Chapter 92

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty Jan. 1, 1939

After staying up past midnight last night, I was too tired to write anything here. It was wonderful having the whole family except for Grace and Mrs. Bailey over to celebrate. I was even allowed to drink a glass of champagne to toast better times ahead. I wish I believed that we were going to be that lucky. At least the champagne was light and sweet.

The Lanes and the Schmitzes also came over. Ida bent our ears about the Baptist Church service that morning. She especially enjoyed the hymns but thought the Rev. Stanton's sermon on resolutions for Christ wasn't bad either. She actually managed to tell Harry that she wished he had been there without making it sound like a scolding. I think attending Oscar Saarinen's memorial service last September brought home to her just how lucky she is to have him back.

Harry was nice enough to say that he liked my fruitcake even without the bourbon Mrs. Bailey let me use for the batch I sent to Spain. He congratulated me on being clever enough to figure out a way to get booze to the Mac-Paps without it disappearing in transit like other packages sent to them had a way of doing. I told him that he should also be grateful to Grace. She got more bourbon from Mr. Greeley on her lunch hour when I needed some for the rest of the fruitcakes.

Of course, Mrs. Cramp saw it in her handbag when she sneaked a look in it during her New Bedford Notes broadcast. It took a week for her to convince her boss that she wasn't a secret boozehound. Harry remarked that Mrs. Cramp sounded like a real snoop. He'll find out.

From the Journal of Grace Bailey -

Winter came as a turbulent time. In Spain one storm still ravaged a nation while in the rest of Europe an increasingly unsettled populace breathed the tense air that warned of the approach of another even greater and more destructive. On the first couple of days of our voyage home, the seas were moderately high and the wind into which we sailed was slowly rising.

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan Jan. 6, 1939

Thank goodness our trip across the Atlantic is over and we are safe on land even if that land is as garish and overrun with hurrying people as New York City. That squall we ran into in mid ocean was horrific. How can such an onslaught be made out of nothing more than air and water? If I hadn't spent most of it seasick, I would have been tempted to look in the hold to see if it was occupied by pairs of every animal on earth. I will never know how Grace managed not to be afflicted with anything worse than her usual morning sickness.

Strangely, the storm was only the second most interesting occurrence of the voyage. On the second night out, Grace and I were approached by a stylish, elegant woman of about forty-five who wore her jewelry tastefully and her advancing middle age lightly. She introduced herself as the Countess Torrealta, a noblewoman from a minor offshoot of an aristocratic Spanish family. I could see Grace stiffen slightly.

The woman took no notice as she explained that she was traveling to America to raise funds among that nation's Catholics for the Auxilio Social. This is what passes for a charitable organization among Spanish fascists. It does house, clothe, and feed orphans, but only so that it can mold them through lies, beatings, and intimidation into the fascists of the future.

The Countess then shocked both Grace and myself by telling Grace that her resemblance to her dear departed friend the Princess Eboli was uncanny. Grace admitted that she had heard of the lady, but the resemblance was a coincidence. Neither her calm voice nor her neutral facial demeanor gave any indication that the resemblance had made her an unwitting participant in a swindle conceived by the confidence man Van had been when he had first met her. Perhaps that wound had healed somewhat once Van had turned away from that part of himself and never looked back.

Before Grace could say anything more, the Countess noticed her wedding ring and asked after her husband. Grace explained that Van had died two months ago and that his death was very sudden. She didn't mention how he had died or in what circumstances.

The Countess offered Grace sincere condolences on her bereavement and mentioned that she too was mourning someone. Her husband was killed in an assault on the Republican lines in front of Valencia in July. Grace warily accepted her condolences and told the Countess that she was sorry for her loss. I could tell by a barely perceptible narrowing of the eyes that she found it hard to resist the temptation to add that she was even sorrier that it came in an utterly worthless cause.

