Nothing left to lose

by Stuart Allison

  ‘I got it’ she said ‘23 Wheelers Lane.’

  ‘That’s what I got too, let’s go.’ I typed the address into the satnav and followed the instructions given but the annoyingly correct female voice. We pulled up outside a well-kept 1930s semi-detached house with bay window and a lovingly tended garden bordered by a privet hedge. Lisa opened the green painted gate and walked down the path to the door. She rang the doorbell. The door was opened by the old lady I had seen the previous week. She was in her eighties, small with neatly permed white hair and brown eyes that displayed a lively glint.

  ‘Hello,’ Lisa began ‘we met in the graveyard last week and you told me you knew my great aunt Lisl, do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do dear. What do you want?’

  ‘Well this is my dad, and I was hoping you could tell us a little bit more about great aunt Lisl.’

  The old lady smiled and stood back from the door. ‘Come in dear. ’She said ‘When you get to my age, a little bit of company is always welcome.’

  I smiled and offered her my hand ‘How do you do. It’s very kind of you, I’m afraid that my daughter has a real bee in her bonnet about her great aunt.’ I felt bad lying to such a kind old lady. We followed her in to her sitting room. It was a little gloomy, but homely and clean. There was a small TV in the corner and a three piece suite was arranged around the fireplace, in the corner of the room a budgerigar swung in its cage whistling and squawking merrily. A sideboard sat beneath the bay window with its floral curtains. She invited us to sit and disappeared into the kitchen, Lisa and I sat on the sofa. She returned a few minutes later with a tray on which were three bone china cups and saucers, a teapot, milk jug, a bowl of cubed sugar and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Please, let me get that.’ I stood up and took the tray from her and set it on the low table in the centre of the room. She sat down and poured the tea. Lisa turned down the offer of sugar, I took two lumps.

  ‘Now Dear, tell me what you want to know.’

  ‘Well you seemed to know great aunt Lisl, though I think she was really my great, great aunt, but that’s a bit of a mouthful. I want to know what she was like. I’ve never even seen a picture of her.’

  ‘I can solve that Dear.’ She went to the mantelpiece and selected one of the many framed photographs that were displayed there. She showed us the photograph. It showed three women, one middle aged that I immediately recognised as younger Rosa George and two other women who were much older. They were sitting on a bench in a garden. She indicated a frail, white-haired, dignified old lady on the left who despite her age was still very upright and was staring into the camera with bright, alert eyes. Wizened she might be, but she still had all her marbles and a certain dignity. ‘That was Lisl. The lady on the right was another friend, Marion; she died the year after Lisl.’

  ‘You said she had a son.’ Lisa prompted.

  ‘Yes, his name was William, a bit of a black sheep I think. She was always talking about him, even though she had not seen him for years. She always had a picture of him in her room and she treasured the letters she got from him. Apparently he got into some trouble with the law just before the war and ran off to France, she never saw him again.’

  ‘That’s terribly sad.’ Lisa said. ‘I wonder what happened to him.’ She was good, I could see her steering the conversation in the direction we needed. ‘Did she say what he was like?’

  The old lady thought for a minute then crossed to the sideboard. She opened the second drawer searched for something. Failing to find it, she rummaged through the bottom drawer. She pulled out an old A4 manila envelope. ‘Here.’ She said. ‘When Lisl died she left everything to Marion, but she died soon after and left her stuff to me.’

  Lisa dipped into the envelope and pulled out a hand coloured photograph and a creased letter. She looked at the photograph then handed it to me. It showed a good-looking blonde man in his late twenties. He was dressed in a military uniform that I didn’t recognise. I turned it over, written on the back in faded black ink was “Willi Dec 1938.” Lisa was looking at the letter; she frowned and peered at it before handing it to me. It was all in German. It began “Liebe Mama”. I recognised the writing, it was Miller’s.

  ‘It starts “Dear Mum”, but that’s as far as my Year 9 German will get me. After that I only know the odd word here and there.’

  ‘It beats my German. That only amounts to asking for a glass of beer.’ I said.

  ‘You sound like my Arthur, he spent three years in the army in Germany and all he could manage was please and thank you.’ The old lady laughed at the memory.

  ‘You keep them my Dear.’ She said to Lisa. They’ll mean more to you than to me.’

  Lisa thanked her. We spent another half hour with Rosa before making our excuses and setting off back to London, leaving her Lisa’s number in case she thought of something else. It was dark when we got back to Hackney. It took a while to find a parking space, but at last we went up to the flat. We put on the lights and sat down. There was no need to get food; we had stopped off to eat on the way back. We looked closely at the letter, but between us we could only decipher the odd phrase, no where near enough to work out its’ meaning.

  ‘Who do we know who speaks German?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘Do you have a scanner?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, the printer’s one of those all-in-one things. Why?’

  ‘Well, if we can scan the document, I email it off to Graham Price at school to get him to translate it.’

  ‘God is Pricey still there? I thought he’d retired or died years ago. He was like eighty when I was there.’

  ‘Careful,’ I warned, ‘He’s only a year or two older than me.’

