Barcelona Passage

by Lee Conrad

The hard bench of the passenger train combined with the arduous journey from Paris had taken its toll on Irv Jenkins. He stretched his achy body as the morning sun pierced the grime-streaked window. His teammate, Alfred “Chick” Chaken, snored next to him.

“Hey, Chick, wake up we’re pulling into Barcelona.”

Chick opened his eyes and rubbed his legs to get the circulation going.

“About time. The ship from New York to London was a much better journey.”

“Yea, right, except you were seasick,” joked Irv.

Throughout the train, others stirred and called out in a babble of languages. All of them were athletes from various countries who had come to Barcelona to participate in the People’s Olympiad of July 1936, the alternative Olympic to the Nazi-sponsored one in Berlin the following month. They weren’t just athletes—they were labor union members and anti-fascists of all stripes. The kind that wanted nothing to do with the official Olympics in Berlin. Spain’s newly elected, left-leaning Popular Front had organized this counter Olympics, and the call went out. Two thousand amateur athletes from around the world answered that call through trade unions and political sport groups. They made their way to Barcelona and joined four thousand Spanish and Catalan athletes. The American team of twelve was one of the smallest.

The train slowed as it entered the glass and steel archways of the Estació de França. The American team manager, Bill Chamberlain, came down the aisle and addressed his team of twelve: “OK, we’re finally here. When you exit the train, there will be Spanish officials checking your passports and credentials. The Olympiad committee will give us all the info on where we are staying.”

The Americans joined a line for English-speaking athletes. A government official and a young woman, a worker with the Olympiad Committee, checked their documents.

Finally, Irv was next. He presented his passport to the government official, who duly stamped it.

“Credentials, please,” said the woman.

She was petite with intense brown eyes, raven black hair, and olive skin. Her attire was a simple outfit of a black skirt, low-heeled shoes, white blouse and red scarf. Irv, who came from upstate New York, had seen no one so beautiful or exotic.

“So, you are a boxer,” she said in accented English. “Welcome to Barcelona. You will be staying at the Hotel Europa.” She handed Irv his credentials.

Enthralled, Irv asked, “and what is your name?”

“Lucia Cabrera.”

“How about later you and me go out to eat?”

Lucia smiled at the young man in front of her with his blonde hair and tanned skin. His blue eyes twinkled with confidence. She looked around him and said, “Next!”

Laughter broke out behind him.

“Guess she told you, Yank.”

Irv waited outside the gate along the Passeig de Colom avenue for the rest of the team.

“Coach is going to lead us to the hotel after he gathers up the others,” said Chick.

A tall man with fiery red hair and a bushy mustache strode towards them.

“Well, Yank, you weren’t the only one she turned down.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jimmy Higgins, sprinter for Great Britain.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jimmy. This is Chick. He’s a wrestler and I’m a boxer.”

“You blokes trade union members?”

“I’m not. Still a student, at Cornell in New York,” said Irv. “Chick is in the Garment Workers Union in New York City.”

Chick broke in. “And a Party member. How about you Jimmy?”

“Independent Labor Party and dock worker in London. There are all types of politicos here. The Frenchies are all Anarchists, of course.” He grinned at the two Americans.

Bill Chamberlain came over to them with the rest of the American team.

“OK, I have a fairly good idea where to go. Let’s find out what this city is all about. Tonight, the first round of drinks is on me.”

“Jimmy, let’s meet up at the hotel bar even if Lucia doesn’t join us.”

“Right by me, mate.”

The American team stepped into the city of Barcelona and into a different world. They knew the city was in a transformation since the February election, but they weren’t ready for what confronted them.

Barcelona was abuzz, not only with the arrival of the Olympiad athletes and tourists, but with revolutionary fervor. All the political organizations and unions that put the Popular Front in power had streamers and flags waving from every building: red for the socialists and diagonal red and black for the anarchists—rivals, but united for the present in support of the new liberal government. Giant posters proclaimed a new beginning for Spain. Others announced the Olympiad and welcomed athletes and spectators.

