No Pasarán!

by Pete Ayrton

  ‘At once, if possible. I’ll have time to see the doctor, have a bath, change my underwear. And bring back some books. Now I’ve got over my fear, I prefer lice to a lack of vitamins; they’re easier to deal with.’

  At the hospital, the delousing process consists of several stages: an antiseptic bath, anti-parasite cream on the head after a fine-tooth comb has been run several times through the closely-cropped hair, then a cicatrizing lotion on the wounds, followed by lots of talc all over the body. To avoid the wool rubbing, I am given a fine cotton shift that covers me from neck to ankle. It feels as though I’m in a shroud: perhaps I am, who knows?

  ‘Now,’ I say, ‘can I be given something for my cough, a medicine so that I can sleep at night and let others sleep as well?’

  ‘The doctor is expecting you,’ the nurse replies gently. ‘Come with me as you are. That shift suits you, it’s like a wedding dress ... ’

  ‘Or a dress for a funeral: it looks like a shroud. I feel as if I’ve already been buried.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, and above all, don’t take it off. If you put your woollen clothes directly on to your skin, the sores on your chest will get infected.’

  The doctor listens to my breathing carefully, then peers at my X-ray. He explains that I have bad bronchitis but that it hasn’t affected my lungs. He says I need to spend a week in bed.

  ‘The week in bed will have to be when our men are relieved, which must be soon,’ I say. ‘For now all I want is for you to give me medication, especially something to help me sleep. If I’m still coughing when I return to Madrid, I promise to take good care of myself.’

  ‘It would be better to do it now, or are you so indispensable at the front that you can’t be away for a week?’ the doctor replies irritatedly.

  ‘I’m not indispensable, or even necessary, but in our trenches there are dozens of militiamen who are coughing like me, and are covered in lice just as I was an hour ago. If they can’t leave their posts, there’s no reason for me to abandon mine. It’s a simple matter of equality, or discipline if you prefer.’

  The doctor does not deign to reply, but writes out a prescription, hands it to the nurse, gives a brief nod of the head and hurries out of the consulting-room.

  ‘I think we’ve got everything the doctor wants here,’ says the nurse.

  In a short while, she comes back with bottles, tubes of pills, boxes of cream and a big packet of iodised cotton similar to what I put on Hippo’s chest when he was coughing.

  ‘I put in two or three times as much of everything,’ says the gentle girl, ‘in case other people need them. They’re very good medicines; and besides, I’ll pray for you all. The medicines will be more effective that way.’

  ‘You’re religious, aren’t you? It’s obvious from your manners and your voice.’

  ‘I used to be a nun, and there’s no reason I should hide it. When I took the veil it was against the wishes of my family, who are all left-wing. Whatever happens, I won’t go back to that, but I haven’t lost my faith. I pray to God every day for Him to protect my two brothers who are fighting on the Andalusian front. I’ve heard that Málaga is about to fall. I’ve lit ten candles to the Virgin in my heart so that she doesn’t allow the Fascists to enter Málaga, because if they do they’ll carry out the same slaughter as at Badajoz. God will not permit it, I’m telling you that God will not permit it. I’m sorry for all this pointless chatter, Málaga may already have fallen, so it’s possible that I lose my faith even in the Holy Virgin.’

  Somebody pushes open the door. It’s an old man, probably the porter, who cries out in anguish: ‘Málaga has fallen; it’s just been announced on the radio. The Italian air-force is bombing the roads packed with civilians. What a crime, Lord, what a terrible crime!’

  I embrace the nurse and run out to get to the bookshop on Calle Preciados, where the car is waiting for me. The driver already knows that Málaga has fallen. So does the bookseller. They both say the government is to blame because it didn’t send the troops and weapons needed for the defence of the city in time.

  We pick up the packages of books already made up for us, then call in at two other bookshops. We give up on the idea of paying for the black market meal we had promised ourselves, and rush back to our positions as quickly as possible as if we are fleeing the Italians bombing the roads around Málaga that are full of women and children.

