"My great-grandfather fought in Cuba, you know? Back in '98. He wasn't a soldier or anything like that. He wasn't forced to fight to preserve the empire's unity like so many others. He had a business there—he was in the sugar trade. He loved the island and its people. He wanted to defend what he believed was his—he wanted to protect Cuba, his family, and his livelihood. Everything he had was there. He volunteered during the siege of Santiago. My great-grandmother, who was Cuban, managed to escape with my grandfather—who was only five at the time—before the city was surrounded.
A year later, they reunited in Spain. My great-grandmother had been waiting without even knowing if he was still alive. When they met again, they started a new sugar business and moved south to Granada. Despite the dire state of the country, the business did well. They even reestablished ties with their counterparts in the Cuban sugar industry and created a trade network with the Americas.
My great-grandfather left the horrors of war behind quickly, and although he didn't…"
"—Sorry to interrupt you—did your great-grandfather fight in Cuba against the Americans?" Hache asked, with a childlike mix of surprise and enthusiasm.
"That's right. Like I said, he wasn't a soldier and wasn't trained to be one. But my grandfather—that's another story. He was a soldier, a fighter," Arturo replied, his eyes glowing briefly with pride before dimming again as he spoke. "He grew up in a different Spain. Not the mighty empire that once stretched across seas and continents. He grew up in the shadow of shame and dishonor, among those who once basked in glory but let the Spanish domains slip away into the hands of pirates and white-gloved thieves."
"Your grandfather was in the army too?" asked Hache, jotting down some notes in his leather notebook.
"Yes, he served in the Tenth Regiment of Córdoba during the Rif War. Luckily, he wasn't involved in the disaster at Annual. He joined the army at eighteen and took part in the Kert River campaign. From what I heard, my great-grandfather wasn't thrilled about his only son volunteering to fight in a war that had nothing to do with him... but he eventually came to accept it—or so my grandfather told me. After the Kert River campaign, he was promoted to sergeant and was involved in small skirmishes against Rifian rebels in the mountains, alongside a detachment of chasseurs d'Afrique stationed in the area. That's where he met Pierre Chevalier, a lieutenant in the French African army. My family's story wouldn't be the same without Pierre—or as my father used to call him, L'oncle Pierre." Arturo paused to sip his drink, then licked his lips as he stared into the bottom of his glass. "During the years they fought in the mountains, they became close. Pierre saved my grandfather's life during a failed sabotage mission against a weapons shipment. They had to run with nothing but the clothes on their backs, as the saying goes. Pierre shot a Riffian who was beating—or rather, beating the hell out of—my grandfather. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't be here today. From that day on, they were inseparable. So much so that in 1914, when the French army pulled its troops to face the Germans in Europe, my grandfather joined the French Foreign Legion, where Pierre had requested a transfer so they could fight together. They fought on the Western Front. The Somme. Can you imagine it?" he asked, locking eyes with Hache.
"The truth is, no. It was one of the longest and bloodiest battles of the Great War."
"Yes, but that's not what I mean. Would you go to hell for someone you just met? Would you fight a war out of friendship or a debt of honor? It's fascinating to think about the values and morals people once had."
"I agree. It's hard to believe anyone today would do such a thing. But I still have hope in people, Mr. Arturo. Sometimes we underestimate the goodwill of humanity."
"You're very optimistic. I used to be like that once—a dreamer. My faith in people backfired on me more than once, and eventually, I stopped believing. But we'll talk more about that later. Where was I?"
"The Somme…"
"Ah, yes! The Somme. Hell on Earth. One of the longest and bloodiest battles in modern history, I'd say. I still have the journal my grandfather wrote during the six months he spent there. Let me read you a few entries—it'll only take a moment." Arturo stood and walked over to a bookshelf filled with books. He pulled down a small, worn leather-bound notebook and returned to his seat.