Anarchy: a journal of desire armed. #38, Fall 1993
ESSAYS

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IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR

Catalonia!
By Manolo Gonzalez

In 1939, 350,000 Spaniards went into exile. Many Anarchists took
refuge in Latin America=FEin Mexico, Argentina and Chile. Here is a
personal memoir of an Anarchist family escaping Franco's fascists
and the horrors to come.

 At last we were ready to embark. We would leave Catalonia, Europe.
We had been notified by the Greek Shipping Company that our ship
``Artemiss'' would be sailing out of Marseille in the next 12
hours. My father called Anselmo Palau and they agreed to mobilize
our people in three hours. Probably the Basque were already
boarding. Then he called our friends in the Jewish Emigration
Agency and gave them precise instructions to get the children onto
the pier and keep them together until they boarded the ship. We
were very careful of our arrangements for fear of Nazi spies, or
that Franco's agents would prepare a trap as we passed the coast of
Spain on our way out of the Mediterranean.

 My mother was worried about our luggage. It contained our new
French clothing, our only possessions. She had found a silk Russian
peasant shirt for me; my father had dressed me in it and taken me
to a professional photographer for a commemorative photo before we
left Paris. Now when I see that photo, in sepia, 45 years later, I
notice how old and tired I looked for my age.

 We embraced Otilia and Josep Marinet. During our wait in Marseille
we had been staying in their house. Otilia cried as she gave me a
little bundle with sweet rolls. ``I will see you again, Otilia. I
will always come to see you!'' I promised as she kissed me. My
mother and Otilia hugged each other. The men shook hands. ``Good
luck, Commander.'' ``Thank you for everything,'' my father
responded.

 It was about two in the morning. A taxi, driven by a Spaniard,
arrived silently. Inside, the car smelled of garlic, tobacco, and
oil. Fog hid the houses. The streets were wet. I saw last the
lights of the Zoco.

 Sudden blasts of the fog horns told me we were near the docks. A
grey, cold, damp mass of mist enveloped the pier and the warehouse
where, already, many of the refugees waited to board. We could not
see beyond the pier, but the lights of the ``Artemiss'' cast soft,
white beams across its structure. The ship looked small, but tough.
Its white funnel had two blue lines, and on the bridge we could
make out the Captain supervising the embarkation.

 Gusts of wind pushed heavy salty balls of fog. We were shivering,
but we had to wait until the French authorities approved out
papers. Several men, still in bandages, came walking slowly,
supported on the arms of their families. All the children looked
pale and were trying to keep warm under layers of woolen sweaters
and gloves. We were alarmed by two approaching trucks. A band of
fierce and extremely young-looking men and women got out. They
saluted with military precision and shook hands with my father and
the Basque leadership. Then in clear Spanish one of them said,
``Salud, comrades.'' I was struck that they all had pistols in
their belts. Then I realized they were the escort to the contingent
of refugee Jewish children. Now the children were coming down. They
formed a column. A young girl, no older than 14, carried a white
and blue banner; the first time I saw what was to become the flag
of the State of Israel. Stark in the odd light they marched, each
with a knapsack. At the end of the column several youngsters
carried the smallest of their warrior platoon on their shoulders.
A French officer came down from the ship.=20

 Saluting everyone, he started checking his passenger list. A line
formed. I saw Coco and his parents. We both looked for Pilar. She
was with her mother. Pilar waved to us. We blew back big spectacu-
lar kisses and jumped up and down like clowns to make her laugh.
People started climbing the metal ladder onto the ship. A rare
excitement came over me when it was our turn to board the
``Artemiss.'' There were over 200 persons, and they filled the two
decks and even the cargo compartment. Food supplies were already
aboard.

