The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

  “This is the famous road they call the Via Sacra,” the officer driving the vehicle informed them.

  “Why?” asked the Swedish correspondent from the Rockbalius Triduojer, more out of deference than anything else, because he knew the answer quite well.

  “Because it’s the route we used to supply our army with weapons and food, and to stop the Germans from taking Verdun.”

  There were shacks erected on both sides of the road, as well as stables and aviation hangars, while vehicles from the French High Command, artillery convoys, and uniformed soldiers on bicycles circulated on the highway. A railway built for the occasion ran alongside the main highway, indifferent to the many cemeteries flanking the road, with their crosses and flowers and mounds of still-fresh earth. They passed a truck going the other direction, carrying German prisoners from the front, their faces red and trembling like rose petals.

  “How young they are,” mused the Russian reporter from the Novoye Vremya.

  And they all agreed, through the most explicit of silences.

  “I can’t understand,” said Pablo a few minutes later, after they passed a Red Cross truck overflowing with injured soldiers, “what’s the point of defending Verdun?”

  The astonished officer jerked the steering wheel and they very nearly careened off the road.

  “I mean,” Pablo clarified, “it’s not such a strategic location. It’s surrounded by German forces, so the French army has to maintain a wider front line, but if you were to cut your losses and give up Verdun, the battle front would be shorter and a lot of lives would be saved, don’t you think?”

  No other reporter dares to open his mouth, although they know that the Spanish correspondent has a point. In fact, the obvious proof that Verdun did not have any real military value (although it was a historic symbol of Gallic pride) was that when it was attacked by the German army, it barely had cannons to defend itself, because they had all been sent to more crucial units. But it is one thing to be aware of it and another to say so to an officer driving you to the front line after several months of battle and hundreds of thousands of deaths.

  “People,” said the officer, trying to maintain his composure, “see what they want to see. And sometimes what people want to see doesn’t match up with reality.”

  “But isn’t it true,” Pablo insisted recklessly, “that General Joffre is of the same opinion, and that he only accepted the situation due to political pressure?”

  The officer’s face took on a sudden look of fear, which lasted only as long as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he stopped the vehicle abruptly, “we have arrived in Souilly. You will have the honor of being greeted by General Nivelle.”

  And he exited the vehicle, slamming the door behind him.

  General Nivelle, despite the cold, came out to receive them in shirtsleeves, like a feudal lord going out on horseback to contemplate the magnitude of his territory. He was wearing high boots and spurs, and his face showed the steely determination of the chosen and the mad. He greeted the journalists in a friendly manner, although with a certain haste, and showed them a map of the trenches and sites that they could visit during their tour. He finished by reminding them that it is forbidden to speak with the poilus (infantrymen, in French military slang) and shook each of their hands before retiring to rest in the general barracks.

  “Let’s move on, gentlemen,” ordered the officer driving the military vehicle.

  From that point forward, security was increased: between Souilly and Verdun they had to stop a half-dozen times, intercepted by sentinels who stepped out of their guard posts and stood in the middle of the road, holding up their arms in a form of a Y with a rifle in the air and demanding their clearance papers or the password. “Racine,” the officer would say, or “Rivoli,” or “Argona,” and they would then be allowed to continue on. Finally, in the distance, they could make out a brownish stain in the middle of the valley.

  “That’s Verdun,” the officer informed the correspondents, who were left agog.

  Verdun. Pablo had been hearing about Verdun for months. He had written the word hundreds of times and now finally those six letters were incarnated. Incarnated in ruins. They entered via the Port of France and parked the vehicle to better contemplate the atrocious spectacle. The city had been razed by German bombs, a scene from a horror story or nightmare, houses in ruins, streets destroyed. A banner of surrender made from an old sheet still hung from a balcony, as though the abandoned buildings were the only ones able to fly the white flag of peace. A bit farther on, in the door of a café, one could still read the faded poster of the last evening show hosted there, before the bombs brought about an unplanned change of schedule: “Tonight,” it said, “at eleven o’clock, the debut of the beautiful Paquita with her famous Spanish dances.” A rotten debut my compatriot had, thought Pablo, just as several distant explosions snapped him back to reality.

