Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Kepa held up his hands.
“Look, mutilak, we don’t want any trouble,” said Kepa with his broken English as he backed away and turned to go the other direction. As he turned he nearly walked into Donny McCowen, who towered above him, his sinister sneer highlighted by the moonlight bathing his face.
“If you didn’t want trouble,” growled Donny, “then you should have stayed in your own damn country.”
Before Kepa could respond, Donny’s fist flew and hammered him in the stomach. Kepa immediately fell to his knees. Kepa could hear Donny’s friends laughing behind him.
“Kepa!” exclaimed Maite as she crouched next to him. She then glared up at Donny. “Leave him alone.”
“At least one of you is man enough to stand up for yourselves.” He spat in the dirt. “You damn foreigners come here, ruin our lands with your damn sheep.”
Donny then crouched in front of them both. “Get him out of here,” he said in barely contained rage. “I don’t want to see his ugly face around here again. And if I find any of his sheep on our land, I’ll kill him and all of his sheep.”
Donny stood up. His boot flew and connected with Kepa’s cheek.
“Kepa!” screamed Maite as Donny waived to the two other men.
“Come on boys. Let’s go.”
Maite helped Kepa to his feet, blood flowing from the cut that ran across his cheek. She pulled out a handkerchief from her purse and cleaned up his face as well as she could.
“Let’s get you back to the Noriega and clean that up.”
Kepa looked at her. “I guess it’s not just De Lancre we have to worry about,” he muttered.
Maite shook her head. “You need to be careful. Who knows what he’s capable of.”
“I have a good guess,” replied Kepa.
As they made their way into the Noriega, they found the bar still crowded with more than one table hosting a game of mus. The room filled with murmurs as the players noticed Kepa’s bloody face. Maite led Kepa to the bar and asked for water and ice. As she began cleaning off the blood with a wet napkin, Juan Jose left his game and approached them.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I had a nice chat with one of the local cowboys,” replied Kepa with a shrug.
“One of those McCowens, I’ll bet,” said Juan Jose. “They’re always causing trouble for us.”
“You know them?” asked Maite.
“Most of us know them,” said Juan Jose, waving his hand to indicate the other men in the room. “The cattlemen around here hate us, and the McCowens are the worst. They think all of the land is theirs, even the forest land. More than a few of us have been threatened with our lives if we didn’t leave ‘their’ land. They shoot the sheep too, and burn our camps.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry you met him on your first day.”
“I’ve dealt with worse,” said Kepa dismissively, trying to deflect the unwanted attention.
Juan Jose grabbed Kepa’s shoulders. “Don’t be a fool!” he said, his voice rising. “Those men are dangerous, some of them are killers. Don’t think you’re safe. We’ve lost more than one friend to the cattlemen.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Kepa. “I didn’t mean to make light of them. I’ll be careful.”
“Ondo,” said Juan Jose as he returned to his game.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
This article originally appeared in Spanish at EuskalKultura.eus.
A history of the Gernika Battalion (Pointe de Grave, 1945).
When one of the authors of this blog, Guillermo Tabernilla, published the book Basque Combatants in World War II, we learned, for the first time, details of the Gernika Battalion that had not yet been treated by Basque historiography: its history of combat, its actions on the Médoc front, the conditions the battalion fought in, and the chronology and phases of its battles. We also learned the identity of those involved in the operations of liberty, fought on one of the forgotten fronts of the Second World War: the last pockets of German resistance scattered throughout the French Atlantic coast, where 100,000 German soldiers awaited the end of the war under the cover of their impressive fortifications.
This includes the fortress called by the Nazi occupiers Festung Gironde. It was actually two fortresses that straddled the mouth of the Gironde River (Royan and Pointe de Grave). Together, they brought the port of Bordeaux to a total standstill, causing the people of Gironde to suffer all kinds of shortages and hardships. Charles de Gaulle had made the decision to reconquer the area for the mere symbolism of recovering lost homeland, to secure a first victory on the Atlantic front. By the spring of 1945, the war was coming to an end and these operations were absolutely irrelevant. They led to an unjustifiable loss of life, not only among the combatants but also among the French civilian population itself. For example, the terrible bombardment of the coastal town of Royan cost 442 lives and hundreds of wounded.
April 14, 1945, the Gernika Battalion prepares the assault on Cota 40 (set by the Sancho de Beurko Association for the Fighting Basques Project, photo Jesús Valbuena “Tejeval”).
“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.
The connection we maintain with the main preservers of the memory of the Gernika Battalion – Jon Ander Prieto, son of Lieutenant Andrés Prieto, and José María Tuduri, author of the essential 1996 documentary – has allowed us to continue a project that led to the formation of our association in 2013.
