Through a small window we watched as the soldiers doused the books with gasoline and then threw a match on the pile. The paper caught fire easily, and the room lit up with a whoosh. The colonel’s gaze was far away, as if entranced by the spectacle.
“Marco and his sisters are the children of a union man in Madrid. Their mother brought them here to keep them safe from the bombing,” Óscar said.
My blood froze at this. I grabbed Ana’s hand, and we ran across the fields in the dark. We fell often but were soon home. My grandparents had been terrified during our absence and were relieved yet more frightened still to see us bruised and covered in mud. We told them what had happened, and Grandpa prepared his wagon. He loaded our cardboard suitcases, and we went out to the road trembling with cold and fear. Grandma waved to us from the door. She couldn’t leave the animals to their fate, knowing the fascist soldiers would rob everything they could eat.
Watchfully, Grandpa steered the wagon through the streets before heading down the road toward Rivas. The journey would take all night, but we needed to reach the other side of the front before the colonel’s men found us.
My sisters fell asleep in the back part of the wagon, curled up among the blankets. The night sky and the gray clouds foreboded impending snow. Amid the quiet, my grandfather cleared his throat and spoke.
“I never could understand your mother. I was so angry when she went to Madrid. This town was too small for her, and she dreamed of being an actress. For people like me, the city is dangerous, even more so for one’s only daughter, but you can’t hold back such water—it’ll just flow right over the dam. Your mother always did whatever she pleased. She was like a wild mare, though I have to admit she has raised some very brave children. I don’t know how this war will end, but the poor people—we’ve already lost. What the soldiers don’t steal, their masters will, and whatever we manage to hide away will soon be smoke and ashes.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, gazing instead at the beautiful sky and the road lit dimly by the moon peeking through the clouds.
“Thank you for taking us to Rivas,” I answered. My grandfather and I hadn’t spoken much in the few months my sisters and I had been living in his house. It seemed like everything had already been said and there was nothing more to add.
“I’m not afraid of dying. Maybe I’m short on brains, which your father has in abundance, but I just don’t want anything to happen to you three. By God, that’s the last thing I want. You kids are the new shoots that the olive tree sends out before dying. If you graft those shoots onto a young tree, they’ll be the most productive. The branches are young, but the sap is old. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” I said, though I did not fully grasp what he meant.
“What I mean is that you’re carrying my blood in your veins, the blood of all your ancestors, rough peasants from Castilla la Nueva. It doesn’t matter where you live or what you do because that blood will be passed on to your children. We can’t break the chain. If even one link is missing, the whole thing’s no good.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.
“So take care of your sisters. I don’t know what’ll happen to us adults, but I don’t think they’ll dare touch you children, though in a civil war one can never know. Hatred grows like a weed, and it’s not easy to destroy.”
We were halfway through our journey when we saw a light moving ahead on the road.
“It’s a surveillance point. Let me do the talking,” Grandpa said with the composure of age.
Three legionnaires stopped us, and my grandfather pulled on the mule’s reins.
“Where are you going in the middle of the night?” the corporal asked. “Can’t you tell it’s about to snow? The reds are just a couple miles up the road.”
“Blasted reds!” my grandfather growled.
“Yes, they’re like ticks,” the corporal said.
“I’m taking the kids to their mother. They came to visit last Sunday, but it’s time for them to be getting back to school.” His voice was calm, as if he did this every week.
“School? We’re on the front lines here. You’d better head back home.”
“If I go back to the farm, my wife will have my head.”
“So you prefer death by reds than at your wife’s hand?” the corporal joked.
“I’ve got a few chorizos in the back I was going to take to my daughter, but I could leave you one or two. I’m sure the night shift gets long.”
“That’s an understatement. We haven’t eaten all day! This war will be won by the ones who don’t die of hunger first.” The corporal walked around and took two chorizos out of the back of the wagon, holding them high like a trophy. He turned back to my grandfather and said, “You’ve got two little angels back there. Be careful. You’ll hear a lot of gunshots along this road.”
“Thank you. I’ll be very careful,” Grandpa said, flicking the reins gently.
“If you come across any other guards, tell them Corporal Marchena has let you pass. They won’t bother you after that.”
As we moved through the control point, my grandfather nodded his thanks and the corporal called out, “Godspeed!”
We reached Rivas by early morning. There were soldiers from the International Brigades along the outskirts, some from Italy but most from the United States. After a quick search of the wagon, they let us pass. We stopped at one of the town’s wineries, and Grandpa served us some slices of sausage as we waited for our mother.
Just as the sun appeared on the horizon, we heard the sound of a car motor. Looking up, we saw a green Renault convertible. A soldier and an officer we didn’t recognize at first were in the front, and a woman sat in the back.
My sisters ran up to the car. Our mother got out and hugged the girls as if she never wanted to let go. I walked slowly, feeling a heavy weight lift off me. Perhaps I could be a kid again, dwelling in my own imaginary world.
