The uprising didn't have the effect the rebels expected. This didn't go as quick and easy as they had calculated. Many cities and people refused to rise up in arms against those who were hurting Spain. They could not be convinced, apparently.
And since they couldn't be convinced, the designated 'national side', decided that they would have to take Spain from them by force.
"You have been sending Spain planes and weaponry?"
France served himself a bottle of wine. It allowed him to avoid looking at him, fake disinterest.
"Have you heard the interview with Movietone News?" He simply replied.
"Of course I have." England replied, his arms crossed, walking around the room.
"At whatever cost. Even if that meant having to shoot half of Spain. I am taking nothing out of context: that's what that general said. Those people are a textbook example of fascists. You know very well that it delights me to see Spain in trouble, but this is serious. It can affect us, the whole Europe..."
"Listen." England interrupted. "I understand your worry, and I know that the rebels don't have anything good in store. They are just like Germany and his goons. But look at it from this perspective: Spain is surrounded now by anarchists and communists. Can't we just let them...get rid of that infection?"
"Fascists seem like another one."
"Yes, I know, but I do think we can only choose the least bad scenario." England stole France's cup from his hand and gave it a sip.
France frowned in thought.
"...Whatever happens, we are screwed." He finally muttered.
"As long as we just let Spain deal with it alone, it will be alright." England replied. "We'll just wait...see what the outcome is...and then, only then...we will see what must be done."
France could only nod.
"You speak Spanish very well, gentlemen." General Mola said to Veneciano and Romano.
"Being Spain's cohort for like three centuries helped being proficient." Romano replied, his hands inside his pockets, with a good amount of irony.
"Germany says he regrets not knowing the language enough to talk to you himself, but it's alright, we can translate." Veneciano offered himself.
"Thank you, gentlemen. And thank you too for your kind offer." Mola said, sitting down. "It comes like fallen from Heaven. We have just lost our leader Sanjurjo in a terrible helicopter accident. But revolution goes on."
Germany muttered some words into Veneciano's ear.
"Germany's glad to hear that. He, well, we want you to know that we will do everything in our hand to help Spain. Portugal could not come, but his Viriatos are getting ready." He said. "Count on our CTV and Germany's Condor Legion.""
"Yeah, we've had enough seeing Spain getting hurt and playing the commie." Romano said.
Germany told Veneciano again what to say to the general. "There is no point in denying that war is going to break up again in Europe. It is time everyone picks a side."
"I am sure Spain will understand that you are the only real friends he has in the entire world." Mola said.
Romano nodded.
When they opened the vault, Spain didn't know what to think, if the ingots before him were a big quantity or not, taking into account he had been alive for over two thousand years. Because that was what that gold represented: his fortune. The money he had made in all of those years, what he had amassed with his sweat and blood—and the sweat and blood of others.
He had to be witness, so no one could say the operation was fraudulent. Thus, he saw how the Minister's men emptied the space. 510 tons of gold, which would be moved to Cartagena instantly.
Following the Republic's orders, Spain had had a meeting with America, France and England to ask for weapons to be used against the rebels. France seemed to be collaborative, he promised to deliver and handed some war tools. But then he changed his mind all of a sudden. Things were complicated in Europe. Fascism and communism were spreading and the nations often found themselves forced to take a side. Democracies and dictatorships were on the verge of war. Supporting openly any side in that issue would bring an imbalance which would affect all of Europe negatively. England formed a committee which managed to convince the continent (except Switzerland, who declared that they were all blind and crazy) not to get involved. What was happening was Spain's personal life. None of their concern.
Spain couldn't say he was surprised. Experience had taught him to expect no sympathy from anybody...
But there were nations who signed the document and didn't just look away.
The Axis Powers had made the promise to be there for Spain if he needed them and were men of their word. They didn't hide that their tanks, planes and men were on their way to the peninsula. Portugal managed to convince his boss, Salazar (or perhaps the other way round—one never knew), that Spain had to be freed from the government that was killing him.
And the Republic found a friend in Soviet Russia and Mexico.
The Committee was boycotting their provision of weapons, but did nothing to stop Germany's and Italy's troops. They had to find support, and it came from where Spain would have never suspected.
"I have not forgotten what you did, but...I don't want you to become a fascist pig like the Axis." Hearing Mexico's voice again thanks to the telephone, the tone of her voice, brought chills to Spain's body. "I will send you anything you need. I am with you, Spain. If you want me to go there..."
