No Pasarán!

by Pete Ayrton

  ‘Azaña is to blame.’

  ‘Like fuck he is.’

  An old man is pushing a covered cart, feels tired and stops; a child pushes it, he can’t manage more than five metres; his mother takes over, thirty metres further on granddad pushes it again. A soldier’s carrying a barren sheep over his shoulder.

  A woman: ‘They’re probably not as bad as they make out.’

  And walks on. Things gradually lose their colour. Night falls fast, as if it’s been snuffed out. I can feel my branches. It rains, then starts raining again. Cars honk like crazy, switch on their headlights, off, then on again, to see through the drizzle and not crash; mark out a path, then collide. More wounded. Where are they going? They’re running away. Why? They’re running away. I pity them at times like this. Yes, men are so pitiful, they’re so stupid. A tree will always be a tree and a man, even though he’d like to, will never come up to our shins. The night sparks bonfires along the road to France, like fire-flies. It’s cold. The wind blows explosions our way, but the night keeps its secrets.

  28

  The women are dressed in black as if they were in mourning, though their baggage is swathed in coloured headscarves; their blankets are grey with three white stripes. Few wear shoes: jute espadrilles and sandals. Among the colours returning with the early morning, the most visible, the brightest are bandages and plaster casts.

  ‘They were coming along the coast.’

  ‘Machine-gunned down, then more fucking machine-guns. Eighty killed in front of me.’

  ‘What about the wounded?’

  ‘As if we didn’t have enough already!’

  Back to yesterday. An old man walks along, doubled over two walking-sticks, his filthy head and broad-brimmed hat shaking between the two, it’s grey and green it’s so old and seen so much water; underneath a black kerchief, knotted the Aragonese way, encircles his baldpate. He mutters: ‘I ain’t sayin’ this for thee, or me. The lousy bastard came and took ’im away. Thee ’eard aright; what else can I say if misself don’ know ’ow? It took ’im away.’

  A loud-mouthed braggart is pissing on my feet, as he buttons up his flies, he asks the centurion in a kidding tone: ‘Where you off to, gran’dad?’

  The man stops, raises his head, looks at the fool: ‘To the knacker’s yard, mate.’

  And shuffles on.

  The men always walk with heads bowed, and never look up; they only think of us if it’s sunny or raining, or they’re looking for shelter, like right now. Two wounded adolescents lean against me, the colour gone from their cheeks, unshaven.

  ‘I’m from Andújar. What about yersself?’

  ‘From Saragossa.’

  It’s the first time I’ve seen people walking under the rain. I’ve always seen them running or stopping to wait for it to clear up, like the two sticking to me at this minute.

  ‘No, I din’t belong to any party, or even the union. I’m sixteen, or do I look over eighteen? Mi brothers did. Two of them. They wen’ after them straight off, but they escaped to France, wen’ through Navarra. I expect they wen’ back to Barcelona; they’ll still be aroun’ there. I ain’t ’eard a word. They din’t wan’ to execute me: only brand me. Yes, ’ere on my fore’ead, see a cross. The one who did it, din’t know ’ow, that much were bleedin’ obvious. Another guy, who were there, ’ands on ’ips, looked at ’im an’ said: “Come on, mate.” An’ put the iron in the red-hot stove. It weren’t ’alf a big room in an old ’ouse, near La Seo. Yer could ’ear the river.’

  ‘The Ebro.’

