The Family on Paradise Pier

by Dermot Bolger

  ‘You have sufficient lackeys spying on each other to know everything.’

  Sourly, Georgi refilled the glasses. ‘And what would you do, Irishman? Let the whole world wander through? Why not simply hand out our secrets to every fascist and Trotskyite spy in Barcelona? But perhaps that’s what you’ve been doing with your loose tongue.’

  ‘I say nothing to nobody.’

  ‘Today you said an awful lot of nothings to an awful lot of nobodies. Report to me.’

  Brendan downed his vodka again, feeling the alcohol burn his throat. ‘Nothing to report, sir, except ¡no pasaran! The Republic still holds.’

  Georgi slammed down his glass. ‘Don’t sir me like you were still in your English public school. You spent your day whoring and associating with Trotskyite scum, yet have nothing to report. We are besieged by enemies, yet you see nothing that might endanger our interests.’

  ‘I saw passion and enough real idealism to make me realise how little of it I see in this station. I saw the difference between conviction and indoctrination.’

  ‘You were seen drinking with German members of the Partido Obrero de Unificacíon Marxista.’

  ‘Is that a crime? POUM are on our side.’

  ‘Are they? How can they be a communist party when they refuse to accept orders from Moscow? They are known Trokskyites.’

  ‘Everybody must know it except them because I never heard a single one mention Trotsky.’

  ‘So you admit to fraternising with them!’ Georgi almost danced back, like a boxer after landing a punch.

  ‘They never stopped singing in German,’ Brendan said. ‘All I can tell you is that whatever they kept singing about it wasn’t Leon Trotsky.’

  The Georgian spread his hands on the desk as if addressing an imbecile. ‘Trotskyism would not be a conspiracy if he was mentioned out loud. Trotskyites suck in good comrades and spit them out like olive stones. I’m tired of always having to protect you.’

  ‘And I’m tired of always being watched. We spend more time spying on our own side than fighting the fascists.’

  Georgi leaned across the desk, speaking with deliberate softness. ‘Watch yourself, Goold, before you go too far. Watch yourself and watch those you mix with.’

  ‘I mixed with good communists today. The fascists don’t need spies. They control the air. When they want to locate our troops they simply fly up and look. If Stalin really wants to eliminate spying let him send warplanes to provide cover.’

  Brendan became suddenly sober as if he had dived off Bruckless Pier into icy water. Georgi sat back.

  ‘I could have you shot for questioning Stalin’s wisdom. And I could be shot for not having you shot. You presume too much on our friendship. I remember when you were a good comrade who asked no questions. Now I wonder why you came to Spain.’

  Georgi’s voice held no anger, merely mild enquiry. This was what frightened Brendan. ‘I came to fight fascism. I came because Spain is a battleground for the soul of Europe. I came to stand alongside a nation armed with just a few rifles and their courage against Hitler’s warplanes.’

  ‘Maybe you came to be a saboteur like your brother?’

  ‘Whatever Art did he was no saboteur.’

  ‘A typical baby brother. Would you still be defending your hero if you knew that he denounced you?’

  ‘Art would never denounce me.’

  ‘Really?’ Georgi’s smile was patronising. ‘Two years ago he walked into my office in Lubyanka, begging like a dog for an exit permit from the Soviet Union. He offered me names – fellow translators who were spies, his wife’s family who belonged to an anarchist cell, neighbours who deliberately tried to deflate morale. He spewed out his treasonous guts, pleading to be allowed to return to Donegal like that renegade fool, Fforde, who fled before we could shoot him.’

  ‘Art loved Moscow.’

  ‘Art loved property. It was in his diseased blood. He never stopped belonging to your despised class. Your father wrote to say that he had found a clause in your grandfather’s will which allowed him to leave his property to your brother Thomas once a doctor testified that Art was insane.’

  ‘Nobody told me this,’ Brendan insisted.

  ‘Why would they? The last born counts for nothing. Art came to me with your father’s letter. His tone had changed once there was a chance of losing the property he used to boast about renouncing. He offered bribes. The fool didn’t realise that the Soviet Union has no use for scum like him. If he wanted to leave we would just give him a visa and get rid of him. But he was not happy until he got every denunciation off his chest, until he denounced you too.’

