by Betty Burton
‘Fetch me a pail and I’ll show you.’
‘Good God! I wasn’t serious. I say, you wouldn’t like a job, I suppose?’
‘As I said the last time you offered me a job, Alex, I’m a truck-driver. Do you need help?’
‘No, no. Plenty of local people. In any case, I want the children to be in the care of Spaniards. All those thousands of Basque children distributed all over the world, will they ever know who they are if they grow up in Canada or Russia?’
‘Better than not growing up at all.’
‘Of course, but to grow up with no knowledge of the ways of one’s own country, one’s own culture. No, one thing I do have is money, which means that the children can have local people around them.’
‘Isn’t there any difficulty in getting money from England out here?’
‘England! That’s where the Poveys keep the petty cash. There isn’t a country in the world where Povey money isn’t available. Well, perhaps not Russia, though I shouldn’t wonder if there were bars of Russian gold stacked away in Siberia. You haven’t got any smokes, I suppose?’
Eve produced the ‘emergency’ pack that she repeatedly found it necessary to replace and they both lit up.
‘Thanks. I don’t encourage cigarettes in the house. Can you stand the rest of this squalid tale?’
‘Having too much money may be squalid, but it is fascinating to the rest of us.’
‘Believe me, it is squalid. I come from long line of money-grubbers, and I am the last in line. I am pretty rich already, and when Daddy darling goes to meet Old Nick, I shall become seriously wealthy. You understand the difference? Of course you do. That is the difference between you and me, you understand the way the world works. Carl did. You are a leader like Carl. I am a follower.’
‘What was wrong with the way that you ran your bit of the Auto-Parc?’
‘My dear, I just happen to have the voice for it. We learn to use it early on. You’ve seen me in action. I say “Jump” and people jump.’ She took a long look at Eve. ‘But you didn’t, and I liked that. You didn’t sulk or mutter into your beard. I knew on that first time out with the ambulance that you would never jump. I knew that you were one of those with a rod from your arse to your neck. When I was eighteen I was dressed up in white satin and taken to curtsy low before the King and Queen. I would have bet my life that Anders would go to the wall rather than perform such a demeaning act. I’m right, aren’t I?’ A smile hovered round Eve’s mouth but she didn’t reply. ‘You see. You read me like a damned book, yet I know as much about you as I did the day you arrived in Albacete. I almost wish that I had read that damned intelligence report of David’s. Not that he would have let me. My guess was that you were some MP’s daughter, or you had come from some terribly famous libertarian menage.’
‘I’m neither.’
‘Don’t tell me. I don’t wish to know who you might or might not have been. I know who you are, and your people must be proud of you.’
Eve felt almost intoxicated with success. She had achieved what she had set out to do a year ago, to be accepted for herself alone. To hide her elation she said, ‘So, about the children.’
‘Yeah, well. I’ve been thinking that, eventually, I shall start up other houses like this one and work to get them recognized as non-partisan in the way Switzerland and the Red Cross are. If our people lose this war, I want the other side to understand that this is a non-partisan orphanage – damn! I vowed I would never use that word. Oh, call a spade etcetera, and an orphanage is what it is. As far as anyone knows, none of my kids have kith or kin.’
‘But you aren’t non-partisan, Alex. You are working for Aid to Spain, and you are a card-carrying Marxist. They murdered your husband, they must surely know about you too. There’s no way that you can stay in Spain if the Republic goes under.’
They were walking slowly through a citrus grove that had gone wild. Alex sank to the ground, and patted the place beside her. ‘Sit, Anders?’ Eve could see that behind Alex’s eyes, thoughts were gathering, and she recognized the almost furtive look that she and Ozz used to exchange as they took each step in the direction of mutual trust. In the end, she had told him everything. Would she come to terms with the loss of Ozz? In many ways, Alex was as unlikely a confidante as Ozz had been, but they were growing easier with one another.
‘I’ll tell you why I can survive in Spain, Eve. Because I’m a Povey. Because Daddy, that decadent paedophile who sired me, is third generation PEC. Do you know the PEC?’
‘Vaguely, the something Electric Company.’
‘Oh, how the Poveys would like to be another General Electric. Great-grandfather Povelli – Italiano – was the Povelli Engineering Company. Grandfather was Precise Engineering; Daddy is Precision Engineering. Weapons of war – some of the most precise engineering going. A nice little war, anywhere in the world and PEC sells to both sides without fear or favour, so whichever side wins, is in favour. Neat, isn’t it?’
Eve did not respond because she didn’t know how to. Finally she said, ‘I’d like to write about your set-up here, Alex.’
‘Good, I was hoping you would, but wait until you’ve met the other children.’
That day the world turned around for Eve.
Chacolatti Children
This, I warn you, is not a traditional bedtime story, for all that you might be reminded of Hansel and Gretel or of jelly-babies, sugar-mice and gingerbread-men. Chacolatti Children are quite, quite different.
Chacolatti Children are not born, they have been made. Made in Spain. In Madrid and Barcelona, in Valencia and Murcia, and although they have all been made in Spain, and bear the same trademark, they are obviously not from the same mould. They all have bits missing.
