by David Rees
It was dark inside the house, but there was someone, people, in the room with him. When his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw a man and a woman making love on the floor. They took absolutely no notice of him. Embarrassed, he walked through into the next room ― where another couple were doing the same thing ― and up the stairs. A man, bearded, in his twenties, stood by a window smoking a cigarette. He was pointing his rifle down the street.
‘Finished?’ he asked.
‘Finished what?’ Stephen said.
‘Fucking.’
‘I wasn’t…’
The man turned and gazed at him. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m English. A friend of Pedro Badajoz.’
The man looked out of the window, aimed his rifle, and fired. ‘¡Coño! Missed!’ While he reloaded, he said, ‘The girls get the bus from the Plaza de la Tristeria and come to see their boyfriends when they have some time off. A good battle makes men hot-blooded.’ He laughed ‘Those mattresses have seen a lot of shift-work, I can tell you! You sometimes have to wait for hours till one’s free. Even when the firing’s at its worst it doesn’t stop people screwing. Extraordinary! In a house across the street one couple was killed yesterday. A shell exploded in the room where they were. I think their bodies are still in there; you can go and see if you like.’
‘No … I don’t…’
‘Shame they didn’t have a chance to finish it off.’ He concentrated on what he was doing with his gun for a moment, then fired it. ‘Think I got him that time.’ he said. He stuck his head out of the window.
Shooting suddenly started on both sides of the barricade; it was non-stop, terrifying, and so loud Stephen thought his eardrums would burst. Bullets whizzed through the air; masonry crashed as artillery shells exploded, and the room he was in seemed to rock. It ended as suddenly as it began, and the silence now sounded as deafening as the noise had done.
The man had thrown himself on the floor. He got up, and said, as if to apologize for taking shelter, ‘No point in getting killed unnecessarily.’ He held out his hand. ‘Jaime. And what’s your name?’
‘Esteban.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you. Are you… mmm… doing anything with that rifle? Or is it just for show?’
‘I’ve been using it,’ Stephen lied. ‘I’m on my way home now.’
‘Well… when you see Generalissimo Badajoz, tell him that it’s very quiet indeed in the Calle Santiago.’
‘Quiet! It was hell personified just now!’
‘Pooh! That’s nothing. It didn’t let up for a second all day yesterday.’ He looked at his watch. ‘When you go downstairs, tell Agustin to hurry up; I want that mattress next. Ana should be here soon.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Yes! She’s coming. She’s gorgeous!’ He blew a kiss.
‘Which is Agustin?’
‘The red-head. He’s far too slow … falls asleep on the job. When there’s a war on, every minute is vital!’
Stephen went downstairs, but decided not to deliver Jaime’s message. A girl hurried in through the door and said ‘Buenos días’ to anyone who might be listening. She walked across the room, and up the stairs. Ana, Stephen supposed.
As he turned out of the Calle Santiago, past the severed head, he thought that the scene he had just witnessed was the oddest of all the strange sights he had observed that morning. What had happened to the puritanism the anarchists had imposed on Zahara? To be so unashamedly public about it! Incredible! Was it because of the war? Living with the knowledge, he supposed, that your boyfriend could be shot dead at the barricades might well make some girls decide that if they didn’t do it now they’d never have another chance. Even so!
Young Luis was lying face down, his legs sprawled apart. A bullet had blown out his brains. Inocencio was kneeling beside him, sobbing uncontrollably.
The beautiful limbs were slack.
Pedro came home briefly to eat some lunch and give the news of the day. ‘It’s bad,’ he said. He looked tired and grim. ‘I’m halting the counter-attack; we’re losing too many men … and though we can see that fucking road on the top of the ridge as clearly as I can see you, we just can’t get there. We’ll have to fight a siege campaign instead. I just hope there’s enough food until the columns arrive from Jaén. We’ll strengthen the barricades and make sure not one fascist creeps into the city.’
‘If you do that,’ José said, ‘Queipo will blow us to bits with his artillery.’