  ‘For what?’

  The Georgian smiled. ‘You tell me.’

  Brendan was angry and confused. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I don’t believe a word you say any more.’

  ‘I have never lied to you. I’ve always looked after you like a son. I refused to write down the hatred your brother spat out. About how he had been the real revolutionary and you were forever trying to climb onto his back. How your cock was the only principle you were ever led by. How you fucked a fascist Lord’s wife and plotted with her to distribute illicit copies of Trotsky’s Where is Britain Going? How you met her husband in Hyde Park and agreed to spy for Oswald Mosley if you could continue to fuck his wife. How you got a good comrade, Ruth Davis, pregnant but blamed it on the fascist lord when the girl was left half-paralysed during a backstreet abortion. If I had written down your brother’s accusations you would never have been allowed to come to Spain. But I wanted to give you a chance. This war is a farce with infiltrators pouring in from everywhere. Can’t you see that we will never form a proper government here unless we purge the Trotskyites and anarcho-syndicalists with the same ruthlessness as in the Soviet Union?’

  ‘Spain already has a democratically-elected government that the fascists won’t accept. That’s why we’re here.’

  Georgi sighed, exasperated. ‘We’re here to save the Spanish people from their own leaders’ incompetence. Thankfully we are gradually putting this war on a proper ideological footing but we are being hindered by infiltration. That is why you must pull your weight. Tell me about the Irish drunkards you were with. What did they want?’

  ‘One wanted to lose his virginity.’

  ‘Don’t toy with me.’

  ‘They’re honest volunteers who came to help the Spanish people.’

  ‘Fuck the Spanish people.’ Georgi rose. ‘I’ve enough problems without you moaning about the Spanish people. Have you learnt nothing, Goold? This war is about weeding out the chaff so we are left with loyal comrades who will return home and organise in a structured way so that we can grow strong with one voice and one vision.’

  ‘And what about Spain?’

  Georgi took a deep breath. ‘I am not indifferent to Spanish suffering. I like it here.’ He looked at Brendan with a piercing honesty he only occasionally allowed to surface. ‘I feel safer here. I don’t always like the things I have to do. Your Irish friends think that a revolution can be won by love. Love stirs people but only fear makes them move. That’s human nature. Sadly we’re all too human. Was she beautiful, your fascist lover in London?’

  ‘She was no fascist when I knew her. She was a dilettante and, yes, she was beautiful. She possessed a disarming air of vulnerability.’

  ‘That is a trick all women learn, yet men never learn to defend against.’ Georgi laughed softly. ‘It’s funny how you have that same trick of vulnerability which makes me want to protect you.’ Georgi’s expression changed, making Brendan suddenly wonder could the NKVD officer be homosexual. ‘What do you really want?’

  ‘I want to go home.’ Brendan was so rattled that the words came out before he could weigh their implications. He continued, seeing no alternative. ‘When I volunteered in Moscow you said I would be free to come or go. If I return to London I can still be of use to you like before, but this is not the war I thought I was joining.’

  Georgi studied him closely
. ‘But you did join this war, even though I warned you not to. Try to leave and you become a deserter. André Marty can have you shot.’ The NKVD officer opened a drawer to remove a sheet of paper. He studied it, then signed. ‘Do you know what I am holding?’

  It could be a death warrant or a confession to be signed before they shot him. It could be a report of his movements or a list of Russian volunteers who had denounced him. Brendan’s throat was dry. He closed his eyes and saw himself as a small child standing on the return of the stairs in Bruckless House in Donegal. It was a summer’s morning with light filling the hall below, but for some reason his family had gone on a picnic and left him behind. He was too scared to stay up there alone, yet convinced that a terrible presence waited if he descended the staircase. It was years since he last had this childhood dream, but it was vividly clear.

  ‘You’re going to shoot me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why would I shoot you?’

  ‘You don’t need a reason to shoot people.’

  ‘You think I enjoy shooting people? I enjoy fucking. You and I should have gone whoring together just once. Two beds in one room, a contest to see who would be the last man standing. Line up the girls, see how many we could plough our way through. You’d have youth and I would have oysters. That would have been the way to finish it. It’s too late now, your health will not allow it.’ Georgi’s hand reached into the drawer and came out holding a revolver. ‘Unbutton your shirt.’

