by Betty Burton
‘Could you guess, Eve, what it is that I have been doing today?’
‘Something that gives you a sour face, Dimitri.’
‘Also a troubled mind.’
‘Ah, poor Dimitri, you want me to kiss it better?’
‘Is not a joke, Eve. You may kiss me, but it will not make better. Russian soldiers all day loading on ship, what is it? Hierro. Iron! Natural i-ron stone.’
‘Iron ore?’
‘Is this, yes. We steal this i-ron. We say we give aid. No, is not so. We have surplus tank, we send. Not needed. I-ron ore, yes! Russia very much need i-ron ore. Spain not give this, my country send no tanks, guns. I go home too.’
Sometimes during the autumn Dimitri had turned up at the refuge bringing vodka, and tinned fish for the children. Only the food was welcome under a Quaker roof, so the good-time Russian officer took Margarita and Concha for an evening of dancing and laughter, and Eve for a night of immoderate sex.
‘The people here get bad deal from USSR. Is wrong. I love my country. Is being made bad by so many bad things. Is not communism, is state too powerful. Leaders forget people.’
‘Doesn’t only happen in Russia – leaders always forget they are supposed to be leading their people. When I came to Spain, I was innocent enough to believe that here it was the people who held the power.’
‘Eve?’ He didn’t finish, but enclosed her hands within his. When he held her gaze she was startled to see the depth of sadness in his own. That look scared her. She was going to lose him. Suddenly the loss of yet another person who had been so close to her seemed too much.
At last he said, ‘Eve, I bored of politics. Forget state for moment. You hear me. I say I am in love, Eve, with you. When you leave Barcelona, please I must go with you. I cannot leave you and the children.’
He had said what she had never dared to hope he would say. He was a rare man, a political commissar born and bred under communism, yet he was sufficiently his own person to have an opinion about it. She herself had come to see that the ideals that she had seen as ‘red’ or socialist when she came to Spain, actually covered that part of the spectrum from pink to purple.
At that moment she was so full of feeling for him that she would have said anything. David, Duke, Ozz. They had all stirred up intense emotions in her. She had mistaken it all for love. It had been something, but not the intense passion that she could now admit she felt for Dimitri Vladim.
‘Is not necessary that you say anything to me now about love. Please say just that we shall take the children and leave Barcelona together.’
‘That is what I want more than anything else.’
They kissed with great tenderness. They had known great moments of passion and lust. This was something else. This, Eve thought, is probably what makes it love, but she could still not bring herself to say that it was.
* * *
Days, weeks, months passed in an almost routine sequence of air-raids, until it was hard to believe that there could be a building left standing. In the outside world, only the Vipps who had been in Spain and the brigaders who had fought there understood how it was that what was left of the Republic still hung on tenaciously and fought fiercely.
In Eve’s small world of women and children, orphaned children came and stayed for as long as it took to get them away to any country that would take them.
A boat left carrying refugees to Mexico, but Posa was still far from being robust. The decision not to select her had been taken by others, and it was with a kind of relief that she heard that Posa was still too weak to make the journey. Bad as things were in Barcelona, Eve was convinced that she could bring her back to health, given time. There was no problem as far as Eugenia was concerned, she was attending school regularly, and for a pre-pubescent girl who had been raped when she was still a child, she had become as near normal as anyone could expect.
During the difficult and troubled months of autumn and winter, Eve felt wonderfully at ease in spite of the turmoil around her. It was becoming increasingly obvious that it would not be possible for her to remain in the country after there had been a settlement between the two sides. The Nationalists were not magnanimous in victory; at every step of the way they eliminated anyone with socialist sympathies. As a foreign aid-worker, she would be known to the Falangists and other right-wingers in Barcelona.
At one of the regular meetings of contemplation and discussion, it was decided that they should gradually wind down the refuge by getting children into places of safety, send the foreign aid-workers home and take with them any Spaniards who wished to go.
