Actually, it was more than that. Captain Demetrio had an exuberant social interest in both women and men. He favored the handsomest young men and the loveliest of the girls with invitations to his table where food and wine were exceptional and generous, as were his appreciative touches and caresses. Our cavalier captain had aroused the fiercest distrust latent in our group. After all, our people were not all cosmopolitan radicals, but a mix of different cultural backgrounds. All of us had just disengaged from desperate warfare and were still in jeopardy a common cause and certainly a common enemy, there were the conservative and less worldly among us.
A few believed they had put their lives and children in the hands of a corrupt predator. So, at first, the leadership of our group had its hands full coping with both this Greek and the effect he was having on our group. Finally, though, it was his very exuberance that manifested itself in his sure handling of every aspect of running the ship in these waters, together with the cool heads of our leaders, who focused attention in this way, that overcame the terrible anxiety of those most fearful. We noticed the weather changing. No more heavy fog, just a morning mist, and, after a little while, the sun shone.
It turned hot in the afternoons. We were on the ocean. We saw no other ships except at a great distance but encountered many North African fishing trawlers with juvenile crews who jumped up and down when we passed close to them. Pilar, Coco, Annelise and I often found ourselves together. Then a young man, Eric Topf, joined us.
His father was in prison in Vienna for participating in the attempt to stop the Nazis. Eric was a very handsome fellow with dark curly hair, a full face, piercing eyes and impeccable European manners. He spoke a crisp, clear English and a diplomatic French. Eric was very well-educated, and, unlike some of us, he was as comfortable talking about sports as discussing art, politics, and religion.
Mystical, with a fine memory, he recited Old Testament passages, Baudelaire, Donne and Whitman, the words accompanied by delicate gestures of his pale, marvelous hands. We were mesmerized by him.
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He was the favorite young man among the Spaniard girls. My most vivid memory of him brings back a Saturday afternoon dancing party. My friends and I were eager to attend. Pilar loved dancing, and I considered myself a master of the fox-trot. Coco was an expert in rhumbas, and we all had a passion for the exotic art of tango. The loudspeakers of the ship were connected to the radio which could pick up a famous dance music program from Marseille.
When we arrived about 30 or 40 young people were already dancing. Some of the Jewish and Spaniard girls were dancing with each other, waiting for the timid young men to summon the courage to ask them to dance. But it was not easy to dance with her. She had the heavy style of Eastern Europeans, sliding her feet and making turns to the right with difficulty. She held me too tightly and tended to bend her legs at the most unexpected moments. It was not like dancing with Pilar. When the music finished, Annelise kissed me on the cheek and walked around holding me by the hand.
She was too beautiful, too blonde, and about two inches too tall. She saw him in a corner, talking with one of the Basque girls. I sidled closer to one of the doors, just in case. Then I saw Pilar with Eric. He has holding her hand, looking into her eyes with total absorption. She was close to him, waiting for the music to start again. I looked for a partner and almost bumped into a refined Catalonian girl. I knew her name was Julia and that, for a reason unknown to me, everyone called her Moncha.
We strutted around the room together with an enthusiastic bunch of other boys and girls. I liked the way this girl danced. She was fast, light and let herself go, moving her body away from me, then closer to me.
In the midst of all the kicking and shouting I saw Pilar and Eric at the head of the columns. She was wearing a light green blouse and a white skirt. Eric in his pioneer white shirt and khaki military shorts looked so romantic, so heroic.
Adiós, Catalonia! In the Aftermath of the Spanish Civil War
Pilar was happy, playful, and followed Eric in every comic movement. They pantomimed a pair of raggedy dolls. We finished dancing in a frantic burst of energy. My partner held my fingers and, with infinite grace, gyrated around me with a flair of her skirt, ending in my arms. He kissed her on the forehead, and she reclined her head on his chest. For a few seconds they stood together with their eyes closed.
