Guernica (27 page)

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 more 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 morning 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.”

“Have the priests said anything about the scapulars?”

“They are not about to deny such an obvious message; after all, the pews are filled, and many candles are being lit these
days.”

“Has anyone mentioned this theory to the members of the town council?”

“Some have tried,” Mendiola said, shaking his head. “But after this second death, they are becoming harder to find.”

CHAPTER 23

Annie Bingham, Charley Swan, and Mrs. Esther Bingham watched as Mr. Harry Bingham delicately tuned the wireless. Each reflexively
extended their right hand with fingers bent around an invisible dial, helping to make the final adjustment to capture the
purest signal. Edgar exercised, flying between the open door of his cage on the mantel and Annie’s shoulder. It had been an
important day for the British, particularly those whose collection of loved ones included someone in the services, and they
were eager to hear the historic announcement.

At flight school that afternoon, news spread of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s return to Heston Airport from the Munich
meeting with German chancellor Adolf Hitler, Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, and French prime minister Édouard Daladier.
Charley had been informed of Chamberlain’s pronouncements of peace secondhand, through several of the radio men working in
their windowless hut. The Sudetenland was to be ceded back to Germany. Hitler would be satisfied, and a war that could engulf
the continent had been avoided.

“Just like the Spanish,” Annie objected. “We didn’t know them, so it didn’t matter what happened to them. Well, Mr. Chamberlain,
I know them now. We should have done something to help them.”

Her parents and Charley, surprised by her passion on the matter, were unable to respond. Charley hoped that the evening broadcast
would temper Annie’s anxiety.

From the steps of No. 10 Downing Street, Chamberlain’s voice filled the Binghams’ parlor.

“We, the German Führer and chancellor and the British prime minister, are agreed in recognizing that the question of Anglo-German
relations is of the first importance for our two countries and for Eu rope. We regard the agreement as symbolic of the desire
of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”

The broadcast picked up the cheers of the gathered crowd as someone in attendance shouted, “Hip-hip-hooray for Chamberlain!”

“We are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference and thus to contribute to the peace of
Europe.”

Charley and Mr. Bingham joined the cheers on the wireless.

More casually, no longer reading from his prepared statement, Chamberlain continued. “My good friends, for the second time
in our history, a British prime minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honor. I believe it is peace for our
time. Now . . . go home and get a nice, quiet sleep.”

The four in the Bingham parlor exhaled. The prime minister assured them of peace and bade them a quiet sleep.

Annie and Charley removed the tea service and cups from the parlor, buying private time for closeness in the kitchen. As directed
by Chamberlain, Mr. and Mrs. Bingham nodded off in their chairs, breathing in time to the ticking mantel clock upon which
Edgar now perched, fast asleep himself.

Emilio Sanchez held no aspirations of political power in the service of Franco. A squad leader in a garrison in the south
of Spain, he had joined Franco’s rebellion because it appeared he would be shot if he acted otherwise. Politics and deep beliefs
were not a factor, since he had neither. He had merely followed the path of least resistance that day. The most fanatical
of the rebel officers pointed weapons wildly and fired without much provocation, so it would have been foolish to protest.
Such was the birth of many indifferent rebels.

As commandant of the forced labor unit in Guernica, Emilio Sanchez now appreciated his job. He was delighted to hold a position
that gave him authority without pressing responsibility on him. There was little oversight because none of his superiors cared
about the speed or quality of the reconstruction. The implied mandate was keep them at work, feed them as little as possible,
and don’t come around asking for more resources. If they die, get new ones. If they protest, shoot them. If more food is needed
for the guards, confiscate it from the locals.

He was now the law, and the rules were his to make and amend as required. Emilio Sanchez had no moral problems with the spoils-of-war
theory. His side won. He was surprised, in fact, given the nature of the times, that his uniform was getting tighter. He was
gaining weight.

