Remember Me

by Mario Escobar

  In my heart I knew he was right, but if the Republic disappeared while we children were far away, we wouldn’t have a home to return to. In a way, by trampling on my hope, that driver was throwing me down a terrible pit, into absolute nothingness from which I could never escape.

  * * *

  My mother was shocked when the organizers told her the children had left the day before on a boat headed to Barcelona and that the next day they’d be on a train headed for France. We were in a strange city with very little money, and now we faced the impossibility of getting to Barcelona before the rest of the children departed. For my sisters and me it was great news, but we tried not to act happy. We didn’t want Mom to feel bad. She was convinced that the war was worsening and that the best thing was to evacuate us from Spain as soon as possible. My mother was a very persistent woman, so she managed to convince a fisherman to take us in his boat to Barcelona. The man warned us it would take at least a day to travel the 180-plus miles to Barcelona. Mom thought it would be safer than driving, even though the fascists would also bomb ships that tried to travel between the cities.

  The captain of the fishing boat perked up when my mother offered him her wedding ring, some earrings, and a solid gold choker Grandpa had given her when he took us to Rivas a few months before.

  “We’ll travel through the night, and I bet I can get you there first thing in the morning,” he said, flashing a dark, gap-toothed smile.

  As soon as we got on board the ship, we realized it was a bad idea. It was the first time we’d ever seen the ocean, and after the initial awe and wonder, we were terrified to find ourselves surrounded by water and buffeted by the waves. Isabel clung to Mom the entire trip, while Ana stuck to me like glue. I studied her eyes as blue as the water and her bright blonde hair, wondering how I would ever be able to protect her on the other side of the world. At least Isabel was twelve and could take care of herself a bit.

  “Why don’t we go back home?” Ana whispered to me. Typically she was a brave, determined child, but the terror in her eyes was plain as day as the boat rose and fell like a carousel.

  “We can’t. Mom has decided that we’re to go to Mexico.”

  “But it’s so far away. Isabel told me we have to cross an ocean even bigger than this one. I’ll die!” she exclaimed, whimpering. I held her close to me, and she eventually fell asleep.

  The captain let us try to sleep in the cabin, but the blankets were hardly enough to warm us, and the wet chill that blew in from every crack kept us awake. A few times I had to run to the deck to vomit, and I felt as though my stomach would never get used to that infernal up and down. Finally, my body gave in to a restless, nightmarish sleep.

  The next morning, we could glimpse Barcelona through a dense fog. We got off the boat so dizzy that the solid ground swam beneath our feet. We asked some sailors where the Franca Train Station was, where the expedition was set to leave. We took a trolley and were at the station by ten o’clock in the morning, our clothes reeking of fish. We ran down the platforms with empty stomachs and the sensation of falling toward a fatal and tragic end. Then, despite all our efforts, we learned that the train had left an hour before.

  We went to the offices of the Central Committee for Refugee Assistance of Catalonia. A policeman let us into the building after my mother explained what had happened. In the waiting room, a young woman told us to go up to the second floor. There we found a large room full of people. A secretary took our names and asked us to wait. My mother explained the urgency of our situation, but dozens of other people had fled the most dangerous regions and were also begging for help.

  We sat down on the floor beside a woman with five children. They had come from Zaragoza. She was crying and hugging the youngest child to her, who was so skinny his face looked sunken in. The baby was all skin and bones. He stared at us with his wide, inexpressive eyes, with no energy even to smile. My mother tried to comfort the woman and offered to hold the child so the mother could sleep awhile.

  “No, I’d rather hold him,” she answered in a thin voice. Her exhaustion was palpable.

  Four or five hours went by, and the room slowly started to empty. We had eaten nothing in over twenty-four hours, and my sisters were getting desperate. Mom pulled a few small pieces of bread out of her purse and distributed them. The children next to us on the floor watched with wide eyes but said nothing. Isabel broke her bread into three pieces and gave it to them. They gobbled it up without blinking, offering a smile for the first time since we’d seen them. Ana did the same and so did I, despite the hunger gnawing at me. Mom smiled at us with pride. Giving out of excess can be considered generosity, but willingly sharing from meager stores is something else altogether: it’s handing over the most valuable thing we possess, our love for others.

  The mother holding her baby now had tears of gratitude in her eyes. The baby started to whimper louder, and she gave him her breast to nurse. The child tried to suckle, but the woman was so thin, and nothing came out. The child’s moan broke our hearts.

  An hour later the four of us were called back to an office, exhausted and hoping to get out of there as soon as possible.

  A thin man with a sharp nose and round glasses was seated behind a large desk strewn with papers. His hair was combed back, revealing a pale, bony forehead. He gestured for us to sit down and asked my mother to explain the situation.

  Afterward, he said, “Mrs. Alcalde, I can’t do much for you. The train has left for France and will be arriving by now. From there, they’ll take a bus to Bordeaux. The boat is supposed to leave at the end of the month, though I can’t say for sure the exact date. I’d encourage you to go back to Madrid. Things are not looking good here, and we can’t be responsible for you.”