  The NKVD officer rose and Brendan did what he was told. His skin looked so white against the brown corduroy, with a trickle of sweat over his nipple. Georgi placed the revolver’s steel butt against his breast like a stethoscope.

  ‘Cough,’ he ordered.

  Brendan obeyed, puzzled at being toyed with.

  ‘Just what I thought, you have your brother’s complaint.’ He paused. ‘Your sickly brother Thomas.’

  ‘What do you know about Thomas?’

  ‘I make it my business to know your business. I know that he contracted tuberculosis and had to leave Ireland for South Africa. I know that tuberculosis is contagious and it would be dangerous to have a volunteer suffering from it. I know that you were my protégé. You have disappointed me but I’m still responsible for you. I read you like a woman and with women you need to guess their next hysterical demand in advance.’

  Georgi removed the cold steel from Brendan’s breast and dropped the paper onto his lap. It was a certificate of discharge signed by a doctor. The NKVD officer walked over to open the door. ‘I’ve arranged a ticket for you on the morning train to Figueras. You’re on your own after that. I don’t want to see or hear from you again. War is men’s work and all you’re good for is taking it up the arse. Get out of my sight.’

  Brendan rose, his legs shaky. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Just go,’ Georgi said. ‘Tell nobody or I’ll have signed my own death warrant. You could have been a good communist.’

  ‘Did Art really denounce me? I need to know.’

  ‘Have I ever lied to you?’

  Brendan paused in the doorway. Despite his disillusionment in recent weeks he wanted to embrace this man or make some gesture of appreciation. His body trembled from relief and he desperately needed to use the filthy urinal at the end of the corridor. For a moment it seemed there might be some last words between them, but then a movement in the radio centre caught the Georgian’s eye.

  ‘What the hell are you doing there?’ he shouted.

  Yuri rose, hastily shoving a valve into his pocket. ‘Just looking…I was comparing…’

  ‘You were trying to steal. I am being asked to fight a war surrounded by invalids and thieves. Get the fuck out!’

  ‘I’m going, comrade.’ The old sailor shuffled towards the door. ‘Don’t take it out on me because you woke to find a scum mark around your prick. If it’s red it’s probably just lipstick. Though if it’s green it’s gangrene.’

  ‘Out! Both of you!’

  Georgi slammed his door and Brendan faced Yuri who shrugged wryly. ‘He caught the clap last year, hates being reminded. Are you okay, comrade?’

  ‘I could use a drink,’ Brendan replied. ‘Otherwise I’m fine.’

  He was more than fine. Folding the discharge certificate carefully in his pocket, he laughed. He was going home. He wasn’t quite sure where home was – Donegal or Dublin or London, but in twenty-four hours he would be in France. He would be on his own, but he could restart his life properly out of Art’s shadow. His brother had denounced him. When the possibility arose of losing his precious inheritance Art had turned his back on every principle. That was why Art left Moscow so secretively and never made contact. However Brendan did not feel betrayed, but liberated. He walked out onto the packed streets with the old sailor and stopped at the first café they reached. Brendan studied the Catalan faces and the men from across Europe who had come to stand alongside them and felt an echo of the euphoria he had known during his first week here. A group of men sang in English at a nearby table: ‘Fascist bullets, fascist bombs make our land a smoking mass. Hurrah for courage, hurrah for bravery. At Madrid they did not pass.’

