Remember Me

by Mario Escobar

  Once we calmed down, we lined up again. President Cárdenas was a big man with bright eyes and a commanding presence. He greeted each of us with a joke, a hug, or a handshake.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, shaking my hand when it was my turn. I was so nervous I hesitated a moment before answering.

  “Marco Alcalde, at your service. Viva the Republic!”

  “Very good, boy. You’re one of the oldest, so take care of these little ones for me. They’ve got to be strong and happy ’til they go home. The war will be over soon. Those fascists are complete cowards.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” I said, in disbelief that he actually spoke with me.

  “Call me Lázaro, like Jesus’s friend. The one he raised from the dead.” He ruffled my blond hair before moving on to the next child. He spoke to every one of us, giving candy to some or a hug to others, especially the ones who were crying. After that greeting, we knew we had a father in Mexico.

  We were seated at large tables with Mexican children according to our ages. The president and his wife presided over the event and spent their time calling Spaniard children over to them to talk to them or give them gifts.

  Manuel and I sat together, with two Mexican boys facing us. When they told us they were named Gaspar and Baltasar, we chuckled and asked what their names meant.

  “We’re brothers. Gaspar and Baltasar are two of the wise men.” Seeing our puzzled expressions, Gaspar, the older of the two, asked, “You don’t know who the wise men are?” He looked so much like his brother, with huge, dark eyes.

  “No, we’ve never heard of them,” Manuel said.

  “They’re the three kings who went to see Jesus and took him gifts when he was born. If you don’t know who the wise men are, then who brings you gifts at Christmastime in Spain?” Gaspar asked, confused.

  “Our parents. In my family, no king would dare bring us anything. We’re Republicans,” I explained, thinking that solved the matter.

  Baltasar was not satisfied with my explanation. “I never knew there were kids who didn’t know who the wise men are.”

  After the meal we were allowed to play for a while, and we learned that the Mexican children would be going with us to a place called Morelia. We had no idea where that was and, even if they’d told us, we wouldn’t have understood. Mexico was a completely foreign country to us.

  Ana came up and asked me to help her find a bathroom. We walked through endless hallways until we found one, and I waited for her outside. When she came out, her eyes looked weary and sad.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Nothing . . . just that every time I feel a little happy, I also feel guilty. I can’t feel happy while Mom and Dad are in so much danger. They’re still in Spain, and the war around them is dangerous,” she said.

  “They know how to take care of themselves, and I’m sure we’ll get news from them soon. Mom told me the government promised they could write us letters. Think of this like a really long vacation. The war will end soon, and then we’ll go back. Promise me that you’ll think of them often so as not to forget them. You’re still small, and at your age, memories fade away. I’ll help you always keep them present.”

  At that, Ana started crying again. “How could I forget them? They’re the people I love most in this world!”

  I put my hand on her shoulder, and we went back out to the schoolyard, where servants were clearing the tables. Manuel and I went up to the rooftop patio and looked out at the beautiful sunset over Mexico City. There was a slight chill in the air, and the rose-colored sky reminded us of Spain.

  “Did you think Mexico would be this pretty?” he asked.

  “To be honest, I hadn’t thought much about what it would be like. I’d still rather be in Madrid, even if they drop bombs on me all day long. People don’t want to leave their homeland. There’s something that connects us to where we’re from, and when we leave it behind, it rips out part of our heart. I’m always thinking of places like Cibeles Plaza, El Retiro Park, Casa de Campo, and Gran Vía. After all, they say Madrid is heaven . . .” I trailed off.

  “I’ve never been to Madrid,” Manuel said.

  “When all of this is over, you should come visit me. I’ll show you all around.”

  Manuel smiled at me, intuiting that such a day was a long way off. The world had gone mad. People were killing one another and dying for their ideals without a clue that the only worthwhile ideology is the one that makes all people brothers and sisters.

  The next day we’d board a train for Morelia. Who knew how far it would be, but we’d already come halfway across the world to get there.

  Part 3

  Morelia

  Chapter 19

  A Provincial Town

  Morelia

  June 10, 1937

  The next day, we went back to Colonia Station and boarded a very long train. We would spend the night in sleeping cars since we wouldn’t get to Morelia ’til the next day. Manuel and I were once again placed with Gaspar and Baltasar. As we pulled out of Mexico City, we were surprised to see the landscape was much drier, yet still mysterious and different from what we knew at home.

  Baltasar, the younger brother, asked us, “You want to go to the steam engine?” We nodded in response and started making our way through our train car, which was one of the last in the line. The monitors, teachers, and some nurses were in the caboose, though from time to time they made rounds to see if everything was all right. Most of the time we kids got to do pretty much whatever we wanted. We got to a freight car and then to the coal car, which was right next to the train’s engine. There, a man stood with his back to us. His clothes were black with soot. He turned when he heard our noises.

  “What are you doing here, boys? Passengers aren’t allowed up here.”

  “Gil, leave the kids alone,” said another man, who appeared to be the engineer. Gil was the fireman who fed the flames for the boiler.

