Remember Me

by Mario Escobar

  Isabel arced her eyes. “You’re quite the philosopher.”

  “What I mean is,” Ana said, her eyes scrunched up in an effort to put her intuitions into words, “we always long for what we’ve lost. At least you two actually remember it, but I just feel nostalgia for your memories, not really for mine. Plus, we can feel nostalgic for things we’ll never experience again, which is why the present is just an instant, one second of certainty. Though the worst part is that while we have that certainty, we’re hardly even aware of reality; it just feels confusing and slippery.”

  “For you, Mexico is the past, and Spain is the future,” I answered.

  “Yes and no. Spain is the past, even though I don’t remember it much, and Mexico is also the past, but it’s the only thing I’ve really got. Tomorrow I’ll arrive in the place we left over three years ago. We’ve tried to live life like a parenthesis, but I’m afraid the only thing I’ll be left with will be whatever I felt there, in Morelia.”

  We walked along the sea and sat on a stairway that led down to the water. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Ana had said. I was scared to go back to Spain, scared to find out our parents were dead, scared and anxious about the future; but what really tormented me was the inferno of having to choose just one path and ignore all the rest. I was feeling nostalgic for all the lives I would never lead, all the opportunities I had denied myself by deciding to return to Spain.

  Chapter 38

  Spain

  Madrid

  December 20, 1940

  The brilliant white snow blanketing the city was an ironic misrepresentation of the darkness of the reigning Francoism. The population was out begging in the streets. The fallout of all the bombing was still evident on Gran Vía. Joy had disappeared from Madrid like the summer heat. At least the bodies of the men and women shot or beaten to death no longer filled the place with the stench of death as they had in previous months. The few street dogs that remained were prime prey for Madrid’s hungry poor, and the mongrels that escaped alive fed on the cadavers the municipal undertaker had no more resources to deal with. Spontaneous assassinations, brutal reprisals, uniformed people in the street, and the fear of being dragged off at night never to return—it had all turned Madrid into a sleepless place. The streets were dark, and there were no Christmas decorations beyond a splintered, bullet-holed nativity in Puerta de Alcalá and a few meager garlands in Puerta del Sol.

  We had crossed the border without much trouble. Most people were trying to get out of Spain, not in. With our false papers and the excuse of coming from Mexico to visit an aunt who lived in Madrid, the customs officers stamped our falsified passports and waved us on down the line.

  Atocha Station was still intact. We walked through the plaza and down Atocha Street. I was holding a piece of paper with the address of Jacinto Guerrero, the director of my mother’s theater troupe from ages ago. He knew us well, especially me and Isabel, but in that version of inhospitable Madrid where anyone might betray you for a plate of weevil-infested beans, it was better not to trust anyone. Informants lurked in every building, and neighborhoods were organized by the Falangists, with neighborhood and building bosses who kept tabs on every move made by every inhabitant.

  We rang the bell, and an elderly maid opened the door. She was gaunt, with thin, parchment-like skin. She looked like a ghost.

  “Who are you? The master is busy . . .”

  “We’re the children of Amparo Alcalde, one of his star actresses.”

  The maid looked us up and down.

  “You’re the children of ‘la Amparito’? I can’t believe my eyes. Goodness, how you’ve grown. You won’t remember me, but we worked together when she was just starting out. Jacinto hired me here after I retired. There’s nothing for an actress but hunger and poverty once youth passes. But that’s neither here nor there. Come in, come in. You must be exhausted. Have you come far?”

  “From Mexico,” Ana answered.

  “You’re the little one. What was your name, now? Was it Ana?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ana answered.

  We followed her down a long hall with the walls covered by old posters of theater shows. The woman took us to a living room and had us sit on the couch.

  “Jacinto usually doesn’t get up ’til around noon, but I’ll tell him you’re here. While he gets ready, I’ll get you some powdered milk and biscuits. The director’s got connections, and the authorities give him a few products it’s impossible to get with ration cards.”

  The woman went off in a hurry. We were surprised she could move so fast. She must have been younger than she looked. We sat and raised our eyes at one another. Things seemed to be going better than we could’ve hoped.

  A few minutes later, she brought out a silver tray with cups of milk and biscuits. We devoured them, not having had anything to eat on the train.

  Then Jacinto came in. He was much heavier than the last time I’d seen him at the theater, and getting fat in postwar Madrid was a luxury only a few privileged people could afford.

  “Good gracious, the children of Amparo, one of my best actresses. So there’s something pure left after all in this devil of a city. How is your mother? Is she here? I knew your father belonged to the Socialist trade union, but if she’s not registered, I could hire her immediately. I’m premiering a new piece by Jardiel Poncela,” he said, gesticulating wildly. His maroon silk robe fluttered above his expansive middle as he bent to kiss our cheeks.

  “We don’t know where she is. She sent us to Mexico during the war, and we’ve just arrived back in Madrid. In Mexico we learned our parents might be in a concentration camp.”

  “Shh! Don’t say those words. The walls have ears. You’re not safe here. Did anyone see you come into the building?” he asked, nervous.

  “A custodian outside the door,” Isabel said.

