Authors: Dave Boling
They challenged Xabier to come up with excuses. But he found it impossible to be the interpreter of the inexplicable. To go
by the book, Xabier would have had to remind the woman that difficult trials were a common biblical theme, and that strong
people with deep faith survived and afterward knew the reward of their virtue. But he said none of that as he looked through
the screen at the emaciated face that made the still-young mother look ages older. Instead, he told her that she need feel
no guilt over trying to feed her children. It was her most important job.
“Try to find ways other than stealing; remember, the baker has hungry children, too,” Father Xabier said, knowing she faced
few options. “Try to find a shelter. And have faith.”
“I will, father.”
“Then go, my child,” he said, again feeling foolish wearing the paternal expression.
“Is there no penance, father?”
Xabier knew the woman had been through enough without his imposition of further duties. But he also knew that she would not
feel genuinely absolved without paying remittance.
“Yes, there is something: pray.”
“Pray? How many times?”
“As often as you can.”
“I am already doing that, father.”
He loved and hated unveilings, the way they all would gasp even if they had no idea if what they were seeing was art or crap.
But this new one could not be veiled. It was too large. The room would be the veil. When his guests stepped through the door,
they would step into the painting, into the room within the room.
The painting screamed, and they heard it immediately, but it took time for them to catch the whispers. They saw the fallen
warrior before they detected a shadow flower next to his broken sword. They saw the bull before the broken-winged bird on
the table in the dark background. The wound to the horse was noticed only after attention was drawn away from his pained muzzle.
They stared and paced its length, making new discoveries as they moved from angle to angle.
Most were jolted by the work, the mass and scope if nothing else. All hints of color had been removed, leaving it starkly
black and white, with muted grays. They needed many minutes to absorb the work, taking it in from far away to close, then
left to right, and then back out to a full-frame perspective again. It took time to discover the motility: things hiding in
shadows, features half-erased and progressive, growing and fading with movement.
The bull had turned now to display its puckered anus and pendulous testicles, and the nipples on the women resembled baby
pacifiers. On each visible palm a set of intersecting lines presumably foretold their common misfortune.
When it appeared at the Spanish Pavilion, some questioned the symbolism and meaning. He was told that some expected a more
literal depiction of the bombing. He assured them that the message was clear.
One woman attempted an explanation of her reaction to the mural and could only say, “It makes me feel as if somebody is cutting
me to pieces.”
Asked how he expected the work to be viewed over time, Picasso would not commit. It would depend on whether or not it made
a difference.
“If peace wins in the world,” he said, “the war I have painted will be a thing of the past.”
President Aguirre alerted Father Xabier to his need for a conference at the rectory, which meant there would be no random
arrival in the confessional. The rebel troops had almost surrounded Bil-bao, with the road to Santander the only means of
escape.
“How soon?” the priest asked.
“I was sitting at my desk last night with a few ministers, planning the evacuation, and the window exploded,” Aguirre told
Xabier. “Rebels on Monte Artxanda were close enough to take potshots at us. Three bullets hit the desk and wall. One shattered
a glass in front of me on my desk. They not only knew where we were, they were within rifle range of us.”
“They’re that close now?” Xabier said, expressing alarm more than asking a question.
“Monte Pagasarri is falling this minute,” Aguirre said. “We’ve got three battalions left, and they headed into the mountains
with nothing but bolt-action rifl es and grenades. I listened to them singing hymns in the trucks: ‘We are Basque soldiers;
to liberate Euskadi, our blood is ready to be shed for her.’ ” Aguirre spoke the lyrics.
Xabier groaned in sympathy.
“We’ve shipped more than a hundred thousand refugees to France in the last two months,” Aguirre said, “but there’re still
so many—”
“Friend,” Xabier said, stopping him. “I wanted to tell you I admired the release of the rebel prisoners. I know it was hard,
and it brought criticism, but it was the right thing to do.”
“I was afraid they’d be slaughtered out of vengeance before the rebels got here,” Aguirre said. “I don’t regret it. We got
a cease-fire out of it for a few hours to accommodate their return to the rebel lines.”
“It’s not something they would have done for us,” the priest said.
“We’re not in the murder business. War is bad enough; murder is something different.”
“I’m the priest, but I’ve vilified the rebels far more than you ever have. Especially after what they did to Lorca.”
Rebels had captured the priest’s favorite poet, and because they understood him to be homosexual, they shot him repeatedly
in the rectum and finished him with a bullet to the head.
“I know,” Aguirre said. “But there’s been much for both sides to be ashamed of.”
“How long do we have before they march into Bilbao?”
