by Norman Lewis
Ernesto was in the hotel, playing with the dogs. He had got over the long journey by this time and I had rarely seen him more relaxed. ‘Did you happen to read your ABC today?’ I asked.
‘I got as far as the headlines. They’re good because at least they save time. Whether they know it or not they also tell you what not to believe, although it’s far from the intention.’
‘Did you read the story about the coming civil war?’ I asked him. ‘Do you really think it could happen?’
‘Let’s put it this way. I can’t think of any country in Europe where the likelihood is greater.’
Eugene arrived to join in the discussion with a typical left-wing point of view. ‘Is this anything to do with the workers’ struggle against bourgeois exploitation?’ he asked, and Ernesto shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It will be due to a loss of discipline among all classes. They are determined to fight each other. The Monarchists will be at the throats of the Liberal Republicans. The Reds will assassinate the Monarchists and vice versa. That will leave no one to be killed except those belonging to no political party who will naturally murder each other—even with no excuse. I hate to tell you this,’ the old man said, ‘but civil war is the only possibility. Did you read something in yesterday’s ABC about Franco? He was reported to have been seen within a mile of where we are sitting now. All the papers call him El Caudillo, which means The Boss. He comes here because they have the best riding horses, and he’s given out that he was christened in the cathedral—which isn’t true. If Franco takes over the Army he will bring the Moors in from Morocco.’
‘Just a moment,’ I said. ‘Does he speak Arabic?’
‘Better than most speak Spanish. In North Africa he’s already accepted as a mullah. All the Moroccan troops will be on his side. The day he’s accepted as Caudillo in Spain, the civil war is on.’
‘After what you have just told us, do you hold out any hope for Spain?’
‘Yes!’ Eugene broke in. ‘International volunteers from Britain, France, perhaps even Germany. They will come to defend democracy.’
The prospect of war was seen by most Spaniards as a national tragedy. It revealed itself in a sense of dread that could be postponed but never wholly banished from the mind. If Seville believed in the probability of conflict, that was enough. The time had come for Spaniards to brace themselves for the inevitable battles. Seville cast its mind back to the wars of the past and its citizens—or rather those that could afford to do so—began to turn their houses into little fortresses with steel shutters over the windows and concrete reinforcement of the walls. Some householders employed guards who invariably wore peaked caps to provide a somewhat official appearance, although they in fact looked little different to tramcar conductors—or even the exceptionally belligerent Assault Guards.
By protecting their houses the owners appeared only to increase their fears. People removed hidden weapons from their hiding places, loaded them, and were ready when the first shots were fired.
For a moment, however, the possibility of war was put out of Ernesto’s mind and discussions shifted to arrangements for returning home. Something was said laughingly about not having been able to do what we had set out to do, but the subject was awkwardly changed, although not before someone had blundered in with a reference to the unvisited tomb.
Incredibly enough, it was at this point, and to general astonishment, that what might well have been a fragment of the tomb was unearthed by a digger at work in the dry ditch behind the cathedral and sent on to us. It was brought to the hotel by a sacristan for our inspection. The chip was of clean, white marble, about four inches in length. The sacristan made a point of telling us that a number of such fragments had been recovered, all quite small and most somewhat stained. Ernesto was fetched to examine it and it was mooted that perhaps possession of a variety of such fragments might be reasonably acceptable as a symbolic visit to the tomb in its entirety.
There was something in Eugene’s manner at about this time to suggest that he was ill at ease. I would have been happy to return home without further delay, but my feeling was that he was in no hurry to do so.
‘Do you really like it here?’ he wanted to know, but I may have shown insufficient enthusiasm in my reply. When he came back to the subject I told him that I had preferred Madrid.
‘Didn’t you object to having to hold your hands up when we went for a stroll?’
‘It was all right if you didn’t have far to go. That is to say, apart from crossing the Gran Via on one’s hands and knees.’
‘I could have done without it,’ Eugene said. ‘Anyway, how about Seville? Do you like Seville?’
‘I know I shouldn’t admit to it, but as a matter of fact I do, I think it has a soul.’
‘I didn’t realise you’re a bible-buster after all,’ Eugene said.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s my Welsh upbringing. A tabernacle supper with poached eggs on Saturday nights. It leaves its mark. Still, all the same, you’ve managed to give Ernesto a case of nerves. He’s already checking on the trains. A Paris Express leaves the day after tomorrow.’
‘It’s all the same to me,’ Eugene said. ‘I’m ready to go whenever you like.’
‘But I’m not sure I believe you,’ I told him.
‘Well, you’ll see for yourself,’ he said. For a moment he seemed absorbed in thought, and when he spoke again it was with a change of tone. ‘If a real war breaks out here, I’ll come back.’
‘What on earth for?’ I asked him.
‘To fight against the fascists,’ he said.
