Though the article in the Independent was published before any response from the Partido Popular (which on 20 November 2011 was voted into power with an absolute majority in Parliament), the papers in Spain today are quoting PP spokesperson, González Pons as saying that the new government would “put the report aside” since the main problem Spain faces today “is unemployment, not Franco.”

New Pellagra Cure to Madrid

Thirty-nine of America’s leading scientists, incuding three Nobel Laureates and thirteen members of the National Academy of Sciences, joined last week in sending to pellagra victims in Madrid a special gift of twenty-five pounds of nicotinic acid, the newly discovered cure for the dread disease.

Accompanying the gift, which is on board the American Relief Ship now at sea with food and relief supplies for Republican Spain, was a message from the donors addressed to Dr. Juan Negrín, the Spanish Prime Minister who is also Professor of Physiology at the University of Madrid.

“It is hoped that this small shipment of nicotinic acid will aid in curing the thousands of cases of pellagra in your country,” says the message of the donors, including Nobel laureates Dr. Albert Einstein, Dr. William Parry Murphy and Dr. Harold C. Urey.  ”Only very minute amounts of this chemical are required for the relief of this age-old disease.  In fact the 270,000 doses in this twenty-six pound shipment are worth only a few hundred dollars –less than the cost of a single bomb that falls on Madrid…”

ALBA, 282, Serials, Box 10, Folder 1.

Baltasar Garzón in New York City, 14 May 2011. Photo Richard Bermack

(English text here.) Durante las últimas dos semanas del mes de octubre, han estado muy a la vista las amplias y profundas contribuciones del Juez español Baltasar Garzón a la promoción de la justicia y de los derechos humanos.  Aunque los titulares y los “sound-bytes” que nos llegan de lugares tan alejados como Argentina, Libia y España no siempre lo reconozcan explícitamente, la mano de Garzón en una reciente serie de acontecimientos trascendentales la puede percibir cualquier persona que ha seguido su carrera durante los últimos 15 años.

Valencia, España, 18 de octubre de 2011

Camps en el banquillo por sobornos, pero después de las elecciones

Se ha fijado la fecha (12 de diciembre) para la apertura del proceso contra el antiguo Presidente de la Comunidad Autónoma de Valencia, Francisco Camps, acusado de sobornos.  Para muchos, el caso Camps no es más que la punta de todo un iceberg de corrupción, que ha salpicado a muchos militantes del Partido Popular.  La trama conocida como Gurtel fue descubierta gracias a las investigaciones del Juez Magistrado Baltasar Garzón.

País Vasco, España, 20 de octubre de 2011

ETA abandona las armas

“Después de más de cuarenta años de lucha armada por la independencia en el País Vasco en España y Francia, este jueves el grupo separatista ETA ha declarado de forma unilateral el final de su campaña de bombas y asesinatos, diciendo que quería ‘aprovechar una oportunidad histórica para alcanzar una resolución justa y democrática a un arraigado conflicto político’” (New York Times).

Todos los expertos en el conflicto vasco reconocen que el acercamiento innovador de Garzón al problema de la violencia terrorista en el País Vasco ha jugado un papel importante en el debilitamiento de ETA a lo largo de los últimos quince años.  Con una aproximación que recuerda la de Eliot Ness en este país, cuando combatió el crimen organizado durante la Prohibición, Garzón cambió el enfoque de la lucha contra ETA, viéndola menos como una campaña política o militar, y más como una investigación judicial y fiscal, de la infraestructura –el entorno—de la organización terrorista.

Libia, 24 de octubre de 2011

Dictador libio Muammar el Qaddafi asesinado

La investigación, orden de detención y petición de extradación de Quaddafi, realizadas por el Tribunal Criminal Internacional en La Haya redujeron la movilidad del dictador libio durante los últimos meses, lo cual sin duda ha contribuído a la caída del Coronel.  Como Consejero Especial al TCI, y junto a su colega de la Audiencia Nacional, la fiscal Dolores Delgado,  Baltasar Garzón participó en la construcción del caso contra Qaddafi.

