Everyone in the room sat silently as they absorbed the terrible impact of the President’s words.
“No-one associated with ex-Prime Minister Negrin, myself, or our administrations is safe. The castle will be easily taken by the Nationalists; it was not built to withstand their munitions. It is my intention to go France, which at the moment is a safe haven. I have no plans beyond that. With regard to the evacuation of all Republican supporters from the town, I have further bad news.
“Nationalist cells have taken over all communications from here to France. Trains are being turned back at the border, and many travelling on them are being shot.”
The silence was broken by gasps.
“Roads are blocked, and no cars or trucks can get through. We are, in effect, besieged. Go now, gentlemen, and tell the world while you can. And then prepare to flee.”
There was a pause whilst someone close to Companys whispered urgently to him. He turned back to the assembled council members and reporters.
“Yes, this is a retreat. We are defeated. All that is left is to save as many lives as possible. May God go with you.”
Jordi ran to the telephone he had used earlier in the week, but was unable to get through to London. He then hurried to Laura.
“We’re out of here,” he said. “Just as we feared, we’re walking over the mountains.”
“It’s winter,” said Laura. “There will be snow in the mountains.”
“I’m sure they will look beautiful,” said Jordi, “just like all of our land is beautiful. But it is no longer our land. Come, let us find Mam and the others, and prepare them.”
The word had spread like wildfire around the refugee encampment, and everyone was frantically taking down shelters and tying bundles of clothing and bedding. Ferrer had organised the women by the time Jordi found them, and with little to guide them but the sun, they started walking north, out of the town, and up into the hills.
There was a positive atmosphere in the group as they set out upon the road, and Jordi assured his little band that the French border was only twenty kilometres. Now and again, they thought they heard someone following them, but when any of them turned, there was no-one there. As the road turned into a rough track, and the sun started to set in the east, it became much colder. Jordi turned to Ferrer.
“We need to find somewhere for the night,” he said. “You were on the road before this, and survived a very long walk. What’s best to do now?”
“You’re right; we should find some shelter. It would be better to be under cover even if it’s only a barn or shack. I had to deal with some very cold nights down in the valley before Figueres. Up here, it will be colder.”
“I’ve got money,” said Jordi. “We should knock on a farmhouse door, and ask for shelter.”
“It’s not safe. Out here, the farmer will shoot first and ask questions later if someone knocks on his door. And we don’t know what his allegiances are. If we stumble into a Nationalist sympathiser, he’ll shoot us all. No, it’s best to find our way forward without help.”
They found several barns near the track they were following, but being January, they were all full of cattle. Ferrer encouraged them to keep looking, and eventually, just as it was getting quite dark, they found a shack. Putting down their bundles, they shared the bread and cheese they’d brought with them, and settled down for a very uncomfortable night.
It was in the early hours that Jordi was woken by snoring.
“Ferrer, are you awake?” he whispered.
“Yes, I can’t sleep. It’s uncomfortable as it is, without this infernal snoring. Who is it?” whispered Ferrer.
“Not me,” said Mam, “it’s keeping me awake as well.”
“Laura doesn’t snore,” said Jordi.
“No I don’t!” whispered Laura.
“So it’s Dolors,” said Mam.
“It’s not,” said Dolors, “I’m awake as well.”
There was a pause, and the deafening snoring continued.
“By the Virgin, there’s someone else here,” whispered Jordi.
Ferrer produced a small torch and shone it round the small space. They all shuddered in horror when they saw Bertoli, the former toad and professional spy, flat on his back, his glasses vibrating on his nose as he snored.
“Toad!” yelled Jordi. “Will we never be rid of you?”
“I thought we were being followed,” said Mam.
Bertoli stirred, and sat up blinking. “What’s happening?” he said.
“You are happening. Get out,” snarled Ferrer, picking up his gun.
Suddenly wide awake, Bertoli looked around the family group. “I should have stayed in Figueres,” he said. “I was beginning to make some good friends there.”
