Professor Soler stopped talking suddenly, in a way that I must admit annoyed me a little.
“My dear Guillermo, you must go to Mexico, I don’t know what happened there,” he said, in the face of my surprise.
“But Professor, what does it matter? Tell me what happened when Amelia and James got back from Mexico. They must have just gone and done the interview and come back.”
“Ah, but no! That’s not what I’m going to do. The Garayoa sisters have employed you to carry out the investigation yourself, they want to know everything about Amelia’s life in as much detail as possible, and I must say that historical research is not an easy task, sometimes it is unrewarding and hard.”
“But...”
“No buts, Guillermo, you have to fill all the gaps. We don’t really know what happened in Mexico, but trust me that the interview with Trotsky was important.”
“Alright, I’ll go, but why won’t you tell me what happened when Amelia returned? Then, when I write it all out, I’ll put things in the right order.”
“No, no, you have to go step by step, listen to me. Doña Laura has asked me to guide you, and this is what I’m doing. In my opinion you have to go to Mexico.”
I resigned myself to following his advice, although the journey seemed to me to be nothing but a waste of time. I didn’t know how I could pick up Amelia’s trail in the Aztec capital. But luck was on my side, because Pepe, the editor of my newspaper, called me to tell me he was sending me some books for immediate review.
“Hey, weren’t you a Trotskyite?” I asked him.
“Yes, what’s all this about?” he said in annoyance.
“Trotsky lived in Mexico, right?”
“Yes, that’s where he got whacked.”
“Do you think there are still Trotskyites in Mexico?”
“What’s all this nonsense? Why do you care if there are still Trotskyites in Mexico?”
“I need you to get me in touch with a Mexican Trotskyite.”
“You’re crazy. I dropped all that nonsense twenty years ago.”
“Yes, but you must be able to help me find someone who can help me. I’m looking for a Trotskyite in Mexico, not a Martian in the center of Madrid.”
“Can you say why? I don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, but you’re starting to annoy me...”
“I’m asking for your help, I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
We argued for a while, but in the end I convinced him to give me a hand. While I was organizing my flight to Mexico City I waited impatiently for his call, which finally came.
“I’ve lost my whole afternoon looking for someone who knew someone in Mexico. I ended up talking to a friend of mine who worked for a while in the international relations department of the League office, and he gave me the number of a Mexican journalist who’s as old as the hills. Call him, but don’t get me caught up in your affairs anymore, I don’t even know why I’ve bothered helping you.”
“Because you may exploit the workers, but underneath it all you’ve got a heart of gold.”
“Guillermo, don’t tease me. I’m not in the mood!”
“It’s because our dear leader exploits you, maybe a little bit less than he exploits me. At least he pays you better.”
“Enough! Look, the sooner you send me the book reviews, the better.”
I was lucky, because I rang the Mexican journalist and he said he would be more than happy to help me as soon as I got to his country.
He was hyperefficient, because when I rang him from the hotel to say that I’d arrived in Mexico he said that he had arranged a meeting for me.
“You can see Don Tomás tomorrow.”
“Really? Great! Tell me... Who is Don Tomás?”
“A surprisingly interesting guy, he’s very old, older even than me, he’s going to be one hundred this year.”
“A hundred?”
“Yes, one hundred, but don’t worry, he’s as sharp as a whip, still got all his marbles. He knew Trotsky, Diego Rivera, Frida...”
2
Tomás Jiménez was indeed a surprise. Although he was nearly one hundred years old, his eyes were still bright and he had an exceptional memory. He lived in Coyoacán with one of his sons and his daughter-in-law, who seemed to be almost as old as he was. He said that he had more than twenty grandchildren and a dozen great-grandchildren.
He had dedicated his life to painting, and had been friends with some of the group that had formed around Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, although he himself had never been part of the couple’s intimate circle.
The house where Don Tomás lived was an old family home, large and with an interior patio that smelled of jasmine and enjoyed the shade of various fruit trees. I was extremely taken by Coyoacán, an oasis of beauty in the middle of the chaos of the Mexican capital.
Doña Raquel, Don Tomás’s daughter-in-law, told me not to tire him out.
“My father-in-law is in good health, but he’s not as active as he once was, so I’ll leave it up to your good judgment,” she warned me.
“So you’re Doña Amelia Garayoa’s great-grandson. A beautiful woman, yes indeed, a beautiful woman,” Don Tomás said when he saw me.
“Did you know her?”
“Yes, we met by accident. She came to Mexico in March 1939 with a gringo journalist. I was a Trotskyite back then and tried to be up on everything that was happening around the leader.”
“Did you work with Trotsky?”
“A little. He was scared. Stalin had tried to kill him several times and he trusted nobody. It was not difficult to get to see him, even though he had many supporters, myself included. You have to visit the Blue House.”
“The Blue House?”