“It depends on how eager they are. Right now, it’s convenient for them to surround us and starve us. That achieves the same
results with less ammunition.”
“What then?”
“Rather than have the troops fight to the last breath here, we’re going to try to sneak out our last divisions to the front
in Barcelona. There’s nothing more we can do here, but our troops can still fight for the Republic there.”
“What about you?”
“That’s why I’m here; we’re leaving for Santander tonight,” Aguirre said. “We discussed keeping the troops and the government
here and fighting to the death, but the feeling is that our fate is already determined. We’re going into exile.”
“I’m glad you’re going, and I’m glad you came here before you left,” Xabier said. “I will miss hearing your confessions.”
“I’ll be back,” Aguirre protested. “It may take a while, but we’re trying to keep the government together so it doesn’t have
to be entirely rebuilt. We finally got our autonomy and that’s worth coming back for. Besides, I’ve got to get back here to
keep an eye on the radical priest of Begoña.”
“Go with God, my son,” Xabier said out of habit before amending his blessing to “Until later, my friend.”
Aguirre sneaked out of the rectory, but the scent of cigarettes lingered in his path.
That night, Aguirre and his family boarded a plane under heavy shelling at the Santander airfield, lifting off the ground
as rebel forces stormed the strip. In the coming months, the Aguirres would be chased across Eu rope, often wearing disguises.
Several in his family would be shot and killed.
Knowing his return to Spain would mean a swift execution, Aguirre could not come home as long as Francisco Franco was dictator.
José Antonio Aguirre, the first Basque president, who took his oath of office beneath the sacred oak of Guernica, would never
again see his country.
Franco’s first act after the fall of Bilbao was to declare that the speaking of Euskara was illegal. Basques were told to
“speak Christian,” and within two weeks, the Catholic hierarchy of Spain issued proclamations condemning Basque priests for
having ignored “the voice of the church.”
Miren called him in from the wood shop in that frisky way that meant she had a chore for him. He’d been lathing a table leg
and he smelled of cypress shavings and sweat.
“What do you think of this color?” she asked.
“
Kuttuna
, the paint’s getting all over you,” Miguel said. “You shouldn’t paint in your wedding dress.”
“I thought the yellow was too bright in here,” she said. “The black will be better, don’t you think?”
“It’s pretty dark . . . but it’s different.”
“Exactly—it’s different,” she said. Dots of paint freckled her face.
“I don’t care what it looks like,” Miguel said. “Do you need me to get the high parts?”
“No, I can reach.”
She put down her brush and they held each other, and at the sound of Mendiola’s saw music, they danced.
“I ache for you,” he said.
She nodded.
He leaned down so his mouth was at her ear. “I love you. I miss you.”
She whispered the same words to him.
“I looked for you,” he said.
“I know,
asto
, I know. Thank you. I knew you would.”
“I’m sorry we fought,” he said.
“We didn’t fight,” she said, pulling back to look in his eyes. “That wasn’t ever about us. That was so small.”
“It was time we wasted.”
“Maybe not. We had things we needed to say and that was all it was. Every married couple has those things.”
They turned slowly to the music, moving like one connected body. Turning, turning, holding tightly.
They drifted and swayed. Closer.
“Thank you, Miguel,” Mariangeles said. Miren’s mother?
She joined them dancing, holding them both. The same feel. The same smell.
“She misses dancing, too,” Miren said.
They turned, all three, and as the music slowed, the walls grew darker until they were entirely black.
More difficult for Father Xabier than addressing an el derly person as “my child” was trying to become a father to his big
brother. Being subservient to Justo, being his little brother, was the position he’d occupied longer than any other. To help
him was tricky, to guide him impossible. Justo’s physical progress had impressed the surgeons and nurses and Sister Incarnation.
But each worried about his emotional withdrawal.
Xabier had written to Josepe in Lekeitio with updates on their brother. In the past, Josepe had occasionally sailed to Bilbao
to visit Xabier at the basilica, but the blockades and the mining of the harbor made these trips impossible now. Xabier reasoned
that Josepe would have the best advice on dealing with their brother because of his age and the fact that he had more in common
with Justo than a celibate cleric. If nothing else, Josepe had known him a year longer. But his plea for advice elicited only
a terse response:
Dear Xabier,
Let me know if I can provide anything—absolutely anything—
other than advice on how to deal with our brother. Maybe this is
why Justo sent you to the seminary. Pay him back. Good luck.
Josepe
Seeing no alternatives, the priest made a place for Justo at the Basilica de Begoña rectory. There, at least, he would have
food and attention and be away from the hospital and doctors. Xabier could take care of him and keep him away from the rebels
who had taken over the town. Xabier feared how Justo would act in their presence and knew there was little he could do about
it if Justo decided to instigate a confrontation.
