Winter in Madrid (12 page)

‘It’s bad in Spain,’ he told her. ‘There’re thousands who’ve found themselves on one side of the lines and their relatives on the other. We’re sending medical supplies and trying to arrange exchanges. But it’s a savage war. The Russians and Germans are getting involved.’ He looked at her over his half-moon glasses with tired eyes. All the hopes of 1919, that the Great War had truly been the war to end war, were disintegrating. First Mussolini in Abyssinia, now this.

‘I’d like to get out in the field, sir,’ Barbara said firmly.

S
HE ARRIVED
in an unbearably hot Madrid in September 1936. Franco was advancing from the south; the Moroccan colonial army, airlifted across the Straits of Gibraltar by Hitler, was now only seventy miles away. The city was full of refugees, ragged lost-looking families from the
pueblos
dragging enormous bundles through the streets or crowded together on donkey carts. Now she saw the chaos of war at first hand. She never forgot the old man with shocked eyes who passed her that first day, carrying all he had left: a dirty mattress slung over his shoulder and a canary in a wooden cage. He symbolized all the refugees, the displaced persons, all those caught in the middle of war.

Red militiamen hurtled by in lorries and buses on their way to the front line – ordinary Madrileños, their only uniform the dark blue boiler suits all workers wore and red neckerchiefs. They would wave their ancient-looking weapons as they passed, calling out the Republic’s shout of defiance.
‘¡No pasarán!’
Barbara, who believed in peace more than anything, wanted to weep for them all. She wanted to weep for herself too at first, because she was frightened: by the chaos, by the stories of nightmare atrocities on both sides, by the Fascist aeroplanes that had begun to appear in the skies, making people pause, look up, sometimes run for the safety of the metro. Once she saw a stick of bombs fall, a pall of smoke rising from the west of the city. The bombing of cities was what Europe had feared for years; now it was happening.

The Red Cross mission was based in a little office in the city centre, an oasis of sanity where half a dozen men and women, mostly Swiss, laboured to distribute medical supplies and arrange exchanges of refugee children. Although she spoke no Spanish, Barbara’s French was good and it was a relief to be able to make herself understood.

‘We need help with the refugee exchanges,’ Director Doumergue told her on her second day. ‘There are hundreds of children separated from their families. There’s a whole group from Burgos who were at a summer camp in the Guadarramas – we want to exchange them for some Madrid children caught in Sevilla.’ The director was another calm, serious Swiss, a young man with a plump, tired face. Barbara knew she’d been flapping, panicking, and that wasn’t like her. Babs we all depend on, they used to call her in Birmingham. She’d have to pull herself together. She brushed a stray tangle of red hair from her brow. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What do you need me to do?

That afternoon she went to visit the children in the convent where they had been lodged, to take their details. Monique, the office interpreter, came with her. She was a small, pretty woman, wearing a neat dress and freshly ironed blouse. They walked through the Puerta del Sol, past huge posters of President Azaña, Lenin and Stalin. Monique nodded at Stalin’s poster. ‘That’s the way things are going now,’ she said. ‘Only Russia will aid the Republic. God help them.’

The square was full of loudspeakers, a woman’s voice rising and falling, punctuated by tinny squeaks from the speaker. Barbara asked what they were saying.

‘That’s Dolores Ibárruri.
La Pasionaria
. She’s telling housewives that if the Fascists come they must boil their olive oil and pour it from the balconies onto their heads.’

Barbara shuddered. ‘If only both sides could see everything will be destroyed.’

‘Too late for that,’ Monique answered heavily.

They entered the convent through a stout wooden gate in a high wall designed to shield the sisters from the outside world. It had been thrown open and across the little yard a militiaman kept guard by the door, a rifle slung over his shoulder. The building had been burned out; there was no glass at the windows and black trails of soot rose up the walls. There was a sickly smell of smoke.

Barbara stood in the yard. ‘What’s happened? I thought the children were with the nuns …’

‘The nuns have all fled. And the priests. Those that got away. Most of the convents and churches were burned by the mob in July.’ Monique gave her a searching look. ‘Are you a Catholic?’

‘No, no, I’m nothing really. It’s just a bit of a shock.’

