Free Lost Cause by John Wilson

was going to visit where the battle happened; it’s not too far from the city. When I heard that you were coming, I decided to wait. Perhaps we could tour the battlefields together?”
    â€œYeah!” I almost shouted. Mentally I slapped myself for being such an idiot and tried to say something intelligent. “If Grandfather mentions places in his journal, we could visit them.”
    â€œWe could,” Laia said, her face wreathed in a smile. “You have the journal, and I shall be your tour guide. When I heard you were coming, I did some research and printed out information from a website about the battle. It lists the memorials for the Ebre battle with pictures and maps. We shall use them. They are in Spanish, but I shall translate for you.”
    â€œYou can be my guide,” I said, thinking that whoever was helping DJ up his mountain could be nothing like my guide through the history of this strange and complex land. “And we can read the journal as we go, as close to where it was written as possible.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea. We can start tomorrow on the train to the Ebre. It’s only a few hours' journey.”
    â€œYes,” I said, afraid to say more in case I started babbling inanely. All the talk of death and tragedy vanished, replaced by the thought of traveling with Laia.
    â€œThen that’s what we will do,” Laia said, standing. “But I have kept you waiting for pizza long enough. On the way, more history. I will show you my street.”
    â€œYour street?” But Laia was already on her way out of the square. I jumped to my feet and hurried after her.
    Laia led the way for about 30 meters down yet another narrow street and then abruptly turned right. I almost bumped into her as I turned the corner.
    â€œ Baixada de Santa Eulalia ,” she said. “The Descent of Saint Eulalia. She is the patron saint of Barcelona, and her body lies in the cathedral. Perhaps I will show you if we have time.”
    â€œWhat happened to her?” I asked, still confused as to why this was Laia’s street.
    â€œAbout three hundred years after Christ, Eulalia was asked by the Romans to deny Him. She refused and was tortured thirteen times, once for every year of her age, ending with decapitation. It is said a dove flew out of her severed neck. Legend has it that it was on this street that she suffered one of her tortures, being rolled along inside a barrel with knives sticking through it. So, the Descent of Saint Eulalia.”
    â€œAnother cheerful Barcelona story,” I said. “But why is it your street?”
    â€œThat is my name,” Laia said with a mischievous wink. “Laia is a short form of Eulalia. I am named for a saint, just like you, except your Saint Stephen was only stoned to death.” With a laugh, Laia set off again.

    JUNE 29
    The planes come over in broad daylight, so low I feel I could reach out and touch them. They are black and evil and fly in a V formation like the geese in the fall back home. It is possible to see the bombs fall, small objects that wobble stupidly on the way down. They look harmless until the explosion rips through a building, tearing down walls, shattering windows and shredding clothing and flesh.
    If there is time, people run for shelter in the subway, but often the planes appear with no warning. The bombers have complete freedom of the sky, although this morning a solitary squat biplane, a Chato I was told, appeared and attacked. One of the bombers peeled off and limped away, smoke trailing from one engine, but the Chato burst into flames and crashed into the sea.
    What good is the pilot’s bravery with the odds so heavily stacked in the enemy’s favor? And it is Canada’s fault! If we, and the United States, Britain and France, supported the Spanish government, there would not be one obsolete Russian fighter but a squadron of modern fighters able to sweep the black German and Italian