CRecuerdos de una exilada (Mis experiencias durante la guerra civil de Espafia, 1936-1939) Pablo Picasso's Guernica Susana Lopez MarquésCover illustration: 1937; Great and harrowing mural painting (named for the Basque town bombed in 1937 by the Fascists) inspired by the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936. Guernica was commissioned by the Republican government for the Spanish pavilion at the 1937 World's Fair in Paris. As compensation Picasso was provided with a studio in Paris on rue des Grands Augustins large enough to accommodate the enormous canvas (11.5 X 25.5 feet; 3.49 x 7.77 metres). Dora Maar worked with him to complete the final work, which was realized in just over three weeks. The imagery in Guernica--the gored horse, the fallen soldier, and screaming mothers with dead babies (representing the bull- fight, war, and female victims, respectively)--was employed to condemn the useless destruction of life, while at the same time the bull represented the hope of overcoming the unseen aggressor, Fascism. CRecuerdos de una exilada (Mis experiencias durante la guerra civil de Espafia, 1936-1939) Dedico estas mal hilvanadas lineas a mis nietos, por si algin dia las llegan a leer, conozcan algo de la vida de su “Abuelita”. Noviembre de 1979. Susana Lépez MarquésMi madre escribio esto en 1979 y me lo dio poco después. Yo, claro, lo lei, conté algunas partes a mis hijos y lo guardé. Hace cosa de un aiio se nos ocurrié a las dos que yo deberia traducirlo al inglés para sus nietos, lo cual hice en otofio de 1995. Pensé que debia mandarlo escribir a maquina, hice algunas indagaciones y no segui. En diciembre de 1995, muy de repente, murié mi madre. Entonces estas “memorias”, como ella siempre las lamaba, adquirieron aun mas importancia y decidi mandarlas imprimir. A los lectores que solo leen inglés les debo una disculpa, pues tinicamente tendran un pobre reflejo de lo que esta escrito. Mi madre escribia un espafiol claro y elegante y aunque yo he traducido el sentido se ha perdido gran parte del estilo. Ella dedico estas memorias a sus nietos, mis hijos. Yo, a mi vez, dedico la traduccion a sus dos hermanas y dos hermanos, mis queridos tios. Elvira Lord, Marzo de 1996. La familia, antes de estallar la guerra civil, en el jardin, delante del surtidor, que nos servia de ducha al volver de la playa. Mamé y Elvirita al pie de la terraza.En la terr Faltan Noemi y Papa Adolfo, en el jardin; se ve la playa y monte Ulia. Al otro lado, esta el monte Igueldo y en frente, Urgul y la isla. uestra vida se deslizaba tranquila; este verano, como tantos otros, pasabamos los dias entre la playa, excursiones, “dias de moda” en el casino de Igueldo, sin que nada indicase ni nos hiciera sospechar la tragedia que se avecinaba y que iba a cambiar de un modo tan radical la paz y existencia de innumerables familias, que, como la mia gozaban de armonia y union para transformarse de repente en lucha y odio entre compatriotas, compafieros ayer, enemigos de pronto, ya que una guerra civil es la peor de todas. Amanecio el 18 de julio y al suave murmullo del mar que en nuestra casa constantemente nos acunaba, se unio el de tiros y tumulto. Precisamente, el Domingo anterior, una inglesa - Miss E. Gillespie - que pasaba ese verano con nosotros, y ocupaba el cuarto que Ilamabamos “de la torre”, porque - efectivamente - la formaba, y del que, por tener dos balcones y dos ventanas, se oia el ruido de la gente en la playa, al despertarse, pregunté qué pasaba - Nada - le contestamos. El siguiente, ya no era esa alegre algarabia, sino los gritos y disturbios de una revolucién, pero ella no se inmuté - Es la gente - dijo. -No, - esta vez es algo mas serio - le respondié mi madre. Por cierto, cuando el cénsul britanico, amigo nuestro, viendo que el asunto se agravaba, dio orden a sus sibditos de abandonar el pais y puso un barco para este servicio, ella dejé en casa un batil con su ropa y regalos, para que se le mandase ms tarde, cuando volviera la calma, y, alli se qued6, junto con todos los muebles y posesiones de toda una vida de sacrificios de mis padres. - Mas han perdido Vds. - fue su comentario, y, jqué verdad! Alli quedaron enterrados - no sdlo los bienes materiales, que, al fin y al cabo, pueden recuperarse, sino también, esperanzas, ilusiones y suenos de juventud, que ya se perdieron para siempre. Ain no nos dabamos cuenta de la gravedad de la situacién; creiamosque seria cosa de unos dias, unas semanas, tal vez ... Asomados al balcon de la sala, volvimos a ver los tranvias por el paseo de la Concha y pensamos que se habia restablecido la normalidad hasta que nos llego muy de cerca el silbido de una bala para hacernos retirar y cerrar a carrera el balcén ... Los dias pasaban y el globo no “se desinflaba” como mi padre en su optimismo expresaba: - el globo ya se desinfla - ;Qué inocente! Llegé el momento en que nos vimos obligados a salir de Donosti y buscar refugio en Bilbao, pues se aproximaban las fuerzas de Franco y se temia que pronto caeria San Sebastian en poder de los fascistas. Ain asi, seguiamos optimistas. -Volveremos en unos dias - nos deciamos; no nos hace falta ni equipaje. Asi quedaron hasta las camas hechas y todo preparado para nuestro regreso, el que jay!! no se realizo. Sin embargo, tuvimos la suerte de no caer en Bilbao como tantos otros, en refugios colectivos, sino que un médico, amigo de mi padre, al tener que huir, nos ofrecid su piso magnifico para evitar que se lo requisasen y metiesen en él a gente sin escrupulo ni conciencia, que, como en estos casos, siempre hay, se aprovecha de las circunstancias para apoderarse y destruir lo ajeno, con la disculpa que es del enemigo. Refugiados en Bilbao * legamos a Bilbao - lugar de nacimiento de mi padre, mi hermana Noemi, mi hermano Carlos y el mio, precisamente el dia 22 de Agosto, mi cumpleaiios. Al principio, aparte del sitio y habitar en un piso - el principal - en vez de una villa - no cambié mucho el ritmo de nuestra vida, pero pronto, los problemas y dificultades que trae consigo una simple revolucion, maxime, una guerra civil, se hicieron sentir: los bombardeos anunciados por las radios controladas por las tropas fascistas, especialmente la de Sevilla, en la que la voz del grosero general Queipo de Llano pronosticando: “En Bilbao no quedara piedra sobre piedra” - nos hacia reir. A éstas, las estaciones del Gobierno republicano contestaban con no menos ironia y la poblaci6n civil hacia chistes sobre ello, pero por poco tiempo, pues cumplieron bien sus promesas. Se aproximaba la Navidad de aquel funesto afio de 1936 y oimos por la radio Sevilla el ofrecimiento de ya que los bilbainicos no tendrian turrén nos enviarian unas almendras garrapifiadas y ... bien las mandaron; ayudados por aviones y pilotos alemanes e italianos sufrimos el bombardeo peor hasta entonces. No queriamos nosotros bajar al refugio instalado en los sotanos de la casa, pero nos vimos obligados a ello al sentir temblar todo el edificio e incluso caer y romperse en mil pedazos las figuras de loza que habia en repisas en el comedor. No recuerdo cuanto tiempo estuvimos alli metidos - guna hora, media, una eternidad? - estremeciéndonos a la caida y explosion de cada bomba que parecian mas cercanas cada vez y contando los segundos entre una y otra al mismo tiempo que oiamos los gritos de dolor de gente corriendo hacia los refugios, hasta que al fin soné la sirena de fuera de peligro y salimos para llorar de amargura viendo la destruccién causada en aquella “invicta villa”: ambulancias, coches con heridos, agitando paiiuelos blancos para abrirse paso, los de bomberos, edificios derrumbados e incendios y llamas por todas partes. Llegé y paso esa Navidad de 1936, en la que el mensaje de paz ybuena voluntad entre los hombres no hacia eco en ningin corazén; por el contrario, odio y venganza predominaban - cosa natural - en los pensamientos de aquella poblacién tan castigada. A los bombardeos se unié la escasez de alimentos y como consecuencia el hambre, terrible consejera. Recuerdo que haciendo jerseys y calcetines de lana para nuestros milicianos, tenia siempre un vaso de agua para ir bebiendo y asi aplacar y tratar de acallar las exigencias del estomago ... Y sin embargo, seguiamos optimistas, oyendo y queriendo creer los comentarios como: “Los cruceros republicanos estan formando abanico alredeor del puerto de San Sebastian, que caera de nuevo en poder del Gobierno en unos dias ... Noemi y yo, que perteneciamos ya por anos a la F.U.E. (Federacion universitaria escolar), una agrupacion estudiantil de izquierdas, con otros compaiieros llevabamos libros a los hospitales de sangre y tratabamos de animar a los heridos, cojos, mancos, ciegos, toda