Return to Killybegs by Sorj Chalandon, Ursula Meany Scott
Authors: Sorj Chalandon, Ursula Meany Scott
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IRA, Finley? asked another Fianna.
And they all started talking at the same time. Our role was not to criticize but to obey. The Army Council, the Northern Command, Sinn Féin’s Ard Chomhairle, all these men knew what was right for Ireland.
I had taken out Tom’s sliotar and was rolling it between my palms. Danny didn’t back off.
—And what will happen if an IRA combatant kills an American by accident? Can you tell me what would happen then?
—Why would the IRA kill an American?
—Because there are thirty million of them, because they’re everywhere, in cities, in the countryside. Can you imagine it? A Republican combatant mistaking his target? An óglach aiming at an English soldier takes down a Yankee who’s handing out chocolate and biscuits to kids?
—You watch too many films, Danny!
I raised my hand. I came to his aid.
—My father was a socialist as well as a Republican and wanted to fight the Francoists in Spain. Now Franco and Hitler are hand in hand, but where are we?
—Do you know who was the leader of the Connolly Column of the International Brigades? the teacher asked.
Of course I knew. My father had never met him but he’d talked about him for a long time as our future leader.
—With Frank Ryan, we’ll crush the Irish fascists, the Blueshirts, all those dirty Brits! my father used to say.
For him, ‘British’ was synonymous with bastard. On the street or in the pub, any guy who wound him up was a Brit.
—Frank Ryan, I replied.
—And do you know where Frank Ryan is today?
No. I didn’t know. I imagined he was probably imprisoned in Spain or dead.
—In Berlin, the teacher continued.
I was flabbergasted. Frank Ryan, the socialist, the internationalist, the red, in Berlin? I sat there with my mouth agape.
—A problem for Great Britain means a solution handed to Ireland, our teacher reiterated.
We were just kids. I looked at my friends’ faces. We wanted to fight for the liberty of our country, to honour her memory, preserve her terrible beauty. Our treaties and alliances mattered little. We were ready to die for one another. Truly. And some amongst us would keep that promise.
I asked no more questions, and Danny kept his to himself.
He and I were going to wage war against the English, as our fathers had done before us. And our grandfathers, too. Asking questions was like laying down our arms.
At the end of February 1942, an IRA man entrusted me with my first pistol.
Tom Williams had posted us all over the quarter. As a sign of recognition, the girls wore green bows in their hair. The boys were all wore the red and white scarf of the Cliftonville Football Club. It was a weekday. The Belfast Solitude stadium was closed.
—There’s no match today, lads! we were told by laughing men when they saw us heading solemnly up the road.
The Republican soldiers could spring up at any moment. We were waiting for them, posted at crossroads. I was standing under a porch, leaning against the wall of an unfamiliar house. When the IRA man arrived, I jumped. He was running, his hand under his coat and his tie flying back over his shoulder. He handed me a gun. He had just wounded a soldier with a bullet in the neck. I took the weapon from him with both hands, stuffed it down my trousers, pressed flat against my belt. I crossed the road. My whole body was quivering. After a few metres a woman I had never met came up to me. She was carrying a football in a willow basket. She handed it to me without a word, then took my hand. I was slightly ashamed. I was a sixteen-year-old Fianna in active service being led along by this woman as though I were her small child.
—Someone will take you in charge. Let yourself be led, Tom had told me.
The armoured cars were surrounding the enclave. At the roadblocks, the police were searching the men, their arms in the air. A soldier beckoned us to come forward, the woman with her basket, me with my ball. In front of him the woman treated me like I was a
And they all started talking at the same time. Our role was not to criticize but to obey. The Army Council, the Northern Command, Sinn Féin’s Ard Chomhairle, all these men knew what was right for Ireland.
I had taken out Tom’s sliotar and was rolling it between my palms. Danny didn’t back off.
—And what will happen if an IRA combatant kills an American by accident? Can you tell me what would happen then?
—Why would the IRA kill an American?
—Because there are thirty million of them, because they’re everywhere, in cities, in the countryside. Can you imagine it? A Republican combatant mistaking his target? An óglach aiming at an English soldier takes down a Yankee who’s handing out chocolate and biscuits to kids?
—You watch too many films, Danny!
I raised my hand. I came to his aid.
—My father was a socialist as well as a Republican and wanted to fight the Francoists in Spain. Now Franco and Hitler are hand in hand, but where are we?
—Do you know who was the leader of the Connolly Column of the International Brigades? the teacher asked.
Of course I knew. My father had never met him but he’d talked about him for a long time as our future leader.
—With Frank Ryan, we’ll crush the Irish fascists, the Blueshirts, all those dirty Brits! my father used to say.
For him, ‘British’ was synonymous with bastard. On the street or in the pub, any guy who wound him up was a Brit.
—Frank Ryan, I replied.
—And do you know where Frank Ryan is today?
No. I didn’t know. I imagined he was probably imprisoned in Spain or dead.
—In Berlin, the teacher continued.
I was flabbergasted. Frank Ryan, the socialist, the internationalist, the red, in Berlin? I sat there with my mouth agape.
—A problem for Great Britain means a solution handed to Ireland, our teacher reiterated.
We were just kids. I looked at my friends’ faces. We wanted to fight for the liberty of our country, to honour her memory, preserve her terrible beauty. Our treaties and alliances mattered little. We were ready to die for one another. Truly. And some amongst us would keep that promise.
I asked no more questions, and Danny kept his to himself.
He and I were going to wage war against the English, as our fathers had done before us. And our grandfathers, too. Asking questions was like laying down our arms.
At the end of February 1942, an IRA man entrusted me with my first pistol.
Tom Williams had posted us all over the quarter. As a sign of recognition, the girls wore green bows in their hair. The boys were all wore the red and white scarf of the Cliftonville Football Club. It was a weekday. The Belfast Solitude stadium was closed.
—There’s no match today, lads! we were told by laughing men when they saw us heading solemnly up the road.
The Republican soldiers could spring up at any moment. We were waiting for them, posted at crossroads. I was standing under a porch, leaning against the wall of an unfamiliar house. When the IRA man arrived, I jumped. He was running, his hand under his coat and his tie flying back over his shoulder. He handed me a gun. He had just wounded a soldier with a bullet in the neck. I took the weapon from him with both hands, stuffed it down my trousers, pressed flat against my belt. I crossed the road. My whole body was quivering. After a few metres a woman I had never met came up to me. She was carrying a football in a willow basket. She handed it to me without a word, then took my hand. I was slightly ashamed. I was a sixteen-year-old Fianna in active service being led along by this woman as though I were her small child.
—Someone will take you in charge. Let yourself be led, Tom had told me.
The armoured cars were surrounding the enclave. At the roadblocks, the police were searching the men, their arms in the air. A soldier beckoned us to come forward, the woman with her basket, me with my ball. In front of him the woman treated me like I was a
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