Though Javi and Kepa didn’t drink all that much, it was still late when they finally made it back to Javi’s place. Kepa quietly slipped into his and Maite’s room, into the bed, and was soon fast asleep.
Maite, lying awake next to him, simply smiled to herself. She mused over the time since they had first met Marina. It had only been a few months in real time, but it already felt like a lifetime ago. So much had already changed, with her relationship with Kepa, her potential move to Berkeley, and their discovery of two of the zatia. She shuddered when she recalled how De Lancre had roasted Blas Telleria alive, and how Donny McCown had shot Kepa in the heart. Tears began flowing as she choked back a sob. Yes, so much had changed, but it had also been accompanied by so much death and suffering. How much longer could she deal with it all? She eventually fell into a fitful sleep, her mind tormented by images of Blas and Kepa dying.
Morning came too soon for both of them as light poured in from a part in the curtain, hitting them both in the face. Kepa rolled over and smiled at Maite. “Egun on,” he said.
Maite returned his smile, though her’s wasn’t as big. “Egun on,” she replied. “You guys had a good time?”
Kepa nodded. “Bai, we did. It was good to catch up, it’s been too long. I’m not sure I’m up for a big night of dancing, but I guess that’s what’s on the schedule for today.”
“Dancing, eh? I didn’t realize Javi was much of a dancer.”
“I think it’s partially his girlfriend. She likes to dance a lot, so he does too now.”
Maite shook her head. “I can’t believe little Javi has a girlfriend.” She looked at Kepa and gave him a mischievous smile. “But, I can’t believe you do either.”
Kepa blushed and smiled at the same time. “You can’t believe it? I can’t believe it! I pinch myself every day. I just hope this isn’t one of those quantum bubbles that will pop some day and erase it all.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Maite. “I hadn’t even thought about that. How do we know, really know, we aren’t in a bubble? How do we know this won’t all disappear?”
“I was only joking…” began Kepa.
“No, really,” continued Maite as she sat up in the bed, pulling the covers up over her chest. “In the two bubbles we’ve been to, we knew they were bubbles because there was a specific event that transported us. But, how do we know we didn’t start in a bubble? How do we know that we returned to where we started or if we got shoved into another bubble and not our original time?” She looked over at Kepa. “How do we know anything?”
“Well,” said Kepa, feeling a rise of panic himself, “we only ever saw the zatia twice, and both times that triggered our trips to the bubbles. We never touched one before that.”
“True,” mused Maite. “But, we don’t know that’s the only way into a bubble. We don’t even know if we weren’t born into a bubble.” She looked over at Kepa. “What if every time is a bubble waiting to pop?”
“What are you saying?” asked Kepa, confusion etched on his face.
“Well,” said Maite, “think about the last bubble. What if we had never found that zatia. What if Donny had never shot you. Maybe we would have gotten married, even had kids. Would our kids know they were in a bubble? And if we found the zatia after they were born, would the bubble pop, erasing our kids from existence?” She turned to look at Kepa. “What if we are in a bubble now, and Donny’s time was a bubble on top of a bubble?”
Kepa shook his head. “This is too much. I can’t handle it. Are you saying that none of this is real?”
“No…” began Maite before pausing. After a moment she continued, in almost a sheepish voice. “What I’m saying is how do we know it is?”
“If we are in a bubble, I hope we never find the zatia,” said Kepa, a bit more viciously than he intended. “I don’t want this to ever end.” He grabbed Maite’s hand.
“But,” said Maite as a chill went through her body, “what if De Lancre finds it?”
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During my first visit to the Basque Country, my cousin took me to Elorrio, not far from his hometown of Durango in Bizkaia. He took me and a friend to Argiñeta, which was simply amazing. They’ve collected a number of hilarriak, or funeral steles, there. These are large stone grave markers that are carved with a variety of symbols and designs that either speak to the dead person and their profession or more abstractly to the stars and the cosmos. Either way, they are a fascinating element of the Basque cultural heritage.
While the discoidal steles, with their round tops sitting on trapezoidal bases, are not unique to the Basque Country, they are particularly common there. They’ve also been found in other parts of Western Europe and Northern Africa. A few have even been found in Britain. The circular part is decorated with geometric shapes or, more recently, Christian symbols, including crosses. Rosettes are very common, as are lauburus. The edge is often decorated to resemble the rays of the shining sun. And, at least in modern hilarriak, the base is engraved with the name of the deceased. The oldest discoidal hilarriak date to the Iron Age, but most of those found in Nafarroa, which has a particularly large number, date between the 11th and 18th centuries.
One of the oldest discoidal steles was found in Berreaga, Bizkaia, in the lands surrounding the towns of Mungia, Zamudio and Gamiz-Fika. Decorated with solar imagery, it dates to the 1st or 2nd century BC. The stele was found in a necropolis, which has been designated a Cultural Asset by the Basque Government. While the site was discovered in the 16th century, excavations weren’t done until the late 20th and early 21st centuries.
