War does not understand innocence. It does not distinguish between culprits and victims. It bears down on lives like a storm without compassion, sweeping away everything in its path. Tito, my father’s partner
In those dark years, between 1937 and 1939, in the lands of Lleida, my father learned too early what it meant to lose. But among so much despair, he had a faithful friend, a four-legged companion who turned those days of horror into something more bearable: Tito.
It is not clear from where Tito appeared, if he found it in some corner of the town, if someone gave it to him or if he simply decided to follow my father as if they had always been destined to meet. What is certain is that, in the midst of chaos, bombings, fear and hunger, Tito became his refuge. He was a friendly dog, one of those who, just by wagging his tail, managed to bring a smile even in the worst circumstances.
My father was just a child, and at a time when playing became a dangerous luxury, Tito became his best friend. They went everywhere together, shared what little food they could find and even slept in each other’s arms, as if the warmth of each could protect the other from the nightmare that surrounded them. While the adults discussed in whispers about the war, about what was to come, about how to survive another day, my father took refuge in the silent embrace of his dog.
But war never gives truce.
The day the town was to be bombed, my father’s family had no choice but to flee. They left everything behind, their house, their memories, the little security they still thought they had. They boarded a boat and began to cross the Segre River, an uncertain crossing in which the only thing that mattered was to get away, to survive.
Night fell upon them like a blanket of despair. Only the murmur of water could be heard and, in the distance, the sound of explosions, of flames devouring what until that morning had been their home. My father, with a shrinking heart, pressed Tito against his chest, protecting him from the icy breeze that bit their skin.
When they finally reached the other shore, they found themselves in a dense, dark forest. They didn’t know where they were, only that they had to keep going. The rain began to fall, slowly at first, then furiously, soaking them to the bone. They moved aimlessly, turning in circles, lost in a maze of trees and shadows.
It was then that a whistle broke the night.
A figure emerged through the trees and beckoned them to follow him. They had no choice. Following a stranger was better than staying there, without shelter, waiting for the cold and fear to consume them.
My father, in the middle of the group, kept squeezing Tito against his chest. The dog, normally restless, remained motionless, perhaps sensing the gravity of the situation.
The road ended in a clearing where a large campfire was burning. Around it, about thirty people were warming themselves under improvised blankets, sheltered among trees and torn plastic. There was no joy on their faces, only exhaustion.
The adults began to talk quietly. They were allowed to stay that night, but at dawn they had to leave. There was not enough food, not enough room. There was only a piece of rock-hard bread and some dried meat left for them. For my father and his people, after two days without food, it was a feast.
As the flames danced in the darkness, my father felt his little world shrink to that instant. To the feeling of warmth in his numb hands, to the sound of the rain hitting the leaves, to Tito’s quiet breathing, curled up next to him, his muzzle resting on his leg.
I knew that the next day they would have to leave again. That fear, hunger and uncertainty would continue to haunt them. But, for that night, he was not alone.
For that night, I had Tito.
And as long as his dog was with him, the war could not completely take away his hope.
Tito’s last dawn
Dawn came with the murmur of the wind through the trees and the crackling of the dying embers of the campfire. There was no time for farewells or words of encouragement. They knew they had to move on. They had been told that north was safe, though in wartime safety was only an illusion.
So they set out, aimlessly, with hope as their only compass. They walked without rest, with the cold biting at their bones and hunger clinging to their stomachs like a persistent shadow. For two days they advanced without knowing exactly where, following paths that seemed endless, crossing deserted fields and ghost villages, where only the traces of fear remained.
Finally, they reached the outskirts of a large town. From a distance, they could see the silhouette of buildings still standing, and the smoke rising in the sky indicated that there was life there. But life in wartime is fragile, uncertain. They did not know who dominated the town, whether one side or the other. But it didn’t matter. There were no winners or losers here. There were no colors. There were only people looking for a shelter, a place where they could feel protected, even if only for a moment.
On the outskirts of the village, they found a makeshift camp. Tents of ragged cloth, scattered campfires, children hugging their mothers, men with faces hardened by despair. They settled next to a group of refugees around one of the campfires, in silence, as if the fire were a mute witness to their fatigue.
It was then that my father noticed something strange.
A man, wrapped in rags and with a weather-beaten face, looked at Tito with empty, calculating eyes. It was not a look of tenderness, nor of admiration. It was a look of hunger.
My father felt a shiver run down his spine. Instinctively, he put his arms around Tito, protecting him. The dog, oblivious to the danger, simply wagged his tail and rested his muzzle on my father’s leg. But he knew that in times of scarcity, in times when morale squirms in the face of need, anything could happen.
That night, my father slept with one eye open, hugging Tito tightly, as if with his warmth he could chase away the fate he feared. But fatigue was stronger, and sleep overcame him.
When he awoke at dawn, he felt the emptiness before he opened his eyes.
Tito was not there.
He sat up with a start, his heart pounding with despair. He looked around, expecting to see the dog running among the tents, but there was no sign of him.
He searched among the people, asked those who were awake. No one knew anything. No one had seen him.
Until his gaze rested on the campfire.
Above the flames, a piece of meat slowly sizzled.
The air became thick, unbreathable.
My father felt like the world was breaking into a thousand pieces.
He did not ask. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He just stood there, staring into the fire, feeling something inside him crumble forever.
That morning, he learned a lesson no child should ever learn. In war, kindness becomes weakness. In war, even the purest can be mercilessly taken away.
That morning, the war took away his best friend.
And he was never the same again….
From MasTorrencito we wish you a good day and may your dogs be with you!!!!
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