Wide Is the Gate

by Upton Sinclair

  All his life Lanny had been used to meeting exalted personages, and he knew pretty well how to deal with them. He listened to their polite conversation and did not expect it to be entertaining. He might need their help in taking the pictures out of Spain, and also in the matter of Alfy, so he made himself agreeable, and was invited to drink a great many copitas de manzanilla. He carefully led the conversation to the aviators on both sides and what was happening to them; to war prisoners and how they were being treated; to the English aristocracy and their attitude to the cause of Spanish liberation. But try as he would, he couldn’t get anyone to mention a baronet’s son in prison, and not a single person whom he met indicated dissatisfaction with Franco or his cause.

  XIII

  Lanny found that one of General Aguilar’s sons possessed a car that had not been commandeered, and Lanny arranged to hire it for several weeks. He drove his relatives through the soft springtime of the Guadalquivir valley to the estate of Senora Villareal, where he was cordially welcomed by the steward; he presented his letter and announced his purpose to take the paintings, provided that he was able to make arrangements for exporting them. He had explained to Vittorio and Marceline that this was a place where either he or they might hide out while the other was taking Alfy to the coast; so they both made themselves agreeable to Senor Lopez and established themselves as friends of the Nationalists. The steward talked freely about the war as it appeared from Andalusia; but, alas, he didn’t say anything about aviator-prisoners, nor did anyone to whom he introduced his visitors indicate any impulse to turn traitor.

  They came back to Seville, a delightful old city; no pleasanter place in which to spend a holiday. Extraordinarily narrow winding streets full of quaint bits of architecture, flowers in dazzling profusion, and for Lanny, above all else, paintings. It was the home city of Murillo and the birthplace of Velasquez; there were Goyas and Zurbarans, some of them privately owned, with the owners in a very receptive mood in wartime. They all assured Lanny that they could get export permits for him, and he could have combined business with pleasure for weeks on end—had it not been that he was thinking about a baronet’s grandson who might at that moment be dying in some dank dungeon.

  He waited until he was quite sure that Marceline was going to do nothing but dance and shop, and Vittorio nothing but talk. Then he invited the couple for a drive, so that they could be safe from spies, and said: “I’m afraid we’re not going to accomplish much in Seville. Let’s arrange some pretext for visiting Caceres, and see if we can get any word about Alfy there.”

  “What excuse can we find for visiting a place like that?” Vittorio wanted to know.

  “There are sights to be seen, everywhere in Spain; some Roman ruins, and an old castle—it may be the very place where Alfy is imprisoned. I can stop and look at paintings at other places on the way, and ask questions, and make it seem plausible.”

  “But we won’t know a soul in those places!”

  “I can always find some people who own paintings and might like to sell them. I have never failed to make acquaintances when I needed to.”

  “But, Lanny, what would we do in such a God-forsaken hole?” This was Marceline, and her brother reminded her gently that they hadn’t come for a lark, but to do a job and earn some money. He put the emphasis on the latter; so, after more discussion, they agreed to call off their social dates, and Lanny set to work to get the necessary passes.

  XIV

  General Aguilar of the silver hair and medals gave him a note to the commandant of the southern military district, that General Queipo de Llano whose raucous voice Lanny had been hearing off and on ever since the outbreak of the war. He was a tall thin soldier with a heavy black mustache, one of the most vain, pompous, and violent of men. He did most of his fighting over the radio, and would lash himself into a fury and use language such as only the coarsest Spaniards would employ among themselves. Lanny had heard him denouncing those ladies of Madrid who had stood by the Loyalists; the general named them, including among them Constancia de la Mora, wife of the Spanish air chief; the general addressed them personally, telling them that he was going to capture them and give them, each one to a hundred Moors. Also he had announced that whenever any one of his soldiers was molested in Seville, he, General Queipo de Llano, would send soldiers into Triana, where the workers lived, seize the first ten men, and take them away and shoot them. This he had been regularly doing ever since.

  Lanny had seen this radio general marching at the head of troops through the city streets, and had seen pious women running with arms full of flowers to strew in his path. Meeting him personally was not to be thought of as a pleasure; but fortunately a staff officer handled the matter of the travel permits. Lanny explained as usual that he was an art expert who had come here on a business errand for the Senora Villareal. He wanted very much to see the Roman ruins of Caceres, and would like to take along his traveling-companions, an Italian air officer and his wife, who was Lanny’s half-sister.

  The staff officer studied the various documents which were laid before him, and replied that the roads to the north were congested by military traffic, and it was their policy to forbid other traffic; but for one as highly recommended as Senor Budd he would make an exception. They must be prepared for interruptions and delays. Lanny said he understood that, of course; he could always find something to look at in Spain, and his brother-in-law was interested in military procedures and had many colleagues and friends among the Italians. Lanny suggested that he would like to have the passes made out separately for himself and for the young couple, the reason being that his art negotiations sometimes took a long while, and they might wish to return to Seville ahead of him. This request was granted.

