The More Deceived (22 page)

‘That wasn’t a German plane. That was Italian,’ Edward shouted.

‘It’s the so-called Italian Legionary Air Force. Mussolini’s trying to prove he’s just as great a murderer as Hitler,’ Verity shouted back. The sound of the screaming engine and the feeling that a bomb was just about to blow them heavenwards was terrifying but Edward was damned if he were going to show his fear with Verity hopping about, notebook in hand, as unconcerned as if she were reporting on a deb dance in Eaton Square. ‘They are based in Burgos and give the Condor Legion support, not that they need it. They fly Savoia Marchetti 79s and 81s. I’m getting quite good at aircraft recognition,’ she informed him as the noise of explosions all around them increased.

Edward looked up to see another aircraft hurtling towards them. He could actually see the face of the pilot in the cockpit and noticed, quite dispassionately, that he was smiling. He threw himself down on the roof, grabbing Verity in a rugby tackle as he did so. Machine-gun bullets whistled over their heads and, as Edward pointed out later, he had not even had his breakfast.

The Basque militiamen, known as
gudaris
, could do nothing but fire their ancient rifles at the swooping planes and shake their fists. It was pitiable and Edward wondered why General Mola did not enter the city immediately and end this charade.

As suddenly as the raid had begun, it ended. The bombers departed to refuel and replace their bombs. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the cries of the wounded in the street below and the crash of collapsing buildings. Clouds of black smoke, stinking of dust, death and the depredations of the enemy in the air, rose lazily all about them. Edward dressed hurriedly, grabbed a cup of watery coffee and went into the streets to find Verity. She had not waited for him nor even washed the black marks off her face or put a plaster on her knee, scraped when Edward brought her down on the roof. She had not gone far, however. The road outside the hotel was partly blocked with rubble from a fallen building and he thought it was a miracle the hotel itself was still standing. She laughed when she saw him. He had left his bag somewhere – probably at Hendaye – and all he had to wear was the pair of filthy trousers he had almost destroyed the previous day. He had at least been able to borrow a shirt from the hotel manager to replace the dirty rag which had once been one of Jermyn Street’s finest.

‘They’re all I have,’ he said apologetically.

‘What price Savile Row?’ she quipped. ‘I wish your tailor could see you now! Don’t worry, Bandi’s about your size and I’m sure he’ll lend you something until you can loot a clothes store.’

Edward was not sure Kavan would be so accommodating but said nothing. He looked at Verity and was amused to see that she was wearing some of the fruits of her shopping spree in London. She had never been poor – her father gave her a generous allowance – but had spent little on clothes until she had made some money from her book on Spain. She had then become a client of the famous designer Schiaparelli. She was now wearing one of her creations – trousers and a wool-jersey top fastened with a zip which Schiaparelli had designed especially for her. It was, Verity told him, warm but light and she said she even slept in it when she had rough lodgings. From her neck flowed a chiffon scarf she had bought in Harvey Nichols and perched on her head a black beret with a golden arrow pin on the front – Schiaparelli’s again, he thought. She looked wonderful and he was delighted that, even on the front line, she liked to look chic.

They soon came across Gerda and Kavan who were photographing in the ruins.

‘What’s happened here?’ he asked Gerda. The bodies of three women and two children were lying beside the road.

‘They were machine-gunned by one of those cursed Italians as they ran for cover,’ she said curtly.

The air was full of dust and Edward found himself coughing and choking. They came to a makeshift field hospital and saw twenty or more men and women lying on stretchers waiting to be taken to the city’s main hospital. An exhausted nurse watched apathetically as Gerda and Kavan took photographs.

‘There’s very little point taking them to hospital,’ Verity said shortly. ‘They have no drugs and not much else. I was there yesterday and saw them treating wounds with peroxide. I’ll never smell ether again without thinking of that place.’

As the day wore on Edward became more and more uneasy. Why had he come here? Was he just a voyeur – an unwilling witness to other people’s misery? He wasn’t a journalist. Verity did not need him and all his premonitions of danger seemed ridiculous. He decided that, to justify his journey to Spain, he
must
find James Lyall. If that meant he had to go to Madrid, that is what he would endeavour to do, however difficult.

