by Wendy Scarfe
He handed my passport to his henchman and managed, reaching across us, to touch our breasts. I stiffened. The soldier on Marie’s side handed our passports back again. ‘Going far?’ he asked. ‘To Oviedo?’
‘No,’ Marie appeared relaxed. ‘Somewhere further on. We’ll look for a hotel when we’re tired. We’re artists, painters. Oviedo!’ She shrugged. ‘We don’t like big cities. And I believe there has been trouble there.’
He preened himself. ‘You’d be safe in Oviedo now. We’ve cleaned up the troublemakers. English ladies needn’t be afraid.’ He leered.
Marie smiled at him. I don’t know how she managed it. ‘But for artists the countryside has most appeal. I don’t suppose we’ll find troublemakers there. And we’ll be quite safe.’
He shrugged and the two of them stepped back from the car.
Marie revved the engine and miraculously, because she shook so much, didn’t stall it. Then the soldiers were behind us. In the rear mirror I could see them watching us.
‘Don’t look back, Judith.’
‘My God, Marie,’ I gasped. ‘That was close. Did you ever see such an evil-looking bastard? If they are the wolves that hunt at night, heaven help the women of Oviedo.’
We reached the small town of Sotrondio late that afternoon. Oviedo was behind us and the cluster of villages that might hide Harry was close. My spirits rose.
Our hotel was a pleasant two-storey grey-stone building. Our room on the second floor was tiny. I slept fitfully that night. There were so many unknowns in my life that I couldn’t relax or find peace. It was dawn before I dozed off, so the next morning I was heavy-eyed.
‘No sleep, Judith?’
‘Very little.’
‘Some fresh air will buck you up. It’s a beautiful morning and we’ll permit ourselves to enjoy the sun.’
We made a point of carrying our easels downstairs so the proprietor would notice them. He looked up from his bookwork. ‘Painting, ladies?’
‘Perhaps.’ Marie beamed at him. ‘We may or we may just look at the beautiful scenery. And the road inland, how is it?’
‘Quite good. A bit rough in places. But don’t go up into the hills. There are bears.’ It was a relief that he could speak English.
It seemed everywhere we went someone warned us about bears but was silent about the soldiers.
After breakfast we decided to look for Sama in the nearby cluster of villages. The countryside was a series of gently rolling foothills. In the distance trees forested the higher slopes. The car hummed along happily. We passed through a couple of villages that straddled the road and finding a siding parked the car and set up our easels and artists’ stools.
It was a windless morning and warm in the sun and for a time I just sat and gazed at the distant crags rising above the trees. There were probably dozens of villages tucked away in sheltered gullies and valleys or clinging to the walls of gorges; mining villages and rural villages, perhaps shepherds’ huts.
‘Marie, do you think Harry might be hidden there?’
She looked up. ‘Begin to draw,’ she said. ‘Some villagers are curious.’
A group of women stood a little way apart watching us. They huddled together like a small school of fish seeking safety in their numbers, protecting their circumference and all within it. After observing us for a few minutes they drifted back into their houses. Marie’s eyes followed them thoughtfully.
‘We’ll come here again, Judith. We should cultivate their interest. Women know things. And now we must work. Word will get around if we behave oddly.’
For the next three days we drove to the siding and set up our gear. The women came each day at about the same time. They were a motley group, some old, some young, some bare-headed, others wearing scarves. They were dressed in winter skirts and home-knitted sheep-wool jumpers.
Each day they drew a little closer. On the third morning they showed more confidence. ‘Inglés?’ one asked tentatively. ‘Artista?’ She was middle-aged with a scarf over her head. Marie smiled at them companionably. ‘Australiano,’ she corrected. They looked puzzled. ‘Inglés?’ the woman repeated. ‘Yes,’ Marie said, giving up the battle to explain our Australian-ness. ‘We are artists.’
At her Spanish they looked relieved. ‘The English, they are good. A good people.’
