Retreat of the Fallen

Enrique Garrido, a printer and supporter of the Spanish Republic, felt as though he had been traveling this road for an eternity. The relentless journey reflected the three years of civil war that had ravaged his homeland, making time seem to stretch endlessly. He had fled from his home in Malaga, seeking refuge first in Valencia, and then in Barcelona, each step driven by the constant threat posed by the advancing rebel nationalist forces. Those forces never allowed him a moment’s peace. Now in January 1939, escaping to France with 400,000 others he pondered how this journey would end.

Enrique had been living in Malaga when the Spanish Army staged a rebellion against the democratically elected Popular Front government on July 19, 1936. The government, comprised of left-wing and liberal parties as well as various organizations supporting the Republic, aimed to modernize Spain, transforming it from a feudal monarchy into a progressive democracy. However, these ambitions clashed with the desires of the nationalist and conservative opposition, who fiercely treasured Spain’s longstanding traditions. Determined to smash the left-wing movements and preserve the old order at any cost, they were prepared to use violence to maintain their way of life. The nationalist army with fascist allies gathering a force of over 100,000 swept through western and southern Spain like wild beasts, destroying towns and killing anyone who supported the republic. In cities like Madrid and Barcelona the people fought with whatever weapons they could find and halted the rebels’ advancements. The government of the republic, slow to act, had to rely on militias, volunteers from abroad and eventually an army supplied and trained by the government’s only international supporter, the Soviet Union. But it was not enough to counter the nationalist forces and their allies Nazi Germany and fascist Italy. Most of the world stood by while Spain burned.

The river of people ahead of Enrique moved at a painfully slow pace. All around him, thousands trudged forward, joining the immense exodus of people fleeing along this ancient road as well as others in northern Spain. This mass movement, known as The Retreat, promised a chance for safety across the border in France, although many clung to hope more than certainty. At twilight, exhausted from days of walking, Enrique went to the side of the road to rest for a few hours. Sleep overtook him immediately. The hours ticked by.

When dawn broke Enrique lay huddled beneath a small outcropping of stone. Although his thin frame was wrapped tightly in a blanket around his coat and trousers, he was still unable to escape the biting cold of late January. His body ached and his provisions were nearly depleted; only a few pieces of hard bread and sausage remained. To eat, he had to thaw them in his mouth before he could chew. A canteen with water, stayed close to his body to keep it from freezing. He refilled it from a small trickle of melted snow running down the outcropping.

Enrique rejoined the weary travelers around him. They struggled to keep moving. Many destined to collapse off to the side, preferring death by the elements than to the fate awaiting them if captured–execution for supporting the Republic. Families with children were everywhere, their faces etched with desperation. The uncertainty of survival haunted every step. Eyes scanned the skies, wary of attacks from above as the planes of the nationalist’s and their foreign supporters sought to destroy the fleeing refugees through strafing or bombs. Extermination was their goal.

The road grew increasingly constricted, hemmed in by a sheer cliff on one side and a deep ravine on the other. One hundred miles of road back to Barcelona were clogged with vehicles, carts, horses and people. Cars and trucks could only progress so far before their paths were blocked or they ran out of gas. Forced to abandon their transport, the occupants, many of whom were infirmed or wounded, were assisted by those stronger as they continued the arduous climb up the road to the mountains and the border. To clear the way for others, the abandoned trucks and cars were pushed over the edge and into the ravine, a desperate act repeated again and again. Amid the chaos, uncertainty hung heavily in the air, but the march continued.

Enrique stepped out of the line of refugees to help a wounded soldier who had exited a truck with thirty others, all with various wounds. A shoulder wound caused the soldier pain but that would not hinder him as long as he had someone with him. Other refugees seeing the soldiers in distress helped as best they could.

“Hola, comrade,” said Enrique to the wounded soldier.

“Salud,” the soldier replied in a weak voice, his legs wobbly, his face pinched with pain.

“I will accompany you,” said Enrique. “We don’t know what obstacles or dangers might be ahead. Let me carry your rifle.”