The Necropolis of Argiñeta, in Elorrio, Bizkaia, is a fascinating site. It contains multiple steles and sarcophagi that date back to between the 8th and 10th centuries. Built of sandstone from Mount Oiz, these hilarriak also feature astral designs, things like concentric circles, extended radial lines, and cross shapes. Some of the tombs have inscriptions that are the oldest evidence of Christianity in Bizkaia.
There is also a museum dedicated to these hilariak. Located in the town of Larzabale in Nafarroa Beherea, Harriak Iguzkitan opened in 2007 and features nearly 100 pieces of art in an open air setting. It is the first interpretation center in the Basque Country dedicated to discoidal steles and Basque funerary art.
Of course, not all hilarriak are discoidal. One early example, dating from the 1st century AD, is the Andrearriagako estela. This headstone is noteworthy because it is one of the few from that time in Gipuzkoa with an inscription. The inscription says “VAL BELTESONIS.” The second word seems to be connected to Aquitanian, or pre-Basque.
Making an hilarria was a complicated process, requiring not only finding the right stones, but a wide selection of tools; something like twenty different tools were needed to carve the stone. Today, the art of making hilarriak is slowly fading. However, there are master crafters that continue on the tradition, such as Pello Iraizoz.
Update! Marc Cormier pointed out that Basques left similar grave stones in Newfoundland!
The pub that Javi found was both familiar but completely different from the places Kepa hung out at home. It was full of students from the university as well as a mix of other people. Javi ordered two pints at the bar and led them to a table in the corner, where the crowd noise wasn’t quite so loud.
“I’m not sure how you do it, sitting in one place for hours and hours,” said Kepa as he took a sip of his pint.
Javi laughed. “As opposed to wandering the streets all night? I like that a lot too, but sometimes it’s nice to just find a quiet table and talk over beers. No pressure to finish up and find the next spot.”
“I can see that,” said Kepa. He took another sip. “You know, I really like these IPAs. We don’t get them very often back home.”
Javi shrugged. “They certainly are an acquired taste, but once you get it, it’s hard to drink anything else.”
“So,” continued Kepa with a smile, “tell me about this girlfriend.”
It was Javi’s turn to smile. “Oh, Julie’s great. We met in class and were study partners for a while before I got the courage to ask her out. That was about six months ago or so. Anyways, we’ve been dating ever since. She’s beautiful and smart. And she likes the same kinds of geeky things I do.” Javi took a sip of his own beer. “What about you and Maite? When did that start?”
“Well, it got more intense recently, but we’ve been flirting for a while now.”
“Oh, I remember. In the cuadrilla, you two could barely keep your eyes off of each other. I always figured you’d get together. Man, I always thought she was gorgeous. I always thought, if I knew a bit more Euskara, I could impress her. But, it wasn’t meant to be.” He raised his glass. “I’m happy for you cuz!”
Kepa raised his glass and chinged with Javi’s. “Thanks. You too. I’m glad to see you doing so well.”
Javi shrugged as he put his glass down. “Well, I graduate after this year and I have to figure out what to do next. And Julie is in a completely different field, so I’m not sure how easy it will be for us to stay together.”
“Different field? I thought you met in class?”
“We did, but it was Greek mythology. We were both taking it as a break for our core classes. I’m studying math and her major is history. Not many jobs out there for us with only bachelor’s degrees. So, probably we’ll both end up in grad school, but we have to get into the same school.”
“That’s tough. Maite is thinking of coming out this way for graduate school too. Berkeley. That’s why we’re out here, for her to interview with the professors.”
“Berkeley? Wow, that’s impressive. How did it go?”
Kepa shrugged. “Well, I think. I don’t really know. I don’t understand what she does, some kind of quantum stuff. Being around all of you makes me feel a little… inadequate.”
“Dude!” exclaimed Javi. “You’re with the most beautiful and smartest girl in all of the Basque Country! You are traveling the world! You have an amazing cousin. Your life is good!”
Kepa smiled as he raised his glass for another clink. He paused before taking a sip. “Bai,” he said. “Life is good.”
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Jon Aske sent this set of postcards originally drawn in 1838. This is part of a set of postcards that a savings bank in Donostia put out in 1975. They offer a fascinating look at some of the iconic places of the Basque Country nearly 200 years ago. A little more information about these sketches can be found here.
Update: Jon Aske’s original scans, which are higher quality than those found below, can be found here.
The twelve illustrations in this set of postcards correspond to the originals lithographed in Hullmandel’s workshops.
They are drawings whose sketches are taken from nature – of places that witnessed the courage of the English – Henry Wilkinson, a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, during his stay in the Basque Country with the British Legion.
They were published in London by Ackermann y Cia, in 1838, in memory of the British soldiers who fought here under the Duke of Wellington; to those of Lord Hay, on the Cantabrian coast; and to those of Lacy Evans, head of the British Auxiliary Legion.
