by Jack Ludlow
‘London I do not know, Paris yes, but I think they must be the same, full of rich fascists and oppressed workers.’
‘You lived there?’
‘When I fled Spain, yes.’
‘I won’t ask why you had to get out.’
‘I have spent my life fighting the oppressors,’ Laporta responded, though not with any hint of fire. ‘Even those in France.’
The man was weary, leading Cal to wonder if he had managed even a short nap, something the low wall on which he was sitting had provided during a lull in the fighting. As if in answer to the question not posed, Laporta gave a huge yawn.
‘And at times it seems I wonder if I will ever reach my goal.’
Tempted to enquire about that, Cal hesitated again; the last thing he could face was a lecture on the ambitions of anarchism. Instead he asked Laporta about how he came to be where he was, a leader obviously, and a man deferred to as a fighter of long experience. It was the tale of a poor upbringing for a bright boy, and the struggle to make his way in a world pitted against his class, of fights for his elders and parents with miserly employers who did not hesitate to hire assassins to shoot those who dared to lead strikes demanding better pay and conditions.
The bitter boy had grown into a man determined to effect change, and if those he fought used murder as a weapon, then so must he. He and his colleagues had formed a tight cell dedicated to assassination, even at one time trying to kill King Alfonso. Naturally, those in power had struck back hard and forced flight.
Laporta had fought just as hard in France for those things in which he believed. There was a strong Spanish community in Paris, as well as left-leaning thinkers from all over Europe, many of them exiles rather than living there from choice, and if Spain was a troubled country politically, so was France, with its right-wing madmen, members of organisations like the Croix de Feu and Action Française.
In his time with Florencia, the limited knowledge he had of the Iberian Peninsula had been fleshed out, albeit from her point of view, and even allowing for her bias it was a tale of terrible poverty, haughty aristocrats unwilling to surrender an ounce of their prerogatives, intransigent land and factory owners and particularly pernicious mine managers, of a country mired in the trap of a post-imperial legacy and centuries of an obscurantist Catholic religion, which made the British Isles, for all its manifest faults and problems, sound like a haven of peace and harmony.
‘But I have not come to talk of such things, monsieur.’
‘I didn’t think you had.’
There was a very lengthy pause before Laporta continued; it was as if he was looking for certain words and those that emerged seemed to Cal to be somehow amiss. ‘Once we have secured the city, which will be soon, we must seek to aid our comrades elsewhere.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Saragossa first – it is under threat; in fact, it might have already fallen to the generals.’ There was reflected light enough for Laporta to see that the name, even if he knew it to be a large city, did not register in any other way. ‘It is the capital of Aragón and an anarchist stronghold, a place we cannot allow to remain in the hands of the generals and their lackeys, who will shoot anyone who opposes them. The CNT leadership are forming a flying column to bring relief to the city.’
Another pause accompanied by a sigh. ‘Florencia has told me things about you, as you already know.’ Which I now regret telling her, Cal thought. ‘I must go to what I hope will be a final conference—’
‘Another one?’ Cal interrupted, which brought a rare smile to the lips of a man not much given to such expressions.
‘A necessary curse, monsieur; everyone must have their say, even in the highest councils of Catalonia. I have come from the first and I must return soon for a second.’
The conferences were being held at the Generalitat, the seat of the regional government. It seemed all the time Callum Jardine had spent snoozing and as a spectator, Laporta had spent arguing about what course to take next to defeat the insurgency, without a final decision being made. As related, it did not sound like fun, but was Laporta seeking advice or maybe just a disinterested sounding board?
‘You asked me a question before, and I think you will know my opinion of your conferences by what I said then.’
‘We have agreed not to send thousands of men into Aragón without the leadership of an appointed commander; in this case the committee has put forward Colonel Villabova, who has stayed loyal to the Republic.’
‘That is good, surely?’
‘Is it? Villabova is sure he is another Cortez, but he is an arrogant fool who has no idea of how useless he is, and neither do those proposing him.’
‘He will be appointed by vote?’ Laporta nodded. ‘Not yours, then?’
The response was spat out. ‘No!’
Why was Laporta telling him this? Indeed, with so much going on, why had he sought him out? Was he looking for help? If he was, the man was too proud to say the words and Cal would have to think about that. Any decision would have much to do with what Vince and his boys intended and, as well as those committed to the fight, the majority of the People’s Olympians had to be accounted for. Most would want to get out of the country, and he had as much responsibility for that as anything else, given it would be a proper use of what remained of the funds entrusted to him.
A ship was the most obvious, but even if the Spanish navy was mostly on the side of the elected government, that was not wholly the case and rebel warships might intercept vessels sailing for other Mediterranean ports. The land route, provided it was not blocked, or a zone of battle, was the safest, quickest and, no small consideration, the cheapest way out, but only if he could find them transport to the French border and that was going to be hard; a lot of the Barcelona buses had been used as barricades, and if the anarchists were off to Saragossa they would need what was left for transport.
‘My men,’ Laporta continued, after a very long silence, ‘those I commanded today, are not soldiers.’