“Thank you, comrade.” He winced as he handed over the rifle. “I should have left this with someone who could shoot. This rifle has changed hands many times. Out of twenty men we only had five rifles.”

They both looked back at the people who exited the trucks. Many were not in any shape to walk these rough roads and trails into France. They looked at each other and shook their heads, knowing that without help in these rugged conditions and weather many would not survive.

“Where are you from?” inquired Enrique diverting the attention of his wounded comrade.

“Originally or recently?” The soldier said grimly as they struggled up a narrow incline jammed with people.

“My name is Fernando Rojas. I guess my last name doomed me from the beginning,” he chuckled. “I am from a small village in Aragon. I am the son of a farmer on a large estate. We collectivized it after the election of ’36. The rich landowner and his family ran off right after that. When the fascist army marched on the people and tried to take over, I joined Durruti and his anarchist army. After the fighting in Madrid, I went back to Aragon, joined a CNT militia and eventually the 28th division under Gregorio Jover. I have been fighting ever since. I got wounded when my unit was trying to hold the line west of Barcelona at the Segre River. The fascists were too strong. They just kept coming. We broke after our officers got in their cars and deserted us,” he said wearily. “Then I joined this retreat. I don’t know how many miles we have travelled.” He looked up and scanned the sky. “The damn German and Italian planes bombed and strafed us along the way. I hesitate to say how many people were killed by those bastards. Men, women and children. They are monsters.” Fernando looked over at the people on the side of the road. “I’m glad I don’t have a family with me.”

Enrique introduced himself. “I am Enrique Garrido, originally from Malaga and lately from Barcelona. I worked as a printer for my union newspaper. A hazardous profession when the fascists take a town. Between printing jobs, I fought in my union’s militia. We were ordered to leave Barcelona and head north to escape into France. Now I am here.”

They traveled north toward the Pyrenees, their progress growing more arduous with each step. The narrow road, which now resembled little more than a winding path, had been transformed by the relentless passage of thousands. Where there had once been snow, now mud and sludge clung to every footfall, churned up by the countless refugees before them. All along the sides of the road, abandoned suitcases, pictures and memories of a lifetime lay scattered, left behind by their owners who no longer had the strength to carry them forward.

The wind lashed snow and sleet against their faces, biting cold making the journey even more punishing. People paused along the roadside, resting to gather the strength needed for the miles ahead. Some huddled together, drawing warmth from small fires made with scraps of wood found along the way. A father, desperate to comfort his child, held his young daughter’s bare feet close to the flames, trying to warm them. Her scared eyes looked up at Enrique. He smiled at her hoping to give her the will to continue.

Nearby, an elderly couple sat side by side, unmoving. Their stillness was not from mere exhaustion but from death, though those passing by hardly noticed unless they looked closely. The blankets they had wrapped around themselves changed hands to those that needed them.

For some on this road the space between rest and death was one whisper of breath away.

Enrique and Fernando trudged onward. They knew if they stopped, they might succumb like the old couple.

“Tell me Enrique, what union are you with?”

Enrique paused before responding. The conflict was not just a struggle between fascists and republicans but was marked by numerous internal divisions and smaller civil wars. A lack of unity among the various factions ultimately contributed to the downfall of the republic. Even unions, representing workers with different political leanings, sometimes turned against each other. This was evident during the violent clashes in Barcelona in May 1937. Despite these rivalries, there were those within the unions who maintained that political differences among union members should be set aside in the interest of solidarity. Enrique’s union, the socialist Unión General de Trabajadores UGT, General Union of Workers frequently clashed with Fernando’s union, the anarchist Confederación Nacional del Trabajo CNT, National Confederation of Labor. Sometimes they joined together and clashed with communist militants deepening the divide among those who should have been allies. Now, on this road, none of that mattered.

“I am a member of the UGT.”

“I won’t hold that against you,” said Fernando as he waved his good arm around. “We are in the same boat now.”

They were quiet for a while as they trudged along the road.

“I guess now we will never know whether winning the war would have saved the revolution,” said Enrique.

“Or that winning the revolution would have won the war,” retorted Fernando.

