The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  Their presence should not have been a surprise to him. The Spanish peasant had to defend his little flock of sheep from predators more dangerous than the wolves which still occasionally left their lairs in the mountains to raid the sheepfolds. His real enemy was any stranger, whatever his politics. Politics meant nothing to him. A stranger would be looking for food, most likely with a weapon in his hand. These half-starved dogs were his defence. Edward considered, just for a second, stopping to explain who he was and that he had gold to pay for what he wanted. Then it came to him that his Spanish was not good enough and, anyway, the peasant might very well speak only Basque of which he knew not a word. He might be badly bitten before he could convince the dogs’ owner that he was not a marauder. An undignified run to the motorcycle was the only alternative. He reached it at the same time as the dogs. Kicking them away, he struggled to start the engine, cursing as a piece of Savile Row tweed was ripped by the yellow teeth of the largest of the animals. He gave a cry of relief as the engine started and he sped off, pursued by wild barking. It was borne in on him that Spain was no longer a country which welcomed tourists.

  Ravenously hungry, weary beyond anything he had ever imagined, dishevelled and covered in oil – and worse – but happier than he had been in months, Edward rode into Bilbao at seven that evening and asked the way to the Torrontegui Hotel. The city was quiet but everywhere he looked there were ruined buildings and bomb craters. Bilbao, capital of the Basque region, was, as Atkins had warned him, under siege. The Basque nationalists had supported the Republic from the beginning of the war because it had promised them an independent Basque country. In their hearts they now knew the Republicans would be defeated but they fought on with dogged determination, understanding full well that under General Franco they would be mercilessly repressed. General Mola, whom Franco had charged with subduing the Basque region, had reduced the area round Bilbao to a desert and the city itself to something resembling a last redoubt. Without being aware of it, Edward had had amazing luck. He had found a way into the city when anyone in Bilbao would have told him there was none. He had taken minor roads, often little more than mountain paths, avoiding road blocks and patrols, which had brought him safely through the encircling army.

  Bilbao was hungry but no longer starving. Mola’s fleet in the Bay of Biscay had threatened to sink any ship bringing supplies but, just a few days before Edward’s arrival, English ships had broken through with food and humanitarian aid – an ‘interference’ in Spain’s civil war which Franco’s sympathizers in Britain had been quick to condemn. However, the Basques had no air force to speak of so there was nothing to prevent the daily bombing of the city. Once again Verity was in the front line. When Bilbao fell, journalists supporting the Basque cause could expect no favours.

  When Edward stumbled into the lobby, he was immediately surrounded by about a dozen journalists who had made the hotel their headquarters. With a great effort he asked for Verity. She was upstairs and someone was sent to fetch her. While he waited, patient in his exhaustion, he drank the Spanish brandy and soda he was offered and the ache in his limbs began to ease.

  ‘Edward, is that really you?’ The voice was unmistakably hers. He turned to see Verity standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister.

  He looked up at her with a pleasure indistinguishable from pain and stumbled over to the foot of the stairs. ‘Yes, it’s me. I’m afraid I . . .’

  He got no further. Light as a bird, she hopped into his arms, indifferent to the watching journalists. He held her close enough to hurt her but she did not complain and, when they kissed, did not seem to notice that he smelt of sweat and dirt. When at last he let her go, she asked gently, ‘Why are you here, Edward? I mean, it’s wonderful that you are but is there something wrong at home or . . . ?’

  ‘It’s such a relief to see you, V. I know you must think I’m mad and perhaps I am mad but for the last few days I haven’t been able to think straight. I’ve had this awful feeling that you were in danger and, now I’m here, I see that you are. I’ve got to get you out of here.’

  ‘I can’t possibly leave now,’ Verity said, scandalized, ‘and, anyway, I couldn’t. I can’t think how you got in. When I came back here I had to pull every string I could think of to cross the border and I’m an accredited journalist. The only way out now is by sea and that’s dangerous. They say the harbour’s mined. In any case, if you think I would desert my friends now . . . Someone has to be here to report what is happening.’

