Chapter 47

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

We continued arguing at the doorway to Mother's parlor. We tried to keep our voices down since Maisie was in the house. Fortunately, Mother was visiting Mrs. Barlow. Van tried to be conciliatory. "I love you more than anything, but I have responsibilities I can't walk out on."

I don't, for the life of me, know how I kept from screaming after hearing that. Somehow, I kept the volume down, but not the intensity. "I am sick of responsibility. I've been responsible all my life and what have I gotten for it. Years being trapped here under Mother's thumb. Having to tell kids that their friends are dead. Day after day of being terrified that you were lying wounded or worse on the battlefield and I didn't know it. Your sense of responsibility almost got you killed. It's time for us to think about ourselves and our happiness for a change."

Van just looked at me sadly. "What we feel for each other is also a responsibility," he agreed. "I wish it were the only one, but it isn't. The International Brigades are being rebuilt, including the Lincolns and the Mac-Paps. Most of the replacements will be raw Spanish conscripts who have no idea how to survive in combat. Every battalion needs experienced soldiers who know how to train them and lead them on the battlefield. There aren't many of us left."

I know that Van was trying to be reasonable, but I was so furious and disappointed that he seemed patronizing to me. I probably looked like a stubborn, pouting child to him. "If things keep going on the way they have, there'll be even fewer by the time this is over. The Republic will still lose, and you won't have made any difference."

"I know that the Republic is going to lose," Van blazed at me. "I know that the Communist Party in Spain is run by murderers and fools who treat the Mac-Paps and the Lincolns as useful cannon fodder. I know that too many of the high command are idiots who couldn't plan a game of hopscotch much less a military campaign. I know that a lot of the Republican Spanish don't want International Brigaders like me in Spain because they despise the Communists who recruited us. I don't blame them for that."

"Then why do you want to go back? Do you want to be used like that? Do you want to die?"

Van took a deep breath. He regained his calm, but I had seldom seen him look so miserable. "I don't want to do either. From the moment I set foot on Spanish soil again, the one thing I'll want more than anything else is for the war to end so I can come home to you."

"Then why go?"

"I have to. You were right about the fascists. They do glory in killing without remorse. Fascist soldiers glory in shooting down civilians and prisoners of war. Fascist pilots glory in strafing and bombing women and children. The Republic is deeply flawed, but anything the Fascists would put in its place would be an outright obscenity. When I think of all the good people I met in Spain who fed me, healed me, let me play with their children, and called me friend … I can't leave them to that."

What I said next may not have been fair, but I didn't feel like being fair. "But you're willing to leave me alone."

"I'm doing this for you as much as for the Spanish people," he insisted. "If the Fascists win in Spain, we both know that it won't end there. They will threaten you and everyone else in the democracies. Tell me if you think I'm wrong."

I would rather have driven nails through my feet than admit that he wasn't, but I couldn't evade the truth. That didn't mean that I had to like it. My reply was bitter. "I know you're right. I've had enough of arguing. If you've made your decision, there's nothing I can do to stop you."

I could hear the pain and guilt in his voice. "I'm sorry, Grace.

I said nothing. I just turned my back on him. I would have stalked away feeling spiteful if I hadn't seen Maisie peering around the corner at the top of the stairs where she had no doubt been listening in. She tried to pull back into the darkness of the hall, but it was too late. I yelled at her to come down. Instead of scolding her for eavesdropping, I ordered her to the kitchen. It was her turn to make supper. "I think meatloaf and boiled potatoes."

"But it isn't my . . . ," Maisie protested.

She flinched as I cut her off. "It's your turn tonight. You need the practice."

I hoped that Van was cringing too at the thought of all the hot mustard and harsh cider vinegar Maisie liked to put in her meatloaf. Too bad a repeat of her mistake when she had accidentally used double the correct amount of pepper was unlikely. I was in the mood to feed him something awful. It wouldn't be "dysentery in a cup," as he called some of the food he ate when he was in the field with the International Brigades, but it would do.

That night I moved out of the guest room back into my old room. There, I lay awake and wondered how I would be able to stand it if Van really went back to war. How could I live another day of constant anxiety for his life and safety let alone another six months or another year? How could he make me?

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Apr. 29, 1938

I wish Grace and Van would argue again. I've never seen a cold shoulder like the one Grace is giving Van or moping like Van does in return. Mom and Grandpop used to squabble all the time, but not like this. Their blowups were fiery but didn't last long. They were usually speaking to each other the next day as though nothing had happened.

Grace and Van seem determined to drag this out until doomsday. I can't believe Mrs. Bailey is so calm about it. She tells me that she and Grace's dad also argued sometimes, but that they always worked it out. Van and Grace will too. I wish I could be as sure of that as she is.

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan Apr. 30, 1938

I had hoped that things were calming down between Grace and Van. Certainly, they seemed to be until tonight. Van took a phone call from a person he wouldn't identify except as someone with influence who he had contacted about returning to Spain. No doubt the influence is with the Canadian Communist Party.

At any rate, the arrangements have been made. Unless Van changes his mind, he will be back in Spain with the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion by the end of May. Grace listened in hostile silence as her husband explained. Afterwards, she spoke in voice ominous with hurt and repressed anger. "How could you?"

Wasting no time, she stood up and turned to leave, her face hard as stone. Van rose from his chair and grasped her arm. She whirled around and snapped at him viciously. "Leave me alone! I don't want to see you or speak to you, not right now and maybe not ever again!"

Van let her arm go and started to speak. "Grace …"

Grace firmly interrupted him. "I need to be alone. I need to be by myself and think."

From the Journal of Honey Mainwaring Apr. 30, 1938

My heart sank as I opened the door to see a forlorn Grace. When I asked her what brought her here, she just looked at me helplessly and admitted that she had been walking. My heart sank even further. Grace doesn't go rambling around the streets of New Bedford at night unless something is very wrong.

Max offered her a seat. Luckily, Henry was at the movies with Rebecca. Zack was at the Yuens' for dinner at Tommy Yuen's urging. Hub took one look at his Aunt Grace and suggested to Violet that they go to her room so she could show him the latest watercolors in her sketchbook.

Max and I were shocked to learn that, against our hopes, Van intended to go through with his plan to go back to Spain and fight whatever Grace said or did. The despair on her face when she admitted that she hadn't been able to face it until now was painful to see. My heart went out to her and I'm sure Max's did too.

"It isn't right," She lamented. "We should be making a home and a life together, building a business, starting a family. It isn't …"

I took my friend in my arms and waited for the storm of tears to pass. Grace eventually straightened up and dried her eyes. For a while, we just sat there in silence. I could barely hear the murmur of Hub's and Violet's voices drifting to us from the back of the apartment. Then Grace spoke. A note of desperation was in her voice. "I love him, Honey. I love him so much that sometimes I don't know where I end and where he begins."

For a moment neither of us said anything. Then I broke the silence. "What are you going to do?"

Grace's resigned smile failed to entirely conceal the anguish underneath. "What can I do? He won't walk away from the war and I can't walk away from him."

Next Week: Uneasy truce. Two marriages. Two veterans.