Guernica

  The new Guernica town council took on a vastly different composition and mission after the bombing. The old supporters of the Republic and Basque nationalism were exiled or in work camps, replaced by men new to the town or those with the talent for politi-cal malleability and situational loyalty.

  Angel Garmendia had been so vague in his political posture over the years that he had never allowed himself to be categorized by party or beliefs. The sometime Carlist and occasional Basque loyalist was now a firm pro-Franco member of the new council. Like most converts, Garmendia was keen to prove the strength of his conviction. He led the council to declare that several of the businesses that remained standing in Guernica would need to be compulsorily surrendered to pro-Franco businessmen for the good of the reconstruction.

  “The future strength of our town depends on our association with the Nationalists,” Garmendia said before the gathered council, having ceased calling Franco’s forces “rebels” or “Falange.”

  Garmendia enjoyed his expanding influence in town, and in the cafés at night, over wine, he would conduct desultory seminars on the wonders of the new Franco government, if, of course, his audience was not too filled with disgruntled loyalists or scarred bombing victims.

  Rules regarding the dumping of industrial wastes in the river needed to be relaxed, Garmendia preached. In these times, it was important to make it easy for businesses to thrive. Confiscation of certain businesses was crucial, too, to rid the country of the leftists and Reds who spurred the problems in the first place. Those were the people who invited socialism into the country with their concerns for so-called workers’ rights.

  Garmendia consumed a great deal of wine one night during such a discourse. He stumbled on the threshold of the café as he set off alone in the darkness.

  It surprised no one, then, when word traveled the following day that Angel Garmendia had met a tragic ending. Garmendia, of the town council, who had so many ideas for the new Guernica that he loved to share, had fallen over the side of the Renteria Bridge and drowned.

  Since many had witnessed his public intoxication, no further investigation was needed when he was found dead on the rocks slightly downstream of the bridge. Angel Garmendia had not been known as a particularly devout man, however, which made it curious that he was found with a green religious scapular hanging from his broken neck. PRAY FOR US NOW AND AT THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH, it read.

  The children came from social-welfare homes in Bilbao. Many lost their fathers in the war or their mothers in the bombing. They awed Annie Bingham with their sense of unity and spirit. She could not imagine the things they had seen, and yet they remained happy and playful. They had jokes about the Fascist bombers over Bilbao, particularly the “Milk Man,” who visited early each morning. They told Annie of the Basque air force, which consisted of a single plane so underpowered that the children would race it with their bicycles as it struggled to take off.

  Annie wondered how natives of a warm country would adapt to the rainy cool of the East Anglia environment. When she asked, they voiced a unanimous love for the weather. An older child explained it. “The bombers could not fl y on rainy days,” he said. “The clouds made it safe to play outside. We love rainy days.”

  How different Annie’s life had been from what they experienced. It was all so quiet. Her town was quiet; her parents were quiet; her house was quiet. In the evenings, the three would sometimes tune in the wireless to hear news and shows. But often they sat in their parlor at the front of the house, her mother working on stitchery, her father reading the paper, Annie focused on her studies, with the passage of time marked and stressed by the hypnotic ticking of the large Westminster mantel clock. She could scarcely imagine, from this peaceful background, how little ones learned to cope with the effects of regularly falling bombs.

  Yet that was how they had developed the complaisance Annie so admired. The food there was plentiful but rather bland. No complaints; it wasn’t chickpeas or rotting sardines. The loose iron headboards of the beds squeaked. No complaints; they had mattresses and blankets with no lice or hungry bedbugs. The boys played pelota or soccer in the boggy courtyard. No complaints; bombs did not interrupt their games. The girls gathered to dance in the narrow hallways and squealed when muddy boys chased them. No complaints; it was not the Guardia or the Falange. When the littlest ones cried at night, a teen would join them in bed for comfort. No complaints; they were family.

  Helping the small group of nurses and teachers who had accompanied the orphans, Annie cooked and cleaned and sought to maintain order among the energetic children. She got on the floor with the little ones, counseled the older ones, and stood as a continual amazement to all of them in one regard: her hair. The dark-haired and olive-skinned Basques had never seen such hair or freckles. They gave her the name Rojo, which they shouted in unison when they saw her, making her feel as if she had been adopted into their overflowing family. Annie left her home eagerly every morning because she knew she’d be greeted at the colony with several dozen hugs and kisses from the appreciative children.

  Some days, Annie brought her budgie, Edgar, in his cage.

  When seeing Edgar the first time, many of the children twirled their thumbs and index fingers in front of their mouths as if nibbling on an a tiny, invisible drumstick.

  From the day she purchased Edgar, Annie had assaulted him with a stream of “Pretty bird . . . pretty bird . . . pretty bird” in a nasal birdlike tone, trying to teach him the phrase as he perched in his cage in the family parlor. In two years, the remedial budgie had responded to Annie’s rote recitation only by producing a clacking sound with his beak. Because Annie said “pretty bird” so often, the children assumed that Pretty Bird was his name and shouted it each time he visited.

  Edgar’s only response was “docka, docka.”