  Brendan joined in with the shout: ‘¡No pasaran!’ Only Yuri remained oblivious to the gaiety, obsessed by his inability to repair the ship’s radio. The sailor’s frustration was souring Brendan’s mood. Brendan asked to examine the valve the sailor had stolen and Yuri produced it surreptitiously, anxious not to be caught. The ship was five minutes’ walk away, the repair job no more than two minutes’ work. Yuri protested when Brendan suggested they both go and fix it now. Their waitress had just brought more wine and Yuri promised to try and remember Brendan’s instructions properly in the morning. But Brendan knew that the old sailor could not relax until the task was done, so he asked the waitress to hold onto their wine until they returned. Singing was starting at all the tables, with different nationalities trying to outdo each other. The waitress teased them that she would drink the wine herself if they were not back in ten minutes. Brendan saw Hennessy with Charlie Donnelly and Bourke at the café on the quay. He went to call their names then stopped because the discharge certificate set him apart. However, as he was passing, Hennessy saw him and rose. Yuri urged him on, anxious to return to his wine. But Brendan broke free to tell Hennessy he was going home and to ask if he wanted any messages delivered. The Dubliner shook his head and Brendan saw how his eyes ceased to regard Brendan as a comrade. Hennessy turned away as Yuri hissed at Brendan from the gangplank.

  The ship was quiet, the radio in a small room below deck. The puzzling thing was that Brendan could find nothing wrong with the transmitter. It seemed in perfect order, more powerful and better maintained than the ones in the radio centre. Only when he turned to tell Yuri this did he notice Georgi and two younger NKVD officers blocking the doorway alongside the old sailor. Brendan charged towards them, desperate to escape to the safety of the quayside crowds. But he knew there was no chance, he knew that he had been tricked, with Georgi wanting to ensure no struggle on the quay with foreign volunteers intervening. The young NKVD officers pinned back his arms, forcing him onto his knees as they put on the handcuffs. One placed a sack over his head.

  ‘Now we can hold a proper conversation, Goold.’ Georgi’s calm voice was close to his head before the Georgian stepped back. ‘You did well, Yuri.’

  Yuri’s laugh was wistful – the sound of a man who had survived every upheaval. Brendan felt no anger towards the old man, but only at himself and his hapless naivety.

  ‘It was easy, comrade, like reeling in a little fish. So little you’d almost wish to throw it back overboard. I have some wine waiting if you care to join me.’

  ‘Don’t let us detain you, comrades.’ This voice belonged to one of the young officers, a product of the Lenin school. ‘We know how to deal with Trotskyite spies.’

  Brendan instinctively curled up just before the boot smashed into his stomach. He lost count of how often they kicked him or how long it went on. He just knew that Georg
i and Yuri were back at the café, drinking in the midst of the singing throng. And he knew that his ribs were broken and three or four more kicks would hopefully edge him towards the mercy of oblivion.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Night

  Donegal, January 1937

  Mrs Ffrench did not know what time it was when she woke, but the cold sensation inside her was so intense that she had to slip out of bed and onto the freezing landing so as not to disturb her sleeping husband. Crouching beside the banisters she shivered in her nightdress. The only sounds were the grandfather clock in the dark hallway below and a desolate wind howling in from St John’s Point. Stones on the driveway would be whitened by hoarfrost, with dew transforming the lawn into a brittle glistening sheet. Yet although the house was perishing, the chill within her was deeper as if she had witnessed a hideous deed in her sleep. If she could explain this sensation she might have woken her husband and sought comfort. But the feeling was so illogical that she could confess it to no one. It felt similar to the guilt she experienced last month after the kitchen cat gave birth to more kittens and she discovered a covered bucket of water in the yard. From the desperate cries emanating from the bucket she realised that the newborn kittens were drowning inside it. The mother cat had frantically tried to claw at the bucket and kept glancing at Mrs Ffrench, like one mother pleading to another. Mrs Ffrench had not helped but returned indoors to where the cries could not be heard. Yet for nights afterwards she heard the kittens in her sleep and woke convinced that she had sinned by doing nothing and not questioning her husband’s perceived wisdom about what was best.

  Crouching on the landing Mrs Ffrench knew that she had spent too much of her life like this. Things were simpler before the Great War when they were newly wed and her husband allowed himself to be consumed by her Baha’i faith. It had felt like she was guiding him, opening up his mind to Prophet Baha’ullah’s predictions of a new era for mankind devoid of prejudice and extremes of poverty and wealth. Was this the first step in his embrace of communism? Back then Mrs Ffrench had imagined them equally mixing the colours on the palette of their lives. But at some stage she fell into step, dutifully letting his beliefs and passions become hers. Not all his passions though. Rumours of one passion had been whispered in this lonely place for years. She knew it from the pitying way that other wives looked at her.