“So go back,” said Jordi.
“In the morning?” pleaded Bertoli.
“No,” said Ferrer. “Now.”
Picking up his bundle, the old toad rose to his full diminutive height. “You Vilaro’s!” he said, and he turned on his heel, and stumbled out into the darkness.
They tried to get back to sleep, but got little rest before a weak sun was rising in the east.
“At least we have the sun,” said Jordi. “It helps to know we’re walking in the right direction.” They shared a little more of the bread and cheese, and gathered up their scant belongings.
The track they were following seemed to be taking them higher into the mountains. On one side the mountain rose steeply, and on the other there was a cliff-like ravine with a stream rushing far below. Jordi began to weary of the weight of his typewriter, but he was determined to keep it with him. Every now and again, he felt for the black cat in his pocket. Knowing it was there helped him believe they would get to France and safety.
Suddenly they heard plaintive calls for help. Peering over the edge of the precipice, they saw Bertoli, stuck on a small ledge, grasping a tree root.
“Help me!” he called plaintively. “I tripped and fell.”
For a moment, Jordi almost laughed, but Ferrer lay down. “Hold my feet to stop me falling, and I might be able to reach him,” he said.
With Jordi and Laura clinging to him, Ferrer reached down to the dwarf.
“Stretch up to me, you cursed specimen of humanity,” he said.
“I’m stretching,” said Bertoli.
They watched as Ferrer tried to grasp Bertoli. Jordi and Laura held tightly as Ferrer’s long fingers wrapped around the toad’s wrist, and he lifted the fat man. Suddenly, Ferrer’s grip was lost, and Bertoli dropped, screaming, down into the ravine. He bounced again ledges and finally crashed head first onto rocks in the water of the mountain stream. He lay quite still and they saw a swirl of blood in the water. No-one knew what to say.
They trudged on in silence. As they rose higher, there were few trees, and at last they reached the snow line. They stopped. “How will we know we’re in France?” said Laura.
They sat for another meal of the increasingly stale bread, and whilst the women rested for a while, Jordi took Ferrer out of their hearing, and asked him, “Did Bertoli fall, or did you drop him?”
Ferrer looked his friend in the eye and smiled. “You will never know.”
There was little to guide them once they were in the snow, and progress was very slow. During the afternoon, they realised they needed to find another shelter, and although it was still light, they stopped when they came to a shepherd’s hut. It was dry inside, and there was a small hearth, and a supply of logs. The hut was set up to provide winter shelter for anyone climbing in the mountains, and they were able to make a fire for warmth. Nailed to the wall was a sign, offering the shelter to anyone in need. They stared blankly at the sign, before Laura exclaimed, “That sign! It’s in French! Look, it’s in French! We’re over the border. We’re safe.”
They embraced one another and sank down on their bundles, in a mixture of exhaustion and elation. Jordi took Laura outside.
“Look,” he said.
Laura gasped at the ex
traordinary sunset. The sky was ablaze with orange and red and gold. The others crept quietly out of the hut and stood behind them. As they watched, the sky became a panorama of incandescent glory. The radiant view from the mountain top was breath-taking, the colours reflected in the snow and on their faces. Jordi put his hand in his pocket and held the tiny black cat.
“Sunset over Barcelona,” said Jordi slowly. “Those are the flames of our beautiful city; the flames of our agony. Barcelona is burning.”
This eBook is published by
Grosvenor House Publishing Ltd
28-30 High Street, Guildford, Surrey, GU1 3EL.
www.grosvenorhousepublishing.co.uk
All rights reserved
The right of Jeremy D Rowe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Cover photograph by Ian Jones of The Palau Nacional, Montjuic, and cover layout by Ben Rowe
ISBN 978-1-78623-347-9 in electronic format
ISBN 978-1-78623-075-1 in printed format
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Barcelona Sunset Page 32
