My family during the Spanish Civil War

All four of my grandparents were in Catalonia during the 1936-1939 Spanish Civil War. Coming from families from both sides, each had a different journey through it. Bits of "family lore" about the war times have trickled down to me through the years, but I decided it's worth trying to put together and contrast their stories.

Eventually, I'd like to expand this to my four grandparents, but for now, I'll focus on one of my grandad's story, which I'll call J.M.

J.M.

Born in 1920 and raised in Barcelona, J.M. was 16 when the military coup d'état that started the war happened. Barcelona was one of the 'strongholds' of the republican side, but he actually came from a family that supported the military takeover led by the soon-to-be fascist dictator, Franco.

The younger of two brothers, he was not the 'family heir', so he was treated accordingly. When the mandatory draft happened, his dad hid himself and the older son above a fake ceiling, but J.M. was not spared in the same way.

And thus, in 1938, at 18, he became a member of what was known as the "Baby bottle levy", a levy of boys aged 14-18 drafted to fight for the republican side when things got dire.

His first and last major operation was the Battle of the Ebro, not far from home for J.M., about 100 miles south of Barcelona. It was one of the final major counterattacks by the republican side. It was also one of the bloodiest.

For historical context, this battle started just months before Germany, the UK, France, and Italy signed the Munich agreement, which pretty much sealed the spanish republic's fate. At the time, the Republican side was losing ground rapidly, but tension in Europe was getting to a boiling point, and the republican side was hoping that an Europe-wide conflict would erupt and Spain would get sucked into it, at which point they would have support from other european powers (especially their neighbor, France). So, all they needed was to last long enough. It was a wager that turned out to be correct, but it came too late. France and the UK's attempt to appease Nazi Germany with the Munich agreement crushed that hope, and the spanish war was officilly over a few months before WW2 began.

Anyway, so my grandad makes it to the battle of the Ebro, and the army discovers in him a valuable talent that spares him the frontline. At the time, the republican side had just received a large batch of Czechoslovakian rifles, but--largely due to the language barrier--they had trouble operating them. J.M. had a talent for technical drawing, and made drawings showing the steps to assemble and disassemble the rifles.

For the next part of the story, there are two pretty different accounts. What we know for sure is that the republican side was under heavy bombing, and J.M.'s company (not sure what's the technical term) was hiding in a bunker, and the bunker was hit directly and critically, killing everyone or almost everyone inside.

In one account, J.M. and a friend of his were the only ones outside the bunker, because it was claustrophobically crowded. Each of them was sitting under a different tree. When the bunker got bombed, his friend died too, either by the same or a different bomb, making him the only survivor. In the other account, he was also inside the bunker, but behind a blind corner that was spared the blast.

The next thing we know about J.M. is that he deserted during the battle of the Ebro, and he started making his way toward the French border, about 200 miles north. Intially, his only clothes were his military uniform, an obvious tell of a deserter, which makes it extremely dangerous to be wandering around alone. As the story goes, he got hand of a herd of sheep, and walked north with it. He used the herd as a cover: he said he was walking alone because he was in charge of bringing the sheep to feed the big mass of refugees also headed north. Eventually, farmers along the way helped feed him and gave him new clothes.

Apparently, he was stopped at least once by military, possibly multiple times and from both sides, and asked "what side do you belong to?" to which he answered something along the lines of, "I don't belong to any side, shoot me if you want" and continue on his way.

Eventually, he made it to the Argelers refugee camp in southern France. A camp which, like the other French camps for spanish refugees, would later be relabeled as concentration camps due to the dire conditions. The cold and famine was bad enough that when the war ended, one night, J.M. escaped and head back to Spain.

Apparently, he didn't receive any punishment for fighting for the republican side. He simply had to spent the next three years doing mandatory military service, this time for the nationalist side--the opposite side he fought for.

All in all, in his words, he "wasted 7 years from the whole ordeal." He never claimed to support for either side, and always showed skepticism toward any kind of political and religious movements and ideologies.

When he was finally able to move past all that, he pursued his passion for art. He worked in graphic design and used that money to pay for an arts degree in college, where he met my grandmother, with whom he shared a love for painting.