In a more than usually sombre mood Verity, Gerda, Kavan and several other journalists sat that afternoon in the hotel discussing the situation. It was self-evident that Bilbao would soon fall to Mola. Thanks to the daring of the English ships, the city was no longer in danger of starving. Food was not plentiful but there was enough. On the other hand, with no navy or air force of its own and with only a few antiquated weapons which were no match for the well-equipped army poised for the assault, it did not take a military strategist to see the game was up.

‘I doubt the Basques can hold out for a month,’ opined the man from
The Times
, George Steer.

‘Should we get out now while we can?’ the man from
Ce Soir
asked nervously. ‘I don’t fancy Mola’s men will take many prisoners or bother to examine our letters of accreditation. I’ve been talking to Captain Roberts. He says the
Seven Seas Spray
will take us off but the English ships will not stay for ever.’

The
Seven Seas Spray
was a small merchantman, the first ship boldly to ignore the warning that the entrance to the harbour was mined, which had brought aid – though not arms – to the besieged city. Captain Roberts encountered no opposition and no mines, docking to cries of
Vivan los marineros ingleses!
and
Viva la libertad!
Roberts’s daring was all the more remarkable given that he had his wife and daughter on board.

‘It is too early to despair.’ The voice was very familiar to both Verity and Edward but the last one they had expected to hear. It was that of David Griffiths-Jones who appeared like a genie from a bottle and with none of the signs Edward had displayed like medals of having made a difficult and dangerous journey. His arrival energized the company and even Edward was encouraged. They were not after all a forgotten outpost. David kissed Verity and Gerda and shook hands with Edward. ‘What are you doing here, old boy?’ he asked. ‘If it is to report the death of the Republic, your trip is premature.’

‘I am happy to hear it! But how come you are in Bilbao?’

‘I have been sent to assess the situation and report back,’ David said easily. ‘Only a flying visit but necessary to judge by what I heard as I came in.’ He settled himself down among the journalists to raise their morale. Making light of the threat from Mola, he promised that fighters from the Soviet Union would soon be chasing the Heinkels and Dorniers from the sky above them.

‘And Mola,’ he continued, ‘is facing serious mutinies in his ranks. There are many Basques among his troops and they will not long tolerate this war against their own people.’

Edward was impressed. He did not like David, partly because of his skill as a propagandist which he was at this moment exhibiting, but he could not deny his courage and devotion to the cause. He just wished the cause had been more worthwhile. David’s unquestioning faith in Soviet Communism, regardless of the price other people had to pay, was obnoxious but it was also admirable in its way. For him, Comrade Stalin was the answer to everything – a Messiah figure whose judgements, inexplicable, contradictory or perverse as they might seem to an outsider, were to him divine revelations to be obeyed without question. Edward sat back and admired the way he raised the spirits of those clustered round him like children seeking reassurance. He was an accomplished speaker and, without raising his voice or using oratorical flourishes, he changed the mood of the journalists in just a few minutes from defeatism to optimism.

Of one thing Edward was certain: if the Basques threw off the Nationalists and the Republic was victorious, Comrade Stalin would never permit a free, independent Basque state. It was this cynical use of men and women with ideals they associated with the Republican cause which Edward found so abhorrent. Griffiths-Jones was just another liar and con man in a world which bred them like flies. Whatever he said, Mola would take Bilbao. The Soviet pilots would never arrive to chase the Dorniers from the skies and many hundreds of Basques would die for a cause which was already lost. The pre-war Spanish Republic was gone for ever. Though Verity would never admit it, the choice now lay between two tyrannies, each as bad as the other.

By dinner that evening everyone, except Edward, felt happier and there was no more talk of getting aboard an English ship and leaving Bilbao to its fate. David explained that the following day he was going on a lightning tour of the city’s defences and anyone who wished to accompany him would be welcome. Afterwards he took Verity aside and spoke to her earnestly – giving her instructions, Edward imagined uncharitably but, as it turned out, accurately.

When she returned, her eyes were burning bright and she took Edward’s hand in hers.

‘David has given me the chance of an exclusive story – a real scoop – what I’ve dreamed of. Some of us are going to Guernica. It’s only about an hour’s drive from here. David says he has had news from his spy in Mola’s camp that the Condor Legion are going to attack the town and we should be able to get incontrovertible proof that, despite their denials, the Nazis are directly involved in the war. Gerda and Bandi are coming too, to take photographs, and then we will rush back here. David is going to lay on a plane or a fast boat to take our reports and photographs back to London.’

