Guernica (34 page)

“We should call her that,” Miguel said. “If that’s what she’s used to. There’ll be enough other changes for her.”

“We should . . . Angelina,” Justo said, trying it out. “An-gel-EEE-na.”

Shaken, dazed, the two readied Miren’s old room. The following day, word was sent to the rest of the family, and all were
invited to a party at Errotabarri on the day of her arrival.

All the Navarros from Lekeitio came. Father Xabier brought Sister Incarnation with him from Bilbao, along with the little
guest of honor, whom they collected at the Santurce docks. Justo invited Alaia and escorted her to Errotabarri that morning.
She brought a gift for Angelina—the rag doll that Miren had given her. José María brought fish, and Xabier supplied several
bottles of wine, making the sign of the cross in self-absolution for diverting spirits intended for future communions.

“God understands,” he announced.

The baker’s wife, who had lost both legs to the bombing but had her life saved by Justo, sent up a double-layer cake that
read ONGI ETORRI.

Welcome.

Justo and Miguel kept her between them, not wanting to miss a word. They provided lengthy introductions to everyone there, filling in the details of their relationship to her. By the afternoon, she was greeting everyone with “
kaixo
” rather than “hello” or “pleased to meet you.”

She had sailed on a British ship through waters thick with German U-boats, spent a night at the Basilica de Begoña rectory,
and taken the train to Guernica. She had greeted dozens of new friends, and she hadn’t slowed, enjoying, more than anything,
being the focus of attention.

“What do you think of it here so far?” José María asked her.

“I like it very much,” she said. “I like not having to worry about the Germans bombing us here. Germans bomb people all the
time in England. We were always afraid of that. It feels safer here.”

Miguel and Justo looked at each other, and then at Xabier.

Angelina was placed at the head of the table they’d set up under the fruit trees. The seat was too low, and she had to raise
her elbows to rest them on the surface.

“I’ll make you a new chair your size,” Miguel told her.

“A chair for me?” she asked. “I’d like that,
eskerrik asko
.”

By sunset, after everyone had a chance to visit separately with her and she finally tired, guests made their good-byes; she
hugged and kissed them all, sure to use as many of their names as she could remember. Justo and Miguel did not leave her side
until they put her to bed in her mother’s old room, clutching her mother’s doll around its threadbare neck.

A half bottle of Xabier’s wine remained on the kitchen table. Justo poured two full cups.

“
Osasuna
.” They touched glasses.

“What will she need first?” Miguel asked.

“We have to get some little dresses for her.”

“We’ll take her to Mrs. Arana.”

“First thing.”

“School?”

“Is she old enough?”

“I don’t think she needs to start school yet, but I’ll check with somebody,” Miguel said. “I think we should wait anyway.
I don’t want her gone yet.”

Justo agreed.

“She’s so smart,” Miguel said.

“Of course she is,” Justo announced.

“We need to find some other little girls she can play with.”

“We’ll have a party for them here.”

Justo poured the last of the wine and they drank in silence. They both were busy planning for the next day, and the day after
that.

Verbal skirmishes broke out a thousand times in a hundred cafés each day. The German soldiers who occupied Paris acted as
if they were on a grand holiday. Small acts of resistance sustained some of the Parisians—overcharging the occupiers for weak
café aulait or spitting in the soufflé. More often, the outrage over their defenselessness against the superior forces was
merely displayed through nasty looks and the occasional smart remark in a language that the invaders could not understand.

“
Vous êtes un cochon
,” said with a smile, might sound like a pleasant greeting to a German, if it was accompanied by a bow of mock obeisance.
The German soldiers were under orders to not provoke or incite the citizens, so little damage ever came from sparks of spoken
conflict.

Pablo Picasso, the most famous painter in the world, with a distinctive and recognizable appearance in Paris, was often identified
and approached in the Left Bank cafés that he frequented near his studio.

The natives were accustomed to Picasso and his artist friends, who had gathered for de cades in these cafés. But for the German
soldiers who had any concept of contemporary celebrity, to see or sit next to Picasso was a development that would warrant
mention in the next note home to the relatives or girlfriend.

As with many young men of military mien, the German soldiers might have understood little of painting, but they had no doubt
heard of Picasso. It was the fame of his art, not his art, that impressed them. Some took pride in the way that the noted
painter sneered in their direction; it would make a good story at the
bier-garten
. “
Liebchen
, the old man Picasso made nasty glances at me today at the café Les Deux Magots. He had a thin dog and a young woman.”

One officer who considered himself culturally advanced approached the artist as he sipped his coffee at a table beneath the
green sidewalk awning. The officer held a reproduction of the mural
Guernica
, barely larger than postcard size.