The Americans strolled down La Rambla, a mile-long tree-lined pedestrian avenue filled with food vendors, book markets, and flower stalls. Orators harangued the crowd with their own brand of politics or philosophy. On the east side was the old medieval Gothic Quarter, home to the better-off of Barcelona. On the west side, El Raval, the historically poor and run-down working-class section of Barcelona, loomed. It was an area of shacks stacked upon shacks, seedy bars and small shops. The side streets were dark and narrow. The tops of tenement buildings jutted up and leaned over, keeping the sun at bay. In the early part of the century, poverty, poor working conditions and disease took its toll. Life expectancy was 30 years. But things were changing in the new Spain since the birth of the Republic five years before, and El Raval was a hotbed of revolutionary activity.

The team eventually made it to the Hotel Europa, hot and sweaty from the Spanish sun.

“Get cleaned up and meet me at the bar in an hour,” said Coach Chamberlain.

By the time Irv got to the bar, it was crowded with athletes. Coach Chamberlain sat at a table with Chick and the young woman who checked them in, Lucia.

Irv walked over to the table and greeted everyone.

“I’m surprised you are here after the brush off you gave me earlier,” he said to Lucia.

“Brush off?” She looked at the coach quizzically.

“He means you ignored the poor boy, Lucia.”

She laughed and turned to Irv.

“Do you not know how many times someone in the line asked me to go out? I would not get any work done, and you would know nothing of Barcelona or the People’s Olympiad.”

They held each other’s eyes until Lucia turned away.

“Lucia has been assigned to us, and now that our little group is here, let’s get some drinks. I’m thoroughly parched,” said the coach.

Chamberlain called over a server, started to order, then thought again.

“Maybe you should order for us, Lucia. My Spanish is not very good.”

“With pleasure. While we understand Spanish, we of Barcelona speak Catalan. It differs from Spanish. The rest of Spain thinks we are backwards because of this. But it is we who have helped create our new Popular Front government. We are not to be trifled with.” Her voice had risen. “Sorry, I do not mean to get carried away. The people are creating something new here in Barcelona that will make the world take notice.”

“We have noticed, Lucia. That is why we are here,” said Irv.

She brightened and smiled “Yes, of course.”

When the server arrived, Lucia ordered their drinks.

“He has a black and red armband on. What is that for?” asked Chick.

“The hotel workers all belong to the anarchist union, the Confederación Nacional del Trabajo, or CNT. That is the color of their union,” Lucia explained.

Coach Chamberlain leaned over to Lucia. “When he comes back, here is the money for the drinks. What do we leave for a tip?”

“No tips in the new Spain. The CNT considers it an insult to their labor.”

“I think we have a lot to learn here,” said Irv.

“It is the seventeenth, and you will be here until the twenty-sixth. Between training tomorrow and competing in your sports beginning the nineteenth, you will have time to experience what the new Spain is trying to accomplish,” said Lucia. “And tonight, Barcelona in its glory welcomes you.”

Over at another table, Jimmy Higgins waved Irv over.

“Excuse me. I have to see a friend,” Irv said as he got up.

“Hey, Yank. Sit down for a spell. This is my new friend Hans. He’s German.”

Irv, taken aback, said, “German? What is he doing here?”

“I speak English, American. We aren’t all Nazis.”

“I know that. Sorry. I’m Irv Jenkins from New York.” He thrust his hand out to the German.

“No problem. My name is Hans Zimmer from Berlin, by way of Paris,” he said.

The German had a serious expression about him. Rugged with dark brown hair and brown eyes that radiated pain. He stood at five feet nine inches and said he was a shot putter.

“You aren’t just a shot putter, mate. Tell him. These yanks need to know.”

Hans stared at Irv as if sizing him up for what he was about to tell.

