books of science and poetry rescued from the Inquisitor’s flames were housed in plain sight after centuries of being hidden right here, underground.

My cousin ran her hands along the back of a shelf and retrieved a key she used to open a large, wooden trunk. When the books were moved, my mother insisted that our family’s personal papers and artifacts remain.

She displayed the family heirlooms reverently, one by one. This is Grandma Luzia’s Hebrew Bible that she carried with her all the way from Belgium. Here is Grandpa Ja’far’s Qur’an that he brought from Morocco—these were hidden away to conceal my grandparents’ true Jewish and Muslim identities when they pretended to be Catholics to get permission to marry.

She carefully examined the Qur’an and shook her head. I see no list of mother and baby names recorded by Grandpa. But he did write my mother Pilar’s birth date on the inside cover, and there’s something else.

Looking over Celia’s shoulder I saw what she meant. Her mother’s secret Arabic name was neatly inscribed in both Arabic and Spanish: Jariya.

She slowly ran her finger across the page, caressing each letter. "A whole branch of our family represented by one name. If ever I doubted the reality of your Vijitas, Allie, this is the proof I would have needed to convince me."

Celia was referring to my visits to the past. For many years I had resisted my talent for inhabiting the minds of my female ancestors. I preferred the just-the-facts approach of my chosen profession as a journalist. Not until my Vijitas connected me with an entirely new branch of my family tree—a diaspora of Jews and Muslims extending from Belgium to Spain, Morocco and beyond—did I begin to value and be grateful for my gift. Without the Vijitas, I would never have found the clues I needed to help Celia—and the Librarians of Zahara—protect the books in their care, many of which had been rescued from the fires of the Inquisition in the 15th and 16th  centuries. Without the Vijitas we might have failed in our efforts to defeat a group of fanatics intent on destroying all evidence of multicultural collaboration in Medieval Spain. In the end, we succeeded in stopping them and my travels through time had stopped as well. Or so it seemed.

Chapter Two

Among the objects in Celia’s treasure room were two silver candlesticks that had been cleverly hidden on a shelf behind a framed portrait of Moses Ibn Ezra, the famous medieval poet. I picked up one of the elegantly swirled cylinders, eight inches tall and shaped like a tulip at the top. Our family history vibrated in my hand.

"It saddens me that these were rarely used for their true purpose. In Seattle, we lit candles on Friday night and Dad read from the Suddar, with no fear of hostile neighbors reporting us."

I must have missed these when I took inventory, Celia said, taking the candle holder from me and sliding the pair into a white linen pouch embroidered with a colorful image of the Tree of Life.

You should have them, Allie. Grandma Luzia would approve.

What about Pilar? These are precious relics from her parents.

You’re forgetting that my mother is a nun. She has no possessions and as her daughter I present you with these remembrances of your Great Aunt Luzia, my Jewish grandmother. You can’t refuse.

A rush of gratitude came over me.

Celia busied herself unrolling the prayer rug. Mom said that Grandpa Ja’far often disappeared and she would creep down here to covertly watch him pray.

There were lamps woven into the carpet’s fabric as well as the image of the mihrab, the niche in the wall of a mosque that indicates the direction of Mecca. I wondered who, if anyone, would be using the rug, since as far as I knew the Muslim branch of our family no longer resided in Spain.

I’ve got to get home and prepare for tomorrow’s interview, I said.

Celia locked up the treasure room and we returned to the back bedroom of the house, where I picked up my suitcase. She loaded me down with a bag of oranges and walked me to the car, kissing me on both cheeks. Give my love to Mico and next time, bring him with you.

My visits with Celia were roughly four weeks apart and as I drove along the dirt road leading back to Almendrales, I was already missing her.

A crowd was milling around in the open air market and I couldn’t resist stopping for a quick look see. María gave me a wave when she saw me walking toward her. The hard-working vendedora had my purchase ready by the time I reached her stand. Mico would laugh at me for adding to our overflowing stock of almonds but I didn’t care. If it weren’t for María’s remarkable memory for names and faces, I would never have found Celia’s house in the countryside north of the village.

Alienor Crespo, my favorite customer. How’s your cousin? Still robbing the silkworms of their cocoons?

Business is good and Celia’s weaving her own fabrics. Her indigo dyes are a good match for your denim skirt.

You’ve got a gift for sales, Alienor. Maybe you could sell silk scarves here at the market. María handed over a paper bag filled to the brim with light brown Almendras. They were a signature crop of the Alpujarras and shared the rich soil of the Sierra Nevada foothills, along with olives, prickly pears, and grapes.

I stuffed the bag into my backpack and was about to say goodbye when my friend picked up the conversation. Have you heard about the bodies they found last month in the ravine? Thrown away like garbage more than eighty years ago. Terrible. You’re a journalist and should write about it.

