Raoul, who had the radio in front of him, turned to the Seville station, over which he heard alarming news: General Francisco Franco had flown from the Canary Islands to Melilla and had taken command of twenty thousand troops, Foreign Legion and Moors. The station which gave this news was in the hands of the rebels, who were calling themselves Nationalistos and claimed to speak in the name of the Spanish people. Seville and Cadiz were already in their hands, they said, and in a few minutes came the statement that Madrid had surrendered to the new movement.
Lanny and Raoul sat speechless while this radio announcer claimed one triumph after another for the forces of General Franco, whom he called El Caudillo, the equivalent of Il Duce and Der Fuhrer. Lanny could understand most of what was said; once in a while he would cry out a question, and Raoul would answer a few words. “It’s all Fascist lies!” exclaimed the latter. “We don’t have to believe a word of it.”
“Turn back to Madrid,” Lanny suggested. Raoul dialed, and they heard the government man saying that wild rumors were being circulated; the people must remain quiet. It was wholly false that General Franco had turned against the government. General Franco was a loyal soldier and patriot, worthy of all trust. “Oh, my God!” exclaimed the two of them.
They turned once more to the rebel station, and heard the tail end of a proclamation by General Franco, announcing himself as the defender of Spanish liberties and calling on the troops everywhere to rise and overthrow the government of Red criminals who had been betraying the Spanish nation. The radio announced new triumphs. Barcelona was in the hands of the Nationalist forces; Burgos in the north had surrendered to them. Town after town was listed in which the garrisons had joined the new movement—and among them was Saragossa, to which the travelers were now proceeding!
Turning back to the government station at Madrid, they learned that the Cabinet had resigned, and a new one formed, headed by a professor of the University of Madrid. Then once more the injunction: “Stay tuned to this station!”—followed by the latest motion-picture song hit: “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” Both Lanny and Raoul were very much afraid indeed. Obviously the long-prepared stroke had come, and apparently the insurgents were having their own way; the government forces gave the impression of being in utter confusion.
“This can be pretty serious for us, Raoul,” said his friend. “This whole province may be in the hands of the Fascists by now.”
“Well, we haven’t done anything against them, have we?”
“No, but they may commandeer our car. They do that all the time in war; and we’d have one hell of a time getting back to France. We waited a couple of days too long.”
XI
Plenty of subject for conversation between two camouflaged Pinks, while Radio Madrid was rendering selections of American jazz recordings! Lanny took his Budd automatic and shoved it down behind the front seat. It was all right for resisting a bandit, but not for fighting an army. He bethought himself of a carbon copy of the letter to Longuet which he had been so indiscreet as to make, and he had Raoul open one of his bags, tear the letter into very small fragments, and abandon them to the wind which blew over the bare plains of Aragon. He discussed with his friend the possibility of detouring to avoid the city of Saragossa; but unfortunately the roads of Spain didn’t seem to be built for detours. When you got off the camino real you were likely to find yourself in a maze of sheep-tracks. If there was any road branching off, it led to some other town, and any town was just as likely to be in the hands of the rebels.
Troops which took possession of a town would be apt to block the roads and to question those entering and those departing. Lanny set his companion to studying the Michelin maps with the idea that it might be possible to approach Saragossa by some inconspicuous street. All troops, whether Whites or Reds, were equally to be avoided; indeed, from the point of view of the travelers, Reds were the more dangerous, because they would probably be in greater need of cars. Neither Lanny nor Raoul would have any way of establishing themselves as “comrades,” and it would be highly dangerous to try, for then they would be taking part in a civil war, the most confused and cruel of all kinds. Who could be sure what any group really was? Who could guess how they might change sides—privates shooting their officers, or being captured and going over to their opponents?
No, argued Lanny, two tourists, one of them a privileged American, must remain what they were and claim the immunity granted to strangers. Raoul must be a secretary, thus adding to the importance of his employer. The Comendador was a guarantee of neutrality; it wasn’t likely that either Whites or Reds would concern themselves with art in such a crisis. Lanny said: “He may be worth more than anything else, so if they take our car let’s hang on to him.” They would go walking down the highway, carrying a big roll of canvas on their shoulders—a spectacle hardly less fantastic than Don Pedro on his mulo. If it came to real war, busses and railroad trains might be stopped as well as private cars; gasoline might be unobtainable, and they might have to hoof it all the way to France with the Comendador of the Order of the Golden Fleece! Or perhaps if they could get to the coast, they could get a boat and row him!
XII
Radio Madrid appeared to be recovering its self-possession. A new announcer admitted that an uprising against the government was in process of being put down; also that General Francisco Franco might actually be the author of the manifestoes being issued in his name. But the public was warned to beware of the station which was calling itself Radio Seville—it wasn’t really Seville, but Ceuta, on the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar, broadcasting on the wavelength of Seville and masquerading as that station! Radio Ceuta had proclaimed the surrender of Madrid, but this was nonsense; Madrid was calm, its people assured of the preservation of order. The homes and offices of the Rightist conspirators were now being raided.