  “Those aren’t explosions,” the officer informed him, “that’s cannon fire.”

  “And what’s the difference?” asked the Dutch reporter from the Nieuws van den Dag, still green on the subject.

  “Almost the same as between life and death,” responded the officer with delight. “Cannon fire is the sound that our cannons make when they’re firing, explosions are the sound that German bombs make when they fall. You’ll soon learn to tell the difference, don’t worry.”

  Shortly thereafter, the group of reporters left the city with hearts clenched, and went out to the countryside toward the trenches. The countless artillery craters were sometimes fifteen feet deep, giving the landscape a surreal, lunar, phantasmagoric appearance. They found themselves just a few kilometers from the enemy, but the rear guard troops seemed immune to the screeching sound of German grenades careening through the air nearby: a few men were washing clothes in a stream, others were cooking mess, brushing horses, transporting bags of supplies, sawing boards, eating, drinking, sleeping, or doing gymnastics on a horizontal bar erected between two large posts stuck in the ground. Soon, they saw about twenty pack mules coming from the front, their short stature helping them carry bread, rice, and meat to the soldiers without being hit by the German artillery fire, although more than one of them did not make it. When they finally arrived at the entrance to the trenches, there was a tense calm, disturbed only by the cannon fire from the front line. The commanding colonel of the area came out to greet them—one of those old French military men with a Van Dyke beard, energetic and cheerful, a lover of wine, women, and bad jokes. On their arrival, he greeted them with effusive impatience:

  “Come along, men, take a helmet and a gas mask, we have to take certain precautions. We’re going to the most advanced trench, twenty yards from the enemy. I hope none of you has a heart condition.”

  On the ground was a pile of helmets, heavy and dirty, which the reporters went through and tried on until they found the right size; then they put on the gas masks, a fabric sack that covered the face completely, along with dark isinglass lenses that fit poorly over the eyes. Finally, the colonel had them put on a metal hood that made them look like displaced deep sea divers. It was then that the old officer let out a great laugh which remained hanging in the air until it was drowned out by a pair of explosions.

  “All right, that’s enough, you can remove your costumes, ladies,” he laughed at his prank. “I only wanted you to know how a grunt feels going into combat. I hope you can use that in your articles. Now follow me, please, I have many things to show you,” and he hurried them off with the enthusiasm of someone organizing a camping trip.

  Somewhat burned by the joke, the reporters set out through a labyrinth of trenches toward the front line. They made their way, ducking and huddling, despite the depth of the trenches, not realizing that a German grenade hitting them there would have been like shooting an arrow through an arrowslit in a castle wall. What really got to Pablo was not the distant roar of cannon fire, but the roar he saw in the faces of the
soldiers along the way. Because what he saw in their eyes was neither fear nor dread, neither hope nor madness. Rising from deep within their hearts and metastasizing on their faces, it was hatred. Not for Germany, nor for the war, not even hatred toward their superiors, no: hatred for the reporters themselves. Because the war had begun two years before, and the daily chronicles still insisted on portraying life in the trenches in a positive, even sympathetic light. No. Life in the trenches was hell, however much the officer liked to joke about it. See if anyone ever dares to publish the truth.

  “A veure quan us atreviu a publicar la veritat, colla de cretins,” murmured a soldier in Catalan as the reporters passed. Pablo was the only one who understood him, and, pretending to tie his shoe, he lingered behind. Since he was not authorized to speak with them, he waited until the colonel disappeared around the corner, and asked in Spanish:

  “Is there a Spaniard here?”

  Leaning against the trench walls, four soldiers gave him surly looks, warming their hands with their breath.

  “Yes,” one finally said, touching his muddy visor. “Ramón Tarrech, at your service—yours and God’s.”

  “Pablo Martín,” Pablo introduced himself, overlooking the soldier’s sarcasm. “So there are Catalan volunteers here at Verdun.”

