by Preston Paul
Fischer wrote with indignation about what was happening to the Republic and with a burning determination to change the nonintervention policies of the democracies. In November 1936, after a week of bombing raids on Madrid, in which many children were killed, he commented: ‘That Italian and German pilots should attack non-combatant Spaniards with bombs and machine-guns without provoking a protest as to force democracies to intervene to protect Spain’s progressive republic is a pretty fair gauge of the world’s moral calibre these days.’55 In early December, after finding himself in the midst of the carnage produced by a bombing raid on Madrid, he wrote passionately of the wounded women, children and old people, of those left homeless and of those who piloted the waves of Junkers. He also wrote perceptively of the wider international implications:
In Spain two vast world forces are testing each other out. So far the fascists have displayed more initiative and greater daring. They were the first to send airplanes and equipment. Now they are the first to ship troops. Their submarines and other naval craft spy on and interfere with the operations of the loyal Spanish fleet in eastern harbours. Their impudence is unequalled because England and France showed them in a score of situations – Ethiopia, the Rhineland, and so on – that he who dares wins. Democratic diplomacy is no match for fascist arrogance. If Franco conquers, Europe will be black or Europe will go to war as soon as Hitler and Mussolini are ready.56
In mid-December 1936, he went to Paris, still haunted by what he had seen in Madrid. He wrote to Freda Kirchwey: ‘I wish you could do something about it. Can’t you organize a committee to send relief, medicines – help in the evacuation?’ He proposed going to New York to get something done to raise money for the Republic. His identification with the Republican cause was evident in his writing: ‘We need men and women – nurses – and money and materials. You mustn’t allow America to get away with passivity in this great fight. Spain will suffer, but America too.’57 That the democracies were turning a blind eye to the implications of what was happening in Spain filled Fischer with indignation. At the beginning of 1938, he would write: ‘The Spanish people are paying heavily for the privilege of fighting the world’s battle against fascism, paying not merely in dead, wounded, and captured, in the daily nervous strain, and in destroyed wealth, but in unrelieved undernourishment.’58
In his eloquent and lucid articles, Fischer returned over and over again to underline the absurdities of non-intervention. He pointed out that there was no control over Portugal whence arms flowed unimpeded to Franco. Realizing that the Germans and Italians were concerned not to antagonize Britain prematurely, indeed while Hermann Göring was in Rome discussing with Mussolini just how far they could go, Fischer wrote perceptively: ‘If Great Britain called “Halt!” Hitler would mend his behaviour unwillingly and Mussolini happily.’59 He believed that Washington’s neutrality over Spain played into Hitler’s hands and made American involvement in a future war inevitable. He showed how Germany and Italy could buy American arms that found their way to Franco, while the Republic was deprived of its rights under international law to buy the weaponry with which to defend itself. He wrote in vain that ‘the only way to guarantee peace is to stop the fascist aggressors who alone want war. It can still be done in Spain. If Hitler and Mussolini are checked there, they will be weakened and sobered.’60
Fischer’s friendship with Álvarez del Vayo and Negrín flourished on the basis of their shared commitment to the Republic and their belief that its survival depended on international opinion putting pressure on British, French and American politicians to abandon non-intervention. Certainly, Fischer made Herculean efforts to influence American and European public opinion in favour of a lifting of the US embargo on arms sales to the Spanish Republic. In December 1936, he went to Switzerland to cover Álvarez del Vayo’s appeal to the League of Nations to scrap non-intervention. From Geneva he went to Moscow to see his family. In the course of his stay, he was treated by senior Kremlin figures as a valuable informant on Spain. He was received by Maxim Litvinov and by Georgi Dimitrov, Bela Kun’s successor as head of the Comintern. He was grilled on the Spanish situation by General Semyon Petrovitch Uritsky, the chief of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU, who was in charge of aid to Spain. It was in Uritsky’s home that Luli, the daughter of Constancia de la Mora, was staying after being evacuated to Russia. Fischer was not an agent – his relationship with these people was one of mutual benefit. He would tell them forthrightly what he thought was happening and what they should be doing. For them, his knowledge was useful, for him there was the frisson of mixing with men of power and of feeling that he was influencing them. Nevertheless, while he was in Russia, the second bout of trials of Old Bolsheviks had begun. His faith in the Soviet system was dwindling fast. For Fischer, like Koltsov, Spain seemed to be the only place where the hopes of anti-fascism could flourish: ‘I was glad to leave Russia and immerse myself in a new vibrant situation where Russia showed its finest face.’61
From Moscow, he returned briefly to Valencia, where he reported to Prieto, Álvarez del Vayo and Largo Caballero on the meeting with Uritsky and then to Ambassador Rosenberg on their reactions. Fischer’s ubiquity and influence can just be deduced from the opening of an article that he published in January 1937:
