Chapter 82

From the Journal of Honey Sutton, Nov. 16, 1938

Max came home from the Canadian Legion meeting wearing a look of disgust. I asked if he hadn't gotten what he wanted. He confirmed my guess. "They refused to authorize an honor guard for Van's funeral for the same reason they won't let Will join the Legion."

"You expected this," I reminded him.

"And so did Grace," he agreed. "They're afraid that if they give their approval to anything even remotely connected with Communism that the national organization will revoke their charter. It isn't right. Van fought alongside Canadians in a Canadian unit for Canada as much as for his own country. Canadians should honor him."

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Nov. 16, 1938

It is nice of Toppy and Dad to take turns staying in the guest room while Grace and Mrs. Bailey are away. Dad is sorry that my old room in the back of the pawnshop is filled with two lots of furniture and household items that he hopes to have sold by the end of Spring. Otherwise, he would have invited me to stay with him.

I told him that he has nothing to blame himself for. None of us expected Van to be killed. I wish that we knew more about how he died. From the newspaper accounts, Pinell de Brai fell to the fascists on the same night he helped to evacuate it. What was he doing so close to the fighting? I wish I knew if Grace and her mother have reached Spain yet.

At least more Canadians are waking up to how awful Hitler's treatment of German and Austrian Jews is and calling for the government to end its policy of preventing them from immigrating here. Even some Catholic priests have spoken out against last week's wave of rioting, arrests, and outright murders of Jews in the Reich. I am proud that Fr. Fitzroy called it "a shameful outrage against the justice, mercy, and humility which Our Lord enjoins all human souls to practice towards one another."

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

On November 20, Mother and I reached Barcelona on a freighter from Marseilles, thankful that we had been lucky enough to avoid any fascist submarines and their torpedoes on the way in. As we entered the harbor under cover of darkness, Hub, Anna, and Laura were preparing to attend a rally in Toronto at the Maple Leaf Gardens to protest the Nazi rampage against the Jews that would eventually be known as Kristallnacht. At the same time, Gottfried Schmitz and three of his comrades from the Thaelmann Battalion, all of them cold, hungry and fearful, were sneaking through the Spanish countryside. A week earlier, they and three others had made a daring escape from the notorious San Pedro de Cardena prison camp near Burgos.

Barcelona in the fall of 1938 was a city of fear and hopelessness. Franco's army rested and regrouped on the banks of the Ebro having sent the Republican forces reeling back across it a week earlier. It was only a matter of time before the fascists began a drive to take Barcelona. In the city itself, its resources strained by thousands of desperate refugees, food was rationed except on the black market.

Many people wore clothing so threadbare that it was impossible not to wonder how they would endure the winter cold. The first biting chill was already in the air and gave promise of worse to come. Occasionally, you would see a child missing a hand who had tried to pick up

one of the anti-personnel devices labelled "Chocolatti" which the Italian pilots sometimes dropped on their frequent air raids. Afterwards, I never could see a glossy, cheerful brochure inviting tourists to visit sunny Spain without feeling at least a little sardonic.

Almost immediately upon setting foot on the dock, we were greeted by a pair of minor functionaries who whisked us off to the headquarters of the Catalan Communist Party in the Hotel Colon on the Placa de Catalunya. I barely had a moment to glance at the wristwatch Van gave me for my thirty-fifth birthday to make sure that it was still keeping good time. Fortunately, the damage I had done to it writhing about after receiving the news of his death didn't seem to have affected the works, only the clasp. I regretted having to make do with a quick solder job instead of proper repairs so that it wouldn't still be at the jewelers when Mother and I received our visas and could leave Toronto.

All we were told as we drove from the docks to the Placa de Catalunya was that an important person wished to see us. On our arrival, we walked into the Hotel Colon past the guards under giant banners with the faces of Lenin and Stalin. I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of what looked like a machine gun at one of the downstairs windows covering the placa.

Mother and I were escorted to a comfortable office dominated by a massive mahogany desk and brightened by a plush carpet and rich furnishings. There we were warmly greeted by a stocky woman with black hair, fierce dark eyes, rough-hewn features, and an electrifying presence who introduced herself as Dolores Ibarurri. As always, she was dressed entirely in black. Both Mother and I knew her from newspapers and newsreels as La Pasionaria.

