We live in Morelia, which is a small inland city. It’s a calm little town. The people are kind and treat us well, though we’ve had a few run-ins with the Catholics. They don’t like our revolutionary songs and can’t understand why we don’t go to Mass.
Here at the school, boys and girls are in separate groups, and some Mexican kids from poor families attend the school too. Every day we have classes, and in the afternoon we have workshops to learn a trade. Dad, I’m in the printing workshop, so I can help you at the printing press when we get back to Spain. Isabel and Ana are in the sewing workshop, so you might receive some sewn presents when we see you next!
We miss you terribly, and we love you so much. It’s really sad that we needed an ocean between us to figure out that you two are what’s most important in our life. You brought us into the world, and your love and affection have made us full human beings. There’s so much we miss, but what we really long for are your hugs and kisses.
I’d give anything to see you again, to sit at your feet and listen to the family stories you always like to tell. I remember your smiles, and—I don’t know why—but I picture you dancing at Verbena de la Paloma. Dad always gets that happy look on his face when words can’t express how content he is. And you, Mom, are smiling in a way that could calm the worst hurricane—something we know a little about now, but that’s another story!
The hardest part about being separated is knowing that each day away from you is a day lost. We hope to be with you again. That will be the happiest day of our lives. We miss you so much.
Sending you big kisses and long hugs,
Your son who loves you forever,
Marco Alcalde
When I looked up, Isabel was cradling Ana in her lap, and their tear-filled eyes reminded me of the blue skies of Madrid. I missed my country. But what I really missed was my mother calling us to breakfast before school, my father’s smoker’s cough, our family suppers, my grandmother’s cooking, the flowers my mother would put in a vase in the living room in springtime, the cold, the heat, and the streets of my home city.
“Come on,” I encouraged them. “Let’s finish your letters too.”
Isabel got to writing, and I helped Ana with her message. Then we sealed the letters in their envelopes, and I walked back to my building. Later that day I took them to the director’s office and left them on the table. I was about to leave when I heard a voice behind me.
“Marco. Your name is Marco, right?”
“Yes, sir, Director.”
“I hope you are honorably fulfilling the duties entrusted to you. I’ve been watching you, and I see you have natural leadership gifts. That’s a good thing, but don’t stray from the path. I’ll have my eye on you. I’m the only one you need to obey, so if you don’t question my authority, everything will be fine. The war in Spain seems to be at a standstill. You won’t be going home anytime soon, so just follow the rules and enjoy your stay in Mexico as best you can.”
“Yes, sir, Director.”
Reyes Pérez wasn’t a bad man, but he had a different way of understanding the world than I did. For him, life needed to be controlled down to the smallest detail. People had to obey and not ask questions. The world he believed in was a military barracks, one in which everything had a time and place. He dreamed of a golden prison to show the world what he could do with his undisciplined, rebellious Spaniards. He never comprehended our pain, never tried to see what life was like from our perspective—so he never really understood us. I came to understand that this man had a mission: return the children left in his care back to Spain, no matter what happened in the meantime.
Chapter 23
Family
Morelia
March 20, 1938
One free afternoon, my friends and I went walking around the town with my sisters. We needed to escape school for a bit, get out of the environment of increasing pressure. We’d never felt at home on campus, but since Reyes Pérez arrived, the military order he’d imposed felt unbearable.
Every time we would wander around town, we would run into a kind, older couple who greeted us warmly. Their names were Octavio and Soledad Ponce.
“Hello, children. How are you today?” Mr. Ponce asked us when we saw them.
Manuel greeted them in return. He had adapted better than I had to life in Mexico, and it was evident even in the slightly Mexican accent he had acquired. I was grateful this country had received me, but I was counting down the days to get out and return to my family. I never doubted I’d be going back home. It was different for Manuel.
“We’ve got some treats for you,” Mrs. Ponce said, beckoning us back to their house. It was small and sparse, but they always had something for the children from the school.
“How are your parents?” Mr. Ponce asked Gaspar and Baltasar.
“Doing well, thank the Lord. We’re hoping to get to see them this summer,” Gaspar answered. Unless they were orphans, the Mexican students went home for holidays and often received letters.
We all sat around their small round table, and Mr. Ponce poured lemonade. “Surely these dear little ladies will want something to drink?”
Isabel and Ana glanced at me for approval before drinking. They didn’t want to seem rude, but sweets and lemonade were an outrageous delicacy compared to what we were used to eating at school. When I nodded, they drank gratefully.
Our clothes were in bad shape and no longer fit. Since we’d arrived, we’d only been given a shirt and a pair of pants. Our shoes were worn-out, and our feet got wet when it rained.
“Why don’t they buy clothes for you?” Mrs. Ponce asked. “I’m sure President Cárdenas is unaware of all this.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” I answered. “I’m sure the president trusts the people in charge of our care, but the money intended for the school is winding up in someone’s pocket, not to mention the proceeds from everything we make in workshop.”
“No good, no good,” Mrs. Ponce muttered with a tsk.