The officer stood in front of me, and when he took off his hat, I recognized my father. He smiled and swooped me up in a hug, and I let myself cry. It was all I could do after the terrible months and all the fear we’d felt. Finally, I could go home.
The girls let Mom go so she could come to me. She kissed me over and over until I started to laugh, the first time I’d laughed in a very long time.
“Look at my big boy,” she said, her huge eyes and beautiful smile lighting up. I understood then that a boy never stops being a young child to his mother.
“Mom!” I said, the joy of the entire world held in that one syllable. I’d heard people say that when grown men are dying, the only one they call for is their mother, as if returning to the womb they left in the beginning.
“I’ll never let you go away again!” she promised that winter morning.
But before summer, we would flee the war once more. No one ever manages to fully escape war. War stays forever in the hearts of those who have looked it straight in the eye and walked away unscathed.
We piled into the car full of joy. My sisters rattled nonstop about everything that had happened since we’d last seen our parents, and Dad stroked my hair and sang a song that spread out across the plains of Castilla la Nueva like snow covering fields destined for blood.
Chapter 9
The Road to France
Madrid
May 19, 1937
Within months war had taken deep root, and we all had given up hope that it would end soon. The bombings decreased somewhat, in part thanks to the Soviet planes, and after the failure of the Battle of Jarama, the fascists turned away from Madrid to concentrate on the northern front. Food supplies kept arriving from Valencia, the only route still open, but they grew scarcer and lower in quality with each passing day. Some British Quakers in the city ran soup kitchens, which offered us a reduced diet of beans, black bread, and watery soup. I was hungry all the time, from the moment I woke up until I went to sleep at night. I even dreamed about food. My sisters mopped up the very last drop of their soup and scarfed down p
otato peels.
We hardly dared to imagine anymore the world that was promised to us every day on the huge signs around the city or on the radio. We kept going to school, though the children attended infrequently because of air raids or our parents’ fear that rumors about Madrid’s imminent invasion were true. The dream that one day the children of workers could be treated with dignity and become whatever we wanted in life was turning into a nightmare. Party infighting and the little power that the communist party had begun to gain left no room for doubt that, even if we managed to win the war, we had already lost peace.
Despite the grim signs of the time and the extreme needs, we were happy to be back with our parents. We felt like we could endure anything as long as we were together. Because of my parents, their hope for the future, and their faith in us, I did dare to dream a little. Smiling, I always told them, “I have a dream, which is to keep dreaming. I want to dream of justice, liberty, and peace.”
And they always answered the same way: “Being a dreamer is better than being a cynic.”
One morning in May, my mother surprised us with some news that would do away with all my dreams in one fell swoop. “While you were asleep,” she said, “I packed your suitcases. It’s been very hard to make this decision, but we think it’s best for everyone.”
My sisters and I looked at her in surprise. She held our clothes in her arms, along with some extra warm items. That year spring was late in coming, and it was still quite cold.
“But, Mom, where are we going?” Isabel asked. She had just woken up and already started to cry.
“The war is going very poorly, and we don’t know how long it will last. So it’s better for you three to leave. A lot of families are sending their children to France or Russia, but with the way things are going in Europe, we think it’s better for you to go to Mexico.” She worked to make her voice sound calm and chipper, but her eyes said something else.
“Mexico? Where’s that?” Ana asked.
“In the Americas, dummy,” Isabel answered.
“But then that means it’s really far,” Ana said, wiping her eyes.
My mother hugged them both and held her arms out for me to join.
“It won’t be for long. If things get much worse here, your father and I will try to join you. And if we win the war, we’ll bring you back home.”
“Mom, what will we do in Mexico?” I asked.
“The president, Lázaro Cárdenas, and his wife, Amalia, are preparing a place for you. There’s a committee in charge of helping refugee children from the Republic. We have to get you to Valencia before the others leave.”
“The others? Other kids are going too?” I asked in dismay. For a moment I had thought my sisters and I were going to live at the president’s house.
“Yes. I don’t know how many, but more than two hundred. I don’t know, maybe even five hundred.”
My sisters looked at each other, frightened, surely wondering where so many children could possibly go.
“Come on now; let’s get you dressed. Your father is waiting for us in a car, and our friend will drive us to Valencia. It’s a dangerous journey, but we will get through it.” She wiped tears from her eyes.
“Are you coming with us?” Ana asked.
“Your father can’t, but I’ll go with you to Valencia. The rest of the journey you’ll have comrades and supervisors looking after you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. You’ll get to ride on a big boat—like an adventure.”
Ana let herself get a little excited. “We’ve never seen the ocean,” she said.
Isabel held out. “A boat? What happens if we get seasick or if we sink?”
“Come, come! We don’t have time for all this. I’m sure everything will be fine. As soon as you get there, you must write to me. We’ll stay in touch, and you’ll be taken care of there. They speak Spanish there, and they’re revolutionaries like we are.”
Her words didn’t cheer us up much, but we had no option but to obey.