“I was an official in my trade union, the metalworkers of Berlin. We always knew what Hitler was about, but we thought we had the strength to hold him back. On May Day, 1933, Hitler held a country-wide labor celebration of Germany’s workers. Remember, he only recently had become Chancellor. We thought he was trying to win us over to his side. Of course, all the unions attended, and we marched with our flags and banners. We handed out our newspaper, and we drank all day in celebration of the workers’ holiday. It was a trap. The next day, as we were in a stupor, he and his stormtroopers struck. The unions across Germany were declared illegal and our offices raided and closed. I was not at home but walking in the Tiergarten in order to clear my head from the previous day’s drinking. After a couple hours, I walked to my union headquarters and saw the destruction. The doors and windows were smashed. Glass covered the sidewalk. Our furniture, union publications and books were scattered in the street. Stormtroopers milled about, laughing and joking among the debris. On the corner was a body that I learned later was a friend and fellow union official. They had thrown him out a fourth floor window. I walked the streets of Berlin in despair until a patrol of brownshirts stopped me. They searched me and found my union card that listed me as a union official. Then they threw me in a KZ … how do you say, ah yes, a concentration camp with others from my union. They let me out after eight months, but it was eight months of beatings, starvation and back-breaking labor.”

Hans paused and drank some of his beer. The brief conversation had drained him.

“I’m sorry. It brought back terrible memories. After I got out, I went back to Berlin, but I no longer had a job in the union. It had been completely shattered, and the funds confiscated by the Nazis. All the workers now had to join the Nazi Labor Front. I also had no place to stay. A friend who was not in a union or politics let me stay at his place. As things got worse in Germany for those on the left, he encouraged me to leave the country. He loaned me money, and I escaped to Paris. I was always good in sports, so when we German exiles heard about this gathering we trained for our specific sport. And here we are.”

Irv hung his head. He knew how labor could be treated in America: workers killed by company thugs, strike breakers and yes, even mass roundups like the mine workers in Arizona during the Great War. But concentration camps and this barbarity? Hans’s story reinforced his belief that fascism and Hitler must be destroyed.

“Sorry, comrades, I have depressed you.”

“No, Hans, Jimmy is right. I needed to know. America needs to know. Someday we might have to fight these fascists.”

Hans slammed his hand down on the table and forced a smile.

“Enough of this talk. We are in sunny, revolutionary Spain. Let us drink up and go out and see Barcelona!”

“Here, here,” said Jimmy. “Motion on the floor?”

“Seconded,” said Irv.

“Carried,” said Hans, as they all laughed.

The three of them walked over Chick and Lucia’s table. Irv introduced Hans and Jimmy to them.

“Our ad hoc committee is ready to go. Lucia, will you show us the way?” said Irv.

“We were waiting for you. Let us go,” said Lucia.

“Where is the rest of the team, Coach?”

“Some of them didn’t want to wait and started without us. Others just want to sleep.”

It was early evening. The sun dipped in the west and a Mediterranean breeze came in from the harbor to the east. The people of Barcelona were coming out after the heat of the day.

The team had gone back to La Rambla, now packed with tourists, Olympiad athletes, and Barcelonans. As it got dark, the entire area lit up and the political banners and enormous posters welcoming the international athletes took on a new life. People sang and small groups held animated political discussions. For the team, it was like a carnival.

The small party of Americans, with their British and German friends along, listened as Lucia described her city, its history and politics.

“We know we have enemies. There is a fascist paramilitary group, the Falange, that admires Mussolini and wants us destroyed. The landowners and industrialists want us put back in our place. Look around you. Do you think that will be easy for them? We now have a proper education system for all, free from the indoctrination and control of the church. Women are gaining new freedoms and a government that cares for the poor and respects trade unions. No, my friends, we will not go backward.”

Hans thought back to May Day, 1933, and kept quiet.

Exhausted after their long trip to Barcelona and the tour, they straggled back to the hotel for the night.

“I hope I haven’t tired you out too much,” said Lucia at the entrance of the hotel.

“We will be fine after a good night's sleep in a proper bed,” said Irv. “And my offer of dinner is still on.”

Lucia smiled. “We shall see what the days bring.”

With that, the group broke up and went to their rooms.

* * *

In the morning, all the athletes met in the hotel dining room, each at a table with their respective teammates and an Olympiad committee member.

Coach Chamberlain tapped his spoon on his coffee cup. The team of twelve quieted. “Listen up. When we are done here, we will walk over to the stadium and do some warm-ups and practice a few hours before the day gets hot, take a break, then practice some more.”

Lucia met them outside the hotel.

“Bon dia,” she said. “You are all here. Good. I of course met you all when you got off the train, but again, I introduce myself. I am Lucia Cabrera of the Olympiad Committee and I welcome you to Barcelona. We will have a nice walk to the Montjuïc Stadium, where you will meet other athletes and members of the Olympiad committee. So off we go.”

