Friday, April 23, 1937.

0000 hours.

Outside Zurito Bar.

Now, the first you need to know about Camarada is that he never smiled. He was a staunch supporter of everything that came out of the mind of Marx, Lenin, and whoever else happened to sit at that high castle they called The Kremlin, so you can deduce that his sense of humor was, let's say, wanting, for lack of a better word.

When the Communists won the election, he was one of the first--and few--to turn against the Anarchist party that came in second place, even though the Communist leadership stroke several deals with them. For Camarada, it was communism or nothing. The right-wing insurrection by Franco's National faction forced the Communist and the Anarchist to make an alliance against the insurgents. Guess who was against that alliance.

I can't say I know much about his life before the war. Some say he was a low-level clerk; some say he was a cobbler that, swayed by the silver-tongued idealism of the red state, became a community leader that moved the votes of many in Barcelona. I honestly believe he was some kind of special operative because his gunmanship was unparalleled.

What I do know is that he did everything in his power to sabotage Communist/Anarchist relationships. For his unwillingness to cooperate, he was sent somewhere he couldn't make a mess--to a quaint Basque town, far away from the frontline.

Well, the frontline chased him all the way to our doorstep, and I was in charge of making sure he didn't get into any more trouble. As you can deduce, I wasn't the best man for the job.

The only time he ever cracked a smile was whenever he managed to make an Anarchist mad. It often led him to be beaten up by said Anarchist. This was one of those times.

"You look like crap," I told him as we approached.

"I take it as a moral victory," he replied. His breath stank of alcohol. Using Tuerto as a clutch, he managed to slowly stand up. There was a shallow cut on his cheek, but nothing really serious.

"Who did this?" asked Tuerto, as if there was any question of who did it.

Camarada spat on the ground, dragging his boot over the spittle. "Take a guess."

I could've sworn that Tuerto actually took it to heart and began thinking of possible culprits, bless his soul. But his answer came as soon as we opened the door. In the middle of the dingy saloon, sitting smugly like a king in his castle, was Javier "Torito" Loyola.

"When I take out the trash," said Torito in his provincial drawl, "I expect it to remain outside." Just as he finished saying that, he stood up, making three other soldiers around him to rise as well, each towering above Torito.

He was tiny, but built like a bull; that's why we call him Torito. That, and that he hated "The Reds", as communists were often called.

Just like Camarada, Torito was a political exile of sorts, but rather than being overly zealot of Anarchism, he criticized it, offering his own brand of free-loving, individualistic anarchy, as opposed to the syndicalist approach established by Spanish politicians. His natural leadership skills and charming wits were wasted in the battlefield.

"You can't throw away the future!" said Camarada. He pushed away from Tuerto, only to stumble forward.

Torito waved at him dismissively, with his goons heckling at Camarada. "You and your future. Your damn future is what got us into this mess. All you want to do is slave us, with Comrade Stalin giving you your marching order."

Camarada grabbed a green wine bottle from the nearest table, smashing it against the edge to create a makeshift knife. "Don't you dare badmouth Comrade Stalin! He wants to help us free ourselves. You're a slave to your selfish needs! The future belongs to the people!"

Everyone took a step back when they saw Camarada's outburst, everyone except Torito. "Explain to me why the Soviets still have a President, then. They still have ministers that tell them how to live, what to think, what to eat. How is that freedom?"

"First," said Camarada, "He is the General Secretary of the-"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Torito, "Whatever. That doesn't make him any different than Franco. Just another face of another useless revolution."

That was the tipping point for Camarada. His muscles tensed up like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. Torito and his goons squared up as if to say "bring it." Nobody paid attention to the curly-haired girl until she smashed a butcher's knife against the wooden plank that served as a counter for the bar.

"Girls!" she yelled in a raspy and grave tone. "You're both pretty. Shut up and drink, or go back to your barracks!"

Everyone spoke in unison, feeling like children being scolded by their mothers. "Sorry, Fatima."

Torito and his friends immediately sat down, but Camarada kept to his feet in attention, still clutching his makeshift weapon. Fatima grabbed the knife once again, this time pointing it at Camarada.

"And you," she said, "you owe me for that bottle, you red bastard."

That seemed to bring him back from his stupor as he left the rest of the bottle smash into the floor. "But I don't have any more money."

"What else do you have?" asked Fatima, all the while testing the sharpness of the knife with her thumb.

"I...cigar..." mumbled Camarada, prompting Fatima to smash the knife on the counter yet again.

"Talk like a man or cut that useless thing between your legs!" she ordered.

War was hard on everyone. It still is. It changes us, transforms us. We are taken out of our natural environment and put under the spotlight of pain and suffering. We adapt, or we die. Fatima chose the former. When her dad died in the Great War, she was but a child, but she had to step up to take care of her grieving mother and little sister. She had no time for school, or men, or anything else. The Zurito was her life, and you don't get to run a place like Zurito without shedding some blood, either yours or others.

"I have cigarettes," said Camarada a bit louder.

"Give me three and we are even," she said. Fatima soon had three State-issued cigarettes in front of her. I never smoked them myself, but people often said that they tasted like dry bark with an aftertaste of festering flesh. My poison was another, one which I failed to see that evening.

She placed one in her mouth as she patted the pockets of her stained apron. "Who's got a light?"

