Spanish Civil War Ends. 70th Anniversary: |by Victor Sullivan

A violent death on a bus in Spain

. © 2009


Illustration by Victor Sullivan and Marie Guillot

An early morning BBC news broadcast mentioned that it was the 70th anniversary of the end of the Spanish Civil War. I was in Spain but failed to find any special marking of the occasion. Neither side seemed inclined to celebrate the fact that they ever even had a Civil War. Presumably the side that won weren't happy with whatever it was they got out of it, (Franco), and the side that lost didn't want to be reminded that they had lost.ããIt was therefore a very ordinary warm April day in Spain with the temperature approaching 26 degrees C when I boarded the local bus waiting at its terminus in Torrevieja, paid my 1 Euro 15c and sat in the left hand front seat behind the driver. The rear half of the bus near the exit doors was already full of ladies with trolley baskets and shopping bags, some facing forwards, others backwards, all engaged in loud, agitated conversation in Spanish.ããAs the doors were about to close an attractive young girl came aboard and slid into the front seat across the gangway from where I was sitting. She did not arrive alone however. A wasp sneaked in behind her just as the doors closed. The insect landed on the window beside the girl's bare right shoulder as the bus moved off through the narrow one-way streets of Torrevieja.ããDuring a pause at traffic lights the girl became aware of the wasp and ever so cautiously she began to to back away from her seat and towards mine. The loud chatter continued at the rear of the bus, the woman driver stared straight ahead, the wasp continued to explore the large pane of glass and the girl moved closer and closer to me, her eyes fixed on the insect. ããHer left hand swept searchingly near my face a few times until the slender fingers made contact with the yellow pole outside my seat. She gripped it with white-knuckle intensity and the slow, ballet movements continued. Her right hand gradually moved down behind her back and deftly removed a shoe from her gracefully raised right foot. ããA gentle, sweeping arm movement brought the black shoe onto her left shoulder, close to my face. The flat sole that faced me was of smooth, black, flexible plastic material. The heel was grasped in a firm fist.ããThe wasp, now near the top of the window, began to crawl down towards the centre of the large pane. It paused for several seconds, then continued its downward journey. The bus had now turned into a wider street and was moving more rapidly. The wasp paused once more.ããI saw the muscles of her shoulders tense and I heard the intake of breath above the chatter of the women behind us. Suddenly the shoe wielding arm swung across the bus with the velocity of an Olympic Tai-Quando contestant's coup de grace. The sole of the shoe made violent and perfectly flat contact with the window pane producing a sound like a loud rifle-shot.

Women screamed at the back of the bus. The driver braked hard and brought the vehicle to a rapid standstill. Fortunately the girl had held on grimly to the yellow pole or she would have been catapulted forwards against the windscreen. Shopping bags and trolley-baskets fell over, some contents spilling onto the bus floor. The wasp was now a mess the size of my hand on the glass.ãThere was a brief moment of shocked silence while the driver determined the cause of the explosion, quickly deducing the sequence of events from a shoe dangling from a passenger's hand and the mess on the window. The driver's explanatory announcement in Spanish over the PA initiated a hurricane of abuse from the women at the back. One came forward and demanded that the driver visit all passengers whose nerves had been shattered by what everyone thought was a gun-shot. The spokeswoman then hurled what I assumed was severe x-rated Spanish abuse at the miscreant who now stood sheepishly and silent beside me, with the guilty, wasp-smeared shoe still dangling from one finger.

Having visited and calmed the distraught women passengers at the back of the bus the driver returned, pulled a roll of kitchen paper from behind her driver's seat and thrust it at the culprit. No words were spoken, just a gesture towards the messy window. The journey continued. The window was obediently cleaned. Spilled shopping items were picked up and the chatter in the back seats gradually rose to its former pitch.ãã

That happened on a bus in Spain on the 70th anniversary of the end of the Spanish Civil War, a war that claimed the lives of around 500,000 people.

ANATOMY by Marie Guillot

Graphic by Marie Guillot

© March 2011

Can one be too old to learn?

Unlike most children (as I learned later), I never played doctor with my pals. Apparently, that created a gap that was never filled in my education.

As a young French girl of the Baby Boom, I had only vague notions about the inside of my body. My long arms were always sticking out from my jumper sleeves, and my long legs allowed me to beat my friends at roller skating in the park. Boys were interesting curiosities all right, but only up to a point. Until you became a student and gave them second thoughts.

Marriage (with one of them) and childbirth enlightened me on a number of points. By that time, I thought I had learned all that was needed in the field. A good number of years later, the dreaded menopause triggered a new anatomical quest.

That's why I am now sitting in an evening class, a great opportunity for senior citizens (as we are called). Our comrades-in-arms here are a refreshing mix of ages, genders and backgrounds.

Bill the teacher starts: “The first thing to know is that your body contains 60 to 70 per cent of water.” Wow! I get this mental image where all the various accessories of my body are packed up in the top part, down to the middle of my ribcage; the rest is a reservoir, all the way to the feet. Bill continues: “Water is essential for life. Since we are losing fluids all the time, we have to replenish the corpus.” Our eyes are wide open. We have heard that message before, but now it actually seems true. He moves on: “Besides the obvious, regularly-spaced pit-stops, do not understate the effects of ordinary losses, like sweating, crying, vomiting or bleeding. Using your imagination, think of other bodily activities.”