una generacion joven caida y acribillada en la lucha por lo que es, o debe de ser, inherente a todo ser humano - la libertad. Carlos fue llamado para servir en el ejército del Gobierno legal y Adolfo se presenté voluntario, aconsejado por el hambre, pensando que, al menos, en el cuartel no faltaria el pan. El era el que se levantaba a las dos o tres de la madrugada para ponerse en cola ante las panaderias que daban el racionamiento: un pedacito mintsculo por persona, que desaparecia en cuanto Ilegaba a nuestras manos - cuando Ilegaba - pues a veces, no alcanzaba el suministro a todos los que esperaban y asi los ultimos, después de horas aguantando Iluvia, viento y frio a que se abriesen las puertas, se tenian que volver a casa sin conseguirlo, a pesar de poseer las cartillas de racionamiento. Cuando se podia obtener algo, como judias o garbanzos careciamos de sal para cocinarlo y no lo podiamos atravesar. Elviri (el bebé de la familia) y yo, que a pesar de la diferencia de edad, éramos muy buenas amigas, conseguiamos hacer algunas sisas a nuestra pobre madre, la que algo aturrullada por la situacién, no se daba o no queria darse cuenta, y nos ibamos al cine a entretener el hambre o, a veces en algtin café, si teniamos la suerte de encontrarlo, daban una taza de chocolate que, aunque malo, hecho con agua, nos sabia a gloria... Adolfo se escapé una noche del cuartel y se vino a casa, todo asustado, ante el anuncio de que salian al frente. jEra sdlo un chiquillo y mucho mas nifio en caracter que en afios! Mi padre, muy cumplidor del deber, le obligé y acompaiié de nuevo a internarse. Personalmente, nunca aprobé esa actitud; pensaba, quiza cruelmente, por qué no se apunta él? En el mes de Abril el Gobierno vasco anuncié que se preparaba una expedicion de nifios y maestras a Inglaterra para proteger a éstos y al mismo tiempo aliviar un poco la situacién de los padres. Hubo otras a Bélgica y otros paises (en el libro “El otro arbol de Guernica” esta bien descrito), y Noemi como maestra que ya era del plan profesional y habia ejercido por un poco tiempo en “La Arboleda”, un pueblo minero cerca de Bilbao, se enlist6 y asi mismo Elviri, como alumna y con gran pena les vimos salir de aquella estacién de Achuri, en compafiia de tantos nifios con sus nombres cosidos a la ropa. {Qué escenas de padres despidiéndose de sus hijos sin idea de cuando ni si les volverian a ver! Yo quedé con los mios pasando hambre, bombardeos y miseria sin saber nada de mis hermanos, ya luchando en los frentes, hasta el mes de julio; ya entonces se veia - a pesar de tratar de no verlo - que Bilbao no podria soportar mas la situacién, en la que los cruceros de Franco, rodeando el puerto no permitian entrar alimento alguno y los soldados del Gobierno iban retrocediendo tanto que los frentes estaban ya a las mismas puertas de la ciudad; se podian oir los disparos e incluso las balas llegaban a las calles; a mi me cayo una al lado; ni me inmuté, el valor y cobardia estan tan unidos en estas circunstancias que no creo es posible definirlos separadamente; de puro cobarde se puede pasar a un gran valor; no hay intermedios ni se piensa en ello. Sabiamos que Bilbao caeria en cuestion de dias o, tal vez de horas y que si no conseguiamos salir, alli moririamos y 4como?... La tiltima noche que pasamos en aquel piso de Henao 60, estuvimos oyendo a la gente que corria tratando de escapar en carros, coches, cualquier medio, los tiros mas cerca cada vez, y, nosotros como en una prision, esperando que amaneciese, con la esperanza de que con la luz llegaria la salvacion, y asi fue, pues durante ese dia de angustia, un amigo de otro amigo ofrecio tratar de Ilevarnos en su coche a Santander,ciudad donde vivimos y pasé mi nifiez, por lo que teniamos amigos alli. {Qué viaje! Imposible olvidarlo. Tuvimos que esperar a que anocheciese por ser mas facil la huida amparados por la obscuridad. Llegé al fin la noche de aquel triste, interminable dia y nos pusimos en marcha por la carretera bordeando el mar, pero, jqué distinta de la que conociamos en tiempos mis felices! Los barcos de Franco bombardeando la fila de coches, hasta personas andando, obscuridad absoluta. Nosotros, mas afortunados acurrucados en el suelo del auto para no ofrecer blanco a las granadas y un hombre a pie delante para ir indicando el camino. 10 CGrotos tomadas cuando viviamos en Santander. En el paseo de Pereda, en el muelle del que, anos mds tarde salimos en distintas circunstancias. Carlos, pap, Noemi, mama y yo. La familia en el balcén en 1930. La casa donde viv. mos en Santander y a la que volvimos en la evacuacién de Bilbao. En la Alameda: Noemi, yo. Carlos, Adolfo, Manolito y Carmencita de Vargas, Elviri y Pepito de Vargas, los que vivian en otro piso de la casa, Fueron a Méjico. IWegada a Santander )? entira nos parecié llegar a Santander al amanecer jqué tranquila } parecia la ciudad, dormida atin, en comparacién a la que dejamos! Nos dirigimos al piso en el que habiamos vivido, ocupado entonces por Dn Pedro Maiiueco y su familia - era el pastor que substituy6 a mi padre al trasladarnos nosotros a Donosti. Nos recibieron con mucho carifio, aunque les despertamos, cosa nada agradable en las circunstancias por las que todos los espafioles atravesaban, en las que el suefo era el mejor calmante. Pasamos el resto de la noche sentados y al siguiente dia fuimos a Torrelavega, a la casa de Dn Gabriel Perrett, otro amigo de la familia, quien era el director de la fabrica Nestlé en aquella ciudad. Dicha casa guardaba muchos recuerdos de nuestra nifiez, pues alli habiamos pasado mis hermanos y yo dias muy felices. Dita Susana, su esposa, con los dos hijos, aun nifios, habian salido a Suiza, huyendo de los disturbios y, al enterarse de nuestra llegada, mandé6 un telegrama a su marido, llena de miedo, pensando que cuando Santander cayese en manos de Franco, tomarian represalia contra él por admitir refugiados “rojos” y rogandole que nos buscase otro alojamiento, pero él, mas noble, se rid de estos temores y alli nos quedamos, esperando a que los acontecimientos resolviesen la situacion, en paz bien apreciada después de la inquieud y sufrimiento de meses pasados. Nos Ileg6 la noticia de que del puerto de Santander salian barcos con mujeres y nifios, que escapaban de ese infierno hacia la costa francesa; no podia uno apuntarse y esperar a que se le llamase; sencillamente habia que ir al muelle cada dia y hacer cola entre miles de personas con la esperanza de embarear como fuese y asi, nos trasladamos de nuevo a Santander, con pena de dejar lo que nos parecia un oasis de paz en aquel desierto de guerra por el que atravesabamos. Yo me quedé en la casa de A Quintana - antigua compaiiera de estudios - hoy dia viviendo en Méjico, a donde pudo escapar - mis padres y abuela en otra casa; la gente ofrecia 12 hospitalidad a los que iban Ilegando huyendo de las tropas franquistas y alli estuvimos unos dias hasta que al fin, después de horas esperando en el muelle del paseo de Pereda (otro lugar de nuestros paseos de nifios con papa, el que por haber sido marino le gustaba Ilevarnos alli, 0 en bote a los pueblos, Pedrefia, Somo, Pedrosa, al otro lado de aquella hermosa bahia) pudimos embarcar en un barco inglés de transporte de carbén, en el que habian colocado unos bancos, por cierto muy estrechos, en cubierta yen ellos decidimos colocarnos, por preferir el aire libre al infectado de olora muchedumbre y vomitos de las bodegas; en medio de un bombardeo, en el que el puerto era uno de los blancos, fuimos despegando de tierra, con pena de dejar nuestra amada Espaiia, donde quedaban mis hermanos luchando no sabiamos dénde y amigos muy queridos, para dirigirnos a lo desconocido, a un destierro del que ni idea teniamos; s6lo la esperanza de que no duraria mucho tiempo nos fortalecia y animaba. |Quién ibaa pensar que seria para el resto de nuestras vidas! ~Hubiéramos salido de haberlo sabido? No puedo contestarme. Otra noche en vela, inconfortable por la estrechez de los bancos, en los que sdlo habia sitio para ir sentados rigidos, fria, ya que estabamos a la intemperie y de terror, pues el destructor “Cervera” nos perseguia, amenazando bombardear. Los marineros ingleses, por altavocess anunciaban que solo iban nifios y mujeres; ordenaron a los hombres - entre ellos mi padre - ninguno joven y algunos enfermos, que se escondiesen en las bodegas. Con la primera luz de la aurora divisamos la costa francesa y las casas blancas entre el verde de los campos. jCudnto envidié en aquel momento a los que imaginaba, en ellas dormian! 