Ciudad Real, Castilla-La Mancha, España, 27 de octubre, 2011

La Guardia Civil y la Jueza visitan una fosa común en Chillón” (Europa Press)

Según la legislación española, cada vez que se encuentran restos humanos con signos de violencia, es el deber de la policía y de la justicia comparecer a la escena del descubrimiento, para tomar declaraciones y preparar un informe.  Según la Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica, que ha exhumado a centenares de víctimas de la represión franquista, muy rara vez cumplen sus deberes las autoridades policiales y judiciales.   En la gran mayoría de los casos, si parece tratarse de víctimas de la represión franquista, la policía y los tribunales han incumplido sus responsabilidades profesionales.

La valiente postura del Juez Garzón ante los crímenes franquistas, los derechos de las víctimas, y el tema de la competencia o jurisdicción –postura que le ha costado la persecución a manos de sus colegas en la Justicia española—sin duda ha jugado un papel importante a la hora de motivar a policías y jueces –como los de Ciudad Real—a cumplir con sus obligaciones profesionales y a acudir a las fosas.

Argentina, 28 de octubre de 2011

“12 reciben cadena perpetua por crímenes cometidos durante la dictadura”

“Alfredo Astiz y otros once oficiales militares y policiales han sido sentenciados a cadena perpetua, por crímenes perpetrados durante la dictadura militar (1976-1983), anunció un tribunal el miércoles” (New York Times).

En repetidas ocasiones, el gobierno argentino y la sociedad civil argentina han expresado su agradecimiento al Juez Garzón, por sus esfuerzos concienzudos e incansables por aplicar la justicia a los criminales de guerra argentinos, pese a las leyes de amnistía, y a la supuesta prescripción de los delitos.  En 1997, Garzón ordenó la detención y extraditación de 45 oficiales militares argentinos, entre ellos Astiz, acusándoles de genocidio y de terrorismo de estado.

Pues Garzón también ha estado en los titulares españoles estos últimos días; pero no por las razones que uno esperaría.  Por difícil que sea de creer fuera de España, Garzón está en los titulares esta semana porque el Tribunal Supremo de España ha anunciado para el 29 de noviembre la apertura del juicio contra Garzón –supuestamente por haber interceptado ilegalmente conversaciones telefónicas durante su investigación de la corrupción en Valencia y en Madrid.  Es decir, Garzón, por su forma de llevar a cabo la investigación, se sentará en el banquillo antes que ninguno de los acusados de una de las tramas de corrupción más grandes de la historia del país.  Y además, todo parece indicar que pronto el Tribunal Supremo anunciará la apertura de otro juicio contra Garzón, esta vez acusado de “prevaricación” al realizar una investigación de los crímenes contra la humanidad cometidos por el régimen franquista.  O sea:  Garzón será la primera persona en la historia que se siente en el banquillo por algo relacionado a las atrocidades cometidas por Franco y su régimen:  ¡por haber osado a investigarlas!  Parece una broma macabra de Halloween.  Mientras que en todo el mundo los defensores de los derechos humanos y del estado de derecho celebran una serie de acontecimientos trascendentales en los que han sido fundamentales las contribuciones del Juez Garzón, la Justicia Española se prepara a enjuiciarlo por algunas de esas mismas aportaciones.  Nunca ha sido más apropiado el viejo y triste refrán:  “Nadie es profeta en su tierra.” (English text here.)

Post-data, 7 de noviembre

El Ministro de Justicia confesó hoy que la situación de Garzón “es muy difícil” explicar fuera de España “dada su “hoja de servicios en defensa de los derechos y las libertades” y en su “lucha contra el terrorismo”. Caamaño hizo el comentario el día en que Garzón recibió otro reconocimiento internacional de su valor: según informa El País, “ha tomado posesión esta mañana como nuevo miembro del Comité Europeo de Prevención contra la Tortura, cargo para el que fue elegido el pasado mes de julio por el Comité de Ministros del Consejo de Europa.”  Otro eslabón en la ya larga cadena de puestos y premios internacionales que reconocen las contribuciones extraordinarias del Juez suspendido:  Tribunal Penal Internacional, Organización de Estados Americanos, Premio Puffin-ALBA, y un larguísimo “etcétera…”

Photo Alvaro Minguito.

