Laura gasped. “There’s hundreds of them.”
“Thousands,” said Jordi. “And thousands of our Republican army facing them across the river.”
As they watched, they could hear the distant boom of the guns, and see the flashes of the artillery. From this distance it was hard to imagine the reality of the unfolding horror. There, within an hour’s travel, men were pounding men to death.
“There’s Ferrer,” said Jordi, “and he has binoculars.”
They walked over to their tall friend, greeted him, and asked to borrow the binoculars.
“You won’t like what you see,” he warned them. “From here, it looks like a stalemate, with both armies simply blowing one another to bits across the river. It must be what France was like in the Great War.”
Jordi looked, and then quickly looked away. Laura held out her hand for the binoculars, but Ferrer took them. Jordi said, “No don’t look. It’s worse than a nightmare.”
The battle of the Ebro dragged on through the rest of the summer and into the autumn. In lulls in the fighting, the Nationalists would pull back to plunder and steal from the small villages and farms of the valley, but then return to the fray. Barcelona became accustomed to the constant flow of injured and dead soldiers from the battle front. It seemed the Catalonian Republicans would fight on until all were dead; but the Nationalists forces were renewed from many other parts of Spain, and kept up the barrage. By December 1938, the Republican army was decimated and running out of both soldiers and ammunition, and word spread quickly through the city that the Ebro front could not be held much longer. Many of the International Brigade, recognising the end of the war was upon them, abandoned the Republican soldiers, and started the long and difficult journey home.
Jordi went to another of Lluis Companys’s briefings, and was startled by the President announcing that this was to be the last press statement to be given from his office.
“We have fought long and hard for our city,” he said. “With much sadness, I have to tell you that the death toll in our valiant army of the Ebro has reached fifteen thousand. The army is exhausted and facing defeat. It is about to retreat. We are running out of ammunitions, and men. The time has come to abandon our beloved city to the enemy. Tomorrow I will take my government to Figueres, in the hope that we can find a base there to regroup and plan how we will fight back. The Generalitat will be meeting in the castle of Sant Ferran, in Figueres, and we will hold our next press briefing in the restaurant of the Duran Hotel in the town centre. I invite the press corps to travel with us, but to do so you must be at Franca Station at seven in the morning to travel. I must warn you that the train will take only official reporters and their families. Make sure you have all your papers with you. The station will not be open to other citizens.”
Jordi hurried home to tell Laura to pack their one small suit case, then hastened to Begemot to tell his comrades the situation, and to say farewell to Ferrer. The city was full of people, rushing from work to family and friends in a frenzy of planning their escape from the city. Laura ran down to her mother, who had survived countless crises, and in the knowledge that the old lady could not come with them, they had a tearful farewell.
As they approached the station in the early dawn, Jordi carrying his precious typewriter, and Laura clutching the battered suitcase, the streets around Estacio Franca were crowded. War-weary troops assisted the police at the station gates to hold back the crowd, and it was with difficulty that Jordi and Laura pushed to the front to show Jordi’s London press pass. The soldiers opened the gates and Jordi and Laura slipped through.
It was slightly calmer inside the great departures hall of the station. There was only one train waiting to depart, and at a further check of their papers, a slow queue of passengers inched towards boarding. Many were trying to board the train at the nearest carriage, but Jordi and Laura walked out along the platform in the hope that carriages at the front would be less crowded. As they rounded the long curve of the platform, the smell of the sea greeted them. They glanced to the right and through the canyon-like streets of Barceloneta glimpsed the sunlit beach. With shaking heads, hardly able to believe they were abandoning their city, they turned and climbed up into the carriage. They found seats and sat.
“Well, well,” came a voice. “Just look what the cat dragged in!”
Jordi looked up and was startled to see, sitting directly opposite, beaming at them, was Bertoli, the toad.
“Oh God,” groaned Jordi, “we don’t have to look at you all the way to Figueres, do we?”
“It seems you do,” laughed Bertoli.
“How did you get onto this train, toad? You can’t have the right papers.”