  “Of course. Five of us came from my village, and I’m the only one left. The other day there was a journalist from Barcelona and he said that a few thousand Catalans have already died in this accursed war. Oh, General Joffre is from Rivesaltes, we said, and we ran here like rabbits into the foxhole. You can write that in your paper, and you can print my name, if you want.”

  “Why don’t you go home? You’re one who can, after all.”

  The youth thought about his response while he cleaned his nails with the tip of his bayonet.

  “Because you get used to death, just like hunger or cold,” he said at last, “and because when you’ve seen certain things, you can’t just go home and relax. You want to know how a man dies in the trenches? You want me to tell you how two of my friends died yesterday? You want to know the truth about this fucked-up war? Maybe you guys will finally stop printing that we spend our days playing cards and joking around while whistling ‘La Marseillaise.’”

  Pablo shot a glance to where the other reporters had disappeared. Apparently no one had noticed his absence.

  “Yes, of course I want to know, that’s why I came,” he said, looking back at his compatriot. “But it’s not our fault. With the censorship—”

  “Censorship? Censorship is a coward’s excuse. You can always choose to keep silent.”

  The other three nodded their heads, although they didn’t understand a word of Spanish.

  “At six in the morning I went out with two others to inspect the terrain,” he started to recount, trying to contain his emotion. “There was total stillness in the German trenches. So much stillness should have made us nervous, but we were too tired to realize it. Thing is, somebody saw us go out, or discovered us when we were drawing close, because when they had us in their sights they started to shoot. We jumped headfirst into a shell pit and got drenched in mud. Then grenades started exploding all around us. One to our left, another to our right, and the third exactly where we were standing. After the explosion, I opened my eyes, but there was only darkness and dust and smoke, the acrid smell of powder, and I choked. Am I injured? I thought. And then: Am I dead? I moved my arms and legs, touched my face and chest. Nothing. All fine. But then I saw my two friends, one on top of the other, bleeding. Philippe’s guts were out, like he was giving birth to his own guts, his eyes already lifeless. The explosion had torn Benjamin’s leg off, and there was a red stain across his chest, and he lay there looking at me, begging me for help. I went to him, knelt down, took his hand. It was very cold. He tried to speak to me, but nothing came out. Then, not knowing what he was doing, he unbuttoned his pants and died pissing on Philippe’s open wound.”

  Ramón’s voice shook, and a guillotine of silence fell in the trench. One of the French soldiers made the sign of the cross and the other blew his nose on a dirty, stiff handkerchief, perhaps to hide a sob. They had only understood two words of the story, but those had been enough: Philippe and Benjamin.

  “We couldn’t get their bodies until tonight,” Ramón added.

  All Pablo could say was, “I’m sorry.”

  “If you really mean that, do me a favor—” was the soldier’s reply.

  “I don’t think anyone would dare to publish it,” Pablo interrupted.

  “Not that.”

  “What then?”

  “Benjamin kept a diary since he arrived here. He said that he was writing it for his girl, so she would know how brave he had been during the war in case he died. But she lives in Marly, near Valenciennes, in occupied territory. So we can’t send it by mail.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Just keep it until this rat hell of a war is over. Then send it to the girl. We don’t know if we’ll get out of here alive …”

  “Alright,” said Pablo, “Just give it to me.”

  Ramón exchanged a few words in French with his companions, and they all nodded.

  “Come with me,” he said to Pablo, and they went down a passageway between two trenches. Shortly thereafter, turning a corner, they found themselves in a broader space, enclosed with a roof, where several soldiers were finishing lunch by the faint light of oil candles. Ramón went to a corner and put his hand between two boards.

  “Here it is,” he said to Pablo, giving him the little journal with its worn-out, muddy cover. “Read it if you want. We read it. Maybe it’ll help you understand this damn war better.”

  Pablo opened the diary and looked at the small, precise lettering, like a reflection of life in the trenches: “Here you live outside time and the world,” said the first sentence. But that was as far as he could read, because then came a thundering voice:

  “Monsieur Martín! Monsieur Martín!”