A beautiful slideshow with photographs by Alvaro Minguito of this weekend’s events can be found here.

A monument to the International Brigades is, above all, a monument to international solidarity.  And in this case, the monument itself is a product of solidarity, as it has been made possible thanks to the collaboration of a large group of institutions and individuals.  First of all, the Universidad Complutense de Madrid, represented by its current President, José Carrillo, and his predecessor, Carlos Berzosa; the Faculty of Fine Arts, its Dean and its professors and students who altruistically worked on the design of the monument.  Second, I should acknowledge the many donations that we have received by associations of brigadistas, from foreign embassies, from friends and citizens; so many people, in fact, that I won’t be able to name them all here.  We will post all of the names on our website.  I must also recognize the enthusiastic and tireless work of our compañeros Severiano Montero and, above all, Isabel Pinar, who, together with Professor Dolores Fernández, has supervised, step by step, the process that culminates today.  Thanks to all of them for their solidarity and commitment, which allows us to be here today, paying homage to the protagonists of the day, the International Brigades.

Exactly 75 years ago to the day, on October 22, 1936, the President of the Government of the Republic, Francisco Largo Caballero, signed a decree creating the International Brigades, as units made up of foreign volunteers.  The XI Brigade arrived to Madrid on November 8.  Eyewitnesses recall that when the brigadistas marched through the streets of Madrid, with their martial demeanour, the crowds broke out into applause and emotional shouts of admiration and gratitude.  The brigadistas were living proof that the Spanish people were not alone in its defense of freedom and democracy, besieged by the military coup supported by Hitler and Mussolini.  The presence of the brigadistas strengthened the spirit of the madrileños, and reinforced their will to resist.  The XI and XII Brigade fought courageously in the defense of Madrid, in the Parque del Oeste and in this very Ciudad Universitaria, where we can still see vestiges of that combat,  on this spot where today we remember the International Brigades.  Later, during the course of the war, other units of the Interational Brigades were formed.  Incorporated into the Army of the Republic, they participated in the main battles of the war, always exhibit great courage and generosity of spirit.

These volunteers, from 53 countries from all around the world, or, as Alberti sang, “from this country and that one, big and small,” gave proof of the power of international solidarity, in the common struggle against fascism and in support of freedom.  Because when the homeland is the same for all, it doesn’t matter what country you come from; just as language is unimportant when all free men and women speak one and the same language.  That is why they left their countires and came to Spain to defend the world’s freedom.  They were able to see that the alternatives at the time were freedom or barbarism, democracy or fascism; and they were the first to sound the alarm so that the whole world might be alert to the threat of Hitlerism.  They knew that the war in Spain could be the vestibule of a new world confrontation and they tried to stop it, risking their lives through their commitment to liberty and justice, which was also a commitment to peace.

Spain, that Spain which since then they have all carried with them in their hearts, was for all of those who survived the many storms of XXth-century history, synonymous with a life devoted to the promotion of the same ideas that brought them to our side.  Few, very few of the volunteers for liberty are still alive, and we consider ourselves most fortunate that four of them honor us today with their presence.  But it can be said of all of them that they never let down their guard, and that they always ardently defended their ideas and values whenever these were in peril.  That is why honoring the International Brigades is never an exercise in nostalgia, but rather an activity of absolute currency.  Among us is a group of people who, at the end of July, were on the island of Utoya, when a neonazi perpetrated that most horrendous attack.  At times history seems to deliver moments of the past to the present; the day before the attack, the people on Utoya had inaugurated a plaque to honor the Norwegian volunteers in the International Brigade.  And the Austrian brigadista, Gert Hoffman, with that sharp sense of awareness that characterizes the veterans, wrote to us about the need to warn young people about even the slightest trace of fascist and racist mentalities, so that such crimes are not repeated.  The legacy of the International Brigades is a living legacy, which has to be brought into the present, in the context of the conflicts of the present.  It cannot and should not be relegated to the past, since it is founded on humanity’s most noble values.

