THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012 by Christina Diaz Gonzalez
Jacket art copyright © 2012 by Ericka O’Rourke
Jacket photograph copyright © Denis Rouvre / Corbis Outline
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon areregistered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gonzalez, Christina Diaz.
A thunderous whisper / Christina Diaz Gonzalez.
p. cm.
“A Borzoi book”
Summary: Ani, a twelve-year-old Basque girl, and Mathias, a fourteen-year-old German Jew, become friends and then spies in the weeks leading up to the bombing of Guernica in April 1937.
eISBN: 978-0-375-98274-3
1. Guernica (Spain)—History—Bombardment, 1937—Juvenile fiction.
[1. Guernica (Spain)—History—Bombardment, 1937—Fiction. 2. Spain—History— Civil War, 1936–1939—Campaigns—Fiction. 3. Jews—Fiction.
4. Spies—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G5882Thu 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011043445
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
TO MY HUSBAND AND BEST FRIEND … YOU ARE MY LIGHTNING
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Glossary
ONE
Invisible. Irrelevant. Just an insignificant twelve-year-old girl living in a war-torn country. At least that’s what I’d been told.
And, really, no one ever seemed to notice me when they walked past the school’s large courtyard. They only saw the other girls laughing and giggling in small clusters under the building’s arches while the boys rushed out to challenge each other in a game of soccer or pelota vasca.
Rarely did anyone see the quiet, friendless souls … but we were there. Not really worthy of being picked on, we just came and went in silence. We rarely spoke to anyone, not even each other, although I could never remember why.
“Hey, you! Wait!” a voice called out from across the courtyard, near the steps that led to the cobblestone street below.
I had just walked through the school’s main door when I saw Sabino, a boy from my class, waving. Immediately I turned to look back inside, certain that he must be calling someone else.
“No, you … Sardine Girl,” he said. “Don’t let the door close. I forgot our ball inside.”
That’s what I was called—Sardine Girl.
My father would say our family’s clothes carried the scent of the sea, but that was just his fancy way of saying that we reeked of fish. It made sense since Papá had worked as a merchant seaman before joining the army and Mamá had always been a sardinera, selling the sardines that were the size of my feet, but stinkier, door to door. No wonder everything they owned, including me, smelled of fish.
I propped the door open with my right foot and stared as Sabino trotted toward me. He slowed down, and looking back at his friends, he pinched his nose.
They all laughed.
It wasn’t that I was surprised at being ridiculed.… Usually, I just ignored it. But, on that particular day, the sun in a cloudless blue sky seemed to be signaling the arrival of spring, and I, like the weather, was ready for a change.
And so, taking a deep breath, I waited until Sabino was about four feet away, and then I moved my foot. Kadunk! The door reverberated, and I heard the latch click shut.
“¡Idiota!” he shouted as he pushed past me, pulling on the locked door.
“My name is not Sardine Girl,” I muttered, my eyes never looking up from the ground.
I followed the narrow cobblestone streets back toward my neighborhood, passing the shoe store, the fruit stand, and the people sitting at the small tables of the sidewalk cafés. Glancing up, I could see a few women in the balconied apartments pulling in the day’s laundry that had been hung out to dry.
I picked up my pace when I noticed that the large clock above the Plaza de los Fueros showed that it was already five-fifteen.
As I passed a few soldiers filtering into the local tavern, I couldn’t help wishing Papá were also on leave from the front lines. He could be so close—the front lines being less than twenty kilometers away—and yet the distance seemed so great. He felt farther away than when he’d leave for months on a merchant ship. Of course, this time he might not return home.
Rounding the final corner, where the last city street ended and the dirt road into the countryside began, I heard the sound of squeaky wheels approaching. As I stepped to one side, I saw two brown oxen pulling a large, mostly empty, rickety cart. As one of the beasts passed by me, it briefly turned its head, its eyes meeting mine, then, after a loud snort, it looked away.
“You don’t smell that great either,” I mumbled.
The farmer, walking on the other side of the street, next to the larger ox, gave me a friendly nod before cracking the whip against the animal. I could see there was a bit of a bounce to the old man’s step, which probably meant he had sold all his produce for a good price. At least someone was having a good day.
