Dedication
To my children, who are around the age of the Children of Morelia; may life never lead them into exile, and if it does, may they be as brave as the Republican children during the Spanish Civil War.
To Elisabeth, my beloved wife, my mother country, my flag.
To my grandmother, Ponciana, and my grandfather, Tomás, who endured the ravages of war and the hatred between brothers and sisters.
To my mother, Amparo, who shed countless tears for lost dreams and sowed stars in my heart.
Epigraph
I weep because, since I’m fully a Spaniard and fully a Mexican, I feel like, when it’s all said and done, I’ve got no identity at all.
Emeterio Payá Valera, one of the Morelia children
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
A Note from the Author
Prologue
Part 1: Bombs All Around Chapter 1: The Search
Chapter 2: María Zapata
Chapter 3: Victory
Chapter 4: The Montaña Barracks
Chapter 5: In the Trenches
Chapter 6: My Friends Aren’t Going to Heaven
Chapter 7: My Grandparents and the Trip to San Martín de la Vega
Chapter 8: Words Rain Down
Chapter 9: The Road to France
Chapter 10: Bordeaux
Part 2: Exile Bound Chapter 11: Separation
Chapter 12: The Hunt for Red Children
Chapter 13: Just a Minute Ago
Chapter 14: Forbidden Suffering
Chapter 15: In Bed
Chapter 16: Havana
Chapter 17: Veracruz
Chapter 18: Mexico City
Part 3: Morelia Chapter 19: A Provincial Town
Chapter 20: The Incident
Chapter 21: The Story of a Journey
Chapter 22: Costly Change
Chapter 23: Family
Chapter 24: The Punishment
Chapter 25: The President’s Visit
Chapter 26: Summer
Chapter 27: News from Spain
Chapter 28: White Rats
Chapter 29: Missing
Chapter 30: Kidnapped
Chapter 31: Fleeing
Chapter 32: Unexpected Friends
Chapter 33: Journey to the Capital
Chapter 34: The Train to Germany
Part 4: To the Motherland Chapter 35: A Ship to the Homeland
Chapter 36: Paths Crossing
Chapter 37: The Return
Chapter 38: Spain
Chapter 39: Imprisoned
Chapter 40: Split Up
Part 5: The Layers of Loneliness Chapter 41: Paracuellos
Chapter 42: Hell
Chapter 43: Lies
Chapter 44: The Party
Chapter 45: In the Name of the Father
Chapter 46: Bilbao
Chapter 47: Madrid
Epilogue
Clarifications from History
Timeline
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Translator
Acclaim for Mario Escobar
Also by Mario Escobar
Copyright
A Note from the Author
The Spanish Civil War was a river of tears and blood. All war is terrible, of course, but when it occurs between brothers, the violent conflict becomes tragedy. The wounds stay open for decades and never fully scar over. There are no just wars! The victims were the same as always: the civilian population, the bystanders who never wanted to fight yet were obliged to pay with their lives or lose their loved ones in the cruel barbarity of the conflict that was a training ground for World War II.
The coup d’état of July 17, 1936, which led to a long and brutal war, started off like a party. That is how the Spanish poet Juan Ramón Jiménez described it in a letter that sought to raise support for the Republic’s cause. The letter was read aloud in New York that same summer:
I’ve seen it with my own eyes: During these first months of the war, Madrid has been a tragic, crazed party. The jubilation, a strange joy of a bloody faith, rebounded on all sides; it was the joy of being convinced, the joy of willpower, the joy of a favorable destiny—or not.*
The party came to an abrupt end as the people learned from the harsh lessons of bombs and bullets that what was being ripped away was the future.
Antonio Machado realized at once that the civil war was much more than a conflict between Spaniards. He said:
The civil war, so ethically unequal but, in the end, between Spaniards, ended a few months ago. Spain has been sold abroad by men who cannot be called Spaniards . . . Such that now there is nothing but a Spain invaded . . . by foreign greed.*
For me, writing this book has been a long, difficult, internal, and external journey. The civil war has marked my life since childhood. My parents were children during the war, and my grandparents endured great hardships throughout the conflict, especially my mother’s parents. My grandfather, Tomás Golderos, fought and went missing on the front, leaving behind four children and a wife who suffered the harsh Francoist repression. The conflict’s fallout made such a big impact on me when I was younger that every year on Christmas Eve I would pray that Spain would never experience another civil war.
Remember Me is the story of three siblings who are sent to Mexico in hopes of being reunited with their parents after the war and who must face the dangerous journey of exile. It is the story of thousands of children who left and would never return either to their homeland or to their homes, to the true mother country of family. And it is the story of children who found themselves lost and alone in the world, with no one to embrace them or point out the way they should go.
Remember Me is the collective story of the Children of Morelia. Some 460 children between the ages of four and seventeen were sent from Spain to Mexico in an attempt to escape the terrible ravages of the war. The children traveled under very difficult circumstances to Veracruz in the summer of 1937. The Ibero-American Committee for Aid to the Spanish Peoples oversaw the logistics of getting the children out of the country. Carmela Gil de Vázquez and Amalia Solórzano, the wife of President Cárdenas, were the driving force behind the effort.