Nowadays, with different forms and in another historical context, a part of the planet’s youth is mobilizing, demanding more democracy and a better and more just world.  They know that another world is possible.  The International Brigades also knew this, and that is why they too, young men and women, came to Spain to fight for those same ideals, albeit, I repeat, with different forms, those that were required by the historical moment.

This monument, like a shaft of light with its red star in its heart, is erected in a space that belongs to youth.  In this university, young people are trained as future professionals and scientists, but it is here too that they mature as persons.  We erect this monument on this spot as testimony of our recognition and gratitude for the solidarity of the International Brigades, but also as a marker, in the present, of our memory of those who, in the past, were committed to a better future.  The brigadistas who fought in this Ciudad Universitaria recall how they used the books in the liberal arts library as shields to stop the incoming bullets.  Let us hope today that those books, and their contents, serve to help us tenaciously defend the values of peace, democracy, justice and freedom that always guided the brigadistas.  Let us honor the International Brigades, let us share their aspiration for a more human world, where, as Bertolt Brecht said, man is finally an ally of man.

Review published in American Studies, Vol 50, Nos 3/4, Fall/Winter, 2009.

This is an impressive piece of scholarship, which combines admirable bibliographic and archival research with clear, engaging prose.  Throughout the book’s five main chapters, Schreiber painstakingly reconstructs the biographical and artistic trajectories of a talented and diverse group of cultural workers who, in the heat of the Cold-War induced witchhunts, sought political and creative refuge in Mexico.

Read the entire review here: Cold War Exiles in Mexico

Lincoln vet Frank Pirie, location and date unknown.

Editor’s Note: The following text was sent in by the daughter of Lincoln vet Frank Pirie, who was born in 1905 in Louisville, Kentucky. Tjhe memoir describes her father’s thoughts while he lay buried in rubble from bombs  dropped by German forces in Spain. Pirie wrote it for a writing class that he took in the 1970s; the transcription is his daughter’s.

It is early afternoon of a spring day as I step onto the gravel of the long, gently winding gravel path leading to the Estado Mayor.  Here, if my information is correct, I shall be able to draw my daily food ration.  I shall receive, probably:  2 handfuls of dried garbanzos, a loaf of bread, a three inch square of Membrillo, a two inch square of dark chocolate, and either a handful of raisins or an orange.  But since I must get to the front at Belchite as soon as possible, I will have neither the facilities nor the time (three or four hours) necessary to cook the hard, old-crop garbanzos.  I hope I shall be able to trade them to a paisano for a handful of olives or hazelnuts.  And if I can find a bottle somewhere, I can probably get it filled with that good red ordinary wine of very little roughness for which this part of the Aragón is noted.

As I continue to trudge along the path, between two tall rows of Lombardy poplars,–said to have been sent by the Pope himself to the former Fascist owner of this estate – I recall the way my head buzzed the last time I had drunk a bottle of this wine.  But why is my head buzzing now – before I have even had a swallow?  No, it is not my head; it is not my head:  it is external.  Bees, perhaps, or hornets?  No, no, they have fled easterly with the birds, to escape the dogs of war which are now snapping at the fringes of this country.

Now the sound is louder and more insistent:  a pulsating, low pitched hum.  My heart skips a beat as I recognize the sound.  I look between the leaves of the poplars on the west side of the path – toward Caspe, barely two kilometers away.  I see the heaps of tile roofed houses shimmering in the bright spring sun.  I see above them, in groups of threes, a dozen bird-like specks in the sky.  I know, without seeing more, that they are heavy German planes:  black as the death they bring, with, incongruously, white crosses painted on their wings.  I know, too, that their profane bellies are pregnant with two-hundred-pound bombs which they will soon drop indiscriminatingly upon the unlucky town below.  For Caspe has not yet been bombed, and the first attack – in accordance with German policy – is not to seek out military targets, but to instill terror by an indiscriminate attack on the town in general.