"No...No, my girl...You stay in America. It will be better if you stay..."
He didn't want her to see how bad he looked after so many days barely sleeping...
As for Russia...
"They are cowards. I expected much more from England, to be honest." At the port of Cartagena, Russia looked at the sky as if he was surprised not to see snow falling. "He thinks this way he will not anger Germany and things will be better...As if Germany needed an excuse...They will let you die, all of them. They will let you rot and go mad and they will do nothing to stop it. Well, if you think about it, it is better that they don't intervene—they tried to suffocate the revolution and all they did was to give the Bolsheviks more arguments in their favor."
Spain was not looking at him, but at the numerous wooden boxes which were taken inside of the four ships Russia had brought. The giant leaned towards him and opened his shirt a bit, not asking for permission to do so, with no shame at all. He then clicked his tongue.
"How long have you been having this?"
"Two months..." Spain replied.
"Hm."
Russia looked at his ships too.
"I can give you part of the weapons and some tanks now, the rest should come in a few months. As for the receipt...I will do the inventory at home and send you the document, okay?"
"Okay...Thanks, Russia..."
"My pleasure. Everything will be alright, you will see."
"And...the children..."
"I am already on it. You can start sending them to my house."
"Thank you..."
Later that month, his boss Stalin published that Russia's wealth was increased and it was all thanks to the success of his latest reforms. Spain never received the receipt.
Right the next day, he was covering his mouth in order to repress a retching.
The man by his side, apparently insensitive, lit a cigarette. Expelling the smoke slowly, he smirked and pointed at the scene with his head.
"Do you see, Mr. Spain? This is what happens when reds get the power..."
That nun had probably been dead for one or two years, seeing her state. Her eyes were gone and her mouth with no lips was open. Someone had dug her out to exhibit her against a wall. Only God knew what else they had done to her...
"Those bastards respect nothing..." The man grunted, and the smoke of his cigarette was all Spain needed to run away from the scene and vomit among some bushes.
His friend Luciana walked to him and gently placed a hand on his back.
"Are you alright, Antonio?" She asked with a sweet voice.
Spain panted. No. But he nodded anyway.
"Come on, I can't stand looking at this either..."
Also, Pablo was waiting. He was probably worried about their delay.
Spain knew him since he was thirty-six, when he had the honor to serve Alfonso XIII, Spain and the royal family as their cook. Spain missed his confectionery so, so much. But, as he used to say, 'it's not time for buns'—he was not there to taste his delicious meals and Pablo was not in the mood for cooking. When he lost his job due to Alfonso's abdication, he went back to his native town, Cereixo. Spain had been warned by the Republican government that it was not wise to leave their protection, but seeing how Madrid was getting ready for the bombings, had its treasures moved out and monuments buried in sand, Spain felt there was no safe place at all. He wanted to see his old friend. He needed to see him. At that moment...perhaps it was all he needed. The atmosphere in Madrid made him so nervous. All those «Madrid's bear will destroy fascism», «Rise against Italian invasion in Spain!», «The only party of the proletariat will crush fascism», «They shall not pass»—they felt so unnerving.
"The priest was very lucky he was out of town when that happened." Pablo explained to him while his sister Luciana served him a cup of coffee. "In Vilar they raped five nuns, then killed them...They are getting as many clergypeople as they can find and doing away with them."
"You can't be serious..." Spain muttered.
"You know when things are wrong, what are your feelings telling you?"
"...I don't know...I can't make sense out of them lately...It's like a lot of subnormal kids screaming at the same time..."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I'm glad to know you're alright. I'm trying to get in touch with old friends, see if...Check on them, you know. Martina is safe, Martín sailed to Argentina. Juan...Poor Juan was drafted forcefully and they killed him in Badajoz...Honorato too, in the siege of Toledo—that boy was, what? Eighteen?"
"Yes...I am fine, but it is just a matter of time." Pablo said, closing his eyes and crossing his arms gravely. "One of these days these bastards will come and, do you know what they will do? They will dig a grave for the two of us. They will rape Luciana here when they get tired of her, they'll blow her brains out. And I'm not going to let those sons of bitches hurt her. I won't let them get you, either. They banished our king, they have ruined you, and, fuck, I've had enough. I am going to join Mola's troops. Luciana here wants me to go to France with her, but I was born in this country and if I have to die, I will die here."
Spain felt shivers in his back. "Pablo, I don't want you to die for me...Please, listen to your sister..."
