Tomb in Seville

by Norman Lewis

  The surroundings at this distance remained clean and fresh. The gypsies had rigged up a large tent of rags stitched together, and in casual openings in this, women in ankle-length dresses of garish colours appeared to be sharing domestic tasks. Small children dressed in an assortment of tatters ran out to waylay us. They were full of antics designed to draw our attention, laughing continually, but did not speak, and jumped up and down for joy when we handed out a few coins. Their mothers ignored us as if we were non-existent. We were amazed to find that these people had made some attempt to decorate their environment by sticking little clumps of coloured material in the surrounding grass. Soon a man rode up on a half-starved horse, with the bones sticking out of its hide. He took a number of plants out of his bag and passed them to the women. By now we had been asking ourselves how these people made a living, and the horseman, as we were later to learn, provided the answer in part. Much to the indignation of the medical profession, they made up and sold herbal remedies. They were also said to cast effective spells.

  It was the best part of an hour’s walk upstream from this point before the river and the landscape came into their own. At the beginning of our walk the water had been stained an acid yellow, with islands of flotsam spread over its surface. Now suddenly, and surprisingly, it had cleared with an abrupt widening of the river bed. This had become a hundred yards of sparkling white shingle, sharply defined by clean-cut perpendicular banks. Scattered through the acres of pebbles were shining pools connected by a curled thread representing the diminished volume of the river at the end of the dry season. The banks here were heavily wooded, and in places almost impassable through the tropical density of the undergrowth. This explosion of vegetation made frequent incursions into the river itself, and great clumps of grass, and sometimes even tough bushes, had thrust up through the stratum of polished stones.

  The course of the river through this scenery was traced like an infinitely elongated oasis across the plains. In the middle distance an immense fir swayed rhythmically like a pendulum in reverse and cranes had taken possession of almost every branch. Finding a clear patch of shingle we decided to bathe, but having waded with difficulty over a patch of razor-edged stones, we found that the course of the river was now underneath an overhang of the opposite bank. Here, taken by surprise, we dropped suddenly into unfathomable depths and were instantly whirled away by the current. It required all our strength to save ourselves from drowning, and scrambling back eventually onto the bank we both agreed that it was the nearest to death we had ever been.

  Next morning we received a final guarantee that the train for Madrid would leave at midday and that postponements were at an end. The station buildings, hotel, and their immediate surroundings were crammed with hopeful travellers and the many relatives who were there to see them off. Optimism was bolstered by the extra wagons that were to be added to the train to cope with an expected increase in the usual number of passengers. It was not to be armoured, as previously reported, to deal with the possibility of an attack by left-wing political fanatics. Instead it would carry an infantry platoon and in support of this assurance a dozen or so soldiers were to be seen drilling at the far end of one of the platforms.

  A feeling that things were going well was increased by the news that porters had turned up for duty, and the bitter graffiti chalked on walls were in the course of being scrubbed off. An element of doubt still causing a little concern was that only a few first-class tickets had so far been distributed, leaving the vast majority of the remaining seats to be occupied by the first to reach them. The train pulled into the station on time, and while for a minute or two the Army and the police held back a surging multitude of non-ticket holders, we were included with the privileged dozen or so to be escorted to their seats. Within a matter of minutes a torrent of desperate humanity had broken through. Every seat in our compartment had gone. There were children round our feet and the corridor was jammed tight with the last to arrive.

  A passenger seated with us had been on the telephone to Madrid minutes before catching the train. He was a left-winger and happy to be assured by whoever it was on the end of the line that the first shots of the coming revolution had already been fired. Party members, however, he said, had been instructed by their leaders to abstain from action until they received orders to attack.

  The conversation had taken a political turn when a diversion was created by a guard struggling his way through from the corridor.

  ‘Tickets, please.’

  ‘What for?’ the passenger next to me shouted.

  ‘No nonsense, please. Just show me your tickets.’

  ‘We don’t have any tickets. Tickets have been abolished.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s the revolution is it?’

  ‘You’re right. The revolution. Aren’t you a member of the working class? Aren’t you one of us, too? What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I propose to carry out my duty,’ the guard said. ‘According to regulations you will be charged double the normal fare.’

  With this several of our fellow passengers grabbed the guard by the shoulder and hustled him out of the compartment.

  Minutes later the train slowed to give us the opportunity to see an enthusiastic demonstration marching down a principal street of Catalayud behind a red banner bearing the words Muerte Al Fascismo. Suddenly the sound of shots rang out, and with the instant assumption that the train was under fire we were immediately engulfed in panic. The belief was that fire had been opened on the demonstrators from across the tracks, and this was evidently the case as windows on the far side of the corridor were shattered by bullets. The corridor was submerged with shrieking panic-stricken passengers, a number of whom had already been swept off their feet. By the time the train jerked forward and began to accelerate out of range of what was generally taken to be sniper fire, the log jam of humanity struggling in the corridor was finally released, leaving an unmistakable whiff of urine in the air.

