The Impostor

by Javier Cercas

  I have no doubt that, during those four days, Marco put his brain into overdrive in order to identify and evaluate the various consequences that the revelation of his deception might entail. In fact, he must have been thinking about this since the previous Sunday, at the meeting in Vilafranca del Penedès when he discovered that word had already spread among his co-directors of the board, or perhaps even since early February when Bermejo had told him what he’d discovered; it’s even possible that he’d been working on it from the beginning, or almost the beginning: from the very moment when he began to pass himself off as a deportado and realised there was a possibility—however remote it might have seemed at the time—that someone would expose him. Of course, the first thing that must have occurred to him during those days of anxious waiting was that he could deny everything, or deny the greater part of the accusations. He had no choice but to acknowledge that in the Forties he had travelled to Germany as a volunteer worker, that much was clear, and therefore that he had lied about part of his life story, or distorted it; but although in Linz he had admitted to Mínguez and Ruiz, his colleagues from Amical, that he had never been an inmate in Flossenbürg, he could claim that he’d not said what he’d said, or that he’d said it but it was false, and he could go on claiming that he had been in Flossenbürg. To judge from what Bermejo had told him, and what he had written in his report, the historian couldn’t prove that he had not been a prisoner in Flossenbürg; and, from what Marco himself knew, it would be difficult to prove: the archivists at the Flossenbürg Memorial were clear that not all prisoners appeared in the camp registers, and he could always claim to be one of those ghostly prisoners.

  It wouldn’t be easy to prove that he had not been in Flossenbürg, but nor would it be impossible. For a start, Marco had no idea how much Bermejo knew: he might know much more than he’d said he knew, he might have recounted only part of what he knew. But there was one thing Marco did know: Bermejo was a pitbull, and now that he’d sunk his teeth into Marco, he wouldn’t let go. So, just as he had found a document that proved Marco had been a volunteer worker in Kiel, Bermejo might also find evidence that his German adventure had begun and ended in Kiel, and therefore he could not have been in Flossenbürg. Marco didn’t know whether such evidence existed, but he knew that it might exist and that Bermejo or someone else might find it. Besides, although Bermejo hadn’t been able to prove that his time in Flossenbürg was a fabrication, he’d discovered that Marco was not a deportado, that he’d lied, and that an important section of his past was false, he’d brought to light a part of Marco that had remained hidden until now and suddenly his persona was cracking, the anti-fascist hero, the rock star or champion of so-called historical memory was teetering and threatening to collapse because, regardless of the decision they arrived at, his co-directors at the Amical would insist that he make a statement acknowledging his deception. Of course, he could do something else: disappear, never go back to Amical, wait until everyone there had forgotten about him; there was even the possibility that no-one would unmask him, no-one would report that he’d been lying for years, because it was in no-one’s interest to air a story that would be detrimental to everyone, and to the Amical first and foremost. As for Bermejo, perhaps he could talk to him in private, sound out his intentions and try to come to some sort of agreement.

  It was a possibility. But not one that was in keeping with his character, or rather with the noble image he had of himself at the time, with the arrogance of Icarus, like the wings of feathers and wax that he’d fashioned from his triumphs as hero or champion of so-called historical memory. It wasn’t a possibility that dovetailed with his character because it amounted to surrender, and what squared with his character was not to surrender but to defend himself; or rather: to attack.

  Incredibly, this is what he did. Marco must have thought, with good reason, that what he was facing was a battle, that in battle the victor is the one who seizes the initiative and that, if he waited for Bermejo to uncover the whole truth about his time in Germany (not to mention the whole truth about everything), there would be no possible defence. The best thing was to preempt the historian, give his version of the story, acknowledge his lie, formulate the best arguments to justify it and thereby protect the rest of his story, shore up his persona so that the removal of a single piece of his history—however important the piece, and assuming it was necessary to remove it—wouldn’t cause the whole persona to collapse as removing a single card from a house of cards can bring it down. He must have thought that his reputation was hard-won, that he wasn’t just anybody, that he had genuinely been a union leader at the C.N.T., a civic leader at FaPaC, a peerless proponent of so-called historical memory at Amical, that he had been awarded the Creu de Sant Jordi and knew the leading lights in Catalan society, and so a minor flaw couldn’t simply destroy his reputation overnight. He must have thought that, throughout his eighty-four years, he’d always landed on his feet, that he’d emerged unscathed from much more compromising situations than this, that he was a conman, a shameless charlatan, a peerless trickster, an incomparable talker who had succeeded in hoodwinking Franco’s military authorities, the Nazi courts, countless journalists, historians and politicians, that he was Enric Marco and he would also get through this unscathed. He had more than enough energy and oratory to do so, he had more than enough arguments to charm and hoodwink everyone all over again.

