Jordi stopped. “I’ve seen you before,” he told the beggar.
“Shouldn’t think so mate,” said the soldier. “I only got here yesterday. I lost my legs in Madrid. It’s been a struggle, but I’ve come back home. Used to live near here, up on the top floor. Building’s been bombed, and anyway, couldn’t get up there now.”
Jordi reached into his pocket and found some coins. They jangled as he dropped them into the tin cup.
“Thanks mate,” said the man. Jordi nodded.
As they walked on in the gathering dusk, Laura said, “What was that about? Why did you say you’d seen him before?”
“It took me back to London. You know when I went there with Steven, we saw lots of wounded soldiers from the Great War. Just outside our hotel was a legless soldier, in the remains of his uniform, just like that. We were shocked to see so many maimed young men in London. I remember saying something about hoping we’d never see such a sight in Barcelona. When this war is over, we’ll be left with all the wounded; all the soldiers who survived, disabled like that. What will happen to them?”
Air-raids continued for a long time. Little boys, escaping their worried parents during air-raids, took to plane spotting, trying to identify which aircraft were being used, and discovered that some of the planes were German, but the majority were Italian. Jordi often talked to kids in the street to find out what they’d seen, and was able to send authentic reports to London concerning the involvement of the German and Italian air-forces.
“How long will this war go on?” said Laura.
“I can’t see how it will end,” replied Jordi. “Madrid’s holding out for the Republicans, but Franco’s army is surrounding it. The International Brigade is growing, but without proper military help from Britain or America, I’m not hopeful. Franco’s got Hitler and Mussolini supporting him. We know what life is like in Germany at the moment, from Jewish volunteers coming here to fight for us, now that it’s not safe for them to remain at home.”
“Will the British government change its mind?” said Laura. “They can’t just sit there in London, and let Spain be overrun by these fascists.”
“The News Chronicle’s on our side, but Chamberlain seems to want to make some kind of peace pact with Hitler. To keep the peace with Germany, he’ll not risk going to war against Franco.”
As they reached their apartment building at Espanya, and walked slowly up the stairs, Jordi said, “I’ll go and see Mam and Dolors tomorrow.”
“All Barcelona is suffering from the bombing. I’ll come with you tomorrow. To be honest, I’m becoming nervous of going out on my own.”
The following day, sitting on the top of the tram, Jordi and Laura saw where many bombs had dropped. Passing the sunlit terraces of homes on Paral-lel with abrupt gaps, like smiles with teeth missing, they shuddered at the shattered lives exposed for all to see. As always, broken furniture and tattered clothing hung from wrecked buildings. Once they saw a large doll, lying in a doll’s pram, covered in plaster dust and soot; they looked at one another, speechless at the sight.
Through all the mayhem, life went on. Shops were open, although many of them had little to sell, and children played in the streets, using bits and pieces of the bombed buildings as makeshift toys. One little boy, probably no more than five years old, aimed at the tram with a table leg, and pretended to shoot at it like a machine-gun.
“It’s not a city for children to grow up in,” said Laura. “I used to think it would be good to have children, like Carla, but now I’m glad we haven’t.” She looked at Jordi wistfully. “Sad, isn’t it?”
“One day things will be different,” said Jordi to comfort her; but quietly he did not know if he believed it.
Leaving the tram near the Paral-lel metro station, they cut through the narrow lanes of the Raval. Jordi smiled at Laura. “It’s a very long time since I lived here as a kid, but I never forget my way through these dark alleyways.” Turning a corner, they found the narrow street blocked by the debris of yet another bombed building. Jordi grabbed Laura by the hand. “Come on, I know how to get round this. Let’s not try to go that way, I’ve had enough of destruction for today.”