 From the top deck I kept track of my friends. They moved fast and
soon we were together looking down at the Jewish children saying
farewell to their armed escort. No military precision. Now there
were tears. We heard painful exclamations in an unfamiliar Eastern
European language. The girl with the banner dropped it and embraced
and kissed with passion one of the boys in their guard. Aboard they
tried to resume their resolute formation, but it was impossible. We
realized then how alone these children were. Their only family,
perhaps for months, had been the young soldiers of a secret army of
antifascists. The Spaniard men and women rushed to embraced the
Jewish children. Following what was probably their last instruc-
tions, the youngsters drew together and sang a slow, deeply
stirring hymn in Hebrew. It was not a farewell, but an expression
of hope, of victory. The Greek sailors closed the rails. The ship
was moving. Down on the pier the young men and women of the
Hagganah raised their fists. Spontaneously from the ship we began
singing the International, in Euzkadi, in Spanish, Coco, Pilar and
me in Catalan. The ship's horn blew several times. We were still
singing as we disappeared into the fog, the pier a flickering of
lights. Then it was dark.

 We were too excited to go to sleep. While our parents made
arrangements in the cabins, we went looking for the Jewish chil-
dren. They had been given one of the largest rooms, formerly a
recreation, social area when the ship cruised tourists between the
Greek Islands. Cots and partitions were efficiently distributed.
The older girls were accommodated on the upper deck, practically in
the open. Some of the supervisors of the mission were American
Quakers. I was surprised to see these religious workers aboard. We
were used to the indifference of the western world to the plight of
the victims of Fascism all over Europe.

 It was not difficult to communicate with the Jewish children, Most
of them spoke French or English, and soon we were all exchanging
names and misadventures. I shared my sweet rolls with Chris, a
Czech boy. Rapidly we discovered something in common; we liked
books. My heavily accented French made him laugh. Coco introduced
me to a blonde girl from Silesia. She told us, to our surprise,
that her father had been in the Thaelman Battalion that fought in
Spain with the International Brigades. By now he was probably in
Palestine, the final destination of all the Jewish children.

 It was about five in the morning, still dark and foggy, that we
felt heavy and sleepy. There were people all over the ship. We
separated, looking for our cabins. Finally, I found my parents.
They were having coffee in what had been the bar, now an improvised
food station for everyone.

 ``There you are,'' my mother exclaimed, while urging my father to
get to our cabin. I had no sense of location. Everything was grey,
and only the vibration of the ship's engines gave any indication we
were moving. Our very small cabin had only two bunk beds and a cot
for me. The porthole was wet, big drops of condensed humidity hung
everywhere. I was tired and cold. Fortunately, the cot was warm
with an extra blanket my parents had gotten for me.

 I awoke in a pale yellowish light that illuminated the cabin. I
found a note, ``Come to lunch. Kisses, Your Mother.'' She always
left me kisses. What time was it anyway...?

 I felt somewhat dizzy; my stomach grumbled. I wanted to drink
something cool and refreshing. I found my pants=FEstill short and
stupid=FEmy white shirt and, just in case, my blue pullover. Now was
the time to wear my tennis shoes. Well, I was ready, but as I
opened the door I was taken aback to see nothing but the greenish
ocean and a pale sun struggling to pass through the mist. The air
was damp, warm, and, in a few moments, I felt all sticky. The mov-
ing sea made me rather cautious. I walked close to the wall and
held on to every available piece of support, pipes, rails, a chair.
A large number of people had gathered at the stern of the ship,
just sitting, perhaps enjoying the open air, the freedom, the
mystery of the sea.

 The mess hall was full of men and women in animated conversation.
Laughter and the clatter of dishes and silver dominated the place.
The vibrations of the engines were very noticeable here, but
everybody was happy to be on the move. We were aiming to cross the
Mediterranean and, hugging the coast of North Africa, rush into the
open Atlantic. The Fascist Navy had a blockade, including Spanish
and Italian war ships, but the intense traffic of all kinds of
merchant vessels made it possible to escape detection. The British,
implementing their doctrine of ``freedom of the sea,'' managed to
keep the hostilities close to Spanish ports.=20

 I could not tell what time of the day it was. The ``Artemiss'' was
still in a cocoon of fog, an the sun was weak and pale. Only the
fresh, pungent, biting breeze gave me a notion of reality. This was
the open sea! We were actually escaping Europe.

 In one of the little rooms next to the mess hall I found two huge
marmites with coffee and tea. I chose tea, using a metal cup, and
a strange looking bread roll with poppy seeds, tasting of anise. I
came upon a lively group of the Jewish youngsters. At least four
chess games were in progress. Onlookers were waiting patiently for
their turn to play, all in profound contemplation, observing the
moves in ritual silence. Two of the competitors were girls, looking
happy and playing with zest. Obviously winners. When someone
noticed me, I was silently admonished to be quiet. The etiquette
was to be impartial, immobile, detached. The enjoyment of the
confrontations was to be experienced only in an inner, secret
realm; the observations to be accumulated preparatory of future en-
counters.