Marie returned the compliment. ‘Spaniards are good people also.’
Their faces closed. ‘Not here,’ one said, and then, as if having said too much, she stopped abruptly.
Marie looked innocent and inquiring, but they were afraid and started to leave. She plunged in, and later told me that she felt panic stricken that she would lose the opportunity to question them.
‘I came here when I was young,’ she rushed in. ‘There was such a lovely young man.’ She sighed romantically.
One or two in the group smiled. ‘The young are like that,’ one murmured. ‘Always lovely young men.’
Marie appeared to be searching her memory. ‘I think his name was Garcia.’
‘Ah, Garcia.’ One laughed.
The hope on Marie’s face was not feigned and my heart flopped around in my chest.
‘So many Garcias,’ another said, ‘and all romantic. Imelda, here, she knew a Garcia.’ She poked her. ‘Eh, Imelda?’
Imelda looked resigned, presumably at the fickleness of all men.
‘And did he write poetry to you?’ Marie asked. ‘Beautiful poetry, like Garcia Lorca?’
Imelda looked blank. It seemed she had never heard of Garcia Lorca and couldn’t imagine why any young man would waste time writing poetry. They thought it a huge joke and went off chuckling. Marie said that she heard one woman comment that perhaps young English men wrote poetry to their girlfriends, the English were a very polite people.
We felt depressed that evening and in an attempt to cheer ourselves sampled too much of the local cider, brewed each year from the apple crops. It was delightful, and quite strong enough to make us feel relaxed and a little light-headed.
There seemed to be no point in returning to the same village, so next day we drove further. None of the villages were named on our map so this made finding Sama almost impossible. We asked a shepherd herding a small flock of sheep if he knew where the village of Sama was, but he only scratched his head and pointed vaguely along the road towards the hills. Clearly he didn’t know but, as Marie said, he probably felt that it would be impolite to seem unwilling to help.
‘In any case,’ I said, ‘it’s probably useless to pin all our hopes on Sama. We may as well find another village and have a shot.’
The village we chose to explore was larger and some way off the main road. It was tucked into a fold in the hills and there was a small orchard of bare-branched apple trees. I knew they were apples by their peculiarly twisted and gnarled growth. Some of the houses had vegetable gardens and a few women worked in them. There were two-storey barns attached to some of the houses and I assumed that the cattle were kept on the ground floor and grain on the upper. There were no men about and no children. Perhaps the men were employed in the mines.
We had left the car parked outside the village and now we strolled in, carrying our easels, collapsible stools, sketchbooks and pencils. Immediately we felt unwelcome intruders. It was as if we had impertinently walked into someone’s home because the front door happened to be open. Beneath the lack of welcome I sensed suspicion and fear.
We knew that it was rudeness to set up our easels and intrude into these people’s lives but we ignored any delicate feelings. Finding Harry was our priority, and if we seemed to impose ourselves on people then so be it. We set up and worked determinedly, appearing absorbed. Perhaps familiarity might reassure these women. Perhaps they might speak to us.
A small child came out of the door of one of the houses. Her mother, stooped over her garden patch, straightened, stretched her back and shouted angrily at the child who immediately scuttled inside. The woman glanced at us but we could not read her expression. She resumed her wo
rk.
We had been there a couple of hours and were puzzled. There were only a few women working in their garden plots, no children playing outside, no old men strolling or basking in the sun, no young women talking and laughing in groups. The emptiness was eerie and disturbing.
We heard its grinding engine before we saw the truck and turned in curiosity to look. It was a military vehicle, one of those with a canvas back flap. Over the dashboard we saw the faces of uniformed soldiers.
I clutched Marie. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Ignore them if we can. We have nowhere to hide.’
All the garden plots were now empty. The women had disappeared inside. Ignorance and being English must be our protection so we kept working nervously. My pencil wavered along the lines, and the folds of my valley looked more like the billowing crests and troughs of the sea. I tried to rub it out, smudged the lot, and giggled tensely.