Irv stepped up the pace and fell in alongside Lucia.

“Did you sleep well, Senyor Jenkins?”

“Senyor? Please call me Irv.”

“As you wish … Irv.”

“That’s better. And yes, I slept well. I was exhausted. But I have to say this city has bowled me over.”

“Bowled over?” said Lucia.

“Yes, it means I am astonished at what is happening here. Although I am a student, I have been involved in support of union struggles and political fights, but for us the future seems far away. Here you are actually doing it.”

“It is too bad you must go home after the Olympiad. You could learn many things from us.” She turned back to the group behind her. “That, my friends, is the coliseum,” she said, pointing to the structure which would hold seventy thousand people for the games. A large building with several entry ways loomed in front of them.

As they walked into the coliseum and its large oval grassy area set up for the individual sports, the Americans marveled at the number of athletes that came to participate in the Olympiad. Each country had their national flags and banners of their trade unions or political organizations. The workouts and practices had begun, and the Americans left to join the others.

Lucia called to Coach Chamberlain.

“I have a meeting with the other members of the committee. When practice is over, I will meet you by Gate Seven and walk you back to the hotel.”

* * *

As scheduled, the American team, tired and sweaty, met Lucia at Gate Seven. It was early evening.

Lucia was subdued, as if there was a death in the family.

Irv went over to her.

“You seem troubled. Is everything ok?”

“Everything is ok, as you say it.” She placed her hand on Irv’s arm. “We should get to the hotel.”

The team left the stadium and walked down La Rambla towards the Hotel Europa. There was a marked difference in the demeanor of the people. The carnival atmosphere had evaporated, replaced by tension. Union members from the CNT urgently entered and left a bar called La Tranquilidad. Irv thought the name belied the atmosphere on La Rambla. Nothing seemed tranquil.

“Something’s off, Irv,” said Chick.

“I know. Notice the guys with the red and black armbands leaving that bar? Some of them have rifles and old shotguns.”

Once back at the hotel, Lucia instructed the American team to go into the dining area and wait for her. After several minutes, she came in with other committee members who were in charge of their respective country’s athletes. They all went to the tables to tell the athletes the news.

Lucia went to the table of her American team.

“I am afraid our night out in the city must be postponed.”

Groans of disappointment rose from the team.

“But why, Lucia?” said Irv.

“We are getting reports that the military has risen against the Government.”

A chorus of questions erupted.

Lucia held her hands up.

“Please, we do not have all the information yet, but it seems that a military coup has started in the south of Spain and in the northwest. Reports are that they and their fascist allies are killing government officials and supporters of the republic, especially trade union people. We do not know what troops will be loyal to the government. There are several army garrisons here in the city and ten thousand soldiers. Their allegiance is uncertain. For your safety, we ask that you remain inside until the situation is clear. I will meet you in the morning with more news.”

The meetings with all the athletes ended and the Olympiad committee members gathered in the hotel lobby preparing to leave.

Irv rushed over to Lucia. “Will you be alright?”

“Yes, Irv, my comrades will get me safely home. I must see to my parents. Please stay inside. Do not go out tonight. It is not safe. Everyone is nervous and some have guns.” She kissed him on the cheek and walked out the door.

It was a sleepless night for the athletes in the Hotel Europa, especially for Irv, who thought of nothing but Lucia.

* * *

Sunday morning, the nineteenth of July, the day the Barcelona Olympics were to begin, Irv was yanked from sleep by what he thought were fireworks. He got out of bed, annoyed by this unusual hour for the celebration of the start of the Olympiad, when he heard pounding on his door.

“Irv, it’s me. Chick.”

A groggy Irv opened the door.

“What the hell is going on?”

At that moment sirens from the local factories shattered the dawn. A signal to the people of Barcelona that trouble had arrived.

“The Barcelona army garrisons have sided with the uprising in the south. Their fascist allies have joined them, but people are fighting back. The team is meeting in the dining room. Get dressed.”

