Nom De Guerre: Ivan: American Intelligence Officer in the Spanish Civil War

By Quentin Guerlain

NOM DE GUERRE: IVAN is based on true events as well as actual experiences of the author’s father, Ivan, serving as the highest ranking Intelligence Officer at the Front Line fighting the German-Italian-Spanish Fascist coalition in the Spanish Civil War—the actual start of World War II. Fifty legendary historical characters are depicted in this novel, along with fictional characters emblematic of the turbulent times. Hemingway, Gellhorn, El Lobo, La Pasionaria, Ivan—the 15th Brigade lives on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692033333

Book preview

Acknowledgements

1

It was one thing for American labor union organizer Johnny Gerlach to be dressed to kill tonight like all the patrons in this packed Manhattan restaurant and bar, but quite another for him to identify with everyone putting on the Ritz.

Indeed, Johnny had to chuckle and shake his head—coming from where he did and feeling how any Depression era working stiff would about people putting on airs while much of America could barely put bread on the table.

With his innate droll curiosity, he could only view all the animated bar stool seductions and ambient tableside chit-chat as a high society show of manners modeled after films and fashion, making him wonder all the more just why his former professor chose to meet him here of all places. But, then, the answer hit him. Because it was precisely the sort of upscale restaurant where G-men wouldn’t be looking for a certain sly visiting educator from Russia—and a place where his suave contact would not stand out like a sore thumb.

He emitted a laugh at his contact’s foresight, if not taste for steamy watering holes.

But it was clearly a nervous laugh coming as it did from a place of genuine alarm, since he feared there was only one explanation for why his former Moscow University professor in Military Strategy would want to meet tonight: to recruit him to become a spy for the Soviet Union.

Why else should someone as high-placed, charismatic and smart as Mirko Markovic be interested in dining with little old me?—he thought, scanning faces at the bar.

The revolting suspicion sent chills down his spine.

He turned to seriously reviewing all the pieces to the evening’s puzzle: not having seen his elite Professor Mirko Markovic for some six months since finishing the program of studies at KUNMZ—Communist University of the National Minorities of the West in Moscow; also having recently heard snippets of news from his big wig father, whose vague references to Markovic recently appearing in New York City without having any job here, while doing work, was a dead giveaway.

That his father as Executive Secretary of the International Workers Order had invited Markovic to his I.W.O. meetings without ever having mentioned any purpose for having him there had only piqued Johnny’s interest. Why was Mirko in the States? He could only conclude that Markovic was a Comintern agent—by definition working illegally in the U.S. Pursuing that premise logically, Johnny began listing his concerns, right now.

One: Was Mirko being tailed?—Johnny wondered.

Two: Is he trying to web me into some dangerous shady mission?

It would explain Mirko’s appearance at the I.W.O. offices yesterday, looking so smug, sharply focused, in control. But in control of what?

Or, Three: Maybe he only wants to talk about basics, like social contacts or a loan.

He hoped it was only something so banal—that Mirko didn’t have Communist International business to share—particularly anything even remotely related to providing information or facilitating assignments, or establishing links—things that could easily be construed as engaging in acts of espionage. Was that expected of someone who’d received a scholarship to study in the Soviet Union? Reciprocating by working for Uncle Joe Stalin?

Johnny had certainly never considered that possibility before. The terrible thought of being asked to spy had only come upon him today, leaving his stomach in a growl. He ended the internal debate thinking, I’m nobody’s schnook. I’m not going to be part of any covert missions run by Joseph Stalin, scholarship to Moscow U. notwithstanding.

And to mark his fine choice of words, he took a swill of his coffee—an item on no Russian shelf. Sipping to savor its taste, he recalled those lean two years of study in Moscow. It seemed only yesterday, the toughest months of his life studying like a maniac at KUNMZ—the result of winning a scholarship through the Communist Party USA, thanks to his own American rising star and to his step-father’s connections.

Those brutal winters in Moscow! Where the lucky defrosted on vodka and drank black tea simmering on cozy samovars; where babushkas in fur hats and layered overcoats faced freezing food lines like faded Santa Clauses. Moscow!—where no one—but no one!—dared put on airs—for fear of being carted off to jail by entrenched secret police—and women dared not utter a word about such luxury items like the ones in the New York Times department store ads spread out before him on the table in this swell restaurant.

Moscow University—where his classes conducted in both Russian and Serbo-Croatian felt like kangaroo courts assigned the task of separating student-candidates into two group—those picked for promotions to the Red Army—or demotions to Siberia!

It was no orientation to be found at any university in the States, no sir.

Johnny scanned the New York Times’ advertising angles with practiced dialectical amusement. Buy! Buy! Buy!—he thought, with a shake of his head, thinking, Ads are Capitalism’s prime propaganda tool—But, no! That was all too simplistic a phrase for describing how newspapers worked on the mind to turn poor readers into American consumer versions of Pavlov’s dogs trained to salivate at the mere tinkling of a bell.

The Times did cover the news, and often its stories were great, he had to admit, grinning at the journal’s boast plastered across the banner: All the news that’s fit to print. It was set on the same line as the price of two cents. As in the proverbial two cents’ worth.

