by John Wilson
My travel backpack was the last item to tumble onto the baggage carousel, and I paced in mounting frustration as cheerful, chattering holidaymakers, many wearing red Santa hats, grabbed their luggage and disappeared through the customs door. I had convinced myself that my bag had been put on the wrong plane and was halfway to Azerbaijan when it finally slid into sight. The only other piece of luggage going around was a very expensive silver hard-shell suitcase that I assumed must belong to Chad, who still hadn’t shown up from immigration. Either he was trying to convince the official to invest in one of his schemes or he really was a spy. I strapped on my pack and rushed through customs and into the busy arrivals area.
The moment I stepped through the doors, Laia’s arms enfolded me in the best hug of my life. I returned it and stood breathing in the scent of her hair, giddy with happiness. Mentally, I wished Mom, DJ and the others a Happy Christmas, but this was where I wanted to be. In fact, I would have gladly stood there all day, but I noticed Laia’s mom standing to one side, watching us, a slight smile on her lips. Laia kissed me, and then we stepped apart.
“Hola, la senyora Aguilar. Bon Nadal,” I said to Laia’s mom, summoning up the Catalan I’d been learning.
“Hola, Steve,” she replied, her smile broadening as we shook hands. She switched effortlessly to English. “But please, no formalities. You must call me Sofia. It means wisdom, so I must be very smart.” Before I could say anything, Sofia went on. “But let us not spend Christmas in the airport. Follow me.” Sofia headed off through the crowded terminal and Laia and I trailed behind her, chattering happily.
“I am so glad you could come,” Laia said as we walked hand in hand. “Was your mother very disappointed?”
“A little,” I said, “but the cruise with her sisters is taking her mind off it, so I think she is okay.”
“And DJ?” Laia gave me a mischievous smile. She knew all about my relationship with my brother.
“I think he’ll be all right,” I said, returning her smile. “The cousins, all except for me and Rennie, are going to Grandfather’s cottage by the lake after Christmas.”
“Are they going to have another adventure?”
“Not unless it keeps snowing and they get trapped for the winter,” I said.
“Like the old explorers in your Canadian Arctic? Will they have to draw straws to see who becomes dinner for the rest?”
“Dinner?’ I asked, slightly shocked by the image.
“I have been reading Canadian history,” Laia said. “Did not Captain Franklin and others have to eat the bodies to survive?”
“I guess so,” I said, “but my cousins will be fine. They certainly won’t have to draw straws—DJ will probably decide who to eat.” We both laughed. “I think Grandfather’s will gave us all the adventure we can handle for a while,” I added.
“I’m glad it did,” Laia said, squeezing my hand. “I have a busy holiday planned for us. There is much to see in Andalusia—Seville, Cordoba, Granada—too much for a short visit, but my father knows the history, so he will tell us the best things to see. It will be a wonderful time.”
“It will,” I agreed. As far as I was concerned, as long as I was with Laia, whatever we did would be wonderful. Grinning like an idiot, I followed Laia’s mom out of the airport to the taxi rank.
The Plaça Catalunya was very different from the last time I had seen it. In the gathering dark of evening, every building around the huge square was bedecked in multicolored, twinkling Christmas lights. In the center of the square, families skimmed around the ice of a vast open-air rink beneath a towering decorated tree, accompanied by a choir singing carols. Stalls selling food, ornaments and gifts were scattered round the edge.
“We thought you might like to walk through the square to get into the Christmas spirit,” Sofia said as we got out of the taxi.
“And we have a special Catalan tradition to share,” Laia added with a grin.
With the end of the school semester and all the preparations for my trip, Mom’s cruise and DJ’s excursion to the cottage, it hadn’t felt much like Christmas at home. Now, strolling through the bustling, happy crowds, it did. We bought marzipan candy, nibbled on dried fruit, watched the skaters and listened to the choir. The one thing missing was Santa Claus.