  ‘Of course. That guy came for me, and when ’e were within firin’ range, I kicked him in the goolies, if yer’ll forgive mi French. ’E reared up like a wild animal, but ’e din’t ’it me. I din’t want anyone brandin’ me for all the tea in China. “Right!” ’e said, “so we’re a little bolshie, are we? So we’re tryin’ it on big time, well you just see.” An’ ’e insulted me an’ were rude about my mother. Yer know... An’ gave the order for them to put me in the truck, an’ then I stopped thinkin’ about ’er, till days later. Nobody ’ad to tell me what that meant. But right then I couldn ’ave cared less. Later, it were different. I waited two ’ours an’ could only think about mi mother. Finally they threw me in the truck. As it were last minute, I weren’t on the list and they din’t tie me up. There were eleven of us. They drove us to the cemetery, I worked that out straight away. It were a pitch-black night. Nobody said a sausage. When we got there, the gate were open. Don’ yer know the cemetery in Saragossa? It don’ matter. They took us roun’ the back. The truck stopped an’ they asked the fellow next to the driver: “How many yer got?” “Ten an’ a bonus.” I were that bonus. I knew they was goin’ to shoot me, yet I couldn’t really believe it were ’appenin’. I felt bad I din’t know any of the people that were with me. As you couldn’t see a thing, they put the lorry that ’ad brought us behin’ them that was goin’ to execute us. That way we could see our shadows and the fascists’ as well. They stood us with our backs to them. Perhaps they was ashamed to look us in the face, or din’t ’ave ’an’kerchiefs to blin’fold us, though I reckon they’ve never blin’folded a soul. An’ why would they? It were a stone wall, an’ were pitted with grey and black marks, and little ’oles, all crumblin’. The ground were soft as putty. They shot without warnin’. No bullet ’it me, I fell down with the others, in all that blood. They must ’ave reckoned I were dead an’ as it were night-time they din’t bury us, they’d be leavin’ that for the mornin’. When they’d gone, I escaped. Dead lucky, weren’t I? They’d be really pissed off the next day when they wen’ to bury me. I wen’ to Huesca. Before all that business, I weren’t so sure. Now I know the fascists is a load of crooks. If I could... There’s so many rifles here... When I see what’s ’appenin’, I want to die of rage. I’d rather die than become a fascist. They wen’ to bury me an’ din’t find me.’

  The young lad laughs.

  ‘Then they executed mi mother an’ mi four brothers. That’s what fascism is and note else.’

  A stretch of bright sky peeps up towards the north.

  ‘First they woul’n’t believe me when I reached our side. Where Ortiz was. They wounded me four days after. Then I were in Barcelona, an’ then in Madrid. I didn’t have much luck, I were wounded three times.’

  ‘Were you in the CNT?’

  ‘I was. I’m a communist now. It’s better. They take more notice.’

  ‘Where’re you from?’

  ‘From Arenys. They told us to leave. But we will win. We ’ave to. We ’ave no choice. We must win. Must. I always thinks about the look on their faces when they wen’ to bury me an’ din’t find me. They must ’ave counted the bodies several times. They’d not put much effort into catchin’ me, an’ now they can take a runnnin’ jump. It’s ’ardly rainin’ now. Time to go?’

  The man talking – a feverish glint in his eye – lifts his arm inside a fantastic hodge-podge of wire and bandages; his companion is limping, the toes on his left foot pointing at the sky.

  Nobody else is talking. Their voices lost to their eyes. They’re walking. The women’s hips have broadened, dragging behind them memories, baggage, children, and these years.

  ‘They beat him to death in the village barracks. Yes, in ’34. This lad’s from Sograndio as well.’

  The road jams up, people ebb, their path, a canal eddying towards death, a reservoir, a dam; the crowds flow over the sides, horns blow any air they can catch, but the wind erases them. It’s stopped raining, is completely grey.

  ‘Can’t we go now?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Can’t we go now?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  The shouting goes hoarse, the joy’s all gone.

  They start to move off slowly, silently, crestfallen. It’s jammed with packed cars, islands in a sea of people. They all stay quiet. Six or seven ambulances drive up, queue up, like everyone else.

  ‘He hid in the village. They said he’d be all right. But the
second he went into the street, they did him in. That’s why I fled. I went via San Sebastián. That’ll be a year ago by now.’

  ‘Where’s this lot going?’

  ‘What do you expect, resistance has its limits.’

  ‘And its frontiers.’

  ‘You can joke. Death strikes every man-jack. Everyone has to keep going. If one fails, the whole thing falls apart. These people don’t know what they want, but they know only too well what they do not want. That’s why they’re fleeing. It’s not that they’re afraid, they simply don’t want to be fascists. Do you understand? It’s as clear as water: they don’t want to be fascists.’

  ‘What are they hoping to find in France?’

  ‘They don’t know. They don’t want to be fascists and that’s all there is to it.’

  A woman approaches carrying a child in her arms; she sees they are better dressed and imagines they’re men of learning, from the glow they give off. She hands them the kid: ‘He’s got a temperature, sir, he’s got a temperature.’