  ‘Oops sorry. It’s just that he always looked and acted old. We never thought of you as being the same age. You seemed….’ She paused, ‘more full of life. You had the same outlook as the younger teachers.’

  I was touched.

  ‘Thanks for the complement. Please feel free to keep going.’

  She laughed, ‘Do you know that’s the first time since we started this that you’ve sounded like the old Ian?’

  She scanned the letter and I emailed a copy of it off to Graham for translation. Lisa checked her email. There was a response from Matt Nice.

  Hi Lisa,

  Good to hear from you again. Sorry I can’t meet up with you until later in the week as I’m currently in the Big Apple. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I’m home. Give my regards to Mr West.

  Matt.

  Lisa sighed, ‘That’ll slow us up. I was hoping we could get Matt to weave his magic and answer some of our questions.’

  I took over the laptop. Whilst Lisa had been reading her email, I had scanned the photograph too. I now called up the digital image and expanded it. It really was a beautifully coloured photograph, whoever had coloured the original black and white image had been an artist. I was now able to zoom in on some of the detail of the uniform. The uniform was well fitting; its style seemed to be more officer than rank and file. If the colouring was correct, the uniform was a greenish khaki. Three six pointed stars decorated the sleeve of his uniform just above the cuff. The most notable item was the sidecap he wore, which had a tassel hanging from the front. In his hand he held a steel helmet adorned with a gold eagle insignia. I had seen the cap with the tassel before somewhere; it certainly was not standard military garb. Then I remembered a picture I had seen in a textbook of General Franco wearing a similar cap. Half an hour’s surfing the internet had confirmed that the uniform was that of a Captain in the Nationalist army. All the time Lisa watched over my shoulder fascinated. When I tired of staring at the screen, she took over and located a picture of the eagle adorning the helmet, the same in every detail, even down to the five arrows clutched in its talons. We could now prove that Miller had gone to Spain to fight. It felt as if we were now getting nearer to the man himself.

  Chapter 9

  It was just over an hour before I received a reply from G
raham Price. I was surprised by the speed of his reply.

  Hi Ian,

  Have you got nothing better to do than to give me extra work? It’s bad enough trying to keep the little buggers in line at the end of term, especially when we’re our best Head of Year missing, without some skiving sod treating us as a free translation service!! Seriously Ian, I was terribly sad to hear about you and Jane. If there is anything I can do, night or day, give me a call.

  Graham

  Your letter reads as follows, please forgive me if the English is stilted, but I did it in a bit of a rush:

  23rd October 1938

  Dear Mum,

  Here is a picture of me in my uniform, don’t I look handsome? I’m sorry for leaving, but I feel I have a duty to do whatever I can to stop the spread of the communist poison. I was not greeted with open arms at first; I don’t think they quite knew what to do with me. However, I soon met with some of the officers from the Condor Legion and made some useful contacts. They were very welcoming, especially after Sepp contacted them and vouched for me. There are one or two of the old style Prussian officers who mistrust my Nazi connections, but most have accepted me without a problem.

  Thanks to the influence of my German friends, I succeeded in gaining a commission in the Nationalist Army, where I was a liaison officer with the Condor Legion. My job was to help co-ordinate the military action of the two forces.

  I have made some good friends amongst the German contingent, one officer; Karl Lander comes from Mellendorff, only a few kilometres from Wedemark. He even knew the road where Granny and Grandpa lived. Karl is a Lieutenant in the Luftwaffe. He flies fighter aircraft and already has a good number of kills to his name.

  Luckily I was able to arrange a transfer to more active service. What would be the point of coming all this way and never getting the chance to shoot a Bolshevik? My company did rather well at the Ebro, they resisted the Republican’s attacks stoutly. The fight gave me some insight into what Papa must have experienced in the Great War. My men were at the spearhead of the Nationalist advance into Catalonia. The incident at Montegrillo has been much exaggerated, though my dedication to the cause has increased my prestige with many of my brother officers. The work was not pleasant, but anarchists are vermin whose ideas have to be expunged.

  I know you will be concerned for me dearest Mama, but I am undergoing the greatest experience of my life. I will be perfectly safe, as my unit has been withdrawn to Burgos and I suspect I may once more find myself in a liaising role, as the number of German speaking officers is quite limited. Whilst I would enjoy the break, I really do not want to spend the rest of the war behind a desk. I realise times are hard for you at home, with me here, so I have arranged for half of my pay to be sent to you at three monthly intervals. Hopefully it will ease your financial hardship.

  Your loving son

  Willi

  Again, as in so much of this story, things were alluded to cryptically, rather than stated clearly.

  ‘Looks like our boy has become something of a war hero. Do you know anything about the history of the period?’

  I thought for a second or so. ‘I studied the Spanish Civil War a bit at university, as part of modern European history, but I don’t remember much beyond the basics of who was fighting who. The Nationalists had rebelled against the Republican government. They consisted of the Army, monarchists, Spanish fascists – the Falange and a ragbag of other right wing and conservative groups. I think they were supported by the Catholic Church too. They had a great deal of help from Fascist Italy and Hitler sent the Condor Legion, basically a big chunk of the Luftwaffe. The Republic was a coalition of liberal republicans, communists, socialists, anarchists and Basque and Catalan separatists. They received some aid from Russia, though it cost them their entire gold reserves, about 40 metric tonnes. There were also the International Brigades. As for the rest, it started in 1936 and ended in1939. That’s your lot.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see what we can find online.’

