Alberto's Lost Birthday (8 page)

As we snigger, Martín sighs. ‘Oh, what I would give for a plate of lamb chops and a cup of cider.’

‘Beef stew for me,’ says Víctor. ‘With my Patricia’s bread to mop up the sauce.’

‘Men, men,’ states Ramón, ‘you have not eaten great food until you have tasted my sausages. I know about pigs and I can tell you that a happy pig makes a tasty
sausage—’

‘Fish and chips,’ I interrupt, before Ramón gets carried away talking about his pigs.

‘Ha,’ scoffs Martín, ‘the English are not famous for their food.’

‘Ah, Martín, you would love it. Imagine the very best calamari batter – thick and crunchy. Bite through that and inside is soft, steaming fish. And served with it, deep-fried
potatoes, with vinegar splashed over them.’

‘Vinegar?’ I hear Ramón sneer.

‘One day, Ramón, I’ll take you to the finest fish and chip shop in Liverpool. Then you’ll see,’ I reply, smiling to myself. For a moment, I can smell the vinegar
and hear the bubbling of the fat, and it makes me think of time spent with June.

I first met her when she came into the bookshop, looking for Orwell’s
Burmese Days
. As I searched for it, I’d made a comment about British imperialism. In a flash, she had
disputed my opinion and accused me of utopianism. Before I knew it, we’d been talking politics for half an hour and she’d had to dash back to the solicitor’s office where she
worked.

She had left so quickly she had forgotten to take the book. So when she came back the next day, I’d wrapped her book in brown paper and mentally prepared a speech to ask her out.
She’d smiled a slightly crooked smile that I had already come to adore and agreed. That Saturday, we went for a long walk in the damp cold and ended up at the steamy fish and chip shop, where
we drank endless cups of tea and talked. As I watched her blow on her vinegar-drenched chips, I knew I had fallen for her.

‘I think it sounds delicious,’ says a young voice.

‘Emilio, is that you?’ I gasp. I turn to the indistinguishable figure that spoke.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ replies the youngster.

‘Emilio, you’re supposed to be securing the flanks.’

‘Pah!’ he retorts. ‘There’s no one else on this road – we’d all see a vehicle approaching. All I’m doing is walking into farts.’

Sighing, I reach for Emilio’s shadowy arm and pull him to one side.

‘Ramón,’ I say quietly, ‘we’ll see you at the next break.’

‘Rrrighto, Rubio,’ comes the reply.

I know that Emilio is young: he claims to be eighteen, although I think he’s closer to sixteen. But the teaching of modern warfare skills is one of the reasons I’m with this group.
However, it seems no matter how I try to instil a sense of professionalism in them, the Spanish sense of relaxed optimism always triumphs.

As we fall back from the rest of the group, I gently explain again how important it is to protect the rear. I remind him to use all of his senses, and how to hold his gun ready. I can sense
Emilio’s sulkiness as I also instruct him not to smoke when he’s marking the rear. He sucks on his cigarette and the glowing end casts an orange glimmer across his sullen face.

Walking quietly, I listen to the cicadas, and in the far distance, a dog barks. The air smells faintly of mimosa. The night has a chill to it and I pull up my collar. Emilio finishes his
cigarette and I hear him flick the butt towards the bushes on the roadside.

Suddenly, I hear a rustle. Emilio hears it too and we both stop, holding our breath and looking into the darkness. The noise came from where Emilio’s cigarette must have landed. It’s
probably just an animal, but I lift my gun.

When no further noise comes, we edge slowly towards the bushes. Although I can see nothing, I can sense something. An animal would have scampered off as soon as it heard anything large approach.
Gently pushing Emilio to the left, I step towards the right of the bushes.

‘Show yourself,’ I state loudly.

We stand, waiting and alert, but nothing happens.

I’m just about to repeat myself when leaves suddenly rustle and twigs crack. I can just make out the small figure that emerges from behind the outline of the bush.

‘Come here!’ I say forcefully, trying to hide my confusion.

I hear Emilio shift his gun as the figure wrestles its way out of the bushes. As the black shape makes its way towards me, I reach into my pocket and pull out my lighter.

‘Stop there!’ I snap when the figure is a few feet from me.