Thus they are rejects, and like broken biscuits you get a lot of them for your money because nobody much wants a product with bits missing.
I did say that this is not a traditional story told at bedtime to warn children against wandering alone in the woods or visiting gingerbread houses. In this story ordinary little Spanish children were leading their good and naughty little lives as children do, when they see chocolate bars falling from the sky, or they find them hidden in odd places as in a treasure hunt. And what treasure, for until now chocolate has disappeared from their lives. They scramble for it, pounce upon it, grab and scramble for it.
Another surprise, the chocolate bar goes BANG!
What inventiveness, what imagination, what skill and planning and raw materials must have gone into making a bar of chocolate that is booby-trapped.
You get a lot of Chacolatti Children for your money.
E. V. Anders, Murcia, 1938
Fifteen
Of the 150 men who had crossed the Ebro river under Ken Wilmott’s command, there were now just two dozen left. He looked at the exhausted and emaciated little band around him trying to gather strength for the inevitable next attack.
He scratched his itching seven days’ growth of beard. ‘Give us a bit of a haircut, Harry?’
Harry Pope giggled. ‘You daft bugger, Ken. Next time we go back up there, they’ll take it off at the neck for you.’
‘Fair enough, I hadn’t thought about that.’
They had been on the hill. No sooner had they relieved the Lincoln Brigade who had been holding on to their positions, than the Nationalists launched a massive and sustained attack. They threw everything they had at that bit of the Pandols sector. An artillery barrage of fantastic power crashed into rock, sending splinters and shrapnel everywhere and inflicting dozens of injuries. As the barrage lifted, two fascist infantry battalions had been hurled against them. In all the war, Ken Wilmott had never been so shit scared as on the hill.
He and his men had willingly scuttled back when they were relieved by a Spanish unit.
Now they were supposed to be resting for a few days, but the continued artillery fire on the front line marred the break. His men had been no less scared at the ferocity of the attack, yet they had not wavered a
nd the battalion had fought bitterly and repelled the enemy.
But not for long. Ken Wilmott was under no illusions. The enemy had more men, more planes, more artillery, more of everything. They must believe themselves invincible. Perhaps they were, but it did no good to let yourself think so.
Back in the fray. Do or die. They had held on to the line for forty-three days; they would not give up now.
Two hundred enemy guns along a one-mile front opened up and were supported by huge flights of bombers. The Republic could not match such a weight of attack. The front wavered and broke and the entire 15th Brigade retreated along roads under steady bombardment.
Almost without respite they were sent into the attack again. They fought, and again rested.
Ken Wilmott hacked away at his hair with small nail scissors. Harry Pope was gone now, another idealistic young volunteer in a shallow grave scraped in the dry, rocky earth.
Georgie Green, who was leader of a machine-gun crew, said, ‘I heard they were dropping 10,000 bombs a day on us.’
Ken said, ‘Is that all?’
By the end of September they were so battle-weary and fatigued that there were times when they could hardly drag themselves from sleep and climb into the trucks that would take them to the front line under cover of darkness. Their ranks had been swelled by a number of young Spaniards whose only training for front-line battle was learning how to load and aim a rifle. But they were determined and courageous and would fight for their country to their last breath. There were times when it was hard to believe that on the other side of the line there were other young Spaniards equally determined to fight to their last breath for the same country.
It was not often these days that Ken Wilmott had either the time or the strength to think about such things, but when he saw how young and raw these Spaniards were, he wondered how a country could survive without such vast numbers of its young men. How many had he himself killed?
First light showed the enormity of their position.
Georgie shouted, ‘Christ a’mighty, Ken, how’s your bowling arm?’
Any fairly competent cricketer could have lobbed grenades right into the enemy line. Once the enemy turned its guns upon them, there would be no chance to bring up any more men, ammunition, food or drink.
When the attack started, Ken shouted, ‘If they go for us here, they’ll hit their own blokes.’ It was true, they were that close. As the bombardment started they could do nothing but lie low and try not to imagine the carnage that was being visited on the Brigade Headquarters in the rear. Pinned down in a trench for hour after hour, Ken Wilmott’s company of assorted nationalities lay pressed close to the earth. Planes strafed, shells stormed and screamed without let-up and bombs rained down. It was any infantryman’s nightmare – they could neither advance nor withdraw.
At about midday there was a lull. Ken peeped cautiously over the parapet towards the fascist lines. He yelled in the direction of George Green’s machine-gun, ‘Tanks!’ Five tanks were advancing ahead of infantry. George turned his guns on them. He was a good gunner; three of the five were knocked out. Enemy infantrymen, who had been sheltering behind the steel hulks, were now forced to face the Republican lines without protection. As the rifles of the 15th Brigade were directed at them with ruthless accuracy, the enemy fell like flies. But then so did the men all around Ken.
Suddenly, amid the crack and roar of the battle, there was a lot of shouting from the direction where he had positioned some of his men. They were standing with hands up. He couldn’t believe what was happening. They were mad.