  One of the men touches the little boy.

  ‘No, he hasn’t. Come with me.’

  By the time they turn round, the woman has vanished into the stream.

  ‘Why don’t you run after her?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘But if they don’t want to be fascists, why do they run away rather than putting up a fight?’

  ‘They’re more afraid of falling prisoner than dying.’

  ‘A dead man – or woman – doesn’t fall prisoner.’

  ‘They don’t always die. People will find it hard to explain why Catalonia was lost so quickly, and even harder when they discover that after he’d taken Tarragona, Franco didn’t have to fire a single shot. It’s what I told you: people haven’t fled because they are cowards, it’s fear, fear of falling prisoner, of becoming fascists. Fear of becoming fascists. If we discount – and that’s saying something – their incredible material superiority, they only had to plant their flag on a peak for our people two or three kilometres away to retreat for fear of a rout. That’s the word: rout, they routed us; that did us as much damage as the Fiat planes. It wasn’t cowardice but fear. Lots of people can’t fathom how some of our units were totally defeated one day and the next fought magnificently; it’s simple, they felt supported by other forces, their flanks were covered. I don’t think it’s ever been any different when it’s a real rout, they die rather than surrender. The reasons for our defeat are too complex to be put down to a single feeling, but lack of unity, in every sense, has been lethal.’

  ‘And what about the vanguard?’

  ‘They were the first to see the enemy flags.’

  ‘And the first to join the rear. Right?’

  ‘Stop being so very unfunny. I know I’m exaggerating but when it came to relying on last minute formations, it was too late. You only fight fear of being caught by the fascists shoulder to shoulder. When you see you’ve lost, you do what you can. What’s amazing is that people don’t blame the ones who are to blame, and that everybody knows who that might be if it’s not themselves: the compañero; the communist, the non-communist; the anarchist, the non-anarchist, etc.’

  ‘It’s always easy to accuse someone who’s near to hand.’

  The raindrops, held back by us, plop as they fall on the loose earth, gravel or asphalt. The wind whips up, the clouds scurry; it reaches the sky. People dawdle, drag their feet; they are the counterpoint to the moaners and the horns. People have got into the habit of being slow, carry on as long as they can, don’t seek explanations, are more silent and subdued, older and blacker than ever.

  Sirens. Everyone hesitates for a second, then scatters frantically in every direction in small trickles cross-country or towards Figueras: the plight of refugees. Any cheer disappears. You hear any engines? Some old women have stretched out in ditches while, further up the road, people scamper towards open fields. Some use a dyke as a shield, soak their buttocks and more besides, some shelter against a wall, sit behind a tree, squat in a watercourse, think the plain will protect them, squeeze between ridges and riverbeds; many decide their lucky star will defend them and look up from the place they first scarpered to. The ack-ack battery spits sparks and shoots into the sky in futile competition with the clouds. I see the planes before anyone else. Five shining, three-engine efforts coming from the sea. A few cool characters discuss makes and models on a roof terrace. Most of the cars have emptied out; a bowl’s been dropped in the middle of the road, a cap’s lost at my feet, a metre along a corset. The planes, parallel to the sun, open fire. The sirens stop howling. Only the little ack-ack battery, chained to the spot, barks stubbornly. Not a single vehicle, dog or rooster; only the squadron approaching. Some rush off in search of a better fence. It must stun people to think their death may be up there, approaching silently, slipping through the air. They say planes go very fast, I think they always exaggerate; they’re still not overhead. Some mug starts wailing. They’re right over me. Flying by now.

  ‘There she goes.’