“How do you get presents if there’s no Santa Claus?” I asked.
“Santa Claus is for cold countries,” Laia explained. “How would his sled land where there is no snow? We have the Three Wise Men, who arrive on January fifth bringing presents for the children.”
“So, no presents on Christmas Day?” I asked, wondering when I should give them the presents I had in my backpack.
“Oh yes,” Sofia said. “We have presents on Christmas Day. Tió de Nadal brings them.”
“Who’s Tió de Nadal?” I asked.
“You’ll meet him soon,” Laia said, and she and Sofia laughed. “But first, there is someone else you must meet.” Laia headed over to a small stall at the entrance to a side street.
“We have different traditions here,” Sofia said. “I hope you are hungry, because we have the Christmas meal tonight.”
“Do you have turkey?” I asked.
“Of course, turkey and truffles. I have been preparing it for two days.”
“Merry Christmas.” Laia handed me a small box wrapped in tissue paper. Inside was a small porcelain figure. He was dressed in black pants, white shirt, red belt and a red-and-black hat. He appeared to be crouching down.
“He’s very nice,” I said, confused.
Both Laia and Sofia burst out laughing again. “Turn him around,” Laia said.
I did and almost dropped him. The little man’s pants were down, and he was…taking a dump.
“Say hello to Caganer,” Laia said. “He represents equality—everyone from the greatest king to the lowest peasant must do what he does. He is always placed in the corner of a Nativity scene to remind us we are human. He will bring good luck for the coming year.”
“Thank you,” I said, wondering where I would put Caganer in my room when I got home and thinking I would have to get one for DJ. “I will treasure Caganer.”
“Excellent,” Sofia said. “Now that you have been introduced to our Catalan humor, let us go home and prepare for dinner.”
Christmas Eve dinner was turkey, but not the golden roasted bird I was used to and had been expecting. Sofia had spent two full days making a stuffing of the turkey meat, truffles, pork, veal, brandy and sherry and then sewing it into the turkey skin. The roll had then been cooked and pressed flat. We ate it in slices with apples, plums and fruit sauce. A host of rich side dishes and caramel custard followed. By eleven o’clock, it was all I could do to stay awake, so Laia and Sofia taught me Catalan songs until every church bell in the city tolled midnight. Then it was time to meet Tió de Nadal.
“Tió, meet Steve. Steve, meet Tió,” Laia said, gesturing to a log lying on the floor in front of the fire. The log had a cheerful cartoonish face painted on one end and was covered by a large red blanket. “We have been feeding him candy for two weeks,” Laia explained. “Now you must hit him.” She handed me a stick.
“Hit him?” I said. “Why?”
“He has been well fed and must now be encouraged to give up the presents,” Sofia said.
I tapped Tió on the back.
“That won’t work,” Laia said. “He must be encouraged.”
I looked at the smiling log. The blanket stretched out behind the log and covered several oddly shaped lumps. I began to get the idea. “I will in a minute,” I said and headed back to my room to get the presents I had brought for Laia and Sofia. “I think I need to get to know Tió a little before I encourage him,” I said, crouching down between the log and Laia and Sofia and slipping their presents under the blanket.
I stood up. “There. We’re friends.” I hit the log hard, twice.
“Perfect,” Sofia said, whipping the blanket off Tió. There was a pile of brightly wrapped packages behind t
he log. Like three excited children, we distributed the presents and began unwrapping them. I had bought Sofia some First Nations art from the west coast. Laia had been tougher to buy for. She had told me she would like something about Canadian history, but I had wanted to get her something more romantic. DJ had suggested a book about Canadian spies that he was reading, but I didn’t think Laia was into spies. After a long search, I had settled on a book of photographs and quotes called Canada: Our Century, which gave an idea of Canada’s history in the twentieth century, and a pair of silver First Nations earrings.