Not mad. They had seen what Ken Wilmott had not. The enemy troops, hidden by a bank of tall bamboos growing along a water-course, had worked their way behind his right flank. More were advancing on his own line. He shouted a warning to Georgie Green, but too late! They were entirely surrounded. Whatever happened next, bullet in the head or a trek to a prison-camp, he knew that this was the end of the war for him. With great cool and calm, he removed his jacket with its incriminating pass that permitted him to move freely on any part of the eastern front, placed it at the bottom of the trench and pulled part of the parapet down to bury it. Without insignia he was just a footslogger. The pass, which he had gained after officer training, would have guaranteed him a date with a firing squad. It would be no use Georgie trying that trick, it was the policy of the fascists to shoot machine-gunners on the spot.
* * *
David Hatton had been filming at Brigade Headquarters. The shells that had gone over the heads of Ken Wilmott and his company when they were pinned down close to the enemy lines, had landed all around him. He knew that he had got some remarkable film, but it seemed doubtful that it would ever reach London. When it was known that the enemy had broken through and surrounded a large area, the brigade withdrew and he with it. There was talk of a negotiated settlement, but the increasingly triumphant General Franco would have nothing but unconditional capitulation by the Republic.
So the battle continued for four months. It claimed 100,000 casualties. David Hatton was not one of them, but he was captured and joined a long line of troops of the International Brigade on their way to one of the many prison camps. His last act as a free man was to set light to his film and equipment. A British civilian would probably be shot as a spy, so he became Richard Hatton, a private in the British Battalion of the International Brigade.
Under interrogation, he lied like the rest. ‘I have never even fired a bullet. I have only been driving trucks.’
‘Where is your lorry?’
‘It was blown up in the bombardment.’
‘You will join the stretcher-bearers and carry your wounded to the first-aid post.’
There was a prison train waiting at Gandesa. By morning David Hatton was one of hundreds of prisoners-of-war disembarking on Zaragoza railway platform. Zaragoza, which the Republic had striven for so long to prise from the hands of the fascists. He kept his eyes skinned for any familiar face in the assembled lines. Suddenly he found himself looking across at Ken Wilmott whom he had last seen at the water tanker before the battle for the hill. As they were herded along, they gradually manoeuvred their way towards one another until they were walking side by side. Before he could say anything, Ken Wilmott said quietly, ‘Remember me? Private Ken Wilmott.’
‘Yeah, of course. Remember me? Private Richard Hatton. I was a driver – food supplies.’
They each raised a small smile of acknowledgement.
‘Will you just look at them?’ Ken nodded at the well-fed, well-clothed lightly-armed guards. ‘They haven’t gone short of much.’
Throughout the journey from Gandesa to Zaragoza, they had become ever more aware of the full extent of their captor’s transport and weaponry.
David Hatton asked, ‘What do you think they’ll do with us?’
‘Send us packing over the border into France.’
‘No reprisals?’
‘Why should they bother now? They’ve won the bloody war. It’s only a matter of time before it’s all settled. These buggers are favourites at the League of Nations, it wouldn’t do them any good to do anything unpleasant, would it?’
That did not stop his captors singling Ken Wilmott out from the line of prisoners and taking him to the military barracks while the others were marched off to a civilian prison.
* * *
The letter Eve received from Sid Anderson, her sponsor and friend in England, pushed her first into a black mood, and then into a rebellious one.
My dear,
This is the first of your commentaries that seems too hot to handle (not me, you understand; I would put this in front of every MP and citizen who refuses to see that what happens in Spain could happen all over Europe). Nazi Germany is what stirs them now, everybody sees that there will inevitably be a war that will go far beyond the boundaries of Spain. There are newspaper and journal editors here who would like to publish your Chacolatti Children, but the proprietors will not allow ‘scare-mongering’ as they ca
ll it. In my opinion, scaring is what is necessary – no, more than that, people need to be terrified of what could happen. They need to know what Herr Hitler and his cohorts are capable of. But please, my dear, do not let this one episode stop you sending other pieces for publication. I will continue to pester all the right (Left) people. I think you might be surprised to know how well thought of and well-known E. V. Anders is. Still a bit of a mystery, but that is intriguing to readers. Some people know that you and I have some sort of connection, but I have no intention of satisfying anyone’s curiosity.
Word has got through that one of the Hatton twins, whom I believe you know, has been killed and the other has been taken prisoner-of-war and is now in a French concentration camp.
I wish that your parents could have lived to be rightly proud of you. Recently, when I was attending a conference in Winchester, I took the opportunity of going out to the farm where I know you have spent many happy times. Your brother and sister-in-law are a splendid couple. I know that he is torn between wanting to join you and your other brother out there, and his family and the farm on which he works hard after his day job on the railway.
I have to say that I was entranced by the little girl, Bonnie, who is learning to talk and who babbles constantly. Your uncle says it comes from living in a family of all women. Your aunt says, it only seems like that, because the women have more to say. They talked about your ‘transformation’ into Eve Anders, and I believe that they are more at ease now that we have talked about you and they begin to understand that your intention is not to deny your roots, but to be independent and free to use your talents, and that leaving your old self is probably the only way to do so.