They belong to the work “Sketches of Scenery in the Basque Provinces of Spain”, which also contains a selection of music that includes several “zortzikos,” as well as notes and memories related to that expedition that, in the Carlist civil war, concluded with the assault and capture of Irun, in 1837.
John Harper retouched the sketches, P. Noble drew the plain of Vitoria, and E. Hassell the cemetery of the English officers in San Sebastián. And Boys did the lithography of all of them.
The Municipal Savings Bank of San Sebastián is grateful for the valuable personal collaboration provided for the edition of this interesting series by Mr. Manuel Laborde Welinden, owner of the originals, and Mr. Julian Marinez Ruiz, secretary of the Municipal Museum of San Telmo.
Burial place of British officers on Castle hill of San Sebastián
During one of my visits to the Basque Country, we visited the hilerria, or cemetery, in Munitibar. I wasn’t clear what was going on, until they started digging up one of the graves. It seems that it was time to move my dad’s grandmother’s body. They dug up her grave — her son, my great-uncle, was there guiding the process — then placed the major bones in the family crypt. This was a shock to me, particularly since my great-uncle insisted that I take pictures of everything. Everywhere has their unique customs regarding death and the dead, and of course the Basque Country is no exception, though customs have changed dramatically over the centuries.
In the Basque Country, when someone died, a window in the bedroom was opened, or a tile on the roof removed, so that the soul could more easily pass through. Bells were rung and, depending on the series of bell tones, the bells announced if the deceased was a man — first the big bell was rung and then the smaller one; for a woman, the opposite sequence of bells tolled across the village. They would even announce the death to the domestic animals and the bees, as bees provide wax for torches and candles that give light to the dead.
The deceased was taken to the church and the village cemetery via special paths reserved for the dead. These were called, depending on the place, elizbidea, elizakobidea, gurutze-bidea, gorputz-bidea, auzotegiko bidea, or erribidea, which mean “way of the church,” “way of the cross,” “way of the body,” “way of the neighborhood or of the town.” Houses were usually not built near these funeral paths. In some cases, the bodies were buried, along with personal possessions, under dolmens. But, back in the Iron Age, there were also cases of cremation. The ashes were collected in vessels that were put into a baratz (“garden”) or harrespil (“stone circle”).
In more modern times, the funeral procession was led by children and young men carrying torches. These were followed by the coffin, carried by the youth closest to the deceased. After that came the family and the men of the village, followed by the women. Sometimes, they touched the houses they passed with the coffin to bid farewell. In some places, a girl would go in front of the casket, carrying a basket of bread. In others, meat, bread, and old cheese were brought to the funeral. And, in yet others, once in the church they placed a basket upside down, covered it with a black cloth, and placed a plate and cup upon the top, also upside down.
Interestingly, professional mourners were banned by law in parts of the Basque Country. Only a spouse could “pull their hair” or “howl” for the deceased — it was explicitly illegal for others to do so, with a penalty of ten marabedis.
Within the church itself, each family, based on importance and contributions, was assigned a specific place for the family burials. For larger towns, cemeteries, or hilerriak (cities of the dead), were built around the church.
In old times, the dead were buried under the eaves of the house itself. Lights of various forms, such as lamps or candles, were used to help guide the soul. It was believed that the soul might wander the local roads and even the house itself.
A couple of hours later, long after the sun had set and the night sky had filled with stars, they pulled into Javi’s driveway in Santa Barbara. Kepa had woken up just as Maite had pulled the car onto Javi’s street, the speedbumps jostling him awake. As they pulled in, the front door of the house burst open, and a figure silhouted by the bright lights from inside came rushing out.
“Kepa!” cried a voice as the figure reached the car. As Kepa opened his door, the man nearly pulled him out. “It’s been a long time!”
Kepa laughed. “It’s good to see you too, Javi!” They squeezed each other in a bear hug.
“Kaixo,” said Maite as she approached them from the other side of the car.
“Javi, you remember Maite, don’t you?” asked Kepa as he pulled her in, his arm around her waist.
“Of course!” exclaimed Javi. “I have to admit, I always thought you were the prettiest girl in the Basque Country.”
Maite blushed.
“She still is,” added Kepa with a smile.
Maite blushed even stronger.
“Anyways,” said Javi, “Let’s get you inside. Are you hungry? Do you need anything to eat before we head out?”
Maite winked at Kepa. “What did I tell you?”
Kepa just shrugged. “I got that power nap in, I can go all night if I have to.”
Javi laughed. “We don’t do gau pasa very often here. I was just thinking a beer or two at the nearby pub to catch up. I figured you might need some rest after that drive. The real fun will be tomorrow. My girlfriend will join us for dinner and some dancing?”
“Girlfriend?” asked Kepa incredulously. “You? Shy little Javi?”
“Well,” said Javi as he lifted their suitcases out of the car. “I have grown up.”
