At the Lenin Barracks, there was pandemonium, although it was very good natured; the chaos was simply caused by the huge numbers arriving, with all kinds of different languages, and different experiences, or no experience at all. At the gate Jordi met an American who seemed to be some kind of officer.
“Are you a volunteer?” said the American.
“No, I live here,” smiled Jordi, “and I am a reporter for an English newspaper.”
“We’ve got several reporters here,” said the American, “and many others who speak English. There’s an Englishman over there, the very tall man, just arrived. If you want a story, you might want to talk to him.”
Picking his way through the throng, Jordi approached the tall man, and spoke in English to him. “I’m Jordi Vilaro,” he said. “I’m the Barcelona reporter for the British News Chronicle.”
“I’ve read many columns in the News Chronicle,” said the tall man. “I’m pleased to meet the man who wrote them. You’ve been doing an excellent job. I’m Eric Blair. I just got here by train from Paris. This is a rum do, alright. Am I mad? Are we all mad? Some man I met in Paris told me coming here was sheer stupidity.”
“How do you know about me?” asked Jordi.
“I didn’t know your name until now, but because you’re local, your reports are known to be authentic. You’d be amazed at the false news being put out by supposed journalists who are sitting safe in France, guessing what’s going on. The News Chronicle is very well regarded in England by those of us who are against fascism.”
“Did you come on your own?” asked Jordi.
“I’ve come ahead of my wife, Eileen,” said Eric. “She’s hoping to join me in the new year. She’s as committed to the cause as I am. By the way, you might have heard of me. I’m also a writer. I write under the pen name of George Orwell.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know your work,” said Jordi. “Should I have read your books?”
“Not necessarily,” said Eric, looking down at his hands. “I lived in Burma, and wrote about life there. That’s where I got these tattoos.”
Jordi looked at the strange small circles on Eric’s knuckles. “That’s very distinctive,” he said.
“They’re supposed to protect against bullets and snake bites,” laughed Eric.
“We’ve not got many snakes, but there’s plenty of bullets!” said Jordi. “You’ll need those tattoos if you are to survive here.”
Jordi wandered through the ramshackle barracks. Coming upon one group, he found he was unable to identify the language they were speaking. When he asked, he discovered they were from Poland. They told him that there were many from Austria as well as the Germans, all escaping the ravages of Nazi Germany, come to fight against fascism. Clearly there were thousands of young, and not so young, workers arriving, most of them coming to Spain via Barcelona.
Within a few days, rumours spread through the city, that a group of French workers were about to arrive. Rushing down the stairs and out onto the sunlit street, Jordi noticed that the trams on the Grand Via had been stopped. Suddenly he heard a marching band, and to the cheers of hastily assembling crowds, a huge column of French workers came marching down from Sants, and turned at the bullring to march to Placa Catalunya. Once more the streets took on a carnival atmosphere, and Jordi went with the crowd, jogging along the sides of the avenue whilst the marching column took the centre. Gathering in Placa Catalunya, the music changed to the French national anthem, La Marseillaise, and the French workers sang lustily. It was hard to judge how many there were, but Jordi realised that he was looking at a crowd of several thousand. The band struck up the Internationale, and the French workers were joined by the Barcelona crowds in singing, and raising their arms in clenched fist salute. The sky rang with the sound of thousands of voices. The loudspeakers on the square broadcast a voice in French, and Jordi turned to someone near by, to tell him what was said. “Better to die standing up than to live on our knees!” said the man next to him.
By extraordinary chance, he saw his sisters in the crowd.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Jaume has said he’ll go to fight,” said Dolors. “I’m very frightened. I’ve come to see what happening. Perhaps it will not be so bad with all this support from other countries. Perhaps it’s a good thing we’ve not had any babies. If I lose him, it will only be me who suffers.”
“Benet is talking about it,” said Carla, “but with the children, I hope he’ll stay.”
