The girl helped me up with her left hand. In her right, she carried a notebook and a pair of black gloves. Her friends went on, exasperated with her, and she and I walked a mile or so back toward central Madrid.
“I’ll get your trolley ticket, but you have to tell me where you live. Your parents are probably worried about you.”
The pain in my chest intensified at the mention of my parents, but I held myself together. In a voice raspy from crying, I told her I lived in La Latina neighborhood, near the San Ildefonso school.
She nodded. “I live . . . well, not close to there, but it’s not out of the way.”
We waited at the busy stop crawling with college students. In my neighborhood there were no college students. Laborers’ children learned a trade, and at twelve, thirteen, or fourteen we were apprenticed out to start helping support the family.
As I looked at the law textbook pressed against the girl’s notebook, someone approached. He wore a striped suit, like a gangster in the movies, with his hair greased back and a short little mustache that contrasted with his childish facial features.
“What are you doing with this rapscallion?” he asked, nodding to me. “I didn’t know you were babysitting vagabonds these days.”
“He’s not a vagabond. He’s a lost child.”
We got on the trolley, and the guy turned his nose up at me as if he were dealing with a pest. He positioned himself next to Rosa and continued, “He’ll be the son of some red, I just know it. The police are flushing out everyone who participated in the strike last month. These people are destroying Spain. They’re like rats. We’ve got to get rid of them before they become a plague.”
The girl pursed her lips. “It’s none of your business, Fernandito,” she said. Fernandito was one of her older brother’s friends. A diehard Falangist, he was repeating his first-year classes for the third time.
“Hey, but you’re my friend’s sister, and I’ve got to protect you from riffraff. It’s not a good idea for you to be traveling alone on the trolley. It’ll be dark before long, and Madrid is crawling with crooks and criminals.”
Rosa sniffed. “I can watch out for myself. I don’t need you to protect me from anything.”
Fernandito rolled his eyes. “Girls these days think they’re so independent. You can go to college and wear your little miniskirts, but things are about to change. This sacrilegious, atheistic Republic won’t last long,” he said, regurgitating what he had learned in meetings with José Antonio Primo de Rivera, a silver spoon Andalusian who tried to copy Benito Mussolini’s fascist ideas but had been upstaged by a certain Austrian named Adolf Hitler.
My father would tell me about all of these things after listening to the radio in the afternoons after work. I loved listening to him. Huddled up next to him on the rug, it was the only time in the day when we were alone together. Then he would stretch out in our one shabby recliner and motion for me to crawl up next to him. I loved resting my head on his chest and hearing his heartbeat while the radio played songs by Gardel, one of my dad’s favorites. My mother listened to the radio in the mornings, but she preferred Imperio Argentina.
Fernandito gave me a shove right as we rounded a curve, and I nearly fell out of the trolley.
“Leave him alone!” Rosa snapped.
A man in a worker’s uniform turned and pierced Fernandito with a cold stare. “This guy bothering you?” he asked Rosa.
Fernandito dropped his thuggish posture and skulked away to another part of the trolley.
The trolley reached Plaza de España and then kept going along Gran Vía to Plaza del Callao.
“I know my way from here,” I told the girl when the trolley paused in front of the Callao theater.
“Don’t worry. It’s still pretty early, so I can go with you.” We walked along Preciados Street, but she stopped in front of Café Varela. “Let’s go in and get a bite. I imagine you haven’t eaten all day.”
We went in, and the warmth brought me back to myself after all day on the cold street. People stared at us. No one failed to notice that a kid in dirty pajamas was spending time with a pretty college girl, though it was hard to say which stood out more in that provincial Madrid environment.
A waiter wearing a white jacket more decorated in braids than an army general’s greeted us ruefully, not wanting his other tables to be disturbed by our presence. Interest waned, however, and within a few minutes the restaurant’s customers had returned to their monotonous lives and I was eating a delicious, steaming steak sandwich.
“I take it you were hungry?” Rosa asked, bathing me in the angelic glow of her smile.
I nodded, my mouth full. “Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t mention it. Sometimes a chance meeting is a gift from heaven, if you know what I mean.”
I did not know what she meant. The only heaven my parents believed in was the one that could be “stormed.” I knew that phrase from the philosopher Karl Marx because my dad had used it once when the neighborhood priest upbraided him on his way home from work for not taking us to church.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” she said, “but I assume it was something terrible. Leaving your house in your nightclothes and wandering all that way . . .”
I wanted to trust her, but my father had told me we could never trust anyone outside our class. I still had not learned that sometimes children have to show the way when their parents get turned around.
“The police came and took my parents. They were looking for some papers because my father is a printer. I mean, he has a little workshop near the house. My mom is an actress. She works for the Jacinto Guerrero troupe.”
“I’ve never been to the theater,” Rosa said. “My father’s modern, but not that modern. He lets me go to the movies some Sundays, but doesn’t the playwright you’re talking about do musicals and revues?”
I nodded and wiped some of the steak grease off my chin. “I’ve been a lot. My mom takes us to the rehearsals and sometimes there are snacks. The actors are really picky, and there’s always chocolates and treats.”
