The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘And Mola,’ he continued, ‘is facing serious mutinies in his ranks. There are many Basques among his troops and they will not long tolerate this war against their own people.’

  Edward was impressed. He did not like David, partly because of his skill as a propagandist which he was at this moment exhibiting, but he could not deny his courage and devotion to the cause. He just wished the cause had been more worthwhile. David’s unquestioning faith in Soviet Communism, regardless of the price other people had to pay, was obnoxious but it was also admirable in its way. For him, Comrade Stalin was the answer to everything – a Messiah figure whose judgements, inexplicable, contradictory or perverse as they might seem to an outsider, were to him divine revelations to be obeyed without question. Edward sat back and admired the way he raised the spirits of those clustered round him like children seeking reassurance. He was an accomplished speaker and, without raising his voice or using oratorical flourishes, he changed the mood of the journalists in just a few minutes from defeatism to optimism.

  Of one thing Edward was certain: if the Basques threw off the Nationalists and the Republic was victorious, Comrade Stalin would never permit a free, independent Basque state. It was this cynical use of men and women with ideals they associated with the Republican cause which Edward found so abhorrent. Griffiths-Jones was just another liar and con man in a world which bred them like flies. Whatever he said, Mola would take Bilbao. The Soviet pilots would never arrive to chase the Dorniers from the skies and many hundreds of Basques would die for a cause which was already lost. The pre-war Spanish Republic was gone for ever. Though Verity would never admit it, the choice now lay between two tyrannies, each as bad as the other.

  By dinner that evening everyone, except Edward, felt happier and there was no more talk of getting aboard an English ship and leaving Bilbao to its fate. David explained that the following day he was going on a lightning tour of the city’s defences and anyone who wished to accompany him would be welcome. Afterwards he took Verity aside and spoke to her earnestly – giving her instructions, Edward imagined uncharitably but, as it turned out, accurately.

  When she returned, her eyes were burning bright and she took Edward’s hand in hers.

  ‘David has given me the chance of an exclusive story – a real scoop – what I’ve dreamed of. Some of us are going to Guernica. It’s only about an hour’s drive from here. David says he has had news from his spy in Mola’s camp that the Condor Legion are going to attack the town and we should be able to get incontrovertible proof that, despite their denials, the Nazis are directly involved in the war. Gerda and Bandi are coming too, to take photographs, and then we will rush back here. David is going to lay on a plane or a fast boat to take our reports and photographs back to London.’

  Immediately, the anxiety which had driven Edward to come to Spain and which had left him as soon as he reached Bilbao, seized him once again in an iron corset and left him breathless. He struggled to find words.

  ‘Good God! Why would they attack Guernica? I thought it was a tourist town.’

  ‘Yes, it’s the historic capital of the Basque country. David says they’re going to destroy it because it’s a symbol of Basque independence.’

  ‘But that’s . . . that’s vandalism. Has he sent the town a warning so they can evacuate civilians?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Verity said breezily, ‘but don’t you see what a terrific propaganda coup it will be for us if the Germans are seen to be attacking a defenceless town with no military value?’

  ‘Oh, Verity! It’s “us”’ is it, now? You seem to have given up any idea of objective reporting. A propaganda coup! You’re talking about human beings who may . . . who will be killed unless they are warned.’

  ‘How dare you say that to me, Edward. I have never pretended my sympathies are anywhere other than with the Republicans. I am a Communist and proud to be fighting Fascism. Is it my fault that people would prefer to read in newspapers about Mrs Simpson and all that shit instead of “sentimental stuff about refugees” – as the editor called it when I was last in the office? I’m sure he suppresses my stuff and, if it wasn’t for Joe Weaver, nothing of mine would be published. I am objective in what I report – I tell the truth. I have no need to exaggerate or embellish but Fleet Street is so reactionary that not much gets through. Steer says it is the same at The Times because Dawson is terrified of hurting Hitler’s feelings. Bandi says Life is just as bad. Thank God for the Daily Worker. You know what slogan Weaver has fixed to the Gazette’s masthead: “There will be no war”. It’s a promise he’ll live to regret. So don’t preach to me about prejudice.’

