The “Spanija” series translates selected autobiographical accounts by Yugoslavian and Montenegrin volunteers of their actions in the Spanish Civil War. Dr. Ray Hoff used Google translate from Croatian to English and he edited the selections. As this is a machine translation, the idiomatic features of Croatian or Serbian and the translation of names and places are “best effort”. The full five-volume collection was entitled:

“The Participants write Spanija 1936-1939: collection of memories of Yugoslav volunteers in the Spanish War”

It was assembled by Editor-in-Chief Cedo Kapor and published by the Initiative Committee of the Association of Spanish Fighters, The War History of our Peoples, Book 130, Military Publishing Institute, Belgrade, Yugoslavia, 1971, 5 volumes.

Chris Brooks posted and provided links to volunteers.

WHY EVERYTHING DIFFICULT WAS SO EASY^[1]

Liza Gavric, Spanija, Volume 3, pp 323-337

The transport of the wounded from Brunete arrived.  Soldiers carried stretchers from the car and placed them in the dark corridor of the hospital, in which soon there was no more room. Constantly new wounded were arriving and together with stretchers they were placed on the floor. They lay under blankets with legs blown apart, torn arms, bloody bandages over their eyes. They didn’t fight back as if nothing hurt them. No one asked for help or water, they just wanted to get inside, to be safe. They waited. They were all young, and some were probably not even twenty years old.

It was impossible to know what nationality they were, from which part of the globe they came from, what language they spoke, because they were silent. That silence was due to exhaustion, because of stubborn pride so that they would not give in to the pain and not tear off their bandages to see how their body is forever mutilated, the kind of cripples they are for the rest of their lives. Silence as a sign that they have paid the required price, that they have fulfilled their duty.

One after the other, they were taken to the rooms, there they were washed, wrapped in the same linen, they got their own bed and table, and with it the same name and nationality again. There they lay, side by side, friends from all countries, all races, all occupations, simply comrades from the International Brigades.

In Hall 9 of “Pasionaria” members of 30 nations were lying on 40 beds.

The scrawny black-eyed Spaniard Juan, whose right arm, shoulder and chest were in a cast, he never demanded anything, He was ashamed that he was shameless when the nurse made his bed, washed his body and legs and fed him like a child, He was always ready to be the last in everything and give priority to other comrades.

What did he think about for hours, days and nights? Who is he? Where is it from?

And next to him a tall, blond Englishman, a sailor, without a left leg, to whom his friends came and drank tea together, laughed and sang in their own language.

Who was he?

A very young Cuban, almost still a child, and so handsome that all the Spanish girls loved him and flocked to him so that they wouldn’t even bind his left hand, which was always lifeless.

Who was he?

And the Chinese, who could not walk but only hop on one leg, sat for hours on his bed and filled a notebook with the miraculous signs of his alphabet.

Where did he come from?

A Belgian with frozen feet, a Frenchman with punctured lungs. a young Viennese with stiff arms, a Pole with amputated legs, whom his sister had to carry as a child, an Algerian with a bandage over his torn face, a young Yugoslav student, Marko from Prague, whose both legs and torso were in plaster, a black Oscar, a Brazilian, a German from Red Vedinga^[2], Bulgarian and everyone else. Who are they really? Comrades, Spanish fighters. The Frenchman, who, together with an Algerian, was seriously injured by explosives during a sabotage operation and who was the first to be operated on, demanded that he be taken off the operating table and put an Algerian in his place. And the very tall Swede Nilsson, who lost one eye and his left hand, and only had a thumb and forefinger on his right hand, said while he was being bandaged, laughing: “But it’s good, with one eye I can still look at girls, and with two finger to hold a cigarette”. The Italian Torricelli, who could not come to terms with the fact that he had only one leg, always argued, scolded and angrily crawled under his blankets. When they asked him what was wrong with him, he answered angrily: “I’m not good for anything, except to shoot behind some barricade”.

The little black-faced Spaniard, who had lost both eyes, desperately learned to walk and counted his steps to the wall, moving with outstretched arms. If he mistimed his steps and hit his body against the wall, he would curse and start over. And always like that, always anew. The Austrian, who was placed like a corpse on a wooden cart made for him by his comrades, drove through the hospital corridors to visit his comrades who could not move. The Yugoslav Cukulic, who took his violin to Spain and did not part with it even during the battles at the front, played in the evenings with his comrades on the terrace of the hospital in Mataro. This humble guy, who immediately made friends with everyone and whom all Spaniards loved, hurried the Doctor to declare him healthy and return him to the front. On leaving, he said, shaking my hand: “Liza, the first Fascist I kill is for you“.

