Guernica(A Historical Fiction)

To the “fools” who dared to hope.

Who, I ask you, really cared about what happened in Guernica? Or, more specifically, what happened to the small Basque town on 26 April, 1937? You’ve seen it on newspapers, of course, but they all came to the conclusion: the Spanish Civil War should stop, Italy and Germany shouldn’t get involved, blah blah blah. It was just another opportunity for the opposing forces to criticize the Spanish nationalist government and its allies. Even the attack itself gained infamy because it involved the deliberate targeting of civilians by a military air force, which, apparently, was new to all those dumb military officials.

As I sat in front of my typewriter to begin this unrequited and arduous task, I know, that what came out would be questioned, marked “unreliable”. But I shall continue on, and maybe someday, someday this recount of what happened would be as well known as Pablo Picasso’s Guernica.

Please forgive me if you think that this beginning is too long, but my story—this story happened in Guernica, and if I didn’t say anything about my hometown I would have died of shame. Who am I? You deserve to know whose fingers typed this story you happened to be reading: My name is Esperanza Alvarez Froilan, daughter of the owners of Postres de Alvarez, or Alvarez’s Dessert. What do I look like? Mind you, never ask a lady to describe her looks; such things can be exaggerated or completely made up, while, the reader, doesn’t have the ability to judge whether if it’s true. Anyway, all you need to know is my appearance the day Guernica was bombed. Such things as what I looked like when I was typing these words are simply none of your business. I was a brunette with grayish-blue eyes. I was thin, too thin compared with other 15-year-olds. It should be also known that my voice was soft and I was the prettiest girl in town—everyone said so. Place me in a room full of girls, I would have been the last to speak, or wouldn’t speak at all; place me in a competition, I would have been the first to finish and always, mark my words, always at the top. That was my nature.

So, isn’t it time to begin the story?

It was just another common market day—every Monday was market day in Guernica. Padre was opening the shop, and Madre was in the kitchen, probably making Spanish omelettes. I breathed in the sweet smell of desserts, almost tasting them on my tongues: the vanilla-flavored Catalan cream, with a thin layer of caramel on top; Spanish rice pudding, rice, milk, and sugar all cooked together, a sprinkle of cinnamon powder on top; crème caramel, the best of best, so simple yet so velvety. I woke up every day to find myself in heaven; every day I can’t help but be amazed.     Those were the happiest days of my life.

“Esperanza!” Madre hurried out of the kitchen, a plate of Spanish omelettes in one hand, a glass of orgeat in another. “Here, have some breakfast, my love.”

“Thanks, Madre.”

“So what’s your plan for the day?”

I furrowed my brows, not sure if I have heard correctly. “But Madre,” I started, “I’ve--”

Padre cut in. “You’re fifteen, Esperanza.”

“—I know, I know, but—” I protested.

“It’s time for you to go join those merrymakers for a change.” He finished, ignoring my protest. I looked out the window at the main square, where farmers were already starting to sell their crops. There would be more than 10,000 people! I shuddered at the thought and made one last try.

“I’ve always helped you……” It was a feeble excuse, my voice barely audible. Padre looked at me in the eye.

“Go, darling.” He ordered. I gripped the edge of my white dress and stepped, rather reluctantly, out of Postres de Alvarez.

The market was so…… So what? I couldn’t seem to find the right word for it. Colorful? Lively? Merry? With the Spanish Civil War going on out there, I thought that the Basque government would have stopped the fairs, or at least, the fair would have been smaller and less attractive.

How wrong I was.

Farmers were advertising their products by filling the air with yells. Customers were everywhere. I turned to walk towards the church—on place chaos was not allowed.

After about five minutes of walk, I was stopped by a smiling boy. He had flaming red hair, striking blue eyes, and was incredibly nice-looking. About my age, I observed.

“Care to go for a drink, Esperanza?” He leaned towards me. Had you ever had any experience like that? I mean, like, a really perfect face enlarged right in front of you, and your eyes can see every perfect detail? It was then that the truth hit me: He was flirting! With me!

My face turned the same color as the tomatoes they throw during La Tomatina.

“N-n-no…… Th-a-anks.” I stammered, picked up my dress and scurried away like a rat escaping a sinking ship.