  Edward was shocked at her language and the force with which she spoke of her beliefs. For a second he hated her and everything she stood for and was only prevented from saying so by Griffiths-Jones appearing.

  ‘Edward wants to know if Guernica has been warned about the attack?’ Verity still sounded angry and refused to look at Edward.

  ‘Of course!’ Griffiths-Jones said calmly, putting a hand on Verity’s shoulder, as if to calm her, and giving Edward a look of cool distaste. ‘The mayor knows and he will take the necessary precautions. By the way, Corinth, Verity says you are looking for the English boy – what’s his name? – James Lyall. I thought you might be interested to know that he is with the militia in Guernica.’

  ‘In Guernica? Why there? I thought he was in Madrid.’

  ‘I’m afraid he was a bit rattled. Madrid’s not a very healthy place to be at the moment so we thought we might send him somewhere less dangerous. A rest from the heat of battle, you understand.’

  ‘But you’ve just said the town is going to be bombed!’

  ‘That’s new information. We didn’t know anything about that when we sent him. Guernica’s of no value strategically.’

  ‘But now he’s in the firing line,’ Edward said bitterly.

  ‘He’ll have had warning,’ David said comfortably. ‘He’ll have plenty of time to take cover. I think then,’ he added meditatively, ‘we’ll ship him back to England. He’s not of much use to us now, I’m afraid. His nerve’s shattered.’

  Edward had an almost overwhelming desire to punch him in the face. It was all very well for David to talk so easily of bombing raids and warnings but he had no reason to trust him and he feared they were being led into an ambush.

  Later, when they were all calmer, he tried to talk to Verity about his fears but she refused to listen, only saying that if he did not want to come he was welcome to stay behind.

  ‘This is a great chance for me, Edward, you must see that. I need this story and nothing you can say will stop me getting it.’

  He knew he was defeated and spent half an hour writing a letter to Major Ferguson and another to Lord Weaver at the New Gazette describing the situation in Bilbao and David Griffiths-Jones’s invitation to Verity to see Guernica attacked. He felt better when he had signed and sealed his letters and given them to the hotel porter to be delivered to the British Consulate. If they were going to die – and it seemed a distinct possibility – he wanted two people he trusted to know who was responsible. An hour later, Griffiths-Jones was reading the letters in his bedroom, smiling grimly as he did so. When he had finished, he tore them into small pieces and burnt them in the grate.

  They reached Guernica about three the following day. The town lay about five miles from the sea, near the Mundaca Estuary on the Bay of Biscay. Twenty miles of rough country separated it and Bilbao and the four of them – Gerda, Kavan, Edward and Verity – arrived thoroughly shaken up, their throats dry from the dust of the road. Their driver, a Basque chosen by Griffiths-Jones, Edward thought, because he spoke not a word of English and not much Spanish, smiled broadly as he indicated that they had reached their destination.

  Largely constructed of wood, the houses looked much as they had a hundred years before. It was market day, as it was every Monday, and the place was bustling with people and animals. They got out of the car, stretched cramped limbs an
d took deep breaths of warm, fresh air. They started to stroll around, enjoying the sun and the normality of the scene. At a bar, Kavan ordered beer and for a moment they felt like tourists. The only sign there was a war on was that there were fewer men in the market than there once might have been and small groups of militiamen stood on street corners smoking and talking.

  Gerda and Kavan started taking photographs and Verity wandered off to see if she could find someone who understood her Spanish. Edward was not happy. It was unnerving to see children tormenting a lame dog, a woman seated on a wooden box in the shade of a tree selling eggs, an old man guiding a flock of sheep into the marketplace, seemingly unaware that war raged not twenty miles away. It was quite evident that this was not a town which was anticipating attack and he prayed that Griffiths-Jones’s information was incorrect. How could this peaceful little town be a military target? Nevertheless, Edward knew from bitter experience that Griffiths-Jones was a storm petrel, a bird of ill-omen. Wherever he went, his companions were always the same: death and destruction.