The adventures of Marco, Isabel, and Ana Alcalde are of course a tribute to the Children of Morelia, but they are ultimately a tribute to all the children of the Spanish Civil War who were sent to safety in exile in the Soviet Union, Belgium, the United Kingdom, France, Argentina, and Chile. They had to leave behind what they loved most—their parents—and, in many cases, they were exiled forever.
My hope is that Remember Me pays homage to the exiles of all wars—to those who have lost their homelands to the brutality of human violence.
Prologue
Madrid
June 20, 1975
My hands shook with the letter I had just received, postmarked from Mexico. The memories of the sad, exciting journey of my childhood returned to remind me that, at the end of the day, I belonged nowhere. I wiped my tears with my shirttail and studied the sender’s name: María Soledad de la Cruz. That girl had stolen my heart nearly forty years earlier. For a long time I had tried to convince myself I was a Spaniard, that my time in Mexico had been a kind of daydream. I had awoken from that dream as abruptly as the bombs had started falling over Madrid in the summer of 1937. I had gotten used to the black-and-white city Franco’s followers ran like military barracks for nearly forty years—so used to it all that the memories of life in Veracruz, Mexico City, and Morelia were no more than distant, imagined ghosts. They were Don Quixote’s loquacious deathbed visions after the entrance to his library had been sealed shut. I had spent t
he intervening years remaking my life, and I had a job I loved. I had inherited my father’s printing press. For so many of us, the civil war had taken health, property, and existence itself. For me, it had also ripped away the future.
I thought about María Soledad de la Cruz’s eyes, which still shone out bright from those eclipsed years. They were so black the light disappeared in her pupils but came back out through her thick lips in the first stolen kiss there in Cointzio.
I opened the envelope and read the short letter with a lump in my throat. Then I looked at the small black-and-white photo hidden in the mustard-yellow envelope. It was the same girl with black braids and pearls for teeth, the one who had taken up shop in my heart and who reminded me yet again that, being fully Spaniard and fully Mexican, I could lay claim to no homeland. I still could not forget it. It was my bounden duty to remember, like my mother told me that day in Bordeaux, the last day of my old life and the first of a journey I never could have imagined.
Part 1
Bombs All Around
Chapter 1
The Search
Madrid
November 14, 1934
For children, war feels like a game at first. They have no idea that behind the gunshots and uniforms, the marches and rallying songs, death clings like mud to shoes and leaves footprints of blood and flesh, forever marking the lives of whoever falls into its infernal clutch.
The Spanish Civil War began long before soldiers took up arms on July 17, 1936. At least it had begun for us, the children of poverty and misery.
First thing that morning, I heard someone beating on the door of our house in the La Latina neighborhood. We were still in bed: my two sisters and I, my parents, and the girl who watched us while my mother worked in the theater. Instinctively, my sisters and I ran to our parents’ room. Isabel, with her white cotton nightgown, trembled and shrieked as she clung to our mother. Ana sobbed in my arms while our father masked his fear behind a smile and told us nothing was wrong.
María Zapata, the girl who helped around the house, also started to cry as she followed my father like a scared puppy to the door. The rest of us hunkered down in the main bedroom, but when I heard the shouting and skirmish in the hallway, I left my little sister in our mother’s lap and headed for the door without a second thought. While not particularly brave, I wanted to help my father. I was still young enough that my dad was the invincible, mythic hero I longed to become. I stood trembling at the doorway of the small room we called the study, which was just a six-by-nine-foot room stuffed with books and papers. The walls were caving in and the shelves bowed, but to me that room was the hallowed halls of wisdom. However, right then it felt like the entrance to hell itself. Papers flew about as the gloved hands of the Social Brigade tore brightly colored spines from books yanked off the shelves. Nearly all the books were from Editorial Cervantes, a publishing house in Barcelona for which my father’s printing press sometimes did work. My father raised his hands in despair, each ripped spine and crumpled page falling like the lash of a whip on his back.
“We don’t have any banned books here!” My father’s strangled shout interrupted the chaos of military boots and police barking. The sergeant turned and punched him square in the mouth. Blood gushed from my father’s busted lip, and I, horrified, saw a terrified look on the face of the man I had always believed to be the bravest soul on earth.
“You piece of red trash! We know you’re one of the leaders of the printers’ union! On October fifth your people attacked the State Department, and you’re part of the Revolutionary Socialist Committee. Where are the books? We want the union’s papers and the names of everyone on the committee!”
The sergeant was shaking my father, who, in his silly striped pajamas, looked like a marionette in the man’s hands. I knew the books they were talking about were not in the study. A few days before I had helped my father hide them in the dovecote on the roof of our building.
“I’m an honest worker and loyal to the Republic,” my father answered, more calmly than I expected. His collar and the front part of his shirt were red with his blood, but his eyes had recovered the courage that always guided his steps.