‘It’s not so bad at the back. The nuns ran a hospital, there are beds.’

The entrance hall had been burned and vandalized, sheets of paper torn from breviaries lay about among the broken statues.

‘What must it have been like for those nuns?’ Barbara asked. ‘Shut away in here, then a mob runs in and burns the place down.’

Monique shrugged. ‘The Church supports the Nationalists. And they’ve lived off the backs of the people for centuries. Once it was the same in France.’

Monique led the way down a narrow echoing corridor and opened a door. On the other side was a hospital ward with about twenty beds. The walls were bare, lighter patches in the shape of crosses showing where religious symbols had been removed. About thirty ten-year-olds sat on the beds, dirty and frightened-looking. A tall Frenchwoman in a nurse’s uniform hurried over to them.

‘Ah, Monique, you have come. Is there any news of getting the children home?’

‘Not yet, Anna. We’ll take their details, then go to the ministry. Has the doctor been?’

‘Yes.’ The nurse sighed. ‘They are all well enough. Just frightened. They come from religious homes – they were scared when they saw the convent had been burned.’

Barbara looked over the sad little faces, most of them smeared with the tracks of tears. ‘If any are ill, I’m a nurse—’

‘No,’ said Monique. ‘Anna is here. Getting them transferred back, that’s the best thing we can do for them.’

They spent the next hour taking details; some of the children were terrified, the nurse had to persuade them to talk. At last they were done. Barbara coughed from the smell of smoke.

‘Could they not be taken somewhere else?’ she asked Monique. ‘This smoke, it’s bad for them.’

Monique shook her head. ‘There are thousands of refugees in this city, more every day. We’re lucky some official took time to find anywhere for these children.’

It was a relief to be back outside, even in the boiling sunlight. Monique waved at the militiaman.
‘Salud,’
he called. Monique offered Barbara a cigarette and looked at her keenly.

‘This is what it’s like everywhere,’ she said.

‘I can take it. I was a nurse before I went to Geneva.’ Barbara blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘It’s just – those children, will they ever be the same again, if they get home?’

‘Nobody in Spain will ever be the same again,’ Monique answered, in sudden angry despair.

B
Y
N
OVEMBER
1936 Franco had reached the outskirts of Madrid. But his forces were held in the Casa de Campo, the old royal park just west of the city. There were Russian aircraft in the skies now, protecting the city, and fewer bombs fell. Hoardings had been erected to cover the bombed houses, displaying more portraits of Lenin and Stalin. Banners spanned the streets. ‘
¡NO PASARÁN!
’ The determination to resist was even greater than in the summer and Barbara admired it even as she wondered how it could survive the cold of winter. With only one road to the city still open, supplies were already becoming short. She half hoped Franco would take Madrid so the war could end, though there were terrible stories of Nationalist atrocities. There had been plenty on the Republican side too, but Franco’s sounded even worse, coldly systematic.

After two months she had adjusted, so far as anyone could. She had had successes, had helped get dozens of refugees exchanged; now the Red Cross was trying to negotiate prisoner exchanges between the Republican and Nationalist zones. She was proud of how quickly she was picking up Spanish. But the children were still in the convent – their case had fallen into some bureaucratic abyss. Sister Anna had not been paid for weeks, though she stayed on. At least the children would not run away; they were terrified of the Red hordes beyond the convent walls.

One day Barbara and Monique had spent an afternoon at the Interior Ministry, trying again to get the children exchanged. Each time they saw a different official, and today’s man was even less helpful than the others. He wore the black leather jacket that marked him out as a Communist. It looked odd on him; he was plump and middle-aged and looked like a bank clerk. He smoked cigarettes constantly without offering them any.

‘There is no heating at the convent, Comrade,’ Barbara said. ‘With the cold weather coming the children will become ill.’

The man grunted. He reached forward and took a tattered file from a pile on his desk. He read it, puffing at his cigarette, then looked at the women.

‘These are children of rich Catholic families. If they go back they will be asked about military dispositions here.’

‘They’ve hardly been out of the building. They’re afraid to.’ Barbara was surprised how easily her Spanish came now when she was roused. The official smiled grimly.