Last year, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic crisis, we dedicated three articles, along with corresponding videos, to the 75th Anniversary of that act in which the Basque government-in-exile cried out to the world its belligerence against totalitarianism: the formation its own military unit – the Gernika Battalion – within the Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur (French Forces of the Interior), or FFI.
Our Historical Recreation group has also been critical in perpetuating the memory of the Gernika Battalion, visually bringing the men of the battalion to life. With the power of images, they contribute to the preservation of our heritage. But, this must be accompanied by a truthful historical account based on access to sources, whether documentary or oral.
Among the first, we must highlight the documents generated by Andrés Prieto himself, archived in the Municipal Archive of Eibar. And, of the oral testimony, the interviews conducted by both Mikel Rodríguez and José María Tuduri have proven invaluable.
Thanks to the kindness of Tuduri, we have had access to two interviews that were not used for his documentary and which include the interesting story of two German prisoners who, after deserting their lines, ended up forming part of the Gernika Battalion during the period in which the battalion remained at the Médoc front, clearing out land mines during the attack on Cota 40 (or Level 40, a geographical point on the military charts) on April 14, 1945, the day the offensive began.
It is a harsh story that seems to connect with others that have recently become popular in the cinema, such as the Danish film Land of Mine, which reflects only a small – but very representative – part of that reality in which prisoners of war are forced to perform tasks that ran against the principles of the Geneva Convention. However, the very dynamics of the battle for the liberation of the Médoc and the violence it generated during the scant period of a week allows us to understand these and other issues that we have treated in previous publications. Without a doubt, the Gallic forces would otherwise have been ignorant of the minefields that they had to cross to reach the heart of the Nazi fortress in the town of Soulac-sur-Mer.
That, and the haste with which objectives had to be met after the intense preparatory bombardment by US aviation and the Naval Forces of Free France, partially explain the treatment of those prisoners. But the case of the two Germans in the Gernika Battalion has a different nuance, as they were not mistreated by the gudaris. However, we are getting ahead of ourselves and we’d better start at the beginning.
While Gernika awaits the order to march, the demining tasks begin by a team of French specialists. Today we know that they were accompanied by two German prisoners of war (set by the Sancho de Beurko Association for the Fighting Basques Project, photo Jesús Valbuena “Tejeval”).
The arrival of the Gernika Battalion to the combat zone occurred on March 22, 1945; after disembarking from the train at Lesparre – the last station before reaching the Médoc front, led by Colonel Jean de Milleret “Carnot” and his deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Yvan Reverdy – Kepa Ordoki‘s men, who were accompanied by the Spanish anarchists of the Libertad o Santos Battalion, relieved the French from the Lot Regiment, which despite its pompous name were nothing but partisan troops hastily militarized under the umbrella of the FFI.
In fact, the Gernika Battalion was itself not a real a battalion, since their number never exceeded one hundred at the front. (A battalion usually has 300-1000 soldiers.)
There, they found an environment of swamps and sandy beaches with copses of pine trees in which the Germans had established numerous defensive posts linked together and protected by dense minefields. These, however, did not prevent the infiltration of their own forces nor the desertions of a garrison that was already showing signs of being morally defeated after months of isolation at the end of the cold winter of 1944-45.
This was the case for two young Germans who were about 17 years old when they crossed the front that the Gernika Battalion was defending.
José María Tuduri recalled that Loren Burgoa, a boy like them, spoke of their obsession with going to the brothels of Bordeaux, which he found hilarious. Thus, these boys were admitted to the battalion and, because they were the same age, they became very good friends with the group of young soldiers from Ondarroa. That is, until the day of the offensive arrived and the Germans joined the deminers who had to open a corridor to let the gudaris advance: a team led by French specialists who, obviously, were also risking their lives [1].
Tuduri recorded on video the testimony of Deunoro Totorika, gudari of the Gernika Battalion, who referred to the two deserters as Jon and Iñaki (as they were called) in part of the interview. According to him, the Germans volunteered for demining duty and then stayed with the battalion for the entire battle of Pointe de Grave, after removing the insignia from their uniforms [2].
The advance, led by Captain Martínez, is carried out slowly and with great caution along a path marked with white ribbons (scenery by the Sancho de Beurko Association for the Fighting Basques Project, photo Jesús Valbuena “Tejeval”).
Other interviews collected by Mikel Rodríguez refer to these deserters. Vicente Aizpuru spoke of a group of six men, but said that they could be “Romanian or Czech,” while Jokin Atorrasagasti stated that they were German and young and that he taught one to say “Gora Euskadi Askatuta!” [3].