The German Karl Holstein {aka Hollstein in SIDBRINT}, whose legs and lower body were completely paralyzed by the shrapnel in his spine and whom they had to swaddle and keep clean as an infant, he never lost hope. Hour by hour, he fought for his life with desperate strength and tried again and again to raise himself up with the help of a rung above the bed. Moreover, he could also laugh, and he once said: If only I could go to the Soviet Union, then everything would be fine! And if I saw my wife, I would run to meet her. However, she is in Germany, and my daughter may greet me with a raised hand in a “Hitlerian manner.”

A young, pale Pole, who was also paralyzed, when the nurse was washing his helpless body, would start to cry and mutter: “Sorry, my Comrade!”

To a young, probably only sixteen-year-old Spanish girl with big eyes and black wispy hair, Professor Diaz removed a bullet from her forehead. After the operation, she revived quickly and already started to smile, but suddenly after a few days, one night, she died due to inflammation of the meninges.

The young Latvian, supported with the stumps of his hands on the windowsill, he sang the Spanish national anthem and after the refrain “libertad , libertad” (freedom, freedom), he would start singing from the beginning.

Women and girls from many countries and from different continents.

Yugoslav friend Borka^[3], a slim girl with a gentle, beautifully sculpted face, with slightly protruding teeth between slightly curved lips, rarely smiled. Her Comrade Miron {Demic, aka Danilo Pavlović – Dudek V2 pp 28-89} was killed in front of Madrid. He went to Spain before her, and when she arrived he was dead. She lost the man who was her first love, with whom she went from country to country and helped him in party work. In a small hotel room in the risky suburb of Ivry, she brought him “folk soup” that was distributed to the poor without clothes, and he often told her: “Darling, you are so good”.

She didn’t talk about Miron’s death. She didn’t even cry. She moved through Room 9 with quick nervous steps, from one wounded man to another, argued in the laundry room until she got a clean shirt or a sheet. She fought persistently in the kitchen for a few eggs, and then she would prepare them, always in a different way, according to the wishes of each individual wounded person.

In the case of injustice or inhuman treatment, she could not restrain herself. Then she would resist and argue, her face would become stern, her gaze reproachful, and the flood of words would fall on the guilty.

Yugoslav wounded with nurses and the Chinese Li (with glasses) in the hospital in Benicassim

She didn’t know about giving in. She hated compromises. She was often harsh, unyielding, but never towards the wounded and Spanish women. She was infinitely patient with them, her voice remained soft, and sometimes she even smiled.

Swiss Edith {Buss}, a skinny brown girl, with gold teeth in her big mouth, she was a saleswoman in a pastry shop before coming to Spain. She worked in the room where the operated or seriously wounded lay. Among them is the paralyzed Karl Holstein. During the day, as the mother of her child, she lifted this heavy, completely helpless man, did her best to transfer his body to another bed, washed him and brought him back. She treated his wounds caused by lying down for a long time and herself devised a device under which she could put a container so that her friend would not lie down wet. She fought for his life every day. They won together. He with his will to live, she with her human strength. The impossible has come true. He did not die of uremia, he started to move his legs, to stand up.

Hanka {See Sara Altman – SIDBRINT – rmh}, a black-faced Polish woman, married to a German friend, Willi, attended a course for nurses in Paris, so that she could follow her husband to Spain. When she started talking about her and their love, tears would immediately come to her eyes. She, who was just waiting to see him again, was completely absent when she got the news that he died at Brunete. As a wounded animal retreats to its den, so she also went to her bed, pulled the blanket over her head and didn’t make a sound.

The little American Hilda {Bell}, who swayed as she walked, had a child’s face, dark eyes, loose, tangled hair, wore torn sandals and tied herself with a string around her waist. She was a trained nurse, she also helped with operations, she quickly and rationally organized the work in the rooms, each wounded person was given a wide she smiled, and hummed while working.

Red-haired, quiet, modest was Dora {Sukarte b. Lithuania cb} from Argentina, who arrived hidden on a boat Yugoslav Doctor Anka^[1], known as Poca, who in her life knew only about revolutionary work, never spoke about herself. She always, as if it were self-evident, went where it was difficult. She came to Spain from Prague. She was also at the hospital “Universidad”, and she also represented the Manager of the hospital. With her characteristic, slightly clumsy walk, she moved until late at night through hospital rooms, patiently listened to all complaints and never she didn’t lose her well-known coolness, except when sometimes she mumbled something.