As the radio blared a litany of advertisements, we reassembled. Would you dance some more with me? After all, we Catalonians must stick together. Then I noticed that Coco was not around either. You know, rook takes horse; bishop kills horse; checkmate! The music started again. This time it was a French waltz with lots of soulful accordions, painful violin solos and a dark feminine voice proclaiming her loyalty to a man who betrays her, abuses her and demands more money. I immersed myself in the dance.
She had a natural way of accommodating her body with my movements. Once again I caught sight of Pilar and Eric. Moncha rested her head on my chest. Her hair smelled clean, with a vague aroma of roses. I felt warm and tender towards her. I dared to bring her slightly closer to me, and she responded by dancing just a little slower and resting her nails on my hand, without hurting me.
It felt delicious, intimate, a little wicked. Then Moncha was asked to dance by someone else, taller than I. He was one of those rather aristocratic Basque, who smoked and smelled of English tobacco. Moncha asked me with her eyes if it was all right. I winked at her. I felt magnanimous, adult. Pilar and Eric were ready to dance again, but this time they saw me. As we left the improvised dance hall, we found that most of the adults were either in the prow of the ship or down on the lower decks, possibly out of discreet respect for the young, but probably just to escape the irritating mating rituals of adolescence.
The air was nice, balmy, and the afternoon sun was still hanging above the horizon. In the tiny library a group of bridge players had taken refuge, oblivious to the tumultuous party on the upper deck. My parents were among them. Going down one of the metal stairs, we found the chess players. They, too, had escaped from the noisy crowd and were engaged in silent combat. Coco was playing one of the Basque girls and was in trouble.
He was folded into himself, his knees high on his chair, his arms knotted around them, ferocious concentration in his eyes.
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The smoke of their big Turkish cigars was just the right thing for the occasion. Suddenly, Coco moved one of his pieces. The girl responded quickly and confidently. Then Coco roared like a tiger. The Basque girl looked again in disbelief.
Adiós, Catalonia! In the Aftermath of the Spanish Civil War | The Anarchist Library
We could not actually see the final positions, but the young woman, flustered, extracted from her blouse a wad of money and gave Coco a Franc bill. The losers complimented their triumphant opponents.
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One of the Greek sailors, with some embarrassment, was playing for his defeat. The winner was a very young boy with glasses. It was an agreement to meet again. From that day on, we were a group. Intimidated by Annelise, I wooed Moncha to be our pal. The attraction was Eric who gave dimension and magic to our friendship.
War ships of different nationalities crisscrossed our path. We exchanged radio signals, identifying ourselves under the protection of the League of Nations and the agreements signed by most civilized countries. As we slowly approached Algeria, fast French Corvettes drew close to inspect our ship. From the rapid exchanges we could tell that the documentation provided by France was accepted, and we were reassured we would make it to the next port in the territory under French control. Oran had a small port, just a few cranes and buildings around a semi-military installation.
The menace of war, of conflict that could break out at any moment, kept everybody in a state of alert. As we passed the quay leaving behind the jetty of open sea waves, we noticed a couple of French frigates, with all the sailors on board eyeing every part of our ship. The cupolas of several mosques were distinctive landmarks, as were the minarets, located so that the call to prayer for the faithful could be heard all over the city.
Captain Demetrio was on the upper deck keeping an eye on his crew. A small boat, armed with a heavy machine gun, came close to us, and some French officers, policemen and Navy personnel climbed aboard our ship. My father, the Basque leadership and two of the Quaker women in charge of the Jewish children formed some sort of parliamentary group to deal with the French. The anxious refugees crowded around to hear what the authorities had to say. There was fear of an ambush, of dangerous deals with Franco or, perhaps, even a decision to inter us in a concentration camp.
This produced a reaction of alarm among the Quaker women, but eventually it became clear that there was a powerful local Jewish organization, and it had prepared a welcome for the children. After all, we are men of the world. Although we were the exploited, he managed to make us masters of the situation, sophisticates, dispelling the image of undesirable troublemakers. We see no need to delay your docking any longer. I will meet with you tomorrow in my office.
