Villagers
huddled at the side of the tracks leading into a mining town nestled between
the precipice of an arroyo below and the steep crag of the mountain above. A
woman patted a young girl on the head and slipped the child behind her skirts
as the Guardia Civil ordered the group to line up. With a shove from the woman,
the girl scurried down and away. As a distraction, the woman raised her fist in
the air and, as a last gesture of defiance, shouted, “Viva la Revolucion!”
A man joined
her with raised fist, as did the others in the group. “Viva la…”
A loud volley
of Spanish Mausers barked and echoed like angry dogs against the witness of the
Cantabarian Mountains. Bodies tumbled into the arroyo. Some of them were
neighbors the girl had known since birth. She crawled under the corpse of her
mother protector. Except for a restrained moan, followed by a few pops and
cracks of pistols from above at the roadside, there came a horrible silence.
Once the Guardia Civil left, she waited from her hiding place beneath a boulder
in a hollow dug out by a badger as the refrain from an old lullaby passed
softly from her lips; “Los pollitos dicen los pollitos dicen pío, pío, pío
cuando tienen hambre tienen frío.” Tears clouded her vision. It would be the
last time she afforded tears to wash her face for over thirty years.
* In English
the whole verse is; “The little chicks say, ‘pio, pio, pio,’ when they are
hungry... when they are cold. The hen looks for the corn... gives them food,
and gives them shelter. Under her wings sleeping chicks huddle together to
hasten another day!”
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