Cal Jardine had to stop himself from too hearty an agreement, while at the same time thinking that the Spaniard was beginning to rise another notch in his estimation, because nothing so far had intimated anything other than a blind faith in the power of political belief to overcome any difficulty. It took courage, of a sort, to admit it was insufficient.
‘Here,’ the Spaniard waved, to encompass the city, ‘they are effective, for they are people of the city, but once we are out in open country they will not have the skills needed to fight, and if they do not have these things they will suffer.’
If you want to ask for help, do so, Cal thought, knowing he was damned if he was going to volunteer. The question that followed only hinted at the possibility.
‘Will you stay and fight?’
‘I have other responsibilities.’
‘Florencia has told me of these.’ Laporta stood up; he was clearly not going to beg but he did point out that the shooting was dying down and that a contingent of Civil Guards was now making for the entrance to the Ritz Hotel. ‘If you do not decide to stay on, then I must thank you and your people for what you have already done this day.’
With hand held out to shake, Cal was obliged to stand up and take it, then, with a nod, Laporta departed.
The hotel guests, those who had not already fled and who had taken refuge in the basement with the staff, were being led out of the Ritz as he made his way towards the entrance. With his black and red CNT armband and a rifle sling on his shoulder, he was stopped by a grime-covered Civil Guard who demanded in Spanish where he thought he was going; getting over that took some doing – it was not easy for anyone to either understand him or believe that someone staying in a luxury hotel would be on the side of the government and filthy from a day’s fighting.
It required that he be vouched for by the hotel manager, a seriously harassed individual, aided by the receptionist – both of whom clearly disapproved of the connection – to identify him as a proper guest so he co
uld go to his room, passing, in the lobby before the lifts, those who had defended the place and survived, sat in dejected rows, hands over their heads and eyes cast down.
The staff had clearly not taken part in the fighting. They were now working hard to get the public spaces back to rights so it could function again as a proper hotel, and once you got away from the parts adjoining the frontage it was hard to match up the deep-piled carpets and the walls lined with pastoral pictures and silk wallpaper as anything to do with what he had witnessed out front.
Reality bit as soon as he opened his own door without the need for his key. The room was a mess, the plaster to rear and side blasted off the walls by bullets, one or two of which had taken splinters out of the door, though Cal was grateful there was no sign of blood, despite the high number of spent shell casings by the window. His luggage had been ransacked and was strewn all over the floor, while the mattress was full of holes, having been used as a shield, but it was still likely to be more comfortable than any alternative, and bliss for a very weary man, so he heaved it back onto the bed frame.
Running the taps in the bathroom, he was grateful the water had been kept piping hot, and within minutes he was stripped off and soaping, before enjoying a good long soak, listening to the popping sounds of distant gunfire and the odd explosion through windows entirely lacking in glass. Dry, aching to sleep and fearing to be disturbed by an overzealous maid wanting to tidy the place, while enjoying the delicious irony, he hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on his door handle, not forgetting to put out his shoes to be cleaned and polished, before jamming a chair under the handle of the door.
Florencia had to bang on that for an age before he opened it the next morning; he had been having another luxurious soak and was wrapped in a towel, she in a fetching pair of blue overalls, a pistol at her waist and one in a holster for him. Whatever they had been when first acquired, the garment was now tailored to her enticing figure, with the top buttons undone enough to show a decent amount of cleavage, this while his towel failed in any way to hide his quickening interest.
Not much later, languishing in post-carnal relaxation, he found he was required to respond to a lover desperate to ensure his continued assistance, without being aware if Laporta had asked her to apply pressure. Any resistance to the idea of taking part in the move on Saragossa was sapped as quickly as had been his sexual energy, though he did manage the caveat that he would have to talk to Vince Castellano before making any decision.
If he had hoped that would be an end to Florencia’s attempts at persuasion he was disappointed; if a female anarchist was anything, she was persistent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Throughout the barrage of passionately delivered arguments, Cal Jardine had to consider what he might be joining, never mind any commitment to back up Vince. To his mind, the principles of the group to which Florencia belonged had within them all the ingredients that could create a recipe for disaster, one policy crossing with another to produce mostly confusion; if everyone had a right to an opinion, as well as the entitlement to express it, who made the decisions – a committee, a show of hands?
The notion of any form of organised government was anathema, as were courts, the law, a police force and prison for offenders against the commonwealth. Taxation was transgression; a way of taking from the productive to feather the nest of the idle, indeed money itself was nothing but the primary step to the corruption of the ideal of an economy based on trust – he had observed some anarchists lighting their cigars with high-denomination peseta notes, fortunately not his – which might be all very well in ordered times; these were far from that.
But now it appeared the CNT-FAI had a real problem, for they had to accept that not only was government necessary for Catalonia, but they had to be part of it. The streets had to be policed, the distribution of food and the provision of medical care supervised, while the not-so-minor problem of mistrust meant an organised military force needed to be maintained to ensure that crime was held in check, and also that no one body could exercise control. The Civil and Assault Guards had to be watched as well, to protect against any backsliding – for all their recent support, such one-time state entities were not to be trusted.
