The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

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  For Viv

  Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.

  Richard von Weizsäcker

  We do not believe in government through the voting booth.

  General Francisco Franco Bahamonde

  The whole country shakes with indignation faced with these heartless men who, with fire and terror, want to plunge popular and democratic Spain into an inferno of terror. But they shall not pass.

  Isidora Dolores Ibárruri Gómez,

  ‘La Pasionaria’

  VILLARREAL, 8 MARCH 1937

  The squad moved slowly on the mountain path, hemmed in by ranks of dark pines. If they spoke, they spoke in whispers. This deep in enemy territory, there was always the possibility of ambush.

  The men were anarchists, more accustomed to theoretical debate than war. Only a month ago, they had left training camp eager for combat with raised fists and cries of Viva La Republica! Now, their numbers depleted by the harsh calculus of war, they resembled the refugees they passed on the way to the front. Most expected life would be hard in the militia. None expected it would be as hard as this.

  The commander saw the sullen looks as he gave orders, the muted threats of desertion. He reminded them the mission was vital for the Republic. He was a gifted speaker, and the men were placated by his words. Some had read his poems before the war though it was the Poet’s martial skills they valued now. As they sheltered under the dripping trees, the Poet revealed their objective. They were to meet one of their observers and escort her back to their lines. The men exchanged uneasy glances. Risking their lives for a spy – and a woman at that – was not an appealing prospect.

  It was late afternoon when they saw the small woodcutter’s hut on the flank of the mountain, dwarfed by pine woods on the slopes above. Tired by the long march, the men threw down their packs and rifles. In the distance, they heard the dull rumble of artillery fire. The sound distracted them, though they were more distracted by the bundle in the woman’s arms as she came out of the hut. No one was expecting the spy to have a newborn child. It was a surprise, the Poet told the men, not at all what he was expecting.

  Nor was he expecting the dark-clad troops as they emerged from the trees to encircle the squad. A harsh voice offered a simple choice: surrender or die.

  It was not much of a choice.

  1

  SAN SEBASTIÁN, THURSDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1954

  A pale sun was setting behind dark-smudged clouds and the biting wind from the sea signalled a coming storm. Fernando Etxarte tightened his overcoat collar as he crossed the Zurriola Bridge. Two hundred metres away, the heavy sea surged into the narrow river mouth, smashing against the rocks in great bursts of spray that sparkled in the insipid light of the street lamps along the riverbank. The wind was raw and Etxarte was glad of the meagre protection of his Basque beret.

  The honeyed glow of lights in the shops and bars at the far side of the bridge held the promise of shelter from the imminent storm. But Etxarte had an appointment to keep. Ignoring the rain, he hurried on, passing static lines of trucks and slow, grumbling cars rattling out greasy exhaust fumes into the fierce wind. Now and again, horse-drawn carts laden with goods slowed the traffic, provoking frequent blasts from exasperated drivers’ horns.

  Etxarte crossed the road at the end of the bridge, heading into the dense warren of buildings clustered between the river and the harbour. The dark mass of Monte Urgull loomed over him, its steep sides towering over the port, the old fortress on top of the hill now skeletal in whirling showers of rain blown in from the sea. He continued through the narrow streets to the darkened Plaza 18 de Julio, his footsteps echoing under the covered walkway around the sides of the square. Long ago they held bullfights here: mounted nobles dramatically ending the raging attacks of toros bravos with the thrust of a spear. Once, there were bright numbers above the first-floor balconies where families had rented seats for the fights. Now, the faded figures looked down on a poorly illuminated row of shops and bars, while above them were shabby apartments, their shutters rattling in the wind, the bird cages on the balconies empty and abandoned until the spring.

  At the far end of the square Etxarte came to a small, dingy bar, with a long, zinc-topped counter and a handful of tables along the walls. He paused in the doorway, brushing rainwater from his overcoat, grateful for the warmth inside. Hesitant electric light peered through irregular clouds of black tobacco smoke. A dozen conversations echoed round the bar, some animated and strident, others conducted warily, in low, measured voices. It was a cheerful place despite its spartan interior, a place to drink and smoke and, for those who had money, to sample from the selection of badly prepared tapas on offer.

