Heriberto Blazquez was awakened by the sun. "Cara al Sol" he mused to himself, no punning or whimsy in his spirit, just the mechanical connection of the moment's physicality to the rote of a long term memory. It was Sunday, July 4, 1976 and he was in the home of his late uncle in Germantown, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., a neighborhood of Philadelphia, The Cradle of Liberty. He was sixty one years old and it had been more than thirty seven years since he had left the hospital in Zaragoza, having overcome a relapse from his illness on the eve of the end of the war. There was a soft knocking at the door of his room. "Cousin Heriberto, are you awake?" Trudy Blazquez McCausland was Uncle Pedro's granddaughter and the daughter of Antonio, the father she never knew. A beauty whose mathematical gallop towards middle age was as surreal to her family and friends as it was to Heriberto, she was the mistress of this old colonial house since she and her husband had begun caring for her grandfather in 1970. She cheerfully offered breakfast before Heriberto could answer and he deadpanned while opening the door: "No 'guapa', don't you see me sleeping over there? And how can I eat your big American breakfasts anyway?"
Heriberto was on vacation and this was his first time in America. He regretted many things, but one among them stood out in his mind at this moment. He had never visited during "Tio" Pedro's lifetime. A mass for him was scheduled later that morning and the festivities for the American Bicentennial were also part of his family's plans, though Heriberto was a bit anxious about participating in the events of a strange land's very special day. His "book" knowledge of America was far superior to that of the average Spaniard, he supposed. His uncle had encouraged and stimulated these readings because of who he was and where he lived, as well as by his regular vacations back to Spain. But Heriberto felt that he did not understand the essence of this place and her people. He sensed that an emotional connection might be unattainable, given his fairly advanced years and rootedness in a very different culture where abundance and wealth, change and advancement in one's station in life were neither the norm nor often even part of one's aspirations. He also did not like crowds, even before the war. Now this grand American party frightened him somewhat.
The morning newspaper was set out beside Heriberto's place at the breakfast table. He eagerly glanced at the headlines and tried to read the body of an article or two that piqued his curiosity, but he knew that the English was just beyond his grasp. An insert of local news caught his eye with the headline: "Thousands To March In North Philly Bicentennial Parade, Mayor To Speak." His mind was not quite focused, but that headline stirred something within him and he suddenly asked Bill, Trudy's husband: "Senor Bill, how far away is Gettysburg in Pennsylvania?" "Well, let's see cousin Heriberto. Hmm, had a client in Chambersburg last year. Gettysburg's almost as far as there. I'd say about 130 miles to Gettysburg. Oh, wait. You'd like it in kilometers, right?" Before the Zaragozan could politely demur, feeling that he had imposed already, Bill held up his hand like an unusually pleasant traffic cop as he warmed to the task of calculating without pen and paper and assured his wife's first cousin once removed, that it was "only 205…wait, no...209 kilometers from Philadelphia. Do you need a ride there?" The Zaragozan's prepossessing hosts, both husband and wife, were delightful and a bit overwhelming in their "aim to please" ways and he was not quite sure how to respond or reciprocate. "Gracias, Senor Bill." Then he quickly hitched the idea of the pleasure Bill obviously derived from helping others to an idea that abruptly surfaced from his unconscious mind: "How far a distance is it to the city of Pittsburgh?" Bill's smile intensified even as a quizzical wrinkle or two formed near his brow. "Well that's an easy one. It's a tad over 300 miles. That's, wait…hmm, wait, I got it. That's 480 some odd kilometers. Call it 490!" said Bill triumphantly. "Need a ride there too?" Heriberto laughed out loud for the first time since he had boarded the jet from Madrid after exchanging pleasantries with an exuberant Polish student from Salamanca who posed riddles of razor sharp wit in perfect Castillian. Bill's earnestness and friendliness, not his wit or even his wizardry with mathematical calculations, had lightened Blazquez's spirits. And yet, Heriberto sensed a dark cloud, however small and distant, that marred the sunniness of the day and its significance that most would bask in, oblivious to anything but its blazing affirmation of life and freedom, rain or shine. He did not want to be, "what was the English phrase?" he tried to recall. "Oh, yes. I must not be a pooper of the party. No: a 'party pooper'" he remembered, and decided thusly.