  ‘There’s talk of betrayal in the high command,’ the driver complains, ‘and of struggles between different workers’ organizations. Just think: allowing Málaga the Red to fall! It’s all well and good to defend Madrid: but while we’re sitting waiting on our own in our trenches, the Fascists are taking all the other cities one by one!’

  Mika Etchebéhère was born Michele Feldman in 1902 in Argentina into a middle-class Jewish family. Studying at Buenos Aires she met Hippolyte Etchebéhère, whom she later married. Both anarchists, the couple went to Europe in 1931, were active in left-wing circles in Berlin and went to Madrid in July 1936, where they enlisted in the POUM. After Hippolyte was killed in the siege of Sigüenza in August 1936, Mika was elected head of the company in his stead, the only woman to command a column in the war. Her book Ma guerre d’Espagne à Moi (My Spanish War) was published in France in 1975. Her column consisted of men from Extremadura, fearless macho fighters who loved Mika dearly but insisted that she act as if she were their mother; they did not want to be teased for being led by a woman! Her account of her war experiences is rich in the many sides of the social revolution – teaching the soldiers to read and write, helping the peasants cultivate their lands, and delousing. After the fall of Madrid, Etchebéhère fled first to France and then to Argentina. She returned to France in the 1950s and, as an anarchist activist, took part in the 1968 general strike and revolt. She died in Paris in 1992, venerated by the French extreme left.

  DRIEU LA ROCHELLE

  A EUROPEAN PATRIOTISM

  from Gilles

  translated by Pete Ayrton

  TWO DAYS LATER, Walter was on the Irishman’s boat sailing to France.

  O’Connor was to drop him off in Marseille, then he and the Pole would put the boat at the service of Franco. It was dark; the three men were in the salon, drinking and smoking after their meal. Perhaps because of recent violent emotions, Walter was less susceptible to sea-sickness.

  He had left Ibiza with a clear conscience. The pilot and the radio had been found and Escairolle had escaped in a fishing-boat with the leaders and rank and file of resourceful or determined reds ready to go off to fight elsewhere. Cohen was out of sight and mind. Walter no longer thought about him.

  He looked with contentment at his companions. His last pleasure in life would be like his first: the companionship of men, both highly strung and self-conscious, entirely focussed on themselves. In the past, on the front, two or three men had given him this satisfaction. Not always intellectuals. One enjoys the collective sacrifice to something that, as the danger grows, becomes closer to one’s heart whilst also crucial to all. It is wondrous to be able to see oneself reflected in others and to appreciate others in oneself. A miracle so fragile and fascinating that soon only death could seal it with certainty.

  He shouted out: ‘Strange that we met given that we are up against the same problem.’

  ‘We have each made the voyage necessary for this meeting,’ replied the Pole.

  O’Connor poured whiskey in the three glasses and joked: ‘Each of us is fighting for a lost cause.’ Walter looked at this face devoid of melancholy but lit up with jocular animation.

  ‘What? You think it impossible that the Church recognises the lasting, universal reach of Fascism?’

  ‘For a while now, the Church does not understand what is happening in the world. The Church took a century to understand Democracy and came round to it when the latter was becoming history.’

  ‘Every time I meet a Catholic intellectual, they are anti-clerical. Do you think that the Church is committed to opposing Fascism?’
>
  ‘And vice versa,’ hummed the Pole.

  ‘But really, look at Spain,’Walter replied. ‘The Catholics are fighting for Franco.’

  ‘Not the Basques,’ complained the Irishman.

  ‘You Irish must understand the Basques. They are like the Irish in the Great War: I side with the enemy of my enemy whoever he may be.’

  ‘You are right there,’ O’Connor agreed, but continued: ‘There is no doubt that Hitler and Mussolini have a score to settle with the Pope.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual,’ added the Pole.

  Walter reflected on what had just been said.