He spread out the front page and could not help but recoil at the headline:

TROTSKY IS ON WAY TO MEXICO FROM NORWAY;

WIFE AND POLICE GUARD ARE WITH HIM ON SHIP

What? Johnny gasped, shocked by Trotsky’s perilous flight to Mexico. Having fallen from the loftiest height, Trotsky was doomed.

Formerly one of the Troika or Big Three, with Lenin and Stalin—things changed when Lenin died. Stalin was not about to tolerate anyone challenging him. So Trotsky was now marked a traitor—surely being hunted this very minute by Stalin’s agents. Trotsky’s only asylum Mexico, his days numbered. While the whole world trembles—desperately trying not to fall into those two hideous abysses of war: the one Germany was mounting, and Japan’s aggression already launched in China. Studying the New York Times’ graphic photos of decimated Nanking, he winced taking in a clear preview of the world’s future.

But it was much too dark to contemplate now, in this swell eatery decked out with dames. And why fill my head with gloom?—he asked himself as he opened the Times to its lavish Christmas ads—the better, if you will, to comprehend the true foundation of the Capitalist world, namely its pandering to the female consumers! He studied the sexy illustrations of women in furs, so seductively adorned in purses, jewelry, boots and scarves; the beauties setting the New York City standard for chic in their leopard-skin hats and ankle length overcoats; svelte models sketched in Chinese silken lingerie teasers posted in the ad as undies—for only $1.95. Would you believe lingerie moved the market? Women ruled men’s minds in it! The perfect Christmas gift—which was only one vital link to buying—what? A wardrobe, car, house! Debt meant paying interest and property taxes.

As for the men’s section, there was the best Dobbs hat for $40; Johnnie Walker whisky, no price listed—that man in top hat saying it all. If only you were a Fred Astaire.

He shook his head appreciating how slyly advertisements tapped basic deep-rooted human desires to acquire prestige, impress and prove your love. How? By giving the perfect Christmas gift to show you really care, as the Man who brings Holiday joy.

Somehow, thinking of this Christmas, Johnny poignantly recalled growing up in the Croatian riverside hamlet of Vurota, that cozy nest where, for Christmas, an orange was a big deal. So sweet and rare! While passing his late teens in America’s Great Depression had only served to reinforce his deep appreciation of the simplest things in life. How about a loaf of bread, chestnuts, soup, compared to going to bed hungry?

And being a student in Russia? Ha! You survived on stoicism!—There was so little else to be had in Moscow, except for an outstanding free education. And moments of pure rapture hearing the glorious sounds of the Red Army Choir.

Certainly, Russia was not the debating capital of the world! (If anyone had an opinion, it was never uttered, except as an act of suicide!) He peeked at the door.

Still—no Markovic. Smiling, he recalled his feelings coming home after completing his advanced studies for a degree in Moscow. How glad to be back in the States! How thrilled to have an endless variety of food! How absolutely ecstatic seeing sunshine and women who wore less and took off more! How proud to be an American having the working household vocabulary and foundation of Democracy! You could strike to challenge the system! Our times are picking up in America!—he thought. But sadly, as any KUMNZ grad would tell you, the rest of the world was going to Hell, starting in Europe and Asia.

He sipped his coffee, fighting off angst, and glanced at the door just as a group of customers blew in, shaking rain from their overcoats and laughing—but still no Mirko.

A check of his watch showed ten past six, reminding him—Being ten minutes late to work in Russia would get you sent off to Siberia. Fact!

He shook his head and dove into the front page of the New York Times—and viscerally recoiled at the ugly photo of uniformed German youths with swastika arm bands tossing books into a roaring bonfire at night. The December 23, 1936, headline:

NAZI YOUTH TARGET JEWS AND

BUSINESSES NOT SHOWING SWASTIKAS

About to turn the page, Johnny quickly glanced up thinking, working as a foreign correspondent is a dangerous job. When in burst the conspicuously tall, ruggedly handsome Mirko Markovic—shaking the rain from his stylish dark gray overcoat with his fedora in hand, his piercing blue eyes in one sweep spotting his former student!

Markovic nodded his way, strolling over with a grin.

Advancing a dozen long paces across the room, Markovic seemed quietly amused, extending his hand to shake with Johnny, who half-rose offering a discreet handshake.

Mirko slipped out of his overcoat, and draped it over a side chair, placing his hat on top of it and then turned, examining his former student.

Don’t you look the fit one, Ivan! Mirko noted with a winning smile, pronouncing his name EE-VON studying his former student’s fine navy blue suit and cool expression. Much better than you did in class, he added with an approving nod.

I’m not starving, Johnny retorted, venturing a sly little joke at Stalin’s expense.

They both chuckled, each happy to be here, in the land of plenty. Johnny ritually pulled out his pack of fine bourgeois smokes, knocked out two, and let Mirko snag one for his inspection. He quickly lit Mirko’s cigarette, then his own, watching as Mirko turned to take in the array of glittery women like an amused connoisseur, rating them with nods here and there.