The mass was short. He was not accustomed, of course, to the English or to the clapping of hands in church when a new priest, fresh from a seminary, was introduced to the parishioners. The mention of his late uncle's name rekindled the melancholy that he thought he had banished. After mass they exited toward the steps outside and Heriberto stood behind Bill and Trudy as they all waited patiently to shake the hand of the reverend who had celebrated the mass and delivered the upbeat homily, most of which Heriberto understood. "Be active" he had admonished. "Get involved and don't be afraid if you believe you are right and if your actions imitate those of Jesus. Remember," he had continued, "especially today, that we are a free people and that your duty is to promote liberty and justice." Heriberto shook the priest's hand firmly and tried to understand the importance of democracy for Americans but there were questions that he suspected, even if he could have articulated and posed them in English and were to have understood the English responses, he would have remained unclear about the answers that might have been offered. Many thoughts competed for his attention. "How can a free people permit those who hate freedom to live among them? Why are wolves welcomed into homes of lambs?" He was amazed at his own woolgathering. "Am I a restless youth again, as before the war, pondering the stars and all kinds of puzzlements while taking an early evening 'paseo' with Elena?" Just silently forming her name with his tongue and lips brought an ancient pang that he somehow welcomed. The congregants had started to further disperse when Heriberto became aware of the muffled sound of drums and what he remembered from his time in Asturias and from English films as well: bagpipes.
"Come with us cousin Heriberto! We can drive to the far end of the park and see the parade from its first marchers to the last ones!" cried Trudy's son Bill Jr., a gangling lad barely in his teens with the same enthusiasm of his father if just a bit shy due to his stage of life. "Yep! Hop in" urged Bill Sr. The conveniently parked big station wagon and everyone else's body language made hesitation useless. Within a minute they were tooling along the leafy streets, the musician's instruments' sounds first waxing then soon waning as they closed in on the position along the route yet to be marched upon by various groups, bands and fife and drum corps. Bill Sr. knew a cul-de-sac nearby where an old friend had reserved a driveway space for him. They all exited the big car and just followed the small clusters of parade spectators. Trudy had remembered how easily winded her cousin could become and she toted a tiny wooden folding chair that was hardly noticeable and would not be offered to Heriberto unless the need became obviously evident and silent appreciation was likeliest to obviate any inclination for the Zaragozan to protest.
A lemonade stand in a shaded spot (just back from the spaces quickly filling with spectators) was promptly patronized by Bill Sr. and he sauntered back to his family with a tray of tall paper cups filled with icy pink liquid, each with a flexible straw and the "overkill" of a slice of lemon hooked to the rim of each vessel. "Salud, cousin Heriberto! Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam!" Everyone plus a few nearby strangers chimed in: "Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam!" Blazquez raised his cup, removing the straw, and vaguely recalled the sobriquet, but could not place an image with the name. He thought of stern Anglo-American men of the turn-of-the-century: Teddy Roosevelt, John Phillip Sousa and Lord Kitchener…and oh yes: John Bull, the personification of the English nation, but he was drawing a blank on "Uncle Sam." "Yankee Doodle Dandy" came to mind and he remembered the feisty actor James Cagney, but no picture of Sam. He enquired of Bill who feigned a grave look and stroked an imaginary beard and then pointed his finger at the Zaragozan: "Heriberto, I want YOU!" Several "oldtimers" within earshot laughed heartily and Bill patiently explained the iconic World War I recruitment poster of Uncle Sam to him. The people around him were merry and clearly pleased with themselves and their surroundings. He felt a tentative kinship and less like a stranger. But then he sipped from his cup as if it were a certain special dry sherry from Jerez, and was stunned by the cloyingly sweet beverage. "Limonada?" he thought increduously. He stifled the urge to spit it out and calculated how to drink up without allowing the sugar to bore holes into his already badly deteriorated teeth. The sun was beautiful and the muffled sounds of drums and evocative pipes began to increase again in volume. A wedge of jet planes screamed overhead and Heriberto marveled at the advances in aviation since his days in the service. An acoustically challenged microphone was made further abusive to sensitive ears by a well intentioned and amiable man who wore a dark blue military garrison cap, similar to Heriberto's in '38-'39 except for its color and lack of a tassle. The man was portly, at least as old as Heriberto, and his face was flushed, as if he were combatting a winter's chill. Given the season, he was more plausibly fortified by something closer to the aforementioned aperitif from Andalusia than the American lemonade. He tried to describe each marching band or distinct group and its origin, hometown, school or historical niche in the American story, but the electrified and sharply amplified sound of his voice became more of a nuisance than an enlightenment. Very young persons, quick and precise, with flawless skin and clear