  ‘But does it have to be you?’

  ‘Silly! Of course it does. I don’t mean that – if I wasn’t here – someone else might not get the story but, you see, I am here. It’s as simple as that.’

  Edward was too hungry and tired to protest further. ‘Is there anywhere we could get something to eat? I can’t talk until I have eaten.’

  ‘My poor lamb! Despite everything, there are still some restaurants open. We’ll go to the Excelsior. I’m due to meet Bandi and Gerda there in any case.’

  She shooed away the others who wanted Edward’s ‘story’ and took him up to her room to wash. And there on the narrow bed, despite his hunger and fatigue, he made love to the girl he now knew he needed whatever the cost.

  Bilbao was not Madrid with its sophisticated café life. It was a manufacturing city and its concerns were serious: money, not pleasure, but the siege had left it weakened and gloomy. However, as is always the way, the poor might be on half rations but the rich – and this included the foreign journalists – could still eat well. Edward assuaged his hunger with a highly seasoned pork stew washed down with a rough local wine which made his head swim.

  He told Verity of his mad journey, his eagerness to see her and be assured she was well and of the excuse he had come up with – finding James Lyall.

  ‘He’s not here. I don’t know where he is. He’s probably in Madrid.’

  ‘Why did you leave Madrid? I’m glad you did, of course. I might never have got there and, anyway, I suppose one has more chance of being killed there than here.’

  Verity raised her eyebrows. ‘You think so? You wait until tomorrow. The morning bombing raids are . . . well, you’ll see.’

  ‘Mola has a strong air force then?’

  ‘It’s not under Mola’s command,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘They’re German planes – the Condor Legion to be precise.’

  ‘German planes flown by German pilots?’

  ‘Yes. No one will ever admit it, of course. One theory is that Hitler told Franco he would like to try out some of his weaponry before the real war starts.’

  Edward was very tired and his brain was fuddled by wine but he tried to think. ‘How do you know they’re German?’

  ‘We can see the markings on the planes as they fly over. There’s almost no anti-aircraft fire from the city so they can fly as low as they like.’

  ‘But you don’t know they are flown by Luftwaffe pilots.’

  Verity leaned towards him confidentially. ‘You asked why we came here. We were sent. David Griffiths-Jones got information from a spy in Franco’s headquarters that they are going to try something special here – to show how near they are to winning. We don’t quite know what but David wanted witnesses.’

  Edward wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘I’m too tired to follow all this. What sort of thing have you been sent to witness?’

  ‘A major attack on Bilbao, I guess.’

  ‘Oh God! I wish I could take you back to England. You oughtn’t to be here. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Dope! That’s why I wanted to come. No one cares about the war any more in England. I need a scoop to wake people up to what’s going on here. Sitting in the Hotel Florida in Madrid, talking and drinking with Belasco and Sefton Delmer – you know him? He’s my rival at the Daily Express – that wasn’t good enough. I mean, there were some good moments. I remember once, when Sefton forgot the blackout and hadn’t drawn his curtains,
the police fired through the window as a warning. You should have seen Sefton’s face when the mirror behind him broke and he realized he had missed death by a hair’s breadth.’

  Edward wanted above anything to sleep but had not the energy to get up and walk out of the restaurant. At ten o’clock – the time most Spanish considered eating dinner – the restaurant began to fill up. Gerda and André arrived having obviously quarrelled. Gerda expressed her amazement at finding Edward there. Kavan did not trouble to hide his indifference and made nasty little jokes about Edward’s appearance, which was certainly bizarre. He had cleaned up in Verity’s room but the clothes he was wearing were still the torn, dirty trousers and shirt in which he had ridden into Bilbao. Matters were made worse by Gerda’s delight in hearing from Verity – Edward was almost asleep – how he had broken through the frontier on his motorbike. She stroked his forehead and murmured endearments to rile Kavan the more.