‘And you believe there’ll be one?’
‘I’m almost certain there will,’ he told me, and I could see he meant it. Further discussion was almost incredibly interrupted by the return of the mounted requetes, this time having apparently doubled the number we had seen on the occasion of their earlier patrol. But what was to startle us most was the spectacle of a countryman, his arms roped behind him, being dragged at the tail of the last horse. ‘This,’ Eugene said, ‘must be what El Debate meant yesterday when it spoke of the necessity of establishing new disciplines.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
‘Usually what the Americans used to call lynch law. If you were unlucky enough to fall out with one of the bosses you got beaten up and thrown into the river.’
‘And you think they could get away with that here?’
‘Probably. The system worked well in Italy. They have just as many fascists round Seville now as there were there. They’ve even invented a fascist salute. You pat the inner muscles of your right arm and hold up your hand,’ Eugene explained.
‘Shouldn’t you tell Ernesto about this?’ I urged. ‘If we have to go home in any case surely we ought to make a move before the new fascists get busy. Otherwise we may find ourselves stuck here until further notice. In any case, I believe he intends to settle for the Paris Express.’
‘It’s all the same to me,’ Eugene said. ‘I’ll be travelling with you on the train.’
CHAPTER 18
THE FIRST IMPRESSION OF the train on which we were about to travel northwards through Spain was that it had captured and retained a little of the vivacity of the streets of Seville—to say nothing of their homely odours. Passengers were burdened with immense packages (one had arrived with a small dog wrapped up like a parcel), and a large but fragile box had split open to release a shower of miscellaneous objects including a selection of feminine underwear. Having settled, the passengers pursued every form of activity compatible with the journey. A painter of ‘three-minute portraits’ had secured a corner in which to work and set up an easel next to a priest guarding a pile of missals in ragged-edged covers. Innumerable small children were being pacified by bribery or threats. A fighting cock, fitted with a shining spur, had been crammed into a cage from which it continued a strangled outcry. The odour, apart from that of humanity forced into over-small space, was of ripe cheeses. Despite the stres
ses of such international journeys, the travellers had clearly set out to be affable, and it was evident that a high standard of good humour would be maintained.
But it was to be a long journey and the first few miles of the almost empty spread of the Andalusian outback under a long drawn-out high noon threatened monotony. Time passed, and at last there were splendid views for the traveller to enjoy. Enormous swamps had been created by the rainstorms that had burst the banks of the Guadalquivir. Charred stacks remained of a village fired by lightning. Mountains with labyrinthine caves were yet to be explored, and the small town of Campobello had warning signs painted in yellow on the walls to signify that it had been visited by the plague. Best of all, with their offering of limitless interest, were the forests and lakes filling the long terrestrial depression that joins Seville to Cordoba and few such areas of Spain were likely to keep the traveller so ardently awake.
Dawn reorganised sprawling torsos and straightened cramped limbs, except in the case of Ernesto, who had stayed awake, reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Daybreak spread like a slow conflagration into all corners of the landscape. The black smoke of morning fires twisted into the sky, unchained dogs hurled themselves against invisible intruders, and a peasant defecated beneath a flight of partridges in search of mountain hiding places.
Eugene and I studied our maps. Somewhere in the vicinity—give or take a dozen miles—the railway track, avoiding the hills, ravines and forests which turned day into night, curved away between the Pyrenees and the sea towards San Sebastián.
‘We’ll be calling in there for the last time, I imagine, and putting up at the Royalty?’ I said.
‘If they have rooms, why not?’ Eugene said. ‘Be nice to see Dorotea again, if she still works there.’
‘And even take a last stroll on the paseo with her, and a suitable friend if she happens to have one. We have to take flowers for Dorotea, whatever we do.’
An English-speaking passenger had overheard us and was keen to help. ‘No problem at all, sir. For Miss Dorotea flowers of all kinds are sold at railway station. In five spare minutes also, if you wish these people will make small poem and personal message for accompanying flowers. As fellow traveller, sir, I wish you success.’
The Paris Express, living up to its reputation, was on time to the dot at San Sebastián. The station counter was banked with exotic blossoms, and a telephone call revealed that Dorotea was still at her place of work. She said she would be delighted to see us again, adding that by a miraculous chance that particular afternoon happened to be free. It would be nice for us, she thought, to take in what was generally described as the splendid flower show at the park, and we were naturally equally enthusiastic. The meeting, however, after a short taxi ride to the show, had something about it that smelt of confrontation, confirming a suspicion that Ernesto was concerned only with our prompt and uninterrupted return to the United Kingdom. There was something in his brief conversation with Dorotea that seemed to conceal frigidity behind a token politeness.