13@erano de 1937 ( Gvancia) Delante de la casita, donde viviamos. Grupo de los nifios y jovenes de nuestra expedic (Francia) Dando un paseo por el campo. Mamé, la abuela y yo , al lado del pozo y sacando agua, papé.La fabrica y ala derecha el costado de “nuestra casa”. Con un amigo del tio Abelardo, que vino de Paris a vernos. En el jardin de la casa. Nosotros y las 3 donostiarras. Yo con un “amigo”. 16 aT[egada a Francia y nuestra vida alfi ® legamos a Burdeos. Al desembarcar repartieron pan y chocolate y pasamos un examen médico antes de meternos en un tren sin mas explicaciones, ni sabiamos cual seria el punto de destino. En cada estacién paraba para dejar paso a los de pasajeros franceses, que tenian gc6mo no? la prioridad y, desde el andén, mujeres espafiolas, refugiadas anteriores, preguntaban llorando, a gritos: {Ha caido Bilbao? jAy, pobres! - No sabéis a d6nde venis - y trataban de arrimarse impedidas por los brutos gendarmes franceses. Esto nos dio muy mal augurio. En ese tren abarrotado pasamos dos noches y dos dias; a ratos, las jovenes ibamos de pie para que las mas ancianas pudieran echarse un poco y descansar. Al fin, al llegar a una estacion que nos parecié grande, resulto ser Dijon, nos mandaron bajar; yo tenia los pies tan hinchados que andaba con mucho esfuerzo. Nos esperaba una comision y en camiones nos Ilevaron a un local grande donde nos sirvieron algo de comer y dijeron que esa noche estariamos mal acomodados en un pajar, pero mejoraria “el hotel” al dia siguiente. Nos tumbamos en la paja todos juntos; hombres, mujeres y nifios, pero creo que no he pasado mejor noche en mi vida; el poder estirar las piernas era un lujo que casi habiamos olvidado; dormi como un lirén y asi, supongo, los demas jtan rendidos estabamos! A la majfiana, nos dividieron para conducirnos a distintos campamentos; a nosotros nos tocd Clénay par St Julien, en el centro de la llamada Cote d’Or, por el trigo que alli se cultiva y el alojamiento mejor prometido result6 ser unos barracones sin nada mas que suciedad y telas de arafia; cada uno consistia en dos cuartuchos; mis padres ocuparon uno y el otro la abuela y yo. Nos dieron un saco a cada uno para Ilenar de paja para almohada (aunque vinieron a buscarlos al marcharnos consegui guardar el mio de recuerdo). Lo primero que hicimos fue sacar agua del pozo que en el campamento habia y fregamos lo mejor que pudimos el “hotel” antes de meter “los muebles”: dos caballetes y una tabla para cada saco de paja. El retrete consistia en unas tablas con una cortina de puerta y un agujero 18 en el suelo; cuando estabe ocupado colocabamos un anuncio en la cortina: “Poniendo un telegrama a Franco” y asi al yerlo si otro venia, esperaba ... prueba del cardcter espafiol que hace chistes de sus desgracias y este temperamento nos ha salvado en muchas ocasiones. Por suerte, pocos dias estuvimos alli nosotros; cuando vino el alcalde del pueblo para preguntar sobre cada uno, empleos, etc, al enterarse del de mi padre, por ser él evangélico nos ofrecié una casita que tenia al lado de una fabrica, también de su propiedad. Era de dos pisos: abajo, un cuarto con fregadera, que usamos de cocina y un retrete sin agua, pero privado y con asiento, que comunicaba con el rio que pasaba al lado ... y arriba, un pasillo con balcon al final, que daba al huerto del alcalde, del que algunas manzanas hurtamos - solo para evitar que se pudriesen - y cuatro cuartos: uno para mis padres, otro para la abuela y yo, el tercero lo ocuparon tres donostiarras, a las que se lo ofrecimos y el otro lo dedicamos a comedor. Lo amueblamos con las camas de paja y con cajones hicimos mesitas, las que cubrimos con tapetes de ganchillo y punto y teniamos siempre flores que cogiamos del campo y asi le dimos un aspecto hogarefio y, hasta agradable. Cada semana nos daban la paga; unos francos - no recuerdo cuantos - por persona (este dinero lo suministraba el gobierno vasco; a los franceses ni Espana ni los espafioles debemos nada; s6lo traiciones). Podiamos vivir independientes, lo que no es poca cosa, y, hasta, con economias, nos llegaba para hacer algun viajecito a Dijon y disfrutar de un dia de salida. La gente del pueblo se portaba bien con nosotros; nos hacian algunos regalos de huevos, leche y verdura que ayudaban a nuestros ahorillos. Disfrutabamos de paz, sin temor a oir las sirenas de alarma y peligro de los bombardeos. Al principio, atin nos estremeciamos al sonar la de la fabrica que teniamos al lado. No lo pasébamos mal; como hacia buen tiempo, las jovenes soliamos ir a nadar a un lago que cerca habia y hacer excursiones, pero todos dejamos seres queridos en Espaiia - esposos, hijos, hermanos, novios ...-y la incertidumbre de qué seria de ellos, lo que estarian sufriendo, ni siquiera si vivian estaba siempre en nuestras mentes y pensamientos, aunque lo disimulabamos.Un dia tuvimos la visita de Dita Susana Perrett, y nos dijo que su marido le habia escrito que Santander caeria en poder de Franco de un momento a otro y esto - es natural - cayO como una bomba entre las refugiadas alli e incluso en nosotros, que teniamos a los nuestros en medio de la lucha. Nos visité también un amigo del tio Abelardo, de Paris, y el tio Antonio, el cual salié de Espafia en otra expedicidn anterior a la nuestra y estaba haciendo mucho bien en ella. El volvié a Gerona al salir de Francia y alli muri fue la exclamacion de la abuela, al enterarse. 20 Salida de Grancia con rumbo a England r. ban pasando los dias sin noticias de Espaiia, s6lo las que podiamos leer en los periddicos, y lleg6 Octubre y con él la érden del gobierno francés de que los refugiados tenian que salir, dandoles la porcién de escoger a qué parte de la patria ir, la de Franco o la del Gobierno; la mayoria eligié ésta y nosotros, de nuevo mas afortunados nos pudimos quedar hasta que pudo realizarse nuestro viaje a Inglaterra. Precisamente unos dias antes habiamos recibido una carta de Noemi con la buena noticia de que se preparaba una casa para recibir a espaifioles evangelicos - mujeres y nifios. Era una mansion sefiorial, de las que abundan en este pais, perteneciente a Mr Peters, quien la ofrecié para esta obra de caridad: “Moorlands” en Merriott (Somerset). El resto de los exilados salié en su tragico viaje de vuelta a Espaiia, no sin ciertos comentarios, como: los fascistas se quedan - pues mucha de esa gente sin cultura ninguna, tendian a pensar que la educacion y fascismo eran comunes. {Qué habra sido de ellos? ;Pobres! Nunca lo sabré. El mismo dia de su partida Ilegaron al campamento los brutos gendarmes franceses para Ilevarse los sacos y caballetes que habian prestado. Mi madre que les vid, se apresuro a decirnos: Estad bien callados, que no sepan que quedamos aqui. Pero no nos sirvid. Se presentaron como fieras, tratando de apoderarse hasta de las cajas que habiamos convertido en mesas, tapetes etc. y como pude conservar mi saco de almohada no lo sé, pero me lo quedé. Mi madre lorando barria el barro que esos animales dejaron con sus pezufias, cuando se present6 el alcalde, nuestro bienhechor. “Vous étes bien desolée”, le dijo y volvié con una camita y una butaca para la abuela y al poco tiempo un vecino, a quien llamdbamos “el de los ojillos” porque los tenia muy expresivos y pillos se paré a la puerta conduciendo un carro Ileno de cosas: dos camas y colchones de pluma, utensilios de cocina, etc. De pajaa plumas 21iqué blandura sin pinchazos! Este granjero quiso Ilevarme a su c: 5 era un hombre bastante joven casado con una mujer mucho mas vieja que él y no debia de gozar de muy buena fama en el pueblo, pues el alcalde aconsej6 a mis padres de no aceptar ese ofrecimiento. Hacia el once de Noviembre salimos a Paris, la primera etapa de nuestro viaje a Inglaterra. All{ nos esperaba el tio Abelardo, primo de mi madre, que vivia en esa capital por muchos ajios, y nos Ilevo a un hotel, propiedad de un amigo masén como él y mi padre, donde nos quedamos una semana y yo, personalmente pasé un poco de miedo, aunque por muy distinta razon a la de la guerra. El propietario, un viudo, algo loco al parecer, una noche me invité a entrar en su oficina y me dijo que queria casarse conmigo; yo me asusté, pero en ese momento una foto de su esposa, que tenia colgada en la pared, cay6 al suelo y él exclamé: mi esposa no esta conforme - oh! que je suis malheureux! - y yo escapé y subi a mi cuarto, donde pasé la noche sin atreverme a cerrar los ojos, creyendo y temiendo que de un momento a otro se abriria la puerta y veria entrar a mi pretendiente espiritista. El tio Abelardo nos Ilevé por todo Paris yala exposici6n internacional que en aquella fecha alli se celebraba. Nos llegé antes de salir una carta de Diia Susana con la noticia de que Carlos estaba prisionero en Deusto, cerca de Bilbao. Nada de Adolfo. El 18 de Noviembre embarcamos a Southampton y en la mafiana del 19 de 1937 pisamos tierra inglesa y la primera impresiOn que recibi fue la cortesia y amabilidad de los policias, tan distintos a la brutalidad de los franceses. Nos esperaba Dn Ernesto Trenchard para Ilevarnos a Merriott, pero antes tuvimos que someternos a otra inspeccién médica y condujeron a la abuela al hospital para otro examen éptico mas intenso, temian que tenia tracoma. No fue asi y pudimos seguir viaje después de una buena comida en un restaurante. Parecia que cambiaba nuestra suerte. 