"No, Antonio. I made up my mind seeing that they don't even respect the dead, which is the most sacred thing, even more sacred than any church or ideology. They are animals who should be exterminated. I won't let them control you any longer. You deserve happiness, Antonio, and if I have to die trying, at least I will die for something worth it. I hope my blood will make you stronger."
That was the last time Spain ever saw Pablo. Eleven weeks later, he got a letter from Luciana, with a stamp from Niza, in which he told him that Pablo had fallen fighting the Republican troops in Vigo.
Pablo's sacrifice didn't make him feel greater—but weaker.
«Spain: One, Great, Free». «Long live the rescue army; for God and for Spain; glory to martyrs and heroes». «Communism sows death; Franco defeats it in the battlefield!». «First Crusade; Spain, spiritual guiding of the world». «After this, how fine Spain will turn out!».
Spain, in the bathtub, closed his eyes and focused. In the silence of the room, only the drops falling from his soaked hair to the water could be heard. He could read their minds, feel that they were feeling. There was hope. This revolution was the light at the end of the tunnel. The Republic had failed them, left them unprotected, stolen their traditions and everything that made them safe, had damaged their dear fatherland; the rebels would bring back all the good things lost. They would give back to Spain the honor they had taken away from him.
But if he kept looking into himself, he found even more voices. He found fear for what was happening and what was going to come. They were knocking at the door early in the morning, asking for a certain person belonging to a socialist group, involved in their press, their activities, who had written praise about the Republic. They mounted them on a truck, heading to the forest, or the wall of some cemetery; some remote spot. There, they were put in line and shot. But sometimes said individuals guessed what was about to happen and ran away, tried to hide anywhere: in the mountains, behind the walls, in dry wells... Often, they were found and executed right on the spot. If the town didn't collaborate, if they offered resistance, the revolutionaries made sure it burnt to the ground with everyone inside.
These feelings and images were so intense, so contradictory, so...indescribable...The bath didn't help him feel better.
When he got up and, naked, walked to the mirror, he saw the mark on his neck, barely a freckle when he first spotted it a couple of days before. Now it was the size of his fist. But there was more. When he grabbed a towel and glanced at his stomach, he saw the same thing close to the navel. A dark spot, the size of a cigarette pack.
Was it an ulcer? Lupus?—Or something worse?
Lleida was on the Republican side for the moment, so Spain had no problem to reach the place. In any case, he had been fighting for enough centuries to know how to sneak into a city without being detected. And if something happened, if someone spotted him and made a fuss, he was the nation. Nobody would do any harm to him. Still, he tried to make his entry as discreet as he could. He was not in the mood for military tactics. He...hadn't felt decently good in a long time. Migraines made him want to go back to smoking. He was taking pills, instead. His doctor said they would help him have a clear mind and would take the pain away. But he still felt unable to think much.
He had Paulino's address written on a piece of paper. He hoped he hadn't moved in all these years. As he had been told in his letters, he had not gotten married and still cared for his widowed mother, just like he used to do when he was young. He had a stable job repairing cars. He had to be there, in Lleida.
"Paulino?"
When he arrived to the house, there was no light inside, no sound was heard from inside.
"Paulino? Mrs. Gómez?" Spain knocked again.
A lady, who was passing by with some groceries on a bicycle, stopped a few meters away from him.
"Ah, son! Don't waste your time. Nobody will answer!" She sighed.
"Do you know Paulino Gómez? Do you know where can I find him?" Spain walked towards her.
"He's...Well, we've been neighbors for all of our life. He was a good person. I'm sure he's in the good place. As for what he left behind...Who knows! Who knows what they did with it..." The lady sighed again and shook her head with pity.
"What do you mean?"
"My son sent me a letter the other day from the front line. Paulino was in the same regiment as him. His mother was sick, you see? Apparently, he tried to escape to see her. He was talking about her all the time. He was really worried about her. His superiors caught him and shoot him dead for deserting."
Spain felt his throat burning upon hearing the worst news possible. Paulino...He survived the war in Africa to be killed by his own folks...
"What about his mother? Maybe I could..."
"Ah! Poor Antonia! What do you expect an old lady like her, sick, bound to her bed, with her son fighting in the front, to do but die? At least she passed before her son was killed. She would have died from grief..."
She squinted suddenly, approaching him.
"Would you mind coming to the light? You...look familiar..."
Spain ran away instead.