Rosa took the napkin and cleaned off the rest of my face, then paid for the meal. It was even colder out on the street when we went back out, the day darkened by gray clouds that threatened snow.
“Brrrr!” she squealed. Then she opened her coat and used it to shelter us both as much as she could.
Before long we were at the entrance to the building where my family had lived until that morning. Few people were out in the streets, and I hesitated, unsure of what to do. The police had taken my parents and probably my sisters too.
“It’s been nice to meet you, but you still haven’t told me your name,” Rosa said.
“Marco Alcalde, at your service,” I answered, just as my mother had taught me.
She reached out her hand and shook mine, fragile and cold. “I hope things work out for you, Marco. I’m going to leave you with a quote. I memorize one every day, to help me learn how to live. People think that existence is just one big improvisation, but really it’s a rehearsal. The phrase is from the philosopher Jose Ortega y Gasset: Loyalty is the shortest path between two hearts.”
Rosa turned and walked back to Mayor Street, and I stared after her retreating figure. She had kept the pain and terror at bay and helped me do something other than obsess about what had happened that morning, but as I walked up the dark stairs, my mind replayed it all again. I was trembling as I reached the landing at our door, more from fear than from cold. With not even a whisper of hope, I knocked. I kept knocking, then pounded the door in desperation. Our apartment was my refuge—the thing that separated me from the savage world outside. Finally, I heard footsteps. Someone opened the peephole, but it was totally dark where I was on the landing.
“Who is it?” the nervous voice of María Zapata asked.
“It’s me!” I answered, surprised and also hopeful. Perhaps I was not wholly alone after all.
María timidly opened the door, as if she could
not actually believe it was me. She pulled me to her in a tight embrace and caressed my hair. “Oh, my boy, I was worried sick for you!” She brought me inside, heated water in a big pot for my bath, and gave me clean clothes.
“Have you eaten?” she asked. “The sergeant let me keep your sisters here, but they’re asleep. The poor dears have had a terrible time of it today. I didn’t take Isabel to school because I was too afraid. They’ve whimpered in bed all day, like the grief has gotten all balled up in their throats and can’t move an inch.”
That day I learned two lessons I will never forget: No matter how bad things get, someone is always willing to lend a hand; and sometimes you must lie to the villains. My teachers had always taught me that lies limp along for a short time while the truth takes long, confident strides. But I had to protect my family, the most important thing in the world to me. And my father had already warned me that the people in charge of keeping the peace were often the lackeys of the powerful.
Chapter 3
Victory
Madrid
July 18, 1936
I remember it was a Saturday. I didn’t usually keep track of the days of the week when we were off school and had nothing to do but laze about and play outside. A year and a half had passed since the terrifying morning when the sergeant hauled our parents away. For a full week my sisters and I hunkered down in fear with María Zapata, and then one day, with no forewarning, our parents appeared at the door. They had been released without explanation. Their bodies healed, and we slowly returned to our normal routines as a family, though we never forgot that violation of our peace.
I had turned thirteen a few weeks before that day in July 1936, and my parents faced the dilemma of wanting me to stay in school yet not having the funds to pay for it. They could perhaps ask for help from the party, as it was always in need of lawyers and other professionals, or perhaps I could be apprenticed to Dad’s workshop once summer was over. My mother wanted me to continue my studies. She was as committed to the party as my father, but she was unwilling to reject her troupe director’s offer to pay for my first semester of high school. Mom always said that pride was a luxury poor people couldn’t afford. On the other hand, my father surveyed my sisters’ worn-out shoes and the scant food he managed to bring home and preferred to set me up at the printing press so I could learn a trade or to take me to work sites to learn construction, which earned decent wages.
The heat was unbearable that summer in Madrid. The trolleys sped along Mayor Street, and people meandered, trying to stay out of the sun in the hottest hours of the day. There was a war going on, but no one seemed too concerned, perhaps because bloody party infighting had been happening for so long. On July 14 the funeral of the leader of the extreme right, José Calvo Sotelo, had been held, and tensions were as high as the summer temperatures.
Just a few weeks before, the city had smelled of winter’s hot chocolate and churros. Now the aromas of frying lamb intestines—our beloved gallinejas and entresijos—and of Spanish tortillas and freshly sliced hams filled the streets. Older men sat and lingered over conversation at their customary cafés. They rambled about a little girl who had been run over the day before; the actress Tina de Jarque, star of the Teatro de la Zarzuela, and her fine pair of legs; and the murder of “Pepe el de los perros,” a young man found dead on the road between Húmera and Pozuelo. Pious women gathered at the doors of the church of Jesús de Medinaceli to ask for three wishes. There were no strikes in the city that day, which was noteworthy given how often anyone and everyone—from woodworkers to government clerks to elevator operators—marched and went on strike in recent months over the slightest provocation. By the afternoon, rumors were spreading that a military uprising had occurred in Ceuta or Melilla, but this news was far away, no cause for concern.