Rolling down through the gorges of the Jalon River, Lanny and Raoul listened to a civil war of the air. Raoul would translate the words and attempt to guess the color, Red or White. With a little practice you could distinguish. Radio Barcelona reported that copies of a monarchist manifesto had been discovered and confiscated; an infantry regiment in the suburb of Miralbes had revolted and was being put down. All civilians of the Frente Popular were rushing to join the Loyalist troops. That station was undoubtedly in the hands of the semi-autonomous government of Catalonia, far to the left of the Madrid government.
Then Radio Burgos, proclaiming that the entire north had gone over to the Nationalist movement; Santander, San Sebastian, the Asturias, all patriotic, all rushing to the standard of freedom and General Mola. Raoul said: “That’s Fascist propaganda, you may be sure. The Asturias are full of coal and iron mines, and the Fascists slaughtered the miners wholesale after the strike a couple of years ago; but they didn’t kill them all, because you can’t work mines without labor—and the miners are Red to the last man.”
The Jalon River empties into the brown and placid Ebro, and not far down the latter they came into sight of the two cathedrals of Saragossa. There was a special reason for one of them: the Virgin had appeared to St. James the Greater, standing upon a marble pillar and commanding him to build a church in her honor; a whole cathedral had been built over and around that holy pillar, with a rather squat black wooden image of the Virgin on top of it, and crowds of the faithful came from all over Spain to ask her intercession. The image was kept dressed in gorgeous jeweled raiment which was changed frequently, and during the ceremony of investiture the priests kept their eyes averted, that they might not be blinded by the splendor of the heavenly countenance. Well-nigh incredible were the miracles wrought by kissing this holy pillar; the Very Eminent Cardinal Retz once saw a man with a wooden leg rub the leg with oil from the Virgin’s lamp, and the leg at once turned to flesh and the man leaped up and danced with joy by way of thanks to the Blessed One. Raoul said that this was the sort of thing for which the ultra-pious General Franco was going to war; using Moorish barbarians to keep the Holy V
irgin on her Santa pilar!
XIII
They had heard Saragossa reported as in the hands of both Whites and Reds; so now they were not wishing to view any Mudéjar towers, alabaster altarpieces, carved choir stalls, retables, or holy marble pillars. They kept a close watch ahead, and as they neared the city limits observed a group of men in the road with what they took to be a machine gun. A lane turned off to the south, away from the river, and Lanny swung into it, driving as fast as he dared; he began groping his way through the outskirts of the town, partly a slum district and partly orchards. The city lay to their left—large white buildings with many-colored tiled roofs and octagonal towers gleaming in the light of a setting sun. They knew that one of the buildings was the military barracks—a place where they especially didn’t want to be. There were tall chimneys with smoke pouring forth, for Saragossa had become an industrial town, with workers jammed into the usual five-story tenements. Lanny observed whole streets of these, with long curtains hanging from the tops of windows and extending over the balconies to keep out the blazing sun.
They crossed the highway going south from the town, and there was a filling-station. They stopped to get la gasolina—at about one peseta per liter, a little more than a quart. Raoul took the occasion to ask the attendant what had been happening, but the man did not exactly know; he had heard shooting in the direction of the center of the town, but no cars had come out since then—an alarming statement from the point of view of the travelers.
They were supposed to cross the Ebro by the Bridge of Our Lady of the Pillar, but that would take them through the center of the town; so they kept on down the river, sneaking through obscure streets. But all their strategy was in vain, for when they came out to the highway they saw troops blocking it, and when they tried to duck back into a side lane, a car came roaring up behind them with a command to halt. The muzzles of guns pointing at them left no choice, so they halted.
“Viajero americano,” said Raoul, taking charge of the situation at once; then with proper Spanish courtesy: “Kindly do not point the guns into our faces.”
The request was complied with. The officer in charge was a smooth-faced boy, apparently some sort of cadet; he had such elegant manners that Lanny judged him a member of the fashionable classes and therefore almost certainly a White. He looked the tourists over carefully and asked: “Where are you bound, Senores?”
“We are returning from Madrid to France,” replied Raoul.
“What is that thing you have there?”
“It is an oil painting we have purchased.”
“Rolled up like carpet?”
“It is on canvas, and has no frame. We could not have got it into the car otherwise. Senor Budd is an art expert, and I am his secretary.”
“What were you doing on that street that you came from?”
“The man where we bought la gasolina said there had been shooting in the town, and naturally we were trying to avoid it.”
“Let me see your passports.”
That was to be expected, and they both produced them. Lanny said nothing, but did his best to look impressive. The handsome young cadet studied the documents, then said: “We have orders to stop all persons on the route toward Lerida. It is really dangerous, Senores, for the Reds are holding it, and they are nothing better than bandidos.”
“Tell him we are willing to take a chance,” replied Lanny. But before the secretary could translate this the young officer went on: “And besides, it may be necessary for us to commandeer your car.”
“Oh, but you cannot take the car of visitors!” protested Raoul. “This is one of the most respected of American art connoisseurs and a person of great importance.”
