Guernica Read online

  “Call the Guardia!” he yelled when Miren backed away.

  “What will I tell them?” the café owner asked. “That a ninety-five-pound girl frightened you with a dance implement?”

  “I don’t care what you tell them, something needs to be done.”

  “I will do you a favor, friend, since I take it you are not from here. I will tell you this: Her father is Justo Ansotegui, the strongest man in Guernica, who would happily gut you with his hands if he heard any word of this.”

  The café owner handed the flustered man a dish towel to wipe the sweat from his face. When he spun and left, towel to his head, the rest of the stunned dance troupe broke into irrintzi screams and cheers. As the dancers gathered around them and expressed their awe at her bravery, Miren felt the sickening drain of adrenaline after a conflict. She was embarrassed that she could not have found a better solution. She should have been more clever, she told herself. She did not speak to her father of the incident, afraid that he would seek out the man and dismember him. But word of her outburst became the news of the town by the next morning.

  If anything, the community loved Miren Ansotegui even more thereafter, with one difference: She was not called the Butterfly with such frequency.

  CHAPTER 6

  José María Navarro occasionally imposed on his friend Josepe Ansotegui for personal advice. In this case, it regarded his youngest son, Miguel.

  “He gets sick on the boat every day,” Navarro told Ansotegui as they walked the wharf after docking one afternoon.

  “I know, the crew make bets on how much time it will take every morning before they see him barking at the sea. But Dodo threatens them if he hears anybody make fun of him.”

  “He won’t quit, Josepe. I know he would feel like he’s letting me down. If we don’t find something else for him, he’ll stay on this boat, being sick every day for the rest of his life. But if I force him off, he might never forgive me for the insult.”

  “I heard Alegria at the shipwright’s was looking for an apprentice,” Ansotegui said. “Would Miguel be happier building boats?”

  Navarro laughed at the obvious answer. “Oh, yes, but knowing him, he’d be afraid it would disappoint me. And I guess I’m worried it’s going to sound like I want to be rid of him.”

  “Just mention to him that you’ve heard of the job; if he wants it, he’ll let you know. I’ll put in a word to Alegria for him.”

  As Estrella Navarro began clearing the dishes after an evening of general table talk, José María mentioned to his wife that Alegria was looking for an apprentice shipwright.

  Miguel overheard. “Would a shipwright’s apprentice have to go to sea?” he asked.

  “No, never, if he chose not to. There might be some time on board doing finishing work in the harbor.”

  “I want that job!” Miguel shouted, standing quickly, with both arms in the air as if he’d been pardoned from a prison sentence. “If you feel all right about it. If you can get along without me. Patroia, to tell you the truth, fishing makes me sick.”

  Although he hadn’t built anything in his life, Miguel was suited to the job. Within a year, he was not only fully competent but had developed an affinity for the process. He enjoyed the trips into the hillside forests to cut and mill the mountain oak, and he relished finding ways to shape wood to his purpose. He began adding his own touches, flourishes that might not be called for in the design but gave distinction to the product.

  He carved esses onto the end of railings or gunwales and used veneers of alder and ash to create decorative inlays of compass stars in the wood near the helm. These extras became the signature of his work. The men in the boats were of a serious nature, but considering the hours they spent on the craft, a small bit of style was well appreciated.

  Some captains soon were ordering the kinds of Miguel’s handiwork they had seen on other boats. In addition, Miguel brought his deeply ingrained daily timetable to the shipwright’s shop. He still attended the fishermen’s mass at four A.M., sitting with his father and brother, and only tacked off course when they reached the harbor. Instead of continuing on board with them, he headed down the wharf to the shop to begin working on the boats hours before his colleagues arrived. Building boats meant staying connected to the fishing business, he reminded his father. His hands were still involved in shaping the family legacy.

