Anarchy: a journal of desire armed. #39, Winter '94. ESSAYS @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR Catalonia! By Manolo Gonzalez Part 2 In 1939, 350,000 Spaniards went into exile. Many Anarchists took refuge in Latin America - in Mexico, Argentina and Chile. This is the second part of a personal memoir of an Anarchist family escaping Franco's fascists and the horrors to come. The first part appeared in Anarchy #38/Fall '93. NORTH AFRICA, FREEDOM AND MUCH MORE The ``Artemiss'' was now navigating in front of the coast of North Africa, directly across from Spain. War ships of different na- tionalities crisscrossed our path. We exchanged radio signals, identifying ourselves under the protection of the League of Nations and the agreements signed by most civilized countries. As we slowly approached Algeria, fast French Corvettes drew close to inspect our ship. From the rapid exchanges we could tell that the documentation provided by France was accepted, and we were reassured we would make it to the next port in the territory under French control. Oran had a small port, just a few cranes and buildings around a semi-military installation. The menace of war, of conflict that could break out at any moment, kept everybody in a state of alert. As we passed the quay leaving behind the jetty of open sea waves, we noticed a couple of French frigates, with all the sailors on board eyeing every part of our ship. From the vantage of the ``Artemiss,'' we saw the city, its well-defined avenues and wealth of palm trees. The cupolas of several mosques were distinctive landmarks, as were the minarets, located so that the call to prayer for the faithful could be heard all over the city. Captain Demetrio was on the upper deck keeping an eye on his crew. A small boat, armed with a heavy machine gun, came close to us, and some French officers, policemen and Navy personnel climbed aboard our ship. My father, the Basque leadership and two of the Quaker women in charge of the Jewish children formed some sort of parliamentary group to deal with the French. The anxious refugees crowded around to hear what the authorities had to say. There was fear of an ambush, of dangerous deals with Franco or, perhaps, even a decision to inter us in a concentration camp. We could hear the French, in pure Bureaucratese, asking for health certificates and visas to port of final destination, but, finally, they arrived at their real objective, a ``landing fee'' that would make it possible for all of us to ``enjoy'' Oran during the repair of our ship. ``Well, it seems that all is in order. We also have instructions for special care of the Jewish children,'' said a man in a pristine uniform, with a loud authoritarian voice. This produced a reaction of alarm among the Quaker women, but eventually it became clear that there was a powerful local Jewish organization, and it had prepared a welcome for the children. ``It will take several hours to consult with all our fellow pas- sengers about the landing fee, but we are confident a happy so- lution can be attained. After all, we are men of the world. We understand each other very well,'' declared one of the Basque in eloquent French. Although we were the exploited, he managed to make us masters of the situation, sophisticates, dispelling the image of undesirable troublemakers. ``Of course, gentlemen, take your time. We see no need to delay your docking any longer. I will meet with you tomorrow in my of- fice. A car will pick up your representatives. We wish you a pleasant stay.'' The officer, his white uniform brilliant in the sunlight under its magnificent gold epaulets, saluted elegantly, and all the French functionaries marched after him, smiling and chatting, relieved to be living in a world of real gentlemen, simple, full of courtesy, and so profitable. That night my parents and I had our dinner in the prow of the ship, where we could contemplate the lights of Oran and listen to the sounds of urban traffic and Middle Eastern music. But the powerful searchlights of the French warships played constantly against the sky above the port and the city, an insistent reminder that war was imminent. The next morning, some of the Basque, the two Quaker women and Anselmo Palau were waiting for the automobile to take them to meet with the French authorities to pay the ``landing fee.'' Most people, after contributing to the pool of money, left the ship looking for the pleasures of Oran, especially its big open markets, in search of second-hand clothing. Pilar, Coco, Moncha and Eric knocked at my door. My father shouted in English ``Cut it out, you spoiled anarchist brats!'' Then he pointed to me, ``Out, out. See you later.'' My mother added, ``Tell Moncha I'll be calling