I flick the flint and a fat flame bursts from the lighter. I lower it towards the shadowy form and Emilio and I find ourselves staring at a small boy. He is filthy and dishevelled, with bits of
twig and leaves sticking out of his hair.

I drop to my haunches.

‘Be careful – it may be some kind of decoy,’ whispers Emilio earnestly.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask the child, ignoring Emilio.

‘Alberto,’ comes the whispered reply.

‘How did you get here?’

‘I walked.’

‘Where from?’

At this, I see the child’s chin tremble; then his face crumples and tears start to roll down his cheeks. I drop my gun, pull the boy into my body and hug him hard. Feeling the child sob
into my chest, I try to decide the best course of action.

By the time the crying has subsided to muffled snuffling, I’ve made up my mind.

‘Emilio, take the boy ahead to the unit. Tell them to break early. We’ll get the boy a cup of tea and look at the map – let’s see if we can drop him off somewhere
safe.’

‘Yes, sir,’ says Emilio. At last, he is responding to an order. I hope it’s not too dark for the child to see me smile at him. Then I stand and let Emilio take Alberto’s
hand to lead him off.

By the time I reach the unit, they have built a small fire and are heating some water. Ramón is doing piglet impressions for the child, who giggles at the silliness. The
other men look on, smiling.

For an instant, it strikes me that it is this compassion that we are fighting for. The Fascists have no time for kindness, only power and discipline. We believe in supporting the poorest and a
fairer life for all. And yet, it is this compassion that could be our downfall.

Dispelling such an unsettling thought, I sit on a rock by the fire. Ramón sees me and, placing his beret on the boy’s head, passes him to Emilio.

‘So, Rubio,’ he says, crossing to me, ‘I see you are still recruiting fighters. Don’t you think this one is a little young?’

I smile and accept a cup of weak tea from José.

‘Did you find out where he came from?’ I ask.

‘Emilio asked. He can’t remember anything. He doesn’t know the name of his village or what family he has. The only thing he remembers is his name – Alberto Romero. And a
car. He says he remembers a car. He says he’s been walking and walking but has no idea for how long.’

‘Poor kid. Any idea what we can do with him?’

Felipe hands Ramón the map and he points a dirty finger to a small town.

‘This is the nearest place that we know has plenty of Republican support. There are no reports of Nationalists there yet. The best thing to do is take him to the Church – they will
look after him.’

I give Ramón a steady stare.

‘The Church?’ I ask, incredulous.

‘Rubio,’ replies Ramón curtly, ‘this is not the time to have a discussion about religion. No matter what the Church is doing politically, when it comes to situations
like this, they will show mercy to a lost child.’

‘Suffer the little children, Ramón?’ I spit. ‘If we leave him in a
Rojo
village, they will assume he is a
Rojo
child. I know you don’t want to
believe the Church could hurt a child, but there is no guarantee he will be safe. I think we should try to get him to the Red Cross. They may even evacuate him. At least there won’t be any
fat, barbaric bishops on a religious crusade against—’

‘Enough!’ hollers Ramón, raising his hand. ‘He will be safe with the Church.’ Then he drops his hand and speaks softly. ‘Do not forget our mission. We have a
long way to travel and we cannot make a detour to find the Red Cross. At least if he is taken into an organization like the Church, they may be able to find his family.’

I know Ramón struggles with an inner conflict – his genuine faith versus a greedy, self-serving Church – and perhaps I am pushing him too far. I take a moment; then,
reluctantly, I nod. ‘You’re right.’

I know he will not be swayed in this matter, and despite our friendship, he is the leader of this unit and I must respect his orders.

We return to the map and plan what to do. It is agreed I will take the boy to the village. It’s still early, so I should be able to leave him at the church and then get back to the unit
before daybreak.

As I gulp down the last of my tea, I turn to José. ‘Is there any food for the boy? He needs something to eat. Anything but your beans.’

‘Alberto, are you sure you can’t remember anything about your home?’ I press as we walk along the edge of a field. We split from the other men an hour ago,
and they followed the road, while the boy and I cut across the fields to get to the town.

‘No, nothing,’ says the boy.

‘Not even your mamá?’

‘No,’ says Alberto a little hesitantly.

‘What?’ I urge gently. ‘Is there something you remember? Anything at all?’

‘Yes, but it’s not Mamá,’ he replies thoughtfully. ‘It’s Mimi.’

