by David Rees
‘I don’t have any paraffin,’ Tomás said.
‘But we do, Bishop. Oh … we’ve gallons and gallons of, it! Do you know what we’re going to do when we’ve finished with you and your cards? We’re going to burn your precious cathedral!’
‘You’d never get away with it! The fascists will have you shot!’
Angel said to the others: ‘He thinks the fascists will have us shot!’ They all laughed. ‘Bishop, they’ll have a fucking hard time finding us; that’s all I can say. How can they prove it was us?’
‘I’ll tell them.’
The laughter this time was colossal, an outburst such as had greeted Queipo’s famous diatribe on castration. If only, Tomás said to himself, there were some other people in the house! The refugees who had been living downstairs had gone, and he had never thought to look for a servant ― the simplicity of his needs was another peculiarity that marked him off from his fellow-bishops. There was no one, therefore, within earshot who could come to his rescue.
‘You won’t be around to tell them,’ Angel said.
So I am to die, Tomás said to himself. He felt numb: his feelings were paralysed. Fear had frozen him ― he couldn’t even protest. Antonio returned with the paraffin and Tomás watched as his life’s work was fed, bit by bit into the flames. If I’m to die, he managed to think, I should be praying as I’ve never prayed before; for myself, and for them ― my murderers. But prayer wouldn’t come, nor any thoughts of God, Heaven, Hell. It was easier to speculate about these six assassins than to think of God. They were all, he supposed, examples of the unemployed, the hungry, and the illiterate; whom poverty drove to crime and who were frequently attracted to anarchism because it gave an acceptable kind of face to anarchy. Their expressions were cruel, vacant, or ugly ― though Angel was the sort of man Stephen would look at twice: hairy, muscular, big. He lacked, however, any of the sharp intelligence to be found in Pedro’s features. Antonio was a rat-faced, pockmarked brute. Jesús bore no resemblance to the Son of God, though he was tall and thin with long, lank hair. Inocencio was a mere boy, a scruffy street urchin. This same Inocencio ― he with the legs Stephen had so admired ― had hurled stones at Pablo’s corpse and wept over his dead friend, Luis. Liberio looked the most murderous of them all: twitchy, with staring, empty eyes; and Rafael was another big, muscular thug, with hands like those of a butcher’s assistant. (These last two had pushed the officers from the brothel down the mineshaft. It’s a pity La Pasionaria didn’t tell them it was Tomás who needed the uniforms, that it was he who was hiding Pedro. If she had done, the present scene would have been avoided.)
‘It’s burning well,’ Angel said. ‘We anarchists like a good fire, Bishop, particularly if it’s made with church property. I imagine you know that.’
‘What are you going to do to me?’ Tomás asked.
‘You’ll find out. Or rather, you won’t: you won’t know much about it.’
‘Will it be quick?’
‘Yes. I promise you that.’
Tomás knew of the terrible atrocities that had been committed against priests in the early days of the war. Bishops had been murdered, including those of Jaén, Almería and Guadix, though not by the inhabitants of those cities. Rosary beads were stuffed into the ears of some clerics, and this had pierced their eardrums. Others were dragged into bull-rings and gored to death; many were pushed into mountain ravines and off cliffs. Some were burned alive, or buried alive. Eyes were gouged out; crucifixes shoved down throats, resulting in death by choking. To Tomás such hatred of religion, such sadistic cruelty was utterly incomprehensible: particularly as Zahara, though it had closed its churches, had not persecuted its priests. Despite being a historian, he could not see a possible line of development from the Inquisition of Ferdinand and Isabella to the events of 1936.
The last card burned to ash.
‘Let’s go.’ Angel said.
They left the room one by one. Hope sprang inside Tomás: they’re not going to kill me, he said to himself. At the door Angel turned, raised his pistol, and shot him in the head. Tomás slumped forward, crashing into the filing cabinet. Death had been, as Angel promised, quick.