“Do you know how the war’s going in Spain?” I asked Mr. Ponce. He was our best source of news, informed by what he heard on the radio or in the cantina.
“The Francoists are advancing through Aragon.”
“Aragon?!” I exclaimed. If they took over Aragon, Catalonia would be next to fall.
“Is that bad?” Ana asked. She was growing like a weed, and as the days went by, she seemed to remember less and less of our parents.
“Yes, the Republic is constantly losing ground,” Isabel explained in a huff, furious at having to stay longer in Mexico.
We finished eating our snack and then said goodbye to our kind hosts.
“I’ll have something else for you in a few days,” Mrs. Ponce said. “You’re too skinny, the whole lot of you.”
We hugged her, and she held us tight, trying to press love into us amid our desert of affection. Simple touch was one of the things we missed the most. I tried to be affectionate with Isabel and Ana, but we hardly saw one another during the day. Mealtimes and the occasional free afternoon were our only chances to be together. My sisters were still close, which was fortunate, but I felt more and more left behind.
One thing I noticed about Morelia was that people kept their distance from one another. Sometimes when we played soccer and someone scored a goal, we would hug in celebration—but otherwise, the Spaniard students would go weeks without any physical touch. This lack only aggravated our loneliness and sadness.
Orphanhood is the worst kind of separation. Parents use hugs and expressions of affection to make their children feel as if they belong somewhere. Knowing you’re loved helps you feel like you matter. But in Morelia, we went without such family connection—and friendships with classmates could not replace it.
After our snack with the Ponces, we dragged our feet all the way back to school, having no reason to hurry back. But then we saw a commotion in front of the boys’ building and ran toward it. A man was shouting out names and delivering letters to our classmates
.
“Letters from Spain!” Ana shrieked, jumping up and down.
We threw ourselves into the crowd and waited with desperation for our names to be called. When kids received letters, they would go off by themselves to read them in private. As we waited, the group slowly dwindled.
Minutes later, Manuel’s name was called. My friend ran up to the mailman, grabbed the letter, and pressed it against his chest in excitement.
“Lucky duck!” I said, truly happy for him, but discouraged that neither my sisters nor I had been called.
Finally, the mailman announced, “Marco, Isabel, and Ana Alcalde!”
Ana took the letter, and we huddled up near the stairs.
“Who should open it?” Ana asked, holding the precious envelope out.
“You do it, go ahead,” Isabel snapped, clearly trying to hold back tears.
Ana opened the envelope carefully, took out several sheets of paper folded up together, and started reading aloud. She stumbled over the words so much that eventually Isabel snatched the papers and started to read.
Madrid
February 15, 1938
Dear children,
Receiving your letters has restored the joy I lost that sad day in Bordeaux. Since then I haven’t laughed, enjoyed life, or even had one peaceful day. When a mother goes away from her children, a hot iron jabs into her stomach and turns her inside out, and her heart nearly stops.
We’re still living in our same building. Thankfully it’s managed to escape the bombs. I’m not going to lie to you: Things in Madrid are a little worse each day. That’s why, in my heart, I really believe it’s better for you three to be in Mexico. I will never be able to thank those people enough for receiving you. It’s quite a challenge to find anything to eat here, and the winter is just merciless. We can’t heat our homes, and we head out at dawn every day for the shelters.
Many have fled the city. Franco’s troops are eager to destroy the capital, but for some reason we can’t understand, they aren’t attacking yet.
I’ve begged your father to let us go to Valencia, but he doesn’t want to abandon his comrades. He’s not at the Prado Museum anymore. Now he’s a guard at one of the political prisons. He comes home with atrocious stories every day, but at least he’s trying to do good in the midst of so much evil and horror.
I’m so relieved you made it to Mexico safely. It must be so pretty there, though I bet you miss things here at home as well. Especially our food—our green beans and potato tortillas—but I assure you that the food in Mexico is better! We have not seen fresh vegetables or tortillas in such a long time. The best we can hope for is a bit of rice, lentils full of weevils, and old potatoes.
The war isn’t going well, but it must end someday. Then we’ll all be together again.
Now I truly do know that happiness is being together, no matter what we’ve got or what we do. Happiness is about seeing each other’s faces, being able to hug and kiss each other. For me, that’s the only real source of joy and peace.
I love the three of you with all my heart. This separation feels like it’s killing me, but I know it’s better for you to be away from the war and the hunger. I don’t know what’ll be left of Spain after the war, but my heart trembles at all the suffering and pain.
Your father sends oodles of hugs and kisses. You should’ve seen his face as he pored over your letters! He was like a boy with a new toy on Christmas. Those eyes of his that have seen so much pain were overflowing with hope again.
It grieves me that you three have had to learn at such a young age how cruel the world is. Sometimes parents don’t know if our job is to prepare our kids to face the world or to protect them from it. I guess at the core it’s both at once, but right now I feel like I cannot do either.
Little Ana, my princess, I love you beyond words. I know you’re growing up to be a beautiful young lady. I can’t cradle you in my arms anymore, but you’ll always have a place under my wings. I love you, my child.