‘I think he may well try to starve us into surrender. We’ve taken a few prisoners today … and one of them, an officer, told us they won’t use their big guns. Queipo has promised the Cardinal Archbishop of Seville that he won’t destroy the city.’ José looked doubtful. Pedro went on: ‘The man’s a captain. A friend of one of Queipo’s aides.’
‘What will you do,’ Cristina asked, ‘if we have to surrender?’
‘I’m making sure our escape routes are always kept open. There are holes in the enemy lines; we know where they are … I shan’t stop anyone getting out of the city. I’d like you to be ready to leave … if it comes to it … at a moment’s notice. I’ll tell you when … if it’s necessary. Rojo is still in Republican hands. Señora Rodriguez or her daughter would put you up.’
‘And you? Will you be coming with us?’
‘Not immediately. Don’t worry! I don’t intend to get myself killed, and I’m certainly not going to be here if the enemy break in! I’d be the first to be shot! But I won’t leave until the last possible minute … I’d like to be the last man out. Stephen … what will you do? Go with my parents … or stay with me?’
He did not hesitate for a second. ‘Stay with you.’
‘You are astonishing!’ Though José and Cristina were in the room, he took Stephen in his arms and kissed him.
Not only did Queipo not bombard Zahara. he withdrew his artillery. The defenders watched in disbelief as the the guns rumbled away into the distance and out of sight.
Franco had commandeered them. He needed their help in Asturias and the Basque country to crush, once and for all, Bilbao, Santander, Gijón, and the whole northern sector of the Republic, Zahara, he told Queipo, could be starved out quite easily.
EIGHT
Zahara was not starved out, but as the days and weeks went by food inevitably became the most difficult problem. Meat and coffee were unobtainable; sugar, tea, milk and tobacco were scarce, and fish was a delicacy only to be dreamed of. There was no shortage of bread, so when a rebel aeroplane flew over the city one morning and, in imitation of a similar exploit during the siege of Madrid, bombarded it with loaves, the defenders gathered them up and hurled them over the barricades. Most people, however, were eventually reduced to living on potatoes, lentils and rice, a diet alleviated with any fruit and vegetables they had grown in their gardens. Vitamin deficiency was common, and there were undoubtedly some deaths caused by hunger.
The question of surrender was often discussed by the committee, but a decision was always postponed; the majority feeling was that as long as the citizens, despite their hardships, wished to hold out, then a surrender was not to be contemplated. The general mood was for resisting as long as possible: there had never been such communal will, such unanimity. The siege brought out the best in people. Everyone was friendly to everyone else; great kindness was shown to the worst off ― a gift of fruit, an extra loaf, a cabbage. Resolve was sustained by the bits of optimistic news that filtered through from the Republic. Zahara’s plight headed the political agenda; relief columns had been dispatched from Jaén and Almería ― they would arrive any day now; they were determined to break through. This information, much of it erroneous, came from those who crossed the lines. The fascists had completely encircled the city with a ring of barbed wire, but there was no minefield on either side of it ― defenders and besiegers did not have any mines to lay. The wire was regularly cut at night (only to be repaired the following morning) and in some places it was not difficult to crawl underneath i
t. The enemy did not have enough manpower to patrol every sector of it thoroughly, so there was a constant two-way traffic ― those who had at last decided to abandon the city and flee to the safety of the Republic; and those who had an interest in getting back in: a bold peasant with a basket of food to deliver; a man who wanted to see his girlfriend. Those who got hack in also brought useful information about the besiegers’ positions. Anyone, of course, who attempted to cross the lines ran the risk of being shot by the fascists, and this happened occasionally. But it did not deter people.
The only other means of obtaining news was by carrier pigeon. There were no postal links ― though men and women who crossed the lines often took letters to mail in the Republic ― and the telephone exchange, the obvious way of keeping in touch, had been destroyed by one of Queipo’s shells. Enemy soldiers sometimes threw newspapers over the barricades, but not many people believed what they read in such publications; it was merely fascist propaganda, they said.