Suddenly the band struck up again, and another contingent of volunteers came marching, and singing, into the square. The cheers from the crowd grew even greater when the loudspeakers announced that this was a large group of German workers, fleeing Hitler’s Nazis. Once more the different nationalities joined in singing as loudly as they could, La Marseillaise taking on new meaning as the anthem of all revolutionaries.
“They stay here only tonight,” said Dolors. “They start the journey to Madrid tomorrow. That is where the fighting is, that is where they will turn the tide and beat back the fascists. That is where Franco will meet his end.”
“And I will be there with them,” came a voice behind them. Jordi spun round to see that his brother-in-law Jaume was standing behind them. In a kind of half-military uniform, and with a rifle on his shoulder, they were startled by his appearance.
“What are you wearing?” asked his wife.
“This is as much uniform as we get issued with,” laughed Jaume. “But it’s better than nothing. Most of these Frenchies will have no uniforms at all; and there may not be enough guns for everyone to have one.”
“So you are going?” said Jordi.
“Yes, tomorrow,” replied Jaume. “I reported to the recuiting office this morning, enrolled, and was given instructions. I have to be at the station before dawn. We’re going to Madrid.” Dolors clung to her husband.
“So we have one more night together,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
“Have you told Mam?” asked Jordi.
“No,” said Dolors. “I’ll go and look for her tomorrow after I’ve seen Jaume to the station. I think I’ll need her then.”
Jordi bid his brother-in-law farewell, one hand shaking the man’s hand, the other in his pocket touching the black cat.
The following day, as he left his building, Jordi found his mother and Dolors walking along the street towards him.
“Mam, it’s good to see you,” said Jordi. Turning to Dolors he asked her, “Does Mam know about Jaume?” Dolors nodded, speechless, her eyes red from crying.
“Oh Mam,” said Jordi, “it’s hard. Are you surviving all this mayhem?”
“Yes,” said Mam. “I’m a survivor. The city is so full of people, not just us who have lived here for years, but all these foreigners. Are they all coming here to fight for us?”
“They are, Mam. They give us hope that we can beat this bastard Franco.”
“Your father’s next. He’s going to join the fighting. He’s come to say goodbye.”
“Pa? Isn’t he too old? And with his limp? You say he’s here?”
“Over there, sitting waiting. Will you come and talk to him?”
“Of course I will,” said Jordi. “How is he?”
“He’s taken the death of Tomas very badly. I think he grew to love Tomas as much as he loves you. He said if ever he found out who shot Tomas, he’d kill the culprit with his own hands.” Jordi’s hand slipped back into his pocket to touch the black cat.
Jordi walked across Placa d’Espanya to where his father was sitting on a low wall, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Pa,” he said softly. “How are you?”
“Cold,” said his father gruffly. “I don’t like this time of year. How are you, son? Surviving?”
“That’s what I asked Mam,” smiled Jordi, still fingering the little black cat in his pocket. “I stay safe, but only just. I’ve been to the volunteer barracks. There’s people from all over, even from America.”
“Liste
n son, I’ll not stop long. I know you send reports to a newspaper in London, and you’ve been important in getting these volunteers to come to help us.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Keep it up son.” His father smiled a faint smile. “All those years ago, I knew learning to read, would pay off. Keep it up son.” There was a pause and father and son looked silently at one another.
“Why have you come, Pa?” asked Jordi.
“I’m leaving Barcelona,” said his father. “Dolors’s husband has gone off to Madrid with the communists. I’m going with the anarchists. There’s an anarchist militia division I’m joining, being formed in Aragon. We can’t have all these Johnny foreigners coming without standing by them and fighting alongside them. I’ve come to say goodbye, son. Who knows what will happen? There’s a train leaving this afternoon for Zaragoza, and I’ll be on it. Your Mam will stay here, I won’t let her come. Keep an eye on her, boy, keep an eye on her.”
“I will, Pa. I promise I will.”