22 Tegada a “Moorlands”, en Merriott, ef 19 de ‘Noviembre de 1937 23;Mamé y yo, a la puerta y en el conservatorio. 25ee ete ee ae ogres ~) Los nifios con su maestra - mama - el dia de los exmenes. Los mismos con los Sres Biffen y Dita Julia Fernandez, 26Un grupo de las jévenes con Mr T. Main y yo con Miss Farr en el centro, Otro grupo de jévenes ala puerta de su tienda. y niftos 28 29Alrededor de la abuela - Mamé detras, Elviri a la derecha, yo delante. Excursion a Seaton. Con dos inglesas 30 3132 Durante los dias de la visita de Noemi y Elviri. Las nueve jovenes, justamente antes de quedarme sola. La marcha. 33‘Nuestra estancia en “(Moorlands” ® legamos a “Moorlands”, donde ya encontramos a Dfia Paquita Mifiambres y Dita Julia Fernandez con sus dos nifios y los que dirigian la casa, los sefiores Biffen con sus cuatro hijas y cufiada Dita Lidia Bermejo,viuda de un misionero y sus tres nifios. Mi padre tuvo que quedarse en Paris, pero mas adelante pudo también trasladarse a este pais, donde trabajé de maestro en “Watermillock”, Bolton, donde vivian los nifios vascos del grupo de Noemi y Elviri. Aquélla pudo conseguirlo. En “Moorlands” pasamos la segunda Navidad de la guerra; ésta en paz fisica, si no moral, ya que seguia el fantasma de la tragedia presente, y la incertidumbre del futuro. En Febrero de 1938 Ilegaron las demas evangélicas de Madrid: Cobos, Abraira, Caravallo, Carles, Grijalba, Guijarro ...; nos reunimos nueve chicas jévenes y pasabamos buenos ratos con tonterias y simplezas, siempre bajo la vigilancia de Dn J Biffen, muy estricto en cuanto a la moral se referia, aunque no teniamos oportunidad ninguna de ser inmorales ... Nuestras salidas consistian en ir a los servicios de “los hermanos” y cantar los lindos coritos que atraian la gente a los cultos; en cuanto se anunciaba que el coro espajfiol - los cuatro gatos desafinados que éramos - iba a actuar, habia un leno. Noemi y Elviri nos visitaron y en otra ocasién, mi padre, con el que yo vine a Bolton por vez primera, invitada a “Watermillock”. Y pasaba el tiempo, sin grandes alegrias, pero tampoco grandes penas, excepto la de siempre y la de la muerte de la abuela, amada por todos jQuién le iba a decir que de Granada donde nacié, moriria en Inglaterra. - Sabemos donde nacemos, pero ignoramos donde morir. Ya se podia divisar la sombra que se iba haciendo mas visible sobre Europa, la segunda guerra mundial, para la que se habian preparado Italia y Alemania en suelo espafiol, ensayando armas y bombas. Esta realidad no la supieron ver los paises aliados. De haberlo apreciado, otra hubiese sido la historia. 34 ovin de fa guerra y salida de “Moorlands” { on el triunfo de Franco, ayudado por los alemanes e italianos, - de no ser asi, otro hubiera sido el fin - se organizo la vuelta a Espajia de “las Moorlandesas” y de nuevo me tocé quedarme y sufrir otra despedida. Tuvimos, sin embargo que dejar “M”, asi como mis hermanas y papa “W”. Mi madre se traslad6 a la casa de Dia L Piper, - misionera que fue en Espafia - donde sufrio muchisimo. Mi padre a Londres, a un hotel de misioneros. Noemi con unos amigos del Dr Hanson, los que acogieron a Elviri y yo, a Seaton, para trabajar en la tienda y casa de los Ferris, donde por cinco chelines semanales hacia de todo: dependienta, modelo, limpieza ... pero - como me decian - no tenia que pagar pensién, lo que ellos consideraban una gran caridad. De alli fui de criada a Londres, a la casa de una, que fue verdulera en Bilbao y que se cas6 en cuanto llegé a este pais como auxiliar con los nifios vascos y donde padeci de firme. Ya se habia declarado la guerra y estando en Londres presencié los bombardeos de V1 (las bombas sin piloto). Traté de ingresar en la institucién “Barnardo’s Home” para trabajar con los nifios, pero por razones de seguridad no admitian a extranjeros al declararse la guerra. Por fin pudimos formar un nuevo hogar en Bolton, en una humilde “terrace house” en Eskrick St., muy distinta de la de San Sebastian; en vez de las vistas del mar, isla y montes, un paisaje de chimeneas y tejados, pero estabamos todos juntos, menos mis hermanos y en aquella casa supo mi madre formar un nuevo hogar y su sufrimiento con Mrs Piper no fue en balde, ya que ella mand6 lo necesario para amueblarla. Noemi trabajaba en Burton; Elvira, entrenandose de enfermera en Salford Royal Hospital y yo en Croft laundry y mas tarde, también en Burton, haciendo uniformes 35)de soldados y, al terminar la guerra, trajes civiles. En esa casa pasamos los afios de guerra europea, una nueva experiencia, no tan cruel - al menos para nosotros - como la pasada. No se paso hambre ni la gente tuvo que salir de sus casas. Bolton no fue muy castigado; si Manchester; desde casa podiamos ver el reflejo de los incendios ocasionados por los bombardeos. En esa casa murié mi padre en 1953, sin ver “el globo desinflarse” ni de nuevo su querido Bilbao. Mi madre siguio en ella hasta sus 80 afios, a cuya edad tuvo que dejarla por su salud y compartir la nuestra en Bolton y la de Elvira en Southport, donde fallecié en 1971. Mis hermanos, después de sufrir terribles experiencias en la lucha y campos de concentracion salieron de todo sin ni siquiera un rasgufo fisico, si psicoldgico y ellos dicen que les salvé las oraciones de la abuela, mujer de gran fé a la que adorabamos de pequefios y admirabamos también de mayores. Aunque viviendo en distintos paises los cinco hermanos seguimos tan unidos como en aquellos felices dias antes del fatal 18 de julio de 1936 y me siento muy afortunada cuando pienso que mi familia es una de las pocas en la que todos sus miembros salieron con vida de aquella horrenda tragedia. Hoy dia me doy cuenta de que mi padre fue el que mas sufrié en el destierro. Mi madre se adapté mas facilmente, tal vez por haber sido educada en un colegio americano y conocer el inglés, aparte de que en una mujer es distinto. El era un hombre dotado de gran inteligencia, sumamaente intelectual, al que le gustaba su tertulia con los amigos, sus libros - poseia una buena biblioteca - y de repente se encontré en un pais extrafio, sin hablar la lengua, completamente aislado. Si como quiero creer el espiritu de los muertos puede volver a los lugares que amaron en vida, el de mi padre vagard por los montes y suaves campos vascos que tanto 36 am6 y el mio, entre la bella region montafiesa de mi nifiez, las risuefias praderas de mis ilusiones y suefos de juventud y “this green and pleasant land” de mi Patria adoptiva, pero, sobre todo, entre los seres que tanto amé. 37,38 Antes de ayer Aitos después Ja, Abuelita Lo que en aquel tiempo se me ocurrio escribir y que dejo tal como me salié. Quiero afiadir solo que el principe encantado no Ilego .. Ef castillo de “Moorlands” ¢nmedio de un frondoso parque y rodeado de gigantescos arboles que le dan un aspecto tropical alza su majestuosa silueta el palacio de “Moorlands”, el que por el conjunto de sus lineas se asemeja a un castillo medieval, en el que los caballeros prepararan sus armas y tramaran la guerra contra sus enemigos del inmediato castillo, 0 en el que la dulce damisela de ojos claros y sofadores esperara tras los cristales de su morisca torre la Ilegada del galan de sus ensuefios cabalgando brioso sobre su blanco alzan. Pues bien, a este castillo de novelescas visiones y romanticos ensuefios nos ha traido la cruel realidad de una guerra desencadenada en nuestra Patria por la ambicion de unos cuantos a quienes les tiene sin cuidado el dolor de los demas con tal de conseguir sus fines salvajes y egoistas y en él transcurren monotonos y tristes los dias en espera del momento feliz en que podamos regresar a nuestros hogares moral y materialmente deshechos hoy por la furia fascista, pero que volveran a rehacerse con amor y carifio y en los que podremos vivir de nuevo una vida de paz y tranquilidad, recordando como algo muy lejano el “castillo de Moorlands” donde se deslizé parte de nuestra juventud y en el que también tuvimos romanticos ensuefios, contagio tal vez del espiritu sofiador y novelesco de la dulce damisela que tras los cristales de su morisca torre esperara la llegada de un galan. Susana Marqués.