  A few miles further on more distant shots were heard. Soldiers of our escort appeared at each end of the carriage to poke their guns through the windows and fire at some target invisible to us, and with this panic returned. By this time our compartment held roughly double the number of passengers stipulated by the notice, and it was inevitable that refugees who had been unable to secure a seat should squat on the floor, forced sometimes to wedge themselves between the legs of those who travelled in greater comfort. Children wailed, and a woman dabbed at a sore place on her arm with the hem of her skirt. Listening to the sound of rifle fire we wondered who was firing at whom, and why. Were the travellers on this train assumed by those who took aim from the suburbs of Catalayud to be the supporters of the revolution, or the reverse, or the enemies of the proletariat? That was something we would never know.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE SUBURBS OF MADRID, sprawling in all directions, seemed remarkably deserted, although as was soon to be evident, much of their population were taking cover. The train rattled into the main station of Mediodía Madrid, a vast terminus where at first no one was to be seen, and once again there was good reason for this emptiness. As soon as the train came to a standstill an undisciplined scramble for the platform took place and Eugene and I dropped our luggage through the window and clambered down. Once free of the train, indecision took over. Crashing fusillades at close quarters seemed to be coming from the direction of the station outbuildings, and at intervals of a few seconds a major explosion echoed with shattering reverberations under the enormously wide glass roof of the station, and glass came crashing down.

  The passengers, laden with bundles, were running along the platform, and a small crowd had gathered at the exit although no one passed through the doors. No screams were to be heard in this vast, apprehensive near-silence. A cluster of small holes had suddenly appeared in the nearby glass partition, all fringed with a frosty radiance of cracks.

  Down at the end of the platform, by the various waiting rooms and offices, our fellow passenger
s had gathered in a little frightened herd, some squeezing themselves into angles of the wall. It is impossible to conceive of a less satisfactory place in which to take cover than a large railway station. There seemed to be glass everywhere, and there was not a single nook, corner or cranny where one could be certain not to be hit by a bullet. That is to say with the possible exception of the lavatories, but to reach these asylums meant negotiating the particularly exposed intervening fifty yards.

  The buffet was actually open and someone suggested this as a potential fastness. But here again the walls were only about nine feet high. After that more glass. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to have lobbed a grenade in through the window and blown the place to smithereens. At this point one of the station personnel rushed in to warn us that something like a pitched battle between revolutionaries and infantrymen was being fought in a nearby courtyard, and every few seconds we could hear the crash of a grenade.

  Nevertheless, being both hungry and thirsty, we decided to risk the buffet, and going in found the man who ran the place still at the counter, although clearly shaking in his shoes.

  ‘Any coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘No coffee.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Wine, then?’

  ‘No wine.’

  ‘Anyway, I see you’ve got some orangeade there.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ the man said.

  We drank the orangeade and put down a ten-peseta note. He shook his head and we went out. From where we stood among the broken glass we got a glimpse out into the street. It was a small, square patch of sunshine framed in the doorway where the ticket collector usually stands. This brilliant little scene was bisected by a gently sloping wall behind which occasionally passed the heads and shoulders of citizens of Madrid who were walking with their hands held aloft.

  From time to time an exceptionally heavy volley would ring out and any of the moving busts in sight would be suddenly withdrawn from the field of vision, although whether the owner had been struck down, or was adopting a prone position out of prudence, it was impossible to say. Immediately adjacent to the doorway on the station wall an alluring travel poster bore the inscription in English ‘Spain Attracts and Holds You. Under the Blue Skies of Spain Cares are Forgotten.’

  It seemed to us that the armed forces occupying the station were quite inadequate to hold off a really determined onslaught by the revolutionaries occupying some of the outer buildings. Drawn up in front of us in a straggling double rank was a squad of some twenty soldiers. They seemed fully to share our fears over the lack of cover and the open windows, and kept glancing nervously upwards in the hope of avoiding the continuing showers of glass. They were conscripts ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-one and seemed to be extremely nervous. The sudden shriek of an engine whistle produced a moment of demoralisation in the troops and they clutched their rifles in such a desperate fashion that we feared accidental discharges. A foreign journalist who had come in on our train went up to the officer.

  ‘Do you think it’s worth trying to get across the street?’

  ‘Wait until it quietens down a bit. You might make a run for it.’

  ‘Is it necessary to keep my hands up?’

  ‘Unless you’re tired of life. If you get caught in a squall, drop down just where you are and don’t be in a hurry to get up.’

  At the end of a couple of hours or so the shots became more infrequent. We listened to the occasional distant volleys, but the zone of the fighting seemed to be moving away from the station. There was a small hotel directly opposite the station entrance and we hoped to be able to cross the road and find a room for the night. At that moment several of the people from our train demonstrated how this was to be done.

  Passing out through the station doors they raised their hands and walked cautiously to the kerb’s edge. Here the group came to a standstill while each member looked in both directions before, hands still raised, taking the first cautious step into the road. At that moment two hand grenades exploded somewhere in the vicinity and to our intense surprise these people dropped to the ground and began to cross the road on their hands and knees. Their action set the example for more refugees from the station. We, too, decided to make the crossing. Raising our hands, we stepped down from the kerb and began to walk slowly and with a certain dignity, we hoped, among the crawlers, making for the small hotel. We had reached the middle of the road when a cavalry squadron swept into sight, reined in their horses and opened fire. With that, we too dropped to the ground and began crawling with the rest. The horsemen charged through, leaving one of those who had risked the road-crossing—as we were later to learn—shot dead.