Javi led them into the house. In the light of the room, Maite got a better view of Javi. He had changed from the scrawny kid she remembered from his visits to the Basque Country. He had certainly grown into his body, the muscles on his arms and chest rippling as he carried the three suitcases. He clearly worked out. A lot. But his t-shirt said something Maite couldn’t quite make out about Hogwarts, which told her that he still had some of that geeky nerd inside.
Javi carried their suitcases to a room in the back. “I hope this meets your expectations,” he said as he set the suitcases down at the foot of the bed.
The room wasn’t big, but there was a queen bed nicely made up with nightstands and bottles of water on either side. A large ikurrina was hanging from one wall and on the other sat a flat screen television.
“Looks perfect to me!” said Kepa.
“Bai,” added Maite. “Eskerrik asko!”
“Ez horregatik,” said Javi.
Maite plopped down onto the bed with a dramatic fall. “Have fun you two. Gabon!”
“What?” asked Javi. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
Maite looked up at the two of them. “I’ve been driving all night. I think I’ll crash and rejuvenate for tomorrow. Besides, I imagine you two have a lot of catching up to do, especially since you both have girlfriends now.”
It was Kepa’s turn to blush.
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“Echoes of two wars, 1936-1945” aims to disseminate the stories of those Basques and Navarrese who participated in two of the warfare events that defined the future of much of the 20th century. With this blog, the intention of the Sancho de Beurko Association is to rescue from anonymity the thousands of people who constitute the backbone of the historical memory of the Basque and Navarre communities, on both sides of the Pyrenees, and their diasporas of emigrants and descendants, with a primary emphasis on the United States, during the period from 1936 to 1945.
THE AUTHORS Guillermo Tabernilla is a researcher and founder of the Sancho de Beurko Association, a non-profit organization that studies the history of the Basques and Navarrese from both sides of the Pyrenees in the Spanish Civil War and in World War II. He is currently their secretary and community manager. He is also editor of the digital magazine Saibigain. Between 2008 and 2016 he directed the catalog of the “Iron Belt” for the Heritage Directorate of the Basque Government and is, together with Pedro J. Oiarzabal, principal investigator of the Fighting Basques Project, a memory project on the Basques and Navarrese in the Second World War in collaboration with the federation of Basque Organizations of North America.
Pedro J. Oiarzabal is a Doctor in Political Science-Basque Studies, granted by the University of Nevada, Reno (USA). For two decades, his work has focused on research and consulting on public policies (citizenship abroad and return), diasporas and new technologies, and social and historical memory (oral history, migration and exile), with special emphasis on the Basque case. He is the author of more than twenty publications. He has authored the blog “Basque Identity 2.0” by EITB and “Diaspora Bizia” by EuskalKultura.eus. On Twitter @Oiarzabal.
Josu M. Aguirregabiria is a researcher and founder of the Sancho de Beurko Association and is currently its president. A specialist in the Civil War in Álava, he is the author of several publications related to this topic, among which “La batalla de Villarreal de Álava” (2015) y “Seis días de guerra en el frente de Álava. Comienza la ofensiva de Mola” (2018) stand out.
This article originally appeared in Spanish at El Diario on December 25, 2019.
Discussion of the Basque participation in the Merchant Marines of the Allied countries and more specifically in the United States during the Second World War (WWII), despite some non trivial efforts, have certainly been tangential, perhaps due to the immense scope of the topic. Furthermore, these works, in general, have not treated these sailors and merchant marines as war combatants but as auxiliary elements, although certainly crucial in the war machine itself. Until not long ago, for example, studies on emigration spoke almost exclusively in a masculine key, discarding immigrant women and thus relegating them to a secondary and passive role of mere companion to the migrant man. In our research project, “Fighting Basques,” on WWII veterans of Basque and Navarrese origin, we not only include them as such but we also try to vindicate their key role in the face of public recognition for having been, although to a certain point of view understandable, made invisible by the role played by the different strictly military branches.
Of the dozens and dozens of war movies, few or none come to mind that focus exclusively on the merchant marine. To a certain extent, the public is largely unaware that without their participation in the war, allied troops, transported across the planet, would also have had enormous difficulties in obtaining the resources (weapons, fuel or food) they needed to continue fighting. Some 7 million soldiers and some 126 million tons of supplies were shipped from US ports during the course of the war. It took 15 tons of supplies to support a soldier for a year at the front. Possibly Action in the North Atlantic of 1943 is the most famous feature film of the time about the United States Merchant Marine (USMM) in WWII. Produced by Warner Bros., directed by Lloyd Bacon, and starring Humphrey Bogart and Raymond Massey, Action in the North Atlantic is a propagandist film about two merchant sailors, portrayed as patriotic heroes without uniforms, whose ship has been sunk by a German submarine and survive for several days adrift. But it was John Ford in The Long Voyage Home (1940) who – using great spotlights and shadows, according to his biographer J. McBride – was the first to show us the human drama and the fatality, not to mention longing, of those who went through life entrusting their fortune to their fellow crew members.