“I didn’t need papers. I’ve never needed papers. I just found a nice empty carriage when the train was in the sidings – a friend told me which train to get onto – and the engine kindly brought me into the station.”
“Laura,” said Jordi grimly, “this is Bertoli, who we call the toad. He’s the one begging outside the music shop.”
Laura nodded. “The one no-one trusts.”
“The toad doesn’t exist,” said Bertoli. “I left him behind on the Ramblas, when he wasn’t needed any more.” There was a pause, then Bertoli looked closely at Jordi through his pebble glasses. “When did you last see your father?”
“Not for a long time,” replied Jordi. “What’s it to you?”
“Just for the record, I’ve not seen him for a long time either,” said Bartoli. “It’s very unusual for me to lose track of someone.”
Gradually the train filled up. Jordi was amazed that so many had managed to find sufficient papers to enable them to get into the station and onto the train. At last with much whistling and hissing of steam, the train pulled out of the station. The glimpses of the sea vanished, and the train gathered speed, jolting through the sunlit countryside, and rattling non-stop through Girona.
“This is a rough old train, isn’t it?” said Laura.
“There’s been no maintenance for years,” said Jordi. “All the effort has been for the war. When this bloody war is over, Spain will be in a terrible mess. Years of neglect will take years to sort out.”
The train finally lurched to a stop, and passengers surged out into the sunlit placa in front of Figueres station.
“What happens now?” asked Laura.
“First we find somewhere to stay, then we’ll try to find a bank that’s open to get our money. Beyond that, I don’t know,” said Jordi.
They followed the crowd, and soon found themselves in an elegant Rambla. Predictably some of the buildings had been bombed, but most were still standing. Just as in Barcelona, shops were open but had little for sale. At the end of the Rambla, they saw the Duran Hotel, but it was obvious that with many of the president’s entourage staying there, there would be no vacant rooms.
A short street near the Duran led to the burned out shell of the bombed Figueres theatre. A small hotel facing the stark ruins was able to provide Jordi and Laura with a room, and Jordi gratefully paid for a week. Jordi took his gun from the typewriter case, and slipped it into his pocket. Leaving the typewriter and suitcase in the hotel room, they went out to explore the small town.
Inevitably, there was Bertoli, the former toad, seated at a pavement cafe, enjoying the winter sun. Jordi tried to ignore him, but he called him over.
“Good morning, young Vilaro!”
“What do you want now?” said Jordi.
“Nothing,” said Bertoli. “I’m just enjoying this warm winter sunshine like any other respectable citizen.”
“Respectable!” snorted Jordi.
Bertoli smiled and returned the pastry he was eating.
It was, by now, late morning. Jordi found a bank on a corner very near the Duran Hotel, and attempted to withdraw all his money. There was a very long delay whilst the small Figueres branch telephoned Jordi’s bank in Barcelona, and then, miraculously, the bank paid him all that was in his account. Laura was speec
hless when she saw how much money they had.
“It’s because I’m paid from London,” said Jordi. “I’ve never needed all the money they send. I’ve been quietly giving some to Mam, and Carla and Dolors, but there’s still a tidy sum left. But don’t be excited too soon; we may need every peseta of it.”
“We must be careful,” said Laura. “We don’t want to get robbed. We must return to the hotel so you can hide most of it under your clothes.”
Jordi laughed, but he knew his wife was right. “Then I must find a telephone. I must try to phone London. I’m pretty sure they know what’s happening. After all, there are so many foreign correspondents here at the moment, but my editor will want to hear my version. And I must tell them to keep my wages in London: I doubt any more paid into a Barcelona bank will ever find its way into my pocket.”
As they walked back to the hotel, Jordi turned to his wife. “You know, in all this chaos and misery, we should celebrate that we are safe. I’ll take you to the Duran restaurant this evening. I’m told it’s the best place in the town.”
“I’ve nothing to wear,” smiled Laura.
