Volk (8 page)

Quality had to undergo an embarrassingly thorough medical examination. She was inoculated against typhoid and vaccinated for smallpox. She was ready.

It was not feasible to proceed directly from England to Spain, which was in the throes of its civil war. Indeed, had she tried to go there from America, she would have been refused, for international travelers were being required to sign a statement that they would not go to Spain. She had not been aware of that at the time, but in any event had started her trip from Canada, where the restriction did not exist. So now she traveled to France, where French Friends welcomed her. Already there were refugee camps just north of the Pyrenees where the Basques were fleeing the savagery of the Nationalist thrust against their homeland.

Quality visited one of the camps, helping to deliver food and supplies. She was appalled to discover that she could not understand the people at all; they spoke neither French nor Spanish. Somehow she had not realized that Basque was a different language. In fact, the Basques were a different people, looking much the same as others but separated by their culture. It seemed that their stock had been early inhabitants of the region, once far more widely spread, largely displaced by migrations and conquest. Now they were being displaced again, this time by bombs and bullets.

Spain had been a republic for several years, but there had been strife between divergent factions and general poverty, leading to unrest of increasing scale and intensity. It was exactly the type of social neglect that led to unfortunate consequences, as she saw it. In 1936 the military establishment had rebelled, supported by the Catholic Church and about a third of the people. Called the Nationalists, they had commenced a war of conquest against the Republicans who represented the formal government. It seemed unlikely that their effort would have been successful, except that they found powerful covert allies in Italy and Germany, the Fascists and the Nazis, who saw in this local war an opportunity to test their new weapons. So the Nationalists had the benefit of the most deadly modern technology, and they were gaining ground. They had taken the northern Basque region, and much of central and southern Spain, but not the great central capital city of Madrid. Now the battle line was across the north, with the western part of the nation Nationalist and the Eastern part Republican.

So here she was, a Quaker lady, going to war. But not as a combatant. Her quarrel was not with men, but with neglect, poverty and hunger.

She could not get authorization from the Nationalists to enter their territory, so she went to Barcelona, in the Republican region of the northeast. This city was not under siege, but signs of the war were everywhere. A melody was playing constantly, as if it were a hit tune, but when she listened she discovered it was of another nature. It was “The Four Insurgent Generals,” and told how they had betrayed the country, concluding “They'll all be hanging, They'll all be hanging!” Quality neither endorsed violence nor chose sides, but soon she found herself humming the refrain.

Each relief station had its warehouse and its supplies, and its ragged fleet of drivers to carry the food out to where it was needed. There were volunteer missions at every village, called shelters or canteens, where most of the feeding actually occurred. The emphasis was on infants, children, and expectant and nursing mothers, because they were the least able to fend for themselves. Many of the refugees were orphaned children.

Quality had thought there would be a period of breaking in, as there had been in England, before she would be allowed to go out into the field. She was mistaken; she went out with a driver on the first day after she arrived. She rode in a small truck whose sides were plainly marked with the five pointed Quaker star and the words SERVICIO INTERNACIONAL DE LOS AMIGOS CUAQUEROS—and whose motor, suspension and tires seemed none too sure. But that was what was available.

The driver was a Spanish man who, it turned out, had no special commitment to peace or feeding children; he had his own family to support, and this was a job that paid him a living wage. So he did his job, and did it well, but he was cynical about the net effect of the relief effort.

The assignment was not far away. Quality judged that they would be able to deliver their load and be back at the warehouse by noon. But the man merely shrugged. It seemed that such trips were expected to take a day, regardless.

Today's destination was a village about thirty miles behind the front. The fighting was not close, the driver said; all the same, one had to take care. Then, approaching a bridge, he came to a stop. Quality couldn't see any reason for it; this was out in the country, and no one else was in sight.

They got out and walked up to the bridge. The far half of it was gone. There was no barrier, no warning signs; it was just out. Had they tried to cross it at speed, they would have sailed into the river.

The driver didn't say anything. He had made his point. Quality's knees felt weak. Had she been traveling alone ...

Later she realized that the driver had probably known that the bridge was out. But he had educated her in a way she would never forget—and which might save her life some day.

Quality found some debris and set it on the road to represent at least a partial obstruction to future traffic. Then they turned the truck around and looked for a detour. A few kilometers downstream they found a serviceable bridge, and continued their route, perhaps not really behind schedule.

The next time they came to a bridge, Quality was glad to get out and check. This one was intact. So they had lost time—but the caution was necessary. Too much hurry could wreck them.

Then the motor started grinding. The driver pulled to a stop. He checked under the hood. He shook his head. “I can not fix it. I must get a mechanic. There will be a phone in the nearest village.” He hesitated.

“I can watch the truck,” Quality said. “I assure you, I will not steal anything.” She smiled, to show it was a joke.

But the driver did not smile. “It is not safe for a truck with food to be left alone. Also a young woman.”

Quality realized that he was serious, and that he was probably correct. This was not contemporary America, this was a war-torn nation. “Perhaps I could go to make the call?”

He shook his head. “Even less safe. I will hurry. It should be all right.”

“Yes, of course.”

He set out on foot, walking rapidly. Quality sat in the truck, abruptly nervous. She almost wished that the driver hadn't warned her, but of course it would have been foolish not to be aware of the danger.

She was in luck. No one approached the truck. In due course the driver returned. “It will be several hours,” he reported. “We must wait.” He did not seem easy.

“There is another problem?” Quality inquired.

“Now it is known that we must remain here, with food. There are many hungry people. They will come.”

