Letters of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade from the Spanish Civil War.
from MARY ROLFE
Friday, November 25, 1938
Dearest Leo [Hurwitz] and Janey [Dudley]:
The enclosed note was written after the first two bombings on Wednesday—and I thought when I started that I could overcome the reaction of the morning, but I had to stop. Now, though still a little limp and sickish, I can write of the last two days with more or less ease.
The first raid, at about 10:30 A.M., came while two American soldados and I were in a shop buying cigarette holders. The boys had come to Barcelona to buy some trinkets for their girls and I went along with them to help them choose.
The shop we were in is some three or four blocks from the hotel and some six or seven blocks from where the first bombs fell. The siren sounded just as we were paying our bill. We saw the people hurrying along the Paseo de Gracia (our street) into sheltering doorways, or hugging the walls. We stepped into a doorway, going out to look up when the anti-aircraft started and I spotted three planes—enemy planes flying high, they looked minute.
The guns were hot on their trail and the boys pulled me back into the doorway because very often the shrapnel casings of the aircraft shells fall and get you. As we got back to the doorway we heard the bombs falling—and the boys made me crouch down, close to them with my head buried in my arms. The sound of those bombs, and they sounded close (as we found later they were) is hard to describe—crashing through the air as if to break the very air itself, screeching and whining and then the contact as they hit their target—as if a thousand wrecking crews were tearing down buildings at the same time.
I wasn't frightened then, my mind was blank—I was concerned only with crouching down in the doorway. We got up then and started walking to the hotel, the people in the streets came to life, continuing to walk to wherever they had been going when the alarm sounded; we reached the next corner to see a crowd of people pointing up at the sky and then a shout arose, and cheering as our guns got one plane—it came down hurtling through the air head over heels. We were excited, forgetting completely the bombs falling a minute before and we hurried to the hotel to find Ed.
We found him there, worried but relieved to see us. Everyone talked about the downed plane—but soon life went on as usual. Soon we heard the siren blow three times, meaning all's well, the raid is over, and we went out again—Ed, the two boys, [Robert] Capa [the photographer] and I. We went to the Rambla—a long street in old Barcelona (Barcelona was once a small village—the Rambla was its main street with narrow, winding streets stretching on either side of it—and although the Rambla is one thoroughfare it has various names—like Rambla de Flores, because of the numerous flower vendors, etc.).
We stepped in a shop where Ed and Capa bought some shirts, leaving them there while one of the boys and I went on. We walked leisurely, looking in the windows of the numerous shops in the twisting streets, stopping to buy some decorative combs and finally going to a little antique shop stuck away in one of the little streets where I had bought a locket some weeks ago. We found a necklace for his girl and again, just as we were paying the bill, the siren started.
This time we knew we were in danger because this quarter had been often hit, the last time only a week and a half ago. We left the shop, the boy with me starting to run, and so I ran too. But as I ran I could feel the panic growing in me and I stopped him—"let's follow the people here—they know where the refugios are—we mustn't run" I said. Meanwhile thoughts raced furiously through my mind—"I mustn't get panicky, I mustn't be frightened. I've got to be calm—if we reach the refugio in time, good—if we don't there's nothing we can do about it—but we must not run—Ed will be worried about me—I wish I could somehow let him know that we'll be all right." We followed the others coming out on the Rambla de Flores where we found two Metro stations (these, of course, are used as refugios—although Barcelona is full of newly built, completely safe refugios).
We followed the others down to the subway—and I was struck by the order and lack of hysteria. No one pushed or shoved—everyone was quiet, composed—we all helped to get the kids down first—and soon we ourselves went inside, going deep into the station and standing close to the wall. The people talked together, played with some dogs who had come down with us, the children romped—these people will never be crushed. Mussolini and Hitler, however much they bomb, will never break the morale of these wonderful, courageous people.
We heard the guns, the sound reverberating in the tunnel, and again bombs falling. My friend and I talked in low tones—about anything—I can't remember now—we held each other's hand and we both tried hard not to tremble. Soon the lights were on—we could go out. As we came up the stairs of the Metro we saw the puffs of smoke from the guns directly above us and we knew the bombs had fallen close to us. (Three blocks from where we were—we found out later). We walked home, both of us talking fast, but we walked slowly.
We found Ed and the other soldado looking for us frantically and we all embraced in the street—it was like a reunion. "Sure, I feel fine—don't worry—I'll be all right." We went in to lunch—and I got through it somehow. It was when I went upstairs that the reaction began—that's when I had to stop the letter I began to you. I got a terrific stomachache—it doubled me up for ten minutes, and when it was over I was exhausted and shaking as if I had just dug a well or pounded rock. I was alone—Ed was writing his story at the Ministry.
I tried to read—but the letters danced before my eyes and so I put my book aside and just sat in the chair—thinking—this is what the barbarians have been doing to the Spanish people for two years; I had witnessed the ruthless murder of an innocent people because fascism's voracious appetite must be satisfied—I saw what I had been reading about—the systematic terrorization of a people, by which the fascists hope to bring them to their knees—and I saw the people reiterate the words of Pasionaria—which by now have become part of their lives—"Better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees."