Pantxo Etxebarria spoke of three young prisoners “one who was 16 years old and the other 17 […] who were in charge of searching for the mines. With the gadgets of searching for mines they found a path. We kept them for a long time, because Ordoki and all the officers of the battalion sympathized with these three German boys. They changed their names, we gave them Basque names. But according to the law they had to be tried and taken to the French command. Later we took more prisoners, a lot” [4].
Javier Brosa and Jesús Blanco believed that the youth of these German soldiers made the Basques take pity on them and protect them. Brosa recounted that they were there “for a few days, helping us in the kitchen. We became fond of them because they were children.” Blanco expounded a little more about the circumstances in which they were transferred to the FFI: “We took the kids with us. If they were poor wretches, so were we, we were all deep in this mess! I don’t know if it was Ordoki’s idea or whose idea, but we kept them, we dressed them with one man’s jacket and another’s pants and we kept them around for a few days. We gave them Basque names, like Sabino Arana, but here, as everywhere, there are people who can’t let things be, so one day the French came and took them away” [5].
On the deminers fell the responsibility of opening a corridor for the advance of the troops that had to penetrate inside the German territory; an extremely dangerous task that required nerves of steel, as it was carried out under fire from enemy weapons (set by the Sancho de Beurko Association for the Fighting Basques Project, photo Jesús Valbuena “Tejeval”).
Returning to the demining issue, perhaps the most clarifying testimony is that of Dr. Claude Lesca, the battalion doctor, who was recorded on video by Tuduri and translated from French for us by Jon Ander Prieto. According to him, the Gernika Battalion was not the only one that hosted deserters, since there was a battalion that, in addition to Germans, had Italians and “soldiers from Central Europe.”
The task of the two German prisoners during the assault on Cota 40 was to walk along the sides of the cleared area, carrying a piece of white cloth to mark it.
When the mines began to explode, Lesca went to help the wounded, finding that the French officer who led the team had died. While he was treating one of the young Germans, there was another explosion that caused him to fall on the young man to protect him, which immediately unleashed the panic of the prisoner, who feared for his life to the point that he believed that Lesca was trying to kill him by strangulation or crushing. He told the doctor “No kaput, no kaput,” which made him laugh a lot [6].
When the mine detectors stopped working, according to Andrés Prieto Deia, they had “to search for the mines by prodding the ground with bayonets, millimeter by millimeter” [7].
That day, April 14, 1945, the Gernika Battalion counted 4 dead and 18 wounded, and their number was reduced to 53 able men for the battle. But, it managed to recover and successfully complete the last of its objectives: the assault on the battery of Les Arros five days later, where there occurred a reprehensible act that must be contextualized in the circumstances of combat [8].
On April 20, the military operations of Pointe de Grave ended with the surrender of the last German defenders.
After the loss of a deminer, the progression of the gudaris is abruptly interrupted and the evacuation of the wounded to the rear is organized, which will be attended by the battalion doctor, Claude Lesca, who would not hesitate to approach the line of fire (set design by the Sancho de Beurko Association for the Fighting Basques Project, photo Jesús Valbuena “Tejeval”).
What happened to the two German boys after they were handed over to the French troops?
The truth is that we don’t know. Despite a letter of recommendation from Father Iñaki Aspiazu, written for them at the end of the battle for the liberation of the Médoc, Lieutenant Prieto told Tuduri that this would not help them much in the face of possible reprisals by French soldiers. It wouldn’t help them even if they were equipped with battalion garments and had removed the insignia from their German uniforms; it would not absolve them in those moments when anyone could be accused of spying and summarily executed.
Volunteers or prisoners forced to clear mines? Victims of the cruelty of war? In any case, the interesting story of the two Germans from the Gernika Battalion shows us the difficulty of dealing with oral sources – already confusing – and interpreting them properly in the context of war, which brings out the worst in humanity to the point that things are not always what they seem, are they?
Judge for yourself. We are content to contribute, on this 76th Anniversary of the battle of Pointe de Grave, new insight into the history of the Gernika Battalion.
[1] Testimony of José María Tuduri to the authors in 2021.
[2] Interview by José María Tuduri with Deunoro Totorika, deposited among the documentary materials in the Basque Film Library and provided to the authors.
[3] Mikel Rodríguez. (2003). ‘Memory of the Basques in the Second World War’. Pamiela: Pamplona, pp. 198-202.
[4] Ibid., P. 207.
[5] Ibid, pp. 211 and 216. Pako Eizaguirre also recalled that the German prisoners who had joined the battalion lived “for a long time with us, but I don’t know if they ended up in the hands of the French, who were interested in taking them, I suppose to shoot them” (Ibid. , p. 214). Joseba Barandiaran recalled that “those days we took many German prisoners, the two or three youngest, we hid them with us and they helped us to locate and mark the minefields” (Ibídem, p. 225).
