“You’re old enough to fight, you know,” the man said. “You should enlist in one of the militias. We need every hand we can get.”
I studied his black hat and matching black bandanna. He was an anarchist with the National Work Confederation—a leftist organization like the one to which my dad belonged, but in many ways at odds with it.
“León!” my mother’s voice rang out. “What ideas are you putting into my son’s head?” She was coming out of the tent with my sisters.
“I’m just telling him the truth. That he’s old enough to fight against the fascists.”
“His father and I are already helping in the struggle. His job is to study and become someone useful to our cause.”
“What cause? You socialists have always been sellouts,” the anarchist spat out.
“Stupidity can’t grasp nuance,” my mother said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back to the tent. We were barely inside when we heard a loud explosion, quite nearby. Mom’s face grew tense. She grabbed her purse and made to leave the tent, but another explosion, even closer, put her on alert. She looked around wildly but saw nowhere to take cover. “We have to get away from here.”
We went outside and saw airplanes flying low, as if the sky belonged to them. Bombs fell on the camp, and the cannons I had just been admiring moments ago flew through the air. We ran toward the lake. Ana screamed and cried as Mom dragged her along, and I had Isabel, who cried like a much younger child, by the hand. When we managed to get beyond the park, we saw a column of smoke rising, darkening the sky even more. The airplanes flew back over the city and disappeared on the horizon.
We walked up the hill to the Segovia Bridge. My father would be waiting for us near Puerta de Alcalá. We were worn-out and very scared by the time we got there, and when he saw us, he could tell right away that something had happened. Mom threw her arms around him and began to cry. We went to a café to regroup, and my parents drank coffee while my sisters and I had orange juice despite the chill in the air.
“Francisco, it’s getting too dangerous,” Mom whispered. “We have to get the children out of Madrid.”
“But the war can’t go on much longer. The fascists have hardly advanced, and we’re holding the fronts. Largo Caballero says the tanks from Russia are coming any day now. Plus, we’ll have new airplanes to stop the German attacks.”
My mother shook her head. “I don’t believe Largo Caballero. We’ve known him since we were kids, and we both know he lies through his teeth. We don’t have a proper army. The militiamen are brave, but wars aren’t won with volunteers.”
My father glanced at the tables around us. What my mother had just said about the war could get us in trouble. A few weeks prior, groups of militiamen had started hunting down traitors in the capital and taking them “on a little walk.” It was known they were being executed, a practice becoming more and more indiscriminate.
“Any negative comment could be construed as treason,” my father warned.
“I know. Since that load of fascists was massacred at Modelo prison, the political commissioners aren’t letting even one woman sneak by,” Mom said.
“That was for the bombing of Argüelles and in retaliation for the fascists’ killing spree in Badajoz.”
“No, it was because the government doesn’t have control. Prieto was horrified by the massacre at the jail, and so was Manuel Azaña, but the communists and Largo Caballero know how this increases their power. It’s the heyday of the radicals. This war won’t be over until they exterminate anyone who disagrees.”
My father frowned. “What are you saying?”
“Well, that if our own people don’t kill us, the opposing party will. There’s no place for moderates, and—”
“I’ve been in the party since I was fourteen.”
My mother rolled her eyes. My father’s innocence drove her crazy, but in that moment one thing was clear to me: Mom would get us out of Madrid the very first chance she got. My sisters were still slurping their juice, and a light rain had begun to fall. The monotonous silence of the street was interrupted when what started as a murmur gradually grew into the clamor of a thousand voices.
“Look, the International Brigades have come!” my father said, beaming.
“There won’t be enough shrouds to go around,” my mother said, lighting a cigarette and looking out the window at the idealistic young men that had left their countries for the Republic. Her admiration for them was soaked in pity.
They seemed so young and determined, and I was jealous. Right then growing up seemed to mean getting my hands on a gun and killing the fascists. Only later did I understand that maturity means protecting your own and holding their hands until you discover safety.
Chapter 6
My Friends Aren’t Going to Heaven
Madrid
November 18, 1936
Humans are beings that suffer. This may not seem like a very optimistic definition, but as soon as we come into this world until our inevitable departures, pain is a significant part of life. War is a grand cause of this terrible suffering. Besides death, hunger, fear, and the wounds opened in the hearts of those who endure it, war brings out the worst of humanity and dehumanizes us to the point of monstrousness.
Five months into the war, we had grown used to the routine of emergency alarms telling us to seek bomb shelters and the concerning food rations. No one failed to notice that the government had moved its headquarters to Valencia, which led to widespread fear that Madrid could not hold out much longer against the fascists. The traitors of the Republic pressed in from south and west of the capital. They had taken Navalcarnero, Illescas, and Alcorcón, and in the north were approaching from Casa de Campo and University City. The war was no longer miles away from the capital but on the outskirts. We could get there on a trolley and be back by lunchtime.
A few days before, the fascists had bombed the Prado Museum and the National Library. My father, who had changed regiments, could no longer abide the indiscriminate executions that included everyone the militiamen considered suspect. He had managed an assignment defending the Prado, and I often joined him so we could spend some time together. The war meant he rarely had time with us at home, and we all missed him terribly. That afternoon the fallout from the museum bombings was still evident and painful. Part of the building’s roof was on fire, though somehow none of the paintings had been critically damaged.
We were sitting in one of the museum’s halls sharing a bite to eat. Despite the war, the museum continued receiving visitors, though many of them came to see the art with their rifles at the ready.
As we sat in front of a painting called The Garden of Earthly Delights, one of my dad’s favorites, we ate our sandwiches slowly. The bread was very bad, all black and splotched with heaven knows what, but at least we had something to chew. Everyone was nervous about the winter to come. There was no coal to be had, and it was harder and harder to find the basics for life.
“Marquitos, don’t forget: When museums become targets of war, take it as a sign that civilization is ready to disappear. Same thing goes for ransacked churches. This is why I detest ignorance. It’s much more dangerous than fascism.”