Actu
ally, there were probably several people who were quite happy, as market days always brought an extra vigor to Guernica. Everyone in the region knew that Mondays in Guernica meant social events and jai alai games at the fronton after the market closed.
I loved Mondays too, but not because I wanted to socialize with anyone. No, for me this was the day that I didn’t have to sell sardines with Mamá or do chores. It was the one evening when I was free to do whatever I liked. So I was headed to the place where my dreams and stories were born.
It was really just a large open field with a big oak tree, but it had always felt like my special place. The tree was ordinary, similar in size to the famous Guernica Tree in the heart of the city, I suppose, but this one had no long history behind it. It was only special and significant to Papá and me.
From the time I was a little girl, whenever Papá was in town, he’d bring me to that tree. We’d have picnics, and I’d listen to tales of his travels. During the last few years, Papá had insisted that I come up with my own stories, and he’d lie back under the tree and get lost in my world of princesses and magical creatures. He always listened to every word I said, as if I were reading from the Bible, and when I finished, he’d usually smile and say, “Preciosa, tell me another.” And precious was how I felt.
I sighed. The last seven months of his being a soldier instead of a sailor had been like living on the edge of a crumbling cliff: any moment I feared that the land I stood on would give way. I couldn’t wait for the stupid war to be over and for life to go back to how it used to be. Without my father, the only good part of my day was going to class, and that wasn’t saying much. The only thing I liked about school was the books.
Walking up the mountainside, I clutched my sweater tighter to my chest as a cool breeze blew down the trail. Even in late March, on a beautiful afternoon, winter had not completely released its hold on northern Spain.
I had left the concrete and muted colors of the city behind and stepped onto a grassy patch of land. Here I could drink in the brilliance of the sky, the green and brown of the neighboring mountains, and dream and forget the world around me.
I thrust my hand into my skirt pocket, and my fingers rubbed the edge of the satin pouch buried inside. It had been Papá’s gift to me before he left. A blue satin pouch made from the lining of his only suit. I grasped it and felt the small treasure it held. It was a reminder of all our days together.
And then I was there. The green grass surrounded the majestic oak, which stood tall, new leaves growing on its branches. The sun, slowly sinking toward the top of the mountains, cast an orange glow on everything and I knew I had about an hour to enjoy this before I’d have to head back.
I reached out and touched the warm, wrinkled bark, greeting it like an old friend. Settling into my favorite spot, where I could gaze at my city in the distance and still feel as if I were completely detached from it, I undid the leather strap around my schoolbooks and pulled out a thin notebook. I wanted to write a lighthearted story that I could send to Papá, something that would make him smile and forget, just for a moment, the ugliness of war.
Twirling the pencil that I always kept tucked inside the notebook, I stared at the shadows cast by some of Guernica’s buildings. I tried imagining them turning into something wondrous, but everything that came to mind was sinister and frightening.
It still didn’t seem fair that we were caught in Spain’s stupid Civil War. The Basques had been living on the same piece of land since before records were kept, and now, just because we lived on what the world considered Spanish land, we’d been forced to pick a side. Neither group fighting really cared about the Basques, so I couldn’t understand why it mattered, but a side had been chosen and now we must win to survive. I’d heard people say that losing the war would also mean losing everything it meant to be Basque.
I clenched the pencil so hard I could feel it begin to bend between my fingers. A little more and it would snap. I stopped and relaxed my hand. I couldn’t dwell on the war anymore.… Papá deserved a good story. Closing my eyes, I hoped that my imagination would take over, but nothing happened.
It’d been the same the last few times I’d been to my tree. My thoughts would drift to the front lines, to the men dying and to the rumors that Hitler and his large German army were becoming more involved in the Civil War. It was bad enough that the country was tearing itself apart; now we had to fear that the Germans would help General Franco’s side.
“Think about an island. About princesses,” I commanded, squeezing my eyelids so tight that pink and blue spots appeared.
“Island princesses, huh?” a voice with a slight accent asked.
My eyes popped open, but the sunlight blinded me. All I could see was the silhouette of a person holding a large stick.
I shielded my face and braced myself for the attack.
TWO
“Didn’t mean to scare you … at least not so much,” the voice said with a slight chuckle.
My eyes adjusted to the light, and I saw that the figure was just a boy, not much older than me, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes. He was twirling a makila, a Basque walking stick.