I left Madrid on December 7 to fly to Geneva for the special Spanish session of the League Council. Thereafter I spent a week in Paris and eight days in Moscow and then flew back to Barcelona, where I arrived on January 6. I have now been in the Spanish capital four days, in which time I have interviewed Prime Minister Caballero, four members of the federal cabinet, a number of party leaders and several well-informed generals.62
From Spain he went to the United States, where he gave several lectures. He was afflicted with an acute bout of arthritis while in New York and he used his enforced leisure to write up his material into the lengthy pamphlet Why Spain Fights On.63 It was probably on this trip that Louis attended a fund-raising event for the Spanish Republic at the New York home of two Hollywood scriptwriters, the humorist and poet Dorothy Parker and Alan Campbell, her actor husband. Campbell wrote to him on the next day to comment sarcastically on his insensitivity:
I am afraid that you misunderstand the reason for my annoyance last night. It was not the fact that you were so tactless as to mistake my wife for my mother. After all, I have been in Hollywood for the past two years and am accustomed to all kinds of stupidity and lack of perception. (Although, since the great disparity in age between my wife and myself is six years, she would have been an enterprising young girl in order to give birth to me.) The point I was trying to make is that you were at my house for presumably the same reason that I was – to get money for the Spanish Loyalists. Therefore, since I am deeply interested in the cause, I hate to see not only myself but numerous other people (names furnished on request) antagonized by your boorishness and your indiscreet comments on the people present who, after all, were here with a common interest. As to your question to Miss Parker, ‘Are you as rich as Hemingway?’ (and there’s a way to win all hearts!), may I answer it by saying that if Hemingway’s entire fortune at the moment is $825.60, the answer is ‘Yes’. Because Miss Parker, like all poets, make enormous sums of money and keeps it all. In conclusion, may I suggest that you solicit funds for General Franco for the next few months. I guarantee you will thereby draw thousands of supporters to the Loyalist cause.64
Subsequently, Fischer sailed back to Spain with the Ambassador Fernando de los Ríos, who had not long before recruited a young Oklahoman from the Library of Congress to work for the embassy’s press services. The radical librarian was Herbert Southworth, who would become a friend and collaborator of Fischer as a fellow lobbyist in the service of Negrín. At this stage, Fischer began lobbying by writing innumerable letters to politicians, including Eleanor Roosevelt. Subsequently, he would lecture to large audiences and also address dinners of influential figures in both the United States and England.65
Despite Fischer’s
scepticism concerning Largo Caballero’s capacity as war leader, under his nominal leadership – although thanks largely to Prieto and Negrín – the power of the central state was well on the way to being reasserted. In November 1936, Fischer had been permitted to attend a meeting of the inner war cabinet, perhaps in his capacity as quartermaster of the brigades but perhaps also because of his earlier letter to Largo Caballero. Prieto ‘did very little talking and when he did speak he showed a marked deference to Caballero. What Prieto said was the most intelligent contribution to the entire deliberation.’66 Largo Caballero resisted the idea of incorporating the party and trade union militias into a single regular army. His Soviet advisers had considerable difficulty in persuading him that the militia system was inefficient.67
It was hardly surprising that, after Largo Caballero had been replaced by Juan Negrín in May 1937, Fischer was delighted with the progress made towards the proper organization of a war effort. He wrote of Largo’s ‘isolation from the masses whom he refused, despite friendly pressure, to address even once during the months he was Prime Minister, his haughty behaviour towards his own colleagues and the slowness and inflexibility with which he met the problems heaped mountain-high around him, all caused many of his supporters to turn against him’. In contrast, he wrote: ‘Negrín is an excellent executive, and that is what the conduct of the war needed. Things are now getting done quickly where millions can see the results – in the army. The people know that he has wiped out private violence, introduced order on the highways and streets, and created an atmosphere conducive to civil and military discipline.’ He was particularly struck by Negrín’s determination to maintain democratic principles despite the ongoing internal political clashes.68
During the summer of 1937, Fischer was in Valencia and involved in the preparation of the Anti-Fascist Writers’ Congress. On one occasion, at a banquet, he was accompanied by Kate Mangan, who had been assigned to interpret for him and a visiting trade union leader.69 He saw Kitty Bowler a couple of times. In the third week of June 1937, she wrote to her lover, the British Communist Tom Wintringham, ‘Fischer had turned up again, says De los Ríos has done a grand job on Roosevelt with the result that some people in the State Department are definitely favourable’.70 He was back in Valencia at the end of June and had dinner with the new prime minister, Juan Negrín, at Náquera near Sagunto. Negrín also arranged for him to have an interview with Azaña, although the president received him only on the strict condition that ‘nothing he said was for immediate publication’. After their interview, at which Azaña had revealed to Fischer his hopes for British mediation to put an end to the war, Fischer crossed the street to have lunch with Negrín. The growing intimacy between them was reflected in the fact that some days later, Negrín invited Fischer to dinner along with Prieto, now Minister of War, Arthur Stashevsky, the Soviet trade representative, and the Communist Minister of Education, Jesús Hernández.