What a place, America! exclaimed Markovic, taking a drag. For just a dime—you’ve got it all! Just hop on a subway—and meet the most incredible women! He nodded at a conspicuous piece of cheesecake at the bar crossing her legs glancing at him. She rated a second glance. "New York’s fantastic in its bourgeois way."

"So they say. But Detroit’s the place for me," countered Ivan.

Why’s that?

Johnny grinned. Detroit’s made so you can drive a bourgeois car, on a date and almost forget political barriers. Know what I mean?

Markovic smartly nodded, fully appreciating what Johnny was talking about, before his face turned Muscovite-sober. What did you organize in Detroit?

All of Greek Street’s restaurant workers.

Mirko was intrigued. What was your pitch to convince the Greeks to go union?

Johnny leaned closer. "I told them, ‘Do nothing—and you’ll have nothing, but the same damned suffering your parents endured at the whims of bosses!’ I told them, ‘Without the union, you’re at their mercy! But with the union, you’ll wield awesome powers!’" he hissed with a clenched fist and confident smile.

How long did it take...for the restaurants to come around? asked Markovic.

Johnny shrugged. Not long. It was inevitable. So then, what was that special matter that you needed to discuss with me?

Mirko glared into Ivan’s eyes. I just volunteered—to go to Spain. And, naturally, I was accepted.

Ah! You actually volunteered to fight...in the International Brigades? Johnny probed, to be absolutely sure of what Markovic would be doing in Spain.

Of course! snapped Markovic. I didn’t volunteer to drive an ambulance! Or to be a journalist! I volunteered to squash Fascist flies! he said banging his fist on the table.

Turning her head to see the two Slavic-looking types in the far corner, the waitress instantly took interest studying the two nicely suited Europeans she now approached, smiling with her coffeepot in hand.

Were you signaling for me? she asked with a grin turning toward Mirko.

Yeah, we’re ready to order, interposed Johnny.

"So what can I get ya?" she asked filling their cups.

A baked potato with the works, ordered Ivan.And the soup of the day. Hot.

Sure. And you? she asked turning to Mirko.

Just make that two—okay?

Same as him? she asked Markovic, just to keep eye contact.

As I said, just make that two, he said roughly, rating her eyes, lips, and mind.

"Oh-kay," she said, frustrated, writing an X-2 before turning on her heels, coffeepot in hand, knowing she was being watched, while swinging her hips as she exited.

Markovic glared after her, irritated by her distracting presence. "Just a few days ago, in western Spain, after resisting Franco—four thousand townspeople in Badajoz were executed in a single day by the victorious Fascists! While the band played on! A journalist on the spot reported a Fascist Colonel by the name of Yagüe let his Moroccan mercenaries do as they pleased to the captured citizens, particularly to the women. They branded, raped and tortured them. Blood ran down the streets! His lips curled in rage as he visualized that event. The Fascists use terror as a tool of propaganda, to show the world what happens to those who resist! But I don’t submit…to terror tactics! he hissed. I resist harder! he said presenting his fist clenched like a pugilist. That’s why I volunteered to go to Spain, he said glaring. Why don’t you join me?"

Everything about this meeting, now, was perfectly clear.

In a flash, Johnny recalled his adolescent years in Detroit, seeing Pop come home with his head bloodied from police or goons’ clubs on the Ford workers’ strike lines; the hard times with no food on the table, Pop blacklisted by all the car companies. He flashed to his glorious time in Moscow with anti-Fascist students, the most fervent working class from all around the world! And now irking him was the photo of Nazi punks on the streets of Berlin making bonfires from books, as Fascists executed thousands of people in Badajoz alone, while in Nanking, soldiers in the Imperial Japanese Army laughed as they bayoneted Chinese babies! His fury boiled, his eyes mirroring the anger in Mirko’s eyes.

Sure. I’ll go there with you.

Mirko lofted his coffee cup, saluting Ivan’s alert blue eyes and bold countenance. Johnny did the same as their cups clinked.

Oh-kay! Hot soup, as you ordered, said the waitress, deftly setting down their soups and baked potatoes from off her tray, carefully brushing her left hip against Markovic’s forearm and giving him the glance. "You’ve got the works, boys! Ketchup on the table. Enjoy!" she said, the innuendo clear.

Thanks, said Johnny. We’ll need a coffee refill soon.

You bet, she said extending her lips into a pucker aimed right at Markovic, only to become annoyed when he ignored the gesture. She flared her pretty nostrils before turning and shaking her head in dismay at a concentration that made no room for her.

Are you prepared to apply immediately? Markovic asked.

It occurred to Johnny then that Markovic was a special recruiter for what was known as the Cause.

I’ll take care of it Monday, said Johnny, reaching for his toast, dipping a corner into steaming hot onion soup. When do you depart for Spain?

Mirko half-grinned as he paused, readying a jarring response to Johnny’s probing question. After I take care of a little business. You might even get to the war in Spain before me, he said, letting the fact sink in. How’s your father? he asked dipping his spoon and happily slurping his own onion soup.

He’s one busy guy, Executive Secretary of the I.W.O. Johnny said, deeply inhaling. I take it you didn’t discuss this with him.

No. I didn’t mention it, replied Markovic casually, adding pepper to his soup.