  XV

  Lanny went back to his relatives and told them that all was ready for a start. But he ran into a serious obstacle. Vittorio hesitated, looked at his wife as if to gain courage, and then began a long explanation, the substance of which was that he had met so many of his comrades and friends who were going away to die; his heart had been touched, and it didn’t seem in consonance with his honor to be going off on a personal errand which, while it mightn’t do any harm to his country’s cause, was surely not going to do it any good. Moreover, it was highly dangerous, and after being on the ground and giving study to it, Vittorio couldn’t see any prospect of carrying it out successfully. And so on and so on.

  Lanny had envisaged this as one of the possibilities of the adventure, and had thought out his course if it should happen. He must not quarrel with Vittorio or utter a single word of annoyance; above all, he mustn’t mention the money which had been so generously poured out. He said: “It’s all right, Vittorio, if that is what your conscience dictates. But what are you planning to do?”

  “I want to help my country to the best of my ability. It has been pointed out that if I can get an artificial arm I may be able to get a staff appointment with one of our generals.”

  This had been a tender point with the crippled man. He went about with an empty sleeve, which he regarded as a badge of honor; but an artificial arm he looked on as something repugnant, a caricature of reality. The result had been that he couldn’t even write his name, because he had no way to hold a piece of paper steady. But now, desiring to serve, he would make whatever concession of his feelings might be necessary.

  “Well, that’s fine,” said the brother-in-law. “I understand how you feel, and wish you luck. What is Marceline going to do?”

  “I shall doubtless be assigned to duty here in Seville, and we’ll stay here together. What will you do?”

  “Since I’ve made all the plans and hired a car, I suppose I might as well take the trip by myself.” Then, as if it were an afterthought: “I suppose you won’t mind letting me take along that extra uniform that doesn’t fit you.”

  “Are you going to try that risky project by yourself, Lanny?”

  “I thought I’d just go there and sort of drift around. The chances are a thousand to
one against my being able to accomplish anything, but it won’t hurt for me to have the uniform, just in case. It doesn’t fit you, you know.”

  “I could have it altered,” suggested this son of a frugal people.

  “I’ll bring it back to you,” replied the son of a prodigal people. “If I don’t I’ll get you another without fail.”

  30

  MY LIFE UPON A CAST

  I

  When you leave the valley of the Guadalquivir River, following the highway north from Seville, you find yourself ascending through rolling hills and before long are in the Sierra Morena. After you have topped a high pass it is no longer springtime in the beginning of March, and you may prepare yourself for chill northern breezes. This is the ancient tableland known as Estremadura, a grazing country with sparse vegetation, plagued by locusts and droughts, just like the district of La Mancha adjoining it on the east, where Don Quixote tilted with the windmills. The procedure does not seem so fantastic when you visit the land, for the windmills are only eight feet in height and you would think they might be upset by a horse at the charge.

  There is a railroad this way, but it had not been equipped for the burden of a major war, so a great part of the traffic had to go by the highroad. There were heavily loaded modern trucks, also ancient horse and mule wagons, and the still more ancient method of mules’ backs. And just as there is a financial law that the worse currency drives out the better, so there is a traffic law that the faster traffic accommodates itself to the slower. By incessant honking of the horn Lanny could persuade a mule caravan to move over and let him get by; but he was a stranger and not sure if he was entitled to that privilege, so he fell in behind. When northbound mules tangled with a westbound flock of sheep and goats, he breathed yellow dust and learned new language for appealing to Spanish saints and consigning to Spanish devils.

  He had resolved not to attempt travel by night, for there was no telling what a sleepy sentry might do when surprised by motor-car lights in his face. He had to stop and show his pass to Civil Guards wearing armbands with the red and gold colors of Franco. While his pass was good, he thought it was better by daylight; especially when some of the guards warned him that the front in this district, far off to the right, was loosely held; there were no trenches, and the Reds made raids occasionally. As a sergeant of the Guardia Civil explained it, “They fire a few shots, steal a few chickens, and celebrate a victory.”

  The traveler spent the night in Merida, a railroad-junction town through which one traveled from Madrid to Lisbon in the good old days when there had been one Spain instead of two. This ancient town had been a traffic center for the Romans also, and they had built across the Guadiana River a huge granite bridge half a mile long, having sixty-four double arches. In the marshy floor of the valley are the remains of a circus, an amphitheater, and an aqueduct with arches so high that they appear to be walking along on stilts.

  Tourists had come to inspect these sights, but now it was the military men who crowded the hotel. They showed their surprise at the appearance of an American civilian, so while eating an elaborate eight-course dinner Lanny entered into conversation and mentioned his errands in the service of art. There is no town in Spain so small or so poor that it does not have a church with paintings and sculpture, and he inquired concerning the Iglesia de Santa Maria, making it plain that he was one of those eccentric persons who are interested in events that happened hundreds or even thousands of years ago, to the exclusion of things now going on about them. Having read up on the district before setting out, he had no difficulty in impressing the military gentry with his scholarship.