on her mother to go into town.'' I splashed my face and hands and washed my teeth in the saline water of our basin. The heat was already extreme, and all the metal parts of the ship were burning hot. Pilar had a cup of tea and a sweet roll for me. The roll had an acrid flavor of cinnamon and molasses. ``Moncha! My mom says she'll pick up your mother to go into town.'' ``Yes, she knows,'' responded my friend. It was then that I noticed two trucks waiting to pick up the Jewish children. The American Quaker ladies were imparting last moment instructions to a group of serious-looking, well-dressed men and women, who had come to escort the children to a reception by the large Jewish com- munity of Oran. Eric was going with us. He wanted to be with Pilar. But other Jewish boys were staying behind. Six of them walked over to meet some young men in British uniforms. Eric pointed them out to us, ``Our future army, the Hagganah. As soon as I get to Tel Aviv, I'll join.'' He was very proud. ``All right, all right. Come on, let's go. Come on, Palitos.'' It was Coco, already on the pier, waving the 1935 Baedeker of Oran he had found in the ship's library. Terra firma, immovable and solid under our feet, surprised us. We were all a little wobbly, but, after a bit of duck-walking to keep up with our guide, we left behind the piers, the custom house and the heavy metal fence that separated the port from the city of Oran. Suddenly the sights and sounds of North Africa were all about us. ``Now, listen. Let's agree on what we are going to do.'' Coco knew when to take charge. We were attentive but apprehensive, especially me. I did not want to visit museums or, worse, end up wandering in dusty old markets looking for ancient coins or ``rare'' books. ``First, we'll go to a public bath house....'' ``What!?'' we all exclaimed, hooting in astonishment at this suggestion. Except for Eric, who just said, ``We all need it.'' That settled it, and the girls agreed. ``Then,'' continued Coco, ``we separate. Eric and I have some business. Pilar and Moncha can go with Palitos wherever they want. But at one o'clock we meet for lunch. Afterwards, delights for all, music, cinema, flamenco!'' He pulled out a big wad of French money, his winnings at chess. ``We are rich!'' shouted Pilar. We were ready to follow Coco to the end of Morocco. Several carriages pulled by diminutive horses were waiting for sightseers. All the horses wore straw hats, while the drivers wore red fez and multicolor Arabian tunics. Moncha ran toward one of the coaches. ``Come, let's go, my treat,'' she shouted full of excite- ment. Groups of passengers from our ship could be seen here and there along the avenues. Our ride took us to the central area of the city. Big palm trees and impeccably clean gardens had the un- mistakable look of European colonialism. As we moved further into the city the European look disappeared. The native population used its distinctive ethnic garb. Women covered their faces. Markets, coffee shops, open-air food stands, donkeys, dozens of idle children in wait for some opportunity, gloomy-looking adults skirting the mendicants. I liked Oran. Our driver knew just the bath house. The proprietor received us at the door. There was a large pool of warm water, individual showers, a steam chamber. We chose the pool. We were given big white towels and gigantic bars of rose soap. A woman offered to wash and iron our clothing while we took our bath. ``Sure, why not?'' said Coco, ``After all we can't go back to dirty pants.'' We were the only customers. Awkwardly, we boys set aside our clothing and jumped into the pool. The girls giggled nervously, but followed our example. The sun streamed down through the high glass roof. All around the sides of the pool, set in mosaic, were strange written characters, azulejos, Arabian calligraphy. Coco informed us they were admonitions from the Koran regarding the importance of cleanliness. Suddenly, Coco was swimming and splashing and screaming like Tarzan. In an inexplicable burst of energy, I had a furious water battle with Moncha, and Eric and Pilar moved away, laughing and talking. ``Ah-ha, my friends! Soap. Remember soap?'' Coco brandished his bar above his head. I began to lather my arms and hair. With embarrassment and disbelief, we all realized how grimy we had be- come and proceeded to wash ourselves with great vigor. The manager came in and, moving two big levers, unleashed jets of clean water down upon us, all the while laughing at us. ``Ah, Spaniards. Dirty, dirty.'' And I had thought he was referring to our sharing the bath with the girls. ``Palitos, wash my back,'' asked Moncha, ``then I'll wash yours, all right?'' ``Sure, turn around,'' and, with utmost care, I