Immediately, the anxiety which had driven Edward to come to Spain and which had left him as soon as he reached Bilbao, seized him once again in an iron corset and left him breathless. He struggled to find words.

‘Good God! Why would they attack Guernica? I thought it was a tourist town.’

‘Yes, it’s the historic capital of the Basque country. David says they’re going to destroy it because it’s a symbol of Basque independence.’

‘But that’s . . . that’s vandalism. Has he sent the town a warning so they can evacuate civilians?’

‘I expect so,’ Verity said breezily, ‘but don’t you see what a terrific propaganda coup it will be for us if the Germans are seen to be attacking a defenceless town with no military value?’

‘Oh, Verity! It’s “us”’ is it, now? You seem to have given up any idea of objective reporting. A propaganda coup! You’re talking about human beings who may . . . who
will
be killed unless they are warned.’

‘How dare you say that to me, Edward. I have never pretended my sympathies are anywhere other than with the Republicans. I am a Communist and proud to be fighting Fascism. Is it my fault that people would prefer to read in newspapers about Mrs Simpson and all that shit instead of “sentimental stuff about refugees” – as the editor called it when I was last in the office? I’m sure he suppresses my stuff and, if it wasn’t for Joe Weaver, nothing of mine would be published. I
am
objective in what I report – I tell the truth. I have no need to exaggerate or embellish but Fleet Street is so reactionary that not much gets through. Steer says it is the same at
The Times
because Dawson is terrified of hurting Hitler’s feelings. Bandi says
Life
is just as bad. Thank God for the
Daily Worker
. You know what slogan Weaver has fixed to the
Gazette
’s masthead: “There will be no war”. It’s a promise he’ll live to regret. So don’t preach to me about prejudice.’

Edward was shocked at her language and the force with which she spoke of her beliefs. For a second he hated her and everything she stood for and was only prevented from saying so by Griffiths-Jones appearing.

‘Edward wants to know if Guernica has been warned about the attack?’ Verity still sounded angry and refused to look at Edward.

‘Of course!’ Griffiths-Jones said calmly, putting a hand on Verity’s shoulder, as if to calm her, and giving Edward a look of cool distaste. ‘The mayor knows and he will take the necessary precautions. By the way, Corinth, Verity says you are looking for the English boy – what’s his name? – James Lyall. I thought you might be interested to know that he is with the militia in Guernica.’

‘In Guernica? Why there? I thought he was in Madrid.’

‘I’m afraid he was a bit rattled. Madrid’s not a very healthy place to be at the moment so we thought we might send him somewhere less dangerous. A rest from the heat of battle, you understand.’

‘But you’ve just said the town is going to be bombed!’

‘That’s new information. We didn’t know anything about that when we sent him. Guernica’s of no value strategically.’

‘But now he’s in the firing line,’ Edward said bitterly.

‘He’ll have had warning,’ David said comfortably. ‘He’ll have plenty of time to take cover. I think then,’ he added meditatively, ‘we’ll ship him back to England. He’s not of much use to us now, I’m afraid. His nerve’s shattered.’

Edward had an almost overwhelming desire to punch him in the face. It was all very well for David to talk so easily of bombing raids and warnings but he had no reason to trust him and he feared they were being led into an ambush.

Later, when they were all calmer, he tried to talk to Verity about his fears but she refused to listen, only saying that if he did not want to come he was welcome to stay behind.

‘This is a great chance for me, Edward, you must see that. I need this story and nothing you can say will stop me getting it.’

He knew he was defeated and spent half an hour writing a letter to Major Ferguson and another to Lord Weaver at the
New Gazette
describing the situation in Bilbao and David Griffiths-Jones’s invitation to Verity to see Guernica attacked. He felt better when he had signed and sealed his letters and given them to the hotel porter to be delivered to the British Consulate. If they were going to die – and it seemed a distinct possibility – he wanted two people he trusted to know who was responsible. An hour later, Griffiths-Jones was reading the letters in his bedroom, smiling grimly as he did so. When he had finished, he tore them into small pieces and burnt them in the grate.