  Edward went loping off in search of someone in authority. He found the town hall without difficulty but it was empty. An old woman was cleaning the mayor’s office but she spoke only Basque and Edward was unable to make himself understood when he asked where everybody was. Was it possible that the mayor had received notice of an attack and had chosen to leave without warning his fellow citizens of the danger? It was unthinkable. He was probably on official business somewhere in the marketplace.

  He walked back to the car, angry and frustrated. He wished now that he had insisted on a driver who could interpret for them but somehow there had not been time to insist on anything. Had he tried to do so, he might well have been left behind. As David had pointed out, he wasn’t a journalist, just a sightseer. Like any other tourist, he received good-natured smiles and stares from the locals but could find no one who could understand his primitive Spanish. At last he thought to ask some militia for el muchaco inglés, the English boy. He found one youth more intelligent than his fellows who seemed to understand. Edward produced a small coin and in sign language asked to be taken to him. They set off together and reached the gardens of the Casa de Juntas, the building in which the Basque archives were housed and where the ancient parliament used to sit. The gardens contained two oak trees sacred to Basque liberty, one no more than a blackened stump said to be three hundred – some said six hundred – years old. Beside it stood the second tree, impressive in bulk and very much alive, belying its great age.

  Edward was beginning to feel that he was in one of those nightmares where, bursting with news of vital importance, he could not even open his mouth – a dream from which he could not rouse himself. It was with considerable relief that he saw, sitting on a bench in the gardens, the unmistakable figure of James Lyall. He was half asleep, loosely cradling an ancient-looking rifle to his chest. It suddenly occurred to Edward that he had no idea what he was going to say to the boy. It was out of the question to blurt out that his father was dead. First, he had to explain what he was doing in Guernica and make him aware of the danger they were in.

  ‘James, it’s me, Edward Corinth. Do you remember me?’ he stammered.

  The boy looked at him in amazement, hardly believing his eyes which he rubbed like a child waking from a deep sleep. ‘Lord Edward? What are you doing here? Is there something wrong?’

  This gave Edward his cue. ‘There is something wrong, yes. I am here with Verity Browne and she has had information . . . secret information . . . that Guernica is going to be bombed. It may be the mayor has already had the news but I thought . . . we thought we ought to be sure . . .’ It seemed impossible to explain the situation. ‘I mean, the people ought not to be having their market. They should be taking shelter.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lord Edward, but I have no idea what you are talking about. Why should anyone bomb Guernica? There are no troops here unless you count the barracks outside town. There’s the Astra gun factory but that’s miles away. That’s why Mr Griffiths-Jones – David – sent me here, because it’s safe. I think there has been some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake.’ He took James by the arm. ‘I’m deadly serious. The mayor – where is the mayor? You must take me to him.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t think he is in town. Look, why don’t we go and talk to my captain about it?’

  ‘But I can’t speak Basque.’

  ‘He speaks Spanish. He’s from Madrid and my Spanish is very good now.’

  ‘Where is he based?’

  ‘We’re billeted in the Augustine convent on the Bermeo road. It’s about twenty minutes away.’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know if there’s time,’ Edward said, rubbing his forehead with his sweating hands.

  By now James had been infected by Edward’s anxiety and his languor vanished. ‘Well then, we must go to the marketplace and order people to take cover. Mind you,’ he added ruefully, ‘we’re going to look pretty silly if nothing happens.’

  ‘I’ll risk that,’ Edward replied grimly. ‘Do you know enough Basque to make yourself understood?’

  ‘I think so . . . I hope so.’

  When they got to the marketplace, James started shouting and ordering people around but no one took much notice. They looked at the English boy and smiled as if to say: we know the English are mad and this proves it. Edward also started shouting and this seemed to add to the confusion. He got entangled in a flock of sheep which caused considerable amusement.

  Verity arrived with Gerda and André who seemed to be photographing everything they saw.

  ‘What on earth are you up to?’ Verity inquired. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

  ‘But don’t you see? We have to warn them.’

  ‘Warn them?’

  ‘Of what’s coming.’

  ‘But we don’t know what’s coming.’

  ‘But I thought David said . . .’

  ‘It was vague. Maybe he was wrong. There are so many rumours and counter-rumours. We can’t do anything about it without making fools of ourselves.’