  Annie Bingham anticipated her days at the children’s home for another reason. Charles Swan had decided to stay in Cambridge and take summer classes rather than go home to London, as he had planned, to spend the time with his parents before beginning active service. He often arrived at the end of her day to walk her home or take her to dinner in small neighborhood cafés. They drew looks from the locals, these two with the pale skin and bright hair, taking their tea while conversing in rudimentary Spanish. Very unusual Spaniards, it was decided.

  But most in town knew they were helping with the Basque children, which was considered a good deed. Besides, they were young and were drunk on infatuation, so they were expected to be strange.

  Miguel knew Josepe Ansotegui from his earliest memories and considered him a man of high integrity. Since he was young, he had heard Josepe talk about his big brother, Justo Ansotegui of Guernica, as if he were a giant, the strongest man with the most beautiful wife. When he finally met Justo at Errotabarri, he was intimidated but a little disappointed that he was not towering. He was stout and im mensely powerful, but Miguel was as tall as Justo.

  As he came to know Justo, he understood why Josepe and Xa-bier held him in such regard. If anything, since his injury, Justo impressed Miguel more. He still sought to accomplish more than any man with two arms, and he filled his days with chores even if the state of the baserri didn’t require as much work. It was Justo’s resolve that most astonished Miguel. Although they still rarely mentioned Mariangeles and Miren, and never Catalina, Justo stowed his grief somewhere it couldn’t seep into everything else. It was this that Miguel wanted to tell Josepe when he visited Er-rotabarri.

  Josepe Ansotegui made rare visits to Guernica, but this time was special, as he brought a supply of salt cod, enough to make meals for several weeks.

  “You remember how it’s cooked, don’t you?” he asked Miguel.

  Miguel had seen his mother go through the lengthy desalination process a number of times, and he could practically smell the ba-calao already.

  “I wish you could stay a few days and have some with us,” Miguel said, knowing it was unlikely.

  “Oh, my little brother has m
ore fish to catch,” Justo said.

  “It’s not as difficult as running a baserri, but there is enough to keep me going,” Josepe said.

  “Tell him, Miguel, tell him about the fish we catch; some of them are this big,” Justo prompted, attempting to make the gesture but realizing he couldn’t with one arm.

  Miguel held the remainders of his two hands no more than six inches apart, causing Josepe to laugh.

  Miguel was fascinated by how Josepe, perhaps the most influential man in Lekeitio, assumed the role of little brother when around Justo. The pattern of their relationship had not changed in forty years. Miguel was envious of Justo’s having both his brothers within range for occasional visits. And he wondered how his life would be different if he had gone to France with Dodo, or if he had stayed in Lekeitio. But he would not have changed his decision to come to Guernica.

  “I have to get going,” Josepe said, embracing his brother. “Enjoy the fish. Walk with me, Miguel, I want to tell you of your family.”

  He didn’t have news of the Navarros, though; he wanted to hear more of his brother. “Is he doing as well as he seems?”

  “He still has his moments, and he gets distant, but he’s stronger than any of us could have known,” Miguel said.

  Josepe saw that. The surprise of the trip, though, had been the sight of Miguel, who no longer seemed a young man to Josepe. Miguel kept both hands in his pockets, which made his shoulders slump and bend forward like those of a a much older man. Josepe would have imagined the younger person to be more resilient and that it would be Justo who would be more diminished now. But Miguel looked worn down, smaller.

  “And you?” Josepe asked. “What can I tell your father?”

  “I’m getting along; Justo’s helped,” Miguel said, uncomfortable with the subject. “Have you seen Dodo?”

  “I see him, yes,” Josepe said. “Your father and I see him regularly.”

  “Still in business together?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “Are you all staying safe?”

  “We’re all still alive, so that means we’re being safe enough. With Dodo, of course, it’s rarely a question of being safe. Safety is not his strength. But he seems to be making better decisions. He has some good helpers who have taught him a great deal. One is very special to him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, very clever,” Josepe said with a wink that Miguel could not interpret.

  Miguel waited for more information, but when Josepe paused, he knew better than to press the matter.

  “I have one more question; I meant to ask Justo, but I didn’t want to make him angry. What is that smell?”

  “He carries soap in his pocket,” Miguel answered. “It’s the kind that Mariangeles and Miren used to use. It makes him feel better.”

  “What do you think about it?”

  “It works for him.”

  Josepe would never make light of his brother. And in truth, the smell represented a vast improvement. He just couldn’t imagine it was easy for Miguel to smell his wife every time Justo walked past.

  Miren danced just for him this night, in the bedroom of their house, spinning so quickly to the music that her skirts flew in a wild orbit and the red fabric shredded into strips that flickered like satin flames.

  Oh, God. He groaned without opening his mouth.

  “What’s the matter . . . you miss me?” she asked with a flirtatious smile, spinning again so that her tattered skirt parted at the side. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  She spun several more times as she moved closer, to the foot of the bed, and then stepped up onto the chest he’d built to store her precious things.

  The music slowed and the accordion notes dovetailed with Men-diola’s aching bow until all settled into a metered hum and sigh, hum and sigh.

  Miguel had never seen Miren move this way, swaying more than dancing, shifting more than stepping, moving her hips as if urging a horse into a slow canter.