Eve made a plan and talked it over with the others. She would try to adopt the two children, give them British passports and take them with her. It would be hard to leave. This had become her country by virtue of what it had given her: friends all over the world, two children to care for and a Russian lover. The tragedy being enacted all around her every day was so great that the only way to cope with its consequences was to be fatalistic. She could plan, but she was not in control. Whatever will be, will be.
She started writing longer pieces than before, but sent none of it to London because of a vague idea that she might try to write a serious novel. The journal she had managed to carry with her wherever she went was filled with her uncharacteristically neat writing. There were cigarette burns on the cover, mug rings, and addresses scratched on the leather with a hairpin when there was no pencil to be had, but within there was a scrupulously honest account of her experiences. The journal was written for herself alone, so there was no point in being anything but honest, no point in not admitting that she had been unfair to David. Had she been given the job of looking into his background because he was trusted enough to be asked to join an undercover group, she knew very well that she would not have resisted the temptation to go and stand outside his home, look for the street where his Hatton + Hatton offices were sited.
In December, a parcel addressed to ‘The Babies in the care of Miss Anders’ arrived at the refuge. It contained a dozen or more pairs of beautifully knitted little stockings of fine rainbow wool. Also enclosed were three lengths of wide satin hair-ribbon. The letter in a Christmas card read:
Miss Anders,
My grandson, David Hatton, has mentioned that these few items would be of use to the children in your care. If you would like more, perhaps you would let me know as one gets ever more useless in old age. Also, I have been pleased to discover that I have the facility to turn a neat heel, something every young girl was taught. I remember how well children love bright colours. I do myself. You may not know that my grandson was quite badly injured, and has been with me since October. He is unable to hold a pen, so has asked that I send you his kind regards and as soon as he is able to sit at his typewriter, he will write you a letter. May I add my good wishes, and say how greatly I admire young women like yourself.
Yours most sincerely,
Margaret, Lady Gore-Hatton
Eve, her emotions already heightened by painful and frequent departures as members of the refuge got out of the city, was brought to tears by the humility of this old lady. She remembered their one telephone conversation: ‘Can I speak to David, please?’ ‘No, I’m afraid that you may not!’ Eve would never forget that imperious voice, yet behind it had been an old lady who liked rainbow colours and who felt useful to be knitting babies’ socks.
What if David’s grandmother had replied, ‘Of course, my dear, he’s got a broken leg, but if you’d just hold on…’?
Bar Barney’s mother had said that there appeared to be many possible paths, but there was just the one true one and you were bound to follow it. So was Dimitri bound to be waiting somewhere along Eve’s path?
Shortly afterwards she at last had news of Ken. It had come in a letter from Ray. Ken had once again been taken prisoner of war, but arrangements had been made for his repatriation.
Then came a letter came from Enro Peters bearing a Louisiana date-stamp and containing a photograph of himself a
t the centre of an enormous gathering of the Peters family. All of them, even the littlest child, held their fists in the people’s salute. He had written across the corner, ¡No pasarán!
To Lady Margaret she sent a little note and pencil drawing of a row of socks that one of the boys had made. It had not been spontaneous, it had taken an extra handful of peanuts to extract it. A reply came from David, who said that he felt rather a fraud about his injury, which he had not received in battle, but was from a reinfection of the bayonet wound he’d received in the camp at St Cyprien. He said that he had lost touch with her brother somewhere along the Ebro. It was good to know that he had been repatriated; he had the greatest admiration for him and, if it were possible, hoped that they could meet. He asked her whether she had heard anything about Peters, would she please let him know. He had been commissioned to make a series of films about the southern states of America, and would like to make contact with the Peters family. He had signed it, ‘Yours, David’. She replied at once, knowing that there was little time left. Now that Dimitri was part of her life, the part that David once had played lost any importance. It proved easy to write to him.