I continue to watch the approaching planes as I slowly walk toward the ornate stone steps leading to the palace.  Much neglected now, the building was originally designed as a miniature Versailles for a local prince of Church and State.  The once beautiful gardens, at one time groomed by scores of serf-like peasants, now lie unkempt and weed covered.  Only here and there small plots have been taken over by neighboring peasants and planted to vegetables.  Nearing the building itself, I pass a large area which has been deeply scarred by a geometrical complex of long, narrow trenches to serve as air raid shelters.

As I raise my eyes once more to the approaching planes, I am moved to stop in horrible fascination:  for it is now time for the series of bomb drops to begin. Something compels me to watch for the descent of the bombs streaking down; the burst of orange flame speckled with dark shapes slashing upward in all directions with unbelievable speed; and the huge cloud of yellow dust slowly climbing skyward, obliterating the town from view.

There will come the shock of the explosions, and the rumbling like thunder – and for a swift moment, I shall be happy.  Then my conscience will assert itself:  how dare I be happy – even for a moment – when suffering and death will be occurring over there?  And I shall be ashamed; I shall deplore the suffering.  But I will be happy – for just a bit – that I am not there; that I am not suffering.

As I am watching the planes I become aware that Caspe is not their target:  they are coming directly toward us.  I hear repeated sharp blasts of police-type whistles and unintelligible shouted commands.  Then, quite close I hear a shout:  “Aviones, Camaradas; a las trincheras!”

I see many men jump out of doors and windows and dive into trenches:  I follow quickly.  I land on my hands and knees in the bottom of a four or five foot deep trench.  I straighten out my legs and like down with my face on my crossed wrists.  And then, as though on cue, the first bombs strike, shaking and rumbling the ground.  Now comes another, and another, and more come in rapid succession.  Now comes a close one:  the ground around me heaves and writhes.  One side of the trench presses against me, and shifts me.  I feel the pressure on my back and legs.  Now someone has jumped into the trench on top of me.  I fell him groveling in the dirt which covers me.  So, thank God, the trench cannot be completely filled – there seems not more than a foot of dirt between me and the other person.  I try to move.  A slight movement of my legs and torso only packs the earth more tightly around me – my upper arms as well.  I can move my lower arms and head a few inches – that is all!  But the light is gone!  Now I begin to wonder about the air:  how long will it last?  I feel my heart racing, my face burning – I panic.  I scream:  “Help, help, help, help.”

Close to me, there is a muffled answering scream.  It must be coming from the same trench, a few feet farther along.  It pleads in Spanish for help from Mother, the Holy Virgin, Christ, and God.  It repeats, over and over, the same heart-rending plea.  I stop my shouting to listen:  and my panic is gone.  What good is shouting, with bombs bursting all around, obliterating all other sound?

Suddenly the bomb bursts stop.  My Spanish friend shouts with renewed vigor.  I shout to him to save his precious air, but he continues his non-stop supplications.  I feel the person above me moving; feel him stand up and jump out of the trench.  I am glad the load on top of me has somewhat lessened.  I try again to move my legs and body.  I strain and strain but it is useless.  I feel again the panic rise to the top of my head.  The skin on my head tightens; my eyes burn; and my throat becomes dry and tight.  I feel the urge to scream, again; but I cannot.  My throat is too tight, as in a nightmare.

Suddenly, I am aware of a new sound coming from that other world – that world above ground.  There are sounds of many footsteps – and another sound, a heartening one – the “cheg” — “cheg” – “cheg” – of a shovel cutting into the gravelly dirt of our soon-to-be foiled grave.

I shiver with joyous anticipation of being disinterred, of seeing the blessed sunlight, of once again feeling sweet fresh air swelling my lungs.  The rescuers are not yet working directly over me, but they seem to be not too far away.  Perhaps they are even now rescuing my Spanish neighbor, for he has stopped his screaming.