They forced their way into the cathedral, armed with cans of paraffin and petrol. No one noticed ― it was half past two in the morning. They splashed the fuel over the woodwork, the altar cloths, the pictures, the statues. They had a great deal of fuel. When it was ignited, the explosion was enormous. Rafael and Inocencio didn’t get out in time ― Rafael was killed at once, but Inocencio slowly burned to death, screaming with the agony of it. The cathedral was gutted. The heat was so intense that the glass cracked and melted, and the roof, which was not in a good state of repair, collapsed. The fire brigade, called to the scene soon after the explosion, could do very little. By morning it was a total ruin.
Tomás’s dream that his cathedral would be a monument as much visited and loved as the cathedrals of Toledo and Leon or the mosque at Cordoba was never realised. Weeks after the fire had burned itself out, the city’s fascist authorities declared the remaining structure of the building unsafe, and it was pulled down. The new Cardinal Archbishop of Seville shared his predecessor’s opinion of the diocese of Zahara ― it was small, unimportant ― and a bit of a nuisance. He recommended to the next synod of the Spanish Church that it should be abolished ― The synod agreed, as did the Pope. The bishopric of Zahara was divided in two, one half being added to the see of Jaén the other to that of Granada.
Angel, Jesús, Liberio and Antonio were not caught They lived on, to commit other crimes in the name of freedom.
TEN
‘But what happens,’ Stephen wanted to know, ‘if there are other officers on the train and they start talking to us? What do we say?’
‘That’s the beauty of a civil war,’ Pedro answered. ‘It’s easy! We’d never get away with being stuck behind the enemy lines if we were fighting a foreign power; they’d know we were from the other side, however well we spoke the language ― whatever it was ― because of our accents. At any rate they’d know I was Spanish. But in this war we’re Spanish on both sides! As for you … there are volunteers from almost every country in Europe fighting for the Republic or for Franco. Another advantage of a civil war … it produces total chaos. Absolute mayhem! One unit knows nothing about what another unit’s doing. Orders are given, then cancelled; men are sent here, there, everywhere. We’ll say, if we’re asked, that we’ve been on the Madrid front for weeks … we’ll invent a regiment nobody could possibly have heard of; they won’t query it… we were due for leave, then got posted down here for the attack on Zahara … an efficient little job while we were on our way back to Cadiz.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Remember … the worst thing you could say is ¡Viva la República!’
‘I know that!’
‘¡Arriba España! instead. And don’t say “salud”; it’s libertarian ― it has to be “adiós.” And practise the fascist salute ― we must be perfect in it.’
Stephen saluted a number of times. ‘I hate it!’ he said.
Pedro laughed. ‘You’re not bad at it, however.’
The railway station, though it was in the nineteenth-century suburbs, had not been damaged in the fighting Queipo had taken good care to avoid hitting it; railways were needed to transport soldiers. The train left on time, and it was half empty; the passengers were mostly troops going on leave. Very likely it would be full when it made the return journey, Stephen thought v reinforcements for the new Zahara garrison. He and Pedro had a compartment to themselves. Their brother officers looked in at them, but, not recognizing a familiar face, made their way to carriages where they had friends.
There was one tense moment. The door opened, and a young lieutenant said, ‘Do you know Martin Alvarez and Santiago Badía?’
Pedro couldn’t help grinning at the irony of it. ‘I’ve heard of them.’ he said.
‘Everyone’s heard of them ― their sex lives are famous!
They think of nothing but cunt! They’ve been boasting endlessly about how the women of Cadiz are going to enjoy their expert, high-powered weapons … but now they seemed to have missed the train.’
‘They’re probably firing them off in Zahara.’
The lieutenant groaned. ‘Well… it’s their funeral. Who are you, anyway? I’ve never seen either of you before.’
‘We’ve been on the Madrid front the past twelve weeks. It’s boring up there! Sin novedad. Sin novedad! And cold!’ Pedro shivered. ‘We were due for leave, then at the last moment we were sent up to Zahara … but it was all finished by the time we got here.’
‘Zahara’s a quaint old place,’ the lieutenant said. ‘But a bit feudal. No life!’
Pedro nodded. ‘That’s very true,’
‘Well … enjoy yourselves while you can. Where are you going?’
‘Cadiz.’
‘Cadiz! Give it my love. I’m for Seville.’ He left. Stephen, whose heart had been beating uncomfortably fast, sighed with relief,
‘Stay cool,’ Pedro whispered. Stay cool!’