Officers in his unit had commandeered a small, undamaged home at the edge of town for their headquarters. Sanchez’s office
was in the largest room at the back, off a porch where one could enjoy a view of the pleasant neighboring hillsides. At times,
in the evenings, he would retreat to a chair on the porch with a bottle of confiscated wine, have a smoke, and look out on
the pastoral setting and unwind from the day.

His evening reflection ended abruptly one evening. He was discovered the following morning by his aides, who noted immediately
that there was nothing accidental about his death. His chest had been run through by the two-tined Basque hoe, the
laia
, with such force that he had been pinned to the wall. Blood drained in parallel paths down the front of his uniform. Hanging
from the
laia
handle was a green scapular of the Virgin Mary, swinging in the morning breeze.

Charles Swan brooded over his secret. Before the holidays, he was to be sent to Norwich for training in the Blenheim bombers.
Even as his mates clustered to congratulate him, he fretted over Annie’s reaction. He decided to present her with the news
at a time when he sensed she was at her most understanding. It just never arrived, and he had held the news for a fortnight.

She went on with such enthusiasm about the children that whenever Charley met her after work he never had the chance to tell
her. Annie instructed the children in conversational English. At times, she took small groups to markets, where they could
use their new language skills. They often went to a nearby park on sunny days, where keeping track of the boisterous children
challenged her energy, if not her patience.

When Charley arrived at the end of her shift, she buried him in all the trivialities of her day. How could he listen to her
happy ramblings for half an hour and then break in and unload important news on her?

They spent almost every evening together in a tentative courtship. It took weeks before they held hands and a month before
they were seen walking arm in arm in the village. They visited the cinema once a week, where, in the darkness, they interlaced
freckled fingers until they cramped. After clenching and stretching his hand and drying his palm on his pant leg, Charley
sought out her small fist once again, and they would smile at each other.

But on a mild late-autumn afternoon, Charley reached the point where further silence would be inexcusable. He would arrive
as she finished for the day, they would walk together across a nearby park, and he would tell her of his move. Having rehearsed
his speech, Charley Swan stepped into chaos. Children’s screams echoed through the old rectory.

A child had opened Edgar’s cage. The bird circled the room once and alighted on the sill of an open window. The
niños
shouted, “Pretty bird! . . . Pretty bird!” Annie ran toward him, holding an index finger horizontally in the air, creating
a perch that always attracted Edgar whenever he fl ew around the parlor. Edgar looked at the screaming mob and made a hasty
exit without so much as a “docka, docka” for a farewell.

Annie Bingham could not blame the children, or Edgar. And she contained her emotions until Charley walked her out of the rectory.
Sniffles led to sobs and then to tears. Charley produced a handkerchief and hugged her to his chest. He kissed the top of
her knit hat, and then her forehead, and then her moist cheeks. Annie hugged back until the energy of their closeness overwhelmed
her sense of loss. Charley took Edgar’s empty cage from her, and they held hands as they walked slowly through the park. It
was not an appropriate time, Charley decided, to tell her that he would be gone soon as well.

After the Immaculate Mother sent three Fascists to their graves, she changed her tactics. The message had been sent, the point
had been made; those who had taken part in the destruction of this historic town were vulnerable to death at the hands of
a vengeful spirit.

Guernica town council member Angel Garmendia drowned in the river, Guardia Civil head Julio Menoria was found dead in a hole,
and forced labor commander Emilio Sanchez found himself skewered by a farm implement. All were discovered with Immaculate
Heart of Mary scapulars.

Townspeople knew this to be the work of a divine avenger. No mortal person could bring about the demise of three of the most
heinous individuals in the town without a trace. The scapulars said it all. Miracles happen. They heard about them all the
time at mass. What better place for her appearance? The Mother of God sees all, they said; they agreed that she was there,
and it was very clear that she was in a sour mood.

Further convincing the populace that this was the work of Mother Mary was that she was not unendingly vengeful. After her
initial thinning of the Falange herd, the curious deaths ended. But the messages continued.

Not more than a few weeks passed before certain individuals began receiving reminders, which added to the growing mythology.
One morning, when a Guardia commander headed off to work, he discovered a green medallion hanging on his front door. He retreated
to his bedroom for three days.

