Sands of Time

He was angry with himself for losing his temper. It wasn’t her fault that the Church had stood idly by while Franco’s Falangists had tortured and raped and murdered Basques and Catalans. It wasn’t her fault, Jaime told himself, that my family was among the victims.

Jaime had been a young boy then, but it was a memory that would be etched forever in his brain…

He had been awakened in the middle of the night by the noise of the bombs falling. They fell from the sky like deadly flowers of sound, planting their seeds of destruction everywhere.

"Get up, Jaime. Hurry!"

The fear in his father’s voice was more frightening to the boy than the terrible roar of the aerial bombardment.

Guernica was a stronghold of the Basques and General Franco had decided to make it an object lesson: "Destroy it."

The dreaded Nazi Condor Legion and half a dozen Italian planes had mounted a concentrated attack, and they showed no mercy. The townspeople tried to flee from the rain of death pouring down from the skies, but there was no escape.

Jaime, his mother and father, and two older sisters fled with the others.

"To the church," Jaime’s father said. "They won’t bomb the church."

He was right. Everyone knew that the church was on the side of the Caudillo, turning a blind eye to the savage treatment of his enemies.

The Miro family headed for the church, fighting their way through the panicky crowds, trying to flee.

The young boy held his father’s hand in a fierce grip and tried not to hear the terrible noises around him. He remembered a time when his father was not frightened, was not running away.

"Are we going to have a war, Papa? he had once asked his father.

"No, Jaime. That’s just newspaper talk. All we’re asking is that the government give us a reasonable amount of independence. The Basques and the Catalans are entitled to have their own language and flag and holidays. We’re still one nation. And Spaniards will never fight against Spaniards."

Jaime was too young then to understand it, but of course there was more at stake than the issue of the Catalans and Basques. It was a deep ideological conflict between the Republican government and the right-wing Nationalists, and what had started out as a spark of dissension quickly became an uncontrollable conflagration that drew in a dozen foreign powers.

When Franco’s superior forces had defeated the Republicans and the Nationalists were firmly in control of Spain, Franco turned his attention to the intransigent Basques: "Punish them."

And the blood continued to flow.

A hard core of Basque leaders had formed ETA, a movement for a Basque Free State, and Jaime’s father was asked to join.

"No. It is wrong. We must gain what is rightfully ours by peaceful means. War accomplishes nothing."

But the hawks proved stronger than the doves, and ETA quickly became a powerful force.

Jaime had friends whose fathers were members of ETA, and he listened to the stories of their heroic exploits.

"My father and a group of his friends bombed the headquarters of the Guardia Civil," a friend would tell him.

Or: "Did you hear about the bank robbery in Barcelona? My father did that. Now they can buy weapons to fight the Fascists."

And Jaime’s father was saying, "Violence is wrong. We must negotiate."

"We blew up one of their factories in Madrid. Why isn’t your father on our side? Is he a coward?"

"Don’t listen to your friends, Jaime," his father told him. "What they are doing is criminal."

"Franco ordered a dozen Basques executed without even a trial. We’re staging a nationwide strike. Is your father going to join us?"

"Papa – ?"

"We are all Spaniards, Jaime. We must not let anyone divide us."

And the boy was torn. Are my friends right? Is my father a coward? Jaime believed his father.

And now – Armageddon. The world was collapsing around him. The streets of Guernica were crowded with a screaming mob trying to escape from the falling bombs. All around them buildings and statues and sidewalks were exploding in showers of concrete and blood.

Jaime and his mother and father and sisters had reached the large church, the only building in the square still standing. A dozen people were pounding on the door.

"Let us in! In the name of Jesus, open up!"

"What’s going on?" cried Jaime’s father.

"The priests have locked the church. They won’t let us in."

"Let’s break the door in!"

"No!"

Jaime looked at his father in surprise.

"We don’t break into God’s house," his father said. "He will protect us wherever we are."

Too late, they saw the squad of Falangists appear from around the corner and open machine-gun fire on them, mowing down the unarmed crowd of men, women, and children in the square. Even as Jaime’s father felt the bullets tear into him, he grabbed his son and pushed him down to safety, his own body shielding Jaime from the deadly hail of bullets.

An eerie silence seemed to blanket the world after the attack. The sounds of guns and running feet and screams vanished, a trick of magic. Jaime opened his eyes and lay there for a long time, feeling the weight of his father’s body on him like a loving blanket. His father and mother and sisters were dead, along with hundreds of others. And in front of their bodies were the locked doors of the church.

Late that night, Jaime made his way out of the city, and two days later when he reached Bilbao, he joined ETA.

The recruiting officer had looked at him and said, "You’re too young to join, son. You should be in school."

"You’re going to be my school," Jaime Miro said quietly. "You’re going to teach me how to fight to avenge the murder of my family."