Free Lost Cause by John Wilson Page A

bombers from the sky.
    Oh dear, I am preaching again, but it is hard not to. There are political slogans everywhere, on posters on ruined walls, on the crackling radios that people huddle around for news, in the speeches that we new recruits must listen to every day. It is a time for slogans.
    Since the truck brought us down from the mountains, my life has been a chaos of new sensations and experiences. Barcelona is a wonderful city, but it is being steadily ground to dust by the bombers who come every day and every night. The Spanish people I have met are wonderful, coping with the bombs, food shortages, no running water and only occasional electricity with a cheerfulness I couldn’t imagine if this were Toronto. Of course they believe passionately in what they are fighting for, and that makes a huge difference.
    We new recruits have been installed in a large ornate building on a street called Ramblas. In a few days we will be taken to our units in the countryside, but first we must be indoctrinated with the correct political ideas. Twice a day we sit and listen to a huge bear of a man with a strong Russian accent—Bob has nicknamed him Winnie the Pooh—explain why we are fighting and how it is a step toward the worldwide workers’ revolution, after which we will all live in a paradise similar to the one in Russia.
    Bob scoffs at the whole thing. “We know why we are going to fight,” he says. “We volunteered. We disobeyed our own governments and traveled halfway round the world to risk our lives. I don’t think we need Winnie to tell us.”
    Of course he only says this quietly to me. On the first day of lectures, one of the Americans—his name’s Carl and he’s a Communist taxi driver from the Bronx—asked if a rumor he had heard that the International Brigades were to be withdrawn from Spain was true. Winnie flew into a towering rage, yelling and screaming for almost an hour about how that sort of rumormongering only helped the Fascists and how anyone who helped the Fascists would be taken out and shot. No one has asked a question since then.
    The Englishman is odd. He insists that his name is Christopher, although the Americans persist in calling him Chris. I think they do it to annoy him. Christopher is tall and blond and speaks as if he has plums stuck in his cheeks. He comes from a very wealthy family and has a First Class Honors Degree in Classics and Romance Literature from Cambridge University. He is also an ardent Communist and hangs on Winnie’s every word.
    The Americans, whom Christopher calls Yanks, tease him mercilessly, but he takes it all in good spirits. Their favorite topic is how America had to come to bail England out in the Great War. Christopher simply smiles, thanks them and observes that at least they have showed up for this war on time.
    We are a mixed bunch and shouldn’t really be together. Each nationality—American, British, French and German—has their own battalion, but it is not as clear as that. There are so few volunteers now and there were so many casualties in the spring retreats, that it is much more mixed. In fact, I’ve heard that most of the battalions of the International Brigades are made up of Spanish conscripts. Anyway, we are to be kept together. There was some talk of putting us with the Americans in the Lincoln-Washington Battalion, but the decision has been made for us to join the Canadians. I’m pleased.
    When we are not listening to Winnie, we are taken out to help clear up bomb damage. It’s hard physical work, but what’s worse is seeing people’s lives reduced to smashed furniture, ripped clothes and torn photographs. Yesterday I found a porcelain doll in the ruins of an apartment. It was beautiful and expensive. What happened to the little girl who treasured this doll?
    There is a hospital in the basement of our building run by an American nurse with Spanish help. It’s for