  “We’ve come all this way, and we’re not going back home. The situation in Madrid is very concerning, especially for the little ones—”

  “Have you seen the children in the waiting room? Well, this is just one aid agency. Our orphanages are overflowing, we have schools stuffed to the brim with cots, thousands are coming to the city every day . . .” the man explained, losing patience.

  “I don’t want to bother you. I’m only asking you to help us find some transportation to France. I’ll figure it out from there.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Bordeaux is over three hundred miles from Perpignan. The French authorities are detaining nearly everyone who crosses the border. Most of them are sent back to Spain, and the rest are taken to internment camps.”

  My mother looked at us for a long moment, weighing the options. Finally, she lifted her gaze and, with a serious nod, told the man, “I think it’s my responsibility. We’re living in times when we have to try the impossible. The only thing I’m asking is for help crossing the border.”

  The man frowned. I expected him to send us away, but he took a sheet of paper and wrote on it for a moment. Then he looked up and said, “There’s a convoy headed for Perpignan tonight. In the city there’s a committee of the Catalonian government that helps refugees. With this letter, they’ll give you some money and bus tickets to Bordeaux.”

  My mother jumped up and embraced the man, who shrank back in annoyance. My sisters and I remained unmoved, not understanding why our mom was so happy.

  We left the office with our heads down, carrying our small, lightweight luggage. Before leaving, my mom went up to the mother from Zaragoza. She stroked the baby’s head, then looked up with a start. She motioned for us to distract the woman’s other children, then bent down and whispered, “I’m sorry. The child is . . .”

  The woman shook her head and started to weep. She pressed the child so tightly to her that, had he been alive, she would’ve suffocated him.

  “There, there,” my mother said, stroking her face, but the mother wouldn’t release her grip on the child. “He won’t suffer anymore,” she choked out.

  The woman finally loosened her hold and let an office worker take the baby. She gave him one last look, kissed his forehead, a
nd released him forever.

  Chapter 10

  Bordeaux

  Barcelona

  May 20, 1937

  We were to take the train right before midnight. Despite the late hour, the station was packed. Soldiers and policemen kept the crowd from getting on the first train of the day that left for France. Showing authorization was required for even approaching the platform, and few people had it. Most refugees came to the border on foot or in trucks traveling to neighboring countries in search of fruit, vegetables, or anything that could nourish a country on the brink of starvation. We slipped our way through the crowd and got into a short line. Despite the pushing and shoving, we made it to where the soldiers were. Mom held out the letter from the immigration officer, and the soldier counted us and let us through. Things on the other side of the rope weren’t much easier. Shipping agents ran every which way carrying packages, boxes, and equipment. A few well-dressed people got into first-class cars, seemingly going on vacation instead of into uncertain exile. Right then I understood that social classes hold steady even amid misfortune and that suffering is always harsher for those who have nothing.

  My mother stopped a young man, and he pointed out the mail car to her. It was apparently the only place they could make room for us. And we weren’t the only ones. Around fifty people sat and waited among the huge sacks or smoked at the entrance of the half-open cargo door. We found a free spot and huddled up together like chicks in a nest, Mom spreading her arms over us.

  An hour later, the train began to move. The soft, melancholy clickety-clack of the wagons lulled us to sleep and helped us forget the hunger and fear for a moment. I didn’t wake ’til eight in the morning when people began to move about the wagon, many desperate to use a bathroom. I shimmied up to a small window and looked out. The fresh air woke me up, and I briefly forgot where I was in the joy of traveling. I was still young enough that anything could turn into an adventure. I felt a tug on my coat and turned. My little sister’s dirty face was smiling up at me. She lifted her arms, and I picked her up and put her beside me. Together, we stared out the window at the gray sky. We had no way of knowing that, a few yards back, those clouds had stopped belonging to our country. We were now in a foreign land. Up to that point we hadn’t really known what it felt like to be a foreigner, but we would never be able to forget the feeling.

  The train stopped in Perpignan. We disembarked in order, then formed a long line, and the gendarmes registered us all on a list. Those granted free passage went to the right—everyone else moved to the left. The reality was that most people were in the group that would wind up in a holding center and, once again, those who were clean and well-dressed breezed through the control point without a pause.

  We approached the desk. I noticed my mother was shaking as my sisters clung to her from both sides.

  “Please tell me your full name, the names of your children, and the reason for your visit to France, ma’am,” said the man at the desk in very correct Spanish. Mom relaxed a bit when she heard him speaking our language.

  After giving our names, she said, “We’re going to Bordeaux. In a few days the children will board a ship sailing to Mexico, and we must get there before it sets sail.” She placed our papers on the well-worn desk.

  The gendarme was young, but he had a full, dark mustache that made him look older. First he looked at us. Ana hid behind me, and Isabel smiled shyly. “You’re going to leave your children? And what will you do after that?” he asked, regaining the harsh look he had at first.

  “I’ll go back to my country.”

  “To Spain? No one goes back to Spain on purpose,” the man said, incredulous.

  “My husband is in Madrid, and I can assure you I’ll return to him. The war may be terrible, but it’s even worse to betray the person you love most in the world.”