  “That’s fine. I’m not worried about him. I give him food every day. The poor fellow is very down on his luck. Anyway, I’ve got a storehouse where I keep all the costumes and props and such. You’ll be safe there for the time being. We can’t be seen together in the street, but I’ll come by every day to greet you. Here,” he said, handing us some money, “this will get you by for a while. Everything’s rationed these days, but you can get a lot on the black market. Don’t tell anyone who you really are. I hope you find your parents soon.”

  “Thank you,” we said, and I put the money away.

  Jacinto leaned toward the window and peered out the lace curtain. “I don’t see anything amiss, but you’d better go out with Angelines when it gets dark. For now, finish eating.” Jacinto walked out, and we three looked at one another in alarm. We hadn’t been conscious of the danger we faced in Madrid up to that point. If we were detained, they would surely separate us and send us to an orphanage.

  The maid led us out just as the few surviving streetlights were being lit. We walked for fifteen minutes through the somewhat deserted streets to the neighborhood of Lavapiés. She stopped in front of a small building and led us inside. It seemed to have once been a store but was now full of dresses and costumes hung up on hangers. It was more like a forest of clothing of all styles and eras. At the back there was a room with two pallets, as well as a half bath.

  “Don’t go out for the time being, please,” Angelines said. “Jacinto should get the lay of the land first. He’ll ask around about your parents. He’s got plenty of contacts. I’ve got your supper and some breakfast here in this basket. Goodbye for now, my children. May God keep you.”

  She lit a candle so no light would be seen from the street and then left us. We lay down fully dressed on the pallets. That was our first night back in Madrid, feeling once again like strangers with no place in this world. And we weren’t wrong to feel that way.

  Chapter 39

  Imprisoned

  Madrid

  December 23, 1940

  The days crawled by with painful monotony in that abandoned warehouse, and our hopes that Jacinto would discover our p
arents’ whereabouts were slowly vanishing. Though he had promised to come see us, he hadn’t been by even once. Angelines did come every day, bringing us food, books, and blankets to shield us from the freezing cold that gripped the capital.

  We had nearly lost all hope when one morning, close to Christmas, Jacinto came by to tell us what he’d learned. He was dressed extravagantly, just shy of ridiculous for a city that reeked of gunpowder and holy water. “My dear children, forgive me for not coming to see you before, but the performances are in full swing. The Falangists, not content with the blood and suffering of their enemies, are greedy for comedies, so I’ve been at it nonstop. From what I’ve learned from my contacts, there are over a hundred concentration camps spread throughout the country, though the smallest and most hastily constructed are starting to close. They’re taking all sorts of people to the camps, especially political dissidents, but also religious minorities, homosexuals, gypsies, and anyone who doesn’t fit within the Francoist vision of the new Spain. My contact has been scouring the files for three days. As you can imagine, things are more than a little chaotic, since the entire government has been turned upside down. Plus, some of the camps are run by Falangists, others by Requetés, and others by local governors or the military.”

  We looked at him impatiently. He was going ’round and ’round without getting to what really mattered.

  Then he cleared his throat. “Well, it seems that your parents arrived a few days ago to the port of Bilbao on a boat bringing coffee from Mexico.”

  “From Mexico?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes. Apparently they went to look for you there, and when they couldn’t find you, they came back. Once here, they were arrested by the immigration police and taken to the local authorities. Your mother was placed in a women’s prison on the outskirts of Bilbao, and your father taken to one of the worst concentration camps, Miranda de Ebro, between Bilbao and Burgos.”

  We sat there stunned in the tension between joy and grief. At least they were alive, and they were in Spain.

  “Can we see them?” Ana asked. “When will they get out of those horrible places?”

  She had no way of understanding how serious it was that our parents were imprisoned. Hundreds of people were killed by government orders every day. Franco’s desk was littered with death sentences he signed with glee. The rest of the world was too busy with the war in Europe to pay attention to what was going on in Spain. The only voices speaking out against the mass killings were a few ecclesiastical authorities and more moderate politicians.

  Jacinto shook his head, compassion in his eyes. “No, darling, they can’t have visitors. The concentration camps aren’t like jails used to be, where thieves and anybody who broke the law would go. Prisons aren’t like they used to be either. The people locked up inside have no rights. They’re under military guard and are considered traitors. They are forced to do labor in order to eat, and living conditions are abysmal.”

  Ana started to cry, and Isabel tried to console her but was barely keeping herself together. I wrestled with my breath and finally managed to control my voice enough to ask, “What have they been accused of?”

  “Sedition, treason, rebellion, violent crime. There’s no proof they’ve done harm to anyone, but I’m afraid that military tribunals don’t pay much attention to details.”

  “Can you do anything for them? Try to get them out?”

  Jacinto was already putting himself at great risk by even asking about our parents. No one was safe amid that reign of terror and oppression. From one day to the next, the people lauding you for being a great playwright and theater director could turn around and report you to the authorities. Censoring, taking over businesses, purging companies, as well as making illegal payments to government employees to turn a blind eye, were the norm.