‘Well, that’s a start. Maybe she’s an aunt or a friend. What do you think?’

Alberto is quiet as we step through the grass.

‘I don’t know. I just remembered the name,’ he eventually admits.

‘Never mind,’ I say encouragingly. ‘I’m sure it will come back soon, and then someone will be able to take you home.’

We walk in silence for a while, before Alberto starts hesitantly, ‘Why—’ then stops.

‘Why what?’ I say. ‘Come on.’

‘Why do they call you “El Rubio”?’ he asks shyly.

‘Aha!’ I say cheerfully. ‘Look at this!’ At that, I whip off my black hat and my fair hair flops out. The night’s clouds have cleared and I know in the moonlight
the blond can be seen – like a golden halo, Ramón often remarks sarcastically. If I’d been at home, June would have trimmed it for me, but I haven’t given haircuts much
thought lately.

The boy gasps.

‘Have you ever seen hair this yellow before?’ I ask.

‘No, never.’

‘Where I live, it’s not unusual. In fact, it’s really very ordinary.’

‘Don’t you live in Spain?’ asks the boy.

‘Well, I do now, but only because of the war. I’m from another country, called England. Have you heard of it?’ I put my hat back on, tucking in as much hair as I can.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Well, maybe you learnt about it at school,’ I suggest. I hope it will jog a memory.

‘I don’t know,’ says the boy quietly. ‘Is that why you talk funny?’

I laugh. ‘Yes. It’s because usually I talk English. I’m from a city called Liverpool. It’s near the ocean and is a famous port. My uncle was a sailor. He married a
Spanish lady and brought her back home with him. My aunt María taught me Spanish, and whenever I was at her house, playing with my cousins, we would speak Spanish. And now I speak it every
day, but I’ll always sound a bit different because it’s not my native language.’

‘Are you a sailor too?’

‘No!’ I laugh at the thought. And yet, here I am, a soldier. ‘My father has a bookshop. I worked there before I came to Spain. I used to live above the shop with my
parents.’

For a moment, I wonder how the bookshop is doing. While I was working with my father, I persuaded him to build up a section of political books. I had been keen because I was so interested in
current affairs and politics myself. I had also known it would bring in the union and party leaders, and the sales would be good for business. Dad had been reluctant at first, but soon we had
stocked everything from Marx and Lenin to Mussolini’s autobiography, and had become well known for our range.

One of the regulars at the bookshop was John, a unionist down at the docks. He had invited me to meetings, where we had listened to speakers talk of the rise of the Fascists and the danger it
posed to the Labour movement. It was with John that I had gone to London and volunteered last year.

‘Why did you come to my country?’ asks Alberto.

‘Well, it’s complicated,’ I say cautiously. Perhaps the boy’s family are Nationalists. It’s not my place to confuse the child. How do I explain my reasons for
coming to fight?

I hear my father’s words ringing in my ears. ‘Don’t go,’ he’d said. ‘It’s not your fight.’ But I’d always known I’d fight fascism,
ever since I had sat in the cinema and watched the newsreel showing them burning books in Germany, works of literature, philosophy and science all going up in flames. It had sent chills down my
spine. I had known that at some point I would have to stand up to the indoctrination, the persecution, the ignorance.

‘Alberto,’ I begin tentatively, ‘there are times when you see someone doing something bad and it makes you so angry that you have to do something about it. I think that the
Nationalists are doing something terribly wrong. And even though this is not my country, or my people, I want to try and make things better, fairer. I’ve come to help the Spanish people fight
against what I consider to be unjust and immoral.’

The boy is silent.

‘Does that make any sense?’ I ask doubtfully, but looking down, I see that the dark shadow of the child is not by my side. Glancing back, I see he is standing still a few feet
behind.

‘Alberto?’

‘I just had a memory,’ says the boy softly.

‘What was it?’

‘I hit another boy.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, that’s great! Not great that you’re hitting other children, but great that you remember something. Perhaps that’s the beginning of your memory coming
back.’

The boy is quiet; he seems to be lost in thought.

‘Maybe Ramón was right, Alberto,’ I say, trying to lift the mood a little. ‘Maybe we should take you with us to fight. I bet you’ve got quite a punch, eh?’ I
give his shoulder a light tap.