Some of the assault guards were forcibly removing General Fanjul, the rebel leader. No one else got close to him, though they spat on him and mocked him from a safe distance.
Then I spied my father, sitting alone on a stone bench, his gun draped over his back. His face was dark with sadness. I thought he would reprimand me for disobeying and leaving my post, but he hardly reacted when he saw me. I sat beside him in the middle of that field of death, and he put his arm around me.
“I’ve always heard that a few deaths are necessary to create a world without violence. Wanting to kill is not the same thing as actually killing. Until today, I’d never fired a shot or killed anyone. I believed getting rid of those fascists would bring me some degree of pleasure . . . You know by now that it’s either them or us. But now I feel it. Killing someone is not defending an ideology. I’ve killed a person, people. These men were my brothers. There’s nothing worse than a civil war. Maybe the bloodbath will end and we can return to fistfights in the streets or in parliament, but not like this . . . No, not like this,” he whispered.
I saw the pain in my father’s anguished face and jaded gaze, heard it in his feverish words. That one day, which in many ways provoked one of the worst wars in history, was over for him. He would remain an idealist who longed for the triumph of the proletariat revolution, but something broke apart in his soul that hot July day. He could not have named the sadness any more than I could have right then, but it was without a doubt the grief of a broken heart that discovers there is no ideology on earth worth killing for.
I looked up and studied the bodies. Nearly all of them were young men. I understood they had been robbed of something more precious than mere breathing: the right to a future.
Chapter 5
In the Trenches
Madrid
October 9, 1936
I woke up from a dream about my father. We were walking through the Casa de Campo city park on a Sunday and around the lake toward the boat rental stand. My mother carried my sister Isabel; my youngest sister, Ana, still hadn’t been born. I looked up at my father, who was to me a giant capable of anything. I spent most of my time with my mother, who wasn’t then working in the theater. On Fridays, payday, she used to take me and Isabel with her to the market to do the week’s shopping, or she’d take us to a park to play. But I didn’t often walk around in public next to my father, which is why this dream, this day, was so special to me. That spring day the sky seemed especially blue, as if it wanted to swallow us up in azure infinitude. Reflected sunlight shimmered like polished gold on the water. Hand in hand with my father, I felt safe. Nothing bad could happen because I knew he would protect me from every danger and show me the right way to go.
On happy days, like that spring Saturday when we didn’t look up at the sky in fear, I learned how wonderful it was to walk along holding hands with my father. I remember he bought me an ice cream cone as we waited for the boat to come to the little pier. My mother was happy and smiling. We didn’t have much. We lived in a tiny house in Lavapiés, with only two dark, dank rooms and no bathroom or heat or running water, but my father’s love spilled through every look and touch.
That day we rented a canoe, and Dad let me help him row, though he was the one who moved the paddles and steered. His face oozed joy.
We took a long, meandering walk on the way back home. Isabel slept in my mother’s arms, and I held on to my dad’s hand. I could not put it into words, but what that day ingrained in my little mind was that safety lay between the fingers of those calloused, scratched hands.
* * *
I once thought that growing up meant getting married, starting a family, finding a good job, and waiting for life to pass one by without struggles or distress. But on one autumn morning in October 1936, with the sky a dull gray and as I walked beside Isabel and holding Ana’s hand, I started to wonder if getting older meant learning to take care of yourself and the people you love. We got to the trolley that would take us to Casa de Campo. The huge expanse of forest was no longer the haven of peace it had been when I was younger, when cyclists meandered down the dusty trails or Sunday visitors picnicked beneath the centuries-old oaks that had stood watch as kings, ambitious courtesans, and even Napoleon’s troops passed them by.
The trolley car clacked louder than in years before, rickety now from overuse and neglected maintenance because of the war. We could see some of the ruins from the bombings, though most had hit public buildings and the Cuatro Vientos airfield. We stepped off near the Line 25 stop in Puerta del Ángel Plaza, then walked to the entrance of Casa de Campo. Militiamen came and went from all directions. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but there was no mistaking their armbands, military hats, and rifles. The color of the bandannas around their necks indicated the party or union to which they belonged. As we neared the lake, they greeted us with raised fists, surely because we were all three dressed like them, with little hats and the socialist party bandannas around our necks.
Since taking the Montaña Barracks, my father had supported the city’s assault guard. He spent most of his time in Salamanca, one of Madrid’s most well-to-do neighborhoods. My mother, along with most of her theater troupe, had enlisted in a militia that defended the capital. She rarely carried a weapon since she and her colleagues mainly focused on keeping morale high among the volunteers by dancing, singing, and performing satirical skits about the enemy and priests.
My sisters and I reached the improvised camp, barely a dozen tents where food was distributed and the volunteer army received instructions. Most volunteers showed up in the mornings, joined their units, then went back to their homes at night.
We searched for our mother among the tents and finally found her rehearsing with some of the other actors. As soon as she saw us, she left what she was doing and smothered us in hugs and kisses until I turned red with embarrassment.
“Come on, Mom,” I said, wriggling away and wiping her lipstick off my cheeks. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“What time did you leave school? You’re here earlier than I expected.”
“There’s a procession this afternoon. The International Brigades are arriving,” I said, turning my head to get a better look at the cannons just beyond the tent.
Mom nodded. “Go on, you can go look at the weapons. I know you’re interested.”
I was already outside next to a cannon by the time she finished speaking. It was enormous, much bigger than the one I’d seen at the Montaña Barracks.
“You like it?” one of the artillerymen asked. I nodded. “Want me to show you how it works?” He smiled when he saw my eyes light up. He nestled his cigarette in one corner of his mouth, then heaved up a missile, loaded it into the cannon, shut a little door, and pushed a lever.
“These models are old, but they’ve promised us the Russians are bringing us newer weapons. The Soviet comrades will help us win this war and bring the revolution. Father Stalin is keenly interested in what happens in Spain. The German fascists won’t quit bombing us, and I’ve heard they’re sending tanks and new arms to the rebels.”
I paid much more attention to the cannon, the missiles, and the nearby machine guns than I did to his words.