No Pasarán!

by Pete Ayrton

But who would help? Not England, we thought. The English interests in cork, wine, many valuables, were visible. Her leaders liked Mussolini – ‘gentle,’ Churchill called him – and thought Hitler would improve. But the French were naturally and politically friendly. And America would surely be the friend of the Republic. ‘We can count on you,’ the poet Aribau had said.

  The army begins to go. ‘A Zaragoza,’ is the word.

  The city is under martial law. We are called to a meeting of the Olympic people remaining, in a smaller square. The Norwegian speaks, briefly, and the Italian representative of his team. The Catalan speaks, in the language that is beginning to break open to us, glints like French, flashes like Spanish:

  ‘This is what the Games stand for,’ not only to work against what is about to happen in Berlin, what is happening in Germany and through Hitler, but the true feelings of the Games, their finality: ‘Amor i fraternitat entre els homes de tot el món i de totes les races.’

  And Martín, the organizer of the Games, has the last word. He speaks to us as foreigners, as ourselves. He is speaking to me directly, at least that is how I hear his open words:

  ‘The athletes came to attend the People’s Olympiad, but have been privileged to stay to see the beautiful and great victory of the people in Catalonia and Spain.

  ‘You have come for the Games, but you have remained for the greater Front, in battle and in triumph.

  ‘Now you will leave, you will go to your own countries, but you will carry to them... ’ the tense sunlit square, Martín about to start for Saragossa, the people in the streets, the train, the teams, the curious new loving friendship, the song of the Jocs:

  No és per odi, no és per guerra

  Que venim a lliutar de cada terra

  ‘... you will carry to your own countries, some of them still oppressed and under fascism and military terror, to the working people of the world, the story of what you see now in Spain.’

  Muriel Rukeyser was born in 1913 in New York, where she died in 1980. Poet, activist and journalist, Rukeyser was sent to cover the People’s Olympiad, a protest event against the 1936 Olympic Games being held in Berlin during the Nazi regime. In addition to the usual sporting events, the Barcelona games were to feature chess, folk dancing, music and theatre. Six thousand athletes from all over the world registered for the games, which were due to start on 19 July 1936, the day after the Civil War began. The games were cancelled and most of the athletes sent home. Some, including the German contingent, stayed on to fight for the Republic. Rukeyser said that these days in Spain were when ‘I began to say what I believed’. Her whole life she wrote about the Spanish revolution in essays, poems and a powerful novel, Savage Coast. In 1937, the novel was rejected for publication for, among other reasons, having a protagonist who is ‘too abnormal for us to respect’. This meant a politically committed feminist who enjoys sex! To make matters worse the novel was experimental in form. Rukeyser continued to work on Savage Coast until her death in 1980 but it was not published until 2013, when the manuscript was found in her archives. On its publication, Savage Coast was hailed by critics and recognized as a book which enriches and widens our understanding of the Civil War.

  ANDRÉ MALRAUX

  ‘HULLO, VALLADOLID!

  WHO’S SPEAKING?’

  from Days of Hope

  translated by Stuart Gilbert and Alastair Macdonald

  ALL MADRID WAS ASTIR in the warm summer night, loud with the rumble of lorries stacked with rifles. For some days the Workers’ Organizations had been announcing that a Fascist rising might take place at any moment, that the soldiers in the barracks had been ‘got at’, and that munitions were pouring in. At 1 a.m. the Government had decided to arm the people, and from 3 a.m. the production of a union-card entitled every member to be issued with a rifle. It was high time, for the reports telephoned in from the provinces, which had sounded hopeful between midnight and 2 a.m., were beginning to strike a different note.

  The Central Exchange at the Northern Railway Terminus rang up the various stations along the line. Ramos, the Secretary of the Railway Workers’ Union, and Manuel were in charge. With the exception of Navarre – the line from which had been cut–the replies had been uniform. Either the Government had the situation well in hand, or a Workers’ Committee had taken charge of the city, pending instructions from the central authority. But now a change was coming over the dialogues.

  ‘Is that Huesca?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘The Workers’ Committee, Madrid.’

  ‘Not for long, you swine! Arriba España!’