A council member opened the desk drawer in his office and found a scapular lying there, with the inscription facing him: PRAY
FOR US NOW AND IN THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH. He had an immediate physical response and then resigned his position.

Amid his customary daily dispatches, the commander of the local army garrison found an envelope with no name or address. With
his letter opener, which resembled a small saber, he sliced through the envelope to reveal a religious pendant.

The threatening visits quickly became public knowledge in the small and gossipy village, fomenting greater fear and suspicion
among the oppressors, as well as considerable satisfaction among the locals. At a time when the people of the village found
little cause for happiness, the news that a protective deity had so frightened a pipsqueak Francoist that he wet himself in
his office was enough to cause the day to brighten immeasurably.

The queue waiting to see the painting snaked several blocks down Whitechapel High Street, with forward motion limited to a
few small steps between long pauses in place. Except when plotting his plan to propose to Annie Bingham, Charley Swan had
been focused on the specific physical and mental mechanics of piloting the Blenheim bomber.

After two weeks of holiday, even as he headed toward an art exhibit, his mind flashed to the varied demands of flying. He
walked around corners as if banking hard; he felt the wind direction and calculated how its velocity would affect his airspeed.
His months in training changed him. But he had not changed more than Annie, who had inexplicably blossomed during his absence.
He could not help but think of her as an engine that now idled at higher RPMs.

The daily exposure to the Basque children energized her. Sucked into the social squall created by several dozen children,
Annie found no time for stifled comments or reserved expressions. Charley noticed the difference when he returned to Pampisford
to start their holiday trip to London. He discovered an assertive woman in place of the sheepish girl he had left a few months
before.

She greeted him with a shout of “Red!” a lengthy double-armed embrace, and a kiss on the lips, followed by a withdrawal for
inspection and then another forceful kiss. Although they had written every day since Charley left for his RAF base, Annie
still chattered the entire train ride to London, telling Charley of the children and her excitement over spending the holidays
with his family.

If anything, Charley edged in the other direction, as he now carried more thoughts that needed to be withheld. With “Blens,”
learning to fl y was no longer about physics and geometry; it was the study and practice of dropping bombs. No one could confuse
it with anything but war and killing the enemy. The reality of war’s peril caused him to plot his next waypoint. He wanted
to marry Annie before bombs dropped and bullets flew.

He proposed on Christmas Eve after mass. Annie shouted yes before Charley could open the ring box, and she cried on his shoulder
for several minutes. They decided that an early summer marriage would be appropriate, but the location and exact date would
be vulnerable to the dictates of the RAF.

Before the presentation of the ring, Charley camouflaged his most important mission with another thoughtful gift: a new budgie.
It was young, blue and yellow, and Charley had already named it Blennie. It delighted Annie.

“Maybe I can get Blennie to actually say a few things,” she said.

“You should try to keep his cage in your room where you could talk to him all the time,” Charley suggested.

“But Mother and Father enjoy a bird in the parlor,” she countered.

A week after their engagement, Annie decided she wanted to attend an exhibit at the Whitechapel Art Gallery, where Picasso’s
mural
Guernica
was to be on display.

“Some of my kids are from that town,” she explained.

Charley had heard nothing of the painting and agreed to go so he could enjoy Annie’s company. Once inside the gallery, they
understood why the line had moved so haltingly: People were reluctant to give up their place in front of the giant mural.

Annie anticipated the painting being a gory display. Instead, she found an almost cartoonish depiction in black and white.
And when they looked more deeply, they heard the soundless screams and the bellow of the horse, and they felt the heat coming
off the jagged white disc of light. They stood transfixed until the nudging of those behind them caused them to shuffle ahead.
And then they were out the half-open door and onto the street. Changed.

“Could that be us?” she asked Charley, pulling him close.

Charley held her. If he spoke, he might have answered, “Of course it could be. It could happen to any of us. You have no idea
how short a flight it is across the English Channel or the kind of weapons the Germans developed while they were flying in
Spain.”