lathered my friend's soft shoulders, gently soaped her neck and, with my little finger, worked around her ears. She submerged and came back up like a dolphin, spitting water and shouting, ``More, more! Come on, Palitos. I promise to wash you, too.'' Pilar, Coco and Eric were playing a complicated mathematical game based on assigning numbers to the letters of the alphabet and trying to figure out their ``lucky'' number. ``Mine is nine,'' said Eric. ``Me too!'' shouted Pilar. Coco said. ``You're cheating. I know better!'' Then the three of them jumped out of the pool, wrapped their towels about them and went to rest in a corner. The manager came in again. ``Perhaps the young ladies and gentlemen would care for some pomegranate juice, eh, and some figs?'' ``Yes,'' clapped Pilar. Moncha and I were alone in the water. She said, ``It's your turn.'' She grabbed my arms and began to soap my back, my neck, my shoulders. Then my chest. She was very close to me. I shut my eyes but could not manage to withhold a deep sound. In a husky voice Moncha said, ``Don't turn around.'' All other noises faded away. I was totally absorbed in this feeling, the touch of Moncha's hands, aware of her breasts close to my back. She pushed me down, gently shampooing the soap out of my hair. ``Are you going to see the blonde?'' Moncha asked me. I was confused. ``Who...what blonde?'' I sputtered. The manager returned, followed by a young girl in a white tunic, carrying a tray with glasses of red juice, ice and a mountain of big black figs. ``Ladies and gentlemen, your refreshments.'' He motioned the girl to leave the tray on a portable table. As he turned to go, he wagged his finger at me. The young girl remained and approached Pilar. ``Violets? Sandalwood? Jasmine?'' she offered small vials of perfume. Coco jumped up, ``For me, violets, like a Gypsy.'' I laughed and joined in, ``Yes, yes. I'll have Jasmine.'' Pilar chose Jasmine, too. Eric, somewhat taken aback, asked, ``This is acceptable for men?'' ``Trust me, old man, go ahead,'' encouraged Coco. ``All right, I choose sandalwood.'' Moncha decided on the violets. We applied our perfumes with the greatest delight. ``Ah, it's so good. Oh, delicious.'' we exclaimed over the fragrant drops. At that moment it was ecstasy. We sipped the pomegranate juice and cracked the ice between our teeth. The chilled figs were fragrant and sweet. We all looked at Coco, and Moncha said, ``Thank you, dear friend.'' Coco turned red. Then, breaking the spell, he said, ``Oh now, don't get sentimental. Eric, let's go, we have much to do.'' The woman arrived with our newly washed clothing. Coco prepared to pay, but she referred him to the manager. Now we turned our backs in self-consciousness and dressed quickly. The manager returned with the bill. ``Let's see...five Francs each for soap and towels. Juice and figs, five. And laundry, five. 40?'' ``Yes, of course,'' we all agreed, with a smile and a wink to each other. We were ready to give Coco our share, but he would not accept. As he paid the bill, he added, ``Here's 10 Francs, for the girl who served us and the woman who washed our clothing. Be sure they get it, all right?'' The manager whistled, and the women=FEperhaps mother and daughter=FEappeared. ``The gentlemen have a present for you....'' Outside, the morning sun was moving fast. Coco and Eric shook hands with us. ``Remember, we meet at one in the Baltic. It's a restaurant. Anyone can tell you where it is.'' ``The Baltic? Here, at the edge of the desert?'' I laughed. Coco just turned, and he and Eric marched away. The image of Eric moving away, tall, handsome, vigorous, the sun highlighting his bronzed arms, always comes back to me as vividly as if it was the present. Moncha gave me a provocative smile. ``Now you're in charge!'' Pilar suggested, ``We could explore a bazaar?'' Moncha agreed, and we set off. We encountered marvelous bronze objects, praying rugs, incense burners, exotic water pipes and fine silk and cotton shirts. ``Look, look,'' exclaimed Moncha, pointing to rows of pearls dis- played against black velvet in glass boxes. From the shadows, a woman, with a diminutive gold earring in her left nostril, came toward us. I noticed the red dot on her forehead. An Indian. I knew. I had seen them in the movies. ``Like my pearls, young fellow? Make an offer...100 Francs?'' Although it was Moncha who had expressed interest, the woman had directed her attention to me. We just looked. She moved away si- lently then and sat in a corner where she could keep an eye on us. We went back out into the sunlight. Someone waved to us. It was one of the Basque children. They were loaded with packages and eating red peppers, onions and morsels of meat from long wooden