[6] Interview by José María Tuduri with Claude Lesca, deposited among the documentary materials at the Basque Film Library and provided to the authors.
[7] ‘Deia’ dated 04/25/1978.
[8] Guillermo Tabernilla and Ander González. (2018). ‘Basque fighters in the Second World War’. Madrid: Desperta Ferro. P. 54
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If you want to collaborate with “Echoes of two wars” send us an original article on any aspect of WWII or the Civil War and Basque or Navarre participation to the following email: sanchobeurko@gmail.com
Double agents are a trope of movies, their uncertain loyalties adding tension and drama to the story. However, they are inspired by real men and women that played sides against one another. During World War II, a Basque man from Bizkaia, José Laradogoitia Menchaca, actually served as a double agent. This “Basque shepherd, swindler and womanizer” started working for the Germans but switched sides, sending the Germans misinformation about Allied activities. Only now, as the United States government declassifies documents related to Laradogoitia, are we learning about his activities and role during the war.
José Laradogoitia with his family in April 1960, in the United States. Photo from El Pais.
Laradogoitia was born in Urduliz, a small town just outside of Bilbao. In 1930, when he was just 18 years old, he made his way to the United States, ultimately joining his brother in Idaho. He worked on ranches and as a trucker until 1940 or 1941, when he was tried and deported for passing bad checks.
Back in Spain, he was recruited by the German George Lang to spy for the Nazis and their Abwehr service, who had an extensive network in Bilbao. He agreed to work with the Germans to avoid being imprisoned by the Franco regime. He was given the code name “G” for Gernika. He was first assigned, in 1942, to send Allied shipping information from Rio de Janeiro, but in 1943 he was given a new mission, to establish a German radio spy network on the US-Mexico border. His handlers concocted an elaborate scheme where, from Mexico, he would contact his brother Antonio, still living in Cascade, Idaho, to see if he would help him cross the border. If not, Laradogoitia would set up on the Mexican side of the border to establish his network.
The Germans viewed Laradogoitia as a perfect vehicle to connect their spy network in Bilbao with Latin America and the United States, as he could speak English and move around in Latin America with relative ease. They taught him ciphers and the use of chemicals to create invisible ink. However, while still living in Brazil, Laradogoitia compromised himself, casually revealing information that only a spy would know. The Basque Government in Exile and the Basque Information Service took advantage of this and presented Laradogoitia to the American government as a double agent. Though the US agencies dithered about whether to work with the Basques, to avoid upsetting Spain, ultimately, on May 22, 1943, Laradogoitia surrendered to American authorities in Philadelphia.
While at first his value as a spy was unclear, it was revealed that he had kept information from the Germans that could have jeopardized Operation Torch, the Allied invasion of North Africa. Laradogoitia had known about American movements in that direction, but had refrained from passing that information to his German handlers. Another double agent, the Catalan Joan Pujol Garcia, played an even bigger role in helping Operation Torch succeed.
Laradogoitia also revealed that the Germans expected an imminent invasion of Spain by the British, with landing points either in Gibraltar or in the Basque Country, on the beaches between Gorliz and Elantxobe. Lang had a map denoting possible landing sites, one at a deserted beach near Bermeo, that they had fortified. However, Laradogoitia’s information revealed that the German defenses of the Basque Coast were relatively weak. Further, in two exhausting interviews, the FBI learned valuable information from Laradogoitia about the Nazi transatlantic network.
Ultimately, Laradogoitia became a double agent, with the code name Bromo (bromine), though he was called Little Joe internally. He settled in New York and created a misinformation network meant to disrupt and confuse the network Lang had created. He posed to the Germans as a naval mechanic who had infiltrated various ship yards.
By 1945, however, the game was up. The FBI began arresting some of the men Laradogoitia had recruited as part of his network and even played up in the press how they had been using Laradogoitia to feed the Germans misinformation. Further, Laradogoitia was never the most reliable spy, as he was easily distracted: “He loves women too much and jumps on the smallest petticoat.”
In the end, Laradogoitia was well rewarded for his war-time efforts. He was given a ranch in Montana, along with a large fortune, though it seems he lived many of his remaining days in New York and in Florida, where he had a retirement home in Pompano Beach. He died on December 11, 2002. Even though it has been nearly 20 years since his death, may details about his missions with the FBI are still sealed.
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
“What the hell was that?” asked Maite as she stared at the door Donny had just gone through.
“My apologies.” The barkeep was suddenly standing over their table, drinks in hand. He was a bear of a man, the dirty apron he wore barely covering his large belly. His bare arms were massive and covered with thick curly hair, in contrast to his head which was bald. He had a jagged scar that crossed across his left check.
“These are on the house,” he said as he placed the drinks on the table in front of Maite and Kepa. “You know, he isn’t a bad kid, but when he gets a few drinks in him, it brings out a meanness.”