Perhaps it is pertinent to remember that the main means of transport at this time and during the war, due to the large volume of cargo, was naval. In the absence of complete and reliable statistics, all the sources consulted point to a high number of Basque sailors and mariners, many loyal to the Spanish Republic, serving not only under the Spanish flag, but also British or American. Some would collaborate, to varying degrees, with the Information Service of the Basque government in exile, particularly in South America, and others participated directly in the transport of troops and the supply of critical supplies to the Allies. Our investigation has not yet been completed and it would be very risky at this time to even venture an approximate figure on the number of people of Basque origin who sailed under the American flag between 1941 and 1945 due to the difficulty of identifying the crews of the hundreds of ships that formed part of the US Merchant Marine, mobilized in the service of the US government.
Nor would it be wrong to remember that the merchant crew were not military personnel but civilians and volunteers, who consciously or not assumed the same risks as the soldiers themselves who were part of the military proper. Both the navy and the army lacked cargo ships, so they had to rely on the merchant marine, which became an essential element for the war effort. The demand for crew members grew exponentially. It was not necessary to wait for the official entry of the US into the war, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor (Hawaii) on December 7, 1941, to see the consequence of this on the merchant ships and their crews. It is estimated that at least 243 sailors perished as a result of enemy action by Germans and Japanese before December 7, while 160 were taken prisoner by the Imperial Japanese Navy, becoming the first American POWs of WWII. They were not only exposed to enemy planes, submarines and mines but also to nature itself in the form of hurricanes and storms in all kinds of latitudes and climates.
The German declaration of war on the US on December 11 exposed the USMM to the fearsome Nazi submarine fleet or “Unterseeboot” (U-boats), which caused real havoc mainly in 1942. Between February and May 1942, about 175 ships were sunk by U-boats along the North American East Coast, a time when the navy provided little or no military cover even though the USMM was under the control of the Armed Forces. Some 500 American merchant ships were sunk or damaged, with a loss of 4,300 sailors, throughout 1942. The situation from the summer of 1942 gradually changed. The Navy provided the USMM with members of the Armed Guard – a military force constituted by the Navy in October 1941 as an armed force aboard merchant ships – and artillery, and organized convoys escorted by destroyers and aircraft carriers to repel enemy attacks. These measures prevented the catastrophe that occurred at the beginning of the war from repeating itself.
The American Merchant Marine at War association estimates that between 215,000 and 285,000 men were part of the USMM during the war. After the end of the war, most of them rejoined civilian life, without public recognition, tributes or military honors, and certainly without benefits reserved exclusively for the military, including doctors to treat disabilities and lasting injuries. Few know that the crews only collected their pay while they were sailing. From the moment their boats were sunk, the sailors stopped receiving pay until the survivors re-embarked, if they were unharmed or not seriously injured.
It is not surprising, therefore, that among the identified sailors of Basque origin, there are those who, despite having survived a German attack, returned to sail as if nothing had happened. This was the case of Antonio Uribe Echevarria – born in Busturia, Bizkaia, in 1886 and living in Brooklyn, New York. He was a fireman (also called a stoker or watertender in charge of the levels of refrigeration in and maintenance of the boilers) on the passenger ship SS Cherokee when on June 15, 1942, en route from New York to Boston, it was torpedoed twice and finally sunk by the submarine U-87 commanded by Joachim Berger (who would receive the Iron Cross First Class on July 2 1942). 65 members of the crew, 20 soldiers of the Army the ship was transporting, and a member of the Armed Guard died. Uribe and 82 other people survived the attack, being rescued by the merchant ship SS Norlago and the Coast Guard cutter Escanaba. However, his fate was cast. Uribe embarked on the SS Coamo, another passenger steamship (also used as a military transport ship since January 1942), en route from New York on September 23, 1942, with a stopover in Liverpool (England), to Clyde (Scotland), where some 1,500 British soldiers embarked for Algeria, arriving in a convoy of 17 ships on November 14. Later the Coamo left for Gibraltar and from there to Land’s End, in Cornwall, England. On December 1, 1942, the British Admiralty ordered the Coamo to abandon the convoy and return to New York via the relatively safe Bermuda route. The next day she was fatally torpedoed, some 200 miles off the west coast of Ireland, by U-604, commanded by Horst Höltring. All 186 men on board died – 11 officers, 122 crew members, 37 armed guards and 16 soldiers from the Army that the ship was transporting – including Uribe, 45 years old. This was the largest single loss of a merchant crew on any US-flagged merchant ship during WWII.
The Battle of the Atlantic, which began in 1939, has gone down in history as one of the largest and longest-running naval battles in WWII. The fight for maritime hegemony, the blockade of the United Kingdom by Germany, and the counter-blockade of Germany by the allied powers placed in the center of the bullseye the convoys that formed from the warships and the merchant ships they escorted in their mission to transport all kinds of supplies to the United Kingdom and allied troops in preparation for the eventual invasion of occupied Europe. The military war also became a logistical war, of great strategic importance, which finally tilted to the Allied side with a cost in the lives of some 36,200 Army soldiers and some 36,000 merchant sailors, and the loss of some 3,500 merchant ships and 175 warships.