sticks. ``Hello. Come over, have a bite.'' But we were much more interested in our own adventure. ``See you back on the ship,'' I shouted, and we kept walking. We strolled into an area full of big white buildings. There was a Mosque, an imposing administrative palace, and, suddenly, we were walking through an elegant portal. We found ourselves staring into a garden where a very correct waiter was offering cold drinks to obviously wealthy French customers seated at many little tables. ``Want a cold drink?'' I asked. ``Why not, Palitos, let's find a seat,'' agreed Pilar. As soon as we opened the elaborate wrought iron gate a severe looking man, with a pistol on his hip, appeared beside us. In the same barking tone I had heard on the train to Marseille he told us, ``No trespassing. Out, out!'' A woman looked at us amused. ``Those must be the red Spaniard ruffians,'' we heard her comment. We stood there for a few seconds, dumb with embarrassment. But Moncha, furious and enraged, turned toward me, arched one shoulder and, in a tone that must have made the walls ring, said, ``Hey, red ruffian, come here!'' and in front of all the onlookers kissed me dramatically on the mouth. Pilar's eyes were wide with astonishment. Then in slow, perfect French, Moncha said to the crowd, ``Mon macraux, nez pas...!'' (My pimp, you know.) There were whistles and applause. We turned and walked out. We retraced our steps in silence until we came upon a large, open cafe with many tables on the sidewalk. There were a number of women seated about. We noticed their elegant European dresses, but then we realized they all had Arabian features. We sat down. A black waitress came over to us and in a low, quiet voice said, ``You know, this is not a place for children.'' ``What? What do you mean?'' I exclaimed in anger. ``Look around you, see the ladies?'' She spoke again in the same quiet tone, pronouncing ``ladies'' very slowly. ``So. They need a drink too!'' I heard myself say scornfully. ``Besides,'' I added in a flash, ``I could be a customer for them, you know!'' The waitress threw back her head in laughter. She gave up and asked, ``What will you have?'' ``That's better,'' I responded. ``Three lemonades, plenty of ice, and maraschinos!'' Pilar was smiling faintly, ``Palitos! A customer! Come now....'' ``Why not,'' I insisted heatedly. Under the table Moncha kicked me hard in the shin. ``That's why not,'' she hissed. Then we all three roared in delight and finally relaxed in our chairs. The passing scene was a busy one. Carts pulled by donkeys, bicycles, a multitude of people continually milling about. We could hear music, cymbals, and the ferocious arguments of nearby merchants. Once in a while a man would approach the ``ladies,'' and after a brief exchange, they might depart together. We followed them with our eyes, for a clue to the place of their tryst. It felt good to be watching all these exciting people. But even- tually Moncha reminded us, ``The Baltic...remember?'' With sudden daring, I announced, ``Let me ask for directions.'' I got up and walked over to one of the women, very beautiful, with deep black eyes. ``Pardon me, Miss, can you direct me to the Baltic restaurant?'' Although it was apparent she did not understand every word, her comprehension was perfect, as was her reply in French, ``Any coach can take you there.'' We arrived at the Baltic just minutes after one o'clock. Coco and Eric were waiting for us. They had ordered fruits, small pieces of roast lamb, ``pita'' bread, and yogurt. We enjoyed the meal, but it did not compare to our adventures of the morning. We agreed to cancel the rest of the program. Now we needed nothing more than to return to the ship. It was ``siesta'' time. Coco and Eric carried several boxes and a couple of long cardboard tubes. ``Maps?'' I wondered, ``What for?'' We returned to the ship along with many of the other passengers, exhilarated. The landing fee had been accepted. The generator was repaired. The ship was ready to sail. About five in the afternoon, the Jewish children came back. They carried packages of new clothing, new shoes and boxes of cookies and candies. Sailors were hauling up crates of fresh fruits and Kosher food for the duration of the trip to Chile. The generosity of the local Jewish Agency was evident, but the emotional farewell of the Jewish men and women of Oran to these children was for all of us a reminder of the brutality of Christian Europe. Little did we know at the time of the Holocaust to come. WRITTEN IN THE STARS The ``Artemiss'' sailed about nine in the evening. Life on the ship returned to routine. People reading here and there, bridge players, romances, and for us, the surprise gift of Coco and Eric. Our friends marched us toward