Dear David,
Thank you for writing. I am so pleased to hear that you are beginning to get back the use of your hand. I hope that the injury will not prevent you from returning to your camera work. I have probably never told you how much I admire your work, but I do.
It was nice of you to offer help through your friends, but if I do need it I shall not be too proud to ask – it is a long time since I had any of that kind of pride.
My brother reached home safely and at once joined the regular army. His rank in the IB of course stands for nothing there, in fact he has had to fight prejudice against the brigaders to get accepted at all. I expect to hear that he is wearing ‘pips’ on his shoulder before long.
When the three of you left to enlist that day, I felt certain that the odds were against you all surviving the same war twice, but you have. Not entirely whole, but you have survived, and it makes me very happy to know that. Ol’ Uncle Enro’s artificial leg provides endless interest to his nephews and nieces. He says too that he is ready to join in that other revolution, the one for equality for his own people. He says that it will come from within the church – the ministry as he calls it. Did you know that he had been a Pentecostal Minister before he enlisted in the IB?
In answer to your query about my trying to follow a career in writing, I have thought about it a lot, but have decided that it is time for E. V. Anders to think about her future.
You and I have had the knack of turning up in one another’s lives, I have no doubt that we shall again. Thank you for mentioning the children to your grandmother, she has obviously been rounding up her friends. Such comforts and pretty things for the children here are appreciated.
Eve.
Seventeen
A terrible silence fell when, on 26 January 1939, just a month after the start of the Barcelona offensive, the Nationalists entered the city. That night she went with Dimitri by train to a small town on the coast and came back with documents that said that she was legal guardian of Eugenia and Posa Rodrigez, aged twelve and three, orphaned daughters of unknown parentage. She suspected that documents obtained in such a clandestine manner might not stand up to close scrutiny, but with a million people on the move, who would care?
With the last months of unrelenting deprivation and anxiety, and constantly living with the knowledge that Catalonia must be the last battleground before the Republic was finished, Eve, feeling the rot of defeat seeping into her mind, was already prepared to leave with a group of other English-speaking refugees.
The few possessions they had – a few items of clothing, a couple of blankets and some strange dried meat that Dimitri had brought – went in a bundle which Eve slung over her shoulder. Posa and Eugenia wore warm undershifts made of the green silk gown that had travelled so far in Eve’s sponge-bag. Posa’s scarred and thin legs were encased in two pairs of Lady Margaret’s rainbow wool stockings. Eugenia, clad in Concha’s good boots, a long black skirt and a thick jumper and shawl over the silk, carried Eve’s haversack containing everything Eve now owned: the notebook written in Spain, her old journal, the keepsakes she had brought from England plus a new one – the gold star from Dimitri’s uniform.
The exodus from Spain was too hectic for any but the briefest of farewells with Dimitri. Their one farewell kiss, a brief brush of the lips on either cheek, given and taken four days before Eve left, revealed nothing of the wrench they both felt at parting. He smiled with his mouth only. ‘My heart is too much hurt.’ He gave her the gold star from his uniform. ‘I love you, very much I love you, Eve.’
There was a feeling of exuberance growing among those who had no fear of staying under the fascists, or who had been waiting for their coming, which eventually burst forth in a kind of mad joy that the war was ended. Many did not care who had won, only that it was over. Those fleeing before the Nationalists made up a steady procession, carrying their belongings, as Eve and Eugenia did, on their backs, or by any means available; as well as those on foot there were mule-carts and a few cars. All day and night the parade of fear and despair wended its way northwards in the direction of the border with France, through streets littered with documents and torn-up membership cards of the many and various left-wing parties and unions.
It was said that there were half a million refugees in that same trek, and that within a couple of weeks the Nationalists would have fought their way to the French border. Eve had no reason to doubt it.
They joined the trek of people as they passed by the harbour which was filled with masts and funnels of bombed shipping. The children had been marvellous, doing everything they were told. For the first stage of the journey, little Posa was hoisted up on a loaded mule-cart to sit beside an aged grandmother and two children, part of a family of Spanish women who had constantly warned their crazy old grandfather about giving the clenched fist and the ¡No pasarán! salute.