“Yes, that’s where Trotsky and his wife Natalia lived. It was Frida Kahlo’s house, and it’s now a museum. When your great-grandmother and that journalist got to Mexico, things weren’t going well between Trotsky and Diego Rivera and Frida. Diego was a genius with a genius’s passionate temper. He acted on impulse and no sooner had he said that he was a committed Trotskyite was he arguing openly with Trotsky himself. They got cross with each other because Diego did not support Lázaro Cárdenas, for whom Trotsky had a lot to thank. Trotsky didn’t trust Diego all that much, he admired him as an artist but didn’t think much of his abilities as a politician. They got annoyed with each other and Trotsky and Natalia left the Blue House, but they stayed in Coyoacán, in a house which is now the Leon Trotsky Museum.”
“How did you meet Amelia Garayoa?”
Don Tomás took his time in replying. He took out a cigar, lit it and breathed in the smoke, then continued with his narrative.
In March of 1939 some gallery owners invited me to participate in a collective exhibition. As you might imagine, this was a very important opportunity for me. Lots of my friends came to the opening, Trotskyite friends above all, and one of them was accompanied by Amelia Garayoa and the American journalist Albert James. Orlando, the guy who brought them, was a good friend of mine, a journalist and party activist; he was a member of Trotsky’s inner circle and I think it was he who was the intermediary who helped James get his interview.
It was impossible not to notice your great-grandmother; she was gorgeous. She looked very fragile, almost ethereal; me and my buddies were immediately interested, even though us Mexicans don’t really go for skinny women, but she was something special. I can also give you another reason why I haven’t forgotten her, which was that she didn’t hide her feeling that there was nothing special about my paintings. You can imagine that I was overwhelmed that day by congratulations and insincere flattery, but your great-grandmother had no hesitation at all in telling me the truth. My friend Orlando introduced us but neglected to say that I was the artist who had produced these paintings that everyone was praising so highly. Amelia seemed to frown and look at the paintings with indifference.
“Don’t you like the paintings?” I asked.
“I think that the artist has good
portrait technique, but he needs more soul; no, I don’t think he’s a genius.”
We were all quiet and did not know what to say. Albert James looked at Amelia in annoyance, and good old Orlando was as lost for words as I was.
“Ah, women! Now they’ve got an opinion about everything. Look, kiddo, Tomás is one of the best, even if you don’t know all that much about painting,” my compadre said.
“I’m no expert, but you would agree that we’re all capable of seeing when we’re in front of a work of genius, a masterpiece. These pictures aren’t bad, but they’re also nothing special,” Amelia said, without appearing to realize that she was talking to the artist.
I was annoyed by the Spaniard’s comments, so I left the group and went to find people who would be more flattering. It was my day! And she had just ruined it.
I saw her three days later, at my friend Orlando’s house; he had organized a dinner for us and said that Trotsky would be there. I wanted to be able to speak with Trotsky, but in the end he didn’t come. I’ve said that he was obsessed with security, because Stalin had tried to kill him on several occasions, and of course, he finally succeeded.
Albert James was euphoric. He had managed to get his interview with Trotsky much sooner than he had hoped.
“I thought that they would keep me waiting for several days, but I arrived and got to do it straight away. He’s a very interesting person, it’s just a shame that he keeps on defending the excesses of the revolution,” James said.
“Excesses? Do you think that it’s possible to overthrow a regime without bloodshed? Tell me, how did the Americans free themselves from the British Crown? What did Lincoln have to do to get rid of slavery? My dear friend, history cannot move forward without blood being spilt,” I said with conviction, cheered on by my friend Orlando. “There was no other option in Russia, no other way to get rid of the czars and their regime, or to get rid of the counterrevolutionaries, it would have been impossible for the workers to seize power.”
“The problem is not the revolution, it’s that Comrade Stalin doesn’t want to share power with anyone. He’s picking off all his old Bolshevik comrades from his side, one by one,” Orlando added.
As well as being a foreigner, Amelia was the only one of us who knew anything about the Soviet Union, and, you know what? it wasn’t until much later that I thought how reserved she’d been in her comments. For all that we asked her about what life had been like in Moscow, Amelia didn’t offer any criticism or give us any clue about how things had really been. She described Moscow for us like a tourist guide, but told us little else.
I asked her what she thought of Trotsky, because she had been to the interview with Albert James.
“I think he is suffering a great deal. It can’t be easy to be in exile and to know that at any moment someone might try to kill you. This makes him very cautious, unconfident; of course, he has reasons to be so. I was more impressed by his wife Natalia.”
“Yes, well I didn’t think that there was anything special about her,” I replied, shocked that Trotsky’s wife had drawn her attention.
“I suppose that at first sight Natalia doesn’t seem a particularly special woman, but she is; she has followed her husband into exile, she looks after him, she comforts him, she protects him, she forgives him,” Amelia said.
“Ah, so they’ve told you gossip about Trotsky!” Orlando exclaimed. “I don’t think he’s really a ladies’ man, even though he’s allowed to have a few adventures here and there, just like any other man.”
“I think that living with a man like him in such circumstances is an act of heroism,” Amelia said.