  Etxarte saw the salesman at once. Tall and bulky, a dark coat and hat. He looked successful, judging by the smart cut of his clothes. In fact, he must be very successful, Etxarte thought. You needed to earn good money to eat enough to maintain a bulk like that. Etxarte leaned against the bar and waved to the barman, ordering patxaran before he turned to the man in the dark coat.

  ‘Señor Ramirez?’

  ‘You must be Señor Etxarte.’

  ‘That’s me. Another drink?’

  ‘Not when I’m working,’ Ramirez said. ‘Well, perhaps just a brandy. A large one.’

  The barman brought the drinks. They drank in silence.

  Ramirez leaned over Etxarte’s glass and inhaled suspiciously. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Patxaran. A Basque speciality. Made with local berries and anís.’

  ‘Joder. It smells like something you’d buy at a pharmacy.’

  ‘It’s an acquired taste,’ Etxarte said, defensively.

  ‘So is buggery. And it’s no reason to try that either.’

  Etxarte frowned. He was here to do business, yet the salesman seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to him. Etxarte had expected a little more seriousness and less aggression, given the nature of their business. After all, he was the customer.

  ‘Did you bring the goods, Señor Ramirez?’

  The big man looked at him fiercely. ‘Not here. Too many flapping ears. Pay the bill and we’ll talk outside.’

  Etxarte did so, wincing at the tab the salesman had run up. Still, he reasoned, it was for the Cause. Everything he did these days was. The salesman was waiting outside. Grey sheets of rain swept the desolate square and water fell noisily from the awnings of bars and shops, forming pools of water the colour of dull steel on the cobbles.

  ‘Dismal night,’ Ramirez said. ‘You have fucking awful weather here.’

  ‘But convenient for us, verdad?’ Etxarte smiled. ‘It’s an ill wind...’

  ‘Discretion. That’s what these transactions require,’ Ramirez said, pulling on leather gloves. ‘Where do we meet your friends?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Of course. Security should always be a prime consideration. So I deal with you?’

  ‘I’m not actually responsible for buying equipment, Señor Ramirez. We have a quartermaster to do that. We don’t meet with him; in fact, we don’t even know who he is, it’s safer that way. But the cell is a collective, so all our decisions are made as a group. One voice, one people – and all for Euskadi, Señor Ramirez.’

  ‘Bueno. I’ll deal with all of you together. That’s been my intention all along.’ Ramirez lit a cigarette and brea
thed blue smoke into the wavering curtain of rain. ‘What’s really important to me is being paid, as I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘De acuerdo. You’ll appreciate I can’t tell you where we’re meeting the others. The fascists are constantly trying to infiltrate our movement, so we have to be careful. I’ll give you directions as we drive. In the dark you won’t remember the route we take. And of course, I’ll accompany you back here again, after the transaction.’

  ‘Fine. My car’s parked in the boulevard near the town hall.’

  As they made their way towards the boulevard, the rain grew heavier. Etxarte saw rivulets of water falling from the rim of the salesman’s black homburg as he hurried to a line of parked cars.

  ‘Here’s my car.’

  ‘A Buick? Hombre, that must have cost you plenty.’

  ‘The rewards in this business are considerable,’ Ramirez said. ‘But then, so are the risks.’ He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Etxarte scurried to the other side and scrambled in, glad to be out of the freezing rain.

  ‘So,’ Ramirez said, ‘which way do I go?’

  As Etxarte gave him sparse directions, the Buick’s big engine growled into life and the car slid forward, arcs of rain flickering in the pale headlights. Within a few minutes they left the lights of the city behind and the darkness closed in. Etxarte directed Ramirez in monosyllables as they followed the contours of the foothills. Ramirez made little conversation. Etxarte took that for professional discretion: no questions asked, no superfluous information to compromise either party. Very professional. No wonder Señor Ramirez came so highly recommended.