That night as we sat down to supper, someone knocked at the door and shouted, “Francisco, the workers are taking up arms! The prime minister has resigned. The Civil Guard is loyal to the Republic, but the governor is afraid the military will attack the capital tonight.”
My father was wearing breezy pants and a sleeveless shirt, so he went to the bedroom for his short-sleeved shirt and hat. Then he took his pipe from the shelf and kissed my mother on the forehead.
“Francisco, please be careful,” my mother pleaded. I could see she was trembling, despite the heat.
“Don’t worry, darling. This’ll be over after maybe four gunshots. There’s nothing more cowardly in this world than a fascist.”
Before my father realized it, I was following him down the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re going, little shrimp?” my father’s friend asked, gently pulling me back by my collar.
“I want to go with you. I’m practically grown now.”
“And you think killing a man is a game?”
“We’re not going to kill anybody,” my father interrupted, sliding his arm around my back. “Don’t you remember what happened in Africa? Those cowards at the military base are all full of talk about the fatherland and honor, but they’re a bunch of traitors. Besides, Marco is thirteen years old now, almost a man. He should see with his own eyes how the fascists are gift wrapping the revolution for us that we’ve been awaiting for so long. They’ve choked at the ballot box and know we’re for real this time. We won’t let them steal our liberty again.”
The three of us headed for Monteleón Station, where some activists with the National Work Confederation passed out guns and greeted workers with raised fists. Excitement sparked in the air even though it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. With the guns, we headed to Luna Street, where most of the union headquarters were located. I was surprised to see a boisterous multitude coming down the street with arms raised high, begging loudly for weapons.
“Let’s head to party headquarters at the Segovia Bridge. They’ll know what to do there. These anarchists are incapable of organizing things,” said my dad’s friend.
We spent most of the night walking through the city, which seemed to be one big street party. Sunday dawned as we made our way down Segovia Street into the socialist sector. People were running this way and that, and the general jubilance seemed to celebrate the military uprising rather than fear it.
“Where’s Largo Caballero?” said my father to a girl who held an armful of folders and documents.
“In a meeting,” she answered, not pausing.
My father had known Largo Caballero since they were kids, when they lived near each other in Madrid’s Chamberí neighborhood. Father walked into the meeting room without knocking, and we followed. Half a dozen men were deep in discussion around a table.
“Mr. Alcalde, come in; don’t be so calm about it,” Largo Caballero goaded. Then, lifting his fist into the air, he said, “Comrades!” to which everyone responded in kind. “The fascists have opened up the doors of paradise for us. We failed in ’34, but this time no one will stop us. We’ll flush the cowards out of government and get someone with guts. It’s time for the brave to step forward,” he continued.
I did not understand why everyone was so happy, but their optimism was contagious. People were hugging and singing, speaking of how they would create a new world, a world without classes or injustice, a world where all men were equal and those who did not want to be part of it would meet death.
Chapter 4
The Montaña Barracks
Madrid
July 19, 1936
I eventually fell asleep on a bench. Someone threw a blanket over me, and before it was even light outside, my father was shaking me awake. I looked at him blankly, trying to remember where I was and what had happened during that strange night.
“Go back home and let Mom know I’m all right.”
“Where are you going, Dad?”
“To the Montaña Barracks,” he said. There were circles under his blue eyes.
“But Mom, she—”
“Women have the gift of creating life, which is why they always protect and care for it
as the most sacred thing that exists in this world. War is for men. We must destroy the world to build a new one. Do you understand? It’s either them or us. There are only two realities: the one that wants to impose fascism, or the socialist paradise. Now, head back home.”
I left him and was surprised to find the trolleys running at that hour. I hopped on the first one that arrived, and it was obvious that the city had stayed up all night. People walked along the streets in near hypnosis. On one side were the workers in armed groups and on the other, the remaining inhabitants who didn’t have to work since it was Sunday. People meandered along the streets and parks, and all the cafés were open because it was too monumental a moment for normal business hours. The city seemed to be split between those who felt the war to be a grand adventure and everyone else, as impassive as always and heedless that everything was about to change. On my way home, I passed a few trucks dragging cannons toward the Montaña Barracks, as well as groups of civil guards running toward the improvised front.
My mother was waiting for me though the rest of the house slept peacefully. When she saw me, she burst into tears and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. “Oh, thank goodness nothing happened to you. I waited up all night, listening to the radio. Things have gotten ugly. The military has won in Seville, Zaragoza, and other posts, so this is more than a coup d’état.” She led me into the kitchen and started fixing me some breakfast. “But where is your father?”
“They’re surrounding the Montaña Barracks.”
My poor mother covered her face with her hands. Yet she maintained control of herself and managed to warm the milk and pour some into the coffee she handed me. Then she sat beside me. “Men think they can change the world with bullets, but the only thing that can transform our planet is tenderness. If children were left with their mothers when they start to really discover life, we’d teach them that the only way to be brothers and sisters is to soak in tenderness. Hatred has never changed anything. The cemeteries are full of hatred and greed. Humanity’s real problem is in our hearts. Do you understand me, Marco?”
Remember Me Page 2