They both let the implication of the most divisive view about the war linger in the air.

“Tell me, Enrique, do you have a family?”

“My parents are still in Malaga. I haven’t heard from them in some time. They told me to leave knowing my life would be in danger.” Enrique looked over his shoulder. “My brother is back there.”

“He is a refugee as well?”

“No, when I say back there, I mean in Spain. He is with the fascists.”

“Ah, like that is it,” said Fernando.

“Yes, like that.”

As the refugees pressed on, their pace gradually diminished. The closer they came to the border with France, the more their movement slowed, until eventually the entire mass of people came to a halt and merged with refugees who had been there awhile.

“We must be close,” said Enrique. “Maybe France isn’t letting us in?”

There was more open space now and the newer refugees spread out gathering wood and scraps of abandoned items. Small groupings sheltered together. Fires were started for warmth. There was little food. Some shared, some did not. They had no idea when their next meal would come from. A creek nearby served to quench people’s thirst. Many were desperate and didn’t care if the water might be tainted.

“Any idea where we are, Enrique?”

“We should be close to the border and the French village of Le Perthus. You sit here. I will see if I can find out some news.”

Enrique placed Fernando’s rifle next to him and walked over to a group of men, one gesticulating wildly.

“The French closed the border yesterday,” he said angrily. “Now what are we to do?”

Another tried to calm him. “Roberto, maybe it is just temporary. Look around. I am sure they didn’t expect this many people.”

“It is because they didn’t help us during the war that so many are here, right now,” the angry man shouted.

Enrique inquired of the men, “Is it true? The border is closed?”

The calm one answered. “Yes, but the world sees this. Pressure will be put to France. It will open soon I believe.”

Enrique went back and told Fernando about the situation.

“We might as well get settled. I will gather wood for a fire if there is any left.”

There wasn’t any. The area had already been scoured clean.

A man nearby, seeing their plight, invited them over to his fire.

“Come, comrades. Join us,” said a thin faced, bearded man wearing a black beret. Next to him was a young boy and a woman dressed in black. They wore heavy coats and held blankets in reserve.

Enrique noticing the strain on Fernando took back Fernando’s rifle to lighten his load. Together, they walked toward the group gathered around the fire. As they approached, the man welcomed them warmly. Names were exchanged, and Enrique and Fernando found a spot on the cold earth, settling themselves close to the warmth of the flames. The camaraderie of the moment offered a respite from the exhaustion that settled upon them.

From their position on higher ground, Fernando glanced back along the road. Below, a sea of refugees and weary soldiers stretched into the distance, their movements a single, unified mass. The crowd pressed onward advancing toward the closed border. Eventually, just as Enrique and Fernando had done, they halted, finding places to rest. They waited in uncertainty, their escape to France momentarily suspended.

Still looking at the mass of humanity Fernando spoke. “Why didn’t we mount a defense like Madrid?”

The bearded man with the beret who went by the name of Luis stared at Fernando and pointed to Enrique.

“You are a soldier, right? That is your rifle the comrade has, right?”

Fernando replied quizzically. “Yes.”

“How much ammunition do you have for it?” asked Luis.

“Why, none. We ran out as…”

Luis held his hands up.

“Exactly. We have an army with no ammunition and not enough guns to stop the fascist hordes. The government and Prime Minister Negrin have fled and the people are demoralized. Sorry comrade, but Barcelona is not Madrid.”

Luis began to describe the situation in Barcelona to Fernando, his voice heavy with fatigue. He spoke of the relentless bombing that battered the city day and night, leaving its people in a constant state of fear and uncertainty. Food had become scarce, and hunger gnawed at everyone, further eroding their will to carry on. Officers and government officials deserted their posts one after another, leaving the population feeling abandoned. The endless hardships, the political infighting and sacrifices had worn everyone down. An overwhelming sense of dread hung over Barcelona, sapping any remaining hope or will to fight from its people.

“So, you see comrade, the only thing people wanted was to save themselves and hope for the best in France. Even our army knows it is over and what faces them is a fascist firing squad or prison.”

Enrique, lately of Barcelona, nodded his head in agreement with Luis’s description.

