1April 25, 1937
To laugh and dance and live in the teeth of whatever tragedies an uncaring fate threw in your path was the Basque way.
The stories Sibi’s mother told, stories handed down through generations of indomitable women, painted those defiant sufferers as heroes.
Sibi feared she was not the stuff of which such heroes were made.
She was hungry. Her feet hurt. And she was afraid. Of those things, afraid was the worst by far. She was so tired of being afraid.
A knot in her stomach. A tightness in her throat. A prickle of unease sliding over her skin. Familiar sensations all, which did not make their sudden onset feel any less dreadful. Sixteen-year-old Sibi—Sibil Francesca Helinger—pushed back a wayward strand of coffee-brown hair that had escaped from the heavy bun coiled at her nape and frowned out into the misty darkness enshrouding the Calle Fernando el Católico. Her pulse thrummed as she clung to the desperate hope that she was not seeing what she thought she was. Since the fighting had moved close enough so that the residents of this ancient village high in the western Pyrenees could actually hear gunfire in the surrounding hills, fear had become her all-too-frequent visitor. But this—this was different. This was because of something that was happening now, right before her eyes, in the wide, tree-lined street just beyond where she stood watching the regular weekly celebration on the night before market day.
Have we left it too late? The thought made her mouth go dry.
“I want a sweet.” Five-year-old Margrit’s restless movement beside her reclaimed her attention. Gripping the child’s hand tighter, Sibi cast an impatient glance down.
“There’s no money for a sweet.” Or anything else, Sibi could have added, but didn’t.
“But I want one.” Round blue eyes in a cherubic face surrounded by gold ringlets stared longingly at the squares of honey and almond turrón being hawked to the crowd by a woman bearing a tray of them. The yeasty aroma of the pastry made Sibi’s stomach growl. For the last few weeks, she and her mother had been rationing their diminishing resources by skipping the evening meal so that the younger ones could eat.
“Ask Mama to buy you one later.”
Margrit’s warm little fingers—which Sibi kept a secure hold on, because as angelic as the youngest of the four Helinger sisters looked, she wasn’t—twitched in hers. “She won’t. You know she won’t. She’ll say she doesn’t have any money, either.”
That was undoubtedly true. In fact, Sibi had only said it in hopes of placating her little sister until their mother returned. Thinking fast—Margrit had mostly outgrown tantrums, but not entirely—Sibi was just about to come out with an alternate suggestion when thirteen-year-old Luiza jumped in.
“You know we’re poor now, so stop being such a baby.” Cross because she hadn’t been permitted to go to the cinema with a group of her friends, Luiza spoke sharply. The thick, straight, butterscotch-blond hair she’d chopped to chin length herself the night before—“Nobody has long hair anymore!” she’d wailed in the face of their mother’s horror—had already lost its grip on the rag curls she’d forced into it. She looked like she was wearing a thatch of broom straw on her head, but Sibi was far too good a sister, and far too preoccupied at the moment, to point that out.
“I don’t like being poor.” Margrit’s lower lip quivered.
“None of us do.”
“I specially don’t like—”
Luiza cut her off. “You’re whining. You know what Mama said about whining.”
“I am not...”
A match flared in the street. Tuning her sisters out, Sibi focused on what the brief incandescence revealed as it rose to light a cigarette—red tip glowing brightly—before arcing like a tiny shooting star to the ground. Sibi looked beyond the cigarette to the dark shape behind it. The dark shapes behind it. She wasn’tmistaken. Soldiers—their soldiers, the loyalist Republicans, their uniforms unmistakable—poured into the street from seemingly everywhere. And the numbers were increasing...
Her heartbeat quickened. Does no one else see?
Biting down on her lower lip, she glanced around. The crowd clapped and swayed to the rollicking music of the highly prized town band and ate and danced and played games and—She concluded that no one else did. The village leaders who were present appeared unaware: Father Esteban talked to the woman behind the refreshment table as she ladled out a bowl of spicy fish soup for him; His Honor the mayor played mus, the popular card game, with three friends; the Count of Arana, the town’s most prominent citizen, stood with his arms crossed and a stern gaze fixed on his fifteen-year-old daughter, Teresa, as she walked away from him with her hand tucked into the arm of...Emilio Aguire.