Soon they emerged out in the sunlight of the Ramblas, and passing the old opera house, breathed a little more easily as they hurried up towards the music shop. Glancing up, Jordi thought he saw his mother watching from the upstairs window. To his surprise, the toad was back in his old place, watching the shop. Jordi went straight over to him.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “My father’s gone to the war, Tomas is dead. Are you spying on my mother and sister?”
“You’ll see,” chuckled the dwarf in his hideous costume.
With some apprehension, Jordi approached the door of the shop. Before he could knock, an unknown man, scruffily bearded, opened it a crack and spoke in a low voice.
“What do you want? The shop’s closed.”
“I’ve come to see my Mam, Senora Vilaro,” said Jordi. “She lives here, with my sister.”
“OK,” growled the man, opening the door a further small crack. Jordi and Laura slipped in, and the door was closed firmly behind them. In the gloom of the shuttered shop, they encountered a group of restless men, all smoking and silently staring at him. “She’s upstairs,” said the man.
“I know where to go,” said Jordi. “I used to live here.”
Gripping Laura’s hand firmly, he pushed through the throng. The men were uniformly bearded and stinking of tobacco smoke and unwashed bodies. Reaching the steep staircase, Jordi pushed Laura ahead of him. Turning, he was aware that every silent man was watching. He put his hand into his pocket and instinctively felt for his lucky black cat.
Upstairs, they almost fell into the parlour, where Mam was ready for them.
“I saw you coming,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you. With all these bombs, I’ve been anxious to know you’re safe.”
“We’re OK, Mam,” replied Jordi. “But what’s going on here?
Dolores came into the room, and hugged Laura. “So good to see you. This war. Nobody’s safe anymore.”
“What’s happening?” said Jordi.
“You father left word that there was a big arsenal of weapons and ammunition hidden here,” said Mam, in a quiet voice. Laura gasped, but Jordi nodded.
“I know, Mam. What of it?”
“Speak quietly,” Mam warned them. “It’s quite different now, from when your father was here. In those days, it was always noisy. Now it’s quiet and they do nothing but mutter together. These are all people your father knew. They call themselves anarchists, but I think some of them are just criminals. They are hanging out here waiting for some kind of signal, I don’t know what.” Mam paused. “They’re very rough peasants, living hand to mouth. They seem to respect us because of your father, and they don’t touch us. You’ll have seen the toad is back again. He’s watching to see what they’ll do next.” Mam smiled. “So am I!”
“Have they got the guns?”
“Yes, I showed them the hiding place.”
“What are they waiting for?” asked Jordi.
“I hear very little of what they say, but it seems they’re waiting for some kind of signal to attack the communists in the city.”
Laura gasped, “Us?”
“Yes,” said Mam, “you.”
“But we’re fighting this war against the fascists,” said Jordi. “We can’t start fighting one another in the city.”
“I think that’s what they plan,” said Dolors. “Mam and I are safe from them because of Pa, and you’ll get away safely because of him. But if they knew who you are, and how you meet in one of the communist bars, I don’t think you’d get out of here alive.”
Later, in the sunshine of the Ramblas, dazzling after the gloom of the shop, Jordi turned to the toad. “If anything happens to my mother,” he said, “it will be your fault.”
“No,” said the toad, “it will be your’s. We know all about you.”
&
nbsp; “You can’t trust anyone in this city,” said Jordi.
“That is most certainly true,” laughed the toad.
Laura and Jordi walked up the centre of the Ramblas, and made the most of the sunshine coming through the trees. “We’ll see what there is at the market,” said Laura, “before we go home.”
Jordi had been sending reports about the violence and atrocities, but he also wanted to write about the small details of everyday life. Whilst he had no idea what to write about the strange group of bandits hiding in the music shop, he welcomed the chance to see what the market was like.
Turning into the market, it seemed to be as busy as usual, but pushing through the crowds, they discovered the awful truth. There was almost nothing for sale. It struck Jordi that most of the people were old ladies, grasping battered shopping bags, shuffling up and down the aisles for anything to eat.
“Is it always like this?” he asked Laura.