“Typical woman,” joked Jordi. “Actually, no-one has anything decent to wear: most comrades have spent their whole lives with nothing good to wear. We stand here in second-hand clothes from Sant Antoni’s market. Will anyone think less of us?”
In the afternoon, Jordi left Laura at the hotel whilst he went to find a telephone he could use to call London. After a long delay, the switchboard put him through to Ivy, who was delighted to know he and Laura were safe. He read his report to her, and explained that his future was very uncertain, and he could not know how often he would be able to call her. He warned her that all phone calls were probably being listened to, so she must be careful what she said.
Ivy told him that George Orwell was back in London, having been injured, and was working on a book about the civil war. He’d been into the News Chronicle office, and had been greeted as a hero by the editor. He had told them that he had met Jordi.
The restaurant at the Duran Hotel was the grandest in that part of Spain, and although its faded grandeur did not match the glory which Jordi remembered from Simpsons in London, Laura was very impressed when she arrived. The food shortages they had endured in Barcelona were also challenging the commune cooks at the Duran, but they had a meal served in the grand hotel manner, even if the actual food was very humble. Laura noticed that Companys and his colleagues were eating the same humble food at an adjacent table, with armed guards posted at the restaurant door to protect the president.
The following morning, Jordi went to the Duran, but there was no news except general pessimism. Everyone seemed to be in a kind of limbo.
Trains from Barcelona were spasmodic, but in the next few days several arrived from the city. Figueres was unable to cope with the influx of refugees, and the elegant Rambla soon filled with makeshift camps. There was scant bedding, but the people of Figueres provided what they could. A soup kitchen at the end of the Rambla, was contributed to the refugee camp by the Duran Hotel. The nights were cold, and many of the refugees were suffering.
Several days passed; the number of refugees grew, and there was little news. Rumours circulated about Barcelona, but nothing reliable came from the press meetings at the Duran.
They’d been in the town for a while when Jordi decided they must buy warmer clothing. They had discovered a big covered market, not far from the station, with serviceable second-hand clothes like those they’d bought at Sant Antoni. They bought greatcoats, scarves and hats. Jordi also looked at big boots, the kind the soldiers were wearing. They found a market cafe serving some strange liquid which they called coffee, and sat down.
Laura confronted him. “You’re not telling me something,” she said. “What is in your mind, that you think we need these winter clothes, and boots?”
Jordi held out his hands to Laura. “My dear one,” he said, “we got this far by train, but it won’t be so easy from now on. The Nationalist troops are at our heels, and I don’t think for a moment we are safe staying in Figueres. We’ll have to go north.”
“To France?” said Laura.
“Yes,” said Jordi, “and we’ll probably have to walk over the mountains.”
Laura thought about this for a while, then smiled and said, “Ok, let’s buy boots!”
Just as they were about to leave the cafe, a familiar voice startled them.
“By our lady, it’s Laura and Jordi!”
“Ferrer!” exclaimed Jordi, spinning round. “How did you get here?”
“Oh, Ferrer,” said Laura rushing across the cafe to greet him. “It’s good to see you. Come sit with us.”
She took the strange shaped bundle Ferrer was carrying. “This is heavy,” she said. “Whatever did you bring?”
Ferrer lowered himself onto one of the cafe’s tiny chairs, and Jordi called for a cup of the strange hot liquid for him.
“I walked,” said Ferrer. “It’s taken several days, and I slept in farm buildings on the way. By our Lady, I never knew it could be so cold in Catalonia!”
“And you carried this heavy bundle all the way?” said Laura. “What’s in it?”
“The fiscorn,” laughed Ferrer. He leaned close to them and whispered, “It really is the old horn, and it’s stuffed full of pistols and ammunition. If the fucking nationalists catch up with me, I’ll take several of them with me when I go!”
Jordi smiled. Ferrer sat back, sipping the hot liquid. “But I must ask you something: was that the toad I saw under the trees at the station? Is he here?”
“He is, and what’s worse, he came on the train with us,” replied Jordi, “Boasting all the way that he didn’t need papers.”
