Chapter 87
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
Mother and I reached London after a rough channel crossing that exhausted both of us, but especially her. Most of my shock from nearly dying in Barcelona had worn off. However, my reluctance to face a world without Van had only deepened. I was still plagued by a recurring nightmare.
I wandered out the doors of the emergency room of Barcelona General Hospital and around the side to the morgue entrance. People streamed by me. They spoke, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. I couldn't even hear footsteps. A line of gurneys was being wheeled into the morgue. For a minute, I watched it, paralyzed by a sudden, intense terror. Then, one gurney stopped.
The attendant looked at me expectantly but with regret as if he knew that I would have no choice but to walk over and look but wished that there was an alternative. When I reached the gurney, he slowly lifted the sheet that covered it. The dead face beneath was Van's. … During the day, I felt drained and without appetite even for the delicious cooking at Claridge's. …
Not even the good news that the transportation of thousands of Jewish children from Hitler's Reich to Great Britain, authorized a few weeks earlier by its Parliament, was underway gave much comfort to me. The Kindertransport, as the operation came to be called many decades later, redeemed some of the honor the mother country had lost by its policy of appeasement. Mother and I both donated money to support it. However, this admirable humanitarian gesture also cast the unwillingness of my own country's elected leaders to stop coddling prejudice and give shelter to the persecuted in an embarrassing light.
As a Canadian, I was and remain profoundly ashamed that, in this respect, they showed far less decency and moral courage than the government and politicians responsible for Britain's appeasement policy. I am not sure who of them all deserves the most contempt. The French-Canadian cabinet members who insisted that Jewish refugees had to be denied entry to Canada to keep the support of the Quebecois for Canadian unity-and the Liberal Party-were disgraceful. The English Canadian cabinet members, including Prime Minister King, who gave in to them were, at best, no better. Publicly, King only released a statement in late November to the effect that the matter of immigration was being studied. However, between Mother's contacts in Ottawa and Luc Gerrard's in Quebec, I was well aware of which way the wind was blowing.
So were some of my fellow Canadians, including one of my personal heroes, Cairine Wilson, Canada's first female senator. She and other Canadian antifascists were in the process of forming the Canadian National Committee on Refugees to bring pressure on the government to change its bigoted immigration policies. It was a noble effort, but one that I considered a forlorn hope.
I intended to support it anyway as a patriotic duty. However, the fears, prejudices, and self-serving calculations of the Canadian political establishment were deeply entrenched. I just couldn't believe that they could be altered to any appreciable degree in the short time left before war cut off all immigration from the Reich.
From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Dec. 7, 1938
Nobody I know can believe the news. I know I can't. Mayor Poole is in the hospital fighting for his life. His appendix burst this morning while he was dictating to his secretary in his office. He let it go too long because he thought it was his sour stomach acting up. No one knows if he will survive or not. Even if he does, his recovery will take months. Toppy tells me that Archie and his fellow city councilmen will ask Max to take over as acting Mayor until Poole dies or recovers.
May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan Dec. 7, 1938
… Today, Grace and I visited the Inter Aid Committee for Children at Gordon Square to carry out the assignment she agreed to perform for the Canadian Committee to Aid Spanish Democracy when the organization contacted us in Paris. Unfortunately, the Inter Aid officials with whom we met were far from certain that the orphans in the Salem Bland Home could be allowed to join the Inter Aid refugee program even though they will soon be fleeing from fascism. Apparently, the understanding with the Home Office was that only children from Hitler's Reich were to be included.
Our appointment was not a total waste. We still learned a great deal about the Inter Aid refugee program. I suggested that the new organization to aid refugees from fascism currently being formed in Ottawa might find the information useful. The program is unquestionably a model for Canada if Immigration Branch will stop placing every obstacle in the way of Jewish asylum-seekers. I hope that Grace is wrong in her gloomy assessment of the likelihood of that ever happening.
… Afterwards, I tried to raise her spirits by inviting her to the cinema where a very amusing comedy called Climbing High was playing. The bright performances and witty script got little more than a few subdued chuckles from her. Leaving the theater, a black cat crossed our path. Grace watched the creature trot away. I heard her murmur with rueful amusement, "too late, kitty."
The film must have done a little good because when we reached Claridge's, she asked for her mail to be brought up after days of putting it off.
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
A sizeable stack of correspondence from friends, acquaintances, and loved ones had been forwarded to me from New Bedford and other places. Most were condolence notes. Ollie, Marjorie, Jim, Sally and quite a few others offered sympathy and friendship. My grief was temporarily lightened. Fat, Hub, and Violet also wrote to me. Violet's letter touched me, but also brought to the surface a deep anger. She wrote, "Van is in heaven looking down on you. Don't be sad because he can't talk to you or touch you. He can still love you. I know he does."
After dabbing at my eyes with a handkerchief, I showed the letter to Mother who murmured. "that was sweet of Violet."
I agreed and then sat in silence for a little mulling over what my niece had said. When I spoke, it was from a troubled mind and heart. "I'd like to believe Van is in a better place, but I don't understand how a god so good that he makes a heaven can be so cruel as to let Van die and his cause be lost. How can I know that such a god will be merciful?"
"It is hard, I know." answered Mother, "to see the good perish and the wicked live on and prosper. Especially when the good is someone you love dearly. His purposes can be so difficult to fathom. We can only believe and trust that He is ultimately kind and forgiving."
"Maybe He can forgive us our sins," I answered bitterly, "but I can't forgive Him. Not for Van. Not for Jack. Not for Father. Not for any of the good men he's let be taken before their time."
I wish I hadn't been so impatient with Mother's further attempts to comfort me. She meant well. After she relented, I returned to my mail. The last letter but two gripped my attention instantly and held it like a vise. It was from Leroy Horwitz. As Alan Belfer's cameraman, he had gone with Belfer and Van to Pinell de Brai. He had been present when my husband died and would know why he had traveled to the frontline after promising me to stay away from the fighting.
I tore open the envelope and removed its contents. I admit that I was frightened of whatever the three folded pages I now held in my hands contained. I was not certain that I could bear to read about Van's last hours. At the same time, my need to know the whole story of what had happened on that awful day was desperate. I held Leroy Horwitz' letter in my hand and stared at it until Mother asked me if there was something wrong. Slowly and anxiously, I handed it to her and asked her to read it to me.
Next Week: Death of a hero.