The Impostor

by Javier Cercas

  The third and last meeting between Bermejo and Marco occurred six months after the funeral of Muñoz Zamora. It took place in May 2004, again in Mauthausen, on the day commemorating the liberation of the camp, or to be more precise, on the eve of the commemoration, and not in Mauthausen itself, but in Ebensee, an Aussenkommando or subcamp or satellite camp eighty kilometres south of Mauthausen. By now, Bermejo had spent several years compiling information about Marco, comparing various sources and working out that Marco’s account of his time in the camp made no sense, that it was riddled with contradictions and impossibilities; he didn’t yet have definitive proof with which to categorically refute the story, but he was completely convinced, or almost completely convinced, that the president of the Amical was not who he claimed to be.

  For some time, Bermejo had been asking questions about Marco, especially of those who’d had a direct relationship with him. Whether he spoke to former deportados or to veteran anarchists from the C.N.T., the response was always the same, or almost always the same: “I wouldn’t stick my neck out for him,” they said. “He’s a shady character,” they said. “There’s something fishy about him,” they said. “He’s not trustworthy,” they said. And even: “Maybe he’s an infiltrator.” I’m not sure whether Bermejo knew or was sufficiently conscious of the fact that such responses might be explained by the deep wounds inflicted during the brutal power struggles within the C.N.T. in the Seventies, in which Marco played an important role; nevertheless, to Bermejo, such unanimity seemed suspicious. He also thought it suspicious that Marco, whose official story claimed that he left Spain clandestinely and was imprisoned in Marseille before being deported to Flossenbürg, had never had any contact whatever with the French organisation the Amicale de Flossenbürg, where no-one knew anything about him. Nor did anyone at the Spanish Federation of Deportados and Political Prisoners (which also had a branch in France), something that seemed more than suspicious to Bermejo, who thought it almost impossible that a Spanish anarchist who had survived the Nazi camps would have no contact with the organisation. Naturally, Bermejo had requested information from the Flossenbürg Memorial archives about Marco and been informed that there was no mention of a prisoner named Marco in the camp registers; moreover he still couldn’t get his head around the patent contrast, not so much between the abundance and the epic, sentimental tone of Marco’s stories compared to those of other camp survivors, but between Marco’s loquacity in public and his categorical refusal to speak in private.

  But what he found most suspicious and which, together with the foregoing, led him to the conclusion that Marco had invented his story, or a large part of his story, was: the more he studied Marco’s various accounts and discovered points that were contradictory or even nonsensical, the more he realised these couldn’t simply be attributed to Marco’s poor memory or to errors made by journalists or writers who had set the stories down, and therefore Marco must be wilfully altering his life story. He began to glimpse the truth. He began to speculate that perhaps Marco had been in Germany in the Forties, not as a deportado, but as a volunteer worker, because his account of his route to Germany via France sounded very similar to that of Spanish volunteer workers—on at least two occasions, for example, Marco had mentioned Metz, the city from which such workers were reallocated—and because he knew that Marco was a metalworker and that one of the first volunteer convoys to leave Barcelona had been made up of metalworkers, most of whom ended up working in northern Germany, where Marco admitted he’d spent time in prison. Lastly, in early May 2004, when Bermejo was writing an article with Sandra Checa proving that the supposed Mauthausen deportado Antonio Pastor was actually an impostor, he had the conviction—though not the proof—that Marco, too, was an impostor.