  ‘So your leader won’t be here tonight?’ Ramirez asked, staring ahead into the darkness beyond the headlights.

  ‘It isn’t necessary,’ Etxarte said. ‘We make tactical decisions within the group. But the quartermaster sources our equipment and arms and passes on communications between us and other cells in the region. He keeps his identity secret from the cell and keeps in touch using coded messages. That way, if anyone’s captured and tortured, they can’t betray the entire movement.’

  ‘Very effective.’ Ramirez nodded. ‘You’re clearly very well organised.’

  Etxarte smiled. It was a long time since anyone had praised his efforts.

  The road began to rise into a black mass of hills. Etxarte leaned forward and pointed to a gate by a steeply sloping field.

  ‘It’s just through that gate. You’ll see lights on your right and a track up to the house.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Ramirez grunted. ‘I thought we going to end up in France. And you know what they say about the French.’

  The car slowed as Ramirez turned the Buick onto the rough track leading up to the house. A couple of hundred metres away, the headlights illuminated the outline of a whitewashed farmhouse. Faint lights flickered through cracks in the shutters.

  ‘What do they say about the French?’ Etxarte asked.

  Ramirez brought the car to halt. The farmhouse was in the typical Basque style: a whitewashed, half-timbered exterior, a red-tiled roof, shutters on the windows.

  ‘They say they’re all fucking bastards who have their road signs painted with a German translation on the back. That way, when there’s a war, they surrender and then turn the signs round.’ Ramirez opened the car door, laughing heartily at his own joke.

  The front door of the farmhouse opened, spilling weak light over the car. A young man with a mop of unkempt hair peered out at them through thick, round-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Kaixo. Ongi etorri.’

  Etxarte returned his greeting. ‘Kaixo, Patxi. Are we all here?’

  ‘We’re two short tonight, comrade.’

  The young man saw Ramirez who was busy dragging long canvas bags from the car. ‘Kaixo.’

  Ramirez looked at him blankly. ‘I don’t understand a word of Basque.’

  The young man grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. We prefer not to speak the language of the oppressor when we’re together. I’m Patxi Zubiondo. And your name, Señor...?’

  ‘This is Señor Ramirez,’ Etxarte said, struggling with one of the canvas bags. ‘Venga, Patxi, we need a hand here. These guns won’t carry themselves.’

  The young man hurried forwards. ‘Sorry, Señor Ramirez. Sometimes I forget myself, I get so animated by the Cause.’

  ‘The Cause?’ Ramirez asked, handing the young man a couple of canvas bags.

  The bags were heavy, Patxi noticed, feeling the hard, sharp outlines of their contents. He felt growing excitement. The revolution was beginning at last.

  ‘Our cause. Freedom for the Basque homeland, you’d say in Spanish. In Basque it’s Euskadi ta askatasuna. That’s what we’re thinking of calling our resistance movement.’

  ‘Quite a mouthful.’ Ramirez nodded. ‘You could always shorten it to ETA. People would remember it more easily. You could put it on your notepaper.’ Patxi smiled, unsure if Ramirez was joking.

  The men carried the canvas bags into the house, stamping mud from their shoes on the reed mat. Patxi dried his spectacles with a handkerchief as he led Ramirez across the hall and through a thick wooden door into a large room with a raised platform at one end. Rows of benches faced the platform.

  ‘This used to be the local school,’ Etxarte explained, ‘before the fascists closed it and made speaking Basque illegal.’

  Six more young people were waiting in the schoolhouse: four men, one with the worst attempt at a beard Ramirez had ever seen, and two young women. One was ugly, which Ramirez had rather expected, and one was not, which rather surprised him since revolutionaries were, in his experience, uniformly ugly. Still, business was business. It always ended the same way, no matter who he dealt with.

