Wide Is the Gate

by Sinclair, Upton;

  IV

  A sausage-manufacturer, several landlords, and the director of a hospital which had once been a Jesuit college all had comfortable homes with paintings in them. All were the work of tenth-rate painters, but Lanny took them with seriousness, made notes concerning them, and dropped hints about the possibility of getting a permit to export such works. The aristocracy of poverty-stricken Caceres was delighted to discover that the war was not going to destroy all interest in culture, and when they learned that the distinguished americano was unmarried they even permitted him to meet their daughters. Also, they talked about world affairs; they said that Spain had become the battleground of the newest war against invading barbarians, but these barbarians had come not from the wide plains of Asia, but from the slums of the great cities of Europe. Haying heard General Queipo de Llano say almost the same words over the Seville radio, Lanny was not taken by surprise. He asked whether the hosts did not feel the least uneasiness about having such large foreign armies upon their soil. The hosts replied that they had full confidence in their country’s allies—and hastily changed the subject.

  Lanny ate abundant meals, slept in a comfortable bed, and had an agreeable time getting to know a small town of the Spanish “Whites.” From his room window which opened on the Plaza de la Constitucion, he looked down through drizzling rain upon long trains of supplies and bedraggled and spiritless Blackshirts and Italian regulars wearing camouflaged ponchos. They were marching to the Jarama front, something like a hundred miles away, and from chance remarks which Lanny picked up and put together he gathered that many of them were going to a new front which Franco was planning higher up on that same river. But to get to it they would take a long journey, all the way around the great loop which the Generalissimo had cast about Madrid, beginning at the southwest of the city and covering the west or Manzanares front, the northwest front from University City to the Guadarrama Mountains, and through these mountains eastward until it met the Jarama at its sources. That river flows only a short distance, but that flow is to the east of the capital, and the Loyalists held that territory and clung to it tightly. If taken, it would block their only passageway to the outside world—to Cartagena and Valencia and the vital supplies that came from the Mediterranean.

  So there was the issue of the war, clearly defined. If Franco could take the whole Jarama valley, some sixty or seventy miles, he could starve Madrid and force it to surrender. The report was that he was sending a great Italian army, with a few Spanish troops, all the way around the loop, to come down from the mountains in the north and open the new front. There, obviously, was going to be the scene of the next big battle, and Lanny wished he had some way to get that bit of information to the authorities in Madrid.

  Taking this grim and merciless conflict as his personal affair, he would lock himself in his room, glue his ear to the radio, and listen to the strange war of words that went on all day and most of the night; a sort of open forum of the air with the whole world as audience—for the foreign correspondents listened and included it in their dispatches. It was a battle of news and propaganda, a wrestling-match in which no holds were barred. Could truth survive in such a melee? No one could give the answer, because it was the first time it had ever been tried—just as it was the first time the new German guns and tanks and planes had been tried, and the new German plan of bombing open cities to terrify their populations into surrender.

  It gave Lanny a great thrill to hear the voice of his friend Raoul Palma, speaking from Madrid, pleading eloquently with the Spanish people to stand firm against this invasion from the Middle Ages. Another thrill to hear the voice of Constancia de la Mora, who was in Valencia working for the government. These voices came like rays of sunshine in a Stygian midnight; Lanny wondered, was he the only person in the town of Caceres who was hearing the words? Or did others behind some of those grim stone walls lock their doors and plug the keyholes, and crouch with one ear close to a sound-box catching faint whispers of enlightenment and hope? Lanny thought of the words of Emerson, taught to him by his great-great-uncle, the Unitarian preacher in New England:

  One accent of the Holy Ghost

  A heedless world hath never lost.

  It would be fine if it were true; but Lanny wondered.

  V

  The visitor was forced to face the uncomfortable fact that he was getting nowhere at all with the project which had brought him here. He hadn’t been able to find the faintest crack in the mental masonry of Franco Spain. He tried gentle hints at a liberal idea, and never once met the slightest response. More than that he dared not try, and even that might be dangerous; word might get about that this plausible and agreeable heretic was sowing seeds of doubt and dissatisfaction with the divinely ordained totalitarian system. And anyhow, would the officers of a desperately fighting army continue indefinitely to permit a stranger to dwell among them, no matter how high the credentials he might carry? A man could conceivably be interested in the painting and architecture of Caceres for a week or two, but surely not forever!

  Lanny studied the faces of the people he met. There were sour and grim ones aplenty, for the Spaniards are not a gay people, at least not in this barren and wild western part, from which so many of the conquistadores had come. But one might have many troubles in Estremadura without attributing them to tyranny and exploitation. Lanny, no mind-reader, could only guess about this person and that, making mountains out of molehills and revolutions out of what may have been only an upset stomach or disappointment in a business deal. He continued to hesitate, because he knew that he could make only one misstep—and then who could know how far he might tumble?