  The owner of the small hotel had been deserted by his staff and was moving out, he told us, as soon as he could do so. He was sure that the Mediodía area would be the centre of the battle for the city, expected to be unleashed, he said, that evening. This, he considered, would result in a victory for the Reds, a prospect for which he had little relish. ‘They take life too seriously,’ he said. ‘I’m in business to enjoy myself and have a little fun. I’ll wait until things settle down. By that time nobody will have any money and I’ll be able to pick up a cabaret for nothing and have a good time again.’ He could give us a room for that night, he said. After that he might close down until people stopped shooting each other. Most hotels were closed for the emergency, he explained, but he gave us the address of a working man’s boarding house on the northern side of the town. ‘You have to look after yourself,’ he said, ‘but it’s cheap. Ask for a top-floor room. They’re the cheapest, and not much bigger than a kennel. But let’s suppose they start a battle in the street, you could always get out on the roof. You’d have a mile of roofs to play hide-and-seek on. The boss is called Felipe. Tell him Salvador sent you. It’s a long walk, maybe two miles, but keep your hands up all the way. Stick to the Avenidas. In the side streets you’re likely to get yourselves shot as Reds.’

  ‘So the reactionaries are still hanging on,’ I said.

  ‘They’re at their last gasp,’ Salvador assured us. ‘Tomorrow the big offensive begins and they’ll finish them off. All you have to do is stay alive until then.’

  We stood at the door and watched people streaming past, dodging in and out of shop doorways and doing their best to keep under cover. Nine shops out of ten were closed and most people were out trying to buy food. They all still walked with their hands held up, and there was something about this city that reminded me of a weird and complicated child’s toy. Not only were people reaching for the sky, but under the stress of fear they seemed to move in a jerky, mechanical fashion. Although we were surrounded by tall buildings that suppressed the sounds of battle, we could still hear the crack of hand grenades exploding in the backstreets, and the occasional splutter of a machine-gun.

  CHAPTER 6

  WE FOUND FELIPE AT his desk in the basement of his tall, grey, narrow hotel, and decided that Salvador had by no means exaggerated his description of it as being working-class. It contained a large number of clean, severely-furnished rooms which were available at the equivalent of roughly one shilling and six pence per person a night. Notices admonished guests to observe rigid moral standards. Anyone, said a large placard, failing to observe the rules of education and punctilious manners would be expelled instantly, whatever the hour of day or night. ‘There is no restaurant,’ Felipe said, ‘but you may bring down your tray for morning coffee, midday and evening meals, and then return with it to your room.’ A mole twitched continually on his left cheek as he spoke, and his expression in between sentences was victimised by an unfocused smile.

  ‘Salvador spoke about the roof terrace,’ I said.

  ‘He’s right,’ Felipe agreed. ‘Your room will be on the top floor. It will be easy for you to reach the roof, but equally easy for someone you may not wish to see to enter your room. Remember that we have a secret police.’

  What we hadn’t realised at first was that Felipe’s hotel was just inside the front
ier of the working-class district of Atocha. We took a short exploratory walk, although in the wrong direction. By turning left we should have reached in about five minutes an area of palm-shaded avenues and small, respectable parks. As it was we turned right into what remained of the unimproved Madrid. At this particular moment it had become one of the principal foci of the class struggle, and a few hundred yards across the Atocha frontier trams, although empty of passengers, carried four soldiers on the front platform and four more at the rear.

  Fear held Atocha in its grip. There was an occasional ping of a sniper’s rifle followed by a wild fusillade as the police let go at suspicious objects. The newly-created Assault Guards had been brought in to take on the revolutionaries. Most of them were in their early twenties, and I had read in a newspaper that many had been chosen not for their military bearing but their good looks. Here under the sniper fire in Atocha they seemed to be terror-stricken, blazing away with their German sub-machine-guns at windows and rooftops. One who had been wounded in the arm was crying like a child.

  Setting out from the hotel, we were anxious not to surrender to an overdramatisation of the events, covering the first few hundred yards as if enjoying a leisurely morning stroll. We were converted by the sight of a well-dressed citizen lying in the gutter with something like red jelly spread over his chest at the opening of his shirt. Turning a corner moments later, we faced a machine-gun pointing vaguely at our stomachs and were halted by the threatening yell of the gunner. With that we came into line with the Madrileños, our hands went up, and we turned back.

  We stopped for a drink at the Bar Atocha. I could not get over my amazement that whatever the danger and drama out in the streets, places like this not only stayed open but attracted business. To lessen the possibility of being robbed by death of his clientele the owner had cut off the main part of his café with a barricade of chairs and tables. There was a line of bullet holes across the window from one end of the café to the other. Even the bar itself was chipped and splintered by ricocheting bullets and a blood splash on the floor had not been wholly scrubbed out.