  More than enough. He hadn’t lied, he had only slightly altered the truth, perhaps embellished it a little, nothing more. And even if he’d told a lie, even if he’d made a mistake, who could claim they had never told a lie? Who could say they had never made a mistake? Who was entitled to cast the first stone? Especially since, if he had lied, or altered or embellished the truth a little, he’d done it for a good cause, to publicise so-called historical memory, the horrors that, over a century, had destroyed both Spain and Europe; he’d made these things known to the young and the not so young, to the whole country, at a time when genuine survivors of the Nazi camps were too old and too frail to do so, he’d lied only to give a voice to the voiceless, to promote a message of justice, solidarity and memory. Who could blame him for that? Who could criticise him for placing himself at the heart of those horrors in order to lend greater truth, greater force, greater drama to his message? Besides, he too was a victim, a survivor, he too had suffered prison and persecution in Germany, everything he’d said was absolutely true, not just about the Nazi camps, given that he was a historian and had thoroughly researched the subject, but also about his personal history, given that he’d done nothing other than change the backdrop, recount what had happened in Kiel as though it had happened in Flossenbürg, what had happened in a Nazi jail as though it had happened in a concentration camp. Was this mistake—if it truly was a mistake—enough to wipe out all his achievements? Did his fighting during the Civil War, his militant anti-Francoism, his years of clandestine struggle, his trade union leadership, his fight for better state schools and his titanic work as head of the Amical count for nothing? Could this innocuous lie, always assuming it was innocuous and not a noble, altruistic lie, weigh more than all his virtues?

  There were more than enough arguments; this is what Marco thought: that the weight of his arguments would be overwhelming, that everyone would forgive his mistake, that his reputation wouldn’t suffer, or would suffer only briefly and barely perceptibly, that his persona would survive intact, or almost intact, and after a little time everything would go back to being as it had been, his colleagues would ask him to return as president of Amical, where he would once again fight for so-called historical memory. This is what he thought, or what Marco may have thought would happen if, instead of surrendering, he defended himself, or rather, went on the attack, if he seized the initiative; and so he did. Bermejo had attempted to destroy him, but had succeeded only in making him stronger. He had tried to make him go back to being Alonso Quixano, but he would carry on being Don Quixote. Reality had do
ne its utmost to kill him, but fiction had once again saved him.

  This was not what eventually happened, or not exactly. On Monday, May 9, shortly before 5:00 p.m. when the plane carrying the Spanish delegation from Vienna was due to land in Barcelona, the board of the Amical held a meeting at the headquarters on calle Sils. Marco was present. In the course of the meeting a text was written entitled “A Statement by Sr Enric Marco Batlle,” which read:

  In response to the stories that have been circulating about my past in recent days, I would like to acknowledge the following points:

  I travelled to Germany as part of a convoy of Spanish volunteer workers in late 1941.

  I was not interned in Flossenbürg camp, although I suffered prison while on remand, charged with conspiring against the Third Reich.

  I returned to Spain in early 1943 after I was released.

  I made public statements about my life story, including elements that distort reality, in 1978, long before my association with the Amical de Mauthausen in the past six years.

  In consequence I have relinquished my responsibilities at the Amical and suspended all activity within the organisation.

  The text was written with considerable thought: it contains two of the fundamental arguments Marco had prepared in his defence. Firstly, it doesn’t mention “lies,” simply that he’d “distorted” the truth; secondly, that though he hadn’t been imprisoned by the Germans in Flossenbürg, he had been in Kiel, so he had fought against the Nazis, had been a victim of the Nazis, and therefore had a right to speak as a resistance fighter and a victim of the Nazis, and on behalf of the resistance fighters and the victims of the Nazis (such that, in recognising his lies, Marco slipped in another lie, that in Germany he’d been accused of “conspiring against the Third Reich,” rather than “high treason,” which was the actual charge against him). For the rest, the statement represented the security or the hope that Marco nurtured that his persona would remain intact and that, sooner or later, he would regain his privileged status within the Amical (and within society): the proof is that he didn’t resign, he merely relinquished his responsibilities with the organisation; that he simply “suspended” his activities at Amical. The text was dated May 9 and signed by Marco.

  The following morning, our man made photocopies of the statements and one by one he visited the Barcelona newsrooms of the principal Spanish newspapers, so that he could personally hand the statement to the editor. None of them was prepared to meet with him, so he had to leave the statement at reception with an explanatory note. Then he returned to his house in Sant Cugat and, having decided to put up a good fight, though he couldn’t possibly imagine the sheer scale of the scandal, he waited for developments.

  8

  Yesterday, April 28, 2014, I spent the whole day fantasising an imaginary conversation with Marco; I’m transcribing it as I imagined it, word for word. For once in this book, it is not Marco, but I who am adding the fiction.

  * * *

  —

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s about time you let me talk.”

  “You’ve spent the whole book talking. Remember you’re the one who told me your life story; I’m simply repeating what you told me.”

  “That’s a lie: you’re doing much more than that. Don’t take me for a fool.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. You think I’m foolish and dangerous. That’s why I only get to appear in your book in this way. In a bad light. In this fantasy of yours. When the book is nearly finished and almost everything has been said…If you think that making me appear like this will defuse what I have to say and ensure people don’t take me seriously, you’re wrong: you may be a fool, but not everyone else is. And speaking of your book: something you wrote a while ago interests me.”

