Time passed: 1940 turned into 1941, with no sign of the end of rationing. The people continued to live in fear of the startling knock on the door at night, the abrupt arrest of a neighbour accused of aiding the Republican war effort, and the disappearance, and presumed execution, of friends, relations and strangers. There appeared to be no end to the hunger, nor any end to the arrests and murders.
Manel and Anna worked hard to maintain some optimism with their children, but were privately fearful of the world in which Eduard and Clara were growing up.
Sergio had stepped out from the cycle shop for a moment leaving Carlos alone, when a stranger appeared in the doorway of the shop. He walked hesitantly to the back, where it was quite dark, and spoke in a strange accent. Carlos looked up and frowned. He was confronted by a dishevelled young man, around his own age, who spoke very little Spanish. After a moment, he realised the man was British, but Carlos had no words of English enabling him to respond. In a halting and disconnected mixture of French and Spanish, the man seemed to stutter that he needed help. He turned and pointed to another equally dishevelled man standing in the sunshine, on the pavement, staring into the shop. Carlos waved to the second man to come in, and the two strangers nodded and smiled at him.
Despite the lack of language, Carlos remembered his own long days of needing help, and he recognised the desperation in the men’s appearances. He tried to tell them in mime to wait in the shop. The men seemed to understand, and were shocked when Carlos stood up from his workbench, revealing that he only had one leg, picked up his crutches and crutched next door to Manel.
“Eduard will be here soon, won’t he?” he asked Manel.
“Yes he will,” replied Manel, “but why are you asking me?”
“Eduard knows some French, from school, doesn’t he? I’ve got two Englishmen who’ve come into the shop next door, and I think they need help. One speaks just a few words of Spanish, but they seem to know French. Eduard may be able to understand them.”
When Eduard appeared, his father sent him into the cycle shop. Eduard had learned a little French at school, but was very embarrassed to speak it in front of others. Sergio returned and was concerned to find his shop so crowded, but also knew a few words of French to try to discover what was happening. At last they worked out that the two men were English airmen who had been shot down over France. Somehow they’d walked to Barcelona, although neither Eduard’s French nor the Englishman’s Spanish was good enough to explain how they’d managed to do this. The men were obviously hungry and tired, and Carlos had recognised and understood their situation.
After much hesitation, Eduard helped explain that Carlos would take them to his home, and there they could rest and recover from their journey. A strange little procession started up Balmes, but Manel told Eduard to hang back. It felt to him that the group would draw too much attention to itself, if they walked in a cluster.
Turning into Rossello, Carlos sent the Englishmen down to his startled mother, and hung back to ask Eduard to come in with him to continue to try to translate. When Eduard eventually returned to his own home, he had a bit more of the story to tell his parents. He remembered the men’s names, Albert and Eric, although he wasn’t sure which was which of them.
If he had understood the men correctly, it seemed that they had been walking for many weeks, mostly at night. They were British airmen and had been flying over Paris when they had been shot down. They had produced a worn map to show Carlos and Eduard the route of their journey. They’d parachuted down into a farm somewhere east of Paris, and had stumbled into a farmhouse where, by amazing luck, they had found a French family who were sympathetic to their plight. They had been passed from family to family all the way to the Spanish border. The Englishmen had been hidden in the outskirts of many towns on their long and exhausting journey across France. Eduard found it hard to remember all the places the men had been to, but he knew they’d pointed to Toulouse and Limoges on their map.
The men’s instructions were very vague, but they seemed to want to get to Gibraltar. The last French family had pointed them in the direction of Spain, and they’d limped through the mountains, up and down hills, and through dark lanes, mainly at night. They’d slept in ruined and bombed out buildings since being on Spanish soil, but had no further contacts to help them get to Gibraltar. As they got near to Barcelona, they had risked walking in daylight, and had not looked so different from the impoverished young men of the city.
It was again with luck that they’d stumbled into Sergio’s shop. They could easily have asked for help from someone sympathetic to the Fascist cause, but by asking Carlos for help, they’d found someone who not only empathised with them, but also was able and eager to help.
As he left to open the shop after the siesta, Manel took two packets of cigarettes from the kitchen drawer. “I can’t offer them much more,” he said, “but I’m sure they’ll be pleased for a smoke.”
Later Eduard eagerly abandoned his homework, and went round to Senora Pinto’s to see what was happening. Carlos grinned at Eduard. “They’re asleep,” he said. “Once they knew they were safe, and we’d given them some watery soup, they just wanted to sleep. They were even grateful for a lump of that horrible black bread. I remember that feeling. We’ll let them stay a few days, and when they’re ready, we’ll try to find how they can get south.”
“How can they do that? It’s a long way to walk, isn’t it?” exclaimed Eduard. “Will they get arrested?”
“There’s a British office in Barcelona,” said Carlos. “It’s called the consulate. In fact, it’s not very far away on Diagonal. I’ll go. I’m sure they’ll speak Spanish. We’ll see what we can do.”
Sergio readily agreed for Carlos to go to the British consulate the following morning, and Senora Pinto insisted that her son clean his grease-filled nails, and wetted his hair and tried to comb it down. With a clean shirt, and scrubbed face, Carlos was hardly recognisable as he left for the consulate.