Sibi’s stomach gave an odd little flutter.
Watching them reminded her of just how much of an outsider she was here in this quaint small town with its red-roofed white houses and narrow cobbled streets. Emilio was her age, he was the handsomest boy in school and he had been kind to her. She had hoped... But no. To hope for anything where he was concerned was foolishness. She and her mother and sisters were only temporary residents. She worked as a part-time waitress and her mother had worked in a dress shop before being fired three weeks ago, when the shop owner’s husband had displayed too much interest in her. And that, of course, had immediately become a topic for much discussion among the town gossips, whose gleeful suspicions that the former Marina Diaitz, now Helinger, who had come home with her children but without her husband, was a floozy were thus seemingly confirmed. All those factors combined to put them near the bottom of the social ladder in this place where the wealthy local aristocracy had been comfortably in place for generations, and they, with their German father, would have been outsiders anyway. And Teresa was beautiful and rich and—Well, there it was, foolishness.
She had no time for foolishness.
Glancing at those in her own party—Luiza and Margrit, and their other sister, Johanna, all bunched close around her, and their mother, Marina, dancing merrily with the baker Antonio Batzar beneath the colored lights strung above the makeshift dance floor in hopes of securing a scarce loaf of tomorrow morning’s fresh bread—Sibi felt her heartbeat quicken.
Intent on their own concerns, they appeared oblivious to anything else. As usual it was up to her, notorious as the family worrier, to think about what might happen, to catch and make sense of what the rest of them missed.
Tonight, it was that their soldiers, their last line of defense against the surging rebel Nationalists, appeared to be coming together en masse to slink like starving cats past the Sunday night festivities.
These were the same war-weary, battle-scarred troops that had been camped out in the forested peaks surrounding the town since they had fallen back after the savage attack on the neighboring village of Durango that had brought the nine-month-old civil war as close as its ancient churches and rambling streets. In the days since, thousands of panicking refugees had flooded the town. The warships of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, commander in chief of the rebel forces, had blockaded the Basque ports. Food had become scarce: along with bread, milk and meat were almost impossible to obtain. People were hungry, frightened. The war that had been safely on the other side of the country had changed direction so fast that the residents of these sleepy villages high above the Bay of Biscay had been caught unprepared. But unprepared or not, in a new and terrifying offensive the newspapers were calling the War of the North, the fighting was now rushing like a wave toward their front door.
The soldiers were all that stood between them and the enemy forces determined to destroy them. And the soldiers were leaving.
Sibi’s breathing quickened as she registered the numbers, so many, stretching out in a growing column that pushed through the less determined movements of the people coming and going from the festival like a boat through water. Looking toward the station plaza with its dim yellow lights, she saw a newly arrived train puffing smoke as it practically vibrated with eagerness to be gone again. Soldiers, dark shapes rendered unmistakable even at that distance because of their uniforms and the guns they carried on their backs, were already loading shipping crates and boxes aboard.
The train would hold only a fraction of the soldiers that were coming—but still they were coming. No, going.
The ones that weren’t heading toward the train station were turning toward the Renteria Bridge. Or, in other words, taking the road out of town.
We should have gone weeks ago.
She’d known it, felt it with every prudent instinct she possessed. Eleven months earlier, they’d traveled with their mother to this, the town of Marina’s birth, because Marina’s mother, their amona Elisabeta, was on her deathbed. At that time, the civil war had not yet begun, the journey had been safe, the area had been safe and the plan had been that they would be gone no longer than a month or two. Then to everyone’s surprise, Amona had lingered on until January.