  A friend of Miren’s told her of a cabin that might be perfect for Alaia, located in a rill at the edge of town on the lower border of old man Zubiri’s baserri. Having been unused for years, the place was simple, not much more than a shepherd’s cottage. The shake roof had grown thick with moss in its peaty location under a cluster of alders. At first, it was hard to separate the house from the forest because branches had grown down into the organic roof thatch, as if the trees were trying to embrace the little home.

  When Miren neared the cabin, a gentle but overgrown path beside the stream led her directly to the front door. There, at the bottom of a glade, there would be only two directions for Alaia to consider: uphill and downhill. To go upward would lead to the adjacent meadow, where Alaia might have access to plants and herbs for her soaps; to go downhill, with the stream at one side, would funnel her directly to town and the market.

  Miren talked Zubiri into letting Alaia have it without rent in exchange for soaps. It had been unused for some time, Miren pointed out, and as a widower whose children had long departed, Zubiri didn’t need the space. In fact, he would benefit, Miren promised, because they would make repairs and improvements to his property.

  Miren took on the cleaning and refitting of the cabin, with the help of half a dozen men from town. The path was cleared, and the sagging front steps were rebuilt with a solid handrail. Mariangeles donated a quilt with a lace border she had sewn, and Justo used the oxcart to carry a winter’s worth of firewood. He stacked the pieces just outside Alaia’s back door on the north side of the house, where it also would insulate against winter winds that would sluice down the notched terrain.

  Mariangeles arranged a few small pieces of cookware above the hearth, and Miren spaced Alaia’s pots and jars and equipment in an orderly array on the table that would be used as her soap-making bench. In a day, Miren walked Alaia around the one-room house and took her into the fields and down into town several times to reinforce her mental landscape. She also spent the first night in the cabin with Alaia, hoping to ease what ever anxiety she might feel after having slept nearly every night of her life inside convent walls. It was peaceful there as the small stream created soothing background sounds. And as the fire warmed the cabin, the moss on the roof gave off a rich organic smell.

  “I never could have done this without you, Miren,” Alaia said the next morning.

  Miren hugged her. “I’m so happy for you. I’ll come visit every day.”

  “Miren . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t,” Alaia said. “I’ll never be on my own if you’re taking care of me all the time. I know how you are. We’re dear friends, but I really can do this.”

  “But I want . . . ,” Miren started to argue, but the sound of two words—“I want”—stopped her. “You’re right, that’s how I am. You tell me what I can do and I’ll trust that you’re in control of everything else. You’ll do fine. But I’ll check in, and we’ll meet in town all the time. Zubiri is just up the hill, and Josu Letemendi, a boy our age, lives at the baserri across the stream. I’m sure they’ll be happy to peek in on you.”

  José María Navarro scored the sign of the cross into the bread crust. His sons, Eduardo and Miguel, and his wife, Estrella, crossed themselves with precise strokes. The two youngest, daughters Araitz and Irantzu, paused their jousting with forks for the very serious business of the blessing. Along the axis of the cross, José María carved the round loaf into halves and then into thick slices. The first piece he removed, plated, and placed on the edge of the hearth.

  “To calm the stormy seas,” he said, observing a traditional se
aman’s gesture.

  Eduardo accepted the platter, placed one slice on his plate next to the fillet of sea bream, and slipped another into his shirt pocket. “In case I have need to calm the stormy stomach later,” he announced. “You should take an extra for later, too, Miguel.”

  “Mass is at midnight,” Estrella said. “And I warn you not to arrive in a condition that will embarrass us. We worked hard to build our name, and at least one of you seems unaware of the need to preserve it.”

  “Corpus Christi . . . sanguis Christi,” Dodo offered with exaggerated piety. “We will only drink to pre-sanctify the event.”

  “Et spiritus sancti,” added Miguel, crossing himself again and peering up from his mock prayer to see if his mother had wound up to slap him across the head. She had cuffed him on the left side of his crown so frequently, Miguel claimed, that it was the reason for a stubborn cowlick there.

  “Well, if you see Olentzero out there, please send him to our house with something sweet,” she said, referring to the “Christmas coal man”—Josepe Ansotegui—who was carried throughout town in a basket, tossing treats to the little ones.