  We went up to the engine, and the engineer smiled at us. He pulled the train’s whistle and showed us the controls. “We’re not going fast. They’ve asked me to go slow and careful with you kids. You’re like porcelain dolls for us,” he explained. We learned his name was Gilberto Arellano and, together with Gil Hobart, they were volunteering their services to support the children from Spain.

  “So what’s Spain like?” Gilberto asked. His question took us off guard. Truth was, we didn’t know. Manuel and I had hardly seen anything outside our respective cities, plus the route through France.

  “Well, it’s really different from here, but at the same time there’s a lot that’s the same. People are more serious, but everybody does get happier on holidays. The buildings are really old; it feels like the Romans must have built them forever ago. The poor people are really poor, and the rich people are really rich,” I struggled to say. I wasn’t very pleased with my description, but at that time I hadn’t yet learned that the idea of a country is much greater than the sum of its characteristics. At its core, a nation is an idea, a way of living that’s not easy to explain.

  “That’s the same way everywhere, kid. We’ve got a pretty good president right now, but the Spaniards left us a rotten heritage: poverty, inequality, hunger. Someday things will change. People have to live as brothers and sisters. That’s why we offered to drive this route for you all. Our skin or eye color might be a little different, but the same red blood runs through our veins.”

  We spent a couple hours there in the engine car, and Gilberto and Gil shared their lunch with us. Then we headed back to our wagon. Though it wasn’t late, we were all tired. The past few days had been so emotionally exhausting, we felt as if we’d been chopping wood or shoveling coal nonstop. The roller-coaster ride of experiences we’d been on for too long now had worn us down.

  By the time we woke up, we were already close to Morelia. The train station was much more modest than the one in Mexico City, but it seemed the whole town turned out to greet us. The
endless sea of humanity welcomed us with the same enthusiasm as the other crowds we’d come across in the Americas. Perhaps that’s why the place made such a deep impression on us: the contrast between what the crowd’s enthusiasm led us to expect—a palace or some spectacular dwelling full of luxurious furniture and comfortable rooms—and the much harsher reality of Morelia.

  The governor, Gildardo Magaña, gave a welcome speech before we marched up the main avenue amid cheering and confetti. The streets felt oddly familiar to us. Some of the kids from Andalusia were excited because apparently the place looked a lot like Seville, with little villas and pretty tiled patios. We later learned the city was originally named Valladolid after a city in Spain, but the name had been changed to honor a local distinguished citizen who was crucial in winning Mexico’s independence.

  The city’s leaders led us to two large buildings labeled The Spain–Mexico Industrial School. A spacious yard separated the buildings, which had served as a convent for nuns before the government refurbished it for us. The crowds stayed at the gate, and we children lined up in front of the director. From the outside, the buildings looked ominous, like prison cell blocks.

  “Dear children—our Spaniard and Mexican boys and girls: My name is Lamberto Moreno, and this is the Spain–Mexico School. Our beloved country has opened its arms to you with true Mexican hospitality, even to those who, it must be acknowledged, represent the cruel oppression of colonialism. We Mexicans endured the severity of the Spanish empire, but despite this tortured past, we align ourselves as brothers with your Republic and its cause for freedom. We Mexicans have always earned what we have with hard work and tenacity. No one ever gave us anything for free and, therefore, no one will give you anything for free here either. You’ll earn your bread with the sweat of your brow. We won’t tolerate indolence, laziness, or miscreant behavior. You must set an example for Morelia and for your Mexican classmates. A guest must know how to behave when in someone else’s home, and this is not your home. The girls will now go to that building and the boys to this one. You’ll go in military orderliness. Disobedience will be punished. Think of this place as military quarters and of yourselves as young soldiers. Now, off to your barracks! You’ve each been assigned a bed, articles for personal cleanliness, and food. You’ll have free time until lunch and will then help clean the rooms before supper. Classes will officially begin tomorrow.”

  Several of the children began to complain, especially the older boys. Manuel and I tried to stay out of it, but the director’s words grew more and more insulting: “You colonists are a bunch of ingrates! If I could I’d slice open my veins and expunge every drop of Spanish blood in my body. You’re an abominable race.”

  The older boys started throwing anything they could find at the director and the teachers. The younger ones began to scream, and it was total chaos. I was terrified of what a man like that—one who nursed such an obvious hatred for Spaniards—would do to us. Lamberto Moreno had truly shocked us. Everywhere else we’d been, the Mexican people’s deep love had been palpable through their warm embraces, cheers, and gifts. But this man was to be our leader, and he was treating us like prisoners.

  The older boys kept throwing things at the teachers, especially the boys from San Sebastián in Basque Country. They would turn out to be a bunch of thugs who tried to impose their own rules on the school and rarely showed up for classes or workshops. They would only make appearances at mealtime. And at that point the director, Moreno, just fixed a schedule to the doorway and made himself scarce.

  Still, we had no option but to obey, and boys began to drift toward our building. I waved goodbye to Ana and Isabel, distraught at having to leave them but helpless to do anything about it. The littlest kids were the worst off after the director’s brusque introduction to our new residence. They began begging and crying to go back home.