Newspapers and bullets were not the only things that went over the barricades. There were hours, even whole days, when no shot was fired, and the men on either side talked, and formed friendships, with promises that when the battle recommenced they would try and avoid shooting at each other. So the defenders learned that Arturo or Salvador or Manuel was a nineteen-year-old from a good Catholic peasant family in Navarre or Aragón, and all he wanted was for the war to be over, so he could return to his farm and the girl who was waiting for him; that Franco had now conquered all of the north, but elsewhere there was sin novedad ― nothing new; that food was plentiful on the besiegers’ side. The truth of this last piece of information was obvious when the enemy settled down to eat lunch or dinner. The tantalising smell of roast meat or fried fish or coffee nearly drove the defenders mad. Sometimes, when their officers were absent, the besiegers sent a tureen of soup or a carton of cigarettes over the barricades; gifts that were eagerly accepted, though a few anarchist diehards, in whom principles were still stronger than needs, spurned them.
Next day soup, cigarettes and friendships were forgotten as the firing started again. The besiegers might capture a barricade and advance into the city, but they were invariably driven back, suffering heavy casualties. The defenders, too, would at times slip into enemy territory, on one occasion slaughtering a whole platoon of young lads who were enjoying an after-lunch siesta. By the end of October no one had gained an inch of ground; Zahara was very hungry, and both sides had lost a great many men ― killed, mortally wounded, or mutilated for the rest of their lives.
Stephen was profoundly struck by the idiocy of it all. He urged Pedro to start clandestine negotiations ― a guarantee of no reprisals in exchange for the city’s surrender. Pedro wavered. He was losing hope that relief from Jaén and Almería would come, but he doubted the rest of the committee would accept such a plan. He did, however, send a message to Queipo, acting entirely on his own. The reply was a flat refusal ― a call for unconditional surrender. So the siege went on.
Stephen was surprised one morning to observe the Japanese guitarist sitting under a quince tree near the barricade which blocked one corner of the Plaza Simpática. He was playing Jesu, joy of man’s desiring, and some off-duty soldiers ― they didn’t all, like Jaime and Agustín, devote their spare time to fucking in deserted houses ― were eating their lunch, and listening appreciatively.
‘So you didn’t get out.’ The music had ended; and the soldiers were clapping.
‘I did.’ The guitarist plucked a confident, loud E flat major chord. ‘I spent a whole year in Salamanca and finished my degree. I was there when the rector, the great Miguel de Unamuno, denounced Franco. That was quite an occasion! Have you heard of Unamuno?’
‘Of course. One of the world’s most admired writers and teachers.’
‘They say he died of a broken heart.’
‘What are you doing back here in Zahara?’
‘I thought I’d return for the summer as usual. A mistake.’ He played a soft, poignant E flat minor chord.
‘And?’
‘The day after I got here I found I was being besieged. And I hadn’t realised money had been abolished. So I don’t perform on the cathedral steps any longer; I entertain the army and they give me food. A risky business; I’m often too close to the bullets for comfort. See this?’ He held up his guitar. It was riddled with holes. That happened last week in the Calle San Juan. Well… I can still play the thing. The tone is perhaps just a little more resonant.’ He strummed a few arpeggios. ‘I can’t wait for the fascists to arrive! Not that I’m a fascist; don’t get me wrong! It simply means we’ll be free to leave.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘You and I … we’re foreigners. Neither Franco nor the Reds want to provoke other countries; they depend too much on them for supplying war materials ― or not supplying war materials. We’ll come to no harm. You know the first thing I’m going to do when I get out of here? Find a good restaurant and order two dinners! Then eat both of them. What shall I play for you? Do you still like Asturias, or shall it be the Villa-Lobos prelude?’
‘Both.’
‘Villa lobos in Spanish means house wolves. Weird!’