(Memoirs of an exile (My experience during the Spanish Civil War) 1936 - 1939 I dedicate these lines, ill-spun though they may be, to my grandsons, so that if they ever read them they may know something of the life of their “Abuelita”. November 1979. Susana Lépez Marqués.My mother wrote this in 1979 and gave it to me shortly afterwards. I read it, of course, related bits of it to my children, and put it away. A year or so ago it occurred to both my mother and myself that I should translate it into English for her grandchildren. This I did in the autumn of 1995. I then thought I should have it typed up, made a few enquiries and did nothing more. In December 1995, very suddenly and unexpectedly, my mother died. Her “memoirs”, as she always called them, became all the more important, and I arranged to have them typed and presented in their present form. For those of you who read the English, I apologise that you only get a flavour of the writing. My mother’s Spanish prose is written in a beautiful flowing style whose sense I can render, but whose elegance evades me. She dedicates these memoirs to her grandchildren, my children. I, in turn, dedicate my translation to her two sisters and two brothers, my dear aunts and uncles. Elvira Lord, March 1996. 42 The family before the outbreak of the Civil War, in the garden in front of the fountain which we used as a shower on our return from the beach. Mother and Elvirita below the terrace. 43On the terrace. Noemi and father are missing. Adolfo in the garden, the beach and Mount Ulia are in the background. Monte Igueldo is at the other side of the bay, Monte Urgul and the island opposite. July 1936 ur life was unfolding calmly; that summer, as so many others, we spent our days on the beach, going on outings, attending “dias de moda”! in the Igueldo casino ... Nothing indicated or made us suspect the tragedy which was just around the corner and which would so radically alter the peace, harmony and very existence of innumerable families like mine. Hatred and dissent would divide comrades, yesterday’s colleagues turned into today’s enemies, given that a civil war is the worst of all wars. The 18" of July dawned, and to the gentle murmur of the sea which always lulled us at home was added the noise of shouts and tumult. An English lady, Miss E. Gillespie, was spending the summer with us. She had the room which we called the “tower room” because it was in the corner turret; it had two balconies and two windows from which could be heard the noise of the people on the beach. The previous Sunday she had woken up and asked what was happening. “Nothing”, we answered. The following Sunday it was no longer the carefree happiness but the shouts and cries of a revolution. However, she was not concerned. “It’s the people on the beach” she said. “No, this time it’s a little more serious”, answered my mother. When the British consul - a friend of ours - seeing that things were going badly gave the order for British subjects to evacuate the country, she left a trunk in our house. It was full of her clothes and presents, and was to be sent on when calm should be restored. There it remained, along with all the furniture and possessions acquired over a lifetime by my parents and at no small sacrifice. “You have lost more” was her comment. How true! We left buried there not only our material goods, which, after all, can be replaced, but also the hopes and dreams of our youth, lost for ever. We still did not realise the gravity of the situation; we thought it would be a matter of days, perhaps weeks ... Looking out from the sitting- 44 "Tea dances 45room balcony we saw the trams back on the Concha’ promenade and we thought things were back to normal until a shot whistled very near us, making us rush inside and slam the balcony shut... The days went by, and the balloon didn’t “go down” as my father in his optimistic way used to say: “The balloon is going down.” - How naive! The time came when we were obliged to leave Donosti> and seek refuge in Bilbao because Franco’s forces were approaching and it was feared that San Sebastian would soon fall into Fascist hands. Even so, we remained optimistic. “We'll be back in a few days” we said to ourselves. “We don’t need to take any luggage.” And so we left, the beds made, everything ready for our return. Alas! It was never to be. Nevertheless, we were fortunate enough not to end up in the public shelters in Bilbao like so many others. When a doctor, a friend of my father’s, had to escape he offered us the use of his luxury flat. Thus he avoided it being requisitioned and filled with unscrupulous people who, like people everywhere in such circumstances, take advantage of the property of others with the excuse that it belongs to the enemy. TRefugees in Bilbao i e arrived in Bilbao, where my father, my sister Noemi, my brother Carlos and myself had all been born, on 22™ of August, my birthday. At first, apart from the change of scene and the fact that we were living in a first-floor flat rather than a villa the rhythm of our life did not change much. But soon the problems and difficulties brought about by a revolution and even more by a civil war were felt. The bombings announced over the radio stations controlled by the Fascist troops, specially the Seville station where the voice of the coarse General Queipo de Llano calmly stated: “In Bilbao there will not be a single stone left standing”, used to make us laugh. The Republican Government stations replied with no less irony and the civil population made jokes about it all. Not for long, for they fulfilled their promises to the letter. Tt was nearly Christmas in that sad year of 1936, and we heard on Radio Seville the offer that as the “bilbainicos’”* would have no “turrén”* that year they would send us almonds complete with shells. They certainly did! Helped by German and Italian ‘planes and pilots we suffered the worst raid so far. We didn’t want to go down to the shelters in the basement of the house, but we had to when we felt the whole building shake and saw the china figurines on the dining-room shelves fall to the ground and shatter into myriad pieces. I don’t recall how long we spent there. An hour? Half an hour? - an eternity, trembling as each bomb burst, each one seeming nearer than the last, counting the seconds between each blast even as we heard the cries of pain of people running to the shelters. At last the “All Clear” sounded and out we came, only to cry bitter tears at the destruction of that “unconquered city”. Ambulances, cars full of wounded displaying white handkerchiefs so they would be allowed to pass, fire engines, ruined buildings, fires, flames everywhere. Christmas 1936 came and went. The message of peace and goodwill the beach is called “La Concha” (the shell) because of its curved shape 46 3 the Basque name for San Sebastian, here used as a term of affection + affectionate term for inhabitants of Bilbao, here used ironically > an almond sweetmeat eaten at Christmas, similar to nougat 47amongst men found no echo in hearts which, on the contrary, were filled with hatred and revenge, natural enough in that harshly-treated township. The air-raids were now joined by food shortages and consequently by hunger, a terrible counsellor. I remember that whilst knitting jumpers and socks for our soldiers I always had a glass of water by my side with which I tried to quieten and cheat the demands of my stomach ... And nevertheless we were still optimistic, wanting to believe reports such as: “Republican ships are fanning out around the harbour in San Sebastian and it will fall back into Government hands in a few days.” Noemi and I had been members of F.U.E. (Union of University and College Students) - a left- wing student group - for years. With some friends we took books to the hospitals and tried to cheer the wounded who had lost legs, arms, eyes - a whole young generation fallen and destroyed in the fight for what is, or should be, the inherent right of all mankind - liberty. Carlos was called up to serve in the forces of the elected Government and Adolfo volunteered, driven by hunger, thinking that at least he would not lack for bread in the barracks. It was Adolfo who got up at 2 or 3 in the morning to start queuing at the baker’s who gave out the rations - a tiny piece of bread per person which disappeared as soon as we got our hands on it; that is, when we did get it, for sometimes there wasn’t enough to go round the whole queue, and the people at the end, after hours of standing in the wind, rain and cold waiting for the doors to open had to go back home empty-handed, despite having the ration-cards in order. When we managed to get something like dried beans or chick-peas we had no salt to cook them with and we couldn’t