«THE ENEMY CAN BE AROUND US»
A priest, who gave his partners the confession they asked him. A man from a high class, now with his fine clothes soaked in sweat and his few hair messy. A young man who had refused to join the Republican troop when he was called. A former member of the conservative party CEDA. Two from Falange.
«IT COULD BE ANYONE»
They were ordered to descend from the truck and walk to where the soldiers were indicating them.
It was still night, but some birds could be heard chirping lazily. The murmur of the Jarama River reached their ears. It was difficult to hear those with the noise from the truck, the voices of the soldiers and the weeping of one of the prisoners.
«WE HAVE TO EXTIRPATE THE SICKNESS FROM SPAIN'S CHEST»
The firing squad lost no time. The priest barely had the time to cross himself before bullets impacted in his chest.
Spain woke up yelping, his first impulse was to touch his own chest, like expecting to find blood and holes in it. Then, he started sobbing.
The relative calm of the morning was broken when the sirens started wailing. All Madrilenians stopped, glanced at the sky and dropped everything in their hands, left all conversations unfinished, changed their direction and ran. Ran. Ran as fast as they could.
"Come on, come on!"
"Hurry up!"
The bookseller ran to hide inside his shop and Spain dropped the book he had been leafing through to imitate his people.
Around him, mothers and fathers carried their children in their arms, some ignored their selfish instincts to help the elders who were being left behind, nobody bothered to grab anything, because nothing was that valuable as their lives at that moment. Some ran into the first open building they found, even if it was dangerous, because it was still better than staying in the open. The wisest ran towards the Metro.
"Run! There they are!"
Spain was still running down the steps to the subway station when the first bomb exploded.
Two. Two people dead.
In front of him, entering the subway, a little girl was bawling and her father couldn't say anything comforting to her because he was terrified too, his legs wobbled as he grabbed her by the wrist and made her follow him.
Two more bombs. Seven.
Spain's legs failed him and he tripped, slipping down the stairs. A man with a long, white beard helped him stand up.
"Come on, son, you're safe now!"
Being the safest place (unless the explosions made the whole structure crumble, as one hysterical woman remarked), the place was crowded. Families cuddled against each other. Two young brothers tried to distract themselves talking about some soccer player. An old woman cursed those 'barbarians' out loud. Yes, all those people were safe, but every time a bomb fell, the ceiling shook and dust and small rubble fell on their heads, making them all go silent for a moment.
Spain was not safe there.
"We are leaving to Valencia, pack your things, Spain. These savages are going to destroy Madrid if it's necessary to find and get you!" His President would tell him next time he saw him, after finding him later that day.
He was safe nowhere.
The bombs kept falling. Spain covered his ears but still shook with every explosion.
Fourteen killed. Twenty-one. Thirty...He could not count them all!
1937
He was told he was in no condition to travel, but he wanted to. Nobody could stop him. He needed to check on Basque Country.
Back in Valencia, the Republican army had intercepted messages from the enemy. They talked about the death of General Mola in a plane accident. That made Francisco Franco the leader of the rebels. Franco! Spain had met him...He was a war hero...He had fought by his side in Africa...He had even attended his wedding along with Alfonso! Now that he was in charge, he had named himself Generalísimo, the supreme leader...
But what worried Spain, the reason why he made that trip in spite of his advisors' warnings was that other message that said that Franco's intention was destroying these 'mock nations' who threatened Spain's unity, who 'weakened him by stealing what was his'. Basque Country and Catalonia.
He had to see them. He had to make sure they were alright. It had been impossible to contact with Catalonia. His President told him that she was safe in a hidden place, although that didn't comfort Spain much because he wanted to see it himself, talk to her.
He was not going to let the same happen to Basque Country. He needed to see him. See by himself that he was alright...Tell him that he didn't think he and Catalonia were what those people thought they were...Tell him...he didn't want this...
He arrived to the town of Guernica the morning of April 26th, with the first rays of sun.
He walked around the town, trying to orient himself, ask about Basque Country. He didn't find anyone who knew: most were just common people who were on their way to work or to the market. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and watch what they called Gernikako Arbola, Basque's symbolic tree, trying to imagine his sibling taking care of it with love, when someone approached him.
"Mr. Spain?"
Spain turned around to find a familiar face.
"Marianita!" He exclaimed.
It was her. Twenty five years had passed and she was not a young girl anymore, but it was still her. She was a full woman, pushing a baby carriage, with four more children of different ages around her. Her smile was starting to show wrinkles, but she still had that pretty smile...
"Oh! It's been so long!" She exclaimed.