“I wasn’t afraid,” I said, jumping up to face my newest tormentor. “More like … startled.”
He tilted his head to the side as if sizing me up. “So, do you always talk to yourself?”
“No.” I was already annoyed with this boy.
“Guess you only do that sometimes, huh?” he asked with a smirk.
I crossed my arms and gave him my best glare.
“Really? Is that supposed to be a menacing look?” He laughed, took off his beret, and stuck out his hand. “Let me start over. I’m Mathias. Nice to meet you.”
I ignored his outstretched hand, choosing to raise a single eyebrow, a talent I’d inherited from my mother.
He kept his hand out. “C’mon. I just moved to Guernica.”
“Figured that out myself,” I muttered, hoping he would go away.
“Now what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, putting his beret back on and sticking his hand in his pocket.
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“What? Say it. I’m a big boy.… My feelings won’t get hurt. It’s my accent, right?” He shook his head. “Thought I’d gotten rid of it too. I was sure my Spanish was pretty good.”
“No, it is.” I sighed, as if the conversation were painful … which it was. “I just meant that lots of refugees have been moving to Guernica lately. Running away from the war and—”
“Listen, princess, my family doesn’t run away,” he corrected.
“Princess?” I gave him a sharp look.
“Weren’t you muttering something about being a princess when I got here?”
“No. I mean yes.” I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t talking about myself.”
“Fine, if you say so.” Mathias took a seat on the grass, gazed up the hillside, and then turned his attention back to me. “So, what’s your name?”
The day had gone steadily downhill. Now I couldn’t even enjoy my time alone.
I plopped down, defeated, and tucked my legs under my long skirt.
“Anetxu,” I said, wondering why he was even talking to me.
“Gesundheit!” he replied with a grin.
“Huh? What?”
“It’s German.… It means ‘Bless you.’ Like when you sneeze and go achoo. I said it because your name sounds—”
I could feel my shoulders tightening. “I get it. Very original.”
“Tranquila, princess. I didn’t mean any harm.” He yanked on a long blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. “So, you’re from around here, right?”
“Mm-hm.” I leaned against my tree and half closed my eyes, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.
“I thought as much. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, but it isn’t the worst place I’ve seen. Have you been to other cities?” he asked.
“Sure I have.”
A sudden flash of
interest ran across his face, and he sat up. “Really, which ones?” he asked.
“Bermeo,” I declared, and immediately regretted it. I’d go there once in a while with Mamá to get the sardines from the fishermen, but it made Guernica look like a big city by comparison. Plus, the last thing I wanted to bring up was being Sardine Girl.
“Well, I haven’t been there, but I don’t think any place holds a candle to Berlin … except for maybe Barcelona.”
“I like Guernica,” I said.
“That’s because you haven’t been to other places.”
“That’s not it. You’d feel different if you were Basque.”
“Ah, but you’re wrong. I am Basque. My dad was born in San Sebastián, and that’s as Basque as any town.”
“So? That doesn’t make you Basque.”
Mathias took off his beret and ran his fingers through his dark hair as if thinking about what I’d just said. “Guess you have a point about that.”
“Of course I do,” I muttered. It felt like a small victory.… I just wasn’t sure what I’d won.
Nothing else was said for a few moments and I thought about walking away, but I refused to give up my tree to the likes of him.
“Well, what do you think really makes someone Basque?” he asked.
I shrugged. This was getting to be worse than school. At least there I was mostly ignored.
“Think about it. If it’s not where you’re born, then is it what you speak?” He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, that can’t be it. Anyone can learn a language.… I already know three, even if I can’t understand much in Basque. There’s got to be something else,” he said.
“Does it really matter?” I asked, staring off at the horizon, pretending not to be curious about this boy. “If you’re Basque, you just know it,” I said.
“Hmph, typical of a girl,” he said, tugging on another blade of grass and rolling it into a ball.
I turned to face him. “What does that mean?”
He leaned back on his hands and smiled. “Relax, princess. It’s a fact that most girls don’t like to think about complex things. Cooking and sewing are what they’re suited for.”
I narrowed my eyes and shot him a look, one that would certainly help us win the war if the army could turn it into a weapon. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Boys are usually the ones who don’t think.” I could feel my blood boiling. “And don’t call me princess … ever!”
A Thunderous Whisper Page 1