  It was at this point that he had his last encounter with Marco. It took place, as I said, at Ebensee, one of the subcamps of Mauthausen, set in a mountainous region where, late in the war, the Germans excavated a network of underground tunnels where they could set up armaments factories safe from Allied bombings. That day there was to be a small commemoration service at Ebensee prior to the main ceremony at Mauthausen camp the following day. Bermejo and Marco met in one of the tunnels beneath the subcamp. They talked. Marco was surrounded by a group of teenagers; he explained to Bermejo that they were students who had travelled from Barcelona thanks to the Amical and that he was acting as their guide. Then he talked to Bermejo about the activities of Amical, which were increasingly numerous and varied, and mentioned that the following year, the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of Mauthausen, they hoped to bring an important person, perhaps a member or a representative of the government, to attend the commemoration. This was followed by a very brief exchange, every word of which is engraved in Bermejo’s memory: “We’re flying high,” Marco told him, remarking on the success of the Amical under his leadership, “higher and higher.” Bermejo commented: “Well, we must hope it doesn’t turn out to be the flight of Icarus.” Contrary to what he expected, Marco didn’t seem annoyed by his ironic quip about Daedalus’ reckless son, who because he wanted to fly close to the sun tumbled into the sea and lost his life, as Narcissus did contemplating his reflection in the pool. Before taking his leave with his students, Marco replied fervently, “Our Icaruses are old and increasingly feeble, but they are still here, still fighting.” Bermejo remembers that he stressed the second syllable of the name Icaro, while Marco stressed the first syllable. In Spanish both pronunciations are correct.

  * * *

  —

  The proof that Bermejo was lacking finally appeared early the following year. In fact it’s possible to be more precise, because the historian noted the discovery in his diary: January 21. In less than a week, the Spanish parliament would for the first time commemorate International Holocaust Remembrance Day, and, also for the first time, welcome a representative of the Spanish survivors of the camps, a ceremony at which Marco was to give a speech; in just over three months, commemorations for the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of Mauthausen would take place, and for the first time the Spanish prime minister would be in attendance and for the first time a speech would be given by a Spanish deportado, who, until the last minute, was to be Marco.

  Bermejo didn’t stumble on the evidence by accident. At some point it had occurred to him that he might find information about Marco in the archives of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, which he had consulted on previous occasions, and when he visited the archive, he discovered that his hunch had been right. There was a file on Marco, no more than three pages but not a word was wasted. The file contained a request from the captaincy of the IV Región Militar, headquartered in Barcelona, stating that Marco had not reported for military service and asking the Ministry for Foreign Affairs to confirm whether, as his family insisted, Marco had travelled to Germany as a volunteer worker; the response from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs confirmed that the family was telling the truth, that Marco was currently in Germany, in Kiel to be exact, working for the Deutsche Werke Werft. In other words, the army was seeking information about a possible draft evader and the Ministry for Foreign Affairs replied that he was not a draft evader but a conscientious citizen who had travelled to Germany in accordance with the Hispano-German Accord signed by Franco and Hitler. There were only three pages, but they were enough to prove beyond all doubt that at least one fundamental part of Marco’s story, in its many variants, was false; he had not left Spain clandestinely, he had not been arrested in France and sent to Germany, he was not a deportado. The document did not prove that Marco wasn’t a survivor of Flossenbürg—there was still the possibility that, while in Germany, Marco had been arrested by the Nazis and sent to a concentration camp, as had happened to other volunteer workers—but it did prove that Marco had lied. There were only three pages, but they were enough to destroy Marco.

  Bermejo’s euphoria at his discovery must have been short-lived, because his next thought was “What now?” Despit
e what many later claimed, Bermejo felt no animus towards Marco, nor did he relish the idea of being a wet blanket, of poking people in the eye, certainly not an old man. The proof is that, a few short months earlier, he and Sandra Checa had had to wrestle with their scruples before publishing the article that exposed the deception of Antonio Pastor—they questioned whether it was justifiable to run the risk of destroying a man’s reputation in exchange for re-establishing the historical truth, and what the likely consequences of such destruction would be; further proof is, in the end, they decided that in their article Pastor would not be identified by name, but only by his initials. What now? Bermejo asked himself. His provisional response was to call a number of trusted individuals and tell them what he’d found out about Marco. He told two camp survivors, Paco Aura and Francisco Batiste; he told Jordi Riera, the son of a deportado and a member of Amical; he may have told others. None of these people knew what to advise, and at least one of them said: do anything except do nothing.