stomach them. Elviri (the baby of the family) and I, who despite the difference in our ages (8years) were very good friends, managed to pinch a few cents from our poor mother, who, confused by the situation, didn’t notice or didn’t want to notice. We went off to the cinema to cheat hunger, or, sometimes if we were lucky, we found a café where they made a cup of hot chocolate - nasty stuff, made with water, but tasting wonderful to us... One night my brother Adolfo escaped from the barracks having heard 48 the news that they were leaving for the front. He was only a child, even more so in character than in years. My father, a stickler for duty, made him go back and went with him to make sure. Personally, I have never approved of his action. At the time I thought, harshly perhaps, “Why doesn’t he volunteer?” In the month of April 1937 the Basque government announced a projected evacuation of children and their teachers to England. This would protect the youngsters as well as going some way to help the parents in their difficulties. Others went to Belgium and other countries (this is well described in the book “El otro arbol de Guernica” by Juan Goytisolo). My sister Noemi was already a trained teacher and had taught for a short time in La Arboleda, a mining village near Bilbao. She enrolled along with Elviri who went as a pupil. We saw them leave from Achuri station with pain in our hearts, in the company of so many children with their names sewn into their clothes. What scenes of parents saying goodbye to their children, with no idea of when or even if they would see them again! I stayed behind with my family, suffering hunger, air-raids, misery, knowing nothing of my brothers now fighting at the front, until the month of July. By then it was obvious - even though we didn’t want to admit it - that Bilbao couldn’t hold out much longer. Franco’s ships were blockading the port and not allowing in any food, the Government forces had retreated so far that the front had reached right to the gates of the city and we could hear shooting, whilst shells reached into the streets. One fell right by me; I didn’t even flinch. Courage and cowardice are so similar in these circumstances that I don’t think the one can be described without the other; you can go from sheer cowardice to great valour without being aware of anything in between, without even thinking about it. We knew that Bilbao would fall in a matter of days or perhaps hours, and that if we didn’t manage to get out we would die there and in what manner? The last night we spent in that flat at 60 Henao Street we could hear the people running in the streets, trying to escape in carts, cars, by any means. The shots came nearer and nearer, and there we were as in a prison, waiting for dawn, hoping that with the light would come salvation. And so it proved, 49for during that terrible day a friend of a friend offered to try to take us in his car to Santander, a town where we had lived, where I had spent my childhood and where we had friends. What a journey! Impossible to forget. We had to wait for nightfall because flight was easier under cover of darkness. At last came the evening of that sad, interminable day and we set out along the road by the sea, but how different from how we knew it in happier times! Franco’s ships bombarded the line of cars, and even people on foot. The darkness was absolute. We, a little luckier than most, crouched on the floor of the car so as not to present a target to the grenades, whilst a man on foot in front of the car pointed out the way. 50 Pictures taken when we were living in Santander On the Pereda promenade at the harbour from which, years later, we left in such different circumstances. Carlos, father, Noemi, Mother and 1. The family on the balcony in 1930. The house where we lived in Santander and to which we returned on our flight from Bilbao. In the Alameda. Noemi, myself, Carlos, Adolfo, Manolito and Carmencita de Vargas, Elviri and Pepe de Vargas. The de Vargas ‘family lived in another flat in the same building. They went to Mexico. SLArrival and Q)eparture from Santander * triving in Santander at dawn seemed to us like a dream. The )) town appeared so peaceful, still slumbering, compared with the one we had left! We made our way to the flat in which we had lived, now inhabited by Don Pedro Mafueco and his family - he was the Protestant minister who had replaced my father on our move to Donosti. They welcomed us lovingly, even though we had woken them up, a not altogether agreeable experience in the circumstances in which all Spaniards found themselves, sleep being the best of all comforters. We spent the rest of the night sitting up and the next day went to Torrelavega, to Don Gabriel Perrett’s house. He was another friend of the family, Managing Director of the Nestlé factory in that town. His home held many childhood memories for us, for it was there that my brothers and sisters and myself had spent many happy days. Dofia Susana, his wife, with their two children, still quite young, had left for Switzerland, fleeing from the conflict. When she found out about our arrival she sent a telegram to her husband, fearful that when Santander should fall into Franco’s hands he would take reprisals against Don Gabriel for harbouring “Red’® refugees. She begged him to find us alternative accommodation, but he, a more loyal friend, laughed at her fears, and there we stayed awaiting what events would bring, Se ee the peace after the disquiet and suffering of the foregoing months. We received news that ships were leaving the harbour at Santander, carrying women and children away from the hellish situation to the French coast. One couldn’t put down one’s name and wait to be called; one simply had to go to the harbour each day and queue up with thousands of others, in the hope of embarking by whatever means possible. Thus, we moved ° All those supporting the legitimate Republican government were known as “Reds” 52 by Franco’s forces, regardless of whether they were Communists or not. once more to Santander, regretting the loss of what seemed to us an oasis of peace in that desert of war which we were crossing. I stayed with Aurora Quintana, an old school friend who now lives in Mexico where she was able to flee; my parents and grandmother were in a different house. People offered hospitality to those on the run from Franco’s troops. We stayed for some days until at last, after waiting for hours at the harbour of the Paseo de Pereda (another of our childhood walks with my father who, having been a sailor, liked to take us there or by boat to the villages of Pedrefia, Somo and Pedrosa on the other side of that beautiful bay) we were able to embark on a British coal transporter, where they had put some very narrow benches on deck. We decided to stay there, preferring the fresh air to the pestilential odour of crowds and sickness below deck. In the midst of an air-raid, of which the harbour was one of the targets, we began to pull away from the shore, sad to leave our beloved Spain where my brothers were fighting, for we knew not where, to leave much-loved friends in order to start a journey into the unknown, into an exile which we could not imagine. Only the hope that it would not last long sustained and cheered us. Who could have imagined that it would last the rest of our lives! Would we have left had we known? That question I cannot answer. We spent another sleepless night, uncomfortable on the narrow benches on which there was only room to sit rigid, cold, at the mercy of the elements, full of terror as the destroyer “Cervera” was chasing and threatening to bombard us. The British sailors announced over loudhailers that there were only women and children on board; they ordered the men - amongst them my father - none of them young, some ill, to hide below: By the first light of dawn we made out the French coast and the white houses amidst the green fields. At that moment how I envied those whom I imagined sleeping in those houses! 53Summer 1937 (Grance) In front of the little house where we lived. A group of the children and young people of our party. Clénary (France). A walk in the fields. Mother, Grandmother and myself by the well and my father drawing water. S4 55The factory and, on the right, the corner of “our house”. With a friend of my uncle Abelardo who came to see us from Paris. In the garden of the house. My family and three others from Donosti. 56 With Dofia Susana Perrett the day she visited us. Myself with “a friend”. 