“Not until recently,” she replied. “At first there was plenty of everything, then gradually a few shortages. I suppose as men go to the war, the crops aren’t harvested, animals aren’t slaughtered. Nothing’s getting through from further south. Day by day it’s been getting harder, but this is the first time I’ve seen it so bad.”
A sudden noise, and a surge of old ladies towards a stall at the far end of the market, meant something had arrived. Laura and Jordi followed the crowd. “Cabbages!” shouted one of the old ladies, but by the time they got there, they were all gone.
“This is so weird,” said Jordi. “It’s as if normal life doesn’t exist any more.”
“It doesn’t,” said Laura. “You must tell your readers in London. This is why we need help and support. This, just as much as dealing with bombing, and bandits in the music shop: if the bombs and bullets don’t get us, starvation will.”
“I’ve not heard there’s a problem in the people’s kitchens,” said Jordi. “Let’s go up to the Ritz, and see what’s to eat in the restaurant there.”
Their lunch at the Ritz was a subdued affair. When the communists first commandeered the hotel, there was lots of food, and large numbers of noisy people to eat it. Now the kitchens were struggling, and although they were getting better supplies than the market, the menu was very limited, with no meat or fish, and lots of rather thin soup.
“I’m beginning to feel guilty,” said Jordi. “I see everything we do in terms of it making a good report for the paper.”
“Don’t be guilty,” said Laura. “You must go on writing good reports for the world to read. You are our lifeline. Even if the British government has turned its back on us, the ordinary people of England will understand. Your column in the News Chronicle is recruiting the men and women of the world to come to our rescue.”
“Is it to rescue us, or am I bringing them to their deaths?” said Jordi. “And what’s the good of coming to fight for the cause, if the anarchists start to fight another war within the war?”
Meetings at the Begemot Bar became ever more sober. Although Barcelona had not been invaded by the fascists, reports of their successes elsewhere in Spain came daily, accompanied by horrifying stories of atrocities against those opposing them. Not only were soldiers dying in huge numbers on both sides, but many civilians were being rounded up and executed. The bombs continued to rain down on Barcelona, and news reached them of a greater horror which had befallen a small town in the north. It was springtime in 1937, when all of Spain enjoys brilliant blue skies and balmy weather. The citizens of Guernica were out and about, shopping in the market, going about daily business when they heard the planes approaching through the clear blue sky.
Italian bombers had dropped thousands of bombs on Guernica. A new word entered the vocabulary, when Jordi, using the German word “blitz”, reported the raid to London. A daylight raid on the town had reduced it to rubble. This was something far more sinister than the random bombing of individual buildings, which Barcelona was suffering. This was an all-out attempt to destroy a whole town. Jordi’s editor in London later told him that there had been rumours in Great Britain, that Hitler and Mussolini had planned the Guernica operation to try out the idea of “blitzing” a complete community. The British government, apparently, was appalled by the atrocity, but still intended to pursue a policy of appeasement. The News Chronicle continued to campaign for support for the Republican cause in Spain, and the numbers in the International Brigade swelled.
Fewer and fewer men were able to come to the communist meetings at the Begemot, as one by one, they volunteered to go to the front. When Jordi wondered out loud if he would go to fight, there was a chorus of voices against such a move. “We know the job you do, telling London and the world about our situation. You must go on sending your reports. The world must know what’s happening to our poor country.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was one day in that same spring, in 1937, when Laura came rushing home early. Running up the stairs, two at a time, she burst into their room where Jordi was typing a report.
“Things are happening,” she said breathlessly. “The tanks we’ve been making at the factory, you know, based on the old Hispano trucks: well, I got a requisition for several to be delivered to Communist headquarters.”
“What are they going to use the tanks for?” said Jordi. “There’s not enough troops or weapons to launch an attack on the Nationalists, and thankfully they’re not at our gates.”