Pa Vilaro stood up. Jordi offered his hand awkwardly, and impulsively his father threw his arms around him. The two men stood, both surprised by the unexpected compassion between them, then Vilaro pulled away roughly. “Right, that’s that. I’ll be away now.”
Jordi stood and watched his father, with his distinctive limp, marching away, to the train, to Aragon, to fight, to unknown dangers, perhaps to death. His mother walked after him, looked back at Jordi for a moment, then caught up with Pa, taking his arm and walking with him to the station. “He’s become an old man,” thought Jordi, “too old to fight. God go with him.”
Turning to Dolors, he said, “What will you do now?”
“I’m going to go and live with Mam at the music shop,” she said. “We’ve both seen our men go off to the war, so we can support one another.”
“What about Benet?” said Jordi.
“He’s staying in Barcelona. With three children, Carla needs him to keep working to pay for the family. It was a very hard decision for him as he was very guilty that he wasn’t going to fight, and just as guilty that if he did go to fight, he’d be leaving his family.”
“I’ll go and see him when I can,” said Jordi, “and I’ll come down to the shop and see you and Mam.”
Jordi stood and watched his sister walk wearily to the tram. She had always been so light-hearted and full of fun. Suddenly she was carrying the weight of the war on her shoulders. He sighed, thankful that at least she would support his mother, and Mam would in turn support her.
He looked around the busy Placa d’Espanya. It was full of people, as usual, going about their daily lives. The only difference from normal life was the weaponry. Everyone who could find one, now carried a gun. It had become normal for most men to be shouldering a rifle; most women carried a pistol of some kind, even his own mother. He didn’t know if Dolors had a gun, but he knew his mother would encourage her to have one. He resolved to go and see Benet.
Running upstairs, he was greeted by Laura at the door.
“Was that your Pa?” she asked. “I watched from the window. Has he gone to be a soldier?”
“He’s taking a train today. He’s too old for all this, but he’s determined to go. Dolors is going to live with Mam. I want to check on Carla and her children. Benet will stay, I’m sure, but I must see how they are.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Laura. “I need a walk, and I need to be with you.”
Carla was at home when they got there, surrounded by her children. “Benet’s at the shop,” she said, “but the stock is running low. He’s not getting supplies of sweets, and thinks the shop will close soon.”
“Will he stay here with you, or go to the war like Jaume?”
“He’ll stay. He found the decision hard, and his farewell with Jaume was difficult for him. They’ve been best friends since they were children, never apart for long; and the funny thing is that Jaume’s shop is well-stocked with tobacco and cigarettes. Benet’s going to go and see if he can get work there, even if it’s only part-time.”
“How are the children?” said Jordi.
“They stay cheerful, and cope better with the air-raids than I do. None of us like the sirens and the dark. We pull the blinds down on the window and sit in the dark, under the table together.” said Carla.
Benet arrived home early that day, pleased to see Jordi and Laura.
“I’ve got n-n-news,” he stuttered. “N-n-new job. Got J-J-Jaume’s old j-j-job, at the T-T-Tabac. A bit d-d-different from s-s-selling s-s-sweets.”
Laura looked at Jordi; they were thinking the same thing; with the stress of the war, Benet’s stutter had got much worse.
The children were mobbing their father as he pulled off his hat and coat, when the wail of the air-raid siren shattered the cosy atmosphere of the apartment.
“Once more, an air-raid in broad daylight,” said Carla.
“Where do we go?” asked Laura.
“Here,” replied Carla, “under the table. We’re in a basement, and there’s nowhere else.”
“This s-s-sewing t-t-table has seen some g-g-good times for the f-f-family,” said Benet. “Now it’s our s-s-shelter.”
Crouching down, the group huddled under the table. There was a long silence, and after a while, Carla said, “Perhaps it’s a false alarm.” Hardly had she spoken, but there was a distant rumble.
“No, it’s a raid,” said Jordi. “Not close yet. But we must remain here.”
The rumbles and noises of bombing continued and drew nearer. Laura sat very close to Jordi, and the whole family squashed together under the table. To Jordi’s surprise, the children fell sound asleep.
