The Warrior (A Song for Guernica)

All of his students had left. Some had picked up rifles and joined the anarchists, others had joined the workers union. Still others had sold their belongings and dared the treacherous mountain trail to France in the dead of night. Aimar didn’t know what all of them had done, all he knew was that they were gone. He walked through the empty room and armed himself with the only thing he had: his bow and cello.

The instrument was old, how old Aimar couldn’t say. It had been his father’s, and his grandfather’s, and even his great-grandfather’s, but it may have been even older still. The neck had snapped in half and Aimar had given a good sum of money to see the instrument revived. A visiting carpenter had shaped it for him, carving the neck carefully from a Norwegian spruce. The strings were new too. One of Markel’s sheep had died while birthing a lamb, so he had given the intestines to Aimar. Cutting, drying, and twisting them had taken a week, but it had all been worth it when he drew his bow across the cello and it sang to him in that beautiful voice he had grown to love. Although the strings and neck had been replaced, the body remained untouched. When Aimar played he swore he could still hear his father’s voice, deep like the crashing of waves. There were other voices too, ones Aimar didn’t know, but they sang along in perfect harmony nonetheless.

Now he sat atop his home, his birthplace and the only place he had ever wanted to be. Below him the village was still. Several small carts rattled over the cobblestone street, men ran alongside it and hoisted their children into their wives hands. Farmers lead their stubborn horses, legs wobbling under their owner’s belongings. They passed by the Gernikako Arbola and nodded their heads solemnly. The tree was nearly five hundred years old, their oaken god, a hand that reached high in the sky and desired to lift all of its people with it. The sounds of the carts was fading now, and with them all of the smiling faces that Aimar knew and loved. They were afraid, and reasonably so. Word had come this morning that the village was unsafe. Nobody knew where the message had come from, and nobody knew why, but for some reason the Nationalists saw their little village as a threat.

Aimar pondered the silence. He played on his rooftop every day after taking lunch, but this was the first time it had ever been silent. They’ll be back, he told himself. But will I be here still? He pushed the thoughts deeper down and searched for bravery within himself. Noon came and went, but the church’s bell stayed quiet. The priest has fled too. The thought wasn’t comforting, if a man of God was afraid what hope did the rest of them have? Aimar lifted the cello upright and brought it close. He breathed in the still air, and noted that it didn’t carry the smells it usually did. The smell of Santiago’s spices, the smell of Markel’s dogs as they explored the market, the smell of manure as cattle, horse, and sheep were paraded through the village. It seemed that the place itself was forgetting the people who had left, it made it even harder for Aimar to remember. His hand shook, but as he drew the bow along the strings it steadied as it always did. Music cures all.

The humming grew roots, and sunk them deep into Aimar, then there was nothing he could do but smile and let the cello play itself. He was merely the instrument. He closed his eyes as the bow dragged his hand back and forth, back and forth. Letting the melody soothe his fears. He thought of his wife, O my sweet Karmele! The taste of sweat on her lips, and that lovely bright smile beneath. An ache struck his heart as his cello struck a sad tone. She had been gone nearly two years, it was hard for him to believe. Her name means song, he reminded himself. Sing for her!

Just then a woman’s voice joined the chorus, shrill and reverberating, dripping with emotion as she sang. Aimar opened his eyes to see Oihane, her cheeky smile as rosy as any other day. Peeking their heads through the shuttered windows of the house, her nine girls joined in the singing. Oihane had opened her house to orphan girls after the spring sickness that had ravaged their village several years prior. Every day they would stroll around the tree like a train of ducks, Oihane waddling in the front. Aimar couldn’t help but laugh every time he saw them.

Next to join them were Benin the baker and Benin the butcher. Benin the baker was shooing flies away from the fresh loaves that were cooling outside of his bakery, and Benin the butcher carried a haunch of beef over his shoulder. When they heard Aimar’s strings they both stopped what they were doing and let music fly from their throats.

Neither could claim to be a singer, it wasn’t a very pretty sound, but there was raw emotion in their cries that pulled at Aimar’s heart. The two men couldn’t be more different; Benin the baker was thin, old, and grey from his clothes to his beard while Benin the butcher was young, fat, and wore fresh blood on his work clothes. On any other day the two would argue about who was the better Benin, the wiser Benin, or the stronger Benin. Right now however they appeared as brothers, singing together and forgetting all else but song.