‘If they look they certainly won’t think us great artists.’
‘Probably don’t know anything about art anyway,’ Marie whispered.
Our bravado was false and we didn’t deceive each other.
From the corner of my eye I saw half a dozen men jump down from the truck. They conversed for a moment and then strode towards us. They were in pairs and each of them carried a brace of guns. Two of them hovered behind us. What they said in Spanish I couldn’t understand but although Marie stiffened she composedly filled in the scene she was drawing. However she was white about her mouth and I was afraid.
They came closer and peered over our shoulders. One pointed to Marie’s sketch and then to the distant view. They spoke together again. This time Marie looked up, feigning surprise. She smiled disarmingly and amazingly the one who had pointed to her sketch smiled back.
‘Artista,’ he said, ‘good.’
‘English,’ she nodded and he looked pleased as if she had confirmed what he had already guessed.
‘Inglés,’ he repeated to his companion and the other nodded, also comfortable in their discovery.
They moved on.
I put down my pencil and clenched my hands together to stop them shaking. ‘That was close.’
Marie slumped on her stool. ‘My imagination, Judith. Mon Dieu. What I didn’t think of. And behold it seems they are friendly. Only doing some routine task.’
We watched their progress down the road. Marie poured us a cup of coffee from our vacuum flask and we sat in the sun confident and relaxed.
Then it happened. Two of the soldiers stopped at one of the houses. There were no fences so they simply tramped across the small garden, kicking aside the plants. They hammered on the door and when there was no response butted it open with their rifles. There were shouts and screams from inside and they emerged dragging a young boy between them. He was gangling and thin and must have been no more than fifteen. Several women pursued them sobbing and pleading. One clutched a soldier’s arm and he flung her off. She fell and lay on the ground beating the earth with her fists and weeping hysterically. The other women still followed hurling shouts and abuse until one of the soldiers swung around and pointed his gun at the woman on the road. He snarled something and Marie gasped.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said if they didn’t shut their mouths he’d come and use their pretty daughters.’
More women had now emerged from their houses and as the soldiers manhandled the struggling crying boy down the road they stood a silent accusing line of witnesses.
The boy’s mother had now struggled to her feet and was running after them, screaming.
Again they turned on her levelling their guns. She halted and cringed, her whole body crouched over with despair. The boy still wept as they dragged him along. He didn’t fight any more but was limp and lifeless as a rag doll.
Halfway down the street they released him and stood back. A sigh went up from the women. It had all been just a terrible game. His mother took a faltering step towards him. He hesitated a second, glancing briefly and fearfully at his captors. They were smiling. He ran. They raised their rifles and shot him twice in the back. He threw up his arms and fell and a shaft of sunlight impaled him.
Shock drove me to my feet as I prepared to run toward the boy. Marie grabbed me. ‘No, Judith.’ She clutched my arm. ‘Sit. You can do nothing.’
‘It’s Harry,’ I gasped, ‘in Victoria Square. He looked like that, Marie.’
‘It’s not Harry, Judith. Nothing like.’
‘Yes,’ I sobbed. ‘You’re wrong, Marie. It’s Harry.’
‘You can do nothing,’ she insisted. ‘Nothing.’
So we just sat there, shivering uncontrollably while the women silently brought a wooden hurdle, lifted the boy onto it, and carried his body into one of the houses. We were ashamed to be so frightened for ourselves and confused as to whether it was more precarious to stay or dare leaving. There was a hideous menace in the power we had seen so suddenly unleashed and a cold-blooded brutality beyond our comprehension.
We felt defenceless.
The soldiers were still occupied searching houses but now they were at the far end of the village.
We determined to risk creeping away as unobtrusively as possible, grabbed our belongings and, on legs boneless and unsteady, stumbled back towards our car. We passed the soldiers’ truck but avoided looking at the driver. With trembling fingers Marie unlocked our car door and we tumbled in, grateful for the illusion of safety.
Marie drove a little faster than usual jolting the car nerve-rackingly over the potholes.