The first two days were the worst. Eugenia’s boots made her feet sore until Eve packed them with several pairs of socks. And although Posa was still very skinny, her dead-weight hanging from Eve’s shoulders was tiring. But Eve was fit, the sparse diet and being on her feet all day long had given her stamina. For miles she and Eugenia trudged along, holding hands, the young girl frequently looking up at her for reassurance.
On day three, after they had rested for a short while, Eve noticed Eugenia looking furtively over her shoulder.
‘There’s no need to worry, Genia. It is a long walk, and we shall be hungry and cold, but we will be safe. I shall never let any one harm you. If I tell you something, it is a secret, eh?’
‘Si, Eve, secret.’
‘Look.’ Eve opened her jacket a fraction and let Eugenia see the handle of a long, thin kitchen knife slipped into her belt.
After another four hours of walking, Eugenia said, ‘Is el cabron.’ Although Eve understood why an abused girl had taken to referring to men as bastards, Dimitri had dealt with it gently, referring to himself as el cabron: ‘Genia, come, el cabron brings can snoek for good fish stew,’ or, ‘El cabron and Señorita Eve will go drink coffee, come back. El cabron like hug.’ The most that Eugenia would ever offer was the tips of her fingers as a token of friendship. But over the days, when Dimitri had been helping them prepare to leave, Eve had noticed the girl becoming more at ease with him. With a bit of time and patience, she thought, they might draw out some of the poison of the horror of her family’s deaths and the subsequent rape.
‘Ruso el cabron,’ Eugenia whispered and again half-looked over her shoulder. ‘Eve, el amor, you understand?’ Eugenia covered her face with a corner of her scarf and looked around her suspiciously.
Eve’s heart gave a bound of excitement. Dimitri had made it! His plans were so fraught with difficulties that she feared all along that his mood might give him away to his fellow-officers, particularly Mintov with whom he worked cl
osely. But they were all – these Soviet commissars – well trained in keeping their cards close to their chests. However, it was essential to be cautious, for Mintov was a solid product of the Soviet Republic.
‘I have come.’
Eve felt the blood rush to her face as his voice whispered close to her ear. ‘Dimitri?’ she asked in a low voice, not that there was any doubt, in spite of the peasant clothes and two days’ growth of beard.
‘No,’ he said quietly as he took Posa to carry. He spoke in perfect Spanish. ‘Josep Alier. You like for me to walk with you? If you will tie this little child on my back, I will carry her.’ It was the children’s acceptance of his sudden appearance that made Eve realize how used they must have become to him, but his transformation from Soviet officer to working man she found difficult to accept.
Eve looked at Eugenia. ‘Shall we take him with us?’
‘Have you a knife? Eve carries knife.’
‘Better than that, Genia, money. I am rich bastard.’
When she asked him why money was better than a knife, he told her conspiratorially that, although he would not be able to fight their way through the guards, he sure as hell could buy their way through. This seemed to be the guarantee Eugenia needed. ‘I take your hand.’
When they reached the pass leading into France there was a solid block of refugees. A few thousand at a time, they were allowed through. Although Madrid was hanging on by its nails, the Nationalists had already set up government under the dictatorship of General Franco.
Slowly, slowly, they were carried along in the dense tide of humanity. The closer to France they got, the slower the pace. There was nothing to be done except sit and wait, anxious that the French might decide to close the border again, fearful that the Condor Legion might decide to mow them all down as they waited.
Night-time on the road was the worst. Along with other groups they gathered what they could find to burn. Small fires flickered as far as the eye could see. They were sitting ducks, all packed along the one pass. An air attack seemed inevitable. Dimitri insisted that they would be safe now because the new dictatorship had nothing to gain by offending the League of Nations and attacking women and children.