The Yellow Hands of My Great-Great-Grandmother Rufina

History textbooks are almost always full of stories about kings, generals and people with shiny medals. However, in my family’s story there is one person who holds a special place — my great-great-grandmother Rufina. Her photo is one of our family treasures. It is now owned by my grandfather Felipe, but previously belonged to his parents. Rufina did not wear a crown or display shining medals, but everyone remembers her yellow hands.

In 1934, after the death of her husband, Cayetano, Rufina was left on her own to look after their three children. In those difficult times, she could not depend on anyone’s help. The only thing she inherited after losing her husband was hunger.

Just before Spanish civil war broke out, my great-great-grandmother had to fight her own war. She had to fight for food for her children.

She started looking for sources of income. Soon she learnt about a nearby factory in El Hondón, in the Spanish city of Cartagena, which needed workers. When she arrived there, she saw a building covered in yellow dust. It was in this place that she learned how to become resilient. She knew she could not cough there and tried not to think too much about the toxic smell that made it difficult to breathe. She had to be brave for her children.

Every day, she mixed acids and other chemicals and placed them into grenades. She calibrated projectiles and sewed bags used for transporting explosives.

She was manufacturing weapons of war just to be able to buy bread.

Bit by bit, her skin turned yellow, and her hair grew paler. Her hands became badly damaged.

At home, her children, Fina, Alfonso and Caridad, learnt not to ask her for anything.

Sometimes Rufina was so tired that she fell asleep on her chair instantly, exhausted, in her factory clothes covered with dust.

When Jesús, her son-in-law, was drafted in the army by the Republican government (at a very young age), the war stopped feeling distant. Many young people left Cartagena to fight against the nationalist forces led by the General Francisco Franco. In April 1939 the war officially ended, but peace had not yet come.

Jesús returned to Cartagena, hiding on crowded trains. In the end, he was arrested and faced the risk of execution by a firing squad. The entire family was kept under close watch by representatives of Franco’s fascist government. In spite of all this, Rufina did not cry. She worked hard and waited.

Months later, parole brought a fragile calm. Jesús had to report to the police command weekly. People were still being afraid, but Rufina never talked about her fear. She was focussed on

bringing   food   home   and   having   everybody present there.

Rufina, my great-great-grandmother did not have any medals, but she had three children who survived war and a family that remained united in difficult times.

Although I never met her, my grandfather did, and thanks to him I know Rufina’s story. Sometimes, when I look at my hands, I think of Rufina and her sacrifice. My grandfather told me that there was one important thing she preserved during those years: her dignity. It endured for future generations — almost invisible, but spreading, like the yellow smoke from the factory in El Hondón.