Chapter 83

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan Nov. 21, 1938

The doctors and nurses at Barcelona General were very kind to us and tried to make us as comfortable as possible in such a cheerless, antiseptic setting. We were escorted by Dr. Munoz who remembered Van from his brief stay there after he was wounded at Teruel. He was surprisingly cheerful considering the terrible headaches and disorientation his wound caused him.

As we talked, Dr. Munoz led us to the morgue. He remained with us while a solicitous attendant opened the drawer containing Van's body and gently pulled back the sheet. My son-in-law's face was white as quicklime and empty of all spark and animation. Closed lids concealed the eyes that had once glowed with longing and danced with mischief and affection whenever they looked on Grace. My daughter shuddered and went almost as pale as her husband's corpse. For a moment, she took hold of herself and reached out to touch Van's ashen cheek. Then the tears began to flow uncontrollably.

Afterwards, Dr. Munoz told Grace that there was no need for her to remain in the morgue any longer now that she had identified Van's corpse. The hospital would keep him safe until it was time to transfer him to the ship we expected to sail on at the end of the week once all the necessary paperwork and permissions were taken care of. As he took Grace's arm to lead her away, she managed a smile of gratitude.

It wasn't until we were at the entrance that she took a deep breath and asked if she could see the casualty wards. She wanted to ask the patients if there were any who had been in the evacuation from the field hospital at Pinell de Brai. Dr. Munoz tried to dissuade her. The wounded there have had terrible damage done to their bodies and their minds. Grace spoke softly, but firmly as she reminded him that her husband also had terrible damage done to his body and mind by the war.

To see Grace smile, as she was introduced to the handful of patients still in the wards who had come in from Pinell de Brai on the night it fell to the fascists, you would have thought that she was filled with good cheer. She chatted with them, asked them about themselves, and told them a little about New Bedford. She listened attentively to what, with frequent translation from Dr. Munoz, they had to say to her about themselves.

However, I could tell that it was hard for her to hear what they remembered about Van. Those who hadn't been drugged into insensibility to relieve the agony of their wounds remembered him visiting and talking to them as Grace was doing. Another wounded soldier had been unable to believe that someone who looked like a handsome, stalwart hero out of a Hollywood movie could possibly have fought in a real war. He must be an actor. The removal of his auricular prosthesis to reveal his head wound from Teruel had silenced all doubts.

Van had joked with his fellow soldiers and answered their questions about America. They were impressed that he didn't need an interpreter. In fact, he had interpreted for the two American filmmakers who had been with him and shot film of the field hospital. One or two remembered him helping load the wounded on the trucks. He hadn't shown the slightest sign of panic in spite of the rifle and field artillery fire from the edge of the town where Republican soldiers struggled to hold off the fascists long enough for the evacuation to be completed.

Grace was touched by the kind things the men she spoke with had to say about her husband's courage and compassion and also saddened. I felt the same way when people said nice things about my John after he died. There is comfort in knowing that someone you loved so dearly was a good person, but it also hurts more deeply than words can say to be reminded of how much you have lost. Grace was also frustrated. She now had a clearer picture of what Van had done at Pinell de Brai, but she still didn't know why he had broken his promise to stay away from the fighting.

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

On returning to our hotel room, I was surprised to find a small wooden packing crate on my bed. It was nailed shut. In a note written in halting English the writer expressed gratitude for my defense of anarchists over the air and identified the contents of the crate as three bottles of a 1936 vintage called Libertad from an anarchist cooperative vineyard.

They were meant to celebrate the victory of the Republic, an event which, now, seemed increasingly unlikely to happen. The writer hoped that Mother and I could bring them out of Spain with them. "It is good vintage, but even if sour as not ripe blackberries, it is still too good for Franco and his fascist friends."

I couldn't disagree. I couldn't burn the note as instructed. Neither Mother nor I had a match or a lighter since neither of us smoked. Instead, I tore it into tiny pieces which I then flushed down the toilet.

From the Journal of Honey Sutton Nov. 22, 1938

… Marjorie had exciting news. She and Ollie will be visiting two expectant mothers and their parents in December to discuss adoption of one or the other of their babies when they are born. Ollie is in perpetual good spirits these days. He can hardly wait to become a father again.

The only fly in their ointment is Lorna Macfarlane. She continues to be worried that both her grandson and the new baby will be neglected if Marjorie is working at the mine office all the time. Ollie and Marjorie can't rely on her for much more help than she is giving now. Her hands are full cleaning people's houses and looking after her husband. She says that he is chronically ill, and he may well be. If so, it's because he keeps sinking deeper and deeper into the bottle.

Max and I are counting the days until Hub returns home for Christmas. We are so proud of how well he is doing with his studies. Thank God there is nothing about the international situation in his latest letter other than his hope that Grace and Mother Bailey will return home safely. His full attention needs to be turned towards the priesthood.

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

Mother insisted on a little morning sightseeing once we had the paperwork turned in for our request to take Van's body home. I didn't feel much enthusiasm for the idea or for anything else, but I didn't want to reject what was intended as a kindness, so I joined her.

We found our way to the city's great market, La Boqueria. The tremendous food shortage underway in Barcelona had made it a shadow of its peacetime self. Most of the food that came into the city had been commandeered for rations for its huge population of natives and refugees. A few dispirited vendors sold what scraps of produce and cheese remained at ridiculous prices. One even told me that earlier that year a giraffe that had been killed by a bomb that fell on the Barcelona Zoo was butchered for its meat and eaten by residents of the surrounding neighborhood.

We were four or five blocks from our hotel on our walk back down Los Ramblas when the siren sounded announcing the first of six air raids on what was to be one of the bloodiest days in the history of Barcelona. I helped Mother towards the nearest refugio as the air raid shelters were called.

I wondered if the Italian pilots would indulge in a particularly nasty trick they liked to play on the people of Barcelona. Sometimes, they would launch another raid right on the heels of the previous one so that the resulting blast of the sirens would be mistaken for the all-clear. People would flood out of the shelter and into the open where they made easy targets.

A flight of nine planes of Mussolini's Aviazione Legionaria out of Majorca was already over the city and dropping bombs by the time we reached the refugio. The interior was densely packed and virtually steaming from the resulting body heat. The sound of explosions could be heard all around us as friendly hands lifted Mother's considerable weight from my shoulder and began to help her to a bench in the tunnel.

I wanted to follow and flop down beside her. My muscles ached and I was slightly out of breath. I didn't want to think of how long it would have taken us to reach safety if I had simply let her walk with her cane as she usually did. I did think of my wristwatch, which I had been wearing only a minute or two earlier. A glance revealed that it was missing.

I should have had the clasp repaired properly. I admit that what I did next was crazy, but I couldn't bear to lose a gift from Van. Seeing that Mother was far enough inside the refugio that she couldn't stop me or enlist anyone else to do so, I turned, ran out into the street, and began to retrace my steps.

Note: I have not been able to determine if in 1938 the Barcelona City Morgue was part of Barcelona General Hospital or a separate building. For story purposes, I have made it part of Barcelona City Hospital.

Next Week: [If I receive a certain document requested from Library and Archives Canada in time] Death from the Air. The Orphans.