  The group came over to Etxarte, one at a time, whispering something in a low voice. Etxarte slapped each one on the shoulder as they went over to the benches to take a seat.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Ramirez asked.

  ‘A password. It’s how we identify members of the group. I shouldn’t really tell you.’

  ‘Don’t then,’ Ramirez said.

  The young people were whispering, impatient for proceedings to begin.

  ‘It can’t hurt.’ Etxarte lowered his voice. ‘It’s quite moving actually. “In the mountains, the snows are burning.”’

  ‘Very nice,’ Ramirez muttered, without interest. He climbed onto the dais and placed the canvas bags on the table.

  Etxarte and Patxi passed the rest of the bags to him. The salesman was strong, Patxi noticed, seeing how easily Ramirez carried the heavy canvas bags, one in each hand. The others waited on the two rows of benches, eyes bright and excited. Ramirez noticed that when Patxi jumped down from the dais, he went to sit with the good-looking woman.

  Politely, Etxarte motioned Ramirez to a chair. Ramirez was very relaxed, a real professional, no doubt about it, Etxarte thought. And, since it had been his decision to approach Ramirez, it also reflected well on him.

  ‘Comrades,’ Etxarte said, ‘please welcome Señor Ramirez, who, as you know, is here to do some important business with us.’

  A hesitant ripple of self-conscious applause.

  ‘Before we begin our negotiations, perhaps you’d like to say a few words, Señor Ramirez?’ Etxarte took a step back.

  Ramirez got to his feet. ‘Is this place secure?’ he asked, looking round the schoolroom. There was only one window to his right, and that was shuttered and barred. The only other exit was the door to the corridor. He jumped down from the platform, walked over to the door and turned the key. He returned, putting the key in his pocket, and leaped onto the dais with an athleticism surprising for such a big man. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said. Etxarte nodded vigorously. This all seemed highly professional.

  Ramirez looked down at his audience. ‘Tell me, have any of you handled a gun before?’ The good-looking woman raised her hand.

  ‘You, señorita? What kind of gun was it?’

  ‘My grandfather�
�s shotgun. We shot rabbits for the pot.’

  ‘You’ve shot rabbits?’ Ramirez stifled a laugh. ‘Well, that’s a start. None of you will starve, at any rate.’

  ‘If I can shoot rabbits, I can shoot the murderers of the guardia civil.’ She glared defiantly at Ramirez and sat down to applause from her comrades.

  ‘Good point, señorita, there are a number of guardia civiles I’d gladly shoot myself.’ Ramirez chuckled, drawing complicit laughter. ‘Perhaps you’d all like to see the weapons now?’ Their faces told him they would.

  Ramirez slowly unzipped the canvas bags, taking out the rifles carefully and passing them down into impatient hands. ‘Six American M1 rifles, gas-operated, clip-fed with eight rounds to a clip. Accurate to around four hundred metres.’ He paused, watching the group handle the weapons with affected familiarity.

  ‘Are these loaded?’ It was the ugly woman.

  ‘Of course not. I don’t want you blowing your heads off before you pay me.’

  ‘Actually, we need to discuss that,’ Etxarte said. ‘We’re a little short of money.’

  Ramirez turned to stare at him. The atmosphere in the room changed.

  ‘That’s a handicap in any business,’ said Ramirez. ‘We agreed on payment upfront. Like the signs in the bars tell you, don’t ask for credit.’

  ‘There are greater issues at stake here,’ the more attractive of the two women said, getting to her feet. ‘We’re fighting for a cause, señor. We’re willing to die for our country and we need arms, yet you talk only of money. Don’t you have any principles?’

  ‘Several,’ Ramirez said, ‘and the most important is never sell things to someone who can’t pay.’ He paused to light a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘I’ve got six very efficient rifles here,’ he continued, ‘possession of which, incidentally, will bring an automatic death sentence if you’re caught. However, you don’t have anything to fire from them.’

  ‘We can buy bullets from someone else,’ one of the young men muttered.