Free Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser

whistling in the yellow trees. The armed guard stood in front of the station house, speaking to the mayor, whose band of mourning could scarcely be seen on his lapel in the increasing dark. A faint gabble of roosters came from the oblique row of houses.
    As soon as the station was deserted, the passengers began to revive. The Catalans gathered their children, and pulled out the long loaves of bread. Even the Englishwoman brightened. Poor Mme. Porcelan, who was so anxious about her husband, stared at the Swiss across from her in the compartment, and wondered if his heavy, pitted head, thrown back against the antimacassar, would ever wake. The Hungarians leapt down from one car suddenly, laughing and cracking jokes, and disappeared into the town.
    It was a signal. The whole train, a string of pale faces pressed against the windows of first-class, a scramble of shoulders and heads blocked out in third, assumed vigor. A few Spanish families flocked on the platform, not speaking, moving into the town.
    A radio roared a sentence, shocking the train into full attention; and then digressed into a soft tango, the notes played sliding and loose, the jar and ripple of music reassuring everyone.
    Helen sat in Peapack’s compartment, tracing the letters in the lace border that repeated M-Z-A-M-Z-A . Peapack’s face, white and still fearful, stirred.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “I don’t feel so upset any more. I feel hungry now. Could we eat?”
    It was a very good idea.
    â€œOh, but wait,” said Peapack in alarm, “supposing the train starts to move, and we’re in the town?”
    â€œWe’ll be called,” invented Helen.
    Peapack was comforted.
    â€œThe café is very close.”
    The English couple, with their easy walk, was crossing the little square beside the station. The woman with them was shorter than they, who drooped over her slightly. Her dark hair was clawed with gray and fitted to her head, her eyes were deep in shadow. As she spoke, her mouth, russet-colored and startling, moved distinct and separate, drawing attention to itself so that it took a small additional effort to listen to her.
    â€œThere is no need,” she was explaining, with a strained note in her voice, as though her throat had been struck and was still ringing. “The Spanish gentleman will call us the moment the engineer says yes.”
    â€œThe engineer?” interrupted Helen, just behind them—“Is there any activity? Is the train going to move?”
    The woman turned. Her face did move with her smile, brightened as the small white teeth showed. The radio finished its tango in a shiver of high notes, and a wide final chord.
    â€œNobody knows, if the General Strike is to last a day or indefinitely. But we have a gentleman—a diplomat, a Spaniard—with us,who has gone to speak with the mayor, and to see whether anything can be done—even a cable would be a lot,” she added.
    â€œWeren’t you on the London train? Didn’t we see each other on the Channel?” The fair English girl dropped back to speak to Helen.
    Peapack hurried ahead, she snatched at the girl’s husband.
    Yes, said the English girl to Helen, they were all going to dinner. They weren’t sure yet where they’d go. The five went up the street to the café.
    It was the only place open in Moncada. All down the Calle Mayor, there were boarded-shut doorways and shy children in their corners, chain curtains that tingled under the breeze, pale thin dogs running across the street.
    The sidewalk was jammed. The five strangers broke into a file and crocodiled between the tables. Every chair was taken, every table was surrounded with chairs.
    The big radio announced its Barcelona stations.
    The lady from South America stopped, her hand up. Helen and the English looked at her.
    â€œThat’s why everybody’s here,” the lady finally commented. “It’s the radio. That was