Sofia gave me a Barcelona Football Club shirt and a book of poems by some guy called Federico García Lorca—fortunately, an English translation. Laia gave me a beautiful history of the Civil War, with hundreds of photographs from the time Grandfather had been in Spain.
I felt part of a second family and went to bed deliriously happy. Before I sank into a deep sleep, I managed to email Mom to say I had arrived safely and text DJ to wish him a Merry Christmas and tell him I hoped the snow wasn’t too deep.
THREE
Christmas Day was quiet. We didn’t go to church like many people, but we walked through the streets of the old town and down the Ramblas. I was happy to see that Laia was wearing the earrings I’d given her. The shops were closed, but many of the restaurants were open, and we stopped frequently for snacks. In the afternoon we went out to Gaudí’s Parc Güell and strolled among the weird buildings and walkways decorated with brightly colored mosaics. The sun was shining, and it was very different from gray, snowy Canada.
“It will be warmer in Seville,” Sofia commented, “and Felip will look after you well.” I found the mention of Laia’s father mildly uncomfortable, but Sofia continued without concern. “I think Felip is where Laia gets her interest in history. I prefer the present to the past. Perhaps that is why Felip and I were, how you say, incompatible.”
“Felip works for the government,” Laia said. “His department is in charge of helping all Spaniards become comfortable with our past.”
“Reconciliation,” I suggested.
“Yes, so that those on both sides of the war can feel a part of the same Spain.”
“And not just the war,” Sofia added. “Terrible things happened after the fighting was over. We are only just discovering that thousands of newborn babies were stolen from their mothers by the nuns and priests who ran Spain’s hospitals under General Franco and given to childless Fascist couples. The mothers were poor or politically suspect and were often told that their babies had died. There were even funerals, but when the graves are dug up now, the coffins are filled with stones. All across Spain, children are trying to trace their real mothers, and mothers their lost children.”
“That’s horrible,” I said.
Sofia shrugged. “It’s Spain. After Franco died, everyone wanted to forget, but it’s not possible to forget. We must remember everything, the good and the bad.”
“And that’s what Felip is doing?” I asked.
“Yes,” Laia replied. “I am sure he will tell us more when we see him.”
As we sat on a winding bench that was really a colorful decorated dragon, Sofia said, “My grandmother, Maria, never talked much about your grandfather, but I think she loved him.”
“I think she did too,” I replied, “and I think he loved her, but they were very young. He certainly never forgot her.” I had let Sofia read Grandfather’s diary before I’d flown back to Canada in the summer.
“What was he like?” Sofia asked.
“That’s difficult to answer, “ I said. “I always knew him as an old man, and I still find it hard to think he’s the same person as the boy who wrote the diary in the war. DJ and my mom both almost worshipped Grandfather, and I think I rebelled against that. No one could be that wonderful. Certainly he was extraordinary and did many amazing things, but he was more complex and certainly more secretive than we thought. There were things in his past, like his fighting in Spain, that he kept hidden from his family throughout his life. Perhaps there were other things that we still don’t know about. Perhaps we’ll never know.”
I had surprised myself with this speech. I didn’t want to leave them with the idea that Grandfather was a dark, mysterious, secretive person though. “One thing’s for certain,” I went on. “He treasured and loved his family above everything. That’s why he gave us our tasks: to help us get started in life.”
“I wish I could have met him,” Laia and Sofia said at the same time.
“I wish I could have met Maria,” I said. “What was she like?”
Sofia spoke first. “She was extraordinary. If one word could describe her, it would be passionate.” Laia nodded her agreement. “I think she found it very frustrating having to keep silent while Spain was a dictatorship, but, living under a false identity, she had to keep a very low profile.”
“A false identity?” I asked.
“Yes,” Laia said. “At the end of the Second World War in 1945, Maria wanted to come back to Spain from France, where she had fled as a refugee when Barcelona fell to the Fascists at the end of the war. She wanted her baby, my grandmother, to grow up in this land, even if it was under military rule. She couldn’t come back under her real name. The government was making lists of those who had helped the Republic during our war, and many were disappearing into labor camps.”