Aimar smiled, this is where he wanted to be. If I must die, what better place to do it than here? Just then a new sound joined his song; a mechanical, eerie buzzing. Out of the clouds they emerged, there were at least twenty of them, each racing towards the village.

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Guernica came into view below them. The village was caught in a valley, with high mountains jutting up from the east and a calm stream meandering down from the heights of the surrounding hills. A forest lined the valley, and reached its fingers towards the village. Ash elm and alder all stretched their heads upward, but none stood as tall as the tree in the center of Guernica. It was a giant, a beautiful giant.

“9 points south.” said Horst. An unlit cigarette hung from his mouth, and a smirk formed on his lips. The imperial eagle on the shoulder of his flight jacket seemed to smirk too.

“9 points south.” repeated Karl. Horst didn’t like him and that was no secret, but as co-pilot Karl had no choice but to obey his orders.

With a slight tilt of the joystick he sent the Junker on a slow descent towards the village. Beads clinked together as his rosary swung from the switch above him where it was tied. Gerda had demanded that he bring it with him. Although Karl didn’t share his wife’s love for the Roman Church he had obliged to hang it. He didn’t believe the wooden carving of Jesus would provide him any protection, but it did seem to calm his nerves, and for that he was grateful. In contrast was the twisted cross painted in red along the outside of the Junker. Karl was patriotic, but as much as they told him that it was a symbol of good fortune, all he saw was a bad omen.

“Prepare the load.” commanded Horst.

“Preparing load.” said Karl, unbuckling and climbing into the back compartment.

Karl had spent the last two years as a student at the flight academy in Liebenscheid, and had been given the great honor of being hand-picked for Luftwaffe’s Condor Legion. Gerda was overjoyed at the news, but the other members of the Condor Legion weren’t too happy to have him there. Most of them had flown at least twice as long as Karl had, and all of them had needed to work extremely hard to have a place in the Condor Legion. Horst and the others called Karl a balloon, claiming that he was ‘big headed and floated up too high,’ with the promise that he would ‘pop and fall out of the sky’ before too long. Karl hoped they were wrong. He had flown with them before, but this was a different kind of mission. This time they had bombs.

Karl lifted the black sheet from on top of the canisters. They were all marked with the imperial eagle and stood to Karl’s chest. He checked each one to make sure it was well attached in its place, then he undid the safety latch. A rush of cold air flooded the chamber, and Karl had to hold on tight to his flight cap to keep it from leaving his head. Satisfied, Karl returned to his place in the cockpit.

“What took you so long balloon?” asked Horst with another one of his smirks.

“Load ready.” responded Karl, ignoring the jest. His eyes fell to the photo clipped onto his side of the dash. His beautiful Gerda, with their daughter Ingrid. The two of them spinning in each other’s arms, wearing matching dirndls. Although the photograph was made in shades of blacks and whites, Karl saw the colors as he remembered them. Red, everything was so very red; Gerda’s hair was a deep red, and Ingrid’s slightly lighter, their dirndls were red too, just as red as the barnhouse behind them. Karl smiled.

“Steady.” said Horst.

“Steady.” repeated Karl, bringing his hand to the release lever. He looked out of the cockpit and saw that the village was very near now. Several of their legion were already upon it. Karl watched as another Junker dropped its load over the cathedral tower. The red bricks crumbled, and the bell sounded for the last time as it fell to the earth. Directly ahead of them was the great tree, and there were people too. They were gathered in the center of the plaza, and they were… singing. Karl couldn’t hear them, but he saw the way they held hands, the way they swayed. He saw a man playing a cello atop a building and he heard the melody, or thought he did at least.

“Release.” came Horst’ command.

Karl froze. The sight of the man playing cello had brought music to him. He saw Ingrid, holding the miniature violin that she had wanted so badly. The smile upon her face as she screeched her first couple of notes. Her tears as she told him that there must be something wrong with it because it didn’t sound beautiful. “Practice makes all things beautiful.” Karl had told her with a playful touch to her nose.

“RELEASE GODDAMMIT!” shouted Horst.

“No.” said Karl, not sure where the notion had come from to deny orders.

“YOU DON’T TELL ME NO!” came the reply. Horst reached for the lever himself, but Karl grabbed his hand.

“They told us these were dangerous enemies, all I see are villagers.” he said quietly. The look on the pilot’s face was one of outrage. He swung a fist at Karl and caught him in the jaw. Then there was another to his nose, and a third to his eye. Karl heard the lever pull, and the world below them lit up in flames.

Hell never felt so near.