  But later in the evening when he had repaired to his room and locked the door, he became a different person. Having drawn the curtains carefully and made sure there were no peepholes in the door or the walls, this lover of ancient art and architecture took a small radio set from one of his bags, plugged it into his electric-light socket, and turning on the faintest whisper sat with his ear within a foot of the set. He preferred Radio Madrid to Radio Seville or Radio Burgos, and one of the new crimes which Fascism had created was listening to outside radio stations, even though one did not repeat a word of what one heard.

  II

  The town of Caceres, which Lanny reached on the following afternoon, had two hotels, and he chose the more expensive in the hope that it would be the better. He was told that he was fortunate in having secured the last vacant room. He engaged it for a week and settled down to make friends, an art in which he had developed skill. His clothes were right, his manners agreeable, his Spanish fair, and, most important of all, he had a purse full of money. Knowing old Europe and what it expected of America, he told his new friends how he made his money, and that he would be grateful for their advice in finding old masters which were in private hands and might be of interest to American collectors. He did not know whether General Franco was prohibiting the exportation of art works, but he had friends who were serving the great Caudillo and might be able to obtain favors for him.

  Here as everywhere was an Old Town and a New. The former always stands upon a hill, because that makes it easier to defend against swords, spears, and arrows. Caceres Old Town has an enormous massive wall with towers and four ancient Roman gates; inside are perhaps a dozen streets, narrow, gloomy, and overgrown with grass. The palaces which crowd them date from the sixteenth century, and Lanny wandered among them, gazing at their corner towers and wondering: “Can this be where Franco is keeping his officer prisoners?”

  Also in this Old Town are two churches, one dedicated to San Mateo and the other to Santa Maria la Mayor. In the latter, a Gothic structure with a lofty tower, Lanny studied a famous carved retable and, after entering into conversation with the sacristan, asked if he might have the honor of meeting one of the priests. To this gentleman he laid himself out to be agreeable; paid several times the customary fee for being shown the tombs of ancient noble families, and commented on paintings and statues, not merely from the point of view of art but of humanity. He spoke of the contribution which the Catholic Church had made to civilization by the glorifying of the maternal sentiments, the amelioration of manners due to the exalting of the feminine influence. It was easy for a foreigner to employ such high-flown phrases, because long words derived from the Latin are much the same in English and Spanish. The stout elderly priest beamed with pleasure at hearing these gracious utterances from a heretic; but when Lanny added that he feared for the fate of these gentler influences at the hands of modern cults of self-aggrandizement, the padre gave no hint of realizing that his guest might be referring to Italian Fascism or Spanish Falangism.

  It was the same in Caceres New Town below the hill, so the visitor discovered; the streets were less narrow and crooked, but the thoughts of the people were the same. He made friends with the ecclesiastical authorities of the wealthy Iglesia de Santiago, and found them interested in religious art, but having no ideas about the outside world which they cared to express. It was the same with the owner of the factory which made the famous red sausages called chorizos; it was the same with the latifundistas, the great landlords and owners of cork trees and phosphate mines. These were the town’s leading citizens, and the American art expert paid calls upon them, and was invited to the homes of some because they had paintings to show him. They had ideas about these paintings, but concerning their own times they had nothing to say except to denounce the wicked Reds and hope that they would soon be exterminated, not merely in Spain, but in France and the Russian nest where they had been incubated.

  III

  Lanny didn’t know the Spanish equivalent of the German gleichgeschaltet, but he perceived that this had been done to Caceres, old and new. The armies of General Mola coming south had taken the town in August, and just below here had met the armies of General Franco coming north, thus establishing a line from the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean and cutting off the Loyalists from contact with Portugal. They had proceeded to exterminate their enemies, not mere
ly those who had fought but also those who had sympathized; the Generalissimo had given fair notice at the outset that this war for the destruction of Communism demanded the active aid of every Spaniard, and that anyone who thought he could be safe by merely keeping quiet would find that he had made a blunder.

  So here was a town in which the young men had been drafted into the army and the older men labored diligently to produce food and other goods, and sold them for Franco’s stamped money without a murmur; in which the priests prayed for victory from the altar and came out and sprinkled the banners with holy water; in which everybody seized every opportunity to denounce the spawn of Satan, and never forgot that even six-foot walls of masonry had ears. In short, it was the sort of town which El Caudillo intended to create, maintain, and govern throughout the length and breadth of Spain: a medieval town, in which nobody had a thought which had not been sanctioned by Church authorities at least a thousand years ago; in which everybody did what the priests told him, and trembled at the faintest hint of supernatural vengeance; in which El Caudillo himself would be the “secular arm,” the deputy of God endowed with God’s power of attorney to do whatever he saw fit.

  It wouldn’t matter if the town was squalid and dreary, and if a great part of its inhabitants lived without sanitary conveniences, plagued by fleas, bedbugs, and lice; if the peasants of the countryside made their homes, along with their pigs and chickens, in a shelter made by a circular wall of bushes and mud four or five feet high capped by a conical roof of thatch; if they got no education whatever, and if their women and half-grown girls went barefoot and carried water for domestic use in heavy earthen ollas, one carried in the crook of the arm and another balanced on the head. Such hardships counted as nothing, because heaven was waiting for each and every one, and by the simple process of believing what they were taught and doing what they were told they were assured of blessedness for eternity.