“It would not be for long. Cars are needed to transport our troops to places where the Reds have managed to get guns and are resisting the authority of our Nationalist government. It will be a slight inconvenience, and you will be compensated.”
“But, Senor Capitan”—Raoul thought it could do no harm to promote the youngster—“this American gentleman is not thinking about money—he would gladly donate it to your cause. But he has urgent business in France; he has arranged for the sale of a number of paintings which will bring large sums of money to your Nationalists—some of your most prominent people are his friends and patrons. He has this large canvas which it is impossible to transport without his car; also we have much luggage, as you can see. It would be most improper for us to be delayed and it would be a great discourtesy to the American nation—this gentleman is a friend of the President Roosevelt and of the Ambassador, Senor Bowers.” Raoul continued to pile it on, speaking fast, as they do in Spanish, and hoping to overwhelm the inexperienced youth.
“It will be necessary to consult my superior,” said the youth with dignity; and then to the American: “Will you be so kind as to turn your car and drive to the place where you see the troops stationed in the road? I will follow—and please do not attempt to drive away, because I have orders to fire and I should regret to do it.”
XIV
It was a squad of the Spanish Army which had barricaded the road, leaving just room for a car to get through. They had a machine gun mounted on a tripod, and Lanny with professional eye noted that it was a Bofors, from Sweden. The officer who commanded wasn’t so well bred as the younger, and declared gruffly that tourists who had chosen a time like this to wander about Spain did so at their own peril. Lanny was about to absolve the officer of responsibility, when he was interrupted by a shout from one of the soldiers, pointing down the road and somewhat into the air. There was a plane, flying low, some distance away, but the sound seemed to be widening and spreading out all at once—the plane was approaching at high speed.
Friend or foe? There was hardly time to ask one’s self the question. But apparently the soldiers knew that a friend doesn’t dive down upon you and scare the wits out of you in time of war. To do such a thing would be to invite shots—but not from this contingent! Officers and men acted as one, leaping for the shelter of the building which they had taken for their headquarters.
As for the travelers, there wasn’t time for them to move; they were in the car and stayed. The storm swept on and over them; there was a patter of sounds and spurts of dust from the road, all in a small fraction of a second, and then the plane was gone. It took more time for Lanny even to realize that it had been machine-gun fire. His first thought was: “Am I hit?” and then: “Has Raoul been hit?” He looked, and saw Raoul looking at him. They had both been hit by surprise, but apparently by nothing else; not even fear, because the episode had been over so quickly.
Another idea crossed Lanny’s mind. The soldiers were gone. He didn’t stop to do any more thinking. One foot pressed the pedal that threw the clutch into neutral and the other foot pressed the starter. The engine started, and Lanny shifted his right foot to the accelerator and it began to roar; he grabbed the shift lever, and threw the clutch into first, lifted his left foot from the pedal, and away leaped the car through the opening in the barricade. Another shift and they were in high, whirling down the road.
“Watch behind!” Lanny exclaimed, for he didn’t dare to take his eyes off the road even for a glimpse into his mirror. “Anybody following?”
“Not yet,” said Raoul, and they swung into a curve which took them out of sight of the soldiers.
Lanny had a fast car, but he didn’t know this road and so didn’t dare use his speed. He decided right away that if he saw them coming after him he would stop, for he didn’t want them to shoot—the matter wasn’t that serious. Suddenly he jammed on his brakes, for he saw a lane going off to the left, toward the river. When he got to it he was going slowly, so as not to leave any skid marks; he turned and drove down a slow incline to the banks of the brown Ebro, overhung with willows. There was a flat place there, where cattle were watered, and also, apparently, vehicles had been taken onto some sort of flatboat, a ferry; there was room for turning, and Lanny ran his car into the space, completely out of sight f
rom the highway. “If they find us, all right!” he said.
XV
The pair sat for a long while, talking low and chuckling now and then; they had had an adventure, just enough to be fun, and they were proud of their cleverness, which had perhaps saved their car from the hated Fascists. Twilight was falling, and Lanny said: “Let’s stay right here, because if they chase us they may go a long way and then come back.”
“When they come back,” suggested Raoul, “they may be coming slowly, looking to see if we turned off.” That wasn’t so good!
The Spaniard happened to glance over the top of the thick roll of canvas which lay between him and Lanny, its top just about at the level of his eyes. He saw something there, and put his fingers to it, and exclaimed: “Good God, Lanny! Look!”
The other put his hand up, and found a neat round hole through the canvas, just about the size through which he could poke his little finger. He had seen thousands of them, just that size and shape, ever since his childhood. “Machine-gun bullets,” he said. “Right between us!”
He ran his hand back over the surface of the canvas, as far as he could reach. “Here’s another! What beautiful aiming!”
He got out of the car, opened the rear door, and passed his hand over the other end of the roll. “Here’s a third!” he said. “If I knew what make of machine gun it was, I could calculate the speed of the plane; or if I knew the speed of the plane, I could tell you the make of the machine gun.”
Wide Is the Gate (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 50