Among the Basque sailors that we have identified in the Atlantic is Daniel Solaegui Mugartegui. Born in 1916 in Fallon, Nevada, to Bizkaian parents, he joined the Merchant Marine in San Francisco, California. He was part of the crew of one of the new Liberty-class artillery cargo ships, the SS Melville E. Stonewhich was launched on July 24, 1943. Solaegui was a qualified member of the engine room where he worked as a fireman. The Melville E. Stone carried a 101 mm gun, a 75 mm gun, and 8 20 mm anti-aircraft guns, which were commissioned by a crew of armed Guard gunners embarked for that purpose, but that was no problem for the German submarines, and less when traveling without an escort. She was destined to make the route between Antofagasta (Chile) and New York, and had already crossed the Panama Canal when she was torpedoed on November 24, 1943 by U-516 under the command of Lieutenant Commander Hans-Rutger Tillessen. The 88 men who made up the crew and the passengers (military personnel) abandoned the ship, but the suction caused by the sinking ship dragged 15 people to the bottom of the Caribbean, including Solaegui. He was 27 years old. Two of Solaegui’s brothers served in the army: Joseph (1925-2004) graduated with the rank of first-class soldier and Frank (1921-2009) became a lieutenant in the 101st Airborne Division.
Straddling the European and Asian theaters of operations is Miguel “Mikel” Usatorre Royo, born in Lekeitio, Bizkaia in 1913. Like his brothers (Marcelino Juan, Vicente and José María), he was a career merchant sailor when his life was abruptly interrupted by the outbreak of the Civil War in Spain. He fought with the Basque Army and was taken prisoner by the rebel troops. His brother Marcelino (1902-1966) also participated in the war and became a lieutenant colonel in the 27th Division of the People’s Army. After the military defeat, Marcelino went into exile to France and later to the Soviet Union, serving in the Red Army between 1939 and 1947. Marcelino graduated with the rank of lieutenant colonel. After serving time in forced labor camps, Mikel was finally able, after four years of waiting, to embark as a sailor bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina. Later he went to sea as a boatswain on the Argentine-flagged tanker Victoria. Despite their neutrality, on the way to New Jersey the Victoria was torpedoed twice (by mistake according to the German authorities in response to the Argentine government after the attack) on April 18, 1942, by U-201, commanded by Adalbert Schnee. The crew left the ship in two life rafts, being rescued days later. To their aid came the minesweeper USS Owl, which towed them to the Island of Bermuda, where they were able to partially repair the Victoria. Once repaired, she was escorted by the destroyers USS Swanson and USS Nicholson until a tugboat took over for the tanker. The Victoria and crew arrived in New York on April 21. Mikel was 28 years old.
On American soil, Mikel decided to enlist on a ship dedicated to the transport of American troops bound for the United Kingdom, in preparation for the invasion of Normandy, work that he would later carry out in the Pacific, in the face of possible invasions of the islands occupied by Japan (from the Philippines to Okinawa). After the war, he was posted to the Philippines and, shortly after, to Okinawa, where he worked as a captain and portmaster for 25 years for the Second Logistics Command of the US Army. For a time, he met another Basque merchant seaman, Antón Brouard, in Okinawa. Mikel received the Two-Star Combat Medal, among other decorations. In 1950, he obtained American citizenship. He passed away in 2000, aged 86, in Fort Smith, Arkansas.
The aforementioned Antonio “Antón” Brouard Pérez de Oxinalde, born like Mikel Usatorre in Lekeitio in 1916, was also a professional merchant captain. After the coup in Spain, Brouard as second officer of the yacht El Vita – under the US flag and owned by the Basque-Filipino financier and US citizen, Marino Gamboa – participated in the transport of a shipment of seized valuables and precious metals by the General Reparations Fund during the Civil War, between Le Havre, in France and Veracruz, Mexico, where it arrived on March 23, 1939. The so-called “Vita treasure” was destined, originally, for the Service of Evacuation of the Spanish Republicans, but ultimately it would be yielded to the Board of Aid to the Spanish Republicans. Both the captain, José Ordorica Ruíz de Asúa, his first officer, Isaac Echave, and the rest of the yacht’s crew were from Lekeitio. Despite having received Mexican nationality from Lázaro Cárdenas himself, Brouard was unable to captain ships, so after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he decided to work for the USMM, eager to recruit experienced sailors. He served in the Pacific where he supplied troops during the war. After WWII, he was sent to Okinawa as a port pilot, a position he held for five years. He passed away in his hometown in 1994, at the age of 78 (1).