“Or unmarked graves,” Sofia interjected.
“Many, probably thousands, were shot,” Laia agreed. “Maria had worked with the Resistance in France, helping crashed Allied fliers escape. It took quite a long time, but her contacts there gave her false documents. Until General Franco died in 1975, Maria had to lead a false life, swallowing her anger at what she saw going on and pretending to be okay with a government she hated.”
“I think it was a tremendous relief to her when Spain became a democracy again,” Sofia went on. “She could be herself at last, and she threw herself into all kinds of social causes, from helping single mothers like herself to protesting the presence of American military bases in Spain. She also struggled to get us to remember our past. She told me once that a country was nothing without a past—a complete past, with all the good and bad out in the open.”
“So Felip is continuing her work?” I said.
“In a way, yes,” Sofia replied. “Although he works within the system, it is very slow, and there are many political pressures that determine what he can and cannot do.”
“But he tries,” Laia interrupted. She sounded surprisingly abrupt, and I caught a look that Sofia gave her. Did they disagree about Felip’s work? “He’s working to get the Americans to pay for proper cleanup at Palomares.”
“I know,” Sofia said. “It’s just that the process is so slow. Maria would have been out on the streets demonstrating.”
Before Laia could say anything else, I asked, “What’s Palomares?”
Sofia let Laia explain. “Early in 1966, an American B-52 bomber carrying four nuclear weapons exploded over the village of Palomares. Two of the bombs exploded and—”
“What?” I interrupted. “Two nuclear bombs exploded! Here?”
“They weren’t nuclear explosions,” Laia explained. “Just the conventional explosives in the bombs went off, but radioactive material was scattered over a wide area. The Americans collected all the bits they could find and dug up a lot of contaminated earth to ship back to the US, but most people don’t think they did a very thorough job. Much of the soil around Palomares is still contaminated. Apart from the health hazards, the local farmers can’t sell their crops. Even all these years later, the Americans still refuse to do a proper cleanup. That’s one thing Felip’s working on.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“It was big news at the time,” Sofia added, “but now it’s only a Spanish problem. That’s why we need demonstrations, to make more people aware.”
“You said there were four bombs on the B-52,” I said. “If two exploded, what happened to
the other two?”
“One landed in a stream and was found quickly,” Laia said. “The fourth one landed in the sea. It took months to find it. When the Americans did bring it up, they made a big fuss, saying the problem was solved. And then, gradually, everyone forgot.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “I thought that sort of thing only happened in the movies.”
Laia smiled. “Sometimes the real world is more exciting than movies. But let’s not spend Christmas Day talking about bombs and radioactive contamination. There’ll be plenty of time to ask Felip about all this in Seville.”
“I agree,” Sofia said, standing. “I know a nice little tapas bar where, so the story goes, Ernest Hemingway spent time during the war. I think we should go there, have something to eat and pay our respects.”
Despite Laia’s words, as we strolled out of Parc Güell I thought about nuclear bombs and accidents. I would certainly talk to Felip about it in a day or two.
FOUR
“Why did your parents split up?” It was late evening on December 26, and we had been on the AVE, Spain’s superfast train, for five hours. We were only about half an hour out of Seville’s Santa Justa station, and it had taken me this long to get around to asking a question I had wanted to know the answer to ever since I had seen Sofia give Laia that look in Parc Güell.
Laia thought for a long moment, gazing out the window at the olive groves speeding by. “They separated three years ago,” she said. “What triggered it was Felip being transferred to Seville. Sofia didn’t want to leave Barcelona and take me away from my school, but there was more to it than that.” Laia used her parents’ first names as comfortably as if they were close friends from school. It seemed odd. I couldn’t imagine calling Mom anything other than Mom, but Laia had introduced me to a lot of habits I found strange.