  ‘I am not convinced. In any case, you want to remain a Fascist and a Catholic.’

  The two men agreed with silent mirth. Walter, more pensive and gloomy than his companions, continued: ‘What if the Church ordered you to fight Fascism?’

  ‘We would not fight it.’

  ‘Even if Fascism ordered you to destroy the Church?’

  ‘The Church cannot be destroyed,’ shouted the Pole. Walter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘This is not an answer. Put priests in prison?’

  ‘Yes, if they are more committed to communism than to the priesthood,’ exclaimed O’Connor. ‘In any event, priests must atone for their sins: they recognise this themselves. That’s why they are so keen on the communists.’

  Walter looked at him with concern. Was he a frivolous dilettante? Or was he aware of the subtlety of his contradictions? A strong faith is aware of the contradictions it embraces.

  The Pole continued: ‘The Church is indestructible: it will overcome its present errors and be strengthened through persecution. It will remain alive in the hearts of Fascist Catholics.’

  ‘But if you were ordered to renounce your faith?’

  ‘We would renounce it for political gains.’

  ‘Exactly so,’Walter sneered.

  ‘Yes,’ sighed O’Connor, ‘there always comes a moment when one must sacrifice one part of one’s faith to another.’

  ‘What is your faith?’

  ‘I believe that Fascism is an immense, salutary revolution and that the Church should take advantage of this moment it is offered to be completely renewed. Walter, from the first moment we met, you expressed perfectly my opinions: we are in favour of the virile Catholicism of the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said the Pole.

  Walter stirred on the bench he was sitting on.

  ‘Fascism is a proper revolution, which could mean a complete overhaul of Europe through a mixture of the very old and the very new which includes the Church: but if it rejects ... ’

  ‘And if the Church rejects it,’ whispered the Pole, ‘then... ’

  ‘...Then the world will await better days. It will wait for the Church and Fascism to see that they were made for each other,’joked O’Connor, downing a shot of whiskey. ‘But I’m not worried. When Fascism is the master of Europe, it will need Catholicism and it will recast it.’

  ‘Until then you Fascists would renounce the Church before you renounced Fascism?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Pole. ‘Fascism needs our help more than the Church. If the Church errs politically as it often has in the past, we would for the time being abandon it. You can take or leave the Church: it is eternal. If the Church were to ask us to fight with the Communists against the Fascists – that never. We would be excommunicated as many good Christians have been.’

  ‘But if the government of your country asks you to fight with the Communists against the Fascists?’

  The two men bowed their heads in anguish. They turned to Walter in the hope that he would be able to find a solution.

  ‘I think,’ Walter said, ‘that you can make for Fascism the same distinction you make for the Church. In the same way as for the Church you do not conflate its political and its spiritual leadership, so for Fascism you would not place its universal principle on the same level with the powers that embody and, at times, misuse it. If you cannot bring about the triumph of Fascism in your respective countries, you will bear the terrible consequences of your failure and if needs be, you will defend these countries against Fascist powers with the danger of bringing about the victory of anti-Fascist forces. Like the Church, Fascism can wait but you cannot sacrifice to the powers that use Fascism in your homelands.’

  ‘If Poland allies herself with Russia against Germany, if she allows herself to be invaded by the reds, I could no longer fight for Poland. It would be to sacrifice not only Fascism but also the Church. Look at what is happening here: to save the Church, the foundation of Europe, the good Spaniards have to call for help from Italy, Germany.’

  ‘But the triumph of Fascism is not the same as the triumph of one nation over other nations,’ said Walter.

  ‘The hegemony of an idea is always conflated with the hegemony of a nation,’ responded the Pole. ‘The hegemony of democracy was for a century or two conflated with the hegemony of England. In the end, a choice has to be made between Nationalism and Fascism.’

  ‘Nationalism is outdated,’was O’Connor’s comment after a moment of thought. ‘What the democratic powers could not bring about at Geneva, the Fascist powers will. They will achieve the unity of Europe.’