The American Merchant Marine at War association estimates the loss of about 8,400 men out of a total of 243,000 merchant seamen, as identified by the War Maritime Transportation Department in 1946, to which should be added another 1,000 wounded who would eventually die. Altogether, some 12,000 were injured and some 700 became prisoners of war. Almost half of all casualties occurred in 1942. Among the Armed Guards, assigned to merchant ships since the summer of 1942, about 2,200 perished and 1,100 were wounded. The USMM suffered a higher casualty rate than any branch of the military during the war. One in 26 sailors died or were reported missing, much higher than casualties in the Armed Forces, where one in 133 soldiers died or disappeared. The overall loss by the USMM was very similar to that of the Marines, who had a ratio of 1 in 34. Between 1939 to 1945, some 1,600 US-flagged merchant ships (6 million tons) were sunk, while hundreds of other vessels were damaged.
Despite their great sacrifice, it took 43 years for the federal government – after a lawsuit by the American Merchant Mariner association – to recognize USMM survivors as war veterans that could receive, albeit partially, the benefits related to this recognition. However, today it is still common to observe how they are not included in military monuments or memorials or in public tributes. In 2018, US Congressman John Garamendi, grandson of Bizkaia, sponsored and promoted the “Merchant Mariners of World War II Congressional Gold Medal Act of 2020,” which was approved by Congress on September 19 of 2019, and was ratified by the Senate on December 21. Therefore, the bill became law once it was signed by President Donald Trump on March 14, 2020. The goal of this legislation is to award, collectively, a Congressional Gold Medal – one of the highest honors in the United States – to the merchant seamen who supported the armed forces during WWII. From the Sancho de Beurko Association we congratulate the happy ending of the initiative and we hope that our public institutions and professional associations of merchant seafarers will join in this public recognition as part of our historical legacy. We hope this article serves as a small tribute to the merchant marines of WWII and that it can contribute to their knowledge and encourage young historians to investigate the role played by the thousands of sailors and merchant marines without whose effort and sacrifice the victory against totalitarianism would not have been possible.
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Pierre de Fermat was one of the most recognized mathematicians of his time, and perhaps in all of history. He was infamous for making claims of mathematical proofs in the margins of documents without actually giving the proof. Ever since, mathematicians have struggled to prove his theorems. His Last Theorem, which relates to number theory, wasn’t proven until 1994, some 358 years after Fermat made his claim, by the mathematician Andrew Wiles. One interesting tidbit about Fermat is that many sources and sites state he was of Basque origin. But was he really?
Not much is known of Fermat’s youth. He was born in late 1607 in the French city of Beaumont-de-Lomagne to a family of leather merchants. His father, Dominique Fermat, was second consul of the town, and his mother was Claire de Long. (I’ve seen other sources say he was born in 1601 and his mother was Françoise Cazenove, but this seems to be a different Piere that was born to Dominique’s first wife Françoise, not the famous mathematician.)
Many places say that Fermat had Basque ancestry, and a few claim he spoke Basque fluently. Unfortunately, I’m not able to find any original sources for these claims. It seems this claim started with an Encyclopedia Britannica article that stated that “He was of Basque origin…” Other online sources claim that “He was born into a Basque family of leather merchants” and that he “was an accomplished linguist fluent in… Basque.” However, when I dig deeper, I can’t find any real evidence for these claims.
If you look at his ancestry, you don’t find any Basque names. Instead, in addition to Fermat (of course), there are names like de Long, L’Hospital, Bernuy, and Lagriffoul. Nothing obviously Basque that I can find.
What is clear is that Fermat was born in Gascony, and that his family had been in Gascony for at least a few generations. The current province of Gascony lies just north of Iparralde. The Gascons are certainly historically related to the Basques, and indeed the word Gascon comes from the same root. But those connections are quite ancient. If the Gascons spoke a language related to Basque, it was eventually lost and replaced with modern Gascon, a Romance language. Interestingly, however, Gascon does seem to have a Basque substrate, or influence.
Another piece of evidence that Fermat was Gascon and not Basque comes from René Descartes, another of the great French mathematicians and an intellectual rival. He is quoted as having said “Fermat is Gascon, not me.” At the time, calling someone a Gascon was to call them a braggart.
So, it seems clear that, in the end, Fermat was not Basque, but rather Gascon. This is of course neither here nor there. It seems that the original British author, when putting together the entry for the Encyclopedia Britannica, simply confused Basque and Gascon, and that confusion has then been repeated and spread without any further investigation.
Primary sources: All sources are linked in the article, but I’d like to give particular thanks to Eneko Sagarbide who helped track down these sources and claims about Fermat’s true origins.
“We should get going,” said Maite, her head resting on Kepa’s chest as they both lay on the dusty floor of the Noriega’s bar. She listened as his heart beat normally, and wondered if the effects of the bullet were really completely erased.
“Bai,” replied Kepa. “Javi’s still expecting us tonight.” He paused. “It’s so weird to think about tonight when we were literally gone for months. I’m having a hard time adjusting to the shift.”
Maite pushed up, resting on her forearm as she looked into Kepa’s eyes. “At least you are here with me. I don’t know how I’d do this without you.”