“Pardon me,” he said, holding the card out. “You did this, didn’t you?”

Picasso put his cup delicately onto its saucer, turned to the picture and then to the officer, and responded, “No. You did.”

EPILOGUE

(Guernica, 1940)

Children play in the square near the new market. So many have been born after the bombing that it feels to Justo Ansotegui
as if the town is being reseeded by God. At some point, thankfully, they will outnumber those who were here before.

With each trip to town comes reminders of it all. The new buildings and streets are the least of it. They probably would have
come in time anyway, and their presence obscures the civic scars. But the people left in town are more difficult to repair
than buildings.

Justo sees them, the old women who try to shop while leaning on wooden crutches; the old friend who appears to wear a harlequin’s
mask, with one side of his face as it was and the other scarred and hairless from burns; another whose skin sloughs off, leaving
his arms looking like the fraying bark of the plane tree.

Do they see him that same way, as a fraction of what he was? Is he too defined by what he lost? It doesn’t matter what they
see now. There is now much he wishes to accomplish.

The
mus
players continue to harass each other vigorously, and the
amumak
gather to sort through the limited foodstuffs, most of which they cannot afford anyway. It is simply a reason to gather themselves
to talk.

Justo Ansotegui does not bother to announce himself to Alaia Aldecoa anymore when he approaches her booth. She lives at Er-rotabarri
now, along with Justo and Miguel and Angelina, and makes all the soap they could ever need, so much so that the house smells
of little else, so much so that Justo no longer hoards precious bars in his pocket during the day.

Miguel and Justo convinced Alaia that it made no sense for her to live at her cottage when all would benefit from her company.
She was not Miren and she was not Mariangeles, but she was braided into their family nonetheless. She helped them heal, like
a bandage on a wound. She is important to Angelina, too. The two sleep in Miren’s old room now and talk every night before
they fall asleep.

They are as complete as this group can be. Justo learned from Miguel that if you lose someone you love, you need to redistribute
your feelings rather than surrender them. You give them to whoever is left, and the rest you turn toward something that will
keep you moving forward.

The political oppression is worse than ever. Having won his bloody mandate, Franco has further outlawed all things Basque.
There are no dances on Sundays, no Basque flags allowed, and the language is aggressively forbidden, although they often get
together in quiet places and exchange the words like smugglers trading contraband in the mountains.

Though, in the right surroundings, some of the old activities are possible. The four wander into the mountains; Justo and
Miguel fish for trout, and Angelina plays and helps Alaia gather her meadow flowers and herbs. Alaia allows Angelina to guide
her by the hand as she chatters in a language that melds the three she knows as well as any little girl could.

Angelina walks between Justo and Miguel to the market now, holding a hand of each. She stops to let them get ahead of her,
and then she runs forward and swings in the air as they lift her. It makes her feel as if she’s flying. They buy her an apple
if she wants, or a
barquillo
cookie. She enjoys standing behind the booth with Alaia, greeting the people who come to buy soaps, talking to them, asking
them about their day, getting to know them.

They work together at home with their few sheep and the small garden. The best times are in the evenings. After dinner at
Errota-barri, Miguel teaches Angelina to dance. He is trying to pass along what he learned from Miren and Mariangeles. He
stumbles and it makes everyone laugh, especially Angelina, who already is moving with an easy rhythm. At times, she tells
Miguel what he is doing wrong, and he tries to correct it.

Someday this will change, Justo tells them. They don’t speak of politics much anymore. But Justo contends that Franco can’t
stay in power forever. He had lied to the world, and the world believed him because it was convenient to do so. Franco will
afflict their lives for a while, but the Basques have always endured, Justo brags.

If nothing else, they will outlast him, as they had the Romans and the others who had come to their lands over the centuries.
Franco had promised to use whatever means necessary, but the oak tree on the hill still stands. Errotabarri went unharmed.
And Franco cannot see them dancing at night, laughing by the light of the hearth.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Readers of historical fiction face the challenge of separating the fiction from the history, especially when the two are often
melded. Most of the historical “characters” in this book are obvious. Picasso, Franco, Manfred and Wolfram von Richthofen,
and President José Antonio Aguirre are real figures whose actions in this book have been fictionalized based on historical
accounts.

Some actions by the fictional Father Xabier Ansotegui parallel those of Alberto de Onaindía, canon of Valladolid. Onaindía
was an adviser to Aguirre who witnessed the bombing and was sent to Paris afterward to tell the world about it.

British educator and politician Leah Manning spearheaded the evacuation of Basque children from Bilbao to camps and colonies
in Great Britain, as was depicted in this novel. Brave re sistance fighters in Belgium, France, and Spain helped lead Allied
fliers to safety through what was known as “the Comet Line.” Basque smugglers, most notably Florentino Goikoetxea, risked
their lives to get these fliers to safety across the Pyrenees early in World War II.