“Thank you, er…” said Kepa as he picked up the glass and took a sip.
“Benjamin Jones. Most just call me Big Ben. Doesn’t help that my ma was from England,” he added with a chuckle
“Well, thank you Big Ben,” said Kepa as he took another sip.
“Who was that guy?” asked Maite.
“Donny McCowen,” answered Ben as he pulled up a chair. “His pa owns one of the bigger cattle outfits around here. They think all of the land belongs to them. They hate the sheep, call them hoofed locusts. And so they tend to hate you herders too.”
“I haven’t even seen a sheep yet!” exclaimed Kepa.
“Doesn’t matter, really. They hate all of you Basques.”
“At least you don’t hate us,” muttered Maite as she took a sip of her own drink.
“I owe my life to a herder. Before all of this–” Ben swept his hand, indicating the bar — “I was a cattleman, fancied myself a cowboy even. I was up in the hills with my horse, when we were surprised by a thunderstorm. My horse got spooked and threw me. I landed hard on the ground, hit my head on a rock.” He pointed to the scar on his cheek. “That’s where I got this. Anyways, a herder found me and took me to his camp. I caught a fever and thought I was going to die, but he took care of me until the next supply run came and was able to bring me to town.” Ben shook his head. “They’re just people, you know, trying to make a life. I don’t know why everyone has to always be fighting.
“Anyways,” said Ben as he stood and put his chair back at another table. “Those drinks aren’t going to serve themselves, and I certainly don’t want those guys serving each other.” He pointed to the group of men at the bar. “Nice talking with you.”
Kepa and Maite lifted their glasses. “Same.”
“So,” said Maite when they were alone again. “What about the zatiak? Have you seen anything?”
“No, nothing, but then I’ve only been to my room and in the dining hall. You?”
Maite shook her head. “No, nothing either. I have a small room with a couple of the other young women. It’s not in there, at least not as far as I’ve seen.” She took another sip. “Do you think De Lancre is with these cowboys?”
Kepa shrugged. “They’re mean enough for him, it seems. But, I haven’t seen any hint of him yet.”
“We’ll have to keep our eye out, for both him and that Donny.”
“Well, I’m heading out in the next day or two, for the hills,” replied Kepa. “I don’t think I’ll find much up there. But it’s the role I have in this bubble. I don’t think I can just ignore it.”
Maite sighed. “I’m just not sure what to do. Last time, it was so obvious. Blas’ suitcase was glowing so brightly.”
Kepa nodded. “I guess they can’t all be that easy.”
“If you call Blas getting roasted alive easy.”
“There is that.”
Maite took a last sip of her drink. “Let’s get going. I have to get up early to feed you guys.”
Kepa nodded as they stood up. “Thanks Ben,” he waved as they headed to the door.
Once outside, they walked down the steps and turned down the walkway, heading back to the boarding house. After only a few steps, however, two figures silhouetted by the moon appeared in front of them.
Note that, if you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
Today, the Basque sheepherder is viewed as an almost romantic figure, epitomizing the hard work of Basque immigrants who came to the United States to find a better life. But, sheep weren’t always seen so positively, and particularly at the end of the 1800s and in the early 1900s, there was almost open warfare between sheep and cattle interests, with the Basque sheepherder, sometimes called “landless and marginal peasants whose activities were detrimental to the public interest,” in the middle of the conflict. More than a few Basque herders lost their lives in feuds between sheep and cattle men.
In February, 1921, while grazing his sheep in Utah, a young Basque sheepherder named Felix Jesui took his band onto land belonging to Oscar Turner’s Lazy Y Ranch. When the foreman of the ranch, Charlie Glass (an interesting man in his own right), confronted Jesui and told him to take his band off the ranch’s land, Jesui drew his gun. Glass was the better marksman and killed Jesui. He immediately turned himself into the sheriff and, after a trial in Moab, was acquitted. He returned to work on the ranch until, sixteen years later, Glass found himself playing poker with a couple of Basque sheepherders, Joe Savorna and Andre Sartan. After the game, they all decided to head to another town for an even bigger game. Glass was found the next morning with a broken neck, after the Basques’ truck flipped, though the two Basques were relatively unscathed. Turns out those Basques were Jesui’s cousins…
Such violence had been going on for many years. Back in 1877, in the Rose Valley of Ventura County, California, another Basque herder, Ydelfonson Urtasun, was shot for trespassing on a cattleman’s land. Jesse Jefferson Howard was arrested for Urtasun’s murder, but he was well liked in the area and he was able to escape his cell. He eventually made his way to Arizona where he became a legend for hunting bear.