 I moved away form this enclave of cerebral titans and went looking
for Chris or the blonde girl I had met the night before. The first
friendly face I found was Anselmo. He was on top of one of the
bulkheads with a group of men and women I was sure was already a
Committee, reviewing passports and compiling a list of all the
passengers. I asked him for Pilar. ``She's still sleeping,'' he
responded busily. ``That's it,'' I thought. Coco was sleeping, too.
He had always had the same habits as Pilar. It had always been most
mysterious to me. They went to sleep at the same time, woke up at
the same hour, and they certainly got hungry at unusual hours, but
always simultaneously. Sometime I intended to discuss this with
them.

 It was fun to explore the ship; people looked more content. Only
once in a while would the fear of encountering a Fascist raider
flare up, when we would see the distant smoke of passing ships.

 ``Hello! There you are. I've been looking for you all over the
ship.''

 I turned around. It was the blonde girl. I was pleased to meet her
all by myself.

 ``Well,...it's you. Tell me your name again, please.''

 ``Annelise. Want to lunch with me?'' she asked.

 ``Lunch? is it that late? I haven't had breakfast, but lunch is
all right. Where?''

 ``Not at the mess hall. I saw and smelled the food. It's abomina-
ble! Let's get some kosher sausages, cheese, black bread and
pickles, and a beer, all right?'' It took me by surprise. I knew of
religious diets. After all, in Barcelona even we during Holy Week
ate dry cod with garbanzos as an expiatory food. But this was bold,
exotic.

 ``Well, all right,'' I responded, ``but where are we going to get
all that? Not on this ship, are we?''

 ``Of course, on the ship. One of the agreements the Refugee Agency
made with the Navigation Company was to stock kosher food for us.
Toby=FEyou know, that lanky chap=FEhe is the food commissar for us. He
sees that all the Jewish children get a strict kosher diet.''

 It was an education for me. I was fascinated. Kosher food. What
a revelation. Annelise started to walk. ``Coming?''

 ``Yes, of course,'' I said eagerly, following after her.

  We went to a corner room next to the kitchen, below the main
deck. There it was, installed with a sign in Hebrew, German and
Czech: ``Refectory.'' Toby was there, with a young girl as a
helper.

 ``You're late,'' he told Annelise, smiling, ``but who can refuse
anything to lovely Annelise, the Rabbi's daughter!'' Annelise
laughed.

 ``Oh now, stop that. I have a guest, Palitos, one of the Barcelona
kids.''

 ``Is he a Communist?'' asked Toby suspiciously.

 ``No, I'm with F.A.I. (International Anarchist Federation),'' I
said, fast and proud of my political affiliation. I was somebody
among these warriors, chess champions and religious gourmets.

 ``Welcome, comrade,'' said Toby, extending his arm. We shook hands
with vigor and total commitment to our common struggle.

 ``Well, well, it's back to the International Brigades,'' Toby was
a talker, just like me. He could go on and on.

 ``Toby...Toby, we are hungry,'' interrupted Annelise.

 The young man organized our lunch in a small cardboard box with
the business logo of ``Davy's,'' a well known delicatessen in
Marseille.

 ``See you later, Toby,'' I said. He raised his fist and responded
with a friendly, ``Later, comrade.''

 Annelise and I climbed back to the fore of the ship, and, among
ropes, vents and chains, found a spot where we could eat. The sun
was now high over us. The delicious breeze played with our hair and
Annelise's skirt. She tucked it firmly between her legs, and we sat
munching our lunch.

 Under the sun, Annelise's blonde hair shone. Cut short, it
revealed her neck so that she resembled a Medieval angel or a page
in a fairy tale about a remote Nordic kingdom. Her arms were golden
white with a tinge of pink around the elbows. She was observing me,
too. Her blue eyes were wide, attentive, alert to every expression
on my face. She laughed at my faulty French, and we decided to use
English to avoid embarrassing mistakes.