57Our arrival in G-rance and our fife there if e arrived in Bordeaux. When we disembarked we were given some bread and chocolate and had to be medically examined before being bundled into a train. No explanations were forthcoming, we didn’t even know where we were going. The train stopped at each station to allow the French passenger trains to pass. They, of course, had to have priority - how could it be otherwise? On the platforms there were Spanish refugee women in tears shouting out questions: “Has Bilbao fallen?” “You poor things, you don’t know what you’re coming to!” They tried to get near the train, but were kept back by the brutal French gendarmes. This made us fear for the future. We spent two days and two nights on that crowded train; we young ones sometimes stood for a while so that the older women could lie down and rest. At last, we arrived at what seemed to be a big station which turned out to be Dijon and we were told to get out. My feet were so swollen that it was an effort to walk. A committee awaited us, and we were taken in lorries to a big hall where we were given something to eat. We were told that that night we would have to sleep uncomfortably in a barn, but the “hotel” would improve the next day. We all lay down in the straw together, men, women and children. I don’t think I have had a better night’s sleep in my life. We had almost forgotten the luxury of being able to stretch our legs. I slept like a log as I imagine we all did. We were so worn out! In the morning they split us up to take us to different camps. We were taken to Clénary par Saint Julien, in the centre of the so-called Céte d’Or, named thus because of the corn which grows there. The improved lodgings proved to be barracks, empty save for dirt and cobwebs. Each hut consisted of two rooms; my parents had one and my grandmother and myself the other. We were each givena sack to fill with straw from the roadside to be used as a mattress, and a smaller one for a pillow (although they came for them when we left I 58 managed to keep mine as a souvenir). The first thing we did was draw water form the camp well, and we scrubbed the “hotel” as best we could before bringing in the “furniture”: two trestles and a plank for each straw sack. The toilet consisted of some planks, a curtain which served as a door, and a hole in the ground. When it was occupied we put a notice on the curtain: “Sending a telegram to Franco” so that anybody seeing this would wait... Proof of the Spanish character which makes a joke of its misfortunes, a characteristic which has often stood us in good stead. Luckily we were only there for a few days. The mayor of the village came round to ask about each family, jobs etc., and when he found out that my father was a Protestant minister he offered us a little house he owned next to a factory which was also his. He too was a Protestant. There were two storeys: downstairs was a room with a sink which we used as a kitchen, and a lavatory with no water, but private and with a seat. This gave directly onto the river which flowed alongside... Upstairs there was a passage with a balcony at the end which faced the mayor’s vegetable garden - this furnished us with a few stolen apples, just to stop them rotting - and four rooms: one for my parents, one for my grandmother and myself, the third we offered to three girls from Donosti and the fourth we made into a dining room. We furnished it with our straw beds, we made little tables from packing cases which we covered with home-knitted or crocheted mats, and we always had flowers which we picked from the fields. Thus we gave it a homely, even pleasant, feel. Each week we got our pay - a few francs, I forget how many, per person. (This money was sent by the Basque government. Spain and Spaniards owe nothing to the French but betrayals of trust.) We could live independently, which is no small thing, and by practising strict economy we even had enough for the odd little journey to Dijon to enjoy a day out. The village people were good to us; they gave us presents of eggs, milk and vegetables which helped eke out our savings. We enjoyed the peace, without the fear of hearing the warning sirens and the danger of air-raids; at first we jumped every time we heard the factory siren next door. We didn’t have a bad time; as the weather was good we young girls used to go swimming in a oo.nearby lake and on outings, but all of us had left dear ones in Spain: husbands, sons, brothers, boyfriends. ..and the uncertainty of what would become of them, what they were going through, the fact that we did not even know if they were still alive was always in our minds and thoughts, although we tried to hide it. One day we were visited by Dofia Susana Perrett, and she told us that her husband had written that Santander would fall into Franco’s hands at any moment. This naturally upset all the refugees including ourselves our family being in the thick of the fighting. We were also visited by a friend of my Uncle Abelardo from Paris and by Uncle Antonio who had left Spain in a prior evacuation and was doing a lot of good work amongst the refuges. He returned to Gerona on leaving France, and there he died, hopeless and alone. “Thank you, my God!” was my grandmother’s cry on hearing the news. 60 Jeaving Grance for England @ he days went by without any news from Spain; we only knew what we read in the papers. October came, and with it the decree from the French government that the refugees must leave. They were only given the option of returning to the territory held by Franco or to that held by the Government. The majority chose the latter. We were again more fortunate and were able to stay until we could leave for England. Just a few days before, we had received a letter from my sister Noemi with the good news that a house was being made ready to receive Protestant Spaniards - women and children. It was a country mansion, such as abound in this land, belonging to a Mr Peters who offered it for this charitable purpose, “Moorlands” in Merriott (Somerset). The rest of the exiles left on their tragic journey back to Spain, not without certain remarks such as “the Fascists are staying”, for many of those people, uneducated themselves, tended to believe that education and fascism were one and the same. I wonder what became of them? Poor things! I'll never know. The very day that they left the brutal French gendarmes arrived at the camp to take away the sacks and trestles which they had lent. My mother, who saw them coming, hurried to tell us: “Stay good and quiet, then they won’t know we’re still here”. But it was no use. They came in like wild animals, trying to take even the cases we had made into tables, the mats etc. I don’t know how I managed to keep my pillow sack, but I did. My mother wept as she swept up the mud that those animals had brought in on their claws. Then our benefactor, the mayor, turned up. “Vous étes bien desolée”, he said to her, and came back with a little bed and an armchair for my grandmother. A little later a neighbour whom we called “the one with the little eyes” because he had very expressive, cheeky eyes, stopped at the door with a cart full of things: two beds and feather mattresses, kitchen utensils ... From straw to feathers - how soft and no prickles! This farmer wanted to take me to his house, he 61was quite a young man married to a much older woman, and he mustn’t have had a very good reputation in the village for the mayor advised my parents not to accept his offer. Around the eleventh of November we left for Paris, the first stage of our journey to England. There, Uncle Abelardo, my mother’s cousin, was waiting for us. He had lived in the French capital for many years, and he took us to an hotel owned by a friend, a Freemason like himself and my father. We stayed there for a week and I personally had some frightening moments there, although for reasons other than the war. The owner was a widower and, it seems, slightly deranged. One evening he asked me into his office and told me he wanted to marry me. I was frightened, but at that moment a photo. of his wife which was hanging on the wall, fell to the ground and he exclaimed: “My wife doesn’t approve. Oh! Que je suis malheureux!” and I escaped and went up to my room where I spent the night without daring to close my eyes, fearing that the door might open at any moment and I would see my spiritualist admirer entering. Uncle Abelardo took us all over Paris and to the International Exhibition which was taking place there at the time. Before we left we received a letter from Dofia Susana with the news that my brother Carlos was a prisoner at Deusto near Bilbao. Of my other brother Adolfo we knew nothing. On 18" November we set sail for Southampton and first set foot on English soil on the morning of 19" November 1937. My first impressions were of the courtesy and kindness of the police, so different from the brutality of the French ones. Don Ernesto Trenchard was waiting to take us to Merriott, but before we could go we had to undergo another medical inspection, and my grandmother was taken to hospital for a further optical examination as they feared she had glaucoma. This was not the case, and we were able to continue our journey after a good meal in a restaurant. It seemed as if our luck was changing. 