  ‘There are worse things!’ Edward said angrily. ‘Verity, we have to do something! I have this feeling in my bones. There’s going to be a disaster here and we have to warn people.’ He waved his hand at the crowds pushing past them.

  Her attention was caught by a shadow which, for a second, darkened the sun. She looked up into the cloudless sky, shading her eyes with the palm of her hand. ‘What’s that? Is it a bird or is it . . . ?’

  Other people looked up as they heard the droning sound of an aeroplane above the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep. A single aeroplane grew in size and seemed to fill the sky. It was flying low over the town so that it was almost possible to see the pilot’s face, masked by a leather helmet and goggles. The busy marketplace went quiet. Everyone stared into the blue sky, curious, nudging neigbours, gesticulating, uncertain of what they were seeing. There was still no alarm. They had not seen many aeroplanes and they supposed this was one of their Russian allies. Some children even raised a ragged cheer. Then, as it grew nearer, it was possible to see the wing markings. It was not a Russian plane but a Heinkel 111.

  The church bell rang out in clamorous warning and its urgent jangling seemed to wake the town to its danger. People began to run in all directions. Mothers grabbed their children and dogs started barking as the sheep took fright and milled about. There were shallow dugouts at one end of the marketplace and some cowered there while others ran to take refuge in the cellars of their houses. Then the aeroplane was gone and those who had taken shelter got to their feet feeling rather foolish. But then, as they once more looked up into the sky, straining their eyes against the sun, they saw the Heinkel turn to make another run over the town. Reassured that he had met no flak or anti-aircraft fire, the pilot decided he had nothing to fear.

  Like some terrible excreting bird, Edward saw six bombs fall lazily away from the open bomb hatch. They fell on th
e railway station and the square in front of it, sending huge fountains of earth into the sky. Flames from incendiaries dropped with the bombs set the station alight and the houses around it.

  ‘The swine,’ James cried and began to rush towards the station with other militiamen.

  Edward turned from staring at the Heinkel to see Verity and Gerda also running towards the station. André had vanished.

  ‘Wait, Verity,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not sure . . . there may be more planes.’ But he, too, was drawn towards the carnage. As he turned the corner, he saw a dreadful sight: burnt and mangled bodies, some still with suitcases in their hands. A child lay with his mother, hand in hand, killed by the blast as they had run in fruitless search of shelter. He stood staring, unable to take it all in. It was these first images of death and destruction which were to stay in his memory more vividly than many of the more terrible sights he was to behold in the hours that followed.

  From out of the sky there came the noise of another engine and a second aircraft appeared. Its target appeared to be the centre of the town and its bombs set alight every house in the area. Wildly, the militia began to run back to the marketplace where they were faced with the sight of sheep roasted by flames, stinking of death. The market stalls were also ablaze. In less than a minute, this second Heinkel had transformed the most peaceful of scenes into an inferno.

  In the tumult, Edward found himself separated from Verity and the others. The cellars of their houses, to which many people had run for shelter, offered only an illusion of safety. As the burning houses collapsed, the timbers trapped those who had taken shelter beneath them. Screams from a house close to where he was standing drew Edward’s attention away from the horror in front of him. Here was something he could do and his mind, dazed by the sudden assault, was calm again. He joined several militiamen as they attempted to remove a burning beam which had completely blocked the door behind which a woman and several children were trapped. They had nothing but their bare hands to work with and Edward felt his palms blister as he tugged at the beam to no avail. Then, a man arrived with a rope which was looped round the burning beam. Straining every muscle and choking on the dust, their faces covered in sweat because the heat was increasing with every moment which passed, they heaved. At first nothing happened but, after one final effort, the beam moved a few feet to one side leaving a gap wide enough for a child to squeeze through. A little girl came tumbling out, screaming with fear and pain, her hair alight. Someone caught her and stifled the flames in a blanket. Edward watched in horror as, behind her, the whole building lurched and fell in upon itself. He had to leap back as the flames billowed towards him. The face of the woman still inside was momentarily visible in the hellish light of the flames and then disappeared.