 We had placed the bottle of beer under the shadow of a funnel vent
so that it wouldn't get warm. We were silent, just eating and
smiling at each other. Annelise asked, ``How are we going to open
the beer?''

 ``Don't worry, I have a Swiss Army knife,'' I responded.

 With a little flair I removed the metal cap. A small piece of ice
was still stuck to the neck. It wet my hand. Annelise took a long
sip and invited me to drink. The beer was a Pilsener, with a
colorful, elaborate label showing a robust peasant girl offering a
large stein of beer. It flowed bitter and harsh down my throat. If
it had not been so very cold I would have thrown-up from the
abominable taste.

  ``I'm sorry, Annelise, I'm not used to beer. We drink mild red
wines mixed with a little water.'' Immediately, I recalled my
friends, the good times we had in Marseille and, with unexpected
intensity, I remembered Sara Ponty.

 ``Wine, eh, like the Hungarians. My dad wrote me about the wine
in Spain. He said it was sweet and generous...and made you drunk
with less than a bottle. You can drink a lot of beer and not get
drunk!'' pronounced Annelise in her worldly-wise way.

 Happily she did not insist that I drink more of the obnoxious
beer. I was just about ready to throw overboard all the leftover
boxes, bottles and napkins, when Annelise stopped me.

 ``No, wait, wait,'' she cried in alarm. ``We should put our trash
in the container at the end of the kitchen.''

 ``But it will end up going into the sea just the same!'' I pro-
tested.

 ``It doesn't matter. That's the way they want us to do it, okay?''

 ``All right,'' I agreed meekly.
 Annelise wanted to talk. She was interested in something about me,
just as I was fascinated by her.

  ``Do you know where you are going in Chile?'' I asked as we
walked toward the deck.

 ``Yes, we're going to get visas to Palestine, through a deal with
the British.''

 ``Oh no, not the British!'' I exclaimed. ``Those fellows never
keep their agreements. Look what happened to Czechoslovakia!''

 ``Well, it so happens that England wants our trained pilots. Many
of them are Jews. So the deal is us, for the cooperation of what
remains of the Czech air force!''

 ``I see. Clever...just right!'' We laughed. We were mature, real-
istic. We understood adults.

 As we walked along the deck, I noticed that few passengers were
around, only sailors on duty. Most of the Spaniards were in their
cabins or in the compartments below deck.

 It was time for siesta. To my great embarrassment I, too, felt
sleepy. I wanted to take my ``nap'' and, perhaps later in the
afternoon, after tea, to see a movie.

 ``Annelise, would you believe that I must take a nap? Will you
excuse me?'' I felt childish, like a kindergarten pupil, although
I knew that Coco and Pilar were already tucked away in some cool
corner of the ship, sleeping, close together. I was jealous.

 ``Oh, go ahead, don't worry. I'll visit Toby, and maybe see you
later.''

 I went looking for my cabin. My parents were sleeping. The room
was cool and silent. Only the vibrations of the ship's engines
could be noticed, no human noises. As the breeze crossed the rails
it produced a small humming sound. My mother's clothes were draped
over a chair. I touched her silky underwear and lay down on my cot.

 After a few days of cautious navigation we approached the coast
of Africa. The ship's captain, Demetriopoulos=FEwe called him just
Demetrio=FEadvised us he wanted to take on more provisions and spare
parts and was radioing for permission to dock in Oran.=20

 Algeria was, at that time, one of the most valuable colonial pos-
sessions of France and of great strategic importance in the strug-
gles of the next 15 years. One of the generators was failing. The
problem became evident the night the lights dimmed all over the
ship and then kept going on and off. I was just a little annoyed,
because it interrupted the after-dinner movie in the dining room,
but many feared the blinking would attract the attention of Fascist
vessels in these essentially-enemy waters. Now there was open alarm
that the Captain would risk the radio, in addition to the lights,
and bring the enemy directly to us.

 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. Coco and Pilar's attempts to enlighten
me were not reassuring. My new friend's casual observation, ``Well,
classical Greece is still alive!'' only served to surround the
captain in my mind with an aura of historical significance and
special dispensation. 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. Some screamed for cigarettes, and once we managed to
float a bundle of ``Gauloises'' in an empty cookie tin to a fast
swimmer.