“You, your wife and son got out just in time,” said Enrique.

“Not my wife or child. My brother’s. He was killed in the bombing.”

The woman was named Maria. Her 5-year-old son, Domingo, sat on her lap, huddling into his mother to keep warm. She looked at Enrique with sad eyes and said “Time? I do not think of yesterday and tomorrow is but a dream I no longer trust. There is only now.” She lowered her head and spoke soothingly to little Domingo.

Anguish of body and soul runs deep on this road of sorrow, thought Enrique.

A rider on horseback came up the hill and stopped by the small group. He wore the uniform of an officer of the People’s Army of the Republic. The coat and uniform had once been clean and sharp, the leather boots shiny. Now the uniform and coat were grimy, the boots muddy and worn. His face was drawn and he hadn’t shaved for weeks. The officer’s eyes were tired and sad. It was the look of defeat.

“Hola, comrades. Does anyone know why everyone has stopped?”

“Other than fatigue and hunger?” said Luis dismissively.

“I talked with some people further ahead who said France closed the border. Another said that it should be open soon,” answered Enrique.

“Thank you, comrade. I will ride ahead and size up the situation.”

Luis spit on the ground as the officer rode away.

“He will probably cut in line at the border and cross over when it opens. I have seen his kind before.”

Two hours later the officer rode back towards them. He dismounted and asked Enrique to hold the reins of his horse. He stooped down in front of Luis and took some bread and sausage out of the inside of his long leather coat.

“For you and your family,” he said.

Luis took the food. “Gracias, comrade officer,” he said sheepishly. Domingo stirred from his sleeping mother and looked longingly upon the bread with sunken brown eyes.

The officer stood and told the group that indeed the border was closed but would open in the morning.

“There are Red Cross workers and others with food, but I fear they will be overwhelmed. The know of the situation on this road. Women, children, the sick and elderly as well as wounded soldiers have priority. Men and able-bodied soldiers will be last. Senegalese guards are manning the border in France. Many French police are in Le Perthus as well. We have some of ours on the Spanish side. Be prepared for a rough going. One good thing, the world knows of this thanks to foreign journalists who have come here.”

The officer took the reins from Enrique and climbed back onto his horse.

“I must go back to my men to inform them of the situation.”

He gave the clenched fist salute as he turned to ride back to his men.

“Salud, comrades. May you find sanctuary soon.”

Luis watched him ride away then broke the bread to pass around.

“I misjudged him. This war has made me cynical.”

Night fell and small fires keeping refugees warm lit up the hillsides like signals telegraphing we are here.

As dawn broke after a long, cold night spent huddled together for warmth, a chorus of voices rose among the gathered refugees. All around, men, women, and children struggled to shake off the chill that had seeped deep into their bones. The morning air was filled not only with the cries of children but also with anguished shouts and mourning. Some had lost loved ones overnight, old and young, their bodies succumbing to illness, exhaustion and the cold.

Luis sighed. “We must get moving.” He picked up Domingo, shook out the young boy’s blanket, rewrapped him and strapped him to his back with a leather harness he had.

“Come Maria.”

He turned to Enrique and Fernando.

“We can travel together if you wish but we must move before others awake.”

“It seems we must part when we near the border, Enrique,” said Fernando as they prepared to leave. “Let us leave the rifle here. Maybe someone can use it as a crutch.”

Fernando laid it on the ground.

It took them most of the day to reach the border. French colonial Senegalese soldiers stood guard enforcing the edict on who could come in and in what order, confirming what the officer said. Soldiers of the republic huddled on the Spanish side. Piled up behind them were stacks of discarded weapons. French officials and police guarded their side as a mass of desperate refugees clamored for entry.

Enrique and Fernando were jostled by the crowd as anger and panic erupted at the slow pace of escape into France. The fear that the fascist army might swoop down on them before they crossed the border was gut wrenching.

“You must go now, Fernando. They will let you in as a wounded soldier. I must go to the side to wait my turn.”

“Thank you for your company, Enrique. We shall meet someday on the other side.”