With parishioners, he spoke from a seat of power, and his advice might have been ignored, but it was at least superficially
respected. Trying to tell his older brother how to respond to the tragedy in his life required a greater level of sensitivity.
But he also knew that Justo would not tolerate his being less than entirely honest. He would demand frankness and reject coddling
from his kid brother. But if Justo would not talk about Mariangeles and Miren, where was
his
honesty?
For several weeks, Justo awakened before dawn and worked around the rectory, sweeping, dusting, picking up leaves on the grounds.
“I have to earn my keep,” he volunteered whenever anyone approached. “I can help around here.”
That Justo had not stormed any of the rebels’ garrisons relieved Xabier, who slept uneasily the first few nights his brother
was in residence. Rebel soldiers had not ventured into the basilica, and Justo had not left the grounds, so there had been
no chance for a clash. Instead, Justo attacked his adopted daily chores at the basilica as he always had at Errotabarri.
He sat near the main door through every mass, acting as an un-official usher, jumping up to help the elderly to their seats
whether they needed it or not. At times he would lift an older woman off the kneeler if she had hardened in place during a
lengthy prayer. Afterward, he picked up any messes between the pews and mopped up the floor near the door if it had been a
rainy day. The basilica employed a caretaker, but he had the sense to be cautious around Justo.
Justo brightened when Sister Incarnation appeared, and he shouted a deep “Sister Inky!
“Look how well I’m doing; ball up your fist and hit me,” he said to the tiny woman, leaning down to within her range in case
she chose to accept his invitation.
“No, Justo, I don’t strike patients, it doesn’t look good,” she said.
“Yes, but look at me,” Justo pressed. “Eh?”
“Yes, Justo, you are doing very well. Your brother tells me you are a great help around here.”
“I have to earn my keep,” he assured her. “Watch this.”
Justo wielded the push broom with one hand in a display of his adaptation.
“That’s very good,” she said, as if talking to a child.
Sister Incarnation played along with Justo, agreeing that he certainly did seem physically sound. Decent nutrition and better
rest had helped him regain his vigor. But she felt that the return of his external shell only made the hollowness inside him
give off more of an echo.
“I think . . . I
believe
he is ready to start the hard work,” the nun told Xabier. “I think if you wait much longer, the walls will be too strong to
ever let you inside. He trusts you, father, he’s told me so many times how proud he is of you and what a wonderful priest
and brother you are. If you trust your instincts with him, he might even help you along.”
Xabier felt comfortable relying on her sense of timing; she had worked for de cades with those recovering from trauma. Over
a late dinner, when the brothers were alone, Xabier voiced the first uncloaked question he’d dared to asked since Justo joined
him.
“You’re doing so well, Justo, have you thought about when it is you’d like to go back to Errotabarri?”
Xabier mistimed the question, as his brother had just taken a large bite of bread crust. He looked down, finishing his mouthful.
Xabier watched as Justo’s mustache undulated rhythmically.
“I was guilty of the sin of pride, brother,” he finally said. “I thought myself a god among men, and the real God decided
he needed to teach me the truth.”
“That was no sin, Justo. It was who you are, who you’ve always been. We made it through because of your strength. Your strength
let us keep Errotabarri. Your strength helped you find Mariangeles. Your strength built your family. Your wife and your daughter,
even you, were loved by almost everyone in town. These things were important.”
“Yes,” Justo said unconvincingly. “But being shown to be a fool is a hard thing.”
“You’re nobody’s fool, Justo.”
“I’ll tell you what a fool I was. After your sermon that frightened everyone, I went home and I spent the day and night honing
my ax on the whetstone and sharpening the
laia
’s points with a file. I was a fool.”
“What can I say, Justo?” Xabier said. “It isn’t your fault, you have to know that. I can’t tell you how to stop hurting. I
can’t help anybody with that, and that’s what I feel is my greatest failure here; it makes me feel like a fool sometimes,
too. But you have to find a way to deal with this other than pretending it didn’t happen.”
“Oh, I know it happened,” Justo said. “And I’m ready to deal with it in my way.”
Xabier feared where this was headed. “Revenge will do nothing for Mari and Miren,” Xabier said. “If you kill a few Fascists,
they’ll soon kill you.”
“Why would you think I’d do such a thing?”
“You haven’t thought of it?”
“Xabier, I don’t think I ever told you about the night I met Miguel,” Justo said. “He came to Errotabarri and that evening
he told me that he thought our father was selfish.”
Xabier had not heard the story, and it surprised him.