So, I’ll be bringing home the news, he said, contemplating the stormy reception sure to come from his revelation.

They made quick work of their soups, and began working on their baked potatoes with cream and chives on the side. Facing the door, Johnny could not help but notice the line of patrons piling in, awaiting their turn, and saw their waitress was noticing it too.

The waitress alertly filled their cups. Anything else for you boys?

Just the check please, replied Johnny.

She tallied as they emptied their cups, then she slapped their check down on the table. Happy holidays, boys! she called, turning, glancing over her shoulder.

Johnny paid the bill and laid out a tip. Then, standing up, he slid the cash under the check. Slipping into his topcoat and fine brown Dobbs hat—he saw Mirko strolling attentively through the crowd toward the door, coolly scanning for G-men.

Johnny checked and saw no straight-lipped, cold-eyed agents as he slipped out. He was jolted by the winds and flipped his overcoat collar before turning to Mirko. I’m off to 173rd Street, said Johnny, carefully tightening his wool scarf.

And I’ve got business calling around here, said Mirko, checking the street. España! he pronounced in a fine Spanish intonation, giving his friend a dare devil look.

It was enough to say nothing, to just watch Mirko’s eyes—waiting for a crack in his conviction to appear. None did. Another second passed for good measure.

España, Johnny pronounced in a deeper tone of finality. Mirko gave him a bear hug and thumps on the back, before pulling away, eyeing his recruit proudly and holding onto Johnny’s right shoulder. Johnny felt the power in Mirko’s brief squeeze.

Bon voyage! Mirko called out, turning and walking into wisps of fog.

Putting on his gloves, Johnny studied this vanishing figure like a foreign agent in a dreamy movie; then he turned and set off. Gaining his stride, he began working out the clues to the mystery. What’s this business keeping Mirko from leaving before me?—he thought. Recruiting business! he barked.

Pulling down his hat until it was snug, he coolly examined all the components of his decision to go to Spain—knowing he’d be accepted straightaway and sent to the heart of Spain to fight the mighty Fascist coalition of Franco, Mussolini and Hitler. His choice to accept the invitation to go seemed surprisingly easy.

The hard part would be telling Mama.

2

Though it had stopped raining, the winds moaned and howled, breaking into true Arctic blasts that stole hats, bent umbrellas and froze men solid on the Bowery.

And yet on the bright side, Benny Goodman’s hot licks flicked through the doors of a bar, with tipsy revelers pouring out, gals’ tandem laughter sounding like Goodman’s clarinet riffs as Johnny wondered, where will I hear music like that outside of America?

He figured there was absolutely no point in pondering the endless pros and cons of his decision. I’m sticking to it, he told himself. In fact, he felt an incredible, powerful new zeal, looking forward to being in Spain: the struggle calling activists from all over the world to prove their worth by their actions, not just by opinions.

Could the International Volunteers make a difference?—he asked briskly walking.

It was ironic because he’d never before considered becoming a soldier—not in the Soviet Union, and not for Spain. Certainly not while in the U.S. My ambitions?—he asked himself. He mentally listed all of them, thinking, I might work as an engineer, for which I’ve been trained. Maybe hold Union Office. Or be an activist writer. But now, when asked to join the heroic fight for free Spain, I’ve answered the call, he thought.

And the wind shrieked mercilessly, not seeming to call to him at all.

In fact, those screaming winds seemed to be sounding a warning—as if he made a mistake in volunteering to go to Spain, making him lean into the wind even more.

He soaked up street sights and thought, life in New York City’s crazy, corrupt, crowded, and self-consumed. But it’s also vibrant, evolving and valiantly defiant—and many of her sons and daughters would be leaving its hovels and high-rises—for Spain!

He decided he’d had enough of the bracing wind, and he ducked down the stairs leading to a packed subway platform. He dropped his thin dime into the box, breezed through the turnstile, and immediately turned his head to view the bright incoming train slowing to a stop perfectly timed to his arrival.

Its doors opened and he stepped in.

In the few minutes it took to reach the 172nd Street exit, he kept imagining seeing Paris soon. Followed by entering the fracas of España—holding a different mood altogether than gay Paris.

The subway coach reached its stop and he exited onto the platform and ascended the stairs, cheered at the clear sky and his home turf. He turned to 173rd Street.

Walking with a new purpose, he found it easy to summarize his life to date, recalling the family being broke during the Depression—compared with his father now making seventy-five bucks a week, allowing for living in a good apartment, with an elevator that worked most of the time.

Looking up, he eyed their eighth floor apartment building, an awesome sight compared with his humble ancestral hamlet roots by the Kupa River.

Pushing through the door, he groaned spotting the OUT OF ORDER sign taped across the elevator. Still, he welcomed the delay for the extra time that ascending eight flights of stairs would allow him, to prepare his mind for how his folks would take his news.

Pulling on the handrail, listening to his echoing footsteps preceding him up the stairwell, he began anticipating how his senatorial step-father would evaluate his motives, gauge his attitude, check his spirit and mark his mood. Testing was his father’s way of scrutinizing the man-within-the-man! Suppose he calls me a fool?