  VI

  When at last he came upon what he was looking for it was by a freak of chance. He had grown somewhat careless about his radio set; he listened late one evening and then, instead of packing it into the bag and locking it, he left it standing on the table with the intention of listening again in the morning. But he slept late, and there came a tap on his door, the waiter with his breakfast; he got up and unlocked the door, forgetting the set, and only after the man was in the room did he realize what a slip he had made.

  The waiter’s name was Jose. He was a man of forty or more, with thin, rather dour features, a sallow complexion, and black hair turning gray at the edges. He had a club foot, and limped somewhat; he was extremely polite, and said no unnecessary words—a perfectly trained servant, and Lanny guessed he had probably been a long time in this hotel. Watching, the visitor saw his eyes move to the radio set, just once and no more. Then Lanny turned his back and made as if beginning to shave; but he managed to get a glance in his mirror, and saw that the man, while pretending to arrange the breakfast tray, was again staring at the radio. Lanny thought: “He knows what it is, and I am in for it.”

  The waiter started to leave the room; but before he reached the door he turned and came back, and said in a low voice: “May I speak to the Senor for a moment?”

  “Certainly,” replied Lanny.

  “It is not wise to leave that thing in sight. The maid is pious.”

  “I understand,” said Lanny, promptly. “Thank you. In my country, you know, everybody has such things, even the laboring-people and those who farm the land.”

  “I have heard about it, Senor; you are a fortunate people.” His eyes moved quickly to the door; then he added: “It is not so bad that you have the thing with you, but it is where you leave the dial.”

  A bright light flashed in Lanny’s mind. He had been listening to the government station in Madrid, and had left the dial at that point—and this man knew it! That could mean only one thing: he was familiar with radio sets and knew how to get the most dangerous of all. He, too, had been breaking the law!

  So here was Lanny’s chance, the one chance that fate might allow him. He must not hesitate to take it. “Jose, may I talk to you?” he asked, softly.

  “It is very dangerous, Senor.” The man looked again toward the door, even though Lanny had closed it after le
tting him into the room. “I have duties, Senor, and if I delay they will become suspicious.”

  “I will say it quickly. I am a man who does not like to see other people killed. I come from a land where men are free, and can say what they think.”

  “I know that—”

  “I want very much to have someone to talk to, someone who understands my way of thinking. I could make it well worth your while.”

  “I know, Senor; but it would be dangerous for us both. I am a man who is watched very closely.”

  “That is why you interest me. Could you not take a drive with me in my car?”

  “Impossible, Senor. If they should see us they would shoot me.”

  “Isn’t there some place where we could meet at night, if I promised to be very careful and make certain I am not being followed?”

  “They watch everything and everybody. I am a lame man, and it is hard for me to go anywhere without being recognized.”

  “I go to the homes of different people in this town and I do not think I am followed. Just beyond the house of the alcalde is a great oak tree and it is very dark under it. If I parked my car there at ten o’clock this evening, I do not think anybody would notice whether I left the car or sat in the back seat; and if you were to pass by and step in quickly, I could lock the doors, and if we spoke in low tones as we are doing now I do not think it would be noted. If you walk by without speaking I will understand that you are being watched, and I will not speak to you. You can come back later on, and be sure that I will not notice you until you have stepped into the car.”

  “Very well, Senor, I will try it; but you must know that it might cost me my life if there was a mistake.”

  VII

  Lanny spent the day studying the ruins of Caceres’s Moorish alcazar, now serving as a reservoir; but while he sat pretending to examine elaborately carved columns, he was thinking over the perilous step he was about to take. The man might be a clever agent, sent to find out about him; he might be a rascal who would take Lanny’s money and then sell him out; he might be a coward, a liar, a blackmailer—a variety of things which would be extremely uncomfortable for a man who was alone in a hostile country under war conditions. Lanny had to face the fact that what he was doing constituted him a spy, nothing less, and if they caught him it might be a shooting-matter.

  But he wasn’t going away without making a try, and he surely couldn’t expect a better chance than this. The episode of the radio set bore the marks of genuineness, and to refuse to accept it would be fearing his fate too much. He must trust this man—but how far? Should he try to get the man to betray himself, if by chance he was a spy? Perhaps by doing that Lanny would make him suspicious and afraid. Perhaps the wiser course would be to come straight out with the truth and win the man’s confidence. Like a general contemplating a battle, Lanny strove to foresee all contingencies and plan how to meet them; he carried on in his mind imaginary conversations—but the trouble was, he knew so little about this lame waiter, and so could think of so many conversational turns.

  At the appointed hour Lanny sat in the darkness under the aged oak tree, in the rear seat of the car, waiting and listening for footsteps. The car door was unlatched, so that it could be opened quickly and without a sound; even so, he was startled when without warning it was pulled open and a dark form slipped into the seat beside him. The door was closed, again without a sound, showing that the man knew something about cars. “All right, Senor.”

  “You have not been followed?”

  “I don’t think so; but speak low and quickly.”