“He did. He had the
pelotas
to sit in our house and say that to me on the day we met. He said that if Father had really loved our mother, he would not
have grieved himself to death. The real love would have been for him to get over it, and live, and take better care of us.”
“I never thought of it in that way because we were all so young, Justo, but I think he’s right. If a parishioner were in the
same situation, I would give him that same advice.”
“He asked me to think what our mother would have said to our father, and he said he thought she would have asked him to grieve
hard, yes, but then be strong and move on.”
“Justo, what do you think Mariangeles would want to say to you now?”
“I think she’d say, ‘Go ahead, Justo, grieve hard but then be strong . . .’ ” Justo said, dropping his head.
“I think you need to listen to her, brother,” Xabier said, reaching for Justo’s hand.
By fall, most of the burned and gutted buildings had been cleared to make way for the town’s reconstruction. Workmen bulldozed
the concrete debris into the bomb craters, packed it down, and paved it over. Holes from bullets and shrapnel still pocked
many of the standing structures, and most would be tuck-pointed to erase the evidence later. These were the scars most easily
repaired.
For a carpenter, it should have been a profitable time. The council asked Mendiola to help supervise parts of the reconstruction.
He questioned Miguel about helping, and Miguel remembered that the last time they joined in a civic endeavor, it was to build
a
refugio.
What construction codes would be required now? Were they to replace the buildings in the same spots as if nothing had happened?
Or would everything be new and different to avoid comparisons to all that had been?
Most of the work was done by forced labor crews of captured Republican soldiers, many of them Basques, who were now compelled
to rebuild the city they had been unable to protect in the first place. But the Francoists who now dominated the town council
also hired locals for minimal pay. Miguel dodged recruitment by reminding them that many of his tools were lost or damaged.
He could have just held up his hands as an obvious excuse, but he kept those in his pockets now. He had found a few small
hand tools amid the debris of his home, and he also had discovered, rusting on the hillside above town, the crosscut saw that
he had dropped that afternoon. He decided he would starve before working beside the prison-labor force of men who might have
been neighbors.
Miguel tested his capabilities with some light work at Errotabarri, mostly maintenance to the house and shed. He had not gone
into the room where Miren had slept when she was growing up. He also had not killed and eaten the rabbit, and his restraint
was rewarded by the appearance of several others who established a colony in the basement. From somewhere, a bony chicken
arrived, too, as if sprung from an egg that had been dormant beneath the rotting straw. Perhaps this was the final chicken
in all the Pays Basque, Miguel speculated. The Basque Country—could he even call it the Basque Country anymore?
He eased himself into his return to work, not because of the pain he still felt, but because there was a limit to what could
be achieved at Errotabarri. Some volunteer corn popped up over the summer, and he mostly kept it as seed stock for the next
year. Since there were no grazers to feed, he let the grass grow untouched in hopes it would reseed itself and come back thicker.
He discovered that his favorite stream still had a few fish that would take worms and grubs, which made a satisfying meal
when fried along with the wild mushrooms that still grew in the shaded ravines on the hillside. He relearned the skill of
fishing through trial and error. Mostly he learned to adapt. He could awkwardly grasp the crosscut and bow saws, and the brace-and-bit
drill. It was exhausting and inefficient but manageable if he took it slowly.
Miguel had no interest in spending more time than necessary in town. Falange soldiers were still about, and he could not even
nod in their direction as he passed. Their force had thinned out since the first weeks after the attack, but there still were
Fascists and the Guardia Civil in sufficient numbers to make him uncomfortable.
To walk through the town carried the risk of having to talk. And he found himself losing the knack. Ventures in public forced
him to rise to the surface, while the rest of his time was spent at some subsurface level, lost in thought or dreaming. If
he could stay away from people, his days were less complicated. Not easier, because it all felt like wading through a viscous
twilight, but less complicated. For long stretches, he wouldn’t realize his distance from consciousness until he tried to
say something, to the squirrels or to the fish he’d caught, and was surprised by the words coming out in a coughing sound,
as if dust and cobwebs had collected in his throat.
The day of his release from the hospital, he’d asked of Alaia’s welfare. He’d been told that she’d been unharmed and the sisters
were looking after her. To inquire further would have meant more talk, more time in town. He’d met his obligation.
It was better to just stay in the mountains and at the
baserri
. He could still fell a tree and swing an ax. It was much slower, but it was quiet work in the quiet hills, and the exhaustion
dulled his mind. Until the point when fatigue would numb him, he was vulnerable to memories. How old would Catalina be right
now? Would she be walking? Would she be using the bigger toys he’d made her? Would it be time for them to start another baby?