On February 6, 1937, the cold and damp—in the form of Franco’s troops and their allies—surrounded the city of Málaga like a gigantic wave about to engulf everything. My grandfather Rafael, from whom I inherited a love of antique desks, poetry, and delicate seashells, told me many years ago—perhaps more than thirty—that he was fourteen when my great-grandfather came home and told my great-grandmother that…