Observation over the last forty-eight hours had been confused, but for all the flag-flying and display it was obvious to even the most inattentive mind that the CNT-FAI activists were the party that had done most to save Barcelona, hardly surprising given they were by far the most numerous and committed. On barricades, and in those flying columns of truck-borne fighters, the red and black colours had been the most prominent by a factor of five to one. They were in a position to control what happened next, yet it was those very same principles Florencia espoused that prevented them for exercising that power.
To force others to accept their governance flew in the face of their core ideology; they did not believe in dictatorship, not even their own, which meant cooperation with other political organisations was inevitable, while at this moment, such consideration had to take a back seat to the primary task, the defeat of the revolt. Into that mix was thrown the endemic desire of the various factions who constituted the regional government that Catalonia should be an autonomous federated province of Spain, if not an outright independent state, which put the whole state on a collision course with Madrid.
Laporta, apparently, had spent half the night arguing the toss with the other faction leaders and Catalonian separatists about how to proceed, both in governance and in pursuance of the conflict. The CNT was desperate and determined to go to the relief of Saragossa; everyone else, even if they had conceded the point, was concerned about the security of what they already held, fearful that a city denuded of so many fighters might be vulnerable to attack in what was a very confused picture about what was happening throughout the Peninsula.
‘Does the man ever sleep?’ Cal asked this while once more drying himself, after a second and shared bath. The saucy look he got in response made him grab for his clothes and answer with some haste. ‘We must go to Vince, who will be wondering what’s happening.’
The streets were quieter than the day before, but nothing like as settled as they had been prior to the uprising. Still lorries roared around, but the barricades had been opened and normality was in full swing: mothers pushing babies in prams, shopkeepers laying out their wares or patching damaged windows, even sweepers cleaning up the debris of the street battles. Tellingly there were no bodies – they had been removed – though the smell of their one-time presence had not faded in a sun-drenched city.
On street corners and outside important buildings, unshaven men in blue overalls and varied armbands, rifles slung over the shoulders, muzzles pointing down in the manner of the classic revolutionary, eyed passers-by with looks that would not have disgraced the most cheerless Civil Guard, who, tellingly, were not to be seen. Passing damaged buildings, pocked with bullet marks, Cal was struck by one wall, where the indentations were mixed with the black stains of sun-dried blood.
Pointed out to Florencia as an obvious place of execution, he was struck by her indifference and wondered how it was that a woman so passionate in person, and one whom he had witnessed being kind and considerate over the time they had spent together, could now be so unfeeling. The spilling of blood did that, of course, the sight of bodies and the witnessing of killing hardening the senses until such a sight seemed normal, not softened by a sense of righteousness no less deep than the kind that had supported the Spanish Inquisition.
On arrival at the hostel, they found Vince giving his boys training in the very basics, lecturing them on how to strip, oil and reassemble their rifles, which, Cal knew from experience, he would keep at them to do until it was a task that could be carried out in the dark; rumours had abounded about the planned move on Saragossa, and looking into their faces, and watching Vince acting as an instructor, Cal was taken back to a time when he too had trained youngsters to be soldiers.
For all his misgivings about the Britis
h army and the way it was led and directed, he could recall the satisfaction that came from turning raw recruits into effective soldiers, as well as the pleasure of leading them in combat and watching them grow from boys into men. Would that happen now, would he feel the same with these kids? In the end it was the attitude of them and Vince that forced a decision; he was not prepared to leave these inexperienced boys to do what they intended without his help, which meant Cal, already swayed by Florencia, felt he had no option but to do likewise.
He and she left them at their training and went to find out what the rest of the British party were up to, only to discover, as they toured their various places of accommodation, that they had already voted with their feet. By their very nature a spirited bunch of individuals, the athletes had, with a few exceptions, upped sticks and made some form of exit, many it seemed just deciding to hitchhike north to the French border. Those few he found still present he gave some money and told them to make their way home too, taking care to settle any outstanding bills due to their Spanish hosts.
Returning, they found Vince and his boys lined up on parade, weapons reassembled, looking smart, each with a blanket round their shoulders, a beret on their heads and a knapsack on their backs, leaving Cal to wonder if they had looted a store or paid for items that created a kind of uniform. He instituted a final equipment check, pleased that so little needed to be discarded.
Within the hour they set off for the assembly point, the park that surrounded the home of the Catalan parliament, becoming part of a stream that turned into a river of men, women, cars and trucks, not all armed, but all heading in the same direction, singing revolutionary songs with the light of battle in their eyes and bearing. Cynical as he was, it was hard for Cal Jardine not to be impressed.
Juan Luis Laporta greeted them, but not with much in the way of grace, which Cal put down to lack of sleep and being harassed by the need to get away his flying column of five hundred men, who would be the first to depart, with instruction to see how far forward lay the enemy. Allocated three trucks of their own and a motorcyclist to act as messenger, what Cal had taken to calling the Olympians were not at the head of the column, but they were close, not that it was moving at any great speed; that was dictated by a van laden with armour plating, naturally slow.