Bendt had joined the local chapter of the underground in Köln shortly after Manuel. The lengthy briefing done for the night, the anti-fascist resistance team cajoled Bendt into playing music before their circuitous journeys home. Bendt’s fingers struck the keys of his accordion with a flourish. So deeply immersed was he in music-making he closed his eyes. A smile beamed across his face and danced around his lips, betraying the ecstasy that absorbed him. His head swayed and nodded in sheer appreciation of the moment. He tracked the accented riffs of the tune, his right foot tapping to the beat with passion. The comrades shared his enthusiasm, clapping and swinging in time to the music. Everyone except Manuel.
This scene was a punch to Manuel’s gut, taking him by surprise. It was a replay of his closest friend, Juan who had been lost in battle. Juan had similarly electrified his audiences and refreshed weary bodies in preparation for the next sortie. Juan and Manuel grew up in the same village on the edge of Zaragoza, bonding over similar dreams and aspirations as boys. They vied for the attention of the same girl as teenagers. Juan was the successful suitor because the girls loved his music and easy disposition. As young men in their twenties, they signed up to support democracy, joining a motley band of communists, socialists, anarchists and international volunteers with the Republican army.
Memories of Juan flooded his consciousness. Manuel retreated to the alley backing onto the meeting house. He sunk to his knees waiting for the pain and vertigo to ebb. Sounds of the accordion and singing had receded His laboured breathing was all he could hear. His body was shuddering from the cold sweat seeping from his brow and armpits. His stomach convulsed as waves of nausea assaulted him. Manuel tightened his throat and clenched his abdomen to check the spasms. He vomited until he could vomit no more.
Then the black shroud had descended upon him, like that moonless night of the crossing in July,1938. The night air had been warm, still, and silent but for the water lapping at their boats, and the suppressed grunts of human effort as the commandos had paddled across the Ebro River. Later into the battle, Manuel could hear enemy fire whistling overhead, and the cries of soldiers checking on comrades. Mortar fire boomed in the distance and landed somewhere behind him. Shrapnel sprayed everywhere. The sounds of hell coming to earth. He scanned the scene around him and witnessed a battlefield ripped to shreds. During the mêlée the two comrades had become separated. Manuel searched for his amigo through clouds of artillery smoke and battlefield debris.
Tears burned behind his eyes. The image of Juan’s dismembered body bleeding out on the battlefield ran on a self-lacerating loop through his mind.
I abandoned you comrade. I didn’t bring you back.
…
Manuel stirred uneasily in the alley. He gazed at the garbage bins overflowing with decaying refuse, their stench offended his nostrils. Stillness prevailed. No echoes of music. Not even the scuttling of rodent feet around the bins. Manuel slowly rose to his full height. Then he returned to an empty meeting room. He wondered how long he had been outside. He shrugged into his overcoat and slipped out into the deserted streets.
Burnside Writers Group 