Kepa pulled her back for one last kiss. As they broke their kiss, he said “Berdin.”
They both stood up, dusting themselves off. Maite looked around the bar. “It’s so weird to think that, only moments ago, this room was filled with people playing cards, talking, and drinking. Looking at it now, all of that life is gone. It’s so sad. All of those people, just gone.”
Kepa nodded. “I wonder what happened to them all? Even Donny. What happened to him after he shot me?”
“Well,” said Maite, “he only shot you in the bubble. All of that was undone when you ‘got’ the zatia, when the bubble popped. So, you never got shot.”
“Right…” began Kepa. “But, I can’t imagine he didn’t go after someone else, the way he was.”
“When we have some time, we can try looking them all up and see,” replied Maite. “But, right now, we better get moving. We have at least a couple of hours of driving to get to Javi’s.”
Kepa sighed. “You are right. But I’m so damn tired. Feels like I haven’t slept for a month.”
Maite laughed as she playfully punched him in the arm. “This from the guy who does a week of gau pasas during the summer?”
“Yeah, but I never got shot during any of those,” replied Kepa with a smile as his hand again absentmindedly touched his chest. “I still remember how it felt when that bullet ripped through my chest.”
“Fair enough,” said Maite as she walked through the doors of the boarding house and onto the street. “I’ll drive and you get some rest. When we get there, you and Javi can go out while I go to sleep.”
“What?” cried Kepa as he climbed into the car. “I don’t get to go to sleep when we get there?”
Maite laughed. “Your cousin hasn’t seen you in ages. Do you think he’ll be happy with you just going to bed right when you get there? I bet he has some big plans for you tonight.”
Kepa moaned as Maite started the car and headed toward the highway. It wasn’t long before Kepa’s snores filled the car. Maite followed the signs that pointed toward Santa Barbara. At one point, the road forked, with signs pointing to San Luis Obispo. Maite vaguely remembered something she read saying it was an important outpost during Spanish colonial times. As she glanced in that direction, she saw another bright light hovering over the sign. She sighed and then shook her head. “Not right now,” she muttered to herself as she passed the exit and continued toward Santa Barbara.
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When I lived in the Basque Country, feebly trying to learn Euskara, I spent a lot of time in Ermua, Bizkaia, where my aunt and her family lives. Just across the border, in Gipuzkoa, lies Eibar. As a relatively young kid, I never gave Eibar much thought — it was just a town that the train went through on the way to Ermua. Once or twice, what I might call my cuadrilla took me to Eibar and we wandered the streets, hopping from bar to bar, but that was about all I knew. However, with age comes some “wisdom,” and learning about these places I only passed through back then always offers new surprises. Eibar has a fascinating history that dates back nearly one thousand years.
Eibar was founded in 1346 through a charter granted by King Alfonso XI. The original town, which was encircled by a wall and towers, centered around the parish of San Andrés. However, the first mention of the name dates to the 12th century, regarding the marriage of the daughter of one Unzueta de Eibar. The groom-to-be made an offering of twenty-four pregnant cows to the Church of Cenarruza to praise and honor his bride.
During its history, Eibar has been destroyed at least twice, once by French armies in 1794 and a second time during the Spanish Civil War. This act followed in a long tradition of the town supporting liberal causes and being a bastion for social and labor movements. For example, in 1931, Eibar was the first city in Spain to proclaim the Second Spanish Republic, for which it received the title of Very Exemplary City.
Eibar is a sanctuary of the Basque language, still used every day by much of the populace. Being on the border with Bizkaia, their Basque has been related to those dialects, though there are certainly influences from Gipuzkoa and some loan words from Spanish. Historical documents from Eibar reveal a number of Basque words that are today anachronistic, but highlight the richness of the local dialect: words such as idacorri, to read; yrago, to pass; ustarrila, January; osteruncian osteantzian, otherwise; auttuba, arbitrate or appoint. Further, because of the importance of the local iron and steel industry, whole vocabularies devoted to these fields arose in Eibar.
Many of the inhabitants have worked in the local knife and gun factories. In fact, by the end of the 15th century, knives and guns from Eibar were well known throughout Europe. In 1538, Juan Orbea and Juan Ermua, residents of Eibar, were commissioned to manufacture 1,500 arquebuses and in 1570 armorers were taken from Eibar to Flanders to found the Belgian armory industry. In the 1800s, new factories to make six-shot cylindrical revolvers and arquebuses were established. In 1889, the town manufactured more than half a million weapons. In the early 1900s, some of these factories shifted directions, making for example bicycles, with Orbea being a prime example. However, there are still some 60 companies dedicated to various aspects of weapon manufacture in Eibar today.
Of course, many might know Eibar because of the success of their soccer team. In 2014, SD Eibar was promoted to the La Liga, an impressive feat given the small size of the town — only about 30,000 people. They lasted in the premier division for seven years. This is one of the coolest aspects of the European system, where even small clubs have a chance to play in the big leagues.