The Countess either ignored or was unaware of the coolness in Grace's manner and expression. She simply brought the conversation back to Grace's resemblance to the Princess Eboli. The lady was without question a dear friend. Her fiance was desolate when she died but is now happily married and doing great service to the Spanish nation as an aide to Generalissimo Franco.

Grace's eyes flashed with anger. It was obvious to me that she wanted to tell the woman to get out of her sight. Instead, she contented herself with a contemptuously disinterested question. "Is he?"

The Countess, failing to detect the biting tone or simply ignoring it, affirmed that he was a brave and patriotic man.

Grace's mouth twisted with disgust. Then she changed the subject, curiosity, apparently, getting the better of her. She asked the Countess to tell her about the Princess Eboli. The Countess did so gladly. Apparently, the Princess was a kind soul much given to good works. The Countess still missed her very much and could have used her help in her work for the Auxilio Social whose efforts to care for the victims of the war she described in glowing terms.

Her enthusiasm struck me as more naïve than mendacious. Nothing she said was an outright lie, but she was highly one-sided in her choice of facts. Special attention was paid to the assistance given the Auxilio Social by Madame Franco whose dedication and compassion she praised highly. "She is very concerned for the welfare of widows and orphans."

Grace was unimpressed to say the least. "She ought to be. Her husband is making enough of them."

The Countess protested that most of the suffering in the war has been caused by the Reds. Grace informed her in no uncertain terms of who Van was and of some of the things he learned by questioning refugees from the Malaga to Almeria Road massacre while on leave in Madrid. Also, of what she learned from the war orphans at the Salem Bland Home.

The Countess couldn't have looked more shocked if the devil himself had suddenly materialized in front of her in a puff of smoke. I am not certain what shook her more, the fact that Grace's late husband was a member of the International Brigades, the calm implacability with which Grace described the crimes committed by Franco and his associates against the Spanish people, or the unimpeachable sources on which her accusations were based.

The Countess' attempts to protest fell to pieces in the face of an irresistible flood of evidence. She looked nauseous on hearing Grace's account of the insane radio broadcasts of murderous filth General Quiepo de Llano in which he called for the rape and murder of supporters of the Republic and congratulated his soldiers when they obeyed his commands. Nonetheless, she managed a halting response that most of the killing of civilians was done by the Republic.

Grace coldly asked which side the parents of most of the orphans in the "care" of the Auxilio Social had supported. The question stunned the Countess into silence. The horror in her stare revealed that she knew the sickening answer but couldn't bring herself to give it voice. After a long moment in which she stared at Grace in appalled disbelief, she managed to gather her thoughts enough to speak. "Your husband spoke Spanish?"

"And Catalan and French and German, and, unlike your fascist friends, truth."

"The Falange are fascist. The rest of us are simply patriots." For a moment, before she spoke again, she was lost in thought. "Perhaps, … in our anger at the wrongs done to the church and our traditions, … some of us went too far," she slowly and grudgingly admitted. "However, you do not know what we have suffered."

Grace replied with biting contempt. "I know this. If Franco and his cronies hadn't been traitors who turned on their country and their people, both our husbands would still be alive."

The Countess' eyes widened as though she had been slapped. "I don't accept that. However, I am fallen and sinful like all human beings. God's judgement of my actions may possibly be different from mine. For any guilt my cause bears … if any part of that guilt is mine, will you forgive me?"

What happened next shocked me and made me proud. The frown on Grace's lips softened into sadness. I felt the stillness of a great calm in her. "I forgive you. I may even forgive Franco someday, if only for the good of my soul, but you must understand something. Forgiveness is not excuse. What Franco did to Spain and to my husband. What he continues to do … All of these things are wrong, and they always will be."

The two women stood and gazed at each other for a moment across a chasm that may have narrowed since they first spoke but was still there. Then, wearing a deeply troubled expression, the Countess slowly turned and walked away.

Next Week: Home from the war. A new beginning. Mercy from Many.