At the next landing, he recalled first seeing his step-father’s eyes, fixed on him. Ready, like a hawk to fly down and chew out my brains!—he thought, laughing. And you could not look away, nor blink! You had to know exactly what you had to say and how to say it before you spoke—not a bad method of elocution training, but not always an appealing one for young Johnny.

Would Mama be making everyone’s favorite apple strudel? He recalled their toughest days during the Depression, visiting Pop’s friend once a week for handouts of a few pounds of oats to keep from going hungry. There was no strudel then! But now they had plenty to eat—food undreamt of in Vurota or Moscow.

He salivated, anticipating the sultry aromas of Mama’s famed apple strudel—so crisp and flaky, light and delicious, bits of raisins and walnuts tossed in, only mildly sweetened—a baker’s work of art! He’d never found any better strudel—not in Paris, Moscow, New York or Detroit. It was something he really missed when his young mother left for America, leaving him behind in the village with Uncle Stefo and the rest who never made it—a lost delicacy, something he’d always remembered enjoying. Funny thing.

He had never forgotten his bitterness at thirteen, living by the river in Croatia when soon meant nothing but the slim hope of getting to America. Years had gone by with no action by his mother. His uncles George and Stefo—now they acted! They were men—leaders in the village and in the region, in fact. Stefo carried the invisible cloak of leader on his shoulders and in his eyes—and everyone recognized this. Stefo only appeared like anyone else—Johnny thought. Stefo laughed and he drank, but he knew exactly what was going on all the time—while other people, to young Ivan, seemed so dumb. Uncle Stefo was his benchmark of character, compared to whom, anyone else held second fiddle. At least, that’s what he thought—before coming to America and meeting his step-father who made it perfectly clear to young Ivan—then thirteen and already a feisty whippersnapper—that Anton’s education and intelligence far surpassed that of his Uncle Stefo back in the hinterlands of Croatia! Anton, the brilliant orator and activist, let Johnny know that the level of rural wisdom he’d attained under dear Uncle Stefo’s wings would have to be vastly advanced under Anton’s tutelage and sharp guidance.

He recalled Anton’s telling phrase—In our ignorance, we must all humble ourselves to knowledge!—such a snappy bit of wisdom meant to convince young Johnny not to be angry at higher authority. Namely, Anton’s unbending ways and his intolerance of imperfection. It irked; and chafe, though he might, at times, he had always known he had found a role model in Anton, the labor union organizer pulling in the most effective speakers and giving speeches himself at the Ford Motor Plant. Mama chose well.

Now at the fifth floor landing, he recalled his earliest visions of America as a boy in a riverside hamlet in Croatia—America’s a place with no mud! America basically meant first-class roads, no muddy riverside cow paths and, of course, incomparable wealth.

But by the age of thirteen, he’d heard so many tall tales about Croatians and the melting pot of the world settling in America that he was itching to wipe the mud from his boots, and go to the place with streets paved with gold. By then he knew exactly where America was—as a top student at the local high school.

And when his ticket from Mama arrived, all his feelings of rejection shifted into respect. Mama never forgot me, he mused. She had married, was waiting for her son to join her. And he was ready to leave the cursed little river hamlet where ignorant peasants still laughed at Ivan the adolescent and called him bastard, but not to his face.

Yes, he’d anticipated his pleasure seeing neighbors’ reactions when they heard the news! There definitely was glee, though he was careful not to show it to anyone. Indeed, there were some mixed feelings. Everyone was sad to see him go—Uncle Stefo, Uncle George, Grandma and Grandpa.

Do you want to go to America? Stefo had asked the day his ticket arrived.

Yes! young Ivan had declared. And so, that was it!

Stefo was fair to ask me, thought Johnny trudging up the final stairs.

It was good he made me decide, he thought. The first decision of my life! I wonder what they’ll think about my latest, he pondered, arriving at the eighth floor landing, where he turned, walked down the hall to their door. He gave two sharp knocks.

Anton’s voice piped through the door, Who’s there?

Johnny! he replied, his set response in these uncertain times when people never knew just who might call, as the door opened a crack, revealing Anton’s eyes studying Johnny before lifting up the chain and opening the door.

"Johnny! How are you?" asked Anton, in white shirt and tie, cardigan sweater and trousers, his stern brown eyes alertly peeking out into the hallway before closing the door.

I’m great, Pop, said Johnny.

Hey, mister scholar! his mother merrily shouted from the kitchen.

I smell strudel! Johnny exclaimed, studying her red cheeks and flashing blue eyes.

You bet your sweet life you do! she sang out, musically clanging pans.

Anton nodded Johnny’s way, looking forward to Maritza’s treats, as well.

Johnny removed his coat, looking up, seeing Mama wiping her hands and popping into the doorway beaming his way. Just you relax, dinner’s almost ready, she said, moving out of sight inside the kitchen. Johnny came into the doorway watching her kneading dough on a large cutting board, observing her hands, visualizing those hands as a girl cutting wood, milking cows, carrying buckets and pitching hay. Her brow had lines.

