All passengers alighted and carried their bags through customs before boarding the Spanish train. The French customs’ search was perfunctory. The Spaniards’ inspection was anything but. Fascist soldiers in gleaming black leather and funny feathered caps watched over the scowling customs officers. Above them all hung a brooding portrait of General Francisco Franco, undisputed leader of fascist Spain. The mountainous terrain was far more arid on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees. Beyond Barcelona they entered the vast plains of the Spanish heartland, which baked under a sun already eager for another summer. At Madrid, before boarding the Gibraltar-bound train, Pierre and Jake scoured the area for food. Like many of the Spanish towns through which their train had passed, Madrid was a patchwork of normalcy and war-torn destruction. For several blocks they saw little indication that the country had recently suffered through a horrific civil war.