“We had to sit looking at him all the way here,” said Laura. “He really is a slimy man, isn’t he?”
“Where are you staying?” asked Jordi.
“I’ve no idea,” said Ferrer. “I’ve only just arrived.”
“We’ll fit you into the hotel where we are,” said Jordi.
“I’ve no money for a hotel,” said Ferrer. “I’ve been sleeping rough for nearly a week; I’ll go on sleeping rough. Anyway, where’s everyone going? It won’t be safe to stay here. The Nationalist army will get here sooner or later, and they won’t be taking prisoners. They’ll just shoot to kill. I’ve walked this far, and I’m ready to keep walking.”
“To France?” said Laura. “That’s what we were talking about when you found us.”
They walked through the town towards Jordi’s hotel. Ferrer was surprised to see the hordes of people camping on the Rambla, and they picked their way carefully through the throng. A shout from one side made them stop and turn.
“Jordi!”
They stopped and turned. Waving frantically from across the crowd they saw Mam and Dolors. Jordi rushed through the chaos of bedding and into his mother’s arms. “Mammy!” For a long time they clung to one another, whilst all the other refugees nearby shared their joy.
A short while later, at a pavement cafe, sipping bowls of watery soup, they exchanged stories. Mam and Dolors had managed to get a train the day before, and were sharing a makeshift tent with several other people from the Raval. Carla and Benet had decided they could not make such a journey with their children, so had decided to risk staying in Barcelona. Benet was not known as any kind of activist, so they hoped they would survive the invasion of the Nationalist army. Marching resolutely west out of Barcelona, Pa had told them he would head for the mountains and France on his own. It had been left to chance that they would ever see him again. Shaking her head, Mam said, “He might turn up again one day, but I’ve a feeling we will never see him again. He’ll die in the snow of the mountains. Poor old man.”
Ferrer put his bundle down and declared that he would sleep on the Rambla, staying near Mam and Dolors.
The following day Jordi bought winter coats for his sister and mother, and boots for everyone. There was even some laughter in the market w
hen they tried to find huge boots for Ferrer’s long feet, but eventually some were found.
The next morning Jordi went to the Duran Hotel to see if there was any news. Sitting in the restaurant, he was aware that there was more of a buzz in the air than in recent days. Lluis Companys’s car drew up outside the hotel, and he walked purposefully into the room, accompanied by several of his staff and soldiers. He was very grim-faced.
“The news is not good, gentlemen,” he announced. “First, we have news about the situation in Barcelona. Yesterday morning, 26th January 1939, the Nationalist army entered the city. There was no resistance: Barcelona was exhausted and starving. Those of the population left behind watched silently as the tanks rolled into the city. I know that many of your friends and family are still there. They are in our prayers. Fascist supporters, and common thugs, imprisoned in the Spanish Village and elsewhere, have been released. The Nationalist army spent the night rounding up known Republican sympathisers. Their fate is unknown.
“A list of wanted men, and some women, has been circulated. I am myself upon that list, together with all members of the Generalitat, and even my wife. Some of you will know that Prime Minister Negrin from Madrid is sheltering in the castle of Sant Ferran, with many of his administration. They are also on the wanted list. I regret to tell you that many of you in this room are on that death list. It is clear that we will be executed if we are caught.
“Following the capture of the city, the Nationalist army has regrouped, and we expect it to continue northwards, aiming first for Girona, and then coming here to Figueres. They are well-armed, and it’s not a matter of months or weeks, but only days. I cannot continue to pretend we have any chance of defending ourselves against this mighty military machine, with its support from Germany and Italy, and thus I am suspending the work of the Generalitat with immediate effect. Last night, in the castle, Prime Minister Negrin and I jointly convened the final meetings of the Government of the Second Republic, and the Generalitat of Catalonia. The Second Republic no longer exists. The Generalitat of Catalonia no longer exists. I am no longer your president. I thank you all for your courage and loyalty.”
Barcelona Sunset Page 31