  Fixed to the wall by drawing-pins, the special late edition of the Claridad flaunted a caption six columns wide: Comrades To Arms!

  ‘Hullo, Avila? How’s things at your end? Madrid North speaking.’

  ‘The hell it is, you bastards! Viva El Cristo Rey!’

  ‘See you soon. Salud!’

  An urgent message was put through to Ramos.

  The Northern lines linked up with Saragossa, Burgos, and Valladolid.

  ‘Is that Saragossa? Put me through to the Workers’ Committee at the station.’

  ‘We’ve shot them. Your turn next. Arriba España!’

  ‘Hullo, Tablada! Madrid North here, Union Delegate.’

  ‘Call the jail, you son of a gun. That’s where your friends are. And we’ll be coming for you in a day or two; we want to have a word with you.’

  ‘Bueno! Let’s meet on the Alcalá, second dive on the left. Got it?’

  All the telephone operators were staring at Manuel, whose devil-may-care manner, curly hair, and grin gave him the air of a jovial gangster.

  ‘Hullo, is that Burgos?’

  ‘Commandante, Burgos, speaking.’

  Ramos hung up.

  A telephone-bell rang.

  ‘Hullo, Madrid! Who’s there?’

  ‘Railway Workers’ Union.’

  ‘Miranda speaking. We hold the station and the town. Arriba España!’

  ‘But we hold Madrid. Salud!’

  So there was no counting on help from the North, except by way of Valladolid. There remained the Asturias.

  ‘Is that Oviedo? Yes? Who’s speaking?’ Ramos was getting wary.

  ‘Workers’ Delegate. Railway Station.’

  ‘Ramos here, the Union Secretary. How are things your end?’

  ‘Aranda’s loyal to the Government. It’s touch and go at Valladolid. We’re entraining three thousand armed miners to reinforce our lot.’

  ‘When?’ A clash of rifle-butts drowned the answer. Ramos repeated the question.

  ‘At once.’

  ‘Salud!’

  Ramos turned to Manuel. ‘Keep in touch with that train, by telephone.’ Then called Valladolid.

  ‘Is that Valladolid?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Station Delegate.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Our fellows hold the barracks. We’re expecting a reinforcement from Oviedo. Do your best to get them here as soon as possible. But don’t you worry; here it’ll all go well. What about you?’

  They were singing outside the station; Ramos could not hear himself speak.

  ‘What?’ Valladolid repeated.

  ‘Going well! Going well!’

  ‘Have the troops revolted?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Valladolid hung up.

  All reinforcements from the North could be diverted there.

  The air was thick with engine-smoke and the reek of hot metal – the door stood open on the summer night – and a faint odour of cardboard files came from the office shelves. Manuel noted down, amongst official messages concerning points and sidings – of which he could make little – the calls coming in from the various Spanish towns. From outside came bursts of song, a clatter of rifle-butts. Time and again he had to have the messages repeated. The fascists merely rang off. He noted down the various positions, on the railway-map. Navarre was cut off; all the east of th
e Bay of Biscay – Bilbao, Santander, and San Sebastian – was loyal; communications were cut at Miranda. The Asturias and Valladolid, however, were with the Government. The telephone rang ceaselessly.

  ‘Hullo! Segovial speaking. Who are you?’

  ‘Representative of the Union.’ Manuel looked at Ramos doubtfully; after all, what was his real position here?

  ‘We’re coming along to bite ’em off.’

  ‘We shan’t notice it. Salud!’

  Now it was the turn of the fascist stations to start ringing up: Sarracin, Lerma, Aranda del Duero, Sepulveda, Burgos again. From Burgos to the Sierra, threats came pouring in faster than the reinforcement trains.

  ‘Ministry of the Interior speaking. Is that the North Station Exchange? Inform all stations that the Civil Guard and the Assault Guard are with the Government.’

  ‘Madrid South speaking. Is that Ramos? How’s it going in the North?’

  ‘They seem to be holding Miranda and a good many places further south. Three thousand miners are going to Valladolid. That district looks pretty good for us. How’s things your way?’