  “I wrote a lot of things. Which one are you referring to?”

  “The one where you say you’re writing this book to save me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Of course you said that.”

  “No. What I said is that there have been times, since I started writing this book, when I’ve had the impression or the suspicion that, without realising, or without recognising it, or without wanting to recognise it, I was trying to save you, and not to save you in the way you think I should save you, meaning rehabilitate you, but by confronting you with the truth.”

  “The same way that Cervantes saved Don Quixote, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, I know the tune. You’ve played it many times. In any case, don’t forget I only asked you to defend me, not to save or rehabilitate me. I never asked for that. Never ever.”

  “Be careful; you know what I think about insistence, two nevers and one ever add up to at least one always.”

  “You’re just a cynic. You’re not writing this book to save me; you’re writing it to line your pockets, to make yourself rich and famous, to be in the limelight, as you put it, so that people will love and admire you and consider you a great writer. I mean, I’m not saying you’re writing it simply to alleviate your petit bourgeois neuroses and your complexes, but that’s the main reason.”

  “A thief believes everybody steals. That said, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with writing for the various reasons you suggest.”

  “Nothing. As long as you admit it. As long as you don’t tell yourself fairy tales.”

  “They’re not fairy tales. At first I just wanted to understand you, but now, there are times when part of me isn’t content with that; at least that’s the impression I have. Now I sometimes hear a little voice that says, ‘Why not try to save him? Why not try to save the great impostor, the great pariah, this extraordinary rogue who has condemned himself? Just because it’s impossible? Because from the beginning this has been an impossible book? Why not make it a little more impossible? What have you got to lose? Besides, if literature cannot serve to save people, what purpose does it serve?’ ”

  “You sound like you’re going mad.”

  “Maybe I am, but you’re to blame. In any case, whatever I do, I have to tell the truth here. That much is certain. And in telling it, maybe I’ll help you recover your sanity, free you from being Don Quixote so you can go back to being Alonso Quixano. As for the rest, don’t talk nonsense: how do you expect me to line my pockets with a book like this?”

  “It’s about me, isn’t it? Can you think of a more fascinating subject than me?”

  “No.”

  “Neither can I. Let’s be honest, the one who isn’t fascinating is you. You might be of some interest, but you’re so dishonest, it’s impossible.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Of course you do. Look, what’s impossible is that you’ve spent I don’t know how many pages accusing me of lying and deceiving, of being a charlatan, of not wanting to know myself or recognise myself for who I am, and you still haven’t said that you’re doing exactly the same. Tell your readers the truth, then maybe they’ll start to believe you.”

  “What precisely should I tell them?”

  “Everything.”

  “For example?”

  “For example, that you’ve benefitted as much as I have from the so-called industry of memory. And that you’re just as much to blame for it as I am. Maybe more so.”

  “You’ll have to explain that.”

  “What was the title of your novel?”

  “Which novel?”

  “What do you mean, which novel? You know perfectly well. The one that lifted you out of anonymity, the one that put you in the limelight, the one that made you rich and famous.”

  “It didn’t make me rich or famous: it simply made it possible for me to earn a living as a writer. It was called Soldiers of Salamis.”

  �
�That’s the one. So, tell me, when was it published?”

  “In 2001. February or March.”

  “And tell me, how many copies did it sell? How many people read it? And what is it about: it’s about a journalist the same age as you, a grandson of the Civil War who starts out believing that the war is something as remote, as alien as the Battle of Salamis and in the end realises that this isn’t true, that the past is never dead, that the past is the present or a dimension of the present, that the war is still alive and without it nothing can be explained; you could put it another way: it’s about a journalist your age who thinks he is tracking down a fascist who saved the life of a Republican until he discovers that in fact it was the Republican who saved the life of the fascist, and in the end, he tracks down the Republican, who turns out to be a veteran of every war, or every just war, a hero who represents all that is good and noble about his country, a man who everyone has forgotten.”

  “Miralles.”

  “That’s right, Miralles. Doesn’t it ring a bell, what I’ve just said? Now tell me something else: who in Spain had ever heard of historical memory when your novel was published?”

  “You’re not trying to tell me that my novel is to blame for the apotheosis of historical memory? I’m vain, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Your novel and various other things, but your novel is partly to blame. How else do you explain its success? Why else do you think so many people read it? Because it was good? Don’t make me laugh. People read it because they needed it, because the country needed it, they needed to remember its Republican past as though they were exhuming it, needed to relive it, to weep for the elderly forgotten Republican in that asylum in Dijon, for the friends he lost during the Civil War, just as they needed to weep over the things I said in my talks about Flossenbürg, about the Civil War and my friends during the Civil War: over Francesc Armenguer from Les Franqueses; Jordi Jardí, from Anglès…”