In Arizona, sheep were again at the heart of conflict. The biggest fight, the Pleasant Valley War of 1882-1892, was between two cattle ranching families, the Grahams and the Tewksburys. However, the Tewksburys had begun to branch out into sheep. At one point, they hired a Basque herder (in some accounts he is referred to as Navajo, but nothing more seems to be known about the poor fellow) to move sheep to Pleasant Valley. He was murdered by one Andy Cooper (also known as Andy Blevins), a member of the Graham faction. This murder became a flashpoint in the conflict, leading to a much bigger fight between the two factions.
In 1909, near the town of Ten Sleep, Wyoming, a group of herders and their camp were attacked by cattlemen in what became known as the Spring Creek Raid. Three men were killed, two wagons were burned, and somewhere near two dozen sheep were shot. The dead included Basque sheepman Joe Allemand, his partner Joseph Emge, and Allemand’s nephew Jules Lazier. The brazenness of the attack led to the conviction of the cattlemen and an end to the killings in Wyoming’s Sheep Wars. Allemand and Lazier’s French Basque origin prompted a response from the French Embassy, elevating the murders to international attention.
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
Kepa turned to see a big man who must have been in his mid twenties standing at the bar. He was dressed in almost stereotypical cowboy wear. He had on a bright red button down shirt that tucked into denim jeans. Around his waist he wore a holster that housed one revolver that Kepa could see. His boots were polished — Kepa suspected these were his fancy boots he wore when he was out on the town. To top it off, he wore a big cowboy hat on his head.
Kepa turned back to Maite to continue their conversation. But, the man’s voice overwhelmed everything else in the room.
“Boys!” he bellowed, seemingly to the small group of men that had gathered around him. “Did I ever tell you that time I was riding in the hills and I came across a Basque sheepherder? He was a friendly enough chap. He was cooking beans in his pot on the fire and invited me to have a bowl. It had been a long day and I was much obliged. We got talking and, as things often do, the conversation drifted to women. I told him about my many conquests, of all of the young ladies with whom I had made my acquaintance. He got very excited. ‘Me too, me too’ he exclaimed. ‘I know many too.’ I chuckled, but I indulged my host. ‘How many?’ I asked. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Let me count. One, two, three…’ It wasn’t long before his snores filled the camp. He had fallen asleep. He was counting sheep!”
The crowd around him burst into laughter.
The man wandered over to Kepa and Maite’s table. He stood behind Maite but looked over her at Kepa. “Hey, didn’t you hear my story?”
“Yes, I did” replied Kepa.
“Don’t you speak English?”
“A little.”
“Didn’t you think my story was funny?”
“No.”
“Huh. You know what I think isn’t funny?” The man’s mood suddenly shifted and Kepa could hear the outright hostility in his voice. “I don’t think it’s funny how you damn Basque bastards take your damn sheep everywhere, destroying the land for my cattle. I don’t think it’s funny how you take what’s ours and give it to your damn sheep.”
The man leaned over Maite’s shoulder, his hands on the back of her chair. She could feel his breath on her left cheek. It reeked of beer and whiskey.
“You know what? Maybe I should take something of yours.” His hands shifted to Maite’s shoulders as he looked at Kepa. “What do you think of that?”
“I think you better take your hands off of her.”
“Why? Maybe you are afraid of touching such a pretty little thing, maybe your hands are only used to touching wool. Maybe she wants a real man. Besides,” he added as he glared at Kepa. “What are you going to do about it?”
Kepa shrugged. “Me? I don’t need to do anything.”
Maite’s right hand swung over and hit the man hard, in the throat. He immediately collapsed to the floor, holding his windpipe.
The man’s friends rushed over, pulling him up to his feet as he still gasped for breath, murder in his eyes. He roared at Kepa but before he could do anything, the man from behind the bar rushed over and got between them.
“Not in my bar, Donny,” said the man.
Donny glared at the man before shoving his friends aside. “Let’s go,” he barked as he made his way to the door, all the while staring at Kepa and Maite.
A famous saying goes “One Basque, a beret; two Basques, a ball game; three Basques, a choir; four Basques, a challenge to mus.” Such is the importance of the card game mus to Basque culture. All across the world, whenever a group of Basques get together, a game of mus is likely to follow.
Some of my dad’s family playing Mus during a visit to the United States a number of years ago. I liked how the lighting turned out. They were playing outside with make-shift lights hanging from the trees.
It is widely accepted that mus is truly Basque in origin. The first mention of mus is in Father Larramendi’s Corografía de Guipúzcoa, written in 1754. Larramendi wrote that the game is as old as cards themselves. Since, in 1334 in Vitoria, there is documentation of statutes that prohibited Knights of the Order of the Band from playing cards (possibly the first mention of playing cards in Europe), there is a large gap in time during which the game could have been first invented.