‘Yes, because they are frightened of us Reds. I am not happy with sending them back. Security is everything.’ He put the file back on the pile. ‘Everything.’

As they left the ministry, Monique shook her head in despair. ‘Security. Always the excuse for the worst things.’

‘We’ll have to try another tack. Perhaps if Geneva could get on to the minister?’

‘I doubt it.’

Barbara sighed. ‘We have to try. I’ll have to organize some more supplies for them. Oh God, I’m tired. Do you want to come for a drink?’

‘No, I have some washing to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Barbara watched Monique walk away. A tide of loneliness washed over her. She was conscious of how separate she was from the closeness, the solidarity of the city’s inhabitants. She decided to go to a bar off the Puerta del Sol where English people sometimes gathered, Red Cross staff and journalists and diplomats.

The bar was almost empty, no one there that she knew. She ordered a glass of wine and went to sit at a corner table. She didn’t like sitting in bars on her own but perhaps someone she knew would come in.

After a while she heard a man’s voice speaking English, with the long lazy vowels of a public-school education. She looked up; she could see his face in the mirror behind the bar. She thought he was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

She watched him covertly. The stranger was standing alone at the bar, talking to the barman in halting Spanish. He wore a cheap shirt
and a boiler suit; one arm was in a white sling. He was in his twenties and had broad shoulders and dark blond hair. His face was long and oval, with large eyes and a full, strong mouth. He seemed ill at ease standing there alone. His eyes met Barbara’s in the mirror and she looked away, then jumped as the white-aproned waiter appeared at her elbow, asking if she wanted another
vino
. He was carrying the bottle and her elbow jogged his, making him drop it. It landed on the table with a crash, wine pumping out over the waiter’s trousers.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. That was me, I’m sorry.’

The man looked annoyed; it might be the only pair of trousers he had. He began dabbing at them.

‘I’m so sorry. Listen, I’ll pay for them to be cleaned, I—’ Barbara stumbled over her words, forgetting her Spanish. Then she heard that drawling voice at her elbow.

‘Excuse me, are you English? May I help?’

‘Oh no – no, it’s all right.’

The waiter recovered himself. She offered to pay for the spilt bottle as well as his trousers and he went off, mollified, to fetch another glass. Barbara smiled nervously at the Englishman.

‘How stupid of me. I’ve always been so clumsy.’

‘These things happen.’ He held out a hand. He had brown slender fingers, the wrist covered in a fair down that caught the light and shone like gold. She saw his other arm was encased in plaster from above the elbow to the wrist. His large eyes were dark olive, like a Spaniard’s. ‘Bernie Piper,’ he said, studying her curiously. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘Barbara Clare. Yes, afraid so. I’m here with the Red Cross.’

‘Mind if I join you? Only I haven’t spoken English to anyone for weeks.’

‘Well, I – no, please do.’

And so it began.

S
OMEONE FROM
the Madrid office of the
Daily Express
had telephoned Barbara three days previously and told her there was a man who might be able to help her. His name was Luis and he could meet her in a bar in the old town on Monday afternoon. She had asked to speak to Markby but he was away. As Barbara put the phone down
she wondered if it was tapped; Sandy said it wasn’t but she had heard they tapped all the foreigners’ telephones.

After breakfast she went back to her room. Her mirrored bureau was an eighteenth-century antique she and Sandy had picked up in the Rastro market in the spring. It had probably been looted from some wealthy house in Madrid at the start of the Civil War. You saw families there on Sundays, hunting for their stolen heirlooms. They went cheap, it was food and petrol that were valuable now.

The bureau had come with a key and Barbara used it to store personal, precious things. Bernie’s photograph was in there. It had been taken just before he went to the front, in a photographer’s studio with chaises longues and potted palms. He stood in his uniform, arms folded, smiling at the camera.

He had been so beautiful. It was a word people used about women but Bernie had been the beautiful one. She hadn’t looked at the photograph for a long time; seeing it still hurt her, she mourned Bernie as deeply as ever. Guiltily, because Sandy had rescued her and set her on her feet, but what she had with Bernie had been different. She sighed. She mustn’t hope too much, she mustn’t.