Pandemonium filled the dining room. Teams from every country had assembled and emotions were high. In the background rifle fire, the staccato of machine guns and the boom of cannon shattered the dawn. Irv hoped Lucia was safe.

A few of the Germans ran to the lobby door to help the beleaguered people on the street, only to be met with the shredding of plaster over their heads as army snipers searched for targets.

“It’s clear we can’t go that way, mate.” Jimmy Higgins had come alongside Irv. Next to him was Hans.

The hotel manager, his normally impeccable attire in disarray, stood on a chair imploring in different languages for the athletes to stay inside.

Many ignored his pleading. They were not only athletes, trade unionists, and political activists; many were revolutionaries in their own countries. And if the revolution was there, in Barcelona, then so be it. They would fight for it.

“Alright you blokes, time to head out the back way through the kitchen. You with me?”

Irv and Hans looked at each other and nodded.

The kitchen staff had already departed. As members of the CNT union, they joined the militias to fight for their city and their lives.

Irv, Jimmy, and Hans walked out the back door and into a maelstrom of smoke, gunfire and carnage. Supporters of the Popular Front, union members, and militias were busy ripping up paving stones to build a barricade between buildings. Another street over, a car with armed civilians on its running boards sped along with a red and black banner streaming from the back window held by a man waving a pistol. The three athletes turned a corner to find civilians behind stacked-up furniture firing down the street. At the other end soldiers creeped up slowly towards them. They darted into doorways, poked out, shot at people, and darted back in.

A man near the barricade, sleeves rolled up and fingers bleeding from ripping up cobblestones for the barricade called them over and spoke to them in rapid fire Catalan.

Irv gestured to his two friends and said, “Olympiad. Do you speak English?”

“Sí, I speak English. I sailed to America many times on merchant ships.”

“What can we do to help?”

“We need barricades built. You are strong athletes, yes? We need the streets along this line blocked to keep the soldiers from getting through until we get more rifles. We can stop them here but go to the next street over. We can not let them flank us comrades or we are finished. Go now.” He raised a clenched fist. “Salut!”

As they left, a lorry filled with rifles arrived. Unarmed men and women claimed rifles and ammunition and returned to the barricade.

“Where do you think they are getting arms?” said Hans.

“Probably hidden away for today, or raided from gun shops,” said Jimmy.

They made their way to the Passeig de Gràcia, where people were digging up paving stones for yet another barricade. Irv walked over to an old man holding a spade, his face drenched in sweat, his face beet red from exertion.

Irv patted his chest, said “American”, and reached for the spade.

The old man beamed, handed the spade to Irv, hugged him, and waddled over to the shaded part of the street. Irv saw how others ripped up the stones and joined in. Before long, Jimmy was behind him, but not Hans.

“Where did our German friend go, Jimmy?”

“He would rather have a rifle in his hands than a shovel. I gather he has gone to find one.”

All morning Irv and Jimmy pried up paving stones and stacked them across the street, side by side with the supporters of the government. Anarchists stood next to their historical enemy, the police, and fired at a common enemy. The police of Barcelona had come out in support of the people. Runners came to the barricade with ammunition or to get volunteers for the fighting a street over. The smell of cordite enveloped the area, the sound of cannon and gunfire deafening among the closed in streets.

A young man came over to Irv and Jimmy and introduced himself in English. He said his name was Bernat and his father was the old man Irv took the spade from.

“Thank you for taking the spade from my father. He is stubborn and would not have given it up if you had not said you were an American here for the Olympiad.”

“Bernat, we have been here for hours. What is going on in Barcelona?”

They ducked as bullets flew by.

“As was feared, many of the garrisons here sided with the revolt in the south, but not all. It is still unclear how deep the support for the coup is among the ordinary soldiers. Some have come over to our side with their weapons and have told us the lies the officers have fed them, that we started a revolution and that they were protecting the government from us. Well, they will get a revolution now.”

“We need to find our friends, Bernat. Is it alright to leave this barricade?”

Bernat was astonished.

“My friends! You have risked your own lives for a country that is not your own. You can go anywhere you want. But be safe. We may need to call on you again.”