It was no wonder Marie Gerlach had developed a furrow in her brow over the last few years when scrounging up a dinner in America had proved a lot harder task than it had been in their little village in Croatia where they’d feasted on the bounty of the rich land and their toil. Only lately did things start looking up—thanks not so much to President Roosevelt, in Maritza’s mind, as to Labor Unions and workers’ solidarity. Persistence paid off!

What are you making here? called out Johnny, watching her sprinkle bits of nuts.

Walnut coffee cake, she replied with a smile that he’d not seen until recently, coinciding with Anton’s new job.

He walked back out to the living room, seeing Anton reading.

Did you hear Trotsky’s on his way to Mexico? Johnny asked.

You bet I did! I don’t envy him, said Anton.

So, mister! called Mama. What plans do you have for the holidays? she asked using her rolling pin to spread out her dough. Are you going to any special events?

No, he replied, realizing there would be no other way to announce his news but to spit it out. "I’m not going to any special events, or celebrating the holidays. Because I’m going to Spain. España! Probably next month."

Mama gripped the table against the shock, while Anton scowled, studying Johnny with a look of actual horror. He slapped down the paper, reached for his pipe with deliberate care, and began fingering his long thick ear.

She neared Ivan with her right fist raised as he stood his ground.

"Do you think we worked day and night to clothe and educate you—so you can join the workers foreign legion? Do you think we will let you to do this? After all we have done to bring you here?"

Anton blurted out, Johnny’s twenty-one. He’s an adult and he’s free to make an adult’s decision.

She groaned. "Do you call jumping into a bloody civil war in Spain a decision?" she yelled at Anton.

If I was Johnny’s age, I’d probably do the exact same thing, admitted Anton, knowing his honesty would cost him dearly.

"Are you suggesting he goes?" she hissed at Anton close up. She turned, directing all her wrath on Johnny, her forefinger wagging into his gaze, unable to hold back tears.

"All these years I’ve stayed up waiting…terrified Tony would come home with a bloodied head, or not come home at all! I can’t count how many people wanted to kill your father! All those cops and detectives and their paid goons and thugs! It’s a miracle he’s alive! And now you show up like an ungrateful fool, telling me, ‘You can start living every day from now on, worrying about me being killed in Spain!’ Is that why I brought you to America? To just let you run off to Spain’s ‘Cause’ and forget us, and all our causes here? Is that why I broke my back and worked my fingers to the bone? Answer me!"

I’m going, Johnny murmured.

Damn you! I used to think you were intelligent! But now I know you aren’t smart at all! You just want to be a big-shot! She scowled at Anton, "And you! Anton Gerlach! You encourage him! Damn you both! I thought you were better! You’re both insane!" she cried out, bolting to her bedroom, slamming the door. Hallway echoing with the sound as they sat brooding. Anton filled his pipe.

Your mother’s right. We’re callous! We don’t worry, not about ourselves, not about her. But she worries about us—every day! That’s your mother, he said, striking a match, puffing, placing his wooden match into an ashtray. However, she doesn’t see how men can feel differently about politics, now. Particularly about what’s at stake in Spain.

He gazed at Johnny. Rather than taking this course you’ve suddenly chosen, you’d do better to stay put, in order to create positive social changes here, as a labor union organizer! That’s your vocation! It’s an important one! It’s what you’ve been groomed for! You should carefully think about it, Johnny.

I have, Johnny answered.

You’re gambling with your life, for a lost Cause! Anton exclaimed, seeing Johnny confidently shaking his head. Proud, are you? he asked. Did someone recruit you?

Yes. Mirko Markovic.

That son-of-a-bitch! roared Anton jumping up. I invite him to our group meetings as a special guest, while behind my back he recruits you, to go to Spain! I should have known! That conniving bastard planted the seed that might end your life!

Hey, Pop, calm down.

Just tell me—why do you want to go to fight in Spain? The main reason.

I’m going because I think that with the International Brigades, Spain can win! A lot of volunteers are going—determined to see Fascism buried right there.

Is that what you think? Anton asked, as if Johnny didn’t understand. The Civil War in Spain is just the beginning. It should be fought. But FDR isn‘t providing any weaponry to Spain! Not on your life! You guys may as well get used to the fact—that you’ll have to fight the whole war without proper arms, while General Franco gets top-of-the-list warplanes, tanks and artillery, with trained specialists from Hitler and Mussolini.

That’s what the papers say, Johnny replied, confidently gazing at Anton.

Think about that. What about Markovic? I presume he’s going to Spain.

Correct. He said he had some business here, first.

Let me tell you something, Johnny, Tony said pursing his lips. "Mirko’s a slick character. He was your professor in Military Strategy in Moscow. Okay? He’s ten years your elder and more astute than you can imagine. In Spain, you’ll be in a league of people like him—all of them coming with different views, and different allegiances, and with advanced training all—every damn one of them! My advice to you?" he announced, pointing his pipe stem at Ivan and flashing his eyes like an owl. Trust no one!

3

The hundred weary American volunteers were agog scanning the anxiously-awaiting crowd poised to jump aboard their train as the Barcelona Express pulled into the Valencia train station at four in the afternoon, presenting a whole new world. Looking for their contact from his position on the steps, Johnny pointed, spotting a uniformed American-looking sergeant now waving to grab their attention as the train came to a screeching halt, unleashing a fury of movement.