After that there was the funeral, and then Amona’s belongings to dispose of and other matters to settle, which Sibi had known was only a small part of the story. In the meantime, the civil war had raged, with much fighting centered on Madrid and Guadalajara and Málaga in the south. Finally, alarmed as the war turned in their direction, Sibi had broached the theretofore largely avoided topic of leaving, of going home to Berlin and their father. Her mother had regarded her out of pained eyes that reproached her for bringing the sensitive subject up. But at least Mama had listened—then discussed it with the whole close-knit network of relatives and friends and neighbors who lived around them at the bottom of Calle San Juan in the Old Quarter, otherwise known as the poor end of the street in the poor end of town.
All had insisted that there was no hurry, that in this remote village that was revered as the cradle of the ancient Basque people, the seat of their cherished democracy, the home of the Sacred Oak that had served as a symbol of their freedom since the fourteenth century, they were safe.
Mola won’t dare attack here. Everyone was sure.
In the face of her mother’s silently pleading eyes, Sibi had abandoned the argument, praying that everyone was right. But she had worried.
As you always do, Mama had said. Which was true. But in this case, she felt she had good reason.
The forces under the command of the Nationalist General Emilio Mola, leader of the Northern Offensive, were known to be merciless.
As far back as July, at the very beginning of the uprising, he had announced that this war would be one of extermination against all who stood against him.
The Basques stood against him. And now he was heading in their direction.
“Look, that lady has mouchous.” Tugging on Sibi’s hand again, Margrit pointed toward a woman bearing the soft, almond-flavored cookies on a plate. “Can I have—”
“No.” Sibi’s tone was shorter than usual because her attention was focused on what was happening in the street beyond the fair.
With the soldiers gone, the town would be unprotected.
They would be unprotected.
Sibi could taste the fear now, sour in her mouth. Everybody knew the stories, even the ones that weren’t considered fit for the ears of young girls: the enemy burning whole villages, shooting soldiers even after they surrendered, carrying out mass executions, slaughtering entire families, violating women at will, raping and killing children and even nuns. In their push to wrest control of the country from the duly elected Republican government, it was said that the Nationalists stopped at nothing.
And now the White Terror, as it was called, might be coming for them.
The column of soldiers stretched out into the darkness farther even than she could see. It was growing, widening, filling the street.
She couldn’t stand it. She had to know what was happening.
“Here, hold on to Margrit.” Thrusting the little girl’s hand into Luiza’s, Sibi turned away.
“Mama said we should stay together.” Shy Jo, aged nine, clutched at Sibi’s coat. Feeling the tug on the worn-thin wool, Sibi checked and glanced at her. Jo’s black-framed glasses, too big because they were hand-me-downs from Luiza, slid precariously down her slender nose. Thick-lashed chocolate brown eyes in a square-jawed, high-cheekboned face that still retained some of its childish roundness, long coffee-colored braids tied up with scraps of red ribbon—except for the glasses and hairstyle, delicately made Jo resembled Sibi to a remarkable degree. The difference was in their personalities: as the eldest, upon whose thin shoulders the cares of the family consistently fell, Sibi had never had the luxury of being shy or frail.
“Is something wrong?” Speaking at almost the same time as Jo, Luiza gave Sibi a wide-eyed look.
“I’ll be right back.” Without really answering either of them, Sibi freed her coat from Jo’s fingers and added a stern, “Be good,” to Margrit as the little girl, registering the change in minders, whined, “You’re hurting,” at Luiza and tugged experimentally at her hand.
“Stop it. Chiqueada.” With a shake of her head, Luiza muttered that last half under her breath.
“I am not spoiled.” Indignant at the charge, Margrit stamped her foot and tried harder to pull away.
“All of you, stay here.” It was an order, given as Sibi slipped away. Ducking beneath the linked arms of the lustily singing merrymakers behind her, she stepped into the street. The slide of her too-big shoes, handed down from her mother, against the blistered places at the backs of her heels made her grimace: it would be nice, one day, to once again have shoes that actually fit. The clap of her rope soles on the cobblestones, like the shuffling march of the soldiers in front of her, was lost beneath the exuberant wail of the accordions as the song reached its crescendo. Here, away from the warmth provided by the fires burning in barrels, the air was cold enough to make her shiver. It smelled of pine and cigarettes and the livestock that had been brought in to be sold at tomorrow’s market. Pulling her scarf up around her head, she hesitated, scanning the lines of men in hopes of spotting a friendly-looking face.