But now comes a warning whistle blast, the cessation of shovel sounds, and the quick shuffle of retreating feet.  My heart sinks as the first bombs of the new sortie begin to crash.

My Spanish comrade begins again his screaming supplications; but now he sounds weaker – his words are interrupted by sobs and chokes.  Poor guy!  I wonder what kind of life he is so reluctant to leave.  Now he is quiet, only mumbling and softly sobbing a desperate prayer.  I wonder if he has almost exhausted his air supply; and I wonder how much longer mine will last.

I begin to wonder if the rescuers will reach me before my air is gone:  if more air attacks will prevent it.  I have heard that once the Germans decide on a target, they methodically pound it and pound it until there is nothing and nobody left.  If so, they will work over this place until sunset, stopping then only because their Spanish airfields are not equipped for night landings.

I try again to work myself free, but I am tightly held by dirt and rocks – up to my neck.  I can turn my head, right, left, and up, as far as neck muscles will allow.  My head and forearms must be in some sort of void:  possibly formed by a large rock lodged in the top part of the trench which is then covered with dirt.  But I can see no glimmer of light, and I cannot tell the size of the void.  Consequently, I have no idea how long the air will last within the pocket.  Now I am breathing faster; and the air seems less fresh!  Which will come first:  sunset or suffocation?

God!  This cannot be!  To die, held fast – unable to resist; unable to move – it is unfair!  A firing squad would be more humane!  Let me out – to face the enemy, on my feet, my arms free – his life against mine!  But not this!  Unfair!  Unfair!

Shall I pray to God?  It is what people do in these circumstances.  But will He hear me?  Is He that kind of god, a personal one who watches over me every moment of my life?  Can He hear me?  Will He hear me?  I do not know.  For half of my thirty-two years I believed so; the second half, I progressed (or regressed) from uncertainty to doubt, and then to unconcern.  Now it does not seem to matter.  I have become my own master, accountable to myself for the consequences of my actions.

I think again of the personal God idea:  are there any rules governing those He helps?  Must they not believe in Him unreservedly; and must they not keep in touch with Him in frequent prayers?  As a child, I was taught this was so.  But if this is so, I have not earned the right to pray for His divine deliverance.  Therefore, I shall not do so.  I shall live or die with my personal ethos intact!

I feel myself becoming calmer and calmer as I drift into a philosophical mood.  My breathing becomes light, my heartbeat slow – like a hibernating animal, I think.  Not so stupid – those grizzly bears just crawl in a hole and relax – let someone else fight all that snow and cold weather.

I feel the skin of my face relaxing, as well as the muscles of my legs and body.  I feel myself slipping into a state of euphoria, half asleep and half awake.  My mind seems to be working freely and clearly.  I think of God, again.  Suppose I were to pray, and then to be rescued:  would that prove the existence of a personal God?  On the other hand, would a great, loving, all-forgiving God perhaps find something in me to save – without my having maintained my faith in Him?

There seems no proof, one way or another.  I realize it is all a matter of believing; and I am willing to concede that faith can be the mightiest of the motivations.  I think I do not believe in a personal God; but I do believe strongly in some things – people, for instance.  Otherwise, why am I here:  for five dollars a month and a handful of beans each day?  Here there are no fancy uniforms, no medals, no bands.  There will be no honor rolls on the hometown monument; no fawning bid from the fat-paunched Legion; no pensions or low-cost home loans to ease our rehabilitation.  Still, I am content with my choice, for I, like many others, could not have done otherwise.  If we win, peoples’ rights will be a bit advanced, and Fascist power will be a bit diminished.  If we lose, God help the world!

More bombers come, drop bombs, and leave.  After an interval, they repeat.  Between attacks, there is the scurry of rescuers above.  But they never reach my portion of trench, and they concern me less and less.  For that life above ground is becoming somehow foreign to me; and something I have down here – a different life, half-life – whatever it is – seems about to have great meaning to me.  There is an air of expectancy, down here, as though some great mystery is going to be revealed to me, and at last I shall know the meaning of life.