  At last they staggered back to the hotel – all of them the worse for wear. It was natural that, with death an ever-present reality, those who watched and waited should drink too much but Edward, through his fatigue, was aware that Verity was very nearly drunk. He thought that on another occasion he would reprimand her. He hung on to Gerda with one hand and Verity held his other arm. Kavan followed, muttering to himself. Edward was provided with a room at the Torrontegui – apart from journalists, and there were not many of these, the hotel was empty – but he found himself in Verity’s bed and the last thing he remembered thinking before sleep finally overcame him was that she smelt of sweat and wine and it was the scent of paradise.

  Edward woke the following morning to the ‘crump’ of bombs falling quite close by. It was not a sound he had ever heard before but it was unmistakable. He tumbled out of bed just as Verity came into the room fully dressed, excited and bright-eyed, as though she had been given a present.

  ‘The manager says we ought to go down to the basement but I’m going on the roof. Are you coming?’

  Edward still ached in every limb and his head hurt but he could not say anything other than that he would join her as soon as he had washed and dressed.

  ‘No time for that! It’ll be over in a few minutes and you will have missed all the fun – not fun, I don’t mean that, but . . . oh, get a move on, do.’

  From the roof, Edward could see huge plumes of smoke rise above the city and people running around the streets in panic looking for shelter. He noticed inconsequentially that it was going to be a lovely day. There was no wind and the sun was rising in a cloudless sky. The crushing superiority of the enemy’s air power was manifest. An occasional pop-pop from an antiaircraft gun somewhere behind them was all the defence the city could muster and it was treated with justified contempt by the pilots racing through the sky above their heads. One plane flew low over the hotel roof and Edward and Verity instinctively ducked.

  ‘That wasn’t a German plane. That was Italian,’ Edward shouted.

  ‘It’s the so-called Italian Legionary Air Force. Mussolini’s trying to prove he’s just as great a murderer as Hitler,’ Verity shouted back. The sound of the screaming engine and the feeling that a bomb was just about to blow them heavenwards was terrifying but Edward was damned if he were going to show his fear with Verity hopping about, notebook in hand, as unconcerned as if she were reporting on a deb dance in Eaton Square. ‘They are based in Burgos and give the Condor Legion support, not that they need it. They fly Savoia Marchetti 79s and 81s. I’m getting quite good at aircraft recognition,’ she informed him as the noise of explosions all around them increased.

  Edward looked up to see another aircraft hurtling towards them. He could actually see the face of the pilot in the cockpit and noticed, quite dispassionately, that he was smiling. He threw himself down on the roof, grabbing Verity in a rugby tackle as he did so. Machine-gun bullets whistled over their heads and, as Edward pointed out later, he had not even had his breakfast.

  The Basque militiamen, known as gudaris, could do nothing but fire their ancient rifles at the swooping planes and shake their fists. It was pitiable and Edward wondered why General Mola did not enter the city immediately and end this charade.

  As suddenly as the raid had begun, it ended. The bombers departed to refuel and replace their bombs. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the cries of the wounded in the street below and the crash of collapsing buildings. Clouds of black smoke, stinking of dust, death and the depredations of the enemy in the air, rose lazily all about them. Edward dressed hurriedly, grabbed a cup of watery coffee and went into the streets to find Verity. She had not waited for him nor even washed the black marks off her face or put a plaster on her knee, scraped when Edward brought her down on the roof. She had not gone far, however. The road outside the hotel was partly blocked with rubble from a fallen building and he thought it was a miracle the hotel itself was still standing. She laughed when she saw him. He had left his bag somewhere – probably at Hendaye – and all he had to wear was the pair of filthy trousers he had almost destroyed the previous day. He had at least been able to borrow a shirt from the hotel manager to replace the dirty rag which had once been one of Jermyn Street’s finest.

  ‘They’re all I have,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘What price Savile Row?’ she quipped. ‘I wish your tailor could see you now! Don’t worry, Bandi’s about your size and I’m sure he’ll lend you something until you can loot a clothes store.’