His technique had improved considerably. The prelude, a piece of contrasting styles, part meditative and contented, part melancholy ― summer nights drawing to an end ― he played as if wooing his instrument as if coaxing a lover; but Asturias was guitar and he now married: he was the instrument. Stephen, listening to its rhythms, its flamenco origins, thought as always of dances in the distance, the heat and colour of Spain. A Spain that was dead.
‘La vida breve.’ the Japanese said, laughing.
‘Thank you. Where are you living now?’
‘Zahara has a glut of one commodity ― empty houses.’
Stephen looked up at the quince tree. There was no fruit on it. Perhaps there had been, but, if so, it was already picked and eaten. ‘The quince in ancient mythology,’ he said, ‘was the Apple of Discord. It was a quince the irate goddess threw at Hera, Pallas Athene and Aphrodite with the words ‘For the fairest.’ Thus starting the Trojan War.’
‘So Spain is a quince.’
‘As Granada was ― is ― a pomegranate? What do you mean?’
Thousands of people are fighting each other to possess it.’
The soldiers, their lunch-break over, returned to the barricades; some of the men they relieved strolled across to where Stephen and the guitarist were talking. ‘Play,’ one of them ordered.
It’s nice to discuss mythology and symbolism,’ the Japanese said, but I have to sing for my supper.’ He began to play Falla’s Ritual Fire Dance.
Stephen sat down with the soldiers and listened. Was the Japanese right in saying the fascists wouldn’t harm foreigners? In all probability, he concluded, he was.
The end of the siege was caused by human error. Mere accident often decides the convulsive moments of history: the Battle of Borodino, it is said (though Tolstoy denied it), was a stalemate because Napoleon had a bad cold which impaired his judgement on the day. The fall of Constantinopol was not the result of the Turks’ military strength, but because the Genoese mercenaries employed by the last Byzantine emperor forgot to shut a small door in the city’s fortifications. So, at a later date, the hollow victory of Dunkirk happened by courtesy of the weather; and could Franco have ruled Spain so serenely and so cynically for thirty-six years had Sanjurjo and Mola survived their plane crashes, had Goded not been executed? Zahara’s loss to the fascists was unimportant business compared with these examples, but it too was an accident.
The idea that the enemy might tunnel their way into the city did not occur to the defenders, and indeed the enemy didn’t think of it until the siege was two months old. Once thought of, however, it was put into practice with stealth and competence. The tunnel was dug at night, but the earth-shovellers and rock-removers did not have more than a general impression of where they were going, and it was here that accident played i
ts part. They ended up in the ground floor of a deserted house, a long way away from any concentration of the defenders’ troops.
Silence was the order given to the Trojan horse that entered the city. The soldiers dispersed into other ruined houses, and waited. When several hundred had arrived they advanced on the defenders of the nearest barricades ― in the Plaza Simpática and the Plaza de la Tristeria ― and, without sustaining any loss to themselves, they killed every one: not expecting an attack from behind, the defenders were looking the wrong way. The shots, which sounded more like those of a firing squad than guns in battle, quickly drew the attention of citizens in other streets and on other barricades, but it was too late: the fascists were now in Zahara.
Pedro sent troops to the Tristeria and the Simpática, but he could not spare as many men as he would have liked; it would weaken to breaking point the barricades in other parts of the city. He told Cristina and José to get out of Zahara at once, while there was still time. ‘Stephen, go with them.’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Then stay right beside me. Whatever happens, don’t leave me for one second! And use that rifle!’
‘I’d prefer a pistol.’
Pedro gave him his own pistol and a large quantity of bullets; he still had his machine-gun.
‘Will you come to Rojo?’ Cristina asked.
‘Yes. But if we can’t, you mustn’t assume we’re dead … it will probably mean we’re in hiding somewhere. If the fascists push on to Rojo, as they will, don’t wait tor us. Leave Spain … go to France, to Isabella and Carlos in Paris. I’ll get word to them somehow … they can be our post office.’ He kissed both his parents, as did Stephen. ‘Good luck,’ he said.