Her smile faded when Spain approached her having to support himself on a cane, and still walking with difficulty, as if his muscles were too rigid to move. His hug felt so weak...
"Indeed!" Spain smiled. Not even the smile looked like it used to. "Wow, you still got it..."
Marianita giggled bashfully.
"I see you married that guy in the end...What was his name? Imanol?" Spain asked.
"No. He was a jerk. Good riddance. But thanks to him I met Salvador and..." She turned her head to her children with a smile.
"Congrats."
"Thanks...What are you doing in here?"
"Family matters."
"Ah, I see..."
She didn't think it was appropriate to ask the question, but he looked so bad she couldn't resist. She still cared for him, just like when she was his maid.
"How are you, Mr. Spain? Are they...hurting you too much?"
Spain tried to laugh.
"Who is they, I wonder..." He sighed.
"Who's this, mother?" A girl, barely eight, asked.
"This is the Republic of Spain. Oh, children, aren't you going to say hello to him? He is a very important person."
"Hello, Mr. Spain, sir." Those children immediately said, even the two year-old (babbling incoherently).
"It's a pleasure meeting you. Wow, Marianita, you made something really beautiful..." Spain smiled.
"If what you are doing is not very urgent, can I ask you to stay for lunch?" Marianita asked.
"It'd love to. I am dying to meet the lucky guy who won your heart."
"Andrés, help Mr. Spain."
"No, it's alright, the cane does the trick."
They walked, and Marianita had the chance to see he could barely move, but he tried. God, did he try...
"...Do you know, by chance, Basque Country? The...nation, I mean." Spain asked.
"I haven't seen him personally, if that's what you're asking, but...I've seen pictures of him."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"I don't know. I highly doubt he is here...He probably left as soon as all of this started..."
"...They say they are an obstacle, a mistake...I just want to talk to him and tell him..."
Tell him what? Spain wasn't very sure. But that was not the reason why he didn't finish the sentence.
That cursed sound made the whole population freeze and Spain's heart stop.
Here too?
Why here? Why in little, useless, non-strategic Guernica?
"Oh, no..." Marianita muttered. "Children, now we have to run, okay? Amelia, grab your siblings, Mr. Spain...!"
Spain was already feeling it, the terror...
His eyes turned to the Tree, and he understood.
Basque...
They hated Basque, remember?
And they were going to destroy his pride...
People around them dropped everything in their hands and started running to the refuges, if they had any. Some tried to make their animals move, but they were braying, terrified by the sirens. The bells of the church started ringing frenetically. 'Everyone to the refuges!', a policeman cried.
It was then when the first bomb dropped.
One woman blown into pieces. Spain didn't see it. He felt it like if it had been him.
They were in mortal danger. That was why it was the moment to pray. Many people tried to find the words while running to the church, to the town hall...Spain felt his rosary around his neck, but couldn't grab it.
He raised his head to the sky and saw five planes flying above them, dropping the projectiles...
The cane slipped from his hand. New explosions. Three. One of them was a baby, which couldn't be taken from his crib on time.
"Here! Here, come on!" Marianita grabbed him, practically pushed him, because he barely moved, under a carriage. It was the only place they could go. Buildings were crumbling around them.
Bombs kept falling like a rain of fire. A young man, around twenty, stopped his track to turn around and look at the planes with his face red with fury.
"BASTARDS! I SHIT IN YOUR MOTHERS, YOU COCK-SUCKING SONS OF BITCHES! SCUMBAGS!" He shouted at them as loud as his lungs allowed him.
One of those planes flew lower and started to strafe the fleeing people. They got a woman who was running along with her elder father and then the boy's chest was filled with bullets, silencing him.
"Mommy! Mommyyy!" One of Marianita's children, a chubby six-year old, howled.
"Close your eyes and cover your head with your hands, Fabián!" She instructed him. She was crying out of fear. If one of those bombs fell near them, the carriage wouldn't protect them. She couldn't assure him everything would be alright.
Not that being inside of a building guaranteed anything. Marianita was seeing it: the planes flew closer to the ground to shoot at the people, they forced them to go into the buildings, and then...they bombed them.
Those who knew anything about aviation could recognize the symbols on the planes. That was the Condor Legion. Some were flying so low a neighbor called Saturnino Amor would declare many decades later that he was capable of seeing a man with white hair and red eyes controlling one of them.
The facade of the church was falling apart. Inside, the priest wanted to scream too, but he started praying for everyone inside instead. God, have mercy on us, greet us in your infinite glory...