  Edward was not sure Kavan would be so accommodating but said nothing. He looked at Verity and was amused to see that she was wearing some of the fruits of her shopping spree in London. She had never been poor – her father gave her a generous allowance – but had spent little on clothes until she had made some money from her book on Spain. She had then become a client of the famous designer Schiaparelli. She was now wearing one of her creations – trousers and a wool-jersey top fastened with a zip which Schiaparelli had designed especially for her. It was, Verity told him, warm but light and she said she even slept in it when she had rough lodgings. From her neck flowed a chiffon scarf she had bought in Harvey Nichols and perched on her head a black beret with a golden arrow pin on the front – Schiaparelli’s again, he thought. She looked wonderful and he was delighted that, even on the front line, she liked to look chic.

  They soon came across Gerda and Kavan who were photographing in the ruins.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ he asked Gerda. The bodies of three women and two children were lying beside the road.

  ‘They were machine-gunned by one of those cursed Italians as they ran for cover,’ she said curtly.

  The air was full of dust and Edward found himself coughing and choking. They came to a makeshift field hospital and saw twenty or more men and women lying on stretchers waiting to be taken to the city’s main hospital. An exhausted nurse watched apathetically as Gerda and Kavan took photographs.

  ‘There’s very little point taking them to hospital,’ Verity said shortly. ‘They have no drugs and not much else. I was there yesterday and saw them treating wounds with peroxide. I’ll never smell ether again without thinking of that place.’

  As the day wore on Edward became more and more uneasy. Why had he come here? Was he just a voyeur – an unwilling witness to other people’s misery? He wasn’t a journalist. Verity did not need him and all his premonitions of danger seemed ridiculous. He decided that, to justify his journey to Spain, he must find James Lyall. If that meant he had to go to Madrid, that is what he would endeavour to do, however difficult.

  In a more than usually sombre mood Verity, Gerda, Kavan and several other journalists sat that afternoon in the hotel discussing the situation. It was self-evident that Bilbao would soon fall to Mola. Thanks to the daring of the English ships, the city was no longer in danger of starving. Food was not plentiful but there was enough. On the other hand, with no navy or air force of its own and with only a few antiquated weapons which were no match for the well-equipped army poised for the assault, it did no
t take a military strategist to see the game was up.

  ‘I doubt the Basques can hold out for a month,’ opined the man from The Times, George Steer.

  ‘Should we get out now while we can?’ the man from Ce Soir asked nervously. ‘I don’t fancy Mola’s men will take many prisoners or bother to examine our letters of accreditation. I’ve been talking to Captain Roberts. He says the Seven Seas Spray will take us off but the English ships will not stay for ever.’

  The Seven Seas Spray was a small merchantman, the first ship boldly to ignore the warning that the entrance to the harbour was mined, which had brought aid – though not arms – to the besieged city. Captain Roberts encountered no opposition and no mines, docking to cries of Vivan los marineros ingleses! and Viva la libertad! Roberts’s daring was all the more remarkable given that he had his wife and daughter on board.

  ‘It is too early to despair.’ The voice was very familiar to both Verity and Edward but the last one they had expected to hear. It was that of David Griffiths-Jones who appeared like a genie from a bottle and with none of the signs Edward had displayed like medals of having made a difficult and dangerous journey. His arrival energized the company and even Edward was encouraged. They were not after all a forgotten outpost. David kissed Verity and Gerda and shook hands with Edward. ‘What are you doing here, old boy?’ he asked. ‘If it is to report the death of the Republic, your trip is premature.’

  ‘I am happy to hear it! But how come you are in Bilbao?’

  ‘I have been sent to assess the situation and report back,’ David said easily. ‘Only a flying visit but necessary to judge by what I heard as I came in.’ He settled himself down among the journalists to raise their morale. Making light of the threat from Mola, he promised that fighters from the Soviet Union would soon be chasing the Heinkels and Dorniers from the sky above them.