the top deck. We carried the boxes and tubes, blankets, even a batch of sweet rolls. ``Okay, spread the blankets,'' instructed Coco as he proceeded to give us large flashlights and a compass. He brought out a tripod, and low and behold, a telescope, which he and Eric mounted. He opened the tubes and brought out celestial charts. The stars and constellations. He lit his torch and pointed to a star. ``Now, what's the name of that one?'' he asked. We were silent. ``Now check our position. Are we north or south of the Equator? In the Atlantic?'' We got busy looking for constellations. Alternately, we lay on our backs to pick out formations in the sky. Then we would pore over the charts to compare and identify what we saw. ``There is Aldebaran! There is Venus!'' ``Mars!'' Moncha shouted. We were caught up in the magic of the starry night. The universe was open to us. We lay there in wordless wonder. Then Eric started to recite. His voice carried the words of a poem in a simple, direct way, without artifice. It was a sonnet form Shakespeare. Looking at Pilar, he spoke, =09If I could write the beauty of your eyes =09And in fresh numbers number all your graces, =09The ages to come would say, ``This poet lies''; =09Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. I moved close to Moncha. Eric moved away, pointed to a star, and said very quietly, ``That's David's, King of Israel.'' This went on for several nights. We could tell we were moving away form Africa, moving closer to the tropics, nearing Central America and, finally, crossing the Panama Canal. Eventually, I noticed that Eric closed his poetry recital every night in the same way. He would pray, =09Do not let the oppressed retreat in disgrace. =09May the poor and the needy praise your name. =09Rise up, O God, and defend your cause. =09Remember how fools mock you all day long. =09Do not ignore the clamor of your adversaries. =09The uproar of your enemies which rises continually. Many years later, when we remembered those moments, Coco told me, ``It was the 74th Psalm.'' By then, the Nazis had been destroyed. Eric had joined the Army of Israel in 1948 and died in combat, defending his kibbutz, ``Star of Hope.'' We kept our eyes on the changing constellations and, with the help of our flashlights, spent every remaining evening in our favorite corners on the deck of the ship. Often our parents would come to hear our careful recitations of the new stars we could identify. Sometimes, we fell asleep at our post, only to be awakened early in the morning by the tropical dew. One night, as Moncha and I were discussing the fine points of Castor and Pollex and the story of Leda and the Swan, we heard a commotion. There were shouts, people running, voices out of control and somebody screaming, ``Kill him! Kill him!'' Most of the noise and the running was on the lower deck, so we could not see what was going on. Moncha, frightened but curious, jumped up quickly and ran down one of the metal stairs towards a large group of people. I followed her. We saw a man with his face bloodied, surrounded by a furious mob. ``What happened?'' I asked a woman. ``None of your damn business! Get the hell out of here!'' I recoiled from the harshness in her voice. Moncha took me by the hand, ``Come on, let's go.'' We went to the upper deck, and from there we tried to pick up some clue of the incident. We saw captain Demetrio. He held a revolver, and two of his sailors, holding large clubs, were poised behind him. ``That's enough. Come on, move on. I'll handle this.'' shouted the captain. ``No, Demetrio,'' said a burly Basque, a political Commissar for the trip. ``We agreed that discipline was our business!'' ``Yes, but not lynching.'' responded the captain. ``All right, take him away, and then we'll let you know what we've decided. Agreed?'' insisted the Basque. The culprit, still bleeding from a cut on his head, was taken away by the sailors, while the women taunted him, ``You bastard! You'll die, you rapist!'' We walked around the ship, asking here and there what had happened. No one would tell us anything until a young sailor explained, ``Oh, that miserable idiot! A real pig! He raped a Basque girl.'' He was ashamed even to speak of it. The adults ordered all the children to the mess hall. The Jewish children were with the Quakers. We talked in quiet voices. We knew what had happened. Only Coco, Pilar, Moncha and I knew that the man would be executed. We heard nothing more. People started to fall asleep. Then suddenly we heard a splash into the water. It was over. "In the Aftermath of the Spanish Civil War" follows Manolo Gonzalez' two-part series titled "Life in Revolutionary Barcelona," which appeared in Anarchy #35/Winter and #36/Spring '93.