Think what these murderous raids have done to the lives of these people—to their nervous mechanisms—to their sanity. And what a heritage for the kids! Here was I, coming from comparative freedom, well-fed, my nerves shattered by my experience—and then think of the Spanish people who have lived through this horror for two years.
But the bastards weren't through with us. At seven o'clock they came again—this time I watched from our window—saw the powerful lights cutting the sky trying to locate the planes, saw the puffs of smoke from the guns and the flares going up—and the welcome sound of our planes—our little chasers going after them. Nothing excites the people as much as to see or hear our planes—they go wild with excitement—shouting themselves hoarse—every single time they come.
I was alone when the siren sounded at 11:00. I watched only a little while this time—I threw myself on the bed, too tired to undress, and just lay there, anger mounting—"the bastards—the bastards," saying it over and over again until I could think no longer. Ed came in a little after midnight, bringing the news that the Bank of Spain had been hit in the first bombing, with an incomplete count of 40 dead, 124 wounded, mostly women.
We went to sleep finally—and then began the night—six times they came over—the sirens shrieking each time—the guns furiously shooting—six raids in the night—six times to create terror. [Herb] Matthews [New York Times correspondent] came in to see us in the morning, telling us how each time he had awakened, jotted down the time, and then tried to go to sleep again. There was no panic in the hotel—but there was anger and hatred for the fascists. And then at 9:30 they came again—to be driven off quickly.
When the siren sounded again—this time meaning release—we went out, Matthews, Capa , Ed and I, to see the damage. We found one building which had been hit in the second bombing—twisted and mutilated—piles of broken glass and debris in front of it--a huge crater in front of the doorway where the bomb had fallen—a water main cracked.
Everywhere around the building—all the houses had piles of glass and debris being swept out of them—the concussion often creates terrific damage—in all the little streets off that main street on which the building was had the little piles of broken glass and debris lining them—the gutters were covered with brick and mortar. We drove on past the Bank of Spain—the bomb had fallen right clean through it—we went down to the port where huge craters showed where bombs had fallen, breaking water pipes; crews were feverishly at work repairing the damage—there was no sign of panic or terror anywhere—people went about their daily tasks, walked in the very spots where bombs had fallen—sat in the cafes along the waterfront—sat on the benches along the streets.
We talked to one man (Ed wrote about him in his dispatch)—he told us most of the people had spent the night in the refugios—thereby lessening the toll of lives. He was calm when he told us about his demolished house—a smile on his face when he told us he had been able to save his family and then the full proof of what these people are made of when he said to us in farewell "I would invite you to my house—but you see, it isn't there anymore."
When I first walked into the streets of Barcelona I was amazed at what I saw. When we read about Spain in the newspapers, articles, and books, we read of the front, of cities bombed, and I came expecting to find a war-like—or what I thought was war-like—atmosphere over everything and everybody. Here in Barcelona, the city goes on living its life—shops do business, people work and sit in the cafes.
When you are in the city for a while you begin to see the effects of war. You see that there aren't many young men in the streets—and if there are they are in uniform, home on leave or recovering from wounds. You see the wrecked buildings where bombs have fallen—and you see the women and the kids, tattered, ragged, and hungry. But you see too that everywhere are a people who are fighting for their lives, their country—the raised fist which greets you in Salud is not just a gesture—it means life and liberty being fought for and a greeting of solidarity with the democratic peoples of the world.
Barcelona is a beautiful city—surrounded by hills and mountains—an ever blue sky—palm trees lining the broad avenues—a city which in peacetime must have been a joy to live in. And the people—how can I tell you how wonderful they are—how truly a beautiful people the Spanish are. They are an intelligent people and an understanding people, and even now, in midst of their war, the education of its people goes on—schools for kids, girls from the Basque country and Andalucia who three months ago couldn't read, now holding down leading and important jobs in Government agencies.
Hemingway was here for a few days—but once you meet him you're not likely to forget him. The day he came I had been slightly sickish, but Ed came up and got me up out of bed to meet him. When I came into the room where he was he was seated at a table and I wasn't prepared for the towering giant he is. I almost got on my toes to reach his outstretched hand—I didn't need to, but that was my first reaction. He's terrific—not only tall but big—in head, body, hands. "Hello", he said—looked at me and then at Ed and said "You're sure you two aren't brother and sister?" which meant—"what a pair of light-haired, pale, skinny kids!"
He told us another time when we were driving back to the hotel from somewhere of his correspondence with Freddy Keller—how he told Freddy he's got good stuff, but he must study—must educate himself and above all study Marx. That was what he had done all winter in Key West, he told us—otherwise, he said, you're a sucker—you don't know a thing until you study Marx. All of this said in short jerky sentences—with no attempt at punctuation. Before he left he gave us the remainder of his provisions—not in a gesture, just gave them to us because he knew we needed them and because he wanted to give them to us. I'm still a little awed by the size of him—he's really an awfully big guy!
And now—I'll say goodbye—I promise not to let so long a time go by the next time I write.
Mary
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REPRINTED from Cary Nelson and Jefferson Hendricks, eds. copyright 1996 by Routledge.
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/scw/letters.htm
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