A car will pick up your representatives. We wish you a pleasant stay. That night my parents and I had our dinner in the prow of the ship, where we could contemplate the lights of Oran and listen to the sounds of urban traffic and Middle Eastern music. But the powerful searchlights of the French warships played constantly against the sky above the port and the city, an insistent reminder that war was imminent.
Pilar, Coco, Moncha and Eric knocked at my door. The heat was already extreme, and all the metal parts of the ship were burning hot. Pilar had a cup of tea and a sweet roll for me. The roll had an acrid flavor of cinnamon and molasses. It was then that I noticed two trucks waiting to pick up the Jewish children. The American Quaker ladies were imparting last moment instructions to a group of serious-looking, well-dressed men and women, who had come to escort the children to a reception by the large Jewish community of Oran. Eric was going with us.
He wanted to be with Pilar. But other Jewish boys were staying behind. Six of them walked over to meet some young men in British uniforms. Terra firma, immovable and solid under our feet, surprised us. We were all a little wobbly, but, after a bit of duck-walking to keep up with our guide, we left behind the piers, the custom house and the heavy metal fence that separated the port from the city of Oran.
Suddenly the sights and sounds of North Africa were all about us. We were attentive but apprehensive, especially me. Eric and I have some business. Pilar and Moncha can go with Palitos wherever they want. Afterwards, delights for all, music, cinema, flamenco! We were ready to follow Coco to the end of Morocco. Several carriages pulled by diminutive horses were waiting for sightseers. All the horses wore straw hats, while the drivers wore red fez and multicolor Arabian tunics.
Moncha ran toward one of the coaches. Groups of passengers from our ship could be seen here and there along the avenues. Our ride took us to the central area of the city. Big palm trees and impeccably clean gardens had the unmistakable look of European colonialism. As we moved further into the city the European look disappeared. The native population used its distinctive ethnic garb.
Women covered their faces. Markets, coffee shops, open-air food stands, donkeys, dozens of idle children in wait for some opportunity, gloomy-looking adults skirting the mendicants. Our driver knew just the bath house. The proprietor received us at the door. There was a large pool of warm water, individual showers, a steam chamber. We chose the pool. We were given big white towels and gigantic bars of rose soap. A woman offered to wash and iron our clothing while we took our bath. Awkwardly, we boys set aside our clothing and jumped into the pool. The girls giggled nervously, but followed our example.
The sun streamed down through the high glass roof. All around the sides of the pool, set in mosaic, were strange written characters, azulejos, Arabian calligraphy. Coco informed us they were admonitions from the Koran regarding the importance of cleanliness. Suddenly, Coco was swimming and splashing and screaming like Tarzan. In an inexplicable burst of energy, I had a furious water battle with Moncha, and Eric and Pilar moved away, laughing and talking. I began to lather my arms and hair. With embarrassment and disbelief, we all realized how grimy we had become and proceeded to wash ourselves with great vigor.
The film was not well received either at the box office or by critics. Based on 19 published review, Metacritic gives the film a score of 33 out of Stephen Holden , of The New York Times , described the film as an "interminable two-hour Sunday school sermon punctuated with battlefield carnage". According to Joaquin Navarro-Valls , one of the investors, the film "has started a movement of many people who feel moved to forgive.
The producers are daily receiving messages of thanks some are on the Internet from people who see the film and decide to return home after years of separation, from spouses who are reconciled, from parents and children who have come to accept one another again, from others who return to God after a long time of being distanced from him. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
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A child in the Spanish civil war By Miguel Montero. The Spanish civil war exploded when the core of the Spanish character, forged over centuries, was assailed by the actions of new but misguided ideas in conflict with the Spanish spirit. Manolo is a living ghost of childhood lost, brought about by the horror of the war, that left the Country scarred for many decades.
Wounds, which will never quite heal. It is through his eyes, the eyes of a ten-year-old child, that the consequences of such tragic conflict are viewed.