Afterwards, Negrín revealed to Fischer that he was about to go to Madrid. Negrín was going to be with General Rojo during the great diversionary offensive that was launched on 6 July at Brunete. Despite the blanket of secrecy that covered the operation and the exclusion of all correspondents, when Fischer appeared in Madrid, Negrín arranged for Prieto to give him a rare pass to visit the front and even put a Rolls Royce at his disposal for the journey from Valencia to Madrid. The next morning, they had breakfast and discussed Negrín’s determination to move the capital to Barcelona. He also had a two-hour off-the-record interview with Azaña. He was the only foreign correspondent to visit the front during the battle of Brunete.71 He sent two articles to The Nation written while in Spain, one datelined Valencia 28 June and, on 11 July, a much shorter and guarded one from Madrid.72 A couple of days later, Louis left for Paris.
In both articles, Fischer was discreet about the level of his access to Negrín and to other politicians, such as Azaña, who spoke off the record. Nevertheless, in a long survey of the first year of the war, sent from Paris on 20 July, Fischer gave a revealing hint that his influence went far beyond that of a simple correspondent. He wrote:
I recently walked down several central streets of Valencia with a cabinet minister at eleven o’clock in the morning and drew his attention to many hundreds of young civilian men. They were not in factories, they would be in their offices if they were government employees, and they were not in the army. All cities and villages in Loyalist Spain show a similar picture. The government needs greater power to put these vast human resources to work at winning the war. Yet the power necessary to accomplish this objective might easily become excessive and assume the quality of dictatorship. This is a delicate matter which further complicates the problem of political parties.73
In fact, Fischer’s discretion was to cause some friction with Freda Kirchwey and The Nation. In response to the two tantalizing articles sent from Valencia and Madrid, she wrote on 14 July:
Your articles were interesting but they left me with a feeling of great uncertainty and a wish that I might discuss the whole inner situation with you face to face. Your second dispatch in particular was terribly provocative. I am hoping most earnestly that after you have left Spain and have no need to submit your copy for censorship, you will write a full and very frank analysis of the political situation both inside the government and between the government and its left opposition.
Concerned not just about possible official censorship, she went on to ask if there was any self-censorship on Louis’ part:
Would you on account of your close personal relations with Negrín and your function as an unofficial adviser feel hesitant about writing fully? I can understand that this might be so and I would consider these reasons wholly legitimate. If such a situation exists, could you suggest a person as detached and trustworthy as, say, Brailsford who might go into the thing fully and without doing any harm.
Along similar lines, she wrote a fortnight later: ‘You are really an exasperating guy. You mention a talk with Azaña and don’t say anything even in private about what came out of it.’
Fischer was furious for a whole raft of reasons. He resented criticism at the best of times. He was, as always, annoyed at editorial changes to his text. Above all, he was incandescent that she should think that he would allow his relationships with politicians to affect his journalistic integrity. His letter of reply gives a vivid portrait of his way of working and of his pride in it: ‘Your letter of July 14th was the most insulting I ever received from you. I hate indirection. If you don’t want my contributions you can say so and I will go elsewhere.’ He went on to explain how the article in which he had referred obliquely to the Brunete offensive was ‘sent under special circumstances’:
There was a strict censorship. No correspondent was allowed to send anything but terse official communiqués. The telephone service with abroad was suspended. No private messages could be sent. They wanted the facts of the offensive kept secret – and it was a good thing. Nobody was allowed to go to the front. I received special permission from Prieto (this is to be kept secret). When I got back in the evening I sat down to write my despatch. I knew the stiffness of the censorship. Under the circumstances I wrote more than anyone else did in that period and as much as was possible. What I said about the internal political situation was new and sensational and if you didn’t appreciate it there doesn’t seem to be much use going to a lot of trouble to get and forward such information to you. I was hampered by censorship and by no other circumstance, as you suggest. The proof is in the article I sent from Paris wherein I elaborated a few points touched upon in the Madrid despatch. Nobody has analysed this complicated situation, as I have.
As so often, her reply was conciliatory: ‘there is no sense in getting sore or in hurling abuse at my head. I like you and your writing and we all want what you can give.’74
Louis’ letter to Freda had been written on 5 August 1937 from Moscow, whither he had returned not having seen his family for seven months. The atmosphere of the purges the
re could not have been grimmer. The denunciations, arrests and shootings mounted up, and many of the victims were acquaintances of Fischer and his wife. Previously, his visits home had been the cue for lots of Russian friends to drop by in search of news. This time no one came. The only moments of political interest came when he was received by Litvinov and Dimitrov. Appalled by what he was witnessing, he was soon desperate to get away: ‘I was glad there was a Spain to work in and work for. It would have been mental torture to live in Moscow’s atmosphere. The alternative would have been to go away and attack the Soviet regime in my writings and lectures. I was not yet ready to do that.’ Moreover, he knew that, if he attacked Russia, he would not be welcome in Spain and he could not tolerate that.75