There is one line of thought that suggests a non-Basque origin of the game. Dr. Hugo Schuchardt claimed to have found that a game with the same rules was played in Austria, where it was called “mousse” (cabin boy). He speculated that it could be some card game that passed among sailors, and that the Basques adopted it on their maritime adventures. Of course, the true origins are now lost to time.
The name mus is thought to derive from the extensive facial expressions that partners use to communicate what cards they have in their hand. While today, the Basque word musu is most often translated as kiss, it can also mean face or lips. The word mus is thought to come directly from musu, from all of those facial expressions. However, another theory relates it to the Latin musso, meaning to “keep silent,” possibly in contrast to the opening of the game when players “talk.”
The rules of mus were first written down by J. Ortiz de Zárate in Pamplona in 1804. You can find the basic rules at variousplaces on the internet, but there are multiple variants of the game. Larramendi differentiated between muszarra and musberri (old mus and new mus). Muszarra is played with eight kings and eight aces while musberri uses only four kings and four aces. Further, while the most common version is played between two teams of two, there are variants in which up to eight can play (played in France) or even just two individuals.
Today, there is a World Championship of Mus, which started in 1978. Teams from Basque clubs from all over the world compete to be crowned world champion. The last tournament, played in 2019 in Baiona, was won by a team from Canada: Frank Altuna and Rufino Iribarren.
If you want to learn to play mus, you can play online at Ludoteka.com or on your phone with the UsuMus app. If you know of other places to play digitally, leave a comment!
Kepa began stacking up some of the plates as another woman, dressed in the same uniform of a white blouse and red skirt, came in from the kitchen. He looked up.
“Maite!” he exclaimed. “I wasn’t sure if you were here.”
Maite smiled as she helped clear the tables. “I’m here. Just so damn busy in that kitchen. You are a demanding bunch.”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“What’s going on?” asked Kepa. “What are we doing here?”
Maite shrugged. “I guess there must be another zatia around here, somewhere.”
“But, where? I’m supposed to join the sheep camp in a few days. How are we supposed to look for the zatia if I’m wandering these godforsaken hills?”
“Maybe it’s up there, with the sheep?”
Kepa collapsed into a chair. “I highly doubt that.”
“Well, I doubt it’s in this kitchen, but that’s where I’m stuck for now.” She grabbed a stack of plates. “Let me finish cleaning and then we can talk. I think I saw a bar across the street. Let’s meet there in an hour.”
“Let me help,” said Kepa as he reached for a stack of bowls.
“Ez. I’ve got it. Just find us a table where we can talk in private.”
Kepa nodded as he stood up and went to his room to clean up.
His room was upstairs. He was sharing it with another recent arrival, who he had yet to meet. He wondered if he even would before he was supposed to head to the hills. His suitcase, which contained all of his worldly possessions, rested on the floor under the bed. He walked down to the communal bathroom and splashed some water into his face. Looking in the mirror, he stared at the face that stared back at him.
“What have you gotten yourself into this time?”
It wasn’t long before he found himself in the bar. It wasn’t very crowded and he was able to find a small table for two in the corner. Not long after he sat down, Maite came in and joined him. She had changed out of her working uniform. She now wore a simple one-piece sleeveless blue dress that fell past her knees. Her hair was tucked into a tight fitting pillbox hat, her curls peaking out from the edges. As she approached the table where Kepa sat, he stood up.
“You look amazing!” he gasped as he pulled out a chair for her.
“Why thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
“What would you like?” asked Kepa as he motioned to the bar.
“A bee’s knees, mesedez.”
Kepa looked at her quizzically as he made his way to the bar and soon returned with a cocktail and a beer.
“I have no idea what that is, but at least the bartender did,” he said with a smile as he handed her the cocktail.
Kepa and Maite chinged glasses. They each took a sip and were starting to talk when they heard a loud voice bellowing in the background.
Many rulers try to legitimatize their power by establishing connections to heroes and legends of the past, sometimes all the way to divine figures. The same has occurred in Basque history. In an effort to connect their lineage to an important mythical figure, the Kings of Nafarroa established a genealogy that connected them to Teodosio de Goñi, a knight who built the Sanctuary of San Miguel that sits in Aralar. However, the story of Teodosio begins with a dark series of events.
Teodosio killing his parents, by Padre Tomas de Burgui. Image from Wikipedia.
The story goes that Teodosio, a knight from Goñi, a small town in Nafarroa some 30 kilometers from Pamplona, was called to fight in the war with the Arabs. One day, while in the town of Errotabidea, not far from Goñi, he encounters Satan himself, who is disguised as either a hermit or even a Basajaun. The devil tells him that his wife, Constanza, is having an affair. Enraged, he rushes home only to find two people in his bed. In his rage, he kills them both. He then makes his escape, only to bump in to Constanza in the street as she is returning from church. Realizing that he must have killed his parents, who were living with his wife and who had graciously been given the bigger bed, he flees, seeking absolution.