  In early February, specifically February 9 (again, according to Bermejo’s diary), something strange occurred: Marco telephoned Bermejo at home. It was the first time he’d done such a thing. Marco didn’t beat about the bush, he said he’d heard rumours that Bermejo was casting doubt on his past, specifically saying he was not a camp survivor. Bermejo did not deny the accusation, and Marco carried on: he said he respected Bermejo’s work and understood his interest in reconstructing the past and seeking out documentary evidence to do so; he said he could understand how accounts of his experiences might have raised doubts with Bermejo or seemed shocking; he said, despite appearances, everything could be explained and, with time and goodwill, the whole issue could be resolved; he offered to answer all Bermejo’s questions and to help him clear up any dubious or obscure points, or all the points he found dubious or obscure and felt it necessary to elucidate; and he said, since he often visited Madrid, he would call him and, if Bermejo wished, they could meet up in late February or early March so that he could sort out this misunderstanding. This, more or less, is what Marco said to Bermejo, or what Bermejo remembers that Marco said, more or less; but what Bermejo most remembers is he had the unmistakable feeling that beneath the surface of the conversation there were many invisible currents, countless subtexts, all intended to charm him, to inveigle him with a glimpse of the benefits that would ensue if the two of them could agree and the hassles that would result if they didn’t agree, and it was at this point, Bermejo says, he realised the man playing for time on the other end of the line was a master manipulator. Despite this, the historian accepted Marco’s proposal and, before hanging up, said that he would wait for his call.

  Marco did not call Bermejo in February; nor did he call in March. One afternoon, Bermejo went to the headquarters of the Centre for Political and Constitutional Studies—an autonomous agency associated with the Ministry for the Presidency—at the request of a professor from the University of Complutense who was working there. The professor was Javier Moreno Luzón, and he’d asked to meet with Bermejo to discuss a number of events commemorating the Deportation which were to be held in May at the Círculo de Bellas Artes in Madrid; Moreno Luzón was responsible for coordinating the programme and had asked Bermejo for help. The two colleagues talked about the subject that had brought them together, but also about the events celebrating the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of Mauthausen, which would take place shortly before, and which, it was rumoured, would be attended for the first time by the prime minister, at the request of the Centre for Political and Constitutional Studies. In the course of their conversation, they had been joined by José Álvarez Junco, the director of the Centre, who left at this point in order to make a phone call and came back with confirmation: Prime Minister Rodríguez Zapatero was still considering travelling to Mauthausen for the commemoration ceremony in May. Only then did Bermejo steel himself and announce that there was a problem. What problem? they asked. A problem with the president of the Amical de Mauthausen, he said. He explained the situation. When he had finished, Moreno Luzón announced that he would sideline Marco from the events at the Círculo de Bellas Artes; however none of the three had a clear idea of what other steps they could or should take, and decided to defer the matter.

  The protagonists of the preceding scene don’t remember precisely when it took place, but we can place it in late March. By this time, Bermejo had spent weeks waiting for Marco to call and say he was coming to Madrid so they could meet. He let two or three more weeks go by, then, tired of waiting, he tried to contact Marco by phone. He couldn’t reach him. Eventually, he sent a message via fax to Amical. The message is dated April 15, and reads:

  Enric:

  In February you called me and suggested that we meet up during one of your visits to Madrid. At the time, you said that you would call me shortly and that the meeting could take place in “late February or early March” (those were your words). Those dates have come and gone and I have had no word from you. And the fact is that I would be very interested in meeting with you and hearing your story at first hand.

  I hope it will be possible to arrange a meeting.

  Thank your for your attention.

  Warm regards.

  A few days after sending the fax, Bermejo received a phone call from Marco. This time, the conversation was briefer. Marco began by apologising for not calling earlier, explaining that he had been unable to travel to Madrid because preparations for the celebrations to be held in Mauthausen in May had taken up all his time. He told him that the Amical was snowed under with work and as a result it would be impossible for him to see Bermejo, and they would have to postpone their meeting until after the anniversary of the liberation of Mauthausen, at which point, he guaranteed, he would call Bermejo and give an explanation that would allay all his doubts. Bermejo listened carefully and realised it was futile to argue, so he told Marco, if that was what he’d decided, so be it, but he didn’t think it was the most advisable approach.