So many. Along with the refugees, they had poured into the area by the thousands in recent days until it seemed as if every inch of space was clogged with them.
She’d hated their presence. But now...
A group of three came toward her, on the outside of the line and moving more slowly than the others, one man drooping as he was helped along by two of his fellows. Sick or wounded, she thought, and the thought was accompanied by a rush of hope that perhaps this was no more than an evacuation of the infirm. After all, the hospital was full to overflowing. Perhaps these men were being taken elsewhere for treatment.
“Excuse me...” Darting forward, she tugged on the arm of the outermost soldier, an officer, she thought from the five-pointed red star on his cap. Laden down by a pair of rucksacks and a collection of weapons slung over his shoulder, he had an arm around the injured man’s waist. “Can you tell me—where are you going?”
His eyes glinted black at her from beneath his beret. “We’re pulling back.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears. “But how can you leave us?” Fueled by fear, the question burst from her throat.
Another soldier, overhearing, answered. “We’re going no farther than the Cinturón de Hierro. What’s that, thirty-five kilometers away? No distance at all.”
The Cinturón de Hierro, or girdle of iron, was the massive wall of artillery and antiaircraft guns that had been set up around the nearby industrial capital of Bilbao. And yes, Bilbao was as close as he said. Still, as an attempt to reassure, his words had done anything but.
Their town stood squarely between Bilbao and the Nationalist Army.
“But what of us? What will we do?” She felt cold all over as she tried to calculate what the soldiers’ departure might mean for her family. Theirs was a household of women, of girls—they would be more at risk than most. If the enemy was coming, should they leave now, following the troops? Or should they go up into the hills and hide? Or—
“You’ll be in no danger once we are gone.” The soldier touched his cap to her and, quickening his step, walked on.
“How can you say that?” she called, but he was gone. She clasped her hands together in agitation as she glanced back down the street at the oncoming sea of men.
There had to be someone who could tell her more, provide advice, direction. She felt woefully inadequate to evaluate the situation on her own. Her effervescent mother could rarely be brought to face anything unpleasant at the best of times, and certainly going home to Berlin and their father, whose letters had made it increasingly clear how displeased he was growing with their absence, would be unpleasant for her, Sibi knew. Her parents’ marriage was not the happiest, and Marina was happy here in the town of her birth. But the thought of what might happen if they stayed made Sibi’s heart beat faster. And there were Luiza and Jo and Margrit to think of as well as herself.
We can’t stay here. We can’t.
“You heard him. We’re in no danger.” The speaker was Señora Rosen, the stout, middle-aged wife of the fire chief. Her tone was comfortably complacent.
Other voices joined the conversation as more people gathered around: neighbors, fellow townspeople.
“The soldiers are the target, you understand. Mola will pursue them, and leave us in peace.” The wealthy and important Señor Unceto, owner of the arms factory at the southern end of town, patted her arm. Around him, people nodded solemn agreement.
“How can you know?” Sibi turned toward him, but he was already talking to someone else and didn’t answer.
The street overflowed now with soldiers, while increasing numbers of onlookers formed a shifting line along the curb. A few were grim-faced, while more waved and smiled at the departing soldiers as if they were watching a parade. In the background, the music, the dancing and the festivities continued unabated. Excitement rather than dread hung in the air as the carnival atmosphere of the night before market day spilled out beyond the boundaries of the square.
Except for the exodus of the soldiers, all was continuing on as it always did. Surely if there was danger, there would be some—
“Sibi.” Margrit’s breathless cry brought Sibi’s head sharply around. It was followed a split second later by the full weight of Margrit’s small body crashing into her legs. “Sibi, come quick!”
Taking a staggering step back, she grabbed her sister’s shoulders to steady herself and looked down at the little girl. “What is it?”
Margrit’s eyes were round as coins. “It’s Jo! She’s in trouble.”
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