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The shepherd inched through the rubble with caution. To some he was known as Abdul, to others Jabir, still others called him Santiago, or Jóse. Here though he was merely a nameless wanderer, a wanderer with a small flock of sheep. Bricks were strewn about the plaza along with the loaves of bread and the corpses. The bodies were covered with a thin layer of grey dust, a dark black where it had soaked in blood. A fire still burned in the remains of the cathedral, painting the brickwork orange, and giving the impression that something danced within it. A bell lay broken in half at its base.

Using his staff for support, the shepherd climbed over the smoldering remains of a giant tree. Upon looking back he saw that his sandals had left perfect tracks in the dust. His sheep explored the plaza with a quickly fading interest for there was no green to find here. They sniffed at corpses, then shied away at the smell of blood. The shepherd found his way down into the very center of the plaza and came upon a circle of bodies half-buried in rubble. He pulled his keffiyeh tight up against his mouth, the linen would protect his lungs from breathing in the terrible dust.

Before him lay a mystery; an old man resting on his back. His body was tangled in the broken pieces of a cello. In one hand the man grasped the snapped bow tightly, and his mouth was agape and full of dust. Love, thought the shepherd. This man’s name was love. He knelt down, kissed his own dark hand, and placed it on the man’s forehead in silent blessing.

A shout erupted from a nearby building, and the shepherd stood and held out his staff instantaneously in defense. The building was the tallest in the village, yet now it was merely two walls and a dozen broken windows. The shepherd made his way slowly towards the building, and as he drew near he saw three young girls laying dead in each other’s arms. Their fists were clenched tightly in fear. The shepherd whispered a blessing. Then he passed another group of young girls that had been crushed beneath the building. All he saw was a tangle of hair and limbs, a hand holding another, and a young face with a black dent in it. Tears came to the shepherd at the sight. When will they learn? When will they ever learn? This isn’t war, this is massacre.

The sound of sobbing reached his ears just as he began crying. It was very near now. He followed it into the remains of the building and found a young girl there, no more than four years old. Her hair was tied loosely above her head with a red ribbon, and her cheeks were streaked with wet dust. She stood over an old lady in an apron, shaking her shoulders and crying when she got no response. A brick shifted beneath the shepherd’s foot and the little girl darted behind the massive belly of the dead lady to hide.

“Sweet thing, I am no danger to you.” said the shepherd.

The girl climbed out from behind the old lady, a brick in each hand. With a shout, she threw one at the shepherd. It hit his leg, scraping off skin, and burning as it drew blood. Then she threw the other, this time the shepherd stepped aside. The girl ran again, picking up two new bricks.

“Girl, I am a friend.” whispered the shepherd, kneeling down to her level. She threw another brick, which he caught mid air and set down beside him. Then another, which he took in the stomach. Another came flying, then another. He dodged both easily.

“I am a friend.” he said again. The girl searched desperately for anything more to throw, but there was nothing. She tried to lift the remains of a bookcase, but it was no use. The shepherd removed his cloak and stepped towards the girl. She curled up on the ground, helplessly, finally surrendering. He wrapped the cloak around her quivering shoulders and knelt down again. With a touch to her chin he directed her to look at him.

“You are safe now.” he said with the best smile he could manage despite the carnage. “You will be safe now, and you will be called Azhara because you are a flower found in the midst of death.” It was clear she didn’t understand him, but it mattered not. He reached for her and she didn’t shy away. Laying down his staff, he took her in both arms and held her close to his body. Then he turned to leave the ruined building, pulling the cloak tight to her face as they passed the crushed bodies of the other girls.

As they walked out from the rubble his sheep fell in silently beside him. The sun was low in the sky, burning out like a tired candle. The shepherd began to sing the only lullaby he knew, whispering the words into the ear of the little girl.

“I would tell you the answer, but it seems that I’ve forgotten it.

I wrote it down years ago and locked it in a box.

And my box has no key, because the key is at the blacksmith.

And the blacksmith wants money, and the money is with the bride.

And the bride wishes for a man, and the man in turn for children.

And the children want milk for breakfast, and the milk is with the cow.

And the cow needs grass, and the grass is way up on the mountain.

And the mountain needs rain, and the rain is from God.

So let it rain, please God let it rain!

Let it rain so that I may know the answer once again!”

He could feel the girl’s little heartbeat slow against his chest. Her head drooped onto his shoulder, a wet spot where her tears had soaked in. She wasn’t crying anymore however, now she slept in peace.