My Isabelita, the sweet child who’s becoming a woman. There are so many things I wish I could explain to you before you have to discover them on your own. Becoming a woman means moving on from the child you used to be and grieving the golden-haired little beauty with braids you once were, always smiling and happy. Growing up involves heartache, but when you become a woman, you’ll know that we have a gift men can’t even fathom, a tenderness that makes us invincible, an unconditional love for those who come from within us. A mother’s soul is divided up into different bodies, and a mother’s sons and daughters forever remain her babies. Teach your sister the things I haven’t been able to show you. I love you, my darling.
My dear son, what can I say to you? You’re the son every mother dreams of. You’re good, attentive, helpful, and obedient. You possess a huge, noble heart, and you’ll always be my boy. You’re the one who inaugurated me into the club of motherhood and helped me understand that nothing is greater in this world than the gift of life. Live worthy of the legacy your father and I have left you. Be honorable and good, even though you’re surrounded by evil and greed in this world. Take care of your sisters and give them the love that I can’t. Teach them how nothing is more valuable than family. I love you, my little prince. Don’t let life change you. You have the power to change things and to cherish hope. I love you with all my strength.
You will never stop being my children!
We’ll see you soon.
Your loving parents,
Francisco and Amparo
The letter had a strange effect on us. While it encouraged us to forge ahead, it also made us feel lonely, vulnerable, and sad. The ground fell out from under us. Knowing we were so well-loved restored our individuality, our unique identity, which had grown blurry amid the multitude of disinherited children and cold, distant caretakers. Feeling lonely showed us that, without our family, we were little more than cut flowers whose beauty and fragrance fades.
We cried and hugged one another, feeling our mother’s warmth in our embraces despite the distance. Manuel came over, disoriented, staring blankly into an inscrutable abyss at his feet. I understood then that his letter held bad news, and I stood to put my arms around him.
Chapter 24
The Punishment
Morelia
May 4, 1938
Manuel changed completely after that first batch of letters. He told me the letter he received was from his aunt, the one who’d taken care of him after his mother abandoned him. The aunt said she’d had word that Manuel’s father, who had been captured by the fascists in Granada, was dead. Manuel had been expecting to learn of his father’s execution, but he hadn’t expected what came next: his beloved grandparents, his father’s parents, had also been killed by the fascists when a jealous neighbor accused them of being communists. Manuel had been hoping to live with them if he ever returned to Spain. And his aunt, who had taken him in before, had resorted to a brothel and would no longer be able to care for him. Manuel was all alone in the world, and in a way, he never recovered.
A few days later, he started avoiding me and spending time with the worst students at school. He began stealing from the little ones, getting in trouble with the teachers, and skipping class. I felt the person who’d been my best friend since the start of that difficult journey had ceased to exist. I took refuge in my sisters, but things weren’t the same. Friendship is one of the few things we choose in life, and it can get us through the worst of times. And it seemed my best friend had left me for good.
The arrival of spring didn’t improve things much at school. The director maintained his ironfisted discipline and sent some kids to live with people in town. Even though he was a communist, he had placed some of the older girls at a convent in Morelia, and he continued to rely on the bullies to impose his reign of terror among the students.
We had almost been in Mexico a full year. It had dragged on endlessly for me and felt much longer than twelve months.
One day in May, it was my turn to oversee the
kitchen and the pantry. Some thefts had occurred, and the director was furious. I wasn’t all that surprised because we were still not being fed enough, and the food quality was poor.
While I made my rounds that afternoon, I heard a noise. I flipped on the light and went down the hallway between the kitchen and the pantry. Once there, I could hear voices. I got close and saw three boys holding cans and some sausages.
“Can I ask what you’re doing?” I questioned.
“Stay out of this, Madrid. You didn’t see a thing, you hear?” Luis threatened.
“If anything’s missing from the pantry, they’ll blame me. So drop everything right now!” I ordered. The director took such care of them, but these bullies took any chance available to do as they pleased.
The three boys surrounded me, and one threw a punch. I defended myself as best I could, but it was impossible once all three boys teamed together. Luis prodded the other two on while he went back to putting food in their sack. They threw me to the ground, kicking my stomach and kidneys. I screamed in desperation, afraid they really would kill me. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Manuel. He’d been keeping guard outside.
“With all this noise someone’s going to hear us!” he scolded as he walked in. “What the . . . ?” He stopped short when he saw me on the floor.
“Your little friend stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong,” said Luis.
“Leave him be. He’s worth more than all of you combined,” Manuel spat out.
Then the bullies jumped him and started pounding him too. When they heard footsteps, the bullies ran off, leaving me and Manuel alone and in pain on the floor. One of the teachers looked in, and after seeing us there, ran to fetch the director. Reyes Pérez showed up soon with his cold stare and military garb.
“What’s going on here?” he barked, not even asking how I was.
I struggled to my feet and sat on a box. “A couple of boys were stealing food and—”
Remember Me Page 14