The rest of the journey was unexciting, and they dozed through much of it. They had to change trains at Granada, Bobadilla, and Utrera. It was sunrise when they reached Bobadilla, a one-horse pueblo over the mountains from Málaga, and ten a.m. when they arrived at Utrera. Here they had three hours to wait for a connection.
‘Let’s go and see the sights,’ Pedro said. ‘A glimpse of Franco’s Spain.’
There was nothing to see of any particular interest, but they were both struck by how Utrera seemed to have avoided the war. Life in this little town in the flat plain of the Guadalquivir was almost as if 1936 had never happened. True, there were pictures of Franco with slogans such as ‘For Spain, one, great and free’; ‘Franco commands, Spain obeys’; ‘My hand will be firm: my pulse will not tremble,’ and other similar bits of nonsense. There were very few posters of Queipo, however, whose star was now on the wane. The position of women had altered: they weren’t told to be humble housewives any longer; Franco considered them useful to the war effort. There were slogans urging them to enroll for patriotic duties in hospitals and so on, and one set out in detail some of the clothing requirements for troops at the front: ‘Women of Spain! You do not want your menfolk who are heroically prosecuting our great crusade to freeze to death! Whenever you have a spare moment, knit for the Fatherland! Every stitch is a triumph over the godless, atheistic Reds! Thick socks and warm scarves are needed by the thousand!’ Underneath this was the address of the nearest collection point, and a photograph of a frost-bitten young recruit gratefully receiving a pair of socks.
There was nothing else unusual. The market was busy, and prices, compared with the Republic, were cheap. The streets were full of life, though politics was not the subject of any conversation. The cafés and restaurants were crowded; bullfights were advertised, and the national lottery was flourishing. The churches were open, and the old women in black came in and out, crossing themselves as they had always done.
‘Don’t be deceived,’ Pedro said, ‘It may look quite nice … but it’s worse than the old Spain ― the landless labourer is still landless, the poor starving; the middle class gloats, and nobody is free to say what he likes. This is an authoritarian state propped up by Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany. The jail is doubtless overflowing, and hundreds of innocent working-class men and women have been shot.’
‘I know.’ Stephen said.
It was the same in Cadiz, though being a large port, there was considerable military activity, unlike Utrera. Soldiers and sailors abounded in the streets, the cafés, the shops. It was an attractive old white city on a tongue of land that stuck out into the ocean; its ancient quarters had the narrowest streets Stephen had ever seen ― but they also harboured a poverty much worse than anything he had imagined: beggars, flies, dirt, disgusting smells, pimps, prostitutes of both sexes, homeless lads and old women sleeping in doorways. Night life finished early because of the war. At eleven p.m. they were the only customers at a stylish pavement café, with nothing better to do than watch the Fascist dustcarts efficiently disposing of the day’s refuse.
‘What do we do now we’re here?’ Stephen asked.
‘Relax!’ Pedro said. ‘We’ll do nothing for a bit. I think we deserve a holiday after what we’ve been through! We’ll enjoy ourselves! We’ve got plenty of money — Martin Alvarez and Santiago Badía must have been to the bank before they went to the brothel. Our wallets are brimming with pesetas! I wonder if they paid the girls.’
‘You do that before you sample the goods.’
‘How do you know?’
Stephen laughed. ‘Intuition.’
‘We’ll find a nice little room to stay in, not too expensive … though it’ll have twin beds, I imagine … we’ll eat well … wander about … hire a couple of bicycles and explore the countryside; I’d like to see Vejer de la Frontera ― it’s supposed to be one of the prettiest hilltop towns in all Andalucía … we’ll go to the beach and swim … drink some jerez ― vino fino. It will be the honeymoon we’ve never had!’
‘Honeymoon. I like the sound of it.’
‘And we’ll look at what’s happening in the port. We need a boat.’
‘What do we do with these uniforms?’
‘We don’t have to dress in them all the time; they were for the rail trip, and maybe if we eat in a fancy restaurant. We’ve got other clothes.’
They had with them the clothes they were wearing when they lived in the cathedral, and what Tomás had brought from the Casa Badajoz ― he’d been there in the dead of night to fetch shirts, underwear, toothbrushes, soap, towels.