Jimmy and Irv started back to the hotel. The fighting was fierce. Army snipers fired at them and at one point they found themselves in the middle of a crossfire between armed workers and rebel soldiers. Smoke and ash wafted through the city as buildings burned. Cars and trucks loyal to the government, with union or revolutionary slogans painted on them, raced through the city with captured guns and ammunition from defeated army units. Trucks loaded with sand and burlap bags pulled up to crossroads where workers, under fire, filled the bags and erected still more barricades. The supporters of the republic and the Popular Front fought house to house and street by street. Workers, shop owners, men and women of all ages picked up a gun or helped build barricades. Bodies littered the streets.

In Barcelona harbor, Navy officers, sons of the upper class, exhorted their crews to join with the army in rebellion against the Popular Front. The sailors, working class and loyal to the government, killed the captains and officers of their ships and dumped them into the murky water.

Meanwhile, Hans met up with a group of armed civilians, showed them his Olympiad credentials, and was given a rifle and ammunition. He joined a group that assaulted a local army garrison and captured several dozen rifles and pistols. The rebel officers were shot. Soldiers, most misguided and lied to by their officers, were released. The weapons were distributed, and Hans moved on to his next target. He would kill fascists wherever they were.

As night began, it was clear the people of Barcelona with their passion and will to fight had the upper hand. Slowly much of the rebel army was pushed back to their garrisons where they were forced to surrender. Pockets of resistance from the army and their fascist allies were scattered all over Barcelona. The people sought them out, but with heavy losses on both sides.

Irv and Jimmy, tired and exhausted, struggled to get to the hotel. When they arrived, they could see the damage to the Europa. Windows were shattered and bullets had chipped away the façade. The dining room tables had been upended and moved to the lobby where the athletes who had stayed had made a barricade of their own. In the bar, a worried Coach Chamberlain holding a tumbler of scotch greeted them.

“You boys had me worried. We have been getting reports all day. It is hell on earth out there.”

“We know, Coach.”

“By the way, Irv. There is someone in the dining room waiting for you,” said the coach. He winked at Jimmy.

Irv rushed to it.

In a corner, slouched on the floor with her head down, was Lucia. Gone was the black dress and white shirt, replaced by brown corduroy pants, denim shirt and a red armband. Her face was smudged by grit and soot, and her unruly hair was tucked under a black beret. Next to her was a rifle almost as tall as her.

He quietly walked over and sat down beside her.

Startled, she woke and slapped a hand on his chest.

“Did I not tell you to stay inside?”

“Me? Look at you. From Olympiad guide to street fighter.”

She smiled and laid her head against his chest.

“It was horrible today. I have never seen so much death,” she said.

“Neither have I, Lucia. Is it over?”

“The government says we are winning, at least here in Barcelona, but the fighting is continuing. We do not know of the rest of Spain. There are battles in most of our cities.

“You cannot go home tonight, Lucia. It is still dangerous.”

“Do you have a suggestion, Senyor Jenkins?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

* * *

They came downstairs from Irv’s room the next morning to a hotel in shambles. All night they huddled in Irv’s bed, wondering if it was their last night on earth. They made love like it was.

A small staff of cooks, the ones that survived the fighting at their barricade, did their best to get breakfast for the athletes and guests of the hotel. The manager, minus his suit coat, walked among them, making sure they were comfortable given the situation. The staff at the hotel had been depleted. Many were still fighting in the city and some had been killed.

Coach Chamberlain and Jimmy sat at a table with coffee and toasted cheese and ham sandwiches. The sound of gun fire and cannon echoed around the city.

“Good, morning you two,” said the coach.

“Bon dia,” said Lucia.

“Where’s Hans, Jimmy?”

“He’s alright, mate. Came in about half an hour ago with one of the servers. Both looked pretty beat up, but strangely Hans seemed at peace, like the fighting purged him of his defeat in Berlin.”

“Chick took off after you two left yesterday. Said he wasn’t going to miss out on this. Guess I and some of others were the only ones with enough sense to stay here. I haven’t seen him yet,” said the coach.

“So, what now?” said Irv.

“I will see if the phones work and try to contact someone in the committee,” said Lucia.

She went over to the hotel manager and they went to his office.

“Sleep well, mate?”

“Yes, Jimmy … we did.”

A half hour later Lucia came back to the table.