  He barely had time to stuff the journal in his jacket pocket before the officer who had brought them to the trenches appeared, pointing his finger like a pistol:

  “You have committed a very serious infraction,” he barked, spittle flying into Pablo’s face. “Come with me immediately.”

  And Pablo’s only goodbye to Ramón was a brief but unmistakable look.

  After recovering the stray correspondent, the expedition continued the planned tour: they arrived at the frontline trenches, with their cannons vomiting fire, their periscopes and their earthquakes, before then retreating to visit an aviation field, with its fighters, reconnaissance planes, and bombers. But it was during the return trip to Paris that Pablo would see the true face of Mars. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since they got into the vehicle meant to return them to the capital, when they came across three military trucks on the side of the road. A few yards away, in the woods, a platoon of dejected soldiers appeared to have turned to stone, helmets in hands and breath bated. The officer stopped the vehicle and let the reporters out. Without a sound, they made their way over to the circle of soldiers. For the first time in his life, Pablo had an experience resembling smell: when he breathed, the air stifled his throat, made his mouth bitter and turned his stomach, producing a sort of suffering he had never known. It lasted only an instant, but he would never forget it: it was the smell of death, acrid and sticky, almost tangible, palpable, even for someone whose nose can’t tell a turd from a rose, a rotten egg from freshly mown grass, a foul latrine from the toilet of the queen of England.

  “Are you alright?” the correspondent from Novoye Vremya whispered to him.

  “Yes, yes, thank you,” Pablo replied. “I was just a bit dizzy.”

  At the feet of the circle of soldiers there was a deep hole piled with dozens of corpses, dismembered and incomplete bodies, bloody and swollen, with torn uniforms, in a jumble of legs, arms, and faces twisted in macabre grimaces. Fortunately, when the journalists arrived, the first s
hovelfuls of earth were already beginning to fall, like a curtain drawing shut to hide the worst debasement. However, the worst was yet to come. Because death, the smell of death, the taste of death is inevitable in war, and all the more so in a generalized butchery like this one. But, just as there is something worse than finding a worm in your apple (finding half a worm in your apple), there is something worse than dismembered dead bodies: dismembered live bodies.

  Back on the road from Verdun to Châlons, they saw a dark building with the flag of the Red Cross waving from the rooftop. It was an old convent converted into a hospital, the last stop on this tour of horrors. An army medic came out to greet them, and somewhat forcefully bade them to enter, with the sadism of certain butchers or surgeons. On entering the building, the distant echo of bombs was superimposed with the bloodcurdling screams of one of the patients, setting everyone’s (except the medic’s) hair on end. In the large room of the old refectory, ensconced in disquieting shadow, one could make out the outlines of a multitude of beds and hear the gasping and moaning of their current occupants.

  “Sometimes it’s not so easy to know if a soldier is dead,” the hosting medic was saying in an unpleasantly loud voice, “because the shock from a mortar shell can kill you from the inside, without apparent injuries. In that case, we either wait for obvious signs of death (rigor mortis or putrefaction) or we do a cardiopuncture. What is cardiopuncture, you might ask? It’s the definitive test: we insert a very thin needle into the area of the heart until it reaches the cardiac muscle. If the needle moves, the man is still alive. If not, he has passed on.”

  They’d count me dead, thought Pablo, and his heart started beating faster in his right breast. But the excitement did not last long, or rather it transformed, because suddenly someone opened one of the curtains and the light poured in, revealing the most monstrous and terrifying spectacle imaginable: some of the dead lying on beds did not even have human form, they were fragments, pieces, chunks of bodies, incomprehensibly still alive. Pablo had to make an enormous effort not to avert his eyes; by his side there was a man with his lower jaw torn off, his face turned into a ball of rags holding two astonished eyes that looked ready to jump out of their sockets; a little further on, writhing in agony, was a man with only one arm and only one leg, on opposite sides, looking like an unfinished puzzle; and on the next bed, a man without legs was howling at the sky and stretching his neck like a jack-in-the-box. The journalists left the room with heavy hearts. Some managed not to vomit.