 Pilar, Coco, Annelise and I often found ourselves together. Then
a young man, Eric Topf, joined us. He was Austrian. His father was
in prison in Vienna for participating in the 1934 attempt to stop
the Nazis. Eric's mother had managed to escape Austria and was now
waiting for him in Haifa. 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.
His father had been an art dealer; his mother an illustrator of
children's books. 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. 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. When Annelise saw me, she just said, ``Dance with me,''
and we were away. 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. I was embarrassed. She was
too beautiful, too blonde, and about two inches too tall.

 ``Annelise, ask Toby to dance. He looks lonely,'' I told her.
 She saw him in a corner, talking with one of the Basque girls.

 ``You think so?'' she asked, incredulous.

 ``Just look at him,'' I insisted, ``He's talking with one of those
boring intellectual Basques.''

 In spite of her doubts, Annelise went over to talk with Toby.

 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. When the announcer's mellifluous voice told his
listeners the next number was ``pour nous amis, les Englais, 'The
Lambeth Walk','' couples lined up, eager to trot the silly novelty
steps. 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. She smiled and said,
``It's me or Annelise.'' The last words of an advertisement for
Coty perfumes were fading away, so I just nodded and we got into
position. 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. They
matched each other's beauty. Pilar was happy, playful, and followed
Eric in every comic movement. They pantomimed a pair of raggedy
dolls. The music became sillier, a little hysterical, and we
shouted with tremendous joy, ``Doing the Lambeth Walk, Yeah!'' The
raucous noise attracted the attention of many adults, and some,
peering through the doors and portholes, shook their heads,
incredulous at the antics of the younger generation.

 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. Pilar and Eric ran into each
other's arms and embraced. 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. My partner was going to leave me,
but I begged her, ``Please stay. Let's talk. Would you dance some
more with me?''

 ``Oh, all right. Why not? After all, we Catalonians must stick
together.'' I could no longer see Pilar and Eric. Then I noticed
that Coco was not around either.

 ``Moncha, have you seen my friend Coco? You know, the fellow I'm
often with.''

 ``Yes, he's playing chess, on the lower deck.'' she answered,
waiting for the next song.

 ``What do you mean?'' I asked her impatiently.

 ``I mean chess. You know, rook takes horse; bishop kills horse;
checkmate!'' she responded, annoyed by my slow mental process.

 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. I liked
Moncha. She had a natural way of accommodating her body with my
movements. Once again I caught sight of Pilar and Eric. The four of
us were moving closer, but we did not acknowledge each other's
presence. Pilar, just as I had seen my mother dancing in Marseille,
had her arms around Eric's neck, and he had his hands on her waist.
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.

 ``Palitos, where you been?'' Pilar asked. ``Where's Coco?''

 ``He's playing chess,'' I told her.

 ``Well, let's go find him.''

 ``My goodness, chess!'' exclaimed Eric in disbelief.

 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.
Two of the Greek sailors from the ship's crew had taken on a pair
of young opponents. 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. She
had lost. 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 100 Franc bill. He said, ``Thanks, your game is
great.'' One by one, the other games ended. The losers complimented
their triumphant opponents. One of the Greek sailors, with some
embarrassment, was playing for his defeat. The winner was a very
young boy with glasses. They shook hands. It was an agreement to
meet again.

 In some way, though, we were disappointed. Was this like gambling?

 ``Not really,'' explained Coco. ``You see, we agreed to play only
among equal ranking players. That way the rather weak chaps don't
get taken.'' We smiled politely, unconvinced.

 ``I'm hungry,'' exclaimed Coco.

 ``How much did you win?'' asked Pilar.

 ``Oh, about 500 Francs.''

 ``Well, it pays to have brains,'' commented Eric.

 ``I lost two games, though. But now I have the money for my pro-
ject,'' Coco told us happily, pushing ahead towards the kitchen to
get sandwiches and strawberry sodas for all of us.

 From that day on, we were a group. Intimidated by Annelise, I
wooed Moncha to be our pal. The attraction was Eric who gave di-
mension and magic to our friendship.

 "Adios, Catalonia" will continue in the next issue of Anarchy with
Manolo Gonzalez's account of "North Africa, Freedom and Much More."