  The ribbons of her slippers now wound a path up her slender calves to tie below her knees. She was taller, and her face gave off light like the first night he saw her.

  It was warm, suddenly warm.

  “I love this dance,” Miguel said.

  “Alaia taught it to me,” Miren said, her long hair a telltale of the breeze blowing the purple-red fireweed blooms that suddenly sprouted around her. “She told me you’d like it.”

  Alaia, yes, Alaia. The problem with Alaia.

  “I’m sorry we argued,” Miguel said.

  “I am too, astokilo,” she said.

  “It wasn’t about us.”

  “It wasn’t important.”

  Miren swayed with the blooming stalks.

  “I tried to find you,” Miguel said.

  “I know you did. I knew you would. You love me.”

  Miguel smiled. He watched her hips now, focusing on them, then feeling them move next to his. Touching him. Holding him.

  But the hand that clutched him was incomplete, withered, and pained, and it couldn’t grip. And he woke and never wanted to sleep again.

  The science came easily. The physics of flight moved Charley Swan. He breezed past the study of meteorology and advanced navigation and through com classes, learning methods of communication ranging from Morse code to advanced wireless.

  Fortunately, as a fledgling pilot, he did not have to undergo the challenging physical indoctrination of foot soldiers. He’d been an academic, never exhibiting aptitude for soccer or the stick-and-ball demands of cricket. Piloting, though, required a kind of physical prowess that was more a function of dexterity than coordination. It was clear from the beginning that Charley Swan had it.

  His first experience in flight came in a de Havilland Tiger Moth. Trainees were allowed to take over the stick and rudder bar for attempts at level flight for several hours before they were eased into takeoffs and landings. A plane at cruising altitude was a forgiving environment, the instructors stressed; it was when the craft became tangent to the earth that obstacles arose. “There’re fewer things to bump into up here,” Charley was told. Within five air hours, he was ready to try a takeoff, and only a few outings later he was allowed to handle a landing. He bounced in the first time, short-ended the second one, and from the third landing on, he delicately tiptoed back to the ground.

  “Most of the lads yank about on the stick like they’re trying to strangle a snake,” his instructor told him. “It has to be more gentle, like milking a mother mouse.”

  Swan’s classmates were a gathering of Brits, Australians, and Canadians, all bright, young, and lured by the romance of flight. At night, when they flew ground sorties to the local pubs, Charley Swan was off to Pampisford before his mates began circling. They started intentionally exaggerated rumors about Swan’s secret love life on the outskirts of town.

  Only a fraction of Swan’s classmates would advance through training. Some were academic washouts, others never grew comfortable with the delicacy of flight and chronically over-flew the plane. Most of those left quietly at night, with only their empty bed as an explanation.

  The new commander of the local Guardia Civil, Julio Menoria, had always fostered a narrow view of citizens’ rights in Spain, particularly in the Pays Basque, where the locals were chronically unable to grasp the futility of their quest for autonomy. If they were fortunate enough to be located in part of Spain, with its proud tradition, why would they ever wish to have a country of their own?

  With Franco’s Salamanca government in control, Menoria’s distaste for the Basques could be openly expressed, and he expanded his powers to include search, seizure, confiscation of property, and recreational torture whenever necessary to promote and protect the new government.

  His résumé had been bolstered by the arrest of the Basque poet/ journalist Lauaxeta, whose words were silenced by a firing squad. It was a notable achievement for Menoria, one of which he bragged at times over wine.

  The officer tended his duties early each morn
ing and worked until midevening, when he left to take his dinner. The path from his office to the café where he ate each night was cluttered with scaffolding and piles of supplies to be used in rebuilding the town. Bomb craters remained, and other holes were being excavated for new foundations.

  Perhaps focused on his plans for the next day’s work, Menoria apparently failed to see a warning sign and fell into a hole that was being dug to repair the damaged water main. It was a small hole, but it was deep, and Menoria’s body wasn’t discovered for several days, not until workers noticed an unpleasant odor.

  Julio Menoria was a Catholic, but he must have been more devout than his officers had believed, since he was discovered to have a scapular of the Immaculate Heart of Mary around his neck when he was uncovered.

  Eager to attribute coincidences or the inexplicable to the forces of God, the devil, fairies, or spirits, those in town began assigning responsibility for the recent events to a powerful avenging spirit.

  “It is the Virgin Mary,” Mendiola told Miguel one day at the lumber mill. “They both wore the symbol of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Do you really think that is a coincidence?”

  “Isn’t it possible that they just wore the scapulars?” Miguel asked. “Maybe Franco orders it.”

  “Each of them dying from an accident?” Mendiola asked. “Each wearing the scapular? That is the work of the True Spirit.”

  “Miracles? Why here?”

  “She is killing Fascists because they dropped the bombs on her church, Santa María,” Mendiola said. “You see, Santa María. You may not have heard of what happened at the church with . . . with everything else that was going on, Miguel, but a firebomb dropped right through the roof only to stick in the floor. It didn’t explode, Miguel. Many say that they saw the Holy Mother’s image in the dust floating down from the roof.”