Dora {Donda – SIDBRINT}, a black-haired Lithuanian woman, who liked to argue, because she believed that she was the best in her business, unexpectedly met her friend in front of the hospital one evening for the first time after nine years, which he spent in prison. He looked like an old man, with completely gray hair. Dora had to tell him that she loved another man, the black man Oscar {Hunter}.

Liza, a chubby Polish girl with a sharp look, has been fighting in prisons since she was a child.

Finally, she was freed in Spain and carried the child of German Comrade Heiner in her body.

Yugoslav Milica^[2], medical student from Prague, she who cried bitterly in Paris because she could not take the first, but the second transport. I shared a tiny hotel room with her, in which there was only one bed. One week she would sleep on the bed and I would sleep on the floor, and the next week it would be the other way around.

The red-haired German doctor with the French name Kutel {Catalette}, who never walked normally, but flew through the corridors like a taut sail, performed even the smallest work with enormous responsibility.

The old German Doctor {Ernst} Blank, who came to Spain with his only son, radiated the remnants of German humanist culture. At cultural events, he recited Goethe and addressed everyone in a fatherly manner. One day he died of a heart attack, before he could see his son.

Austrian nurse Rudolfine {Köstler – SIDBRINT}, already in her advanced years, left her position at the Vienna General Hospital and came to Spain with her husband and son. The son died. She looked for him for every wounded person and could not hide what she felt inside, when she stayed up all night with a young Tyrolean, a revolutionary socialist, to be by his side when he was dying. She kept getting up, going out into the corridor and crying bitterly.

Franka, a small Polish woman with a soft and gentle voice, worked in the X-ray department. The Swiss Lizelote with strands of hair on her forehead and theatrical movements. Black-faced, fullgrown Madarica Elizabeta. Austrian Gundl {Gisela Steinmetz from SIDBRINT – rmh}. The American Ruth {Wilson, later Epstein}, who always thought and worked rationally. Quiet blonde Dutch woman from the typhus room. Chubby Czech woman with red cheeks. Serious German. . .  all the friends whose names were deleted in past years, about whom nothing remained in the memory except for a fleeting image of meeting in the corridor, closing the door, a spoken sentence, some insignificant movement.

And I believed that I would never forget them!

And all the comrades, who voluntarily went to the front again during the battles near Teruel, when the danger threatened that the Fascists would cut Republican Spain in half? Hopping with canes, arms in bandages, or barely standing on their feet, they lined up to register for the front. The hospitals of Murcia no longer looked like hospitals, but like recruiting centers.

No one exerted moral pressure, comrades came by themselves to register.

At farewell ceremonies, they sang in their own languages, hugged each other and were as happy as they were before they met the war, until the war marked them and made them cripples.

How these wounded men proudly carried flags through the streets of Murcia, how proudly their songs and shouts of “No pasaran ” echoed when the long procession of volunteers marched in the early hours of the morning towards the railway station!

In their ranks were also friends from the ambulance services. Beautiful little Spanish girls Carmen, Manola, Dora, Anita, Lola, Celestina and others with such beautiful names, and very young girls whom the war turned from children into adults, with full responsibility. They were all refugees from the south, which was occupied by the Fascists. If they did not personally experience the death of their parents, they did not know where they were or if they were even alive. But nothing was noticeable in them of all that horror. They rejoiced, beautified themselves even though they were beautiful, sang flamengo or the “Internationale” while washing the floors, or carried the bedpans through the corridors. Spokelike people’s tribunes, Sentences came from the throat, echoed and spread into the distance as if García Lorca was speaking through the mouths of the girls.

The war tore the youth out of their ruts and awakened the desire for everything possible. They felt the thirst for life. Therefore, nothing was difficult for these girls, they radiated light, their music echoed, they fluttered like birds. However. And they were not only beautiful, they were full of nobility, almost naive kindness and respect for foreign people whose language is not understood.