At this moment a new complication arose. A messenger sent after us from the hotel presented us with a letter from a London newspaper that said, to Eugene’s amazement, that it had accepted two of his travel pieces and—even more to his surprise—expressed moderate interest in a description of the local paseo, which had apparently attracted a number of English visitors to San Sebastián. Mastering his fury, Ernesto was obliged to accept a delay in our departure. Dorotea bought a new dress and organised our inclusion in the parade, and Ernesto shut himself in his room and settled down to read biblical passages in archaic Spanish.
‘Please excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m turning my back on modern times.’
CHAPTER 19
THE FINAL LEG OF our journey back to England, by ship, had been arranged through a Spanish tourist agency at extremely low rates, and they had warned of possible uncertainties awaiting us. We were greeted with almost excessive affability by the ship’s officers lined up at the top of the gangplank, and a substantial bouquet of flowers did something to mitigate the austerity of our cabin. Remote rumbles and gruntings proclaimed the engine had started. Very shortly afterwards we were asked to attend lifeboat drill, and the chance of rough weather ahead was hinted at.
Eugene suddenly broke into my thoughts, and I realised that something was the matter.
‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘I’ve done the wrong thing.’
‘What’s bothering you?’ I asked him. ‘Everything has gone off all right so far.’
‘I’ve let myself down.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘I realise now I should have stayed.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘I want to get back on good terms with my conscience.’
‘Is this something to do with the Civil War?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ Eugene said.
‘I realise how you feel,’ I told him, ‘but for all that you should wait for the right moment.’
‘This is it. Did you see the headline in that Spanish rag Debate, about soldiers of fortune flooding into Spain?’
‘I read it but I didn’t necessarily believe it. Debate is a fascist paper.’
‘It’s common knowledge that Franco has been enlisting mercenaries to take on any who turn out to be left-wingers.’
‘Don’t let’s delude ourselves. Mercenaries or not, they’ll put up a fight.’
‘A gang of thugs,’ Eugene said. ‘We’d make mincemeat of them.’
I saw him as just too certain of victory. There were times when his brand of optimism appeared to me almost as a weakness.
‘Think it over,’ I said. ‘Think about it before you commit yourself to something you may come to regret.’
Once back in London, it soon became clear to Ernesto that Eugene was keen to continue his involvement with his beloved Ayuda project. He and I were both on the lookout for jobs. We hadn’t seen each other for some time when I had a call from Eugene.
‘I’ve decided I’m going back to Spain.’ There seemed to be relief in his voice.
‘Why? When?’
‘It’s a touchy situation. I’m anxious to get over there while the going is still good. Nobody knows exactly what’s likely to happen next. The offer came for me to go, and the thing is not to hang about, but to grab the opportunity while I can.’
‘Well, I wish you the very best of luck. I hope I’ll see you before you go, and keep in touch.’
‘As they say, venceremos. We’re going to win. Join us if you can.’
POSTSCRIPT
AT ABOUT THIS TIME, the modestly left-wing caretaker government of Largo Caballero, convinced of the hopelessness of defending Madrid from attack by the fascist leader General Franco, lost face by deserting the historic site of the capital in favour of Valencia on the coast. Inevitably the fascist regimes of Germany and Italy were behind Franco, but at least no efforts were made by democratic governments to prevent their nationals from joining International Brigades.
Franco’s German allies were called in to devastate the ancient Basque town of Guernica, while Italian troops were imported to massacre Spanish peasants regarded as a result of their poverty as ‘left wing’. Indignity was piled upon our Spanish friends in Seville, where Moroccan mercenaries massacred more peasants in the countryside and German soldiers of fortune invaded the city itself. An attack by German warplanes in this area was reported to have caused the loss of 30,000 lives. It was estimated that a further 30,000 casualties were suffered by random though persistent attack, largely by foreign planes, in the Ebro valley.
Eugene was among the first from England to enlist in the International Brigades, but it came as no surprise that he would do so only as an ambulance driver—which he remained until the withdrawal of his brigade in November 1938. He had been lucky enough to escape being wounded, but he had suffered ill-health through periods of semi-starvation throughout the campaign, and it was this that abruptly shortened his life.
About
the Author
Norman Lewis (1908–2003) was one of the greatest English-language travel writers. He was the author of thirteen novels and fourteen works of nonfiction, including Naples ’44, The Tomb in Seville, and Voices of the Old Sea. Lewis served in the Allied occupation of Italy during World War II, and reported from Mafia-ruled Sicily and Vietnam under French-colonial rule, among other locations. Born in England, he traveled extensively, living in places including London, Wales, Nicaragua, a Spanish fishing village, and the countryside near Rome.
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Copyright © 2003 by the Estate of Norman Lewis
Introduction copyright © 2003 by Julian Evans
Cover design by Kelly Parr
978-1-4804-3326-7
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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EBOOKS BY NORMAN LEWIS
