In 1936, a child in Hitler’s Germany, what did I know about the war in Spain? Andalusia was a tango on a wind-up gramophone, 5 Franco a hero’s face in the paper. No one told me about a poet for whose sake I might have learned Spanish bleeding to death on a barren hill. All I knew of Spain 10 were those precious imported treats we splurged on for Christmas. I remember pulling the sections apart, lining them up, sucking each one slowly, so the red sweetness 15 would last and last— while I was reading a poem by a long-dead German poet in which the woods stood safe under the moon’s milky eye 20 and the white fog in the meadows aspired to become lighter than air.