Home So Far Away by Judith Berlowitz

Author:Judith Berlowitz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press

MADRID, Wednesday, 12 August 1936

Wounded men and women continue to pour in to our hospital, largely from the Guadarrama Mountains, with Mola’s column inflicting heavy casualties as it advances toward Madrid. There are of course many well-trained nurses, doctors, and assistants at the Hospital Obrero, but caring for the wounded is a learning experience for many others. María Luisa and the Italian woman called “María” began by simply observing and assisting when instructed, but now María Luisa is able to distinguish a single bullet wound from a shrapnel wound caused by bombing or by hand grenade, while “María” has taken over the kitchen, much to the delight of wounded and staff alike. Her chef’s coat consists simply of a large man’s shirt, tossed over her regular clothing. She displays a knack for combining cured meats with beans and vegetables (grown by the few neighbors in this almost rural zone of Madrid) and has somehow been able to acquire barley to add to these creations, all simmered in a huge pot and which can be puréed to be fed to convalescing soldiers.

“Ma che, don’t you have corn meal here?” she demanded. “In Messico I was able to use it to make polenta.” Some of us tried to explain to her that corn (maize) in Spain is considered food for pigs, and she simply snorted and replied that Spain must be a very backward (arretrato) country if they feed their pigs better than their people.

As for María Luisa, she has already proved an expert shot, having learned from her father, an Olympic marksman, and we can thank her bold actions for the fact that we were able to open all the hospital doors. She was born in Madrid but raised in Cuba (which is why I thought I had detected a Puerto Rican accent—it must be something about the Caribbean). A member of the Communist Party, she became involved in progressive education there. And last Saturday she even demonstrated her skill at the wheel of an ambulance, as our usual driver was ill, when we had to journey through the mountains on dizzying roads and under fire, to the front line at Buitrago de Lozoya to pick up two wounded men and one woman. Men working along the road waved and raised their fists in glee at the sight of a female driver.

María Luisa seemed to be close to “María,” and yesterday as we were checking the dressing of an anesthetized patient, I asked her what “María’s” connection was with Mexico, as she seemed to be Italian.

“Chica (Girl),” she began (as she often begins sentences addressed to other women), “don’t you know? She came here—with—him.” Her face reddened, as it had when I first met her.

“Him? Do you mean Comandante Carlos?”

She simply nodded. “He will probably be here on Sunday for Ti—‘María’s’ birthday. Will you be here?”

I hadn’t known about the birthday or the visit but promised that I would be there, and I wondered what she meant by saying “Ti—”.

Tonight I brought home the fifth issue of Milicia Popular.

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