“Be well Fernando,” Enrique said as they embraced.

Enrique went to the side of the road with other men, civilians and soldiers alike, to wait their turn.

Fernando proceeded to cross over to France. The police were hostile and unwelcoming. They treated the refugees with scorn. When it was his turn, a policeman pulled at his bandaged shoulder to see if he was really wounded. When Fernando cried in pain and blood once again seeped through the bandage he believed him and let him pass. He did not say “Welcome to France”.

In fact, Édouard Daladier, Prime Minister of France, regarded the Spaniards as dangerous reds who threatened to destabilize the country. That attitude permeated the administrative and police departments of France.

Behind Fernando men were separated from their families and then joined single men as all were pushed to the side. Their hope of sanctuary and a welcoming France evaporated. The motto Liberty, Equality and Fraternity became a cruel joke.

Fernando entered the village and was directed to a nurse who treated his shoulder with antiseptic and new bandages.

The nurse noticed that the bandage had been disturbed and the wound reopened. “Did they treat you bad at the crossing?” she said in Spanish.

“Yes, comrade nurse.”

The nurse smiled at this. Yes, she was a comrade, but kept that hidden.

“You might not find many friends here, but we are around. There is a food kitchen set up in a field down the road. It is surrounded by soldiers. They don’t want anyone wandering off.” The nurse lowered her voice. “They are setting up camps until they figure out what to do with you.”

She finished repairing Fernando’s wound.

“Be well. Stay safe.”

Maria and Domingo were treated better than Fernando but not by much. When it was their turn to enter a group of French policemen directed crude remarks towards her and looked upon her with lusty eyes. As she passed through them, she shuddered and walked into the village and to the nurse Fernando had just seen.

“Let me see the little one, Señora,” she said kindly in Spanish. It was the first friendly face Maria had seen since she crossed into France. “I am going to give you some inoculations against disease, little one. Your mother too.”

Domingo cried a little at the prick of the needles. Maria winced when it was her turn.

“Some food is what you both need right now.” She directed them towards the field where food was distributed.

As she walked away holding Domingo, she heard someone call her name. It was Fernando.

“How nice it is to see a friend,” she said. A wisp of a smile finally broke out on her face.

They walked through the village with scores of others seeking the food tent. Fernando could smell it before he saw it. His stomach grumbled and reminded him that he had eaten little the past several days.

Enrique meanwhile waited alongside the scores of civilian men or were soldiers of the republic. Luis was with him after Maria and Domingo were separated from him.

“What kind of country is this that would keep me away from them? The bastards! How will I find them?”

Finally, Luis and Enrique were permitted to enter France. The experience that awaited them was far from welcoming. Much like those who had come before and those who would follow, they were confronted by French officials whose demeanor was cold and unfeeling.

Following a now familiar routine, Luis and Enrique submitted to medical examinations and received basic food rations. Once these procedures were completed, the two men were led with others to a recently constructed enclosure, a makeshift holding area hurriedly assembled to contain the refugees. This was to be their new reality: a concentration camp.

“I think we have stepped from the fire into the frying pan, my friend,” said Luis as he looked around at the crowd of people staring through barb wire. Like at the border, Senegalese guards stood watch. French police pushed them into the enclosure.

Once inside Enrique collapsed on the ground and put his head in his hands. He had kept his head high on his journey from Spain. He made it to France. Now at the end it all came crashing down. Memories of people who didn’t survive the march like the elderly couple on the side of the road etched in his mind. The young girl, her father desperately warming her feet by the fire as she looked up at Enrique passing by. The desperation of people fleeing for their lives. The wailing of the bereaved on a cold morning days ago. To end up here? After all that?

Luis, sensing what was going on in Enrique’s mind, spoke to him softly and held out his hand.

“Stand with me, Enrique. We will search this camp for Maria, Domingo, and Fernando. If we don’t find them today, we will search tomorrow and the next day. We are Spaniards. We will not let this concentration camp, this country or the fascists grind us down.”

Encouraged by the words of Luis, Enrique slowly rose. The two men pressed on, united in their search and their refusal to be beaten.