Chapter 70

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey - cont.

My terror turned to joy as I looked at the telegram and saw that it was from Van. The contents confirmed what I had deduced from the date on the envelope, three days after the withdrawal of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion from combat. Van was alive and unhurt. Tears of joy sprang to my eyes. My spirit was giddy with lightness as two long years of worry and dread fell from it. I could now think of our life ahead in terms of happy years together instead of anxious moments apart.

Even better, the next line in the telegram revealed that Harry Schmitz was also safe and overjoyed at the thought of returning home to his parents. Harry asked me to tell Johann and Ida if they hadn't yet received his letter. I could hardly wait. It would be a pleasure to deliver good news for a change.

What I read next staggered me like a blow from a club. Oscar Saarinen had been killed in the last air bombardment of the Mac-Paps' lines just hours before he could have walked away with Van and Harry in the early morning darkness towards safety and home. I just stood there staring across the street until Mother walked up behind me and asked softly and anxiously if there was anything wrong.

From the Journal of Honey Sutton Sept. 28, 1938

I had lunch with Marjorie and Toppy today. Grace wasn't with us. She and Mother Bailey went down to the Blezard Valley this morning along with the Schmitzes to attend the memorial service for Oscar Saarinen. May God comfort his parents in their hour of sorrow.

… Marjorie is getting back into the routine of the accounting department. She has adjusted pretty well after the first couple of days. Her old friends there are happy to see her back.

Grace is glad that she agreed to return after talking to her sister about what it has been like for her to be a working mother. Ollie has taken some kidding about having a career girl for a wife. He just smiles and says that he hopes that Marjorie will be so successful that he'll be able to retire from the garage and she can support him in high style.

I could be wrong, but I see Grace's hand in that answer. Ollie isn't stupid, but he isn't known as a wit. Neither is Marjorie. Jacob is upset that his mother isn't home with him all day, every day. He still cries when she leaves him. However, his grandmother has been doing a good job of looking after him during the day and his cousin Luke has pitched in, however reluctantly, one or two afternoons a week. In a couple of years, he will be old enough for kindergarten.

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring Sept. 28, 1938

As I write this, sitting in a comfortable hotel room in Le Havre, it is hard to believe that only six days ago I was on a treeless hillside behind a line of rocks and sandbags fighting for my life. I want to cry or smash the furniture in anger when I think of it. It isn't right that Oscar Saarinen was killed so close to coming home. He made it through the artillery bombardment and the fascist charge that forced us out of our first line. It was the aerial bombardment at the end that finished him.

According to Harry, the last thing he talked about was his family. He described the delicious lohikeitto and perunarieska that his mother was going to fix him now that the harvest was in and a good supply of fresh potatoes was laid up for the winter. He could just imagine the irresistible smells coming from the kitchen while his father caught him up on the chances of the local hockey team for next season.

He envied his little brother his girlfriend. Maybe he should find a girl of his own. That cute waitress he used to chat with at the Hoito is probably married by now, but she might have a sister or a friend.

The bomb blast that left his body as broken as if it had been crushed in a giant's fist put an end to all those beautiful dreams forever. I wrote to his parents to offer what little comfort I could. Obviously, I left out the grimmer details of how their son died and tried to emphasize how much it meant to him to know that they loved him and would have welcomed him back with all their hearts when he came home.

I should explain how I come to be in Le Havre waiting to board a ship to New York in a few hours. I was barely behind the lines for a day when I was summoned by Captain Ebb [Capt. Gunnar Ebb, last commander of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion ed.] to receive orders for a special assignment. A fellow American, a documentary filmmaker named Alan Belfer, had asked for me to serve as guide and translator for him and his cameraman while they shot footage of the Republic's military medical services. The completed film will tour America and Canada to raise money for medical supplies for the Republic.

Capt. Ebb had to jog my memory, but I finally remembered meeting Belfer a couple of times before the war at John Hammond's gatherings of his radical friends. He was filled with idealistic zeal for the documentary film as a tool for radicalizing the proletariat. Capturing the details and patterns of their lives would reveal to them the greater meaning of those lives as part of the class struggle which would, of course, lead to their inevitable triumph. I have to wonder what seeing a casualty ward or two will do to his high hopes. Still, if his project means more medical supplies for my comrades who remain behind, I am willing to go along.

Speaking of my comrades, I said goodbye to the Spanish members of my squad before leaving. Only half of those with whom I crossed the Ebro back in July were there to shake my hand and wish me suerte. I wished them the same and made a little speech about how I will always remember them-as if it were possible to forget men with whom you have been on the edge of life and death. Then, I gave Corporal Barros my automatic and the remaining two clips of ammo as a farewell gift. If my recommendation carries any weight, he will soon be Sgt. Barros.

I'm not sure that I'm doing him any favors. Even if he survives the rest of the war, I hate to think of what will happen to him and his family in Murcia afterwards when Franco rules Spain. If anything makes me bitter about this war it is that we aren't going to win. Once you get to know them, Spanish and Catalan people are some of the most generous and warmhearted that you will ever meet. They do not deserve to be at the mercy of sadistic, power-crazed butchers.

Night is falling on Spain. It will not last forever. Nothing does. However, the end is farther away than even the wisest can see. I am to meet Alan Belfer and his cameraman in New York. From there, he and I will make a brief tour of Atlantic seaboard cities to raise funds for his film. …

P.S. Could you ask your brother if Harry could stay with him and his family for a couple of days when he returns to Canada. He has some business to take care of in Toronto before he goes on to New Bedford. Tell your mother that he intends to take her up on her offer of a job in the Bas Lake Mine.

Next Week: No peace in our time