62 Avrival at “Moorlands” in Merriott, 19.11.37. 6364 Co ESSE Mother and myself at the door and in the conservatory.The same children with Mr & Mrs Biffen and Julia Fernandez. 67 66Se Beever ACTA And time to play. A group of young people with Mr T. Mother and myself with Miss Farr Another group of young alinedconcn tension { people and children. 68 69Around my grandmother. Mother behind, Elviri myself in front. With two English girls. 70 Outing to Seaton. 71#2 The days that Noemi and Elviri visited us. The departure. 73Our stay at “Moorlands” f e arrived at “Moorlands” where Dofia Paquita Mifambres and Dofa Julia Fernandez with her two children were already installed. The managers of the home, Mr and Mrs Biffen and their four daughters were also there, as was their sister-in-law, Dofia Lidia Bermejo, a missionary’s widow, with her three children. My father had to stay in Paris, but later he too was able to move to this country, where he worked as a teacher at “Watermillock” Bolton, where the Basque children belonging to Noemi’s and Elviri’s group were living. Noemi was able to arrange this. We spent the second Christmas of the war at “Moorlands”, enjoying physical if not mental peace, still suffering the tortures of the tragic present and the uncertain future. The rest of the Protestants arrived from Madrid in February 1938 - the Cobos, Abraira, Caravallo, Carles, Grijalba, Guijarro ..., We were nine young girls altogether and we had some good times, being silly and having fun, always vigilantly watched by Don J Biffen who was very strict in all matters of morality, although indeed we had absolutely no chance of being immoral. Our outings consisted of going to the services at “the Brethren” and singing in our ‘angelic choir’ which brought people crowding into church. As soon as it was announced that the Spanish choir - all four or five miaowing cats of us - was going to perform, there was a full house. Noemi and Elviri visited us and, on another occasion, my father, with whom I visited Bolton for the first time, having been invited to “Watermillock”. Time passed, without any great joys, but also without great tragedies except the one great tragedy, and also that of the death of my grandmother, greatly loved by everyone. Who could have guessed that from Granada, where she was born, she would come to die in England. We know where we are born, but not where we will die. The shadow over Europe was becoming more evident: that Second 74 World War for which Italy and Germany had prepared on Spanish soil, trying out their arms and bombs. The Allied countries didn’t realise the truth of this. Had they appreciated it, history would have been otherwise. 75End of the War and Departure from “(Moorlands” f ith the triumph of Franco, helped by the Germans and Italians 4 - had he not been so helped the outcome would have been different - the return of the “Moorlands girls” to Spain was organised, and again I was left behind to suffer another separation. However, we had to leave “Moorlands” as my sisters and father did “Watermillock”. My mother moved to the house of Dofia Lucfa Piper, a former missionary in Spain. There she went through a lot. Noemi was with friends of Dr Hanson who had taken Elviri in, and I went to Seaton to work in Mr and Mrs Ferris’s house and shop. There, for five shillings a week, I did everything: worked in the shop, cleaned, acted as a model ... but, as they used to say to me, I didn’t have to pay for my keep, which they considered very charitable. From there I went to London as a maid to someone who had been a greengrocer in Bilbao. She had arrived in this country as an auxiliary with the Basque children, and married straight away. There I was really put through it. War had already been declared and I was in London during the V1 bombings (the pilotless bombs). I tried to join the Barnardo’s Homes to work with the children, but foreigners were not admitted for security reasons once war was declared. At last we were able to form a new home in Bolton, in a humble terraced house in Eskrick Street, very different from our home in San Sebastian. Instead of the views of the sea, island and hills, we had a vista of roofs and chimneys, but we were all together except my brothers, and it was in that house that my mother was able to put a new home together. Her hard time working at Mrs Piper’s had not been spent in vain, as it was she who sent us the furniture we needed. Noemi worked at Burton’s, Elvira was training to be a nurse at Salford Royal Infirmary and I worked at the 76 Croft Laundry and later at Burton’s too, making first soldiers’ uniforms and, once the war was over, civilian suits. In that house we spent the years of the European War, a new experience and not as cruel a one - at least for us - as the one we had been through before. There was no hunger and people didn’t have to leave their homes. Bolton was not very badly affected, unlike Manchester; from our house we could see the reflection of the fires caused by the bombs. My father died in that house in 1953, without seeing either “the balloon go down” or his beloved Bilbao again. My mother stayed there until she was 80, and at that age had to leave for health reasons and share our house in Bolton and Elvira’s in Southport where she died in 1971. My brothers, after undergoing terrible experiences during the fighting and in concentration camps, emerged psychologically shaken but without a physical scratch. They say it was my grandmother’s prayers which saved them. She was a woman of great faith whom we adored as children and admired as adults. Although we now live in different countries the five of us are still as close as in those carefree days before 18" July 1936, and I feel very fortunate when I think that my family is one of the few in which every member escaped alive from that horrendous tragedy. Nowadays, I realise that my father was the one who suffered most in exile. My mother adapted more easily, perhaps because she was educated in an American college and spoke English. Things are also different for a woman. My father was a man of great intelligence, an intellectual who enjoyed his gatherings with friends, his books (he possessed a good library), and who suddenly found himself in a foreign country, not speaking the language and completely isolated. If, as I like to think, the souls of the dead can return to the places they loved in life, my father’s will wander over the hills and gentle valleys of his beloved Basque region, and mine TEbetween the lovely mountain scenes of my childhood, the happy plains of my youthful hopes and dreams and “this green and pleasant land” of my adoptive country, but, above all, I'll be with those I so loved. 78 Abuelita - the day before yesterday Yesterday And today. 79What it occurred to me to write in those times, and which I leave just as it was. I only want to add that the enchanted prince never came... “(Moorlands Castle” ate 3 nthe midst of a leafy park, surrounded by giant trees which give x it a tropical appearance, rises the majestic bulk of the palace of ie “Moorlands” which, by its peculiar architecture, resembles a mediaeval castle. Here knights will be arming themselves to do battle with their enemies in the neighbouring castle, and here the gentle damsel of the clear and dreaming eyes will await the arrival of the knight of her dreams, riding his white stallion. Very well, to this castle of poetic visions and romantic dreams we have been brought by the cruel reality of a war unleashed in our land by the ambition of a few who care nothing for the pain of others so long as they can achieve their savage and selfish ends. In this castle the monotonous, sad days go by as we await the happy moment when we will be able to return to our homes, now destroyed morally and materially by the fascist fury, but which will be rebuilt with love and kindness and in which we will again live a peaceful, tranquil life, remembering “Moorlands Castle” as something very distant. There part of our youth was spent, and there we even had romantic dreams, perhaps transmitted to us by the dreamy, poetic spirit of the gentle damsel who, behind the casement of her Moorish tower, awaits the arrival of her knight. 80.