"You must be the guys from the S.S. Normandie!" shouted the beaming sergeant.

That’s us! replied Johnny amiably from a portal, descending among the crowd.

Report in, with me, gentlemen! ordered the guy in uniform. "Step this way men! To your buses waiting to take you to Albacete! All of you step lively!" shouted the sergeant, leading them away in a thick line, only once glancing back to be sure none had strayed.

It was déjà vu. Another bus to board, fill and ride, another night trip. Soon, they were traveling southwest into the setting sun, and abruptly speeding at night toward central Spain, by Johnny’s compass and map, now in hand. He tucked it away.

Their latest guide, an overqualified-looking Sergeant Caine, sat opening a duffel bag—handing out loaves of bread, rounds of hard cheeses and bottles of wine as if he were a social worker. It was better than anyone expected. In its sparse simplicity, the food was raw and biting—but just enough.

You men best grab some sleep now, while you can, advised Caine.

It was already happening as they drained the last of their wine, and most began dozing. It shook, it rattled and it was cramped—but it’s a seat, thought Johnny.

And after having to stand all day since having gallantly offered up their seats to the older women and reserved señoritas on the long train journey into Valencia, actually having seats on the bus right now was pure luxury.

Winter’s dark mantle dropped like the sooty face of a beach cliff, and Johnny felt the distinct sensation of being tossed onto a tarry black ocean.

Only two nights ago, the one hundred Americans—temporarily billeted inside the immense 18th century fort of Figueras, framed to the North by the snow-capped Pyrénées—were shaken from their exhausted slumber and woken up by their zealous American Drill Instructor, the adamant Sergeant Sanders, with his D.I. swagger stick in hand banging against their boots and butts, driving them literally jumping while wailing out of their bunks with stinging rear ends and the sound of his crazed voice booming ordering them, Rise and shine you dreamy laybacks! You flattened prairie sods—get yer asses up! Full gear, boots on, all your gear and baggage! Hup, hup, hup! Sanders had ordered them, his eyes looking ready to explode at each man—and boy did they jump.

In the darkened bus as others slept, Johnny recalled their departure from Figueras, scrambling to their buses in the deep of night. How smartly Sergeant Sanders had pointed with his swagger stick, the signal to the lead driver for their caravan to charge the vast chilly night, his furrowed face absorbed, watching them exit like a proud Olympics coach who’d trained his men well.

Indeed he’d driven them mercilessly, as a team, for those two days at Figueras.

And what a relief it was quitting Figueras filled with ten thousand men, thousands of horses and animals—and rushing to open the bus window just a crack, to wipe out the utter stench of its packed unwashed bodies, and animals and dirt, its rancid olive oil and wines, and its place of private evacuation for centuries, the Eternal Latrine.

And he distinctly recalled that special moment when the chilling wind stirred his brain with the cold realization that I am on a bus at night in a foreign land at war!

And I’m no longer a civilian.

Across the aisle, from among the men blissfully snoring free of worry about being in a country torn by civil war, came a dreaming grunt from the former Pro Negro League baseball pitcher, Luke McKay, whom Johnny had first encountered very late one sleepless night, earlier still, en route to France aboard the S.S. Normandie.

Only ten days ago but thousands of miles away, Johnny had jumped awake in his berth—sweating from a nightmare, trapped in a room filled with coffins, gasping for air, trying to find his way out of suffocating corridors! It had been after a long storm that had all the passengers puking; and the sea was calm that night when Johnny had gone topside and encountered Luke McKay leaning on the railing, surveying the dark ocean, trying to restore his energy for reasons that soon became apparent.

Johnny recollected having asked Luke, What brings you—a Negro American—to Europe, to fight a White man’s war?

And how Luke had replied, Outrage and defiance—the same sentiments that brought you! I must be a crazy son-of-a bitch. My mother said I was.

The sane will be joining the crazy soon enough, whenever Hitler decides he’s ready to take on Europe, if not the whole world. Way I see it, we’re just picking our time and place. Are you a good pitcher? Johnny had asked, looking out at the Atlantic that night.

Hey! If they let Negroes play in the major leagues, I’d be set for life. Do you think Negroes will ever play in the majors?

Luke, it’s inevitable, Johnny had encouraged him, looking him dead in the eye.

Luke had chuckled and then snorted, saying, "It ain’t inevitable any time soon!" They’d laughed heartily at that.

Johnny kept picturing that calm night before arriving in Cherbourg—having stretched out on a deckchair, grabbed a blanket to cover his legs and looked at resplendent stars like pancakes in the sky, so close that you could put them on your plate.

Now, somewhere in Luke’s wallet was sure to be found a Paris address of a Folies Bergère dancer named Claudine, with whom he’d had an amazing shipboard romance—someone to definitely look up, should he be so lucky as to return, the lucky stiff!

Johnny shifted to his right, and gazed out the window and up at the cloudy, black sky, nearing a gnarled oak tree—seeing an owl perched high upon its upper limb, its eyes focusing straight toward Johnny’s—like his father’s eyes as he pronounced those three parting words of advice, "Trust no one!"

