IN THE HOSPITALS OF MADRID

We enter the women’s ward and stop at the bed of Laura Guindal. She is 35 years old. One month ago she was forced to leave her home. It was in the direct line of fire. She was moved to the Salamanca district. Laura Guidal is married and has small children who need milk every day. And every day she has to go out to get milk for her babies.

“Maybe it was written in the stars—maybe it was my fate,” she told us. “I was walking across a field when I saw the planes. They were very high but suddenly they swooped down. I threw myself on the ground and lay as flat as I could. I heard two or three detonations. The last very near. When it was over I tried to get up and couldn’t. I looked down and saw that my knees were bleeding. I remained there till they picked me up and here I am. But I must get home quickly. My husband is at the" front. My children are alone, they need care.”

Sitting up in one of the beds is Benita Sanchez. Her head is bowed and she has a very far away look in her eyes. When the enemy planes dropped their murder cargo over her house, she ran out into the street with her small son. They went to a shelter prepared by the neighbors. It was really nothing but a large open pit.

Many bombs fell. One right on the rim of their dug-out. Everybody was stunned. When it was over Benita’s first thought was for her child. He lay beside her, his eyes still wide open looking up at the sky in terror——dead.

“What are you going to do when you recover?”

Benita does not know. Years ago she was widowed. Now she has no one. Somebody told her to go to Valencia when she leaves the hospital. She will go and do any work she can.

Against the whiteness of the pillow the merry gray eyes of Laura Benito look up at us with lively curiosity. She is 65 years old. Her shrunken face records the passage of many years of hard work. But the brightness of her eyes speaks volumes.

“How are you?”

“Very well, my son. My legs ache, but that will pass. I was

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