On the tenth of June, 1941, I left Paris with my mother and my brother, having been requested to leave by the Germans. We left at ten in the evening, arriving at the border town of Hendaye at one o’clock the next day. It took us seven hours to cross the Franco-Spanish border due to the severe customs check on each side. Finally we reached San Sebastian, hungry and exhausted.
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I was standing on a bridge, a very old bridge, in the little Spanish town. Below me ran the river, dark and deep, flowing swiftly on to the sea, about a mile down. Above me, the sky was also dark ; there were no stars, no moon. On either side of the river ran a broad avenue with rows of flickering gaslights from the old lamp posts, casting strange shadows on the exotic trees that lined the banks of the river. looking upstream, I could count the bridges by the twirling lights that outlined them, until these became hazy and lost themselves in the blackness of the night. I could not keep my eyes from these bright spots of shifting flame; to my unaccustomed sight, they seems to come out of some strange dream, some fairyland.
Through the windows of a large building on the left bank, I could see into a glittering salon. How strange to have so much light! In there people were dancing and talking, seeming carefree and gay. Through the open windows came snatches of music and laughter. I had forgotten that one could be so happy, wearing bright clothes and bantering, chattering of trivial things. It was a year since I had seen people do so. Waking across the bridge toward me came some girls, prattling in the soft and guttural tones of the Spanish tongue: how happy and free they were, sauntering along with light hearts!
I was filled with wonder and amazement; these things, so simple in themselves, didn’t seem real to me. I was afraid that they would disappear, that they were only a product of my imagination. Surely someone would come and turn out all these lights clothe these people in somber attire, transform their happiness into dreary resignation! I thought of Paris and it took me a long time to remember that I had left France; all that gloomy, depressive, and hateful atmosphere was behind me. The weight of it was gone, and I felt free and light-headed, as if I cold fly up into the air. I wanted to shout and sing my happiness.
No one was around however it was late and the lights in the big building were going out one by one. Now only the dancing gaslights remained. Even they were fading, receding into the distance and, as I took a last look at the river, I could see only its dull gleaming oily blackness.
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The next day was the “Fete Dieu”, one of the big festivals of Catholic Spain. It was a general holiday, and one of great rejoicing. I was out early in the streets, which in spite of the early hour, were already crowded with a joyous and tumultuous throng. The shops and the open-air market were still open and everyone was hurrying to do their shopping before going to church. The day promised to be a gorgeous one; the sky and the sea were the most magnificent blue under a warm sun, while the streets streamed with the bright colors of the Spaniards in their best clothes. The very atmosphere was one of joy and gaiety.
Wandering about the town, I heard the sweet tones of a high bell which guided me to a small narrow street leading up to the loveliest little church. It was a very old one, backed up against a small hill, the creamy colored stone contrasting so delicately with the green and blue of the hill. In front, over the main door, in a niche, was a large statue of the Virgin Mary, decorated in various soft shades of enamel. the street leading up to the church was all bedecked with streamers and and flowers, and just now, small boys were laying down branches of green foliage on the old cobblestones. For the holy procession was to end at this church, the oldest in San Sebastián.
I was walking on a broader more modern street when I encountered the military parade, complete with fifes and drums. The soldiers, dressed in khaki, all had white gloves which described a wide arc in the air as they swung. Most of the energy of these men seemed concentrated on this motion; they goose-stepped with their arms! Being accustomed to German precision, I was rather amazed at the carelessness with which these fellows marched. Many were not in step and their lines defied any attempt at a symmetrical formation. Some had no guns and many completed their uniforms with civilian clothes. However they were striking in the pride with which they carried themselves; heads up and eyes flashing, they proclaimed their sense of individual freedom. Behind them came the usual crowd of small boys, whistling and imitating the marching attitudes.
Following after a little while, and in sharp contrast, came the religious procession. Here the young boys in their white surplices marched along so simply, and yet so dignified, singing as they went. They were followed by a great crowd of people, which gradually cut them off from my vision. I turned to go , thinking that although much evil had come to Spain from her civil war, she would survive and rebuild with the help of her very strong faith in the Catholic Church.
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We were finally in the train on our way through Spain. After a vain attempt to make myself comfortable on the hard and crowded seats of a Spanish day coach, I gave up and installed myself on the back platform. I spent most of the night there, preferring the fresh air and passing scenery to the stuffy atmosphere of the coach where sleep was impossible.
Our way lay through the high plateau country: infertile land where, for long distances at a time, we would see no signs of human life. The night was fairly clear, a bright and cold moon would come out from behind the clouds from time to time and shine on the desolate and lifeless scene. On the distant horizon, I could see high mountains; closer by, there were many small hills all devoid of any vegetation except for scrub trees. Further on, we ran into a richer land where there were trees and green fields. But still, we could see no signs of human habitations; this land was just as empty as the preceding arid wastes. I began to wonder where the farmers were who should be tilling this land. That is the result of war; it takes all the life and happiness of a country and lays it bare.
I had at last entered the coach and fallen into a sort of semi-conscious stupor, utterly exhausted. I was partially awakened when I no longer felt the motion of the train. Looking out, however, I could see nothing in the inky blackness and was preparing to fall back into my semi-coma, when I felt something claw at my arm. With an effort, I aroused myself and tried to focus my eyes in the dark. The gas lights of the coach were just about out and it was impossible to discern anything in the dimness of their dying light. Looking out, I could not see any better; then as my eyes gradually became accustomed to the dark, I began to make out the vague outlines of railway cars. We were undoubtedly in the shunting yard of some obscure Spanish town. A second claw at my arm reminded me why I was trying to wake up and now, bringing my attention back to the interior of the coach, I could discern the form of a small child. A curious murmur was filling the air; at first I could distinguish no exact sounds, then I began to hear the word “pano” repeated over and over by the voices of children. The coach was full of them, little children crowding around us, demanding our attention, and all we heard was this incessant cry, “Pano, pano!” Yes, they were begging for bread, offering us small bananas and other measly fruits; they refused money, wanting only bread, of which we only a few crusts. We attempted to make them understand that we had noting for them to eat, we tried to make them go, but as quickly as one left, another would take his place; the coach was just a turmoil of small shifting forms. With oversized eyes and thin bodies in their filthy clothes, these children clung to us, imploring with all their powers of persuasion. Poor little orphaned vagabonds of a civil war; what were they doing out in a railway yard at that time of night?
The train finally started again and they disappeared as swiftly as they had come. But for days, I had that cry in my ears, not being able to drive it out: “Pano, pano!”
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I left Spain with the impression of a country that has been very badly demoralized by a hard war. May towns and cities were destroyed, and many people killed. At present, there is a severe bread shortage and many other necessities are missing. Life seems pretty hopeless in some parts; but if only there could be peace in Europe, I believe Spain could again lift her head and reconstruct her fallen economy and society. May it come about!