And they would not necessarily be reasonable. If denied, they might turn to violence. Even had Quality not been a pacifist, that would be a problem. How could they protect the truck and themselves until the mechanic came?

Then she had an idea. “If we feed some, and enlist their support, we will use some food but may save the truck,” she suggested.

“But it is supposed to be done by the local authorities. There are not facilities, here on the road.”

“Then we must enlist the local authorities,” she said. “And make do as we can.”

He considered, and she was afraid he would reject the notion. Then he smiled. “You are resourceful. I will go back and tell them.” He got out and walked back toward the unseen village.

Quality didn't wait. She thought it best to make an immediate selection of the supplies to be expended, so as to keep the rest out of sight. She let down the tailgate and shoved things to it. She soon grew sweaty handling the boxes, and her good clothing became stained. It could not be helped. She was learning, again.

In due course the driver and a local volunteer arrived, by foot. The other was an old woman.

They waited, resting, for the woman was evidently frail from hunger. Also, the driver murmured, to be sure that proper procedure was being followed. Hurry was unseemly. He was educating Quality to what she would have to be alert to when she was on her own. “There is never enough food to feed everyone in need,” he explained. “We feed some infirm adults, and aged persons—if there is enough. There usually isn't. We must turn the men away. We require them to drink the milk at the station, to be sure the right ones have it. So the canteens are referred to as
Gota de Leche
, or Drop of Milk. When things are really tight, we have to do height/ weight measurements to determine the most malnourished children, and feed them first.”

Quality's horror was growing as she learned the realities of the situation. She had somehow fancied that bringing food to the needy would be a positive thing. Now she saw the ugly side of it. Grim decisions had to be made, and the good she was doing had to be cynically rationed. Indeed, there were men and women appearing, and the driver was waving them away, so that they kept their distance. “They know there will be trouble, if they take the children's food,” he said gruffly. “The woman is the wife of the leading man of the village; she has power, and knows what she is doing.”

“But they are hungry too,” Quality said.

“There is not enough for all.” That was the terrible reality.

A car arrived with some necessary equipment. Its driver was a young man who looked ferocious. The woman saw Quality's concern. “My son,” she said proudly. “He will keep order.” Quality nodded, relieved.

The woman began opening the boxes and taking out bags of powdered milk. She mixed it with water in a large kettle and stirred patiently to get it fully dissolved. “A few lucky towns have emulsifying machinery,” the driver said. “We use a lot of sweetened condensed milk, because it's nourishing and easy to mix, but it costs more. We take whatever we can get.”

Then, seeing no other legitimate volunteers, the driver helped, and Quality did too, as she came to understand the process. A volunteer who had not been duly cleared might steal the food; it was better to work directly with the woman and her son. One box contained chocolate, and another cheese. Then she found one with loaves of hard dark bread. She took a knife from the truck and carved slices.

Children appeared. They were of all ages, from perhaps fifteen to toddlers. Some were unmarked but lethargic; others had sores and crude bandages. Some were missing fingers, hands, or even arms. They were subdued.

They brought cups. Now the serving began: a cupful of mixed milk for each child, and a piece of bread. Quality wished she had butter or jam for the bread, but there was none. The children did not complain. They simply took the food and ate it.

When all had been served, what was left in the opened boxes was given to those who seemed most in need for seconds. Some was given to adults, but cautiously, according to the guidelines. Quality slipped bread to a woman who said she was pregnant, who took it without comment and disappeared. That was the way it had to be.

And this was just a random stop, because of the breakdown of the truck. Could all of Spain be like this? Quality was very much afraid that it was.

As they finished, a few of the children were acting more like children. They were running around and making noise, and some were laughing as they played impromptu games. All they had needed was some food.

The mechanic arrived. He got busy in and under the truck, doing what he could. Quality was to learn that the mechanics were geniuses of their trade. They were never held up for lack of parts; somehow they always made do, devising whatever would work.

Quality and the driver carried several additional boxes to the car, for later distribution. This might be considered a final bribe for the privilege of being allowed to depart freely—or as an act of additional compassion. Distinctions were blurring. The local children would be fed next day by the volunteers, and on the following days, while the food lasted. But what of the next week, when the truck would still be going to different villages, and these children would not have a meal?

“You will be checking to see that the food is distributed properly,” the driver said. “You will have to enforce it. Hungry people can not afford honesty.”

“But these ones here,” she asked. “This is not a regular stop. What of them?”

“They have been fed today,” he said. She knew that that was all that could be said.

When the truck was fixed, they drove on to the regular station. But it felt as if the day's work had already been done.

Quality was thoroughly tired by the time she got back to Barcelona. So she relaxed in her own fashion: she wrote a long letter to Lane, telling him all about it.

•  •  •

The Republicans were losing. Day by day the battle line changed, coming closer to Barcelona. The sound of the big guns and bombs grew louder, and the stream of refugees passing through the city increased.

But the relief work continued. When Quality drove out to a village near the territory of the Nationalists, there was a check point on the road. She had to stop and explain what she was doing. They were about to demand that the car be opened for inspection, suspecting contraband, but an officer put a halt to that. “Those are Quakers. They don't fight. They don't lie. The children need the food. If they bring food from other nations for our children, we will not stop them. We will send a man along to help.”

“I do have some food in the car,” Quality said. Because the village she was going to had not been supplied in some time, and the next truck was delayed. “Also some cloth and thread. We have workshops for refugees; the women and girls make clothing, and the boys make sandals from rope.”

The car was allowed to proceed, but a Republican soldier rode his motorcycle along behind it. Quality realized that the officer was not entirely trusting; if her mission turned out to be anything other than what she had said, she would be in trouble.