He swung along in the fresh morning air, feeling a strange excitement at having a chance to help others after so many months of needing help himself. At the consulate, he was met by two Spanish Mossos policemen at the door. The consulate was on an upper floor of the old building on Diagonal. He explained that he wanted to see someone at the consulate for advice.
“What about?” asked one of the Mossos.
Carlos hestitated. Was it safe to tell the Spanish police that there were two British airmen at his apartment?
One of the Mossos grinned. “It’s OK if it’s about British or French soldiers trying to get to England: you won’t be arrested.”
Carlos nodded, and stammered, “Not soldiers, but British airmen.”
“Same thing,” said the Mossos. “Go up to the second floor. They’ll see you at the front desk.”
Upstairs, Carlos was intimidated by so many people speaking English, but when he approached the desk, he found that they all spoke good Spanish as well. Behind the desk, was a photograph of the British King next to a Union Jack flag. The advice was quick and simple: all he had to do was bring the airmen to the consulate, and the British would take them to Gibraltar.
Carlos was back out on the street much quicker than he expected.
“OK?” said the Mossos. “Simple isn’t it? But here’s some advice. Don’t tell the Civil Guard.”
Back at the apartment, the airmen had cleaned themselves up as much as they could, and Senora Pinto had given them more watery soup and black bread for breakfast. They were startled to find Carlos return so soon, and quickly gathered their few belongings into the worn kitbag, and were soon jogging along behind Carlos to the consulate.
The same Mossos were at the door, and recognising Carlos, told him to go upstairs with the airmen, as they wanted to speak to him. Carlos frowned, but the Mossos reassured him that there was nothing sinister in the request.
Upstairs, the three were ushered into a small office, and a young official came into the room. The young man spoke i
n English to the two airmen.
“I’m John Jackson,” he said. “I work here, seconded to Barcelona as part of MI9, British Military Intelligence Section 9. We will have to spend a day or two checking that you are who you say you are, and if all is satisfactory, we will transfer you to Madrid, and then to Gibraltar.”
Turning to Carlos, he spoke in Spanish. “Please wait here, whilst I take these chaps to another officer. I won’t be long.”
Carlos was astonished that the young British man spoke excellent Spanish. He looked around the room. It was very bare except for a picture of Winston Churchill on the wall. When John Jackson returned, he was smiling. “It’s looking good,” he said. “They have the right papers. We’ll have to see what else they can tell us. Thank you for bringing them here. Now tell me about yourself.”
Carlos frowned, unsure what to say. “I was fighting for the republicans and lost a leg in the battle of Ebro,” he said hesitantly. “What else shall I say? Why are you asking me?”
John Jackson smiled. “We know you work in a cycle shop, not far away in the Eixample,” he said. “How did you meet these two British airmen?”
“They just wandered into the shop yesterday,” said Carlos, “asking for help. How do you know about me?”
John Jackson continued to smile. “That’s our job. That’s why we’re called ‘Intelligence’. Tell me, have you heard of Pat O’Leary or the Shelbourne Line?”
Carlos was flummoxed. He had no idea what this man was talking about. He just shook his head, and said, “No.”
The British man nodded. “OK,” he went on, “it’s as we guessed. It was just chance that the two airmen found you.”
“Yes.”
“We have a network of safe routes for British personnel to escape from the Nazis. We bring them across France and into Spain by passing them from safe house to safe house. It seems your two men got to Spain along a route via Toulouse and Limoges, with a code name Pat O’Leary. Somehow at the Spanish border they lost the network, and finished up wandering into your shop. It was lucky for them that they did.”
Slowly Carlos started to understand the man. “Yes,” he said, “they mentioned Toulouse.”
“We are always looking to increase our network. We must do some further checks, but if all is satisfactory, we could use you as a safe house in Barcelona. There would be no reward, and some risks. The Mossos tend to be on our side, but if any of the Civil Guard got wind of what you’re doing, they wouldn’t be so pleased.”
Now it was Carlos’s turn to smile. “After I was injured, I needed a lot of help. I nearly died, and without the kindness of strangers, I wouldn’t be here. I’m glad enough to find a way of repaying my debt, especially if it is with other strangers.”
Some weeks later, Carlos was working in the cycle shop, when two British soldiers appeared. “Are you Pat O’Leary?” they asked in English.
Recognising the name, Carlos laughed. “Yes!” he said in English, and then continued in Spanish, “You’ve found the right place. Come with me.”
Sergio looked up expectantly. Carlos grinned at him, put down the rusty bicycle chain he was cleaning, and stood to take the men to his apartment. Sergio nodded, “See you later.”
Manel and Anna became used to strangers arriving in Senora Pinto’s apartment, and occasionally they would give space for a refugee soldier on their kitchen floor for the night. Carlos developed a good link with the British consulate. The trickle of British soldiers, with some airmen, increased as the war continued, and Carlos was told that once they had been debriefed at the consulate, and shown to be genuine, they were usually taken by car to Madrid, and then in groups of about twenty transferred by train or coach to Gibraltar, and from there returned to England.