  “Your mother’s case is a bit simpler. There’s no documentation linking her to any party or organization. They’ve accused her of lifting troop morale on the front, but that’s not a serious offense. I’ve asked my contact to request an order for liberation and a dismissal of her case. He’s promised me he’ll do what he can. Your father is a different story. He was part of the UGT, the socialist party, and participated in the assault on the Montaña Barracks. He commanded soldiers and worked in Madrid’s jails during the war. If we could find someone to testify on his behalf, someone he spared from death . . .”

  It would be extremely difficult to find the people my father had rescued and even more difficult to get any of them to testify.

  “My dad helped a lot of people, which is why he requested to be transferred to defending and protecting the Prado Museum. Some of the anarchists and communists were gunning for him,” I said. That’s what Dad had explained to me before we left for Mexico.

  “We need names, people who would be willing to testify on his behalf.”

  Jacinto left before dark. He had brought us some rolls, shortbread cookies, and little soldiers made of marzipan, all of which were unbelievable delicacies in those days. My sisters and I huddled around the little table and had our supper.

  “What are we going to do?” Isabel asked.

  “We have to find those witnesses. I don’t remember anybody’s name, but maybe some of Dad’s friends would know,” I said.

  “But it’s too dangerous to go out,” Isabel said. She had been scared stiff since the moment we’d arrived back in Spain.

  “You two can stay here, and tomorrow I’ll go out and try to find some witnesses. It’ll be Christmas Eve, so I bet the control points will be a little more relaxed. I’ll come back before dark.”

  Ana clung to me in fear. “We can’t get separated. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You know we promised Mom we’d stay together.”

  “But if we don’t do anything, they might kill Dad. Mom will understand,” I answered.

  After supper, I read for a while. Angelines had brought me a book written by a British author named Charles Dickens. The misfortunes that befell the main characters reminded me a bit of what we’d endured in Mexico. I was thinking about my mother as I drifted off to sleep. She had begged me to never forget her, and I had not forgotten. Memories of her were some of the few things that helped me keep going.

  The next morning, I dressed warmly and slipped out before my sisters woke up. I didn’t want them to worry, but I was afraid that if I didn’t go while they were sleeping, they would never let me leave.

  It felt strange to walk along the streets, almost like being in a dream. My mind had long since idealized Madrid to mythical proportions, but there I was, walking along the very real streets and drinking in its beautiful buildings. The war had wounded the city but hadn’t crushed its essence.

  I came upon a priest who glared at me. “Despicable red! Haven’t they taught you to kiss a priest’s hand when you meet one in the street?”

  Fear momentarily paralyzed me, but I bent to kiss his ring and then went on, shaking from head to foot.

  I reached Plaza Mayor and then went to one of the bars my dad used to go to with friends after work. Only one of his old comrades was there. Those who hadn’t fled or died were shut up in jails or in the regime’s concentration camps, and the only one who seemed unchanged was the bartender. His beard was a little grayer and his frame a bit thinner, but he was the same quarrelsome, mean-faced old man.

  “Mr. Ramón, you won’t remember me, but I’m the son of Francisco, the printer.”

  He stared at me as if a voice from the distant, long-forgotten past were whispering to him. “You’re Francisco’s boy? The last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Looks like war turns little squirts into men quicker than anything else. What are you doing here? I haven’t seen your old man in a long time, not since the day the . . . the day the Nationals liberated us,” he said, carefully choosing his phrases to reduce suspicions among his clientele.

  “I’m not looking for him. I’m trying to find Sebas, his friend and assistant.”

  “Sebas? Now
he’s one I have seen. I think he’s working on the presses for a Falangist paper. Arriba is what it’s called, if I’m not mistaken. They’re in the building where El Sol was.”

  “I know where that is,” I answered. I quickly made my way out of the bar and walked down the freezing streets toward the newspaper’s building. There was a tough-looking custodian at the door, but I decided to try my luck.

  “Where do you think you’re going, kid?” he grunted as I made to enter. I held a cup of coffee, which had been the only thing I could think of to get me in the door.

  “I’m from the coffee shop down the street. One of the editors ordered coffee—I guess he didn’t have time to come get it?”

  The man’s pockmarked face and dark mustache creased into a frown, but he let me through. I went to the elevator but pressed the button to go down to the basement, where I figured the printing presses would be. I opened the door and left the coffee cup on the stairs, then walked around the machines hoping to find Sebas, but I didn’t see him anywhere.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Sebastián Bustamante,” I said to one of the operators.

  “Sebas? He’s upstairs, in editorial. He took up a proof of the afternoon’s front page.”

  I took the elevator back up as fast as I could, knowing that the guard at the door would get suspicious if I didn’t leave the building soon. I looked all over for him among the journalists. Most wore Falangist uniforms, and my skin crawled at being so close to them.

  “Sebas,” I said, finally finding him with a ream of paper in his hands.

  My father’s former assistant stopped short when he saw me. “Marco Alcalde? Am I seeing a ghost? Come with me,” he said, taking my elbow. He didn’t want to talk in front of all the Falangists. “I thought you and your sisters were in Mexico. Your parents were going to try to find you.”

  “I know, but . . . it didn’t work out. Now they’re both locked away, and I need your help.”