‘Listen hard to anyone speaking English,’ Pedro said.
‘Why?’
‘Because British merchant ships trade with both Spains.
And there is bound to be some sort of traffic in smuggling of people. A two-way traffic ― those who want to get into the Republic and those who want to get out of it ― and I’m sure the British are involved in that! You love to see yourselves as Scarlet Pimpernels!’
‘What makes you think there are any British people at all? Spain isn’t exactly a number one tourist spot at the moment.’
‘I’m not thinking of tourists. I mean businessmen … the wine trade. Sandemans, Humbert and Williams, Crofts. Cádiz is the port for Jerez.’
‘I see.’
‘A little trip on the side at night, the boat full of people … along the coast to Almería or across to Tangier … that’s how they earn a few extra pesetas.’
It was a honeymoon: an idyll. They visited Vejer de la Frontera, and swam at Cape Trafalgar; they ate good meals, strolled on the beaches at night, even found a hostal room with a double bed ― the patrona was very apologetic; it was all she had: if the young men didn’t mind … ‘It will do.’ Pedro said, feigning reluctance. Almost deliberately they avoided talk of the war ― the past year in Zahara, Pablo, what might have happened to Cristina and José; instead they concentrated on themselves: childhood, school, friends, hobbies; likes, dislikes; the first realisation of being different from other boys, their teenage sexual experiences. And making love was once again making love, not the screwing without tenderness Pedro had insisted on in the cathedral. He was his old self, not obsessed now by defeat; he was the man whom Stephen, a year ago, had fallen in love with. They talked, too, of the future: where would they live their lives? In Spain if the Republic won, in England if it lost ‘I can be just as good a car mechanic in London as I can in Zahara,’ Pedro said. ‘Unlike flamenco dancing its not a particularly Spanish skill.’
‘You’d have to get used to a wet, unpredictable climate,’ Stephen said. ‘And you’d have to learn the language.’
‘Well… I will learn the language!’
‘And finding a job isn’t easy. There are millions of unemployed in Britain.’
‘As there are in Spain.’
‘We’d live in a flat of our own.’
‘And
shut the door on the rest of the world.’
It didn’t seem impossible. But these dreams and halcyon days were rudely shattered one evening when they were drinking at a bar in Cadiz port. ‘We ought to be wearing our uniforms,’ Stephen said in a low voice. ‘They’d at least disguise us a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’s a man in here who knows us. No! Don’t look round! He’s seen me, but he hasn’t seen you ― well, only your back.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Just about the most dangerous person we could bump into considering what happened to him. It’s a dreadful coincidence! A disaster! What on earth is he doing in Cadiz?’
‘Who is it?’
‘Drink up and walk out. Go back to the hostal. I’ll stay, and try to shake him off… but don’t whatever you do, look in his direction. It’s Don Miguel Goicoechea.’
Pedro, bearded, his head down and facing away from the old police chief, might not have been recognizable as he ambled out of the bar were he a mere acquaintance; but, Stephen thought, Goicoechea knows him well. Knows me well enough, too. Miguel stared hard at Pedro’s back, sipped his drink, then looked at Stephen again, thoughtfully. So it’s me he’ll trail, Stephen said to himself, wishing Pedro was the quarry ― the Lynx would be more adept at giving someone the slip.
He paid up and left. Miguel did the same. What now, he wondered, hesitating a moment, trying to suppress panic; what now? Miguel wants to know where we live… He walked off at a smart pace and turned into the first alley on the right. It led into a warren of narrow lanes: the old city. I’ll lead him a merry dance round here, Stephen decided. He did so, going left then right, left again, doubling back, scurrying along passages, sprinting through courtyards. Once or twice he thought he had thrown Miguel off, but no, the policeman was still there, waddling at a discreet distance behind. Eventually Stephen lunged through a doorway. Miguel would think that this was his lodging. He wouldn’t follow; he’d merely want to know which house, so he could tell the police. There were five floors to this building ― it stank of overcrowding, unwashed bodies, stale food. There was noise from every room: shouts, cries, laughter; radios blaring. He went up to the top floor, then down again, and glanced out into the street. No sign of Miguel anywhere.