Chapter 74

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

When I reunited with Van in New York in the middle of October, it felt as though a new life was beginning for both of us. It was good to be in his arms again and to have him in mine. I was still a little concerned about his returning to Spain, but he reassured me that he wouldn't be going anywhere near the battlefield. He and his documentary filmmaker friend would only be visiting hospitals and casualty clearing stations far behind the lines.

Alan Belfer was a peppery New Yorker who could hardly wait to see the grand heroic struggle of the Spanish people for a better tomorrow. Van and I looked at each other in confusion. Van politely explained that most of the Spanish people he knew were just trying to survive today.

Then it was Belfer's turn to look skeptical. He couldn't believe that the Spanish proletariat was so indifferent to the need for revolutionary change. Van replied that they aren't. Everyone wants a better future, but individual Spanish proletarians just then were more concerned with avoiding the change from living to dead. Belfer's cameraman, Leroy Horwitz, smiled appreciatively and wisecracked, "aren't we all?"

Belfer responded to Van with shock in his voice. "Aren't you outraged that the fascists have beaten down the Spanish people that far?"

Van's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned ever so slightly. It wasn't a glare, but it was close enough to get the meaning across. He spoke calmly. "I was outraged enough to go to Spain twice to fight them."

Belfer had the decency to admit that he had spoken out of turn. "That was unfair. I'm sorry."

That night, Van and I were back in our bedroom after an early supper at Keen's Chophouse. He was whispering things in my ear that were making me look forward to the rest of the night when the phone rang on the night table. It was the apartment house switchboard. Van was astonished to learn that Isaac L. Asofsky, Executive Director of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society-the American equivalent of Canada's Jewish Immigrant Aid Society-was in the lobby and wanted to see him.

Neither of us could imagine what could bring him to the attention of someone that important in the American Jewish community. True, he had made some generous donations to the HIAS, but couldn't imagine that would warrant a personal visit. On arriving in our apartment, Asofsky stunned us both by explaining that he was there on behalf of Lionel.

He showed Van the records of his brother's purchases from Austrian and German Jews. They proved that in addition to the thirty percent of value he paid for the antiques he purchased, he had placed another fifty-five percent in interest bearing accounts in the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society Immigrant Bank in the name of the sellers. They or their heirs could draw on that money anywhere outside of the Reich.

Van was overjoyed to learn that Lionel had, after all, changed his mind about adding the theft of German and Austrian Jews' property to the fascists' theft of their liberty. I was mortified to learn that Lionel had explained all of this in the letter he had sent me in August that I had torn up and thrown away without reading. Understandably, when time passed with no reply, he became convinced that neither of us would speak to him.

On learning of our intended arrival in New York, he had asked Asofsky for the favor of interceding on his behalf. Van could have died in Spain believing that his brother was an unprincipled weasel, and it would have been my fault. It helped a little, but not much, that Asofsky assured me that Lionel didn't hold it against me that I hadn't answered his letter. He had done everything in his power to be a heel before he finally heeded his better judgement. He could hardly blame me for treating him like one.

Even so, after Asofsky left, I couldn't help pouring out my guilt to Van and apologizing from the bottom of my heart. My husband was understanding. I couldn't have known what was in that letter. I shouldn't blame myself. "Lionel had me convinced that he was going to go through with it even though I'm his brother and used to make a living by sizing up people's weaknesses and strengths. Maybe I should have gone into the antiques business and let Lionel be the con artist."

Lionel bought antiques from eight German and Austrian Jews. Three of the individual sellers eventually came to New York personally to claim the profits in their accounts. Another was in ill health and had to send a representative. The other four died in the concentration camps. So did most of their families and many members of the other families. After the war, their surviving heirs were located and helped to claim their money.

In 1938, holocaust was a word from the Bible meaning a conflagration which I remembered Winston Churchill using to describe the Turkish slaughter of the Armenians during WWI. The gas chambers were still in the future. So were mass graves for entire communities such as the one at Babi Yar. The worst I could imagine Hitler doing to the Jews in his power was segregating, impoverishing, and lynching them as white Southerners did to their

African-American neighbors. Make no mistake. I believed then and still do that such a program was bad enough in itself to justify a fight to the death against fascism.

As the evening hours wore on, Van and I tried to forget that there was any struggle at all in the world outside the apartment. For a while there was only the two of us. Van was no longer a soldier at war. I was no longer an organizer in support of his cause. We were only a man and a woman sharing a true and sustaining love.

Our peace was fleeting as peace all too often is. As we slept, Van had a nightmare so terrible that, after starting awake, he shook all over. He didn't want to talk about it, but I assured him that he didn't have to protect me. I wouldn't fall apart. Besides, he had listened to me when I had nightmares about delivering bad news to kids about their pen pals or about my fear for his life. If we don't try to care for each other when the going is hard, why be married?

Van relented. His nightmare was about the bloody fighting of last day before he and the rest of the International Brigades came off the line for the final time. "The bombardment started and then the attack when I was so close to going home. Just one day . . . I was certain that I was going to die on that hill and never see your beautiful smile again. Usually, in combat, I feel calm and collected. I do what I have to do quickly and methodically. Not this time. I've never felt such a cold, fierce anger. La Causa didn't matter and neither did my men or my duty to them. I didn't care whether any of us lived or died. All I cared about was killing as many fascists as I could before they killed me, so I did."

Van fell silent. We sat there for a while, neither of us saying anything. Then he gathered his courage and resumed speaking. His eyes were wide and haunted by fear. "I almost didn't leave the trench after we cut down the first squads they sent against us. I could see the rest of the fascists following them up the hill, covering it like a blanket. For one moment, I was insane. I wanted the fascists to move faster so I could start killing them hand to hand. If Enrique hadn't gripped my arm and said, 'Sergeant,' I don't know if I would have given the order to retreat to the second line. Maybe I would have stayed and gotten all my men killed with me. As it was, half of them died on that hill anyway."

He lapsed into silence again. I reached out and covered his hand with mine. He smiled sadly as he resumed speaking. "I can't fight again, Grace. After what happened on that hill, I can't trust myself to stay calm and cool under pressure as my men deserve. I'm through as a soldier. I just hope I can remember how to be a civilian."

"You will," I assured him. "You have the time, now. We have the rest of our lives together."

His eyes were filled with pain and uncertainty. "I hope that I can give you the life you deserve. This won't be the last night you'll have to put up with nightmares and anxiety." He admitted that he didn't know how long it would be before they got better or if they ever would. "A month, six months, a year from now, I will still be waking up like this."

"Then a month, six months, a year from now, or for as long as it takes," I promised him. "I'll be right here beside you. You aren't alone, Van. We're in this together and I wouldn't have it any other way."

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Grace. God, bless you."

"God, bless you? Are you actually starting to believe?"

"I don't know. Maybe a little. When I think of all the times I could have been killed in Spain and wasn't it does seem like a miracle that we're here, together. If that was the answer to all my prayers to be allowed to come back to you, then I am grateful, and I do give thanks."

I held him in my arms as the tension in his sinews slowly eased. The warmth and closeness of him was an answer to many prayers of mine.

Next Week: Autumn in New York