  We discovered that the date of the letter coincided with the end of the Battle of the Ebro and that fitted with Miller’s account.

  ‘The Ebro seems to have been more like a First World War battle than Second. It was just a series pointless frontal assaults by both sides that were doomed to failure. It sounds horrible. The casualties must have been terrific’ Lisa said.

  ‘The Republic lost over half of its hundred thousand men,’ I said reading on. ‘They were so weakened that they ceased to exist as a serious fighting force and were forced to give in to Franco in April the following year. Seems to have been a bit of a watershed.’

  ‘What do you make of the reference to Montegrillo?’

  ‘Not a clue.’ I tried googling the name and found nothing beyond the fact it was a village on the border between Catalonia and Aragon, with a population of 516. ‘There were a hell of a lot of atrocities on both sides. That could be what he is alluding to.’

  ‘Any way of finding out?’

  ‘We could try text books on the Spanish Civil War. A think there was a hefty one published a few years ago. There was also a mammoth one in the 1960’s, Thomas? But I doubt they’ll have that sort of detail. You’d probably have to go to the central archive in Madrid or maybe Barcelona.’

  ‘Woop! Road trip.’

  ‘Hang on. We can’t go flying off all over Europe without thinking it through. We don’t even know if it’s Madrid, Barcelona or even Zaragoza that we’d need.’

  ‘Spoilsport!’

  ‘We could ring the Spanish Embassy tomorrow and see if we could get any guidance.’

  As it happened, we decided to go to the Spanish Embassy. Checking the internet for the address, we set out for Belgravia, we took the underground to Knightsbridge, Lisa casting longing looks as we passed Harrods, its line of green canopies jutting out from the elaborate brickwork, like a row of eyelids blinking over the windows of the shop.

  ‘Down girl,’ I smiled, ‘no retail therapy for you today. Keep your eyes on the prize. You’ve already got enough footwear to shoe a small army!’

  She pouted prettily, ‘They’d be a very fashionable army though. You’re turning into a real spoilsport Ian. You know Harrods is my favourite shop. Pleeeease! Just for a little while.’

  I looked at her in amazement. She couldn’t be seriously thinking of shopping? She suddenly burst into peals of laughter. ‘Your face, you really thought I was serious. I admit to being a shopaholic, but I’m not that much of a bimbo. As my Nan says, there’s a time and place for everything! Come on.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah! You got me there. I was beginning to think I didn’t know you as well as I thought.’

  ‘That’ll teach you to take me for granted, maybe on the way back though….’ She looked at me with her eyes twinkling with amusement.

  She crossed the road and strode off down Sloane Street with me in her wake. Ten minutes later we were standing outside of the Spanish Embassy in Chesham Place. The façade of the building must have been undergoing some major renovation, as the entire structure was covered with scaffolding, which was itself swathed in plastic sheeting. The flags of Spain and the European Union hung over the street from the entrance, the only part that was not clad in the industrial version of clingfilm. We walked up the steps and in through the imposing doors. Lisa had to have her bag checked by security before we could gain admission. Inside a pretty, raven-haired young woman at the reception smiled at us displaying perfect teeth.

  ‘Can I help you? She asked in perfect, but attractively accented English.

  ‘Yes, I hope so. I’ve a question about the location of certain historical archives in Spain. Would that be the Cultural Attaché’s office?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so.’ She picked up a telephone, pressed a button and spoke in rapid Spanish. I speak some Spanish, but I could follow little. ‘Senor Lorente will be down in just a minute. Would you like to take a seat?’ She indicated a row of green leather armchairs.

  Lorente appeared within a few min
utes, he was a tall handsome man of about thirty, unusually blonde for a Spaniard. He shook hands and introduced himself, his eyes lit up with interest as Lisa introduced herself. He shook her hand, paying particular attention to the naked ring finger on her left hand. Lisa smiled prettily. Why couldn’t I have that effect on the opposite sex? He led us up the stairs to a small office, where he offered us seats.

  ‘I believe you have a question about historical archives in Spain.’

  ‘Yes, we’re writing a biography of a 1930’s chap called William Miller.’ I said. ‘We’ve found reference to an incident during your Civil War, in the Catalan village of Montegrillo in late 1938. Our references are very vague, but could be important to our narrative and we wondered if you could advise us where the best archives would be for us to conduct our research. I was unsure whether it would be at the Archivo Nacional in Madrid, or a regional archive in Barcelona.

  He looked at us pensively stroking his chin. ‘It is a strange thing, I come from Lerida, which is the nearest town to Montegrillo. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know it was… how do you say…unpleasant? I believe any records would be kept in the central archive in Madrid, but I can check for you. I have a cousin who teaches history at the Rey Juan Carlos University. He is something of an authority on the history and politics of Spain in the early twentieth century. I’m sure if he does not know the detail of the event in question, then he will know the best place to look. I will email him.’