The Spanish Civil War was one of the world’s great tragedies, with savageries on all sides and a casualty total that may never
be known. I tried not to tax the reader with elaborations on the complex and volatile politics at work at the time—especially
the strange and sometimes shifting alliances, parties, and labels—but rather to establish a general context of the poverty,
oppression, instability, and disenfranchisement that common citizens would have felt.

There are many faces to any tragedy, and this was told from the perspective of the Basques, who were famously staunch in the
defense of their land. Historians have disputed the death toll from the bombing of Guernica, but the act nonetheless remains
at the taproot of the assaults against civilian populations that the world still grieves on an all too regular basis.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe the deepest appreciation to the entire Murelaga family for introducing me to the Basque culture, from Justo and Angeles
down through the generations to Josephine and then to Kathy Boling. They taught me about the Basques’ fierce dedication to
their families and heritage. And from them I first heard of the horrors of Guernica. Kathy, particularly, lived much of this
book, which I will forever remember with gratitude.

Credit and much appreciation goes to InkWell Management’s Kim Witherspoon, Susan Hobson, and Julie Schilder, who was the first
person in the world of publishing to embrace this lengthy manuscript from a first-time novelist. Thank you as well to those
at Bloomsbury USA, particularly Karen Rinaldi, Lindsay Sagnette, Kathy Belden, Michael O’Connor, Laura Keefe, copy editor
Aja Pollock, and proofreader Nancy Inglis. Charlotte (Charlie) Greig at Picador UK served as an unwavering editor and friend
throughout.

Dr. Xabier Irujo at the University of Nevada Center for Basque Studies provided expert editing regarding the Basque language
and culture, while Ander Egia, Victor Arostegi in Lekeitio, and Emilia Basterechea of Guernica supplied invaluable oral history
and translations from Biscaya.

I want to thank all my family, whose influence extends not just to this book but to everything I do. My two most important
“sources” carrying Basque blood are my daughter, Laurel, and son, Jake, who teach me valuable lessons every day. I am continually
inspired by their spirit, and I am driven by their love and respect.

Novelists/friends Jess Walter and Jim Lynch gave me the best lessons in fiction writing when they critiqued my first two drafts.
Other critical reads and valuable support were supplied by my friends and colleagues Dale Phelps, Dale Grummert, and Mike
Sando.

As a piece of historical fiction,
Guernica
was a product of considerable research. I am greatly indebted to the authors of the works mentioned in the following bibliography.
Of particular value was the brilliant research of Gordon Thomas and Max Morgan Witts for the book
Guernica: The Crucible of World War II
(Stein and Day, 1975), which helped me construct a historical context for these fictional characters. No less valuable was
Mark Kurlansky’s
The Basque History of the World
(Walker, 1999), which is a must-read for anyone, but especially anyone who appreciated this novel. Joseph Eiguren’s entertaining
stories of growing up in Lekeitio (particularly a Christmas Eveconflict with the Guardia Civil) in his memoir
Kashpar
(Basque Museum, 1988) helped me understand the atmosphere and political climate of the region at the time.

Perhaps the best sense of the time and tragedy can be gained by a visit to the Guernica Peace Museum (www.peacemuseumguernica.org).
Picasso’s mural remains on display at Madrid’s Museo Reina Sofía.

Valuable background, history, and inspiration also were provided by these fine works:

José Antonio Aguirre,
Escape Via Berlin
, Macmillan, 1945

Adrian Bell,
Only for Three Months: The Basque Children in Exile
, Mousehold Press, 1996

Robert P. Clark,
The Basques: The Franco Years and Beyond
, University of Nevada Press, 1979

Peter Eisner,
The Freedom Line
, William Morrow, 2004

Gijs van Hensbergen,
Guernica: The Biography of a Twentieth-
Century Icon
, Bloomsbury, 2004

Gabrielle Ashford Hodges,
A Concise Biography of Franco
, Thomas Dunne, 2002

Russell Martin,
Picasso’s War: The Destruction of Guernica and
the Masterpiece That Changed the World,
Plume, 2002

Sherri Greene Ottis,
Silent Heroes: Downed Airmen and the
French Underground
, University of Kentucky Press, 2001

Stanley G. Payne,
The Franco Regime (1936
–
1975)
, Phoenix Press, 2000

Olivier Widmaier Picasso,
Picasso: The Real Family Story
, Prestel, 2004

Nicholas Rankin,
Telegram from Guernica
, Faber and Faber Limited, 2003