  Walking into our building felt like walking through the remains of a shipwreck. The walls were damp and peeling, the floors scratched and dirty, and the remains of rats lingered everywhere we looked. From the looks of things, we’d all be covered in fleas and bedbugs in no time.

  The second floor held long rooms with beds. At least the beds and the blankets looked new. Manuel and I picked out two along the aisle. We were leery of some of the boys we’d be sharing the dorm with, especially the ones who wasted no time in establishing themselves as bullies. Some of them I’d hardly seen since the boat ride, but they did their best to make our stay in Morelia unbearable.

  We all went downstairs on time for dinner. Despite the fights between boys and the exasperation of the teachers and the director, we could all agree that food was sacred. Manuel and I sat at a table as close to my sisters as we could and waited impatiently for whatever had been prepared for us.

  A few women came out of the kitchen and asked if we liked tortillas. We all answered a hearty affirmative. We hadn’t had our customary potato and onion Spanish tortilla since before the war, as potatoes and eggs were difficult to come by. The smiling women returned from the kitchen and put little baskets on the table, as well as bowls of beans, salsas, beef strips, and other things we’d never seen. When we opened the baskets and saw what looked like stacks of thin, round pieces of paper, we were puzzled. They were dry and tasteless.

  “Excuse me,” I asked one of the ladies serving us. “What are these?”

  “They’re tortillas,” she answered, looking at me in disbelief. She must have assumed I was playing a joke.

  “Tortillas? But where are the eggs and the potatoes?” I asked, turning the thing over in my hand. The grumbling all around the tables turned into a chant: “We want Spanish tortilla!”

  One of the cooks frowned. “Well, we don’t have anything like that.”

  Someone threw one of the flimsy things they called tortillas up in the air, and it landed on another kid’s face. Then we all started throwing them up and seeing how far they would go, spinning in the air. Our monitors were helpless to stop the chaos. “Stop it, Spaniards!” one of them yelled.

  Eventually we noticed that the Mexican kids with us, who were clearly from poor families and had probably never seen so much food at once, were quietly piling things onto the little round discs and shoving them down their throats. Some of us were hungry enough to follow their lead.

  Several of my classmates went to bed that night without having touched their supper. That didn’t stop them from wreaking havoc and throwing or breaking whatever they could find. After the euphoria of our arrival and the effusive welcome from the politicians and the Mexican people, we went to bed with the disquieting sense that things were not all right. It would not take us long to figure out that, in the end, we had been abandoned to fate.

  Chapter 20

  The Incident

  Morelia

  June 18, 1937

  That first night at the Spain–Mexico School was terrible. We could hear bats circling in the high ceilings and rats scurrying over the floors and under our beds. Some of the older kids were rough with the younger or weaker ones, but I made it to the next day unscathed. It wasn’t too cold, and we were so exhausted that sleep vanquished us without a fight despite our being in a new, eerie place.

  We eventually got used to the military routines of the school. The six o’clock bugle call announced it was time to wake. We dressed and marched in military formation down the lane to the girls’ building, where the dining hall was located. Then we went to class, where they called roll. Some of the kids skipped classes, but they were never punished. The teachers and monitors turned a blind eye to the offenses of some of the older boys.

  We had recess midmorning and then more classes before lunch. Not even the bullies skipped lunch, which annoyed the rest of us, especially the Mexican kids, who didn’t have the cheek that most of us had developed as a survival tactic during the war.

  All day long we navigated our lives in an effort to evade the bullies, whether by avoiding the spots where they typically hung out or traveling in groups to better d
efend ourselves. They would steal from and rough up anyone they could catch off guard. The director was indifferent to the point of seeming to enjoy the harm inflicted by the troublemakers.

  Thankfully, the assistant director turned out to be a kind person we could trust. Miguel Escalona Godínez was a former army major who treated us with respect and affection. We all called him Major Godínez.

  After lunch we went to the workshops in our building, and after a light dinner at six o’clock we had free time until nine.

  At first, we were hesitant to leave the school grounds, afraid of what we might find outside. But as the days went by, we grew more confident and started venturing out to explore the town. People received us warmly, though the first conflicts were not long in coming.

  Morelia’s citizens were not used to children like us. The folk songs we belted out were sprinkled with colorful language, and some of the rascals and troublemakers would steal anything they could get away with. But the worst was yet to come.

  That afternoon we went out like we’d been doing the last few days, and we headed down the main street, greeting people. Most of the townsfolk were generous and would give us coins or fruit as we passed by, which we would often exchange for food to make up for the meager, unappetizing fare at school. Adolescents never seem to get full, and we were always hungry.

  Manuel and I were walking by one of the churches when a group of the most troublesome Spaniard boys started singing obscene ditties to one of the priests on his way into the church. Offended, the man turned and rebuked the kids. “Is this how you were raised? Have you no shame?”

  “Don’t start with our parents, old geezer,” said the one we called Mr. Handsome because of how much time he spent in front of the mirror. He was one of the worst in our group.