The soldiers rarely spoke any Spanish, but gradually Manel and Anna pieced together their stories. Sometimes they had been shot down over France or Germany, like the first two, Albert and Eric, but more often they had escaped from prisoner-of-war camps. Some arrived injured, and all were exhausted and seriously dirty when they arrived. Manel used his precious black market contacts to get them extra rations to give them the strength to continue their journeys.
The war in Europe was reported by the Spanish newspapers and on the wireless, and seemed to be dragging on and on. The people of Barcelona had vivid memories of their city being bombed, and at first felt they understood what was happening in British cities under the hail of German bombs. As the Blitz continued, however, they became aware that the plight of towns and cities in Britain was considerably worse than the bombing they had endured, and they shuddered to think if the British and their cities would survive.
Eduard was very excited that his twelfth birthday was approaching, as this was when he would leave school. For months his dislike of school had grown, usually focussed on Father Matias. He was especially pleased that the boring visits to the church would stop: he had become heartily tired of the time spent on his knees listening to Father Matias mumbling. When Eduard got home from school each day, Anna would ask if he’d had a good day, and invariably would get the same reply.
“Religion again. Marched to the church, sang for mass, spent ages on our knees. Oh, mother, it’s such a waste of time.”
On one occasion Eduard came home smiling. “We had a school inspection today. Some Catholic priest, more senior than Matias, came to see how religious we are. Found out we don’t listen during the long talks in the church, but didn’t get cross with us, got cross with Father Matias! It’s just politics by another name, isn’t it? They pretend to be moral and everything, but it’s all about Franco. Franco-this and Franco-that. Father Matias is a fascist isn’t he?” But then the smile faded from his face. “Apparently we’re going to have more religious processions to show what good fascists we are, dragging that horrible statue round the streets.”
Anna was torn between her loyalty to the church, and her understanding of her son’s frustration. She continued to try to persuade the family to join her in the church on Sundays, but she could not get any of them to go with her.
Instead of church, Eduard liked going to football matches, and Carlos often went with him. They could walk the short distance to Les Corts stadium, and got a great thrill in the stands with thousands of other men and boys, all unanimous in the support for the Catalan team. Matches against Real Madrid took on a new and sinister significance, the old rivalry turning into a competition between the Nationalists and the Republicans. They were astonished that El Caudillo offered an award for a match to be played between Barcelona and Real Madrid, to be known as the “Copa del Generalissimo”. It was to be awarded on the basis of the accumulated scores of two games between the clubs. The first leg was an exciting match with the Barcelona team dominating the pitch. By the final whistle, the Barcelona team had scored three goals, whilst Madrid had none. Eduard and Carlos looked forward to the second match which was to be played in Madrid. They would be able to listen to the commentary on the wireless.
They sat in stunned silence as the Real Madrid team put ball after ball into the Barcelona net. By the end of the match, Madrid had scored eleven times, with Barcelona managing only one goal. There was terrific applause and cheering by the Madrid crowd as Franco himself handed the cup to the Madrid captain.
“Turn it off,” said Carlos. “Something’s gone badly wrong.”
The following day, Eduard went with Carlos to Les Corts. A small crowd had gathered outside the dilapidated clubhouse, still showing the scars of war, to meet the vanquished and humiliated Barcelona team. They stepped dejectedly from the bus and hurried to their clubhouse. One of the coaches stayed behind, and with a solemn face, turned to the crowd. “We could have won,” he said. “We should have won. But one of Franco’s henchman visited the dressing room just before the match. He was the director of state security, and he told us that the players would be arrested and jailed if they won the match. In fear for their lives, they played badly. What has our country come to when even our beloved game is c
ontrolled by these Fascists?”
He turned and abruptly vanished into the clubhouse. The crowd muttered a little and gloomily dispersed. Eduard vowed never to attend a football match again.
A few days later, on his twelfth birthday, Eduard finished school for ever. He was delighted that he would no longer have to do homework, and after the times he had spent helping his father in the shop, he knew something of the business. It was assumed without conversation that he would work full-time in the grocer’s, and at first he was very keen; but when the reality of starting work early in the morning, and working until mid-evening dawned on him, his enthusiasm was not so great. After some weeks at the shop, Manel felt able to leave Eduard in charge, which gave him an opportunity to go to various wholesale outlets, and quietly develop his black market contacts.
The chore of dealing with rationing, especially coping with the complicated books of coupons, remained a boring and time-consuming part of their work in the shop, but their customers appreciated their honesty and fair dealing.
Meanwhile, at home Clara not only was proving a very clever girl with mathematics, reading and writing, but was also becoming a very efficient needlewoman. She had mastered her mother’s Singer sewing machine, and was eager to expand their cottage industry into a business.
“We should get a shop,” she told Anna. “I will design dresses, and make them. We need a second sewing machine, and we will sell clothes as well as doing all these repairs and alterations.”
Anna and Manel discussed their daughter’s ideas.
“You know, we can’t go on forever just re-making old clothes,” said Anna. “That source of income has been excellent, but it will dry up. Clara’s right. We should expand our business.”
“But opening another shop?” said Manel. “How could we afford such a thing?”
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 6