With water continuously flowing out, there is only one way to go. Bill is not preaching in vain about having to drink, again and again...

The main part of the course is related to the organs. To see the extend of our knowledge, our teacher asks us to call them out. We are very enthusiastic, shouting all at once: “The heart, the guts, the lungs, the genitals, the brain…” (in that order, same as in real life). Bill keeps cool, as always. He then explains: “An organ is a relatively independent body part that performs special functions. Exact definitions vary with countries and experts.” We think: theory, theory... He carries on: “For some, the tongue is an organ, while the pancreas is a gland. All agree, however, to list the lungs, the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the stomach and the brain as organs.” How can we remember all that?

“And by the way,” Bill adds, “You are missing one on the list.” The class cries out more answers, as an apology to the forgotten specialised part: “The spleen, the thyroid, the ileum.” A respectful silence settles in, the ileum, sounds serious, that must be it. But our teacher is not satisfied and we go on: “The duodenum, the caecum, the sternum.” Obviously, a Latin trend is started, everyone remembering words heard in their past. “No,” Bill replies at last, “The one you forgot is... the skin!” The audience sighs with relief, the mystery is solved. Some of us start laughing, pinching our skin in disbelief. Unfaltering, he announces: “Thanks to its receptors, the skin is an organ of touch, protection, and regulation. It can also stretch when needed.”

Marvelling at these manifold functions, the class is now quiet, under a spell. The digestion of the organs will take some time.

Mizen's Wicker Hamper; by Victor Sullivan

© 1, November, 2010

Kindness during hard times recalled

Mizen Head, the wild, windswept, most south-westerly extremity of the island of Ireland, juts out into the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean at Latitude 51º 27' 01" N Longitude 9º 49' 07" W. Surprisingly, it does not boast a lighthouse but the array of radio masts and the rusting remains of their predecessors bear witness to the former importance of the place as a navigational aid for the ships that ply the busy sea-routes. Modern satellite-aided navigation has resulted in the downgrading of the former radio station and it is no longer manned. A fascinating Museum informs tourists about the life and duties of the men who served on the many Lighthouses around the coast and at the Marine Radio Station at Mizen Head.

In the Summer of 2007 I joined the line of visitors from Britain, America, Europe and elsewhere and entered the Museum. Inside, a cut-way model of a Lighthouse tower soars up to the roof and beside it a large wicker hamper rests on a simulated jetty. I recognised that hamper instantly and I was whisked back to a moment in the 1940s, a time of rationing, hard times and shortages of almost everything, including sweets, cigarettes, sugar and tea, thanks to World War 2.

Warners of Bantry had the contract for supplying Lighthouses around the south-west coast of Ireland and my father, (known as Jimmy-in-Warners), was the manager of that establishment. On seeing the large hamper I vividly recalled sitting on the shop counter watching my father packing that very same woven willow king-sized hamper with the supplies for the men who manned the isolated Marine Radio Station at Mizen Head.

Jimmy-in-Warners personally packed the hamper while the shop-assistant ran to and fro fetching the items on the list. On the counter between me and the hamper was a shining tin canister of sweets, rare treats in those harsh times. I watched hopefully as my father carefully pushed the sweets and a few cigarette packets into gaps between the packages in the basket. Gradually the contents of the hamper rose until a final sprinkling of a few more sweets terminated the operation, the lid creaked shut and the two leather straps were buckled.

My father replaced the lid on the tin of sweets and returned it to its appointed place beneath the cash till. Then the shop assistant lifted the heavy hamper from the counter revealing just one precious 'forgotten' sweet ... for me.

Four or five years after that experience, with the war over and sweets and other luxuries once more readily available, my father suddenly announced that he had received a very special invitation to visit Mizen Head on the following Sunday. Sunday afternoon drives were part of the family's normal routine but on this occasion my father seemed to be suppressing great excitement. On reaching Mizen Head he led us down the many steps to the spectacular bridge that spans the yawning void separating the last tip of Ireland's main land from the Marine Radio Station on the rocky island. The gate was locked but a man in uniform came towards us from across the bridge. He unlocked the gate and welcomed Jimmy-in-Warners, my mother, my younger sister, Audrey and myself to Mizen Head Marine Radio Station.

And what a reception we received! Jimmy-in-Warners was clearly a very popular VIP visitor. We were taken on a guided tour of the Radio Station, watched the automatic Morse code transmitter tapping out its monotonous string of dots and dashes and we were entertained with tales of wartime convoy attacks, of passing ships on fire, U-Boat conning towers, low-flying aircraft dropping depth charges and stories of the arrival and subsequent unpacking of the hamper of goodies with the ever-welcome 'off-list' sweets and cigarettes. All the men remembered the sweets.

We were treated to tea and cakes (from Warner's bakery) and there may have been other hospitality provided for the grown-ups while Audrey and I were taken to see how the explosive charges were set off as a fog signal.

Eventually the visit ended and we were escorted back across that scary bridge. As we climbed the steep steps a lone voice called after us: "Thanks for all the sweeties, Jimmy!"

If you don't believe my story, ask that hamper, it was there on that day also.