Seeing his reflection in the window, Johnny again took stock of the fact that he was no longer a civilian and that no one had looked at him as a civilian since he had stepped into Spain. And now all but he and the driver were asleep, traveling through pitch black countryside. It was eerie. He dreaded sleeping just now. But he could resist no longer.

• • •

He awoke to the hum of driving at a slow speed, catching the sights of street repairmen wielding pickaxes and shovels collecting debris of demolished brick walls splattering the street. They were setting up road barriers and checkpoints as the bus quickly passed—all the Spaniards somberly studying his face, registering that they knew exactly why he was there, in this dark misty pre-dawn, on this bus.

If anything, the dawn darkened, as a dreary mist fell over the unknown place they were entering. It had to be Albacete, but Johnny could barely see passing storefronts in the fog, though he could feel the dirt and gravel under the bus tires treads; and in the misty, dimly lit dawn, he truly could not tell what sort of town this was. And it was good that they had almost stopped, because the fog and mist made the road impassable. The men on the bus lying across seats and sprawled onto the floor areas snored on. The bus stirred, making sounds of crunching gravel, as the driver tentatively steered using slit-covered headlights. The bus stopped. Was this it?—Johnny guessed as the driver cut the engine, and the lights, released the door mechanism and sighed. His seat squeaked as he stood up placing his keys in his deep shirt pocket with a yawn, and he gently walked down the stairs blending into the mist. Johnny saw him vanish and began feeling uneasy.

Brackish mist swirled around the location as a rooster half-heartedly crowed, and the second bus in the caravan crept up at a distance, its lights slit-covered too.

The haze was clearing in a tentative glow that prompted a rooster to crow a long second blast, and then again more forcefully—and Johnny saw that they were in the middle of a bullring! A place of ritual letting of blood—he thought. Yes, it was like a Roman amphitheater where they’d either be welcomed, or trapped and gunned down, maybe, like in Badajoz. Such a lousy place to find yourself with the wrong people!—it occurred to him, hoping this was a bullring where they would be asked to sit—and not stand by a wall.

We’ll soon find out, he reflected, standing up. He stepped over the men slumbering across the seats and floor, found the door and descended the stairs, finally stepping onto the ground packed by mist. He cocked an ear toward sounds of their second bus just now creeping in to a stop. Then he clearly heard footsteps and a whacking of a swagger stick against a leg, or more likely against a boot.

Has anyone seen the Americans? called a spritely British voice booming in an echoing timbre in the haze.

That’s us! Ivan promptly answered, studying the face and manner of an officer stepping up—British, by his trimmed mustache, bright demeanor, and crisp uniform and swagger stick now saluting with a neat tap to the brim of his Field Officer’s hat—a face reminding Johnny of the impeccable British actor David Niven. He noticed the trim officer had no firearm—an oddity, surely.

Right! Are you the group leader? asked the all proper Brit cocking up a brow.

No, replied Johnny, I’m just the only guy awake. We have two other buses for our particular group. Those two, he indicated by pointing, just as their third bus trailed in.

Excellent! I’m Fifteenth Brigade Chief of Staff, Captain George Nathan. Would you kindly show me to your bus?

This one is my bus, Johnny said, pointing to the open doorway wrapped in mist.

Captain Nathan strolled smartly up the steps of the bus, swagger stick placed under his left armpit. He blared, At-ten-shun! Gentlemen! at the top of his lungs, with a result that men clamored awake, stumbling as he looked on. Stand at-ten-shun!

Observing the posture and manner of the Brit, Captain George Nathan, Johnny figured the Captain could have passed muster in Moscow.

Welcome to Albacete, housing Base Headquarters for the International Brigades! exclaimed Nathan. All you men, grab your kit! And step down smartly now!

As soon as the last man had exited the bus, Johnny dashed inside the bus to grab his suitcase, while Captain Nathan led the men over to the seats of the corrida.

Gentlemen! piped Captain Nathan, standing by the seats. We’re awaiting the arrival of a kitchen truck with your breakfast shortly, as well as the leader of the International Brigades Base in Albacete. Kindly take your seats, gentlemen!

The guys couldn’t help but feel awed by this new sight to American eyes—a corrida masked in mist.

Breaking the perfect silence, two food trucks pulled into the ring, and parked. Out jumped a practiced chow wagon crew that fell to opening up the sides of their trucks, then stacking tables with bowls, spoons and cups. There was something here, Johnny figured, that suggested they were in further transit. Or else what were they doing in a bullring, about to be fed?—he wondered. Transit to where? Where else but to the Front!

And at just that moment, a dusted khaki-toned staff car sped into the corrida and stopped at a distance. Officers exited the dark car, with one in particular standing out to Johnny’s eye—a tall big-shot type with a floppy black beret, but an unflappable focus of deep concentration for sure, with raccoon-like bags under his eyes. Oddly enough, he looked familiar. Johnny’s mind percolated trying to place the man. His back stooped with the face of a professor, but the body of an old boxer, his men following him like dévotées, all now watching the men line up,