He eventually makes his way to Rome, where the Pope tells him he must wander the region of Aralar, wearing chains until they fall off. Only then will he know God has forgiven him. Alone, he wandered the peaks of Aralar for seven years, until he encountered a dragon that threatened to eat him. In fear, he called out to Saint Michael the Archangel to help him. The angel both killed the dragon and freed Teodosio from his chains. Teodosio then built the sanctuary of San Miguel en Excelsis on that very spot, where he then lived with his wife and which still stands today. In reality, parts of the buildings that comprise the current sanctuary date to the 11th century.
Though the story is said to take place in the 700s, it has its origins in the 17th and 18th centuries. While it doesn’t seem that Teodosio was a real person, his legend was promoted as a means to connect royal lineages to a mythical and important figure. He appears in the genealogies of the nobility of the kingdom in the 16th centuries. The legend gained extra popularity when it was featured in the story Amaya o los vascos en el siglo VIII by Francisco Navarro-Villoslada. Published in 1877, it mixed legend and history to tell the story of the first king of Nafarroa.
An interesting aside relates to the sanctuary itself. The altarpiece is a masterpiece of Romanesque art, containing crystals that date to the 12th century. The altarpiece was stolen in 1979 by the infamous art thief Eric “the Belgian.” Over the next few years, most of the pieces were recovered and the altarpiece was restored and reinstalled in 1991.
Kepa found himself sitting at a long table covered in a bright red table cloth. Spread out in front of him were plates of cooked steak, fried potatoes, and salad. Large bowls were filled to the brim with beans and bread. Carafes of wine were spaced evenly down the length of the table. An older man sat across from him, his gnarled hands picking up one of the carafes. His knuckles were swollen and his fingernails misshapen, some of them almost capping the tips of his fingers. The old man smiled at Kepa as he poured him some wine before filling his own glass.
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“Just arrived? Couldn’t wait for dinner?” the old man asked.
Kepa nodded. “Yes, only this morning.” He took a deep breath, inhaling the aromas surrounding him. “It smells wonderful.”
The old man chuckled. “They do a good job here. Almost like ama did back in the baserri.”
A young woman came out of the kitchen, carrying plates. She was dressed in a white blouse and a red skirt that fell past her knees. She set one down in front of the old man while playfully smacking the back of his hand. “You just couldn’t wait, could you?”
The old man smiled. “Wait for what? Your answer to my proposal?”
The young woman just laughed. “You know the answer to that, Juan Jose.” She turned to Kepa. “Ongi etorri to the Noriega. My name is Elena. And you are…?”
“Kepa. I just got here this morning.”
“Don’t let this old man fill your head with any nonsense. I think he must have gone a little txoriburu, spending so much time in the mountains.” She placed a plate and bowl in front of Kepa.
“If I’m crazy, it’s with love for you,” said the old man with a wink.
“Oy!” exclaimed Elena. “I’m going to have to send the new girl out next time. I shouldn’t keep all of this to myself!” She disappeared into the kitchen as more people wandered into the dining hall and sat at the tables.
“So,” said the old man as he filled his bowl with beans. “When do you head out?”
“What do you mean? I just got here,” replied Kepa through spoonfuls of beans.
“To the hills,” replied Juan Jose. “When do you go out with your first flock?”
Kepa shrugged. “In the next couple of days, I guess. I haven’t met my boss yet. I think that’s supposed to happen tomorrow.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck. Try to stay sane up there.” A dark look passed over the man’s face. “I’ve known too many that couldn’t take it.”
Kepa nodded. “I know. There was one, an Amerikatarrak, in the baserri next to us. He had spent a few years here. When he came back, he just couldn’t handle it. He kept to himself in the baserri, never went down to town. One day, they found him. He killed himself with a shotgun.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Too many get sheeped, go crazy in the head. It’s a hard life. You need to take care up there.”
“I will. Thanks.”
As more joined them, the conversation shifted to the upcoming dance and pilota competition. Kepa was glad for the change of topic. As the women shuffled back and forth from the kitchen, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of Maite, but if she were amongst them, she didn’t come by to say hello.
As the meal wrapped up, some of the men headed to the bar. “You up for a game of mus?” asked Juan Jose. “We have an open seat.”
Kepa shook his head. “Not tonight, thanks. I’m pretty tired from the train ride.”
Juan Jose nodded. “Next time.” He turned to another man who was just getting up. “Geraldo, come on.” The other man sighed as he followed Juan Jose into the bar.