  ‘They’ve occupied the stations at Seville and Granada. The rest’s holding out.’

  ‘Cordova?’

  ‘We don’t know. There’s fighting going on in the suburbs of the towns where they hold the stations. We’re in the hell of a jam at Triana. At Pennaroya, too. Look here, what you say about Valladolid’s a bit staggering; sure they haven’t taken it?’

  Ramos changed over to another telephone.

  ‘Hullo, Valladolid! Who’s speaking?’

  ‘The Station Delegate.’

  ‘Oh!... We’d heard the fascists were in.’

  ‘You heard wrong. All’s well. What about you? Have the troops revolted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hullo, Madrid North. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘In charge of transportation.’

  ‘Tablada here. Didn’t you ring us up?’

  ‘We heard you were all shot, or in jug, or something of the sort.’

  ‘We made a getaway. It’s the fascists who’re in jug. Salud!’

  ‘Casa del Puelbo speaking. Inform all loyal stations that the Government, supported by the popular militia, is master of Barcelona, Murcia, Valencia, and Malaga, all Estremadura and the Mediterranean coast.’

  ‘Hullo! Tordesillas here. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Workers’ Council, Madrid.’

  ‘Ah! Bastards of your sort are shot! Arriba España!’

  Medina del Campo; same dialogue. The Valladolid line was the only main line of communication with the South still open.

  ‘Hullo, Leon! Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Union delegate. Salud!’

  ‘Madrid North here. Has the miners’ train from Oviedo passed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Somewhere near Mayorga, I guess.’

  Outside in the Madrid streets all was songs and the clash of rifle-butts.

  ‘Is that Mayorga? Madrid this end. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Workers’ Council, Madrid.’

  The receiver clicked dead. What had become of the train?

  ‘Is that Valladolid ? Are you sure of holding till the miners arrive?’

  ‘Dead sure.’

  ‘Mayorga doesn’t answer.’

  ‘That don’t matter.’

  ‘Hullo, Madrid? Oviedo speaking. Aranda’s just revolted. Fighting going on.’

  ‘Where’s the miners’ train?’

  ‘Between Leon and Mayorga.’

  ‘Hold on a moment!’ Manuel rang up, Ramos beside him. ‘That Mayorga? Madrid here.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Workers’ Council. Who are you?’

  ‘Company Commander, Spanish Falangists. Your train’s gone by, you fools. We hold all the stations up to Valladolid. We’re waiting for your miners with machine-guns. Aranda’s been cleaned up. See you soon!’

  ‘The sooner the better!’

  Manuel rang up all the stations between Mayorga and Valladolid, one after the other.

  ‘That Sepulveda? Madrid North this end; Workers’ Committee.’

  ‘Yes, your train’s gone through, you god-damned fools. And we’re coming this week to cut your... off, you silly bitches.’

  ‘Sounds like you’d got your genders mixed, my lad. Still... Salud!’

  The calls continued.

  ‘Hullo, Madrid! Is that Madrid? Navalperal de Pinares here. Railway Station. We’ve rushed the town again. Yes, we disarmed the fascists; they’re in clink. Pass the good news along. Their people telephone us every few minutes to know if the town is still theirs. Hullo! Hullo!’

  ‘We must send false news out everywhere,’ Ramos said.

  ‘They’ll check up on it.’

  ‘Still, it’ll always give them something to scratch their heads over.’

  ‘Hullo, Madrid North? U.G.T. here. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Ramos.’

  ‘We’re told a train-load of fascists is on its way, with up-to-date armament. Coming from Burgos, they say. Have you any news of it?’

  ‘We should know about it here; all the stations up to the Sierra are in our hands. Still we’d better take precautions. Hold the line a moment.’

  ‘Manuel, call the Sierra.’

  Manuel called one station after another, sawing the air with a ruler as if he were beating time. The whole Sierra was loyal. He called up the General Post Office Exchange. Had the same answer. Obviously, on the near side of the Sierra, either the fascists were lying low, or they’d been crushed.

  Still, they were holding half the North. In Navarre, Mola, the former Chief of Police at Madrid, was in command; three-quarters of the regular army, as usual, were against the Government. On the Government side were the populace, the Assault Guard, and possibly the Civil Guard as well.

