Free Alberto's Lost Birthday by Diana Rosie Page A

‘Is that why you talk funny?’
    I laugh. ‘Yes. It’s because usually I talk English. I’m from a city called Liverpool. It’s near the ocean and is a famous port. My uncle was a sailor. He married a
Spanish lady and brought her back home with him. My aunt María taught me Spanish, and whenever I was at her house, playing with my cousins, we would speak Spanish. And now I speak it every
day, but I’ll always sound a bit different because it’s not my native language.’
    ‘Are you a sailor too?’
    ‘No!’ I laugh at the thought. And yet, here I am, a soldier. ‘My father has a bookshop. I worked there before I came to Spain. I used to live above the shop with my
parents.’
    For a moment, I wonder how the bookshop is doing. While I was working with my father, I persuaded him to build up a section of political books. I had been keen because I was so interested in
current affairs and politics myself. I had also known it would bring in the union and party leaders, and the sales would be good for business. Dad had been reluctant at first, but soon we had
stocked everything from Marx and Lenin to Mussolini’s autobiography, and had become well known for our range.
    One of the regulars at the bookshop was John, a unionist down at the docks. He had invited me to meetings, where we had listened to speakers talk of the rise of the Fascists and the danger it
posed to the Labour movement. It was with John that I had gone to London and volunteered last year.
    ‘Why did you come to my country?’ asks Alberto.
    ‘Well, it’s complicated,’ I say cautiously. Perhaps the boy’s family are Nationalists. It’s not my place to confuse the child. How do I explain my reasons for
coming to fight?
    I hear my father’s words ringing in my ears. ‘Don’t go,’ he’d said. ‘It’s not your fight.’ But I’d always known I’d fight fascism,
ever since I had sat in the cinema and watched the newsreel showing them burning books in Germany, works of literature, philosophy and science all going up in flames. It had sent chills down my
spine. I had known that at some point I would have to stand up to the indoctrination, the persecution, the ignorance.
    ‘Alberto,’ I begin tentatively, ‘there are times when you see someone doing something bad and it makes you so angry that you have to do something about it. I think that the
Nationalists are doing something terribly wrong. And even though this is not my country, or my people, I want to try and make things better, fairer. I’ve come to help the Spanish people fight
against what I consider to be unjust and immoral.’
    The boy is silent.
    ‘Does that make any sense?’ I ask doubtfully, but looking down, I see that the dark shadow of the child is not by my side. Glancing back, I see he is standing still a few feet
behind.
    ‘Alberto?’
    ‘I just had a memory,’ says the boy softly.
    ‘What was it?’
    ‘I hit another boy.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Well, that’s great! Not great that you’re hitting other children, but great that you remember something. Perhaps that’s the beginning of your memory coming
back.’
    The boy is quiet; he seems to be lost in thought.
    ‘Maybe Ramón was right, Alberto,’ I say, trying to lift the mood a little. ‘Maybe we should take you with us to fight. I bet you’ve got quite a punch, eh?’ I
give his shoulder a light tap.
    After a pause, he throws a semi-serious punch at my leg.
    ‘Hmm – your technique needs a little work. Look, if you hold your hand like this, you won’t hurt your thumb.’ I lean down and carefully fold his little hand into a fist.
‘And if you’re going to hit someone, bring your arm up like this – in a jab. See?’
    Alberto jabs his arm quickly and lands a punch on the side of my head. Losing my balance, I fall to the ground heavily.
    ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘watch what you’re doing!’ With that, I pull him down and pummel him. He rolls on the ground