“Bad news, I am afraid. Because of the situation not only here but in the rest of Spain, the government has cancelled the Olympiad. Fighting is still going on near the coliseum. Your embassies and the Olympiad committee are urgently requesting that you leave Spain and return to your countries. I am sorry, my friends, but it is for your own safety.”

A dejected Irv asked, “When are we to leave?”

“In a few days we expect. We must defeat the remaining soldiers first and thousands have to get out of the city so it will take some time arranging it.”

As they were discussing it, Coach Chamberlain tapped Irv on the shoulder and pointed to the lobby door.

Albert “Chick” Chaken walked towards them, his clothes soiled and bloody. Exhausted, he plopped down in a chair at the table.

“God, I could use a cup of coffee.”

Coach Chamberlain rose and went to him, concern etched on his face. “Are you injured?”

“No, Coach. Not my blood.”

“Here’s some coffee, Chick,” said Jimmy.

Lucia sat there. She knew what Chick and her city had gone through. Worried about her parents, she left soon after telling Irv she would meet up with him in a few days.

* * *

On the day they were to leave, the international athletes gathered in the lobby and dining area, cleaned up now that the initial fighting had ended. It was early evening.

The American team stood together by the reception desk.

Jimmy and Hans went to them.

“Well mates, if I don’t see you on the train have a safe voyage home. I am afraid our little corner of Europe has a spat on its hands. No telling how these things turn out.”

“I am staying, my friends,” said Hans. “I have no country as long as Hitler is in power and if I can’t fight fascists at home, then I will fight them here. There is a large column of volunteers forming with an anarchist leader named Durutti. They are marching out into the countryside to keep the rebel army in the west from taking Barcelona.”

Members of the Olympiad committee came into the hotel, a few less than before. Lucia was with them dressed in a one piece dungaree outfit, white cotton shirt, and her red armband.

She walked over to her American team. Her eyes glistened with sorrow.

Irv asked, “Are your parents alright?”

“Yes. they are well. The fighting was all around them and of course they were afraid. My mother had to plead with him not to go out in the street and fight, My father is an old socialist. He fears this uprising. He has seen it before, and it was always bad for people like us.”

“Where are the other committee members, Lucia?” said Coach Chamberlain.

“Sadly, some were killed in the fighting. We who are left will walk proudly with you to the station. Barcelona once again awaits you.”

As the athletes left the Hotel Europa for the last time, they were met with throngs of people cheering them. Even though the Olympiad had been cancelled, the people wanted them to know they were appreciated.

Off to one side, Irv saw Bernat and his father waving to him and cheering. Tears welled in his eyes and he shouted over to them. “We will be back. I will be back!”

Lucia moved over to him.

“Do you mean that, Irv?”

“Yes, I promise. Not just for them or the people of Barcelona. But for you.”

Irv drew her closer, and they walked arm and arm to the Estació de França and the train waiting to take the athletes home. They passed destroyed buildings and fires that remained out of control. Workers cleared rubble and removed bodies. Barcelona was wounded but not down.

As the American team boarded the train, Irv and Lucia embraced.

“Remember your promise, Irv. Come back to Barcelona, come back to me.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Irv standing by the train.

Chick slid open a train window and yelled down to Irv. “Come on, you lovesick lug, we’re leaving.”

Irv got on the train and sat next to Chick on the same hard bench they occupied when they came to Barcelona. It seemed like a year had passed.

“I’m coming back, Chick. I don’t know when or how but I am.”

“Same here, Irv. This is something worth fighting for. Do you think America knows what is happening here or care?”

“We are going home to a country in slumber. People better wake up.”

A whistle shrieked signaling the train was ready to leave. It gathered steam and chugged its way out of the station gaining speed. Rail workers saluted them with the clenched fist as they left the city. Irv watched the sun set on Barcelona and knew he would be back.

About the author

Lee Conrad lives in upstate New York. He is a Vietnam-era veteran; he worked at IBM and was a staff member at a major labor union. His stories have appeared in Down in the Dirt, Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Longshot Island, Commuterlit and The Magazine of History and Fiction. Connect with him on his website or on facebook.

About the illustration

Art produced for the People's Olympiad, 1936. Unknown provenance.