eyes seemed endlessly patient and tireless, whether twirling batons, marching rythmically, forward or in place, or playing and supporting instruments of varying sizes, shapes and weights: no loss of uniformity or will was detectable and instead, a certain vitality thrilled all and beckoned even the infirmest to step lively to the "Spirit of '76." A high school band from Villanova seemed especially smart in their finery and Heriberto noted the many smiling faces and could not help comparing them to the often severe stares of the Falangist youth groups he had observed on parade through the years. An abrupt change in scenery, and perhaps pace, were the rows of men now marching by, many overweight and gray haired, in garrison caps identical to the announcer's. There was something genial and relaxed about them that had no adverse effect on the dignity and pride that they clearly evinced. Heriberto liked these men instantly as he recognized instinctively, fellow veterans, soldiers and yes-- brothers. Ladies in military attire of varying ages followed and Heriberto did not quite know what to make of them. These diverse groups were sandwiched from behind by more youthful musicians as the sun went behind a cloud and a sudden breeze swept through the crowd and the marchers. Blazquez thought he heard a crow making its unpleasant cry and he turned toward Trudy, wanting something, but he knew not what. He furtively stared at her for a long moment, sure that she was unaware of him. He had seen immediately the sweet child he had cradled after she had returned to Zaragoza from Barcelona with her mother who often asked him and others to care for the toddler while she struggled for work and the reconstruction of her life. He thought of all the long years. The image of Horacio came to him most vividly and unexpectedly. He had recently feared that he had forgotten what his older brother looked like. The announcer could not be deterred and another garbled message ended with the one and only word he heard distinctly and unmistakably: "brigade."
Heriberto's recent jolts by these images and feelings from his past seemed to have prepared him for this moment. An especial calm and concentration within, dovetailed now with what appeared before him. A certain inevitability, perhaps long expected and not really surprising (like the conclusion of an amateurish script from a high school play he had once co-written with Horacio), allowed him to not stiffen, but to observe serenely, as he imagined his eyes being camera lenses, apertures widening to permit more and more light for the optical instruments to accomplish their tasks of recording a very dark and poorly lit subject. The group passing before him held a long banner, nearly equal to the width of the roadway. The color of it at first appeared almost black. Blazquez realized quickly that it was a very dark red, like long since coagulated blood. They were old, or soon to be old men like Heriberto. But they were mostly thinner and more varied in their heights, many shorter and particularly taller than the previous veterans. Most wore a kind of uniform, but they were a curious lot of widely varied apparel. And no one would have mistakenly described them as genial. Proud? Yes. Angry? Assuredly. They did not seem a part of the whole. There was spasmodic and quite intermittent clapping from a very few hands in the crowd. Heriberto then saw him. Erect and haughty, a disdain (for what and for whom?) was carved deeply on his weathered visage, creases in all directions were etched mostly near the corners of his eyes, frowning mouth and on his forehead. He was "not THAT 'Americano'" thought Heriberto emphatically and conclusively. But, oh so familiar were his movements: the jauntily angled beret, his mein, his swagger and the very air that seemed to envelop him. Then the clenched fist was raised. He was the only man in the group to do this. There are jolts. And then there are JOLTS. Heriberto learned this lesson at once as his pulse pounded against his temples. He was quaking and aware that he might fall. Speedily and too often he inhaled and exhaled. With a terrible rage he felt with his right hand along the material of his lower right pants leg. Like a Scot with his "skean dhu", he had secreted and strapped to his calf a small dagger inherited from his grandfather. He had not used it in twenty years or more. He had never felt this way, except perhaps when "affix bayonets" was ordered on those few occasions in the trenches. He was starting to forget where he was, as a dread and a loathing, themselves quite apart from the hatred of this stranger, struck him with a terror unlike any that had done so in the past. "Mind and body…together shall they remain and with one good purpose" he suddenly called to mind his father's oft repeated advice. Only then Heriberto became aware of an unfamiliar object held by this man of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade in his left hand. It was a stick and it was white. It was a walking cane and Heriberto then remembered.
"Un ciego!" spoke Heriberto aloud. His head was spinning as he heard a small child's voice very close by. "Grandpa, hooray! Grandpa!" The old Red was now waving with the offending arm and a smile erupted out of that blackness, radically rearranging the wrinkles in the veteran's face. Heriberto heard Trudy's voice as she touched his arm affectionately and asked timidly: "please, cousin, it's a long parade, no?" She had respectfully unfolded and placed the chair alongside, rather than under his posterior, avoiding the option for him to just plop down on it. He kissed her with silent assent and thanks and then gracefully sat down. END.