  The gendarme stamped our letter, then looked up. “You’ve got three months’ permission. If the police detain you after that period, you’ll be deported to Spain. Understood?”

  “Yes,” my mother said, hardly daring to look at him.

  We walked down a hallway and out to the street. We were dazed by the sight of a walled city, the streets overflowing with flowers and the bakeries bursting with so many breads, cakes, and pastries that we thought we had arrived in paradise. Yet, once again, it was only an illusion.

  * * *

  A man named Francisco Ortega waited for Spaniards who passed customs control, then dispersed them in different means of transportation. When we reached him, he looked taken aback, not having been expecting us. My mother showed him the Barcelona agent’s letter, and he read it carefully despite having been in such a hurry moments before. Francisco stared hard at us, as if we were there to make life difficult for him, then told us to stand off to the side. When he finished with the rest of those who had recently arrived and the various vehicles had gone their separate ways, he motioned for us to follow him. We got into an old Renault and went across town under a heavy rainfall that slowed traffic considerably. In French, Francisco cursed several drivers who cut him off or butted ahead of him on the road. We eventually got out of the city and arrived at an old mansion, which from afar looked like a haunted house. The unkempt yard and bare trees spooked me and my sisters. Francisco stopped the car at the front door, and we ran to the portico to escape the rain. Francisco then opened the door with a huge gold key, and we followed him into a dark, cold vestibule.

  “You’ll spend the night here,” he said. “Tomorrow there’s a car heading to Toulouse, but from there you’ll have to travel by train. We don’t take people far west because fascist Spanish agents are operating on the border. It wouldn’t be the first time they grabbed someone and sent them to Navarre. You follow me?”

  My mother did not know what he was talking about any more than we children did. I had presumed that, once we were on the French side of the border, we’d be safe. But apparently our enemy’s reach was longer and more dangerous than we had imagined.

  He took us to a cold, damp room on the top floor. He was about to shut us in for the night when my mother approached him. “Please,” she said, “my children haven’t eaten anything since we left Madrid.”

  Francisco made a face but told us to leave our suitcases and come downstairs with him. We followed in silence through the dark house and entered what seemed to be a large living room. He turned on the light, and the white tiles flashed so brightly that it blinded us for a moment. Francisco went to a cupboard and took out a thin sausage, some bread, some chocolates, and milk. We stared at the bounty in shock. It had been months since we’d had most of those foods. My mother seared us with a look to keep us from touching anything until we had been given permission.

  “Sit down and eat. Forgive my lack of courtesy. It may be hard to believe, but my job isn’t easy. We have very few means, and more and more people arrive every day. The consulate is overwhelmed, and so are all the agencies. The French barely cooperate with us, and I fear that within a few months complete chaos will overtake us.”

  My mother smiled at him. She had us sit down, then handed out small portions. We ate with greed, Isabel almost choking at one point.

  “Poor things,” Francisco said, watching us devour the meal.

  “Spain is a disaster. I don’t know who will win the war, but soon there won’t be much left to govern,” my mother said.

  Francisco nodded and drank a glass of milk. “To be honest, if I were you, I’d get on that boat to Mexico with your kids and never come back.”

  My mother nodded as well but said, “I can’t do that. My husband is in Madrid. If things get much worse, we’ll try to escape too.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but if Madrid surrenders or is surrounded by the rebel troops, you won’t be able to go anywhere. Haven’t you heard what the fascists do with their prisoners? In the cities they overtake, the executions go on for days. They say that in Badajoz the blood ran down the streets. Write to your husband and beg him to get out of
the city and join you in Mexico.”

  “But if we all leave, who will fight the war?”

  Francisco took another sip of milk and grimaced as if it were sour, but I understood it was the taste of defeat that bothered him. It was emanating from all around, and as our country disappeared, little by little, we were being robbed of the home we loved.

  * * *

  The next morning, a car was waiting for us at the door. After eating and sleeping in a warmish bed, bathing, and changing clothes, we were feeling much better. Francisco said farewell to us at the door, and I noticed a tenderness in his face. Perhaps for the first time in a long time he had let down the emotional guard that enabled him to keep forging ahead despite it all.

  The driver was a young man from Lleida named Andrés. He had come to France a few months ago and had gotten to know the highways and byways to get around the surveillance guards along the border. Every now and then he went back home and helped struggling souls who had made it to the Pyrenees but didn’t know how to cross to the other side. His smile and strong accent were very funny to us. He was only eighteen, if that, and seemed quite content to drive to Toulouse, eager for the chance to venture away from the border and let loose, forgetting all that he was leaving behind.

  “Thank you so much for taking us,” my mother said from the backseat where she sat between my sisters.

  “We’ve all got to lend a hand in times like these. I never dreamed I’d be driving a car, much less in France!” He laughed like a little kid enjoying an adventure.

  “How far is Bordeaux from Toulouse?”

  “Well, ma’am, I think we’ve got a good three hundred miles or so ahead of us, depending on the route. But don’t worry. Francisco told me to get you all straight to Bordeaux and then bring you back. We’ll get there tonight, after about twelve hours. The backroads aren’t in great shape, and this piece of metal’s not the fastest horse in the barn.”