Books [Spanish Granite Worker]
Federal Writers' Project
SPANISH GRANITE WORKER
“Loyalist? That sonofabitch Franco, who wouldn't be a Loyalist? We're all Loyalist. My brother was killed fighting at [Teruel?]. My mother was killed by bombing in Madrid. My kid sister died on the way to the French border, starved to death, by Christ. If I had been back there I would've been dead too. I know it. I would've grabbed a gun and fought those bastards until they got me. I wanted to get into it. I had letters from home all the time. But I never could save enough money for passage fare. I can't save money. It burns my pockets. I get drunk and spend it all.”
Lopez was dark, gaunt and wild-eyed, with protruding false teeth and a hilarious laugh. Laughing and singing, Lopez hides his bitterness, lives his life with a brimming glass in hand, emptied to the music of his Spanish laughter. Ugly as a gorilla, Lopez still has in him something of the sunshine and a gayety of Spain, a Spain that now lies under the wreckage of modern warfare.
I worked the quarries of northern Spain before coming to this country. I came here for the adventure of it, I guess. Quincy was where I went from New York. But I didn't like Quincy. Stonecutters there told me about Barre. I quit my job, got a quart of whisky, and took a train out of North Station. I got goddamn good and drunk on that train. I woke up outside Montpelier. I had to ride that Gasoline Toonerville