Many people were running to the fields, trying to escape from the town, and the planes followed them. They were an easy target for their machine guns. Three. Six. Eight.
"Help me! Help me!" Someone cried. After one bomb fell, nobody cried anymore.
They waited. Several minutes passed. The zooming of the planes, the bombs, were not heard anymore. But they couldn't be sure. They waited a bit more. It wasn't until they heard people outside and saw their feet moving slowly that they were convinced it was over.
"It's over...It's over, children...It's okay, it's over..." Marianita wept, kissing the heads of her children.
They got out from their hideout. Marianita helped Spain get up.
She saw him look around him. At the rubble at their feet. At the blood staining it. At the skeletons of the buildings. At the people looking around, some of them in shock, others filled with blood, not only theirs, calling someone they knew. The corpses, human and animal, buried in the debris, lying in all sorts of postures, crushed, shot.
She saw him drop on his knees, grabbing the sides of his head to scratch them until blood started to come out.
Everyone around heard his scream, which faded, faded, faded, as air left his lungs until it simply ceased, and no more sounds came out from his throat.
«The worldwide Jewish and Masonic press and Valencia's hypocrite mourners threw their arms up in horror before the leader, whose name as clean as our sky they tried to smear with the drool of their libelous information. The photographic camera which cannot lie to you tells it clearly that such destruction was the deed of incendiaries and dynamiters.»
Spain was there. Dear God, Spain was there.
The Francoist side tried to use it as propaganda, in order to avoid criticism. The Republicans had destroyed one of their own towns and almost got their own nation killed. Spain, tragically caught in the bombing, had resulted injured.
«We will destroy the Republic before they destroy our dear Antonio»
After Guernica, it was Cabra's turn. Another little, unimportant town, in the rebels' possession. Albacete, Jaén, Cádiz, Figueras, Játiva...
Big or small, no town was safe. No one was safe anywhere.
Since he wasn't safe anywhere, Spain stopped moving at all.
1939
He was the one who opened the door. Before coming in, he stared at the figure sitting on a wheelchair, near the window. As if a bit of fresh air and the view could break him out of that state. He was aware of what the Republican doctors had tried to do in order to bring him back, all therapies possible, including electroshock.
All in vain. For months, he had not moved an inch. Not a reaction. Not a sound.
Franco approached him and crouched down to touch his chin. Spain didn't move. He didn't blink, or even look at him. His emerald eyes were spiritless, like the eyes of a doll.
"My poor Spain..."
The Generalísimo sighed, afflicted by that sight.
"Healing hurts, doesn't it?...Medicine sometimes causes an unpleasant reaction, but it is for the best...I am the iron surgeon you were waiting for...I had to cut you open to extirpate the cancer that was killing you from inside...But now it's gone, fatherland of mine...It's finally gone, and it is time to sew you up and help you recover...I have the medicine you need...When you take it, you will see...You will feel so much better...You will be strong and healthy...You will get your old glory back..."
Still no reaction. It was like talking to a corpse. Full of pity, Franco caressed Spain's cheek.
Germany stopped in front of that big painting in gray. His bright blue eyes inspected every inch of the canvas, studied every line like an art critic would. The Führer despised modern art, said it was decadent, Jewish, but he was also formed in Arts, maybe in a deeper way than him, and found this piece interesting.
The author was near him. A man with white hair, a cigarette in hand. Germany approached him and pointed at the painting.
"Did you do this?" He asked.
France and England turned their heads towards that man who pondered about his answer for some seconds. The way he looked at Germany, before answering:
"No. You did."
Veneciano and Romano also heard that response, looked at that artist with curiosity, then observed his work.
Some attendants called it a mess. There were figures mixed with no harmony, a style too modern for the taste of many. A woman grieving the corpse of her child in her arms. A dismembered soldier, sword still in hand, at the feet of a braying horse, ran through by a sort of spear. A man with his hands raised to the sky. A house on fire. A seemingly impassible bull. A wounded woman who was bleeding and dragging her leg. An eye, with a light bulb replacing the pupil, contemplating everything from above...
Veneciano couldn't gaze at it any longer and walked away, feeling tears coming out. After some moments, it was Romano who stepped away. One by one, they all had to turn their heads from it.
It was a painting that could have been painted by any artist from any nationality, in any century. It was something all of them could relate.
Which nation had never suffered what this horrible picture was showing..., watched..., or inflicted to others?