extract one of the chapters of the novel "War has to be" that into a story under the title of "Conversation with forgetting (a fragment)", won the Youth Fair and Historical Memory 2006.
-Turai made us a lot of photos, although I doubt that you retain no. Probably were seized and destroyed by the traitors, if not even before the occupation. He gave me one that was seen smiling and proud Sol, showing the target the handful of English earth he kept in his pocket as a relic useless but invaluable for anyone who treasures it. I posed next to Sun without giving credit only to their enthusiasm, never quite convinced that the symbolic power attached to the soil. I remember I was the first of my skinny squad to cross the border, I looked back and there they were, stooping to pick up earth and filling the pockets Pyrenees. I was already on the other side and watched the scene as if I was employed as a spectator of a tragedy that instead of helping or simply flee freezes. However, this will seem contradictory if I let myself be seduced by another similar gesture, seeming more childish than the last. Sun always kept his piece of land, with the difficulties I had to keep some material there. Every so often land near his nose and inhaled the scent of Spain course we left behind, or should I say it was Spain that left us, but would be abusing the drama of the narrative, I believe that using quotations like this to get nervous and raise my objection, or at least try, because they overcome the initial talks did not take long to realize that he should not interrupt more than absolutely necessary. This gesture of Sun always reminds me of my habit of smelling the newly acquired books, you'll know what I mean, recognize the smell of printing and cellulose, again, the thumb moves the leaves while the nose picks up the scent of the letters. Before newly printed books went on sale with pages joined at the top, is called in tons, guarantee of virginity for the first reader, so to speak. Now that is lost and replaced the habit of smell to me somehow the ritual of tearing the pages one by one. But I spoke of the desire for land and portable Republic we had in tow: we could not constantly think back, there were more pressing matters to attend to as the survival, and then you can be sure that the best gift was to stay alive, despite the extreme hardships made us pass. I never agreed with the emphatic statement of postwar Ángel González old friend "who could not die continued walking." None of this, I contest that assertion while sharing their bitter irony. Only a conscious decision to continue on foot kept many people alive, do not speak or even to defeat resistance, already taken, but the bare idea of \u200b\u200bliving, not abandoned and end up dead from starvation or disease, not go crazy and take on the guards and finish with a shot in the stomach. And if we were to die in a foreign land, at least on land would be free, not slave bull hide, ready for slaughter, which had made Spain. And now I'm back to fall into the temptation to get dramatic, you know apologize. I pointed one of my best smiles, not so much by the last sentence as your earlier comment about the smell of books and torn land of exile. Juan Donaire conceal the smell given off old age with a rare colony that could not identify, perhaps imported from England, if anything distinctive in the mix with his decrepitude and the snuff that did not stop smoking. To me that smell, often clung to my clothes with a preponderance of snuff, amounted to see him sitting in his house where it was just emerging, patient with my questions, generous in their responses, playful language and always with me.
"You do not want to bore you with a complete inventory of the hardships we are facing. A Turai We lost track when we Gurs, believing that to not ever see him again. We moved to a German camp. However, I read somewhere that he was fortunate to escape and remained in France joined the Resistance. Virtually the same story that I could say. Then returned home and became director in addition to continuing his job as a photographer. He died in the nineties. But all this already know, is not it? You're a good researcher. Would have liked to see him again, the rogue Turai.
-I came to myself with one of his movies, but it had nothing to do with my purpose, as expected. Who was the Sun who spoke before me?
-Sol. It's funny because today I do not know anyone by that name, except in women who use it as short for Soledad. Sun Your name as he disappeared, turned into ghosts. He told me his father gave him that name in rebellion against the priests, so that Sun was one of the few children of that time which was not included in any baptismal record. It was still a child when I met him, did not reach adulthood, and I suppose I was, slightly larger but equally enthusiastic and giddy, proud of my joining the Library Services of the Front. For its part, Sun took part in the war even before it began, with his two brothers participated in the assault on the hotel Colon Barcelona, \u200b\u200bknow that episode, was not well and I bet he meant, but took delight in listening to my requirements to continue speaking, part of the game. I recognized my ignorance and made the subsequent question that hung between us for a few seconds while Donaire took advantage of the break to revive his unlit pipe, a ritual that belonged to my computer like hair, one of those habits we machinic without realizing it. Well, I mean the military uprising on July 18 in Barcelona began early the next day. The rebel troops under the command of General Burrows Fernández, controlled the main squares of the city, including Catalonia, and made the Columbus headquarters hotel. Barcelona was soon recovered by the military loyal to the Republic, but the desire of the people to defeat the fascists ended in tragedy when a large group of anarchist workers in anticipation of loyal troops, entered stormed the building, with a tremendous cost in lives. Sun was among them, I think there was seriously wounded one of his brothers. No longer could or wanted to stop fighting for the revolution, first enlisted in the militia and then, reluctantly, as a regular soldier when those were disbanded. We are in the thirty-seven, when there was still hope in one of my first trips to the front with the library service.
Although his words carefully kept barely looking up from his notebook, let the writer do his job to concentrate on the gestures of Donaire. His eyes were rapt, focused far beyond the wisps of smoke, which seemed so slow dismissed by their own old lungs. Bright eyes to the beat of snuff, with a glare that were no longer but embers. But their passion was meeting in a half smile just drawn that would not leave at any time, even to taste the pipe. It was a faint hint of a smile that I could only see him during those talks, a gesture that seemed to say "I remember I was there and, above all, someone cares."
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