  “I do not know you, Jose, but I assume that you are an honest man and that I can trust you. I ask you to give me your word that you will not tell anyone what I am going to tell you. I will make you the same promise: nothing will ever cause me to speak a word about you, or to reveal anything you tell me. Is that a bargain?”

  “Yes, Senor, you can trust me for that. But you must know that I am a poor man, and a cripple, and I am in a bad position. They put me in jail and came near to shooting me last summer when they took Caceres; it was only my patron, my boss, who saved me; he could not easily find a man who will work such long hours, and who knows what ladies and gentlemen require, and can speak a little of the different languages.”

  “They shot many people here?”

  “Hundreds, Senor. They shot them if they had bruised shoulders, proving that they had been firing guns; they shot them if they smelled of powder; they shot them if they had some enemy who whispered that they had been talking with the Reds, or had sold them goods, or whatever it might be. They are still shooting them, every night.”

  “I have been hearing shots and wondering if that was it.”

  “Last night they shot a schoolteacher, a woman they said was a spy. She had been hiding in a culvert for a long time, and two of her pupils had been bringing her food. Yesterday someone heard one of the children say: ‘I have to take the sausage to the teacher.’ The soldiers followed the child. That is the way it goes, Senor.”

  “I have been trying to find someone who will talk to me, but with no success.”

  “They do not know what to make of you, Senor. Some are certain that you are an agent, but they do not know for which side. Others think that you are just one of those rich Americans who have a great deal of money and do strange things with it.”

  VIII

  Lanny began his story, varying it only slightly from the facts, to heighten its romantic aspects. He said:

  “I have a young friend, an Englishman, a noble and generous-hearted lad. His father has been my friend from boyhood, and I watched him grow up. From his childhood I thought he would marry my sister, who is of the same age. But he became a Socialist, and she did not care for that, and jilted him. Then he decided that he wished to fight for the government of Spain. Maybe that was foolish—I do not say. Anyhow, he came to Madrid as an aviator; his plane was brought down, and I heard that he had been injured and brought as a prisoner to Caceres. My sister is broken-hearted about him, and so are his mother and father, who are my dearest friends. We were not able to find out anything about him, so I said: ‘I will go to Caceres and see if I can find out where he is and how he is being treated, and perhaps send food to him.’ That is not precisely being a spy, and it ought not to be considered an evil thing.”

  There was a silence. “It would be considered very bad, Senor,” said the man, at last. “You are in a position of great danger.”

  “Perhaps so; but I had to trust somebody. Can you tell me if there are any war prisoners in this town?”

  “Yes, Senor, there are some; but it is a great secret and no one dares to talk about it.”

  “Do you know where the officers are kept?”

  Again a silence. The man peered out into the darkened street before he whispered: “They are in the round tower of the old barracks.”

  “Do you know how many there are?”

  “About fifty, I believe.”

  “Do you know the names of any?”

  “No, Senor; it might cost a man’s life to ask such questions.”

  “They don’t ever let them out, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no; how could they?”

  “Have you heard anything about how they are treated?”

  “I have heard that it is very badly.”

  “Do you know anybody who might find out if my friend is among those prisoners?”

  Another silence, still longer. “It would be an extremely dangerous thing to attempt, Senor.”

  “Listen,” said Lanny. “I very much need help, and am willing to pay for it. I am not a rich man, but I earn money dealing in paintings, and whatever I have or can get I am willing to spend to try to make life easier for this young Englishman. I take it that the men who guard the prisoners are not all saints, and that one of them might like to earn some money; perhaps one has a girl who might ask questions; it might even be that there is someone who is not altogether loyal to the uniform he wears. I can form no idea
, but perhaps you can. Here are a couple of hundred-peseta notes, and you may keep one of them for yourself and pay the other to whoever can find out for me.”

  “The notes are too large, Senor. A poor man could not spend that much money in this town without attracting attention. And anyhow, if I help you, I would rather it be for the cause. We Spaniards are a people who believe with great ardor and do not give up easily. Tell me just what you wish to know.”

  “I want to know where my friend is and how he is. He was wounded, and may have recovered, or he may be ill. I want to know how he is being treated. I would be glad if he could be told that I am in town. There is a word that would tell him that; the word is ‘Romney.’ Can you remember it?”

  “‘Romney.’ I will learn it.”

  “It is the name of an English painter, and it means nothing to anybody else, but my friend will understand it, and it will tell him that I am near and that the person who speaks it is a friend.”

  “Romney. And what is the name of your friend?”

  “Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson.” Lanny said it several times and made the waiter repeat it. Then he said: “Shall we meet here again?”

  “Never in the same place,” said the other. He named another dark street near the home of another citizen whom Lanny had called upon. Evidently he knew a lot about what the visitor had been doing in the town. He said: “I will give you a sign when I have news and when we are to meet again. Now if you will turn the car into the alley I will slip out, and you can back the car, and it will be as if you were turning round.”