  ‘The U.G.T. here. Is that Ramos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about that train?’

  Ramos passed on the news. ‘And how’s things generally?’ he asked.

  ‘Bueno! Excellent. Except at the War Ministry. At six they said that all was over bar the shouting. We told them they were barking up the wrong tree. But they claim that the militias sure to scuttle. Anyhow, we don’t give a damn for their opinion... The men here are making such a shindy singing, I can hardly hear you.’

  In the receiver Ramos could hear the songs across the noises of the railway station.

  Though the attack had obviously been launched almost everywhere at the same moment, it seemed as if an army on the march were sweeping down; the railway stations held by the fascists were getting nearer and nearer Madrid. And yet there had been such tension in the air for several weeks, the dread of an attack which they might have to face, unarmed, had weighed so heavily on all the populace that tonight’s warfare came as an immense relief.

  André Malraux was born in Paris in 1901. A surrealist in his twenties, Malraux’s commitment to left-wing politics began in Indochina, where he saw close up the effects of French colonial rule. When the Civil War broke out, Malraux went to Spain to help train the small, poorly equipped Republican Air Force. L’Espoir (Days of Hope), written in 1937 and filmed (by Malraux and Boris Peskine) in 1945, is the account of the early days of the war and the heroic fight of the Republicans to defend Madrid, take Teruel and win the battle of Guadalajara. In this autobiographical novel, Malraux is Mangin, a French intellectual torn between the demands of his moral code and the need for efficient military discipline. The novel, a gripping evocation of the battle front, ends with this dilemma unresolved. In the Second World War, Malraux, after being captured in the Battle of France, escaped and joined the Resistance – for his work with British liaison officers in the Dordogne, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Order. A long-time admirer of General de Gaulle, Malraux was Minister of Cultural Affairs in the De Gaulle government from 1958 to 1969. From this period come hi
s influential writings on art including The Metamorphosis of the Gods. He died in Créteil in 1976. In 1996, his ashes were moved to the Panthéon, a rare honour.

  JOSÉ MARÍA GIRONELLA

  NO MORE DELAY!

  from The Cypresses Believe in God

  translated by Harriet de Onís

  THE NERVOUSNESS OF THE CROWD, which could not hear the dialogue, was mounting by the minute as the distance between it and the prisoners increased. The officers and the guards had already turned the corner of the Municipal Plaza. ‘Now what do we do, now what do we do?’ The reserves of available energy were inexhaustible.

  Just then honkings were heard. The truck that had gone to deposit the arms at Communist Party headquarters was coming back jammed with members, those wearing handkerchiefs around their heads like pirates. Every one of them had a submachine gun. Gorki rode in the middle. Cosme Vila recognized among them the man who worked in the dry-cleaning establishment who had said: ‘If it was my wife, I’d want to know what for.’

  In spite of his potbelly, Gorki gave a flying leap from the truck and rushed over to Cosme Vila. ‘Our people are dying by the hundreds in Madrid. The army and the priests have barricaded themselves in the Montaña Barracks.’

  The priests, the priests – it was the magic word. This was Gorki’s psychological triumph.

  ‘Comrades, the people are giving their blood. In Gerona the people have been victorious. Let’s clean out the lairs of the opposition!’

  Cosme Vila, in shirtsleeves, with his wide belt and sandals, set off in the direction opposite to that taken by the officers. He had reached a decision. The thing to do was to level every church in the city. No more weighing pros and cons. No more delay!

  He was making for the Church of the Sacred Heart, the church of the Jesuits. It was the nearest. The crowd caught on at once and with amazing ease forgot about Major Martínez de Soria. Julio caught on, too, and inconspicuously detached himself, making his way to police headquarters. Amid shouts, cheers, vivas, and mueras, Cosme Vila drew the thousand fanatics after him. The church loomed up before them. The sight of its serene gray towers and, above all, its huge locked door threw them into a frenzy. ‘They’ve locked up; they knew what to expect!’ Beside the church was the deserted rectory. Someone knew that there was a passageway between it and the temple.