“That’s the issue. They’re not to attack Franco’s thugs, but to put down the anarchists here in the city.”
“Have they been delivered?” said Jordi.
“Yes,” replied Laura. “I took the requisition to the stores, and saw them drive away in a convoy. It was quite impressive.”
Jordi picked up the phone and tried to call President Companys’s office, but his call was intercepted by a voice at the telephone exchange. “Calls are only allowed if they support the war effort,” said the voice. “Calling the communist Companys is not permitted.”
At that, Jordi heard a tremendous volley of gun fire. Ignoring the shocking message he had just heard, he asked the operator if the gun fire was at the telephone exchange.
“Of course,” replied the operator coolly. “The communists think they can dislodge the anarchist control of the phone system by bringing tanks to Catalunya.” The voice was interrupted by another volley, which Jordi now realised was from a machine gun, presumably in the Telefonica building. Jordi realised it was probably the same gun Tomas had been manning when he’d shot him. He put the phone down, and turned to Laura.
“If the anarchists believe in chaos, then they are achieving their aims.” As he spoke, there were sporadic bursts of gun fire from many directions. “What now?”
“It’s what we were afraid of,” said Laura. “A civil war within the civil war. Those bandits in the music shop. Perhaps this is what they were waiting for.”
Out on the street, Jordi found nothing but chaos and mayhem. Walking with some trepidation towards Placa Catalunya, he found small armed groups standing around like extras in a film, waiting to decide who to kill. Paving stones were ripped up at various places and barricades built. Recognising another journalist, Jordi asked what was happening.
“Christ knows,” said the neighbour. “It’s just a big mess. The police have lost control, and anarchist groups are simply wandering about shooting anyone they think is a communist. I wouldn’t want to be in Companys’s shoes right now.”
Jordi’s knowledge of the alleyways and dark lanes of the city enabled him to get to the Generalitat unharmed, and since he was now well-recognised by the soldiers at the door, he was allowed in. Several other reporters were hanging around, and told him that there was no news, just chaos everywhere, but that the president would be meeting with them soon. He sat to wait.
When Louis Companys arrived he looked very harassed. Several of his ministers, joined him, and the assembled reporters waited for him to speak.
“Gentlemen, good afternoon. This offi
ce is a remarkable oasis of calm, and I welcome you. Outside of these walls, we seem to be surrounded by chaos, and I can report nothing but chaos. I will try to give some idea of what is going on. As you will be aware, groups of anarchists in the city have decided to try to take control of many of our vital functions. Significantly, one of these has been the telephone exchange on Placa Catalunya. They have had a challenging presence there for some time, but have not interfered with the workers, or the running of the exchange.
“My office has known that anarchist groups have been stock-piling weapons in the city for many years, and in recent times I have lived in the hope that they would be ready to use these weapons against the fascist threat. I did not expect them to turn their guns upon fellow citizens of Barcelona. We have had enough of their violence in the past. Our enemy is Franco, and his fascist armies. It will be a great challenge and strain if we also have to fight the anarchists.
“I am a little embarrassed to report that a number of armoured vehicles were stolen from the Hispano factory this morning. It appears a rogue group of communist activists presented a forged requisition document in my name. It seems they had information that there was to be an anarchist uprising.”
Jordi gulped. No-one else in the room would be aware that it was his own wife who had processed that document.
“Perhaps there’s something in the water this week, but violent activities are taking place in many different locations, seemingly co-incidentally. Just as the communist group was stealing the tanks, the brigands in the telephone exchange started interfering in phone calls, and unrelated anarchist groups were emerging from their hiding places and taking to the streets. Is this really co-incidence? We know there are many spies in our city, all reporting to different unions and organisations. Perhaps there has been some kind of concerted effort to bring lawlessness and turmoil to our streets. Paving stones have been torn up in many locations, and barricades erected. Some streets are in the control of rogue communist groups, other streets in the control of the anarchists.
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