  So ended the last conversation between Bermejo and Marco. Some days later it was announced that, for the first time, the Spanish prime minister, José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero, would travel to Mauthausen to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of the camp, and it was also announced that the camp survivor who would speak at the main event would be Enric Marco. Bermejo realised that this changed everything and that, if he stayed on the sidelines, looked the other way, and allowed the definitive crowning of Marco’s imposture to go ahead, he would never forgive himself. All the qualms, scruples and hesitations that had left him paralysed until now suddenly evaporated. He telephoned Moreno Luzón and told him he wasn’t prepared to be complicit in this farce, he wanted to communicate what he knew to the prime minister or to someone close to the prime minister. Moreno Luzón asked him to write a report and send it to him. Bermejo wrote it and sent it; he also sent copies to a member of the Fundación Pablo Iglesias, the foundation associated with the prime minister’s political party, to a member of the Amical de Mauthausen, and to various historians. He felt relieved that he had done his duty. The anniversary of the liberation of Mauthausen was scarcely two weeks away, but Bermejo stopped worrying about it. Or almost.

  6

  I can be sure of one thing: while I was trying to discover the truth about Marco, I wasn’t the only person to harbour doubts about this book that for so many years I didn’t want to write; Marco had doubts too.

  At the beginning of my investigation, relations between us were not good, in fact they were bad. I was to blame. When I stopped fighting against writing this book and agreed with Marco that he would tell me his whole story and, with my son’s help, I would record him telling it, we began to see each other more regularly in my office in Gracia. Looking at the footage of those early interviews, I can see I am cold, tense, calculating, reticent, as though I couldn’t overcome the repugnance I felt for Marco, or as though I didn’t want to, or was afraid to. It isn’
t simply that I didn’t trust him, that I didn’t believe a word of his stories; what’s worse is that it is patently obvious. Looking back, aside from being a tactical error, my attitude seems to me both hypocritical and ridiculous, the sanctimonious posturing of an inquisitor or a Sunday school teacher that on more than one occasion led me to demand that Marco acknowledge the damage his lies had done and express remorse. He always refused. As I’ve already said, Marco may be many things, but he isn’t a fool, so he didn’t always refuse to acknowledge that he had lied, and that this was a bad thing; sometimes—though only when he felt it appropriate, not when someone tried to compel him—he would acknowledge it, albeit half-heartedly and in passing, only to immediately bury the acknowledgement under a torrent of his usual justifications about the good that had resulted from his lies, and about the lies and the spite and the misrepresentations he had suffered because of his deception.

  At the time—I’m talking about the spring of 2013—Marco was a wounded man, but also defiant and determined to vindicate himself, and I hadn’t yet learned to deal with him; it’s natural that initially we would collide. Unlike Truman Capote’s approach with Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, the young murderers in In Cold Blood, I didn’t immediately befriend Marco, in fact our working interviews more often seemed like pitched battles: I attacked, bombarding him with his contradictions, his scams and his ruses, and he counterattacked with all the weapons in his rhetorical arsenal, which were many and powerful. More than once, the interviews ended badly, with us parting at the door to my office almost without a goodbye or a handshake, and when this happened we wouldn’t meet or call each other for some time. Then I would go back to my uncertainties, go back to thinking about Vargas Llosa and Claudio Magris who believed that perhaps it was impossible to know Marco’s true story, go back to thinking about Fernando Arrabal, who believed that the liar has no story but, if he did, no-one would dare present it as a true story or a novel without fiction because it would be impossible to tell without lying; in short, I went back to thinking that I was writing the wrong book, or that it was impossible to write it, or that I shouldn’t write it.