Mother Ana from Room 9… A tall thin woman, already quite old, as if she were baked from pain. Fascists killed her husband and all four sons in Malaga. As if for a mockery, only she remained alive. She washed the floorboards of the big rooms without bending over, kneeling and moving forward; she spread and collected the wet cloth, she wringed it. Board by board, meter by meter, every morning. Her emaciated, basket-shaped body moved quickly through the rooms, as if she was afraid that she had arrived late. Her broad peasant hands gave one wounded man a bedpan, another a worn-out blanket, and then spread out the mattresses and put limp, helpless hands over the bed again, straightened the sick legs and put pillows under them. She never said or asked anything. She was gone. And in the evening, when the nurses leave, and only those on duty at night pass through the corridors, this absent woman would sit by any bed as if she were on guard, a dead watch for her sons. When the volunteers for the Teruel front came forward, she too timidly stood in line, as if she was oppressed by the thought that she, an ordinary cleaner, could be of little use at the front. But, as always, she was standing in front of another who was writing down the names.

Where are all those girls and women who only started to live in the war and unwaveringly believe in a new life, in victory? What about them?

The gold engagement ring, which Celestina gave on parting when going forward towards Teruel, with a very simple and quick movement, she took it off hers and put it on my finger, saying at the same time: “So that she would never forget us”. I still keep it as a talisman. It always helped me in extreme trouble, I pawned it so that I would have something to eat for a few days. However, I never wanted to lose it and I always bought it back. I wanted to give it to my child, after the victory. He should continue to wear it.

Where is Celestina? Is she still alive or was she also killed by the Fascists? After retreating to Catalonia, I never saw her again.

Food preparation in the hospital kitchen

Ah, that terrible withdrawal!

You see everything completely clearly and you feel, just like then, how the word “withdrawal” causes pain. In the middle of the night, the order came to prepare to leave Murcia, prepare the wounded and pack the most important operational instruments – the Teruel front could no longer be maintained.

At first, I just couldn’t understand it. Even if I knew how things stood with Republican Spain, it seemed impossible that this part of it, where Murcia was located, would have to be abandoned. How could one abandon, rather give to the Fascists what took root so quickly and widely, what grew with the war and during it? Should we leave the Casa del Pueblo (People’s Homes) where peasants sat, old women dressed in black, girls, young men and children and learned to read and write from the beautifully illustrated primers of Jesus Hernandez, in which every letter represented a detail from the liberation struggle , to leave the people’s homes where we passionately discussed difficult things and elaborated concrete plans in detail to do this or that better, in a new way, more properly , in order to help the front and strengthen the background?! Or children’s homes, where the orphans of parents who died in the fighting, the children of parents who were killed by the fascists live? What will the fascists do with all these people? And what about the graves of dead comrades who were lying under the cypress trees in a small-town cemetery? Comrades who each time died peacefully, without protest, without complaint, as quietly as when a candle goes out.

Over their coffins lay red and Republican flags while the comrades carried them on their shoulders through the narrow streets while singing in all languages the song about the immortal sacrifice.

What will Franco do with them?

What will happen to our hospitals? One year and a few the months were so long, like eternity. It seemed to everyone Republican Spain has always been and always will be. With a new life, solidarity of comrades, collective thought and the action seemed to eradicate all memory of capitalism.  It looked like nothing happened before Republican Spain existed. The thought of that, that they might have to come back again under the grindstone of capitalism with all its humiliations and so on persecutions, injustices, it seemed impossible to everyone. No one to that he didn’t think.

Every job, every little thing seems to have been done forever. For today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow.

Thus, piece by piece, instruments for the operating room, thermometers, blankets, sheets, linen were collected. Patient rooms were decorated, libraries, clubs, convalescent homes, rehabilitation centers were founded, new experience was gathered in political and organizational work.

All the work was done much more orderly, better than in the beginning, improvisation gave way to organization, the successes were increasing… And now all that had to be abandoned!

How painfully clear the image of me standing in the changing room with little Manolo, in the middle of all those instruments and boxes with medicines, and when I had to choose what to pack. Every object stayed in my hand. I couldn’t put it aside, in the place designated for what remains. Every item, every medicine bottle, every thermometer was acquired with so much effort. And tomorrow all that will be missing, we will be desperate when the only, precious thermometer is broken, when death threatens the other because of the lack of the very instrument that we now leave you.

Then I felt like a mother who had to choose between her children. In the end, I still chose. . .

Stretchers with the seriously wounded, crippled comrades, crates, everything that needed to be evacuated, was loaded onto a freight train on an unpleasant, moonlit night, one of those nights in Spain eerily illuminated by the full moon. The train started, at first with a screeching and jerking motion and then the wheels began to turn in a steady rhythm, mercilessly and callously.