For a moment I was speechless and so was Mother. La Pasionaria took advantage of our silence to offer her condolences for my loss and to express her admiration of Van's courage and sacrifice. "To come once to Spain to defend her people against the fascist butchers when he could have stayed safely at home was admirable. To come three times and be killed helping to evacuate wounded soldiers is a debt Spain can never repay."

I could only stammer out thanks for her kind words. She insisted that they were merely the truth and added that Van was typical of the remarkable quality of men who served in the International Brigades. "There has been nothing like it before-Jews, Negroes, Americans, Canadians, French, Germans all working together for one purpose."

Mother admitted that the International Brigades reminded her a little of the mining camps of her youth where she and Father rubbed shoulders with what she liked to call "all sorts and conditions. We all dug in the same hard rock and soil, and we all went to sleep nursing the same aching muscles. There was a certain camaraderie in those days."

La Pasionaria smiled wearily. "My father and my husband were miners. If not for the Communist Party and the war, my son might be one too. Instead, he serves with the Army of the Republic. They all have shared camaraderie with those who shared hardship with them."

"I hope your son is well," I interjected. "I'm sure he's a fine boy."

The pride that shone on her face was shadowed by anxiety. "Thank you. He is. He lied about his age to join the army at the beginning of the war. He has fought ever since. It was a relief to learn that he survived the fighting on the Ebro. If he had died, I would have been proud of his sacrifice, but I am not certain that I could have rejoiced as a good Communist should. I am also Basque, and our children are our souls."

… We were interrupted by a pair of technicians who brought in stands and microphones on long cords from the hall. La Pasionaria asked if we would be willing to say a few words about Van and ourselves over the air. The story of our heroism would inspire the soldiers and the people of Barcelona in their struggle for liberty. I tried to beg off on the grounds that I was just a widow doing her duty to her husband. Van and Mother were the heroes. Neither of them had to come to Spain, but they did anyway.

La Pasionaria pointed out that the broadcast would also be heard in Ripoll by Van's surviving comrades in the International Brigades. Wouldn't I like to send a message to them? My shoulders slumped in defeat as I leaned into the microphone. I don't know how I kept my voice steady as I thanked them for their service to the antifascist cause and their friendship to my husband. Then, I extended greetings from their pen pals in New Bedford.

… Finally, the broadcast ended. It was a relief when La Pasionaria thanked me and started asking questions about the Silverdome Mining Company and its advanced policies towards its workers. I was able to refer those to Mother. Facing each other like two aged, dignified, but still dangerous tigers, they had a spirited exchange about the faults and virtues of the capitalist system.

For a while, they forgot that I was there, and I was just as glad. I didn't feel like talking. I felt like finding a place to hide where I could be alone and pretend that there were no other human beings anywhere who would die and be laid to rest sooner or later no matter how much I loved them or feared for them.

The peace didn't last. La Pasionaria suggested that even if we didn't agree on the merits of capitalism, we could at least share a common disdain for Trotskyites and Anarchists. When she asked if I agreed, I had to reply, little as I felt like expending the energy. I admitted to not knowing much about the Trotskyites. However, while I disagreed with some of the Anarchists' convictions and actions, I did suspect that there might be some value in their experiments in cooperative industry and agriculture.

La Pasionaria dismissed these as indulgences that distracted attention from the struggle against Franco and the Anarchists themselves as tactically foolish and politically disruptive. The Communist Party, hand in hand with the people of Spain and antifascists like my husband, represented the true spirit of resistance to tyranny. I didn't think that was fair. Many Anarchists had worked and risked their lives for la causa as much as any Communist or liberal. Besides, I doubted that Franco and his cronies made such fine political distinctions when filling mass graves with their opponents.

La Pasionaria was obviously furious but restricted herself to a remark through gritted teeth that nothing was more important than maintaining the Popular Front. Perhaps, I should have worried that speaking my mind might get me into trouble. However, I doubted that even La Pasionaria's NKVD friends would take action against the widow of a heroic soldier of the Republic. I wasn't wrong, but it was hard to care whether I was or not. In those days, life and death seemed very much the same to me.

As Mother and I left the Hotel Colon, a glance to my left confirmed that there really was a machine gun in one of the downstairs windows. I am ashamed to admit that it only occurred to me then that my defiance of La Pasionaria and her fellow Communists might endanger Mother too. I gasped as the thought struck me and then apologized. Mother just smiled. "I've had my threescore and ten. Sometimes you have to tell the truth and shame the devil no matter the consequences."

Next Week: Morgue. Casualty ward. Air raid.