A Thunderous Whisper (27 page)

“I’d say you’ve got a real blessing there … to be able to tell stories like that. Not many people have the gift of getting others to listen to them.” She bit at her fingernail. “Maybe we can have you do something at the camp. What do you think?”

My eyes darted toward the window. In the distance, I could already see what seemed to be land.

England. A new country, a new life, was just on the horizon.

Could this be my chance? I wanted to be able to share Mathias’s stories and tell everyone there what was happening back home.

“I’d like that,” I replied. “Maybe I could be a reporter … or something.”

The nurse chuckled a bit. “Well, you certainly dream big!”

I tightened my grip on the brass weight in my pocket—so much that I could feel it leaving an imprint on the palm of my hand.

“I was thinking more along the lines of you telling the children stories … to keep them from being so lonely.” She gave me a wink. “We’ll see how it goes from there. Who knows what else you might do.”

I gave her a slight nod.

“Good.” She began to walk away when she suddenly turned on her heels and quickly came back. “I almost forgot.
I’m Nurse Estévez.” She looked down at the yellow paper pinned to my shirt. It had become slightly crumpled over the course of the night, and one of the corners was folded over, hiding part of what was written. “And what’s your name?” she asked.

It was such a simple question, but so many things flashed through my head.

Everything with a name exists. That was the old Basque saying, but who was it that existed? Mamá’s
neska
? Papá’s
preciosa
? How about Sardine Girl, who had no friends? Or Mathias’s princess? Maybe it was Diego’s storyteller?

Perhaps Mamá had been right about something—it
was
time for me to make a choice. I could choose to be a whisper, or I could make myself heard.

In my pocket, I unclenched my fist and let go of the brass weight.

A new girl existed. One who would thunder … who would matter.

I straightened up and smiled at Nurse Estévez. “My name is Anetxu,” I said. “But my friends call me Ani.”

EPILOGUE

T
he trip from London to Guernica had been planned for weeks. So much had changed in the years since I’d first left Spain. I no longer resembled the twelve-year-old daughter of the
sardinera
and, after almost forty years of Basque culture being outlawed, I didn’t expect Guernica to be the same either.

But the reality was worse than I’d imagined. The city no longer felt familiar. Some buildings were modern and others had been
made
to look old. In the months since Franco’s death, the new Spanish government had granted the Basque people the right to speak their language and celebrate their culture, but too much had already been lost. Two generations of cultural secrecy had taken its toll. I wasn’t sure if it could be recaptured.

I paused and looked through the window of a small store on the main street of Guernica. The building was similar
to the one that used to stand there, but I knew the truth. It wasn’t the original.

Inside the shoe store, a little girl was trying on a pair of white sandals and she twirled around in front of her mother, clearly pleased with the pretty shoes. It made me flash back to the times before the bombing when Carmita would ask to play with Mathias and me. Perhaps Carmita had children of her own by now. I wondered if she even remembered us or her time in Guernica.

The little girl in the store seemed to sense my eyes on her, so she stopped spinning, looked at me, and waved. I smiled and waved back, briefly catching my reflection in the storefront window.

I was now older than my mother was when she had been killed. The oversized sunglasses I was wearing couldn’t hide the little wrinkles time had etched on my face. Yet, even after so many years, here I was, longing to feel connected to my first home.

I kept walking. The answer would not be found in the city. So I headed for the outskirts of Guernica, and a field that I hoped still remained. The Garzas had sold their land after the war, and I wasn’t sure who owned it anymore.

As I walked up the mountainside, the familiar smells and feelings of my childhood returned. Memories of Papá sharing his stories and that first day when I met Mathias came flooding back. I picked up the pace as a gentle breeze urged me forward.

And then I was there, in the field, my tree within sight.
As I approached, I noticed that a skinny little tree, not more than ten feet high, had sprung up only a few yards away.

I had planned to sit in the shade of the old oak again, but something drew me to the younger tree.

It was carefully tended, with a circle of rocks surrounding the base. Then I noticed a small wooden sign.

A single tear ran down my cheek while a smile, as big as all of Spain, spread across my face. I had found the connection I most needed. I read the words that only one person could have written.

“
This
is Ani’s tree.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This story came about because of several, seemingly unrelated occurrences. It began in a brief conversation with a friend about art and Pablo Picasso’s famous painting
Guernica
(in which I discovered that I knew embarrassingly little on either subject). I had a strong desire to learn more about my Basque heritage. And then a random photo of a
sardinera
sparked my imagination. It’s funny how a quote from Picasso sums up what I was doing: “Inspiration exists, but it has to find us working.”

Pablo Picasso’s famous mural
Guernica (courtesy of the Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society [ARS], New York)

My great-great-grandmother Justa and her daughter Bernarda in the Basque countryside, circa 1917

While I was writing and doing research for the story, it became evident that I needed to visit Guernica to truly appreciate the people and atmosphere of the city. Most of the city was destroyed during the bombing, so I had to depend on old photographs and the lovely people of Guernica to show me what the city looked like before that fateful day of April 26, 1937.

Guernica before the bombing—Plaza de los Fueros
(courtesy of the Center of Documentation Regarding the Gernika Bombing
,
Gernika Peace Museum Foundation)

Guernica after the bombing
(courtesy of the Center of Documentation Regarding the Gernika Bombing, Gernika Peace Museum Foundation)

After the devastation caused by the bombing, fear of another massive attack caused thousands of Basque parents to send their children to England to keep them out of harm’s way. These children were first placed in a makeshift camp in Southampton and eventually sent to homes all over Great Britain. By the time World War II began in 1939, the Spanish Civil War was over and most of the Basque children returned to their parents. However, about four hundred Basque children remained in England because
their parents either had died during the Spanish Civil War or had been imprisoned.

1937 photo of Basque children at Stoneham Camp in Eastleigh, Southampton, England
(courtesy of the Basque Children of
’37 Association UK)

My understanding of Guernica’s history was brought to life by often painful retellings by those who experienced the bombing. I am truly grateful to Ana Teresa Núñez Monasterio of the Gernika Peace Museum and to José Angel “Txato” Etxaniz Ortuñez of the Historical Society of Guernica (Gernikazarra), who not only showed me what was readily available in their collections but walked the town with me, pointing out little-known facts, and even snuck me into one of the old air-raid shelters. Their hospitality strengthened my connection to my Basque heritage.
Eskerrik asko!
Thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I am grateful to so many for giving me the opportunity to work with my ideas and allowing me to discover my inspirations.

First and foremost, I thank the Lord for all my many blessings, including my husband and my two greatest joys, my sons.

Thank you to all of the Diaz/Gonzalez/Pintado/Eguiguren/Vazquez-Aldana/Llerena/Alcazar/Roiz/Garcia/Buigas members who make up my loving, supportive, boisterous (nice way to say loud), unique (a nicer way of saying slightly crazy) family.… I love you all!

For all my writer friends, who understand the roller-coaster ride of this business, thank you for keeping me sane. To those of you who gave me feedback and advice when this story was in its early stages, Adrienne Sylver, Linda Rodriguez Bernfeld, Gaby Triana, Joyce Sweeney, Bel Miranda, Liz Trotta, Mary Thorpe, Sylvia Lopez, and Kay Cassidy,
muchas gracias!
A special thank-you (and a tall peppermint mocha) to my writing cohort, Danielle
Joseph, who gives me such wonderful writing advice and always saves my favorite chair at our local Starbucks.

Thank you to all the amazing booksellers, librarians, and teachers who encourage me with their enthusiasm and love for stories, especially Debra, Becky, Jeanne, and Allison, who turn my favorite bookstore into a refuge.