Chapter 7
My Grandparents and the Trip to San Martín de la Vega
Madrid
November 25, 1936
Hate is the fuel of war, and the two sides must continue to feed it. The local newspapers focused on the atrocities of the enemy but hid our own. Attacks, rapes, robbery, and death were the daily fare of the papers and radio broadcasts. I didn’t have to work hard to learn to hate. That autumn we had no time for tears, only enough time to despise the enemy and wait for revenge. The city was under siege on the west and part of the south, but the northern limits were also pressed. The citizens of Madrid were under no illusions. From Valencia, the government kept sending instructions, but the government officials were not there with us in the city holding out against the siege.
My mother had decided we children should go to her parents’ house in San Martín de la Vega, a town along the Jarama River. It wasn’t much safer than Madrid, but she hoped that at least there would be fewer bombings and a bit more to eat. Her parents always kept a well-stocked pantry, as well as a half-dozen hens, some rabbits, and a cow—all of which provided most of what they needed. This trip was the cause of a heated argument between my parents. I had never seen them so angry with each other. The emotions of war were affecting their nerves.
Escaping the city was not easy, especially in the direction of Valencia. There were no trains and hardly any buses. The only vehicles that continued to circulate were delivery trucks and those transporting troops, but my mother, who knew plenty of people in government headquarters, managed to convince an old friend of my father’s to take us in his truck. The four of us sat in the back while the driver sat up front with an armed escort in case we were assaulted on the road. Pillaging and rape were constants in those days when nothing was safe.
“What is it, Marco? You’ve been so sad lately. Are you still thinking about what happened to your schoolmates?”
I shook my head, though Mom knew very well that their murder had infuriated me. A few days afterward, I had tried to enlist in the army, but my parents wouldn’t allow it.
“You want to go to the front to kill the fascists? You think that’ll make you feel better? That’s like swallowing poison and hoping it’ll kill your enemy,” she prodded.
I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t understand her attitude. The fascists deserved a horrible demise, just like what they’d given my friends.
“You think I don’t hate? Yes, son, sometimes hatred slips into our souls and corrodes them from within. But you know what I do? When I find hatred inside me, I try to defeat it with the invincible love you three give me. Women are capable of producing life. Men seem only good at destroying it.”
“I don’t want to love those people,” I spat out, furious.
“I’m not asking you to love them. I’m just begging you to not let the hate overcome the love you hold in your heart. In the midst of all the tears and suffering, I’ve discovered an indestructible joy inside myself. War has led to the greatest disorder of all, robbing us of the life we had. But inside I possess a peace that no one can take away from me. This cold winter will pass, spring will come, and that makes me happy. I want you to learn something.”
“What, Mom?” I was paying more attention now. Her words were clearly coming from a heart of pure love.
“It doesn’t matter how hard life pushes. The love I have for you—the love you must store up so hate won’t control you—will be stronger than anything that ever comes against you. When I go back to Madrid, you’ll have to take care of your sisters. You’ll be alone, but my heart will stay with you. What are you going to teach them? The strength of hate or the power of love?”
“I’ll try my best,” I said, unconvinced. But she knew I really would try. No one in the world knew me like my mother.
“Marco, darling, when your heart gets used to suffering, you forge a very deep connection with tragedy. Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You’re a very fortunate child.”
The trip was too short. Once we arrived in town, the truck took us to my grandparents’ house on the outskirts. The small farm seemed older and more run-down than on our last visit. I remembered swimming in the river, and the smell of oranges sprinkled with sugar—the way my grandmother would fix them for me.
Benito and Sara, my grandparents, stood in the door to receive us as soon as they heard us pull up. My mother looked so much like my grandmother, though her face was both more lucid and sadder. Grandma and Grandpa smothered us in hugs and kisses. We went in and sat down in the warm living room. The heating element my grandparents used, called a gloria, had always captured my imagination: they kept a fire going in a cavity beneath the floor, and the heat was pumped throughout the house through pipes. For a moment I forgot about the war and ran around rediscovering the farm with my sisters, life once more a game.
* * *
The time spent in San Martín de la Vega was no country holiday. On the contrary, it felt like exile to me—the first taste of orphanhood, which would follow me the rest of my life. I had to care for my younger sisters and help them stay calm and show them they could trust me. None of us had ever been away from our parents. We had always been a very tight-knit family and spent most of our time together. The war hadn’t managed to ruin our ability to enjoy life and each other, and we were lucky enough that all five of us were still alive. I could understand why Mom wanted us to be farther from the bombings and the dangers that stalked us in the city, but I doubted we would be much safer in the country.
As soon as Mom left, winter fell hard like a bad omen. We weren’t used to being so cold, and despite the good coats and shoes Mom had found for us, we came home from school chilled to the bone every day. Plus, we struggled to fit in with the other kids in the village. The school was small, and boys and girls were separated. My teacher was named Germinal, and my sisters had a young woman named Teresa. Both teachers worked hard to educate us, but the local boys missed a lot of school. The farms needed them to work since most young men were fighting on the front.
The morning of November 25, we arrived early at school before the sun even came out. The classrooms were freezing. The teachers had no wood to start a fire in the stove, and we kept our coats and gloves on all day. Yet when Germinal began to speak, I forgot about the cold and listened with rapt attention.
“The great philosopher José Ortega y Gasset, the brightest mind to come out of our country, taught us we cannot live as islands. He said, ‘I am myself plus my circumstance, and if I do not save it, I cannot save myself.’ We are part of the world, dear students. Everything that happens around us affects us. We live in times of opposing factions, of brothers fighting brothers. Some say that the important thing is morality, something perverted by revolutionary ideals. Others talk about proletariat love and the brotherhood of all people, but the truth is that with morality we restrain the errors of our primal instincts. However, love is capable of tempering the errors of morality. The left and the right are diametrically opposite realities—but, as the philosopher said, they are two ways for humans to be imbeciles. Surely some will declare that their ideologies are what make the world go ’round, when actually ideologies are what destroy it.”