academic year, beginning on September 1, 1935, and ending on May 31, 1936. The letter was written in perfect Spanish, neatly typewritten on ivory bond, and signed with anemphatic stroke by Richard J. Taylor, PhD, Chairman. They needed to have Andresâs answer by the end of the month.
Andres refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, placing it in his inside jacket pocket before sitting down to lunch with the family, trying to hide his nervousness amid the conversation. As soon as he finished eating, he left the house and walked around aimlessly. When he returned at dusk heâd resolved his dilemma, but didnât tell anyone, and went straight to bed without dinner. The following morning he solemnly informed Señora Antonia of his decision while she hung the freshly washed sheets on the patio wire. He wrote a letter to his mother for Don Ramon to read to her.
On July 14, 1935, Andres embarked from the port of Cadiz on the C hristopher Columbus, where his berth was located on the lowest deck for that journey to an immense unknown country. He initially planned to return to Spain in the summer of the following year once his classes had concluded, but an invitation to collaborate on a summer course for high school teachers made him change plans and postpone his return until the beginning of August 1936. He thought that with the extra money from that course he would be able to buy some clothing and modern appliances to take home as gifts.
That small change of plans irremediably altered his destiny, for in one of historyâs cruel tricks, he never returned. He remained in America with a shrunken soul and a suitcase full of new clothes, half a dozen cartons of American cigarettes, and four portentous GE electric irons. Señora Antonia, his mother, and his sisters would have to continue to spend long years ironing the old-fashioned way.
The civil war changed his country forever. Madrid prepared itself for a hard resistance and its physiognomy was radically transformed. The statue of Don Agustin de Argüelles that had greeted him each morning on leaving his caretakerâs apartment on Calle Princesa was removed so as not to hinder the movement of troops and vehicles. The Hotel Palace ballroom where he had danced, led by a blond knockout, became a field hospital. At the beginning of the conflict, all University City facilities were in an advanced stage of construction, with some already finished and operational. However, the fresh paint, shiny windows, and recently varnished writing desks wouldnât last long. The bloody war would reduce a proud university to rubble, crushing as well a large part of its scientific, artistic, and bibliographic heritage, and forcing numerous members of its faculty toward the abyss of exile. As soon as Madrid fell, that ambitious monarchic dream of a magnificent American-style campus was brutally wiped out and its buildings reduced to frightful skeletons. Of the forty thousand trees that had been planted, only the roots remained. The area containing classrooms was occupied by trenches; the laboratories, by parapets. Barricades were erected using encyclopedias, dictionaries, and sandbags; rifles and bodies were Âscattered throughout the lecture halls and libraries.
Thousands perished, among them Marcelino, who had fallen in the Hospital Clinico with a shattered skull, lying facedown on the floor and carrying in the left-hand pocket of his combat jacket a crumpled half-written letter. In his childish scrawl heâd begun formulating a greeting intended for a destination far across the ocean: âDear Friend Andres, I hope this letter finds you in good health . . .â
Chapter 7
----
W ith the help of several graduate students, I had transferred the first batch of Andres Fontanaâs legacy from the storeroom to my office, heaping the boxes and piles against the wall. I had the feeling that I was finally beginning to rescue him from
Andres refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, placing it in his inside jacket pocket before sitting down to lunch with the family, trying to hide his nervousness amid the conversation. As soon as he finished eating, he left the house and walked around aimlessly. When he returned at dusk heâd resolved his dilemma, but didnât tell anyone, and went straight to bed without dinner. The following morning he solemnly informed Señora Antonia of his decision while she hung the freshly washed sheets on the patio wire. He wrote a letter to his mother for Don Ramon to read to her.
On July 14, 1935, Andres embarked from the port of Cadiz on the C hristopher Columbus, where his berth was located on the lowest deck for that journey to an immense unknown country. He initially planned to return to Spain in the summer of the following year once his classes had concluded, but an invitation to collaborate on a summer course for high school teachers made him change plans and postpone his return until the beginning of August 1936. He thought that with the extra money from that course he would be able to buy some clothing and modern appliances to take home as gifts.
That small change of plans irremediably altered his destiny, for in one of historyâs cruel tricks, he never returned. He remained in America with a shrunken soul and a suitcase full of new clothes, half a dozen cartons of American cigarettes, and four portentous GE electric irons. Señora Antonia, his mother, and his sisters would have to continue to spend long years ironing the old-fashioned way.
The civil war changed his country forever. Madrid prepared itself for a hard resistance and its physiognomy was radically transformed. The statue of Don Agustin de Argüelles that had greeted him each morning on leaving his caretakerâs apartment on Calle Princesa was removed so as not to hinder the movement of troops and vehicles. The Hotel Palace ballroom where he had danced, led by a blond knockout, became a field hospital. At the beginning of the conflict, all University City facilities were in an advanced stage of construction, with some already finished and operational. However, the fresh paint, shiny windows, and recently varnished writing desks wouldnât last long. The bloody war would reduce a proud university to rubble, crushing as well a large part of its scientific, artistic, and bibliographic heritage, and forcing numerous members of its faculty toward the abyss of exile. As soon as Madrid fell, that ambitious monarchic dream of a magnificent American-style campus was brutally wiped out and its buildings reduced to frightful skeletons. Of the forty thousand trees that had been planted, only the roots remained. The area containing classrooms was occupied by trenches; the laboratories, by parapets. Barricades were erected using encyclopedias, dictionaries, and sandbags; rifles and bodies were Âscattered throughout the lecture halls and libraries.
Thousands perished, among them Marcelino, who had fallen in the Hospital Clinico with a shattered skull, lying facedown on the floor and carrying in the left-hand pocket of his combat jacket a crumpled half-written letter. In his childish scrawl heâd begun formulating a greeting intended for a destination far across the ocean: âDear Friend Andres, I hope this letter finds you in good health . . .â
Chapter 7
----
W ith the help of several graduate students, I had transferred the first batch of Andres Fontanaâs legacy from the storeroom to my office, heaping the boxes and piles against the wall. I had the feeling that I was finally beginning to rescue him from
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