I stepped into the church of Santa Maria. Father Aroriategui wasn’t there—at the market, I suppose. Light went through the colored glass, and so a magnificent art nouveau was projected on the alabaster floor. I stared at the image, tracing the patterns with the tips of my shoe.  I remember that, when I was small, Madre would hold my hand and lead me here.

“Isn’t this all so beautiful?”she would whisper in my ear.

“This church will be here forever, Esperanza. Think of that.”

Saint Maria was holding baby Jesus in her arms, smiling.

The whirl of an airplane……

I squinted my eyes and saw a black speck in the distance. What the……

The church bell was ringing……

I heard a bomb go off, and the screams as another exploded. My body was trembling.

When would it all be over?

I felt my knees give way under me.

Madre. Padre.

It seemed as if several centuries had gone by, but the bombs stopped eventually. And all was quiet inside the church. Saint Maria was still smiling that radiant smile of hers, oblivious to what had just happened.

I stepped out of the church.

I saw the charred bodies of several women and children huddled together in what had been in a refugio. In the Plaza about a hundred refugees were surrounded by a wall of fire. Their wails penetrated through the wall, piercing my heart, shredding my body into pieces. I stood there, helpless as they rocked to and fro, desperate. A woman was holding her dead baby in her arms, her head tilted backwards in a scream of rage.

“My baby! My baby!” She wailed. The dead baby looked so small, so frail, so peaceful compared to the rest of the chaos. I turned my head away in agony only to see……

The boy.

He was not dead. Yet. His blue eyes were open, filled with terror, agony, fear of being alone. His lips moved, but no sound came out. I knelt down beside him.

His eyes are pleading. For me to not go away? Or for me to end the pain?

I couldn’t walk away and leave him in the midst of this. So I held onto his hand, and spoke with wisdom that doesn’t belong to me:

Mark my words, those who listen,

For between the letters

Hides a truth that cannot be hidden.

That is, and I shall state it clear:

Morning comes and darkness

Fades away.

Did you see?

The sun is going down

And rise as a newborn king tomorrow.

Remember my words,

Remember them well,

As even the moon can’t escape being full.

That poem was written by my abuela. I never figured out what she had meant by the “moon can’t escape being full” part: does the full moon represents the temporary peace that happens once in a while? Or is it the wars that seemed far away, but is just hanging above your head by a not-so-firm thread when you glanced up?

I believe that you, my dear readers, have no need to know what happened next—this is not the Titanic, surely I don’t need to describe being rescued and such, do I—since I was here typing these words you happen to be reading right now, it’s pretty apparent that I’m still in one full piece, no missing body parts, no ugly facial features……

So, what am I doing now? Well, you are currently reading the efforts of a forsenic expert. Considering I once held a boy’s hand and recited poem to him when he was dying, this is pretty obvious, isn’t it?

Or not. I mean, remember the girl I described at the start of the story? The shy but competitive one? She’s still as competitive as ever, but more outgoing. Much more outgoing. When I look back at that shy, emotional girl kneeling in the ashes, I felt sorry for her. The war had changed so many things about her. She had put on a suit of armor, allowing the innocent child to die , buried in the depth of her heart.

You are going to question me about my parents. They died, of course, as did many of the others who were in the shops. My tone may be harsh and emotionless; in fact, I had intended to do so. This way, their death would have seemed less realistic, like a dream or something. That is also how I told the death of my parents calmly to my colleagues in the flattest voice that you can ever imagine.

You know what? I had failed my mission. I started as a passionate girl, wanting justice for the destruction of her hometown. Needless to say, this didn’t carry to the end. In a contest with Picasso, I had just lost miserably. He did a striking job, while this piece of work didn’t do what I had intended, much like the Japanese when they bombed Pearl Harbor and Hitler when the Nazi army attacked Moscow.

If this was labelled as “useful material that described the Bombing of Guernica” and was put on display in a museum, then Hallelujah. If this was thrown into the fireplace, at least some sort of heat would have been given out. After all, hope was the butterfly that fluttered out of Pandora’s box, wasn’t it?

Hasta luego.

Or, in English, see you again.