It felt strange, even grotesque, to return to the normality of our hotel and the benign smiles of the plump proprietor who inquired casually whether we had enjoyed our day. We couldn’t tell him that we had had a glimpse of hell.
That night we lay awake for a long time. Eventually I heard Marie’s steady breathing but still the vision of the boy, strangely fair for a Spaniard, reminded me of Harry. I sat up and with apologies to sleeping Marie put on the dim electric light. I took a piece of paper and began to draw.
The boy was spread-eagled on the ground, impaled, as I had seen him, in that shaft of sunlight. Circling him was a band of soldiers but it was their boots that I emphasised—those hellish leather boots that strode the earth with inhuman possessiveness. The boots were monstrous but the bodies above them were miniscule and the faces were the faces of slavering wolves. I wrote FASCISM below the drawing and let it speak for itself.
Marie stirred and woke. ‘Whatever are you doing, Judith?’
‘Something I must.’
She got up, came to my side and looked down at my drawing. It was rough but she saw its Goya-style brutality. ‘Judith, you must destroy that. If anyone here found it, mon Dieu …’
I continued to refine it and she sat beside me silent and anxious. I only had pencils and without fine pens had to be satisfied. Although less than perfect it still had the force of my passionate anger—the same anger that had driven me to draw Harry crucified against the palings of Victoria Square.
‘It is wonderful, Judith. Wonderful. But you must destroy it.’
For a minute I said nothing, studying my cartoon. I recognised her good sense, knew with almost a physical pain how much she had done for me and for Harry and how much I was risking. ‘No, Marie,’ I said. ‘I’m sending it to the editor of the Daily Herald.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘not completely indiscreet. I won’t send it to the office but to the editor’s home address and I’ll fold it and send it as a small letter rather than in a large flat envelope. But I must send it, Marie.’
I hesitated, fearing to sound self-indulgently dramatic. Then I said in a rush, ‘To not protest would leave a wound on my soul that might never heal. It would continue to weep, Marie, like the tears of that distraught mother and I would know that the one thing I had power to do I was too afraid to do. I could make rescuing Harry an excuse but …’ I stopped and looked at her helplessly.
She put her
hand over mine and gazed at the cartoon. ‘Yes, Judith, you are right. We must not make excuses. Send your work but at the same time send your letters to your mother and father and Winnie so that letters to Australia might cover any suspicion about a letter to England.’
I had drawn it on lighter paper and now folded it and slipped it into an envelope. I searched out the home address of the editor, which he had given me along with his phone number. By the time it reached London and he published it we would be gone from Spain with Harry.
The next morning we went out to our nearby cafe for coffee and breakfast. Neither of us felt hungry but it was necessary to behave normally. Whether many people knew about the tragic event in the village, we didn’t know. We should at least appear to struggle out like tourists, even if shocked ones.
But the news had reached Sotrondio. A few coffee drinkers glanced at us uneasily and, when they left, avoided looking at us. However a couple approached us: ‘We are very sorry, English ladies,’ they apologised. ‘What terrible things you will think of Spain.’
It was hard to respond appropriately. To say we were appalled and devastated by such barbarity would only increase their unhappiness on our behalf. To pretend it had not affected us would be a lie and present us as heartless. We compromised. As Marie understood their Spanish she acknowledged their distress and thanked them for their concern but she made no comment on the shooting.
We lingered in the cafe, undecided about what to do next. We were afraid to visit another village and yet our drawing excursions gave us the excuse we needed to stay in Sotrondio. Already we had detected a slight surprise that we stayed on. Packing up and leaving immediately was what most people would do after such a fearful experience in a foreign country. If we didn’t have to stay, why did we?
So in a quandary we sat on sipping our third cup of coffee. How I longed for an Australian cup of tea. The cafe emptied.
But there was one man left. He read a paper in a far corner and we sensed that he watched us. I looked at Marie uneasily: ‘Should we leave?’