Evacuation… retreat.

Back on the same road that the Comrades had triumphantly arrived before. And on that same night, next to the orange groves, along the sea where the moon cast its light like molten metal. Through the same silence of nature. But not through the same but now thinner cities.

That was different.

They now resembled flesh-bared fingers that they pointed at the night with horror. Houses destroyed by bombing, ruins, piles of rubble. Ruins, ruins everywhere. The train dragged slowly as if through the night, stopped, waited. We knew that waiting brought danger from a Fascist attack from the air.

The wheels slammed again, the train started.

Then he stopped again.

The train stops for a long time. The moon is bright, unbearably bright, it breaks the nerves of the people lying on the floor of the freight cars, silent, turning into an ear and an eye, with which they strainingly search the sky, like a reflector.

Everyone curses this month like this, these Spanish nights. No one speaks.

At the very back, hidden between the stretchers, a deep, gentle voice begins a black song: “Let my people go”. It is the black man Oscar {Hunter}. The voice is getting stronger, more and more imploring, as a prayer.

Dreamy.

Ruined cities, destroyed tanks in the streets and coal sled wagons by the railway no longer looked ghostly like they did at night. The undisguised face of war. Already at regular intervals the thunder of cannons can be heard behind the hill, the train is approaching the Ebro. Will we be able to get the wounded across the river?

Maybe it’s too late. The wheels stopped turning, the train stopped.

Now not only cannons thundered, but also bombs fell. No one spoke. The news spread through the wagons: “We can’t go on, the Fascists are bombing the bridges on the Ebro” . The earth trembled, bomb explosions cut through the air, cannons fired at regular intervals, only the men were on the stretchers were silent. They waited. Then there was only the echo of cannon fire in the hills. The train started. He walked quite slowly, as if groping, step by step across the longbridge on which the dynamite had been placed. The bridge    looked like a horse hit in the legs and thighs with its legs already damaged by the bombs, it trembled under the load and almost collapsed.

The train went on and on. A jerk was felt. Quite weak and hardly noticeable. The locomotive was caught, the end came. But their mouths did not speak yet, only their eyes. The silence of the people.  At last the train crossed the bridge. it is on solid ground. Among the ruins. Nothing but stone, heaps of stones on all sides. Emptiness and desolation. And among the ruins stood a man, who moved the lever of the switch and opened the track by which the train with the wounded needed to extend their movement.

It was a retreat to Catalonia…

Yes, Despedida was a reality. Barcelona was decorated like a holiday to see off the International Brigades. Multicolored carpets were hanging on the windows and balconies, and red flags were flying next to the flags of Republican Spain and Catalonia. Already in the early morning, people were leaving their houses to take their places along the boulevards where the comrades were supposed to march for the last time. People were coming, there were more and more of them. Soon a huge black mass of people, tightly packed, rose on both sides of the boulevard like a wall. Everyone was waiting. Everyone looked up at the sky when the “Moscas” fighter planes flew by and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, because this time it was our “Nuestros” planes. There were so few of them that they had to be withdrawn from the front to protect the Internationals send-off. This time the sky over Barcelona was falling for the people.

The faces of the gathered people were serious. There was no curiosity or joy at the expected sight in the eyes, but deep concern. What does the future bring? Everyone knew that the fascists were advancing, in the direction of Barcelona.

The memory of Madrid, of the help of the Internationals in the effort to achieve the impossible, to maintain the city, was not something to dwell on.

What did it mean that these comrades should now leave the country? Is the fight over yet? All lost?!

The mass of people stood in silence. Suddenly they started. Children were lifted on their shoulders, arms were extended, women pressed forward, they made their way through the first rows and fighters. The Internationals appeared, first their flags, and then they were getting closer, closer and closer. They marched next to the people of Barcelona, Tired, exhausted people in torn uniforms faded from the sun, rain and snow, emaciated leaning on crutches, with hands in slings, bandages over the heads. Among them were flying the flags of the Brigades, Batallions, flags from Madrid, Guadalajara, Jarama, Brunete and Belchite, Teruel and from the Ebro front.

And fists raised everywhere. Fists over the column, fists over the wall of people. From both sides shouts: Salud”, Viva”, “Salud”.

Flowers fall from windows and balconies on the passing column, women hug Internationals, for a moment they hold them firmly in their hands, kiss them on the face.

The city says goodbye. Spain thanks.