I know that they say that Trotsky and Frida Kahlo had an affair. It meant nothing for either of them because Frida was so deeply in love with Diego, and Trotsky needed Natalia. But women don’t understand men and are very quick to judge them. Frida was a special woman, and Trotsky was under no obligation to resist a woman like that, don’t you agree?
Amelia and Albert James stayed a few more days in Mexico. The journalist wanted to know more about Mexican politics, and even managed to interview Lázaro Cárdenas, the president, but he also made contact with groups of Spaniards who had arrived months earlier. I put them in touch with certain exiles, including my friend José María.
José María Olazaga was a Basque, and had escaped across the French border just before Franco’s troops had beaten the Republicans and taken control of Asturias, Santander, and the Basque Country.
He arrived in Mexico with his wife and his son, as well as a young man who served as their secretary. They were Nationalists, from the PNV; they hadn’t been important figures in the party, but they were significant.
I suggested to the American Albert James that they meet with José María, because he would be able to tell them how the Spanish exiles were organizing themselves in Mexico. James accepted immediately, and I went to the meeting with my friend who, like Trotsky, had moved into Coyoacán.
Today, Coyoacán is just one more suburb of the D.F., but back then it was a little village ten kilometers away from the center of the capital. My friend had set up a printing press and was doing well with it, it had become the place where all the exiles came to print their posters and propaganda.
José María was waiting for us expectantly; I had told him that the American journalist was traveling with a Spaniard. You can’t imagine how shocked we were when Amelia, as soon as she entered my friend’s house, let out a gigantic scream. It was a scream of surprise, of joy. José María was with his secretary, a kid named Aitor. Amelia and he knew each other; as they told us later, Aitor’s sister had been Amelia’s nurse.
“Good heavens! It’s impossible!” Amelia cried.
They hugged each other and Amelia burst into tears, and even Aitor tried to hold his back.
“But what are you doing here? You were with your mother in the farm... ,” Amelia said.
“I had to run away. I helped José María and his family cross the frontier. You remember that you made me show you the paths the shepherds used to cross the border into France? It was only thanks to a miracle that we escaped. Once we were in France I thought about going back, but...”
“But I told him not to,” José María interrupted. “It was too dangerous. People knew that he worked with us and he was in danger. You know what was happening, the Falangists were going from village to village and there was always someone ready to denounce their neighbor. They were killing lots of people, don’t think for a moment that all the casualties were at the front.”
“And you, what are you doing in Mexico? Edurne told us that... Well, that you went to France... ,” Aitor said, a little embarrassed.
“Yes, I suppose she told you everything.”
Aitor lowered his head and murmured a “yes” that was almost inaudible. He seemed ashamed to know the things that he knew, and Amelia also seemed uncomfortable with knowing that he knew.
“My sister is still with your cousin Laura,” Aitor explained. “I think that they’re well, but I haven’t heard from them for a long time.”
“And your mother, and your grandparents?” Amelia asked.
“I know they’re still on the farm. They were interrogated by the Guardia Civil, but then they were released. You know them, they never got mixed up in politics.”
“And what was the last you heard about my family?”
“They’re having a bad time of it. Your husband... well, your husband is with the Republicans, and as far as I know he was wounded and then got better and went back to the front; I don’t know what’s become of him now. Your father and your uncle also joined up and were mobilized, the women stayed in Madrid. My sister wanted to stay with your cousin Laura, so... You know that she was a Socialist, or a Communist...”
“Yes, I know. Do you know anything about my son?”
“The last thing that Edurne told me was that sometimes she takes Laura to see him when his nurse, I think she’s called Águeda, takes him out for a walk. Your h
usband doesn’t want to have any contact with your family, but this Águeda is a good woman and lets your parents and your uncle and aunt see Javier in secret. The child can talk now, and Águeda is scared that he’ll say something to his father, so they’ve agreed that they will only see him from a distance, but they don’t get any closer because they know that your husband would sack Águeda if he found out.”
It was hard for Amelia to contain her tears. It was not hard to see that she felt humiliated. Her lower lip trembled and she wrung her hands.
“Are you going to go back to Spain?” Aitor asked.
“Going back? How? It’s impossible, they might even have me on a list as a Communist, I don’t know.”
“Are you in the party?” José María asked.
“Well, I’m in the French Communist Party, they never issued me a card in Spain.”
“In that case, you’re not on anyone’s list. They might let you back in,” José María said.
I think that this was the moment when the possibility opened up in Amelia’s mind.
“And you? Are you going to stay living in Mexico?”
Aitor said nothing, but José María spoke for him.
“I suppose we can trust you, so I’m going to speak openly. It’s better that we stay here for the time being; also, from what we hear the French government isn’t behaving well with Spanish nationals, and things aren’t like that at all here. We think that we should try to help the people who are still there, even try to help people to leave who are stuck now that France has closed its borders. We were talking about this yesterday: Aitor knows the paths across the border, so even though he would be running a grave risk he might be the best person to be there. But we haven’t yet decided anything. First we have to know what’s going on, and if this damned war is finally over.”