Mom prepared breakfast, and as my sisters ate, she pulled me aside. “I need you to take care of them. You took such good care of them when you were at your grandparents’, but it’s going to be harder this time. You have a long trip ahead of you, and Mexico is a foreign country.”
“I’ll look out for them,” I answered, not taking my eyes off my sisters sitting around the table. “Please don’t worry.”
At age twelve, Isabel had the hints of being a woman, but she was shy and easily frightened. Ana, on the other hand, was restless and mischievous, but too little to understand what was happening around us.
We took our time carrying the suitcases to the car, trying to prolong the inevitable. As we moved down the stairs, I studied the peeling walls, the splintered wood floor, and the dust that covered everything. To me our home was the most beautiful place in the world, and I still recall it with a stab of nostalgia. The place we were born and were once happy always remains magic and irreplaceable in our minds. I knew it was normal to feel this way. Even so, the more a boy becomes an adult, the more he understands that the world is difficult and complex, a dangerous place where survival isn’t simple. But feeling let down by the world can’t be everything. Hope must remain infinite. It doesn’t help to throw oneself over the cliff of desperation. After all, existence always finds a way forward.
Outside my father was talking with another militiaman. Both were smoking and looking up at the windows as if they expected us to fall out of the sky at any moment.
Dad hurried us when we got to the car. “Let’s go, kids! The roads get more dangerous at night.”
First he kissed my sisters and spoke with each for a few minutes. He seemed calm; perhaps the war had toughened up his sensitive spots some. The only way to survive the suffering was to form a shield and not let anything through, though this also produced terrible discomfort and a kind of anesthesia and meaninglessness that seemed to invade all the adults.
“Son, take care of your sisters. Don’t forget that if you don’t have something worth dying for, your life’s not worth living. Your only homeland is your family now; they’re your most important responsibility. Will you give me your word of honor that you’ll defend them with your life if you must?”
“Of course, Dad. No harm will come to them.”
“I know you’re afraid. It’s a long journey, full of danger, but don’t forget that we have to build a dam of courage to hold back the floods of fear. The world is an inhospitable place, and you’ll be foreigners in Mexico. But it’s safer than here in Madrid.”
We hugged, and I could feel his tears on my cheeks. I had never seen him cry before, but that morning our impending separation shook him to the core.
As my sisters climbed into the back of the car, my father and mother kissed goodbye. Hugging her, Dad said, “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”
“The right thing is to keep them safe. Fascism might be defeated in Spain, but it’ll take the upper hand in Europe. We’ve got to get them away from here,” she answered. She could afford to be calmer, knowing she still had some time left with us.
“You must hurry. The boat is leaving in just a few hours for Barcelona, and then you’ll take a train from the França Station. The organizers won’t wait for anyone.”
“We’ll get there in time,” she answered, settling between the girls.
I sat up front. I’d never sat in the passenger’s seat before, and for a few seconds the excitement of something new overpowered the pain of what was happening.
As the car pulled away, I looked at my dad in the rearview mirror. I could see him waving the whole time until he was nothing more than a speck of dust behind us. Then the street where we’d grown up and which had been our whole universe disappeared as well. We made our way slowly along the streets with cobblestones uprooted by bombs, headed toward Atocha Station. The car turned right, and just over a half hour later we were in the outskirts of the city, traveling through olive, pine, and oak groves where there were no longer any
livestock. We passed through three control points before fully leaving Madrid behind. The trip was unbearable to me. It wasn’t the same as going to live with my grandparents or leaving town to spend a day in the country. I knew I’d never return to my beloved city because, even if fate allowed me to come back and even if the same old buildings and beautiful stone streets were still intact, I’d never be the same person again.
“You all right, young man?” the driver asked. Until then, I hadn’t paid him any attention. He was much younger than my father but was old enough to have been around the block a few times.
“I think so.”
“I’d love to skip off to Mexico and leave all this behind. War, hunger, and death aren’t exactly what we were promised. They say they’re building a better world, but I can promise you one thing: War isn’t the best brush for painting a future of peace. Before the fascist coup, I worked in a bookbinding factory, which is how I know your dad. I didn’t make much, but I could go dancing on the weekends, enjoy a good meal at a restaurant, and take a pretty girl out for a stroll along Alcalá Street. It wasn’t much, but it sure was enough.” He whistled to make his point.
I looked at him with curiosity. My father, too, appreciated a simple, unpretentious life, but he also understood that it was a trick of the oppressors who never wanted those below them to aspire for what the powerful worked so hard to preserve.
Slightly peeved, I answered, “Life was no bed of roses before. The capital had us all on our knees, and we had no hope for change. My dad always says that if we bend over, someone will always clobber us. If we bend over, we’ll never be able to stand up again. And if they win, there’ll be no future for anybody.” I was annoyed because most people were starting to lose the war in their hearts.
The driver kept his eyes looking straight ahead, seemingly miffed by my impudence. “You don’t know what you’re talking about yet. Most people just want a quiet life and a future in peace. This war isn’t going to bring either of those things.”
Remember Me Page 6