Nobody said anything. Some of Torito's goons patted themselves or just flat out shook their heads. Only the slow moaning coming from upstairs broke the awkward silence. It was Tuerto's time to shine.

Until that moment, he had been by the door as if seized by a spell. I slapped him on the back, which brought him down to earth from whichever star he was thinking of. I tried to be subtle, I really did, but he didn't catch my eyes moving from him to her. I had to pull him closer and whisper into his ear, but at that point, it was too late. She was already staring at us.

His fat fingers struggled to light a match, but he finally managed to give Fatima a flame. Oh, how his eyes gleamed when she so seductively leaned on the counter to light her cigarette. The smoke coiled around her like the snake she was, with each drag making her slouched shoulders relax, if only a bit.

I took a sit on a stool by the counter, right next to where Camarada had taken one. I pulled Tuerto down with me to take the seat next to mine. My fingers danced on top of the damaged wood as my eyes darted up and down the bar. This place was dreary as it gets without Lula around.

"What's your poison, piggy?" asked Fatima to Tuerto. She had the faintest trace of a lopsided smile, barely perceptible if you didn't pay the proper attention. That was the most I've ever seen her smile. If Tuerto managed to play this correctly...

But that was too much to ask. Nothing came out of his mouth but air as he kept opening and closing it like a fish out of water.

"Sure," she said, flicking the ash away. And that was his last chance to make himself noticed. I pity you, sweet Tuerto.

"Where is Lula?" I asked Fatima.

She only gave me the stink eye before taking another drag of her cigarette. "Who wants to know?"

"Sebastian. Alferez Sebastian Goicochea. Sebas. Ma'am."

I'll never forget the look she gave me, scanning me from top to bottom like a snake eyeing its prey. She took another drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke straight into my face.

"She's sleeping," she finally said. "Are you going to order something?"

I was not meant to see dear Lula that day, and by the looks of Fatima, I was not meant to live to see another day if I didn't order something.

"A beer, please."

She nodded with acknowledgment, producing a glass bottle with a turbulent brown liquid inside.

Now, I remember commenting about Zurito's homemade beer, but I believe a proper description of how awful it is must be made to drive that point forward. First, it was made mostly out of wheat, which gave it an unpleasantly sweet taste. Second, it was made in a rusty tin bin in their backyard and fermented using cow dung wrapped in cloth. Lastly, and most important, it was overpriced. Fatima was heartless enough to take advantage of the need for alcohol in times of war, and I can't say I respect her more or less for it.

The liquid looked like urine mixed with dirt, and there were chunks of unidentified substances floating inside at all time. I don't pretend to be a big drinker, but I'm pretty certain that beer shouldn't be chewable. I couldn't even stomach to see the glass taunting me from the counter, so I pushed it towards Tuerto. He needed it the most. I'm sure that if he could've said something, he would've be thanked me.

My attention couldn't help but wander towards Torito again. He wasn't a person I would call a friend--too aloof to be reliable, but too smart to receive orders blindly. All he was good for was making witty comments and getting drunk. With him, the Handyman Squad was complete. A group of near-useless, dysfunctional outcasts that nobody wanted around, forced to do the jobs that nobody wanted to do. But I ask you not to pity us. Not yet at least.

The time was night, and the trek back to the bridge was a long one. For all I hated it, I had to drag Tuerto, Camarada, and Torito back to the Renteria Bridge. It was going to be a long night.

I stood up from my seat as I tossed a few coins on top of the counter as payment for the beer. Fatima counted and examined each and every one of them before putting them in her pocket. People often used buttons and caps as payment. Work was hard to find, and good money was even harder, which was part of why the Army was a popular career in these troubled times.

You see, the first thing you lose when a war breaks out is your purpose. No matter which career path you chose, everything comes to a standstill. Stillness breeds idleness, and an idle mind can turn on its owner. You start to wonder if things are going to end and if you are doing enough to end it. Then, your peace goes away, and if, say, the owner of the corner store that sells bread is not at peace, he might not open. It creates a shortage. Those who do sell bread start raising prices. Everything becomes expensive. It comes back to take away more peace. Prices of commodities like housing are raised to combat the inflation. Not much money circulates. No food, no house, no peace.

The Army provides everything for you. A purpose, food, and a roof over your head. What it fails to provide is peace. Peace will never exist as long as there is a bullet with your name on it.

I clapped to bring attention to myself, which seemed to work as everyone immediately focused on me. "Handymen Squad," I said in my most convincing commanding voice, "time to move. We have to be on the bridge in an hour."

While Tuerto and Camara made attempts to stand up, Torito tapped his glass on the table while shaking his head.

"Not yet, Sebas," he told me as he pointed up. "I'm waiting my turn."

Me, in an astounding display of naivete, almost started to ask what he meant. I didn't notice that the moaning had stopped, or the sound of someone walking down the stairs until Torito pointed it out.

A soldier with disheveled hair and wrinkled uniform appeared from upstairs, followed closely behind by the matron of the establishment, Ainhoa, who was also Fatima and Lula's mother.

"Torito, my darling, I'm ready for you."

Yes, he was waiting for that. He gave me a complicit smile as he followed Ainhoa upstairs. "I promise I'll be quick," he said.

He came down an hour later.