The fight is not over though. In the streets of Barcelona, people soon cry: “”Internationals will continue the fight. We will defend Barcelona as well as Madrid”.

The wounded collected in S’Agaro to go to France voluntarily report to the front again. Only the seriously wounded remain.

The Fascists are tightening their grip. Now, even during the day, enemy planes fly over a small settlement of villas on the sea, and one day five warships appeared on the horizon and took up positions at a short distance. Barcelona was already in the hands of the Fascists.

The wounded, accommodated in many villas, had to test themselves. The second retreat began. Not yet to the border, but to a village, a little further north. During the day, the wounded were prepared for transport and taken away, with stretchers loaded onto the trucks. The instruments were also packed, and this time also the beds and chairs, the kitchen inventory was all loaded. In the dark, the medical personnel climbed onto the open trucks, which were hidden under the street trees, so that they would not be noticed by the planes that circled from time to time. As during the first retreat, the merciless full moon shone again, and the cities illuminated by its light looked unpleasant, ghostly. Everyone was silent again, no one said a word about what was bothering him. However, this time it was not about a slow train, but about a column of cars that was moving at high speed, for which every kilometer was precious, it decided life.

At dawn, the column stopped in a forest. The Responsible Comrade called the medical personnel and said briefly and decisively: Until it’s fully dawn and until we can find out exactly where we are, we’ll stay here. No one knows that the Fascists are no longer in the village. We have to establish that first.

The sun appeared. A Comrade was sent to the village. He’s been gone for a long time. Finally, his opportunity presents itself, which everyone is impatiently waiting for. All is well. The village still belongs to the Republic. They already are trucks with the wounded also arrived.

The work started again, as always.

The Comrades took the stretchers, one after the other, and carried them out them up the narrow winding stairs of small, old houses, put the wounded on hastily improvised beds made of straw and washed them. Then they scrubbed the floors, wiped the windows, unpacked the instruments and organized the kitchen.

Nobody thought or wanted to think that the fight was coming to an end. However, for the medical staff and the wounded, it was over.

But not yet for Comrades in combat units, who are with desperate efforts, trying to stop, one step at a time encroachment of Fascists.

The next day, the order came to prepare for evacuation to France. It was necessary to evacuate in groups. It was the last night in Spain. Small groups of people stood and sat in low, airy rooms and chattered excitedly. No one dared to speak loudly. However, there was no need to hide anything anymore. Everyone knew: Spain was a lost. This was revealed by the sparkling eyes, full of restlessness, which seemed to ask with fear: “What will happen to us cripples now?”.

The wounded lie silently or turn towards the wall and never recover. The nurses pass by so often that they take their temperatures, give them the prescribed medicine, but leaving the dish untouched by the bed they say : Spain is lost, I have lost the battle of my life.

They have really become more crippled now. Until now, until this night, they were soldiers, they did their duty, they had their home, they were honorary citizens of the Republic of Spain.

Everyone had their place, even without a leg or an arm he found a companion, a beautiful, young Spanish girl, who carried him around.

But now the earlier ghosts appeared, from the time before Spain, they crept up, took shape, imposed themselves, crept in, those apparitions. What will happen to them? The whole heavy burden of their earlier life was grinding on them. But it will not be only that disgusting life they knew and from which Spain freed them, which they wanted to turn into a life worthy of humanity by coming to Spain – it will be even worse.

The barricade of Spain has fallen. Fascism won. Hitler annexed Austria, occupied Czechoslovakia, the Fascist war of conquest began.

What will happen to the Spanish fighters, who could not return to their country? They sneaked across the border, they have no documents; chased game. France was the French Daladier,who betrayed Spain with his policy of non-interference. Mexico offered asylum. However, going to Mexico would mean leaving Europe, leaving the ground on which the struggle will continue. Where? What to do?

Evacuating the wounded

The Soviet Union will certainly take the most seriously wounded, but what will happen to the others? How will they live without arms, without legs, unable to work? And alone without family, alone in a foreign city. This word stuck in my mind muffled and heavy, like an obsession. Yes, alone again. In Spain, they forgot that a man can be alone, that such nonsense exists.

Liza GAVRIC

—–

[1] From an unpublished manuscript

[2] A working-class district in Berlin. 324

[3] Borka Demić

[4] Dr. Adel Bohunicka

[5 ] Olga Dragic

Tags: Medical, Spanija, Yugoslavian Volunteers