  “And where will this presanctification take place?” José María asked.

  “Bar Guria . . . we’re going to work on the harmonies for tonight’s hymns,” Dodo said.

  “Watch your language,” José María warned.

  It was not a counsel against profanity; it was a reminder to be cautious with whom they spoke Basque—a jailable offense depending on the mood of the Guardia Civil at the moment.

  “Dominus vobiscum,” Dodo replied.

  The wind from the sea fluted through the narrow walkways of the fishermen’s quarters with a chilling whistle. Cinching their jackets, Eduardo and Miguel walked toward the procession that accompanied Olentzero beneath the colored lights along the wharf. A quartet of strong men hoisted a basket chair upon their shoulders and carried the beloved Olentzero from house to house. A collection of carolers and children clustered tightly, drawing closer for warmth as they stopped to sing and toss small trinkets and candies.

  “Olentzero, we hope you are carrying a bota on this cold night,” Eduardo shouted at his friend. “You’ll scare the little ones if you arrive frozen solid.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to bring more for me if I fall short; with so many good little ones to see, it will be a long night,” the jolly coal man said, lowering his voice and nodding his head toward the rear of the pack of followers. “You’ll notice our special helpers tonight.”

  At the perimeter of the gathering was a pair of armed Guardia Civil officers loitering behind the revelers.

  “One of our singers already has been kindly asked to observe tonight’s festivities from behind bars,” Olentzero said.

  The wine fueled Eduardo Navarro’s outrage. The customary discussions at Bar Guria were of women and exaggerated tales of sexual adventures. But as two tables of mus players offered energetic damnations of their opponents and their partners, and others dined on pintxoak and laughed over their wine, Dodo was hardly filled with the seasonal spirit of peace and fellowship.

  “Iker Anduiza is in jail to night,” Dodo protested, loudly enough to cause his tablemates to dip their heads. “Domingo Laca was taken away last week after some neighbor turned him in for teaching our history to schoolchildren.”

  His friends Enrique and José Luis Elizalde had heard Dodo’s railings for many hours on the wharf and in the bars. They talked of the Second Republic and the hopes of renewed freedoms, perhaps even nationhood. But they knew that most expression was still subject to the whims of whichever demagogue had strong-armed his way into a position of local influence.

  “We’ve driven off better than these,” Dodo preached. “They’ve jailed us for hanging our flag. What’s next? Lopping off our pelo-tas to keep us from breeding more little Basques? Is that when we’ll fight them off? We were ruling ourselves when they were still swallowing the limp chorizos of the Moors.”

  “Fine, Dodo, but let’s not fight the war to night,” Miguel urged.

  The thought of backing away offended Dodo. “Why not? I know you care, too. How can you be so tolerant?”

  “I see what’s right,” Miguel said in a low, firm tone. “I see what’s right, and I agree. But what’s right for me doesn’t include prison just now. What’s right seems like keeping ourselves going until we can make this go away.”

  “You’re hiding, little brother. You’re not facing the truth.”

  “Dodo, I’m facing it; I’m just not fighting it before mass.”

  They locked on to each other’s eyes, Miguel detecting his brother’s dangerous fervor, Dodo sensing a puzzling inner peace. They nodded in silent truce, and Dodo gave his brother a conciliatory slap on the shoulder.

  “Let’s get some air and have a cheesh,” Dodo said. “Maybe we can find a guard in need of watering.”

  The numbing wind that tumbled in with the waves did little to sober the unsteady Dodo, and it was still several hours before they were to meet at the church of Santa María de la Asunción for mass. “Eat that bread you brought, Dodo,” Miguel said. “It will shut your mouth for a few minutes.”

  But Dodo did not eat the bread, instead using his mouth to begin singing a song about fishermen leaving early in the morning to sail far away. He sang in Basque. Miguel put his arm around him to try to quiet him. “Yes, Dodo, it is very quiet next to the pier, and there is a pretty white boat floating on the water.”

  From an alley next to town hall stepped two Guardia Civil of-ficers with rifles, uniformed in their green capes, with their patent leather caps reflecting the festive lamps connecting the trees of the square. Miguel instantly clasped a hand across his brother’s mouth.

  “Merry Christmas,” Miguel said with feigned holiday cheer.

  The Guardias inflated their chests and clenched their faces. Enrique and José Luis pulled the two Navarro brothers back out onto the street before Dodo could further confront them. The two guards strutted off.

  “You should stay and learn the beauty of the Basque songs,” Dodo shouted after them. “Or are you too busy sneaking off to probe each other’s culos?”

  Dodo said the word in Spanish, to be certain they understood.

  “Dodo, quit,” Miguel urged.

  “No, I want to talk politics with these . . . gentlemen.”

  The square had filled with those early to mass, or out to visit friends, or on their way to the tabernas for celebration. The procession around Olentzero, too, had grown larger.

  The two Guardias turned and looked at Dodo from a distance of several yards. Dodo leaned in their direction, pulling against Miguel’s grasp; puckered his lips dramatically; and blew them a kiss. Groups of villagers laughing aloud, safe in their numbers, forced the officers to return and save face.

  The smaller guard stepped forward and jabbed a rifle into Dodo’s chest.

  “Get over here, García,” he called to his partner. “We’ve got a subversive.”

  Dodo had told his friends his feelings about the Guardia so often that they could have joined him in the recitation: They are those not intelligent enough to clean fish, those not dignified enough to shovel manure, those for whom a rifle serves in place of the fundamental male organ.

  He cleared his throat to begin voicing the screed for the Guar-dias.

  “Stop . . . now,” the shorter guard said, elevating the rifle from Dodo’s chest to his face. “I will count to three.”

  “Oh, that’s it; I wondered what the qualifications were to join the Guardia Civil,” Dodo cracked. “Now I know; it is the capacity to count to three. Let’s hear you, now, one . . . two . . .”

  Miguel moved to step between the two, and the shorter Guardia, sensing a threat, pivoted the rifle butt to catch Miguel on the jaw. He dropped instantly, but as the Guardia paused, Dodo wrenched the rifle from his hands and struck him exactly as he had done to Miguel. The taller Guardia lifted his weapon toward Dodo but froze in place at the sight of
his bloodied compatriot. Fully confronted by indecisiveness, the taller guard chose not to fire his weapon, instead blowing his whistle for reinforcements. Behind him, Miguel struggled back to kneeling and lunged at the guard, knocking him to the ground.

  Instinctively, the brothers scrambled and separated. Miguel slumped between buildings and slipped into the shadows of the huge church. Dodo, unhurt and able to simply outrun the Guardias, headed brazenly across the square. The crowd that had gathered around Olentzero parted for a moment and then swallowed him up.

  By the time the half-dozen Guardias had collected, their mettle dimmed by the sight of their fellow’s blood freezing in rectangular patterns around the cobbles, Dodo was already being carried off in a basket, wearing the hat and jacket of the jolly coal man Olentzero. Josepe Ansotegui, now clothed in another’s borrowed coat, had surrendered his disguise to allow Dodo’s escape.

  The Guardias splintered in pairs to search for the criminals, two up toward the center of town, two down toward Isuntza Beach, and two around the wharf. Even though he had been knocked into semiconsciousness, Miguel recognized the time and tide. After sneaking behind the church and gaining distance from the Guardias, he recovered his breath and merely strolled away from the threat.

  The tidal current had reversed from its low point a short time earlier, allowing him to keep his feet dry for the entire walk out to San Nicolas Island. The inflow submerged his path almost the minute he reached the island’s southern edge. From a leeward rock, he watched the frenzy in the plaza. The Guardia had set up posts near the entrance and exits of the church and examined all who attended mass. Even with the wind blowing icy needles and the arthritic groaning of the frozen pines, Miguel could hear the organ playing in the distance and hymns being sung.