I was shocked that María would be so outspoken about an era that most couldn’t wait to forget.

Do you mean the El Carizal ravine in Orgiva?

She dabbed her eyes. No. This is another site, recently discovered in the countryside north of here. It’s called the Hill of Stones. My grandfather and his brother might well be buried there under the rocks on the steep hillside. I spoke with a woman from that organization you told me about, We Remember. She said I should write a letter, which I did. Not a word since.

María, I’m so sorry. I have a friend who works for We Remember. He might be able to help. Can I give him your phone number?

Yes, of course. María wrote her number on an empty paper bag and handed it over with the resigned smile of someone used to hearing empty promises.

I resolved to do my best not to give her more grief.

See you next month, she said.

Putting the steep hillsides and flat, white rooftops of Almendrales behind me, I paid full attention to guiding the Hyundai on the hairpin curves of the mountain road connecting the Pueblos Blancos. I waited to reach the main highway before activating the cell phone built into the dash.

Hi Mico, it’s me.

Our relationship was one of the best things to come out of last year’s battle to save Zahara’s books. Admittedly there were times when I wished we could dial down the intensity, especially now that we were free of the life-threatening incidents that had thrown us together.

Where are you? we both asked at once, the bad reception converting our laughter into crackles of static.

I’m in Seville, Mico said. I won’t be home ‘til tomorrow. The situation is deteriorating, with each side accusing the other of war crimes.

Maybe Celia’s right when she speaks up in favor of the Pact of Forgetting. Digging up corpses of loved ones is as painful as it gets.

Celia’s wrong. Mico’s voice took on the edge he saved for the things he cared about. People need closure. They need justice. That’s why We Remember was formed—to help them claim the right to memorialize and bury their dead  when the government refuses to act.

As it happens, I’ve got some new business lined up for you. I’ll tell you when I see you. I was genuinely glad about this, despite the depressing nature of my partner’s work. Gotta go now, I’m almost at the tunnel and about to lose you. Promise you’ll be careful.

Only if you’ll do the same, he said.

I will. See you later.

What good liars we were when it came to saving each other some worry.

With no one waiting for me at home, I was in no rush. I parked the Hyundai on a hillside in Sacromonte that provided a 360 degree view of Barranco de los Negros, the historic barrio where the Roma have long-occupied caves dug into the hillsides. I cracked open a few of María’s almonds, using the wire cutter I’ve kept in the glovebox ever since someone put a tracking device under my car. Not an elegant solution but the almond fragments were delicious.

Taking a deep draught of lemon-water from my canteen, I sat back and took a moment to enjoy the orange and red sky kissing the edges of the mountain peaks in the distance.

An hour later, I let the Hyundai’s steady headlights guide me through the narrow streets of the Albaicín and into the parking area shared by several small apartment buildings. Our front room had a view of the Alhambra and I remember asking Mico if he thought our street had been named Calle Cuesta de la Victoria, the Slope of Victory, in honor of Ferdinand and Isabela’s conquest of the Moorish Palace six centuries ago.

Absolutely. We must not fail to honor those who cleared the way for today’s ticket scalpers to fleece the tourists. Mico’s reply was typical of his cynical view of certain aspects of Spanish history.

Once home, I felt his absence more keenly. I noticed the kitchen was running low on supplies and ran out to the Mercado to pick up groceries, just in case he decided to drive back early. No such luck.

Mico’s work could be risky, so to quell my anxiety I busied myself straightening out the mess of books and papers I’d allowed to accumulate in his absence. My notary-of-love, as I had nicknamed him to his great amusement, placed a high value on order.

I searched the kitchen until I found some fresh candles for the pair of holders Celia had so generously bestowed on me. When I placed the candlesticks on the table, one was a bit off-kilter and tilted to the left. I turned it upside down to take a closer look at the base. The end of a tube of paper protruded from what should have been a hollow space.

Carefully I inserted a pair of tweezers and pulled out a tightly rolled piece of paper that I carefully unfolded. It was a sheet torn from a composition book. A list of names populated the blue lines under the heading Niños Robados.

Celia’s voice played in my head. Grandpa Ja’far may have died because he knew too much about the fate of those little ones. She’d been talking about the mothers and children separated by Franco in his quest to stamp out the red gene after the Civil War ended.

A pair of entries caught my eye: Astera Benveniste Sandoval (27) and Sarah Benveniste Sandoval (3).

Benveniste was my grandmother’s family name from the Island of Rhodes, the surname she’d kept (following the Spanish tradition that was handed down to her), when she married my grandfather, Aharon, in Seattle. It was a popular Sephardic name and its presence on the list could be coincidental. Nona,