  ‘But would not the defeat of the Fascist powers establish the hegemony of Russia? Or of one of the vile democracies of France, England, America,’ shouted O’Connor. ‘For me the triumph, after a world war, of the United States would be as bad as the triumph of Russia.’

  ‘It would be the same thing,’ acknowledged Walter.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So ... ’

  Walter looked at both of them.

  ‘For my part, I have withdrawn from what occurs between nations. I belong to a new military and religious order established somewhere in the world which strives against all odds for the reconciliation of the Church and Fascism and their joint triumph over Europe.’

  The two men looked at him with fear and trembling.

  ‘But,’ the Pole took up again, ‘how would you avoid the hegemony of Germany?’

  ‘During the last century, peoples learnt Nationalism and Democracy from the French and turned it against them. We will turn Fascism against Germany and Italy. In any case, it is not possible that Germany does not foresee what will happen at a certain point in the next world war. A European patriotism will have to be born against the invasion of Europe by the Russian army. This spirit will only be born if Germany has in advance morally guaranteed the integrity of homelands, of all European homelands. Only then will it be able to effectively carry out the role it is allotted due to its might and by the tradition of the Holy Roman-Germanic Empire to set out a way forward for Europe.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the Pole.

  ‘I’m off to bed,’ said the Irishman.

  Born in Paris in 1893, Drieu La Rochelle is a controversial figure in French literature. After the First World War in which he was wounded three times, Drieu went to Paris, where he was close to Dada and the Surrealists. As he grew older, his politics moved to the right. In the 1920s, he denounced the ‘decadent materialism’ of democracy and in 1934 he declared himself a ‘Fascist Socialist’. After a visit to Germany in 1935, he embraced National Socialism as an antidote to the mediocrity of liberal democracy.

  A collaborator during the war, Drieu hoped that the Nazis would lead a ‘Fascist International’. After the liberation of Paris, Drieu had to go into hiding and he committed suicide in 1945. Never translated into English, Gilles is Drieu’s masterpiece. A corrosive portrait of France in the first half of the 20th century, Gilles is an autobiographical novel of the coming of age of a Fascist aesthete. The anti-Semitic narrator, disgusted by the decadence of his social and intellectual peers, leaves for Algeria, where he finds for the first time love and contentment. However, political events in Europe force him to return home and declare his commitment to fascism. When the Civil War breaks out in Spain, he must go and redeem himself fighting for Franco.

  MANUEL CHAVES NO
GALES

  THE MOORS RETURN

  TO SPAIN

  from And in the Distance a Light... ?

  translated by L. de Baeza and D. C. F. Harding

  ‘PAISA* IN THE NAME of the Big God, do not shoot... Me red, red.’

  Mohamed showed by his gestures that he was giving himself up. His arms were raised high above his head, fingers wide-spread, and one of his legs was red with blood from a wound, a scarlet flower blooming amidst the baggy rags which were his trousers. He looked like a terrifying scarecrow, only his eyes were alive, shining like two green points of fire. He had thrown down his rifle to indicate that there was no more fight left in him and stood behind the big boulder he had used as cover to defend himself. The reds, fearing some ruse, hesitated to come out into the open and kept firing at him from their shelter behind the surrounding boulders. From time to time the bullets tore chips from the rock close by. The Moor’s amazement at not having already been hit a dozen times grew with each badly aimed shot.

  ‘Stop firing!’ he kept on shouting. ‘Me be red, me be Republica.’

  And still the reds kept firing at him, as if at target practice, but no bullet touched him. Mohamed, astonished to see the shots whizzing past his head, began to feel profound contempt for such clumsy marksmen. He could have scored a bulls-eye with every shot. Such a poor opinion did he form of them that it flashed through his mind that he might as well pick up his gun again and go on fighting; so sure was he of being able to defy such poor warriors. At last one of them dared to come into the open very cautiously and shout: