In the last week of August 1939the citizens of Warsaw walked through the streets, beat the heat – which wasn’t that bad either – in the cafes, went to the parks with the children. It was sunny. The radio and newspapers said alarming thingsbut that was nothing new. And it was sunny.
In Madrid, in Barcelona, in Valencia and especially in Malaga it was also sunny in the first days of July 1936. And very hot: it was one of the most suffocating summers in memory. People did the same as the Varsovians: they mitigated the solanera with horchatas, with the beach if they had it nearby, seeking the shade of the Retiro or the Ramblas, or the breeze of the Malagueta. Yeah, They had killed a politician and in some distant streets there were shots –the streets where bad things happen always seem far away to us–, but it was summer and people, most of the people, were smiling.
In London, in April 1940, people were doing their thing, as always. It is true that King George VI had said on the radio, several months ago, with his voice wavering, that Britain was at war with Germany. But nothing happened: there were no shots, no planes, and almost no sirens. So the subway was full, as were the theaters and the pubs. It rained sometimes, but that wasn’t exactly a surprise.
A few days after all those everyday, customary, customary scenes, the people of Warsaw, Madrid, Barcelona, Malaga and London watched open-mouthed as the worst of hell fell upon them. I insist on this: The devastation did not fall on the armies, but on the people who went to work or who went down to the street to buy bread.. Surely the military and politicians expected a disaster, but they did not. They, ordinary people, were limited to living, putting their children to bed and dreaming of a better future, which is what we all do when we close our eyes. But that future did not arrive. When the bombs began to fall, almost no one realized that those days that had just passed peacefully were not actually days, but eves.
The eve of horror almost never shows signs of what it is. They usually seem like ordinary days. Now it is not like that. Right now, four hours by plane from our house, the Israeli Army – the only one in the world that gives advance notice of what it is going to do – continues with the methodical annihilation of the Gaza Strip in response to the horrific massacre perpetrated by the Palestinians in Israel, almost a year ago. The dead now exceed 40,000. Later, a few days ago, The Israelis attacked Lebanon, an unarmed country, with all their fury where the leaders of the Hezbollah criminal group were taking refuge, and they killed them.
Tonight, while we watch TV and have dinner, and we are waiting for what Carlos Alcaraz will do in China or what happened with the Atleti ultras the other day, hundreds of missiles fly over a thousand kilometers to kill as many people as they can in Israel. The bombs, which at night look like innocent flares from our towns’ summer festivities, arrive from Iran. It’s not that far from our house. In reality, nothing is too far from our house anymore.
While we continue with our routines, because in reality it is the only thing we can do, a gigantic volcano of madness and hatred caked together for decades seems about to explode on the other side of the Mediterranean. It is not a distant supernova that explodes very far away, two thousand light years away. It’s right there.
We just want our lives to continue like yesterday and the day before yesterday. We just want our worries to be the same as always and for our entertainment to be what Judge Peinado does or says, the tricks of Alvise and the Forty Thieves, and the old photos of the kisses of a couple who pretended to love each other. Nothing else. We don’t think that these days The first of autumn could be the eve of something that would change us all forever. That’s what Vespers have, they never warn you that they are. Or maybe it’s that we don’t want to see it, to avoid fear.