Whispering, Jordi said, “How can the kids sleep at such a time?”
“Children cope so much better than adults,” said Carla. “We’ve had so many air-raids, and spend so much time under this table, that it’s normal for them, and they sleep. Fearfully, Benet and I sit and listen, and are comforted by the sleeping children.”
Another resounding boom startled them, and made the children stir.
“Where do y-y-you go in an air-r-r-raid?” asked Benet.
“There’s a cellar at our building,” said Jordi. “We run down there. It’s not very nice, and I’m not convinced we’re getting much protection.”
“It’s better than just sitting in the room at the top of the house,” said Laura.
Jordi touched his black cat just as a huge thud and crash, a much closer explosion, shook the building. The crash-and-bang sounds of debris falling and voices yelling seemed to be outside their very door.
“S-S-Shit, that was c-c-close,” said Benet.
“Papa, don’t swear,” came the voice of one of the children, woken by the noise.
“S-S-Sorry,” said Benet, “but it was!”
Cowering under the table, they were still safe, but could tell from the pandemonium in the street above them that the last bomb had been very near.
“I’m going to look,” said Jordi. “Stay there. I’ll be back quickly.”
Leaving the others under the table, Jordi went to the door. Pulling it open he found that rubble and wreckage had fallen into the lightwell. As he opened it, the noises from the street flooded into the room. He didn’t need to go up the steps to see what had happened. The bomb had dropped directly onto the apartment house across the street. The steps were full of debris, and the street was blocked. In the distance, he could hear the approaching bell of a fire-engine, although the house was not on fire. Perhaps the fire engine was going elsewhere, to another shattered house, another scene of devastated lives.
Jordi turned back to the others. “Benet, come with me,” he said. “We must see if anyone needs help. Laura and Carla, stay with the children. Don’t let them see what’s happened.”
There had been many bombing raids in Barcelona, and Jordi and Benet had walked past many collapsed and destroyed buildings. Neither had been quite so quickly on the scene as this, and they were shocked by the clouds of dust, and t
he strange stale smell of a shattered building. They ran across to a small gap at pavement level in the ravaged building, to see a man struggling out from the wreck. “There’s others in the cellar,” he shouted, “Some of them hurt.”
In the distance, the ominous drone of aircraft was receding, and to everyone’s relief, an all-clear siren sounded. Benet was leaning down into the ruins of the cellar, and pulling a small child, covered in plaster dust, out into the street. With an eye on the tottering heap of bricks, plaster and timber above him, Jordi joined Benet.
“Be careful, this lot looks as if it will fall down onto us,” he said.
“G-G-Got to get them out,” replied Benet, leaning further into the hole, and dragging out an even smaller child into the fresh air. The child was followed by a woman, their mother, and she thanked Benet calmly, before gathering her children to her, and collapsing in the street, shaking with shock. The children started crying, and their mother held them tight. Looking up, Benet saw Laura climbing up his own steps, and he beckoned her to come to the distressed woman. Laura sat with the woman, and regardless of the grime and dust, put her arms around her.
“Someone phoned from the tabac on the corner,” said Jordi, coming to them. “An ambulance is on its way.”
Laura stood up, and shook some of the dust off. Putting his arm around her, Jordi said, “What’s happening to our city? How do I put this into words for the newspaper? What kind of a war kills people in their own homes? We need help from the rest of the world to deal with this terror.”
Once they were sure Carla’s family were unscathed, Jordi and Laura set off to walk home. They passed other bombed buildings, and could not avoid seeing people’s lives exposed to passers-by. At one shattered house, a lamp remained balanced on a sideboard, wobbling on the edge of a floor which had been sliced in two; at another they saw an exploded piano, and masses of sheet music blowing in the breeze.
On the corner of Balmes, there was a legless man begging. Wearing a filthy soldier’s uniform, he sat in the dirt, holding a tin cup.
Barcelona Sunset Page 28