  A faint whistle fanning outwards. A shrill tone growing like a pyramid being built from its pinnacle. A ray of lightning turned thunderbolt. A horrible crimson morass. A tremendous blast from the entrails of the earth, gouging a man-made, so genuine crater, splitting and dismantling walls, that cracks, slices and shatters beams; sunders iron bars; fissures and flattens concrete; yellows, disgorges, disembowels, de-legs and despatches living people over the edge who in a fraction of a second are reduced to bits and liquid. Burns, breaks, twists, crumbles and collapses cars, smashes their windows; squashes old wagons, pulverises walls; crushes wheels, converts them into compasses; dissolves stone into dust; dismembers a mule; guts a greyhound; de-grapes vineyards; dislocates dead and wounded; destroys a young girl and de-brains a customs policeman crouching opposite me; de-limbs a couple of old men and the odd woman starting with their feet; ten metres to my left beheads an assault guard and hangs a piece of his liver from my branches; disembodies three children in the dyke down the lower slope; de-leafs and de-grasses fifty metres all round and, further off, demolishes a hovel’s walls, discovers tiles from Alcora; skins the air, turns it to dust for a hundred metres up, lops off men’s ears, leaves them like the man hanging opposite, naked, silk socks all neat and tidy, testicles driven into his stomach, no sign of hair, bowels and intestines in the air, still pulsing; lungs de-ribbing, face disappearing – where? – brains in place, for all to see, gunpowder black.

  My main branch is damaged and twisted, and most branches have crashed to the ground. A black kerchief and a few coloured ribbons hang from the one I’ve still got. The countryside breaks into a howl, under clouds of dust. Cocks crow. Shrieks furrow the acrid dust. I see people begin to stir, choking. Blood. Every bit of me hurts. The earth is full of dust, blood, shrapnel, branches, glass. Let them prune me now, I’m less than a third of what I was. Blood, and more blood. The dust hovers in the air as if the air was dust. People start shouting their names out. Heartache, sobbing, retching, bleeding, bleeding. Scarves flash again. Acrid smells, sour smells, pungent smells. Men stir amidst yellow dust, dust on their shoulders, heads old and grey. Two are pulling a kind of bloody bag, mush hangs where a head once was, no feet either, take it off round my side. Blood-soaked earth. Ambulances drive up, turf out huge willow baskets, yellow outside, grey inside from dried blood, where they throw the chunks of flesh they find, lots of feet. Bodies stack up in another van; as there aren’t enough ambulances, they pile the wounded on top of corpses.

  Vans drive off ringing their bells. A company of sappers arrives and sweeps the debris and branches off the road, villagers collect firewood, people emerge from their hideouts, a mass of sobbing, loud and clear. I think I can manage without extra supports.

  Two girls head towards Figueras, cut a path through the mud and the blood.

  ‘I’m not thinking about the war; I don’t want to. Someone can think for me. Everything else we must grin and bear.’

  She turn
s to her companion: ‘I don’t feel in a rush.’

  Re-born in a thousand places, the hazy river slowly picks itself up, the crowd gropes through the mist.

  Now the peeping-toms appear, a French journalist I know, because he comes every week, in an empty car he drives back loaded with bread and parcels. The other guy is Spanish, and in a foul temper. He looks at the road, the bottle-neck to my right, and bows low before the Frenchman.

  ‘La paix et l’ordre dans la justice! And what else, fat face? What else? I’m talking to you as a dead man, killed by your lot, the kind manufactured by your very own hands. A dead man. A man rotted by your peace that retreated, your non-resistance, your peace of non-intervention, your pansy peace. “If peace can be preserved at any price, then let it be!” And why shouldn’t peace be preserved? Here I am, one dead, putrefying man to bear witness to that, the Czechs as well, and those who will come after us, and they will for sure, believe me. Of course I think it will be preserved, you liars, shitting yourselves blind with fear, fools permeated by your pathetic petty-mindedness, digging holes in the ground with your arse-licking doggy legs, nobly desiring to slip away “And in July 1936 I gave the order to intervene.” Of course, my dear Hitler,* and we kept quiet, just in case, and Le père Blum, boom, boom, crying, and us dead. Thirty months of blood and stone, thirty months thinking that your Pyrenean rear end must be worth at least a couple of dozen bullets and a third of a cannon. And there you all are, still in one piece, expecting the grateful Spaniards, my dear innocent little lambs, to go and fight with you if the sabre insists. Maybe poor idiots like me will still think there’s no choice but to fight at your side; but we’ll be a very few.† Everyone else, millions of Spaniards and Czechs, will come and smash your faces in, make you eat your own words, and it will be a deed well done. You bet, Don Yvole; you bet, Don Bonete; you bet, Don Blum, boom, boom; off to the effing shit-pile, off to the effing shit-pile... ’