So far, I have been able to find no great meaning to my life.  Perhaps it is because I never really thought much about it, just went along with the good and bad of it as it came.  Here I am at age thirty-two, with nothing I can point to with pride.  Too bad!  I think of Christ:  he died at about that age – but what he accomplished!  I think my accomplishments were mostly negative ones:  that is, I did not do much harm.  I had always tried to avoid hurting people, especially their feelings.  But the good things I have done for people have been so small.  How much could they count?

It will hurt my mother the most, if I die.  She has never understood why I found it necessary to come here.  I was not brave enough to tell her before I came:  told her I was going to France to do some mapping work.  Well, I did go to France but did not stop there:  sneaked over the Pyrenees into Spain one moonless night.

I am the youngest of her four children:  I think she would mourn me most.  Since the turn of the century, when her child-bearing began, she has lived only for her children, I think.  The world outside her home has passed her by, and she has done nothing to try to keep up.  There has been only her family, and the memories of an idyllic girlhood and young womanhood.  Her body moved North and ahead in time; but her heart and spirit remained back South in a world of no return.

One of four beautiful daughters of a moderately well-to-do industrialist, she had topped off her education in an exclusive finishing school for young ladies in Tennessee.  There – and in the society in which she moved – she had had all the myths of WASP superiority infused deeply into her thinking.  She was taught social grace, gentleness, and kindness:  to be bestowed on those of her own kind.  Others, of course, did not count!  Certainly she was good to her close friends and family, sacrificing the balance of her life for the latter.  And she will love me, and mourn me if I die; and she will fiercely defend everything I do – without understanding why I do it.

I recall how many times I felt I had to lie to my mother, too discouraged or too impatient to try to make her understand her very modern son.  There was the time I took Marian to visit her.  Marian and I were enjoying an extremely satisfying four year, common-law marriage.  We were living in Greenwich Village at the time, and I had the chance to take an expense-paid trip to Chicago.  I decided to take Marian along to meet my parents, but I had to rent her a wedding ring to perpetuate the lie.

Each time I think of Marian, my heart skips a few beats.  It did the first time I saw her – hers did too!  I met her, eyes to eyes, in the Automat – and it all started.  We both had to work, of course (it was the Depression), but outside of work, nearly every waking moment was one of excitement and delight.  We went to Shakespearean plays for fifty cents a ticket; ballet and modern dance recitals for which we had passes from our friend Margie who wrote for the Observer; Carnegie concerts with passes we got from a friend who worked in the drugstore.  Art museums, historical spots, picturesque parks and squares; we visited them all.  And the sheer sensuous delight of doing these things together – walking hand in hand, or sitting thigh to throbbing thigh – suffused us with a great warmth of feeling I could not have imagined before I met Marian.

Marian, on the strength of her college degree (she was a music major), had gotten a job as a salesgirl in the house wares department of Macy’s.  I worked as a cashier in a cafeteria – the best job I could find in New York.  Between the two of us, we saved enough to take a trip every year or so.

The first hegira was a two-week hike through the breathtakingly beautiful Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts and Connecticut.  We started off from North Adams. Marian carrying a light knapsack, and I, a light bedroll.  I can still remember the joy we felt as we passed the last habitations of the town and met the thrilling beauty of the freshly groomed hills as they gloried in their early June foliage.  We followed the slightest wagon roads or trails, as long as they kept to the hills.  We detoured to the little towns only to buy a day or two’s meager food supply.

I well recall our first night out.  We watched the glorious sunset from the top of a hill.  We sat watching, arm in arm, until the huge orange sphere had dipped itself below the fringe of distant pines.  We felt bursting with the beauty of it – too filled to eat the supper we had planned.  Instead, we crawled into our bed upon the ground, made love, and slept awhile.

Our first night out, we slept rather fitfully, listening to the strange new sounds and missing the familiar city sounds.  We recognized the distant cries of babies, the lonely howls of dogs, and the occasional hoot of an owl, but there were many strange cries and rustlings whose significance was unknown to us.  We tingled and shivered – and snuggled to stop it – and finally, toward morning, slept deeply.  We were well refreshed when the rising sun and the myriad awakening birds saluted us with their grand spectacle of sight and sound.  Marian drew a musical scale on a scrap of paper and began writing the notes for a bird song she heard.  “That’s a ‘B’, and a ‘G’, and then a series of quick ‘E-flats’, isn’t it?  It’s lovely; I’ve never heard it before!”

I remember the days after that – days when scene after lovely scene – each more beautiful than the one before – unfolded before us.  And between the days came the luminous nights, charming us to sleep with their ever-wondrous stellar spectacles.  And I remember some particular times when we stopped to rest, or to investigate some wild bird or animal.  Or sometimes it was to take a nude dip into some clear pool of the little stream we were generally following; or perhaps to sunbathe in a flower-sprinkled meadow where there were no witnesses except a sloe-eyed black and white cow.  And then we would be overwhelmed with a rush of feeling akin to great reverence, and we would give ardent sacrament to love, beauty, and joy.

Oof!  Someone has jumped into the trench, onto the dirt covering my back.  I remember that another bombing run has just ended.  Now, at last, the rescuers are going to dig me out.  I should not have given up hope so soon.

Now someone is digging around my shoulders and neck.  He asks some questions, but I cannot understand what he is saying.  I answer back, in Spanish and in English, that I am all right – but to please hurry.

Now suddenly there is a great fall of loosed dirt around my neck and the lower part of my head.  I sputter and blow as it runs into my mouth and nose.  I raise my head an inch or two and dig some of the dirt out of my mouth with my fingers.  I gag and cough; I sneeze – and raise more dust.  The dry, metallic-tasting dirt grits against my teeth.  I try to spit it out, but I have no saliva.  I dig more out with my fingers.  Now the dust is burning my lungs and air passages.  I feel giddy and weak – I seem to be drifting away…

I am awakened by a violent earth-shock.  It is followed by several more – close and strong.  I am slow to realize where I am – and what is happening.  I scream at my erstwhile rescuer:  “You stupid son-of-a-bitch, do my body first!”

I realize he is not here now, and I understand he was doing what he thought was best – to give me air.  I shall have to think of the Spanish way of telling him to uncover my body first so the dirt will run down from my face area.  As soon as this bomb run is over, he will be back, and then I can tell him.

I spread out the dirt under my chin so my head will be held in a more comfortable position.  I wipe off the fingers of one hand and use them to dig more of the dirt out of my mouth.  Finding I have more saliva now, I spit out more dirt and swallow some.  Now it is the extreme grittiness of my teeth that bothers my mouth.  The dust has settled, and my lungs are burning less than they were.  I settle down to await further rescue attempts – more hopefully now.

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Ironically however, one of the greatest challenges of introducing people to archival primary sources is to get  them beyond that exhilaration, and to get them beyond the natural tendency to equate”immediacy” with “truth,” to confuse “being there” with “knowing all.”  It would be nice if primary sources revealed to us, like in an episode of CSI, every last detail of the scene of the crime, but alas, even the most immediate of accounts is partial, even the most declarative of sentences, an interpretation.

A person interested in desertions among IBers, for example, might come across this document in ALBA’s so-called “Moscow Microfilm” and add a few ticks to his or her tally of “desertors.”  It’s not at all an unreasonable thing to do; for here is an official document reporting desertions.  It’s only by chance –and thanks to the sleuthing Sebastiaan Faber and I did while trying to identify the black IBer in a portrait by the great Agustí Centelles– that I happen to know that the Cubans Bofill and González didn’t exactly desert; instead, they went on to serve with distinction as part of the Spanish-speaking platoon of the legendary Valentín González, alias El Campesino.  In our research, Sebastiaan and I learned, moreover, that early on, during the preparations for the Battle of Jarama, there was a significant amount of tension between the Spanish-speaking Lincolns and their English-speaking comrades; tensions which might well be the source of these extraofficial reassignments which, on paper, look like desertions.

Caveat Lector.