Yet he doubled over when the sergeant punched him hard in the stomach. The officer shoved him, and the guards fell upon him with their nightsticks. My dad sank to the floor, screaming and flailing his arms like a drowning man grasping for oxygen at the bottom of the ocean.
“Boy, come here!” the sergeant barked at me, and for the first time, I looked him full in the face. He was like a rabid dog with spittle flying from his mouth. His thick, black mustache made him look even wilder. He grabbed my shirt and yanked me out of the study to the living room and threw me into a chair. I landed abruptly, and the man crouched down to get his face right in front of mine.
“Look, kid, your daddy is a red, a communist, an enemy of peace and order. If you tell us where the papers are, nothing bad will happen. But if you lie to us, you and your sisters will end up in the Sacred Heart Orphanage. Do you want them to shave your mother’s hair and lock her up in the prison of Ventas?”
“No, sir,” I answered. My voice shook, and I nearly wet myself from fright.
“Then come out with it before my patience runs out,” he spluttered, more foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.
“These are all the books my dad has. He’s a printer, you know . . . That’s why we have so many.”
The sergeant lifted me up by the folds of my shirt and shook me with violence. My feet flailed aimlessly in the air until he dropped me onto the floor. Then he turned and raged back to the study with great strides.
“Let’s go! We’re taking the adults with us!” he snarled.
“What do we do with the kids?” one of the guards asked.
“The orphanage. Let them rot with the lice and bedbugs.”
I ran to the door of the living room. One of the police officers was dragging my mother out of the bedroom, and I threw myself upon him, grabbed his neck, and bit one of his ears. Bellowing, the officer let go of my mother and tried to shake me off.
“Marco, please!” my mother yelled, terrified at seeing me on the police officer. The officer wrestled me off and threw me against the wall. He pulled out his nightstick and raised it to strike, but my mother grabbed his arm. “Please, he’s just a child. Don’t hurt him,” she begged through her tears.
The sergeant appeared in the hallway. Two of his men were hauling my father off. His face, nearly purple, was covered with blood, his eyes swollen. He groaned in pain. My little sisters ran to him, but the sergeant shoved them back. Moving forward with the rest of the group, he called out, “Grab the brat!” But before the other guards could reach for me, I opened the door to the hallway and tore down the stairs.
The last thing I heard as I raced away was the voice of one of the policemen and my mother’s screams as they flooded the entry stairway. Her voice swelled like thunder and lightning until it broke into muffled sobbing. Pain seared my chest as I raced down the street. I did not stop until I reached the Plaza Mayor, where the street cleaners were hosing off the cobblestones. I leaned against one of the columns in the plaza and wept bitterly.
The war started a long time before 1936. By then it was already coursing deep in the blood of the entire nation. That day I understood that people can be right and still lose, that courage is not enough to defeat evil, and that the strength of weapons destroys the soul of humanity.
Chapter 2
María Zapata
Madrid
November 14, 1934
I don’t remember how long I walked. I was cold, but I hadn’t even noticed I was wearing my pajamas and some old canvas shoes. I felt like I was in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. The scenes I had just witnessed at home repeated themselves endlessly before my eyes: my mother screaming, my sisters clinging to her nightgown and crying, my father’s lip split open, the blood dripping down his stubbled chin. I couldn’t shake from my mind the image of the policemen
with their nightsticks and the sergeant who threatened to take us to an orphanage. When I neared University City, I finally noticed where I was. It was my first time in the northwest corner of Madrid, but I had heard about the redbrick buildings and well-tended lawns. I raised my eyes and studied the snowcapped mountains in the distance. They seemed close enough to reach out and touch, yet somehow so far away, like the peace that had reigned in my home until that morning. I slumped down beneath a statue of a horse. My head dropped to the side, and I fell fast asleep.
I have no idea how much time passed like that before a female voice and a soft hand woke me. “What are you doing here? Are you all right? Are you lost?”
Just inches from my dirty, tearstained frame, a girl with green eyes and a lovely oval face was smiling. I had no idea how to respond. Of course I was not all right. I was terrified and half crazed, but at my age it wasn’t easy to express my feelings, much less explain them.
“Do you want me to walk you home?” she asked. “Where do you live?”
A group of girls was waiting for her a few yards away. A couple of them told her to come back and to leave me alone. “Sorry, I can’t just leave him here,” she called back to them. Her waist was barely covered by a short purple jacket, and her loose hair streamed around her face but could not hide her beauty. “I’m Rosa,” she said. “Rosa Chamorro. What’s your name?”
I looked up at her and started to cry. It felt like a cowardly thing to do, just like it was cowardly to run away and leave my family in the hands of the savage police, but I couldn’t help it. Tears are sometimes a child’s only option for relief. As we grow up, crying becomes taboo. We’re told not to show our weaknesses but, instead, to endure pain, loss, and sadness without letting tears wash through our hearts and clear away whatever is constricting our souls.
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