Authors: David Roberts
It was then that his problems began. The border was closed and, despite waving his passport in front of several senior officials, he was told there was no possibility of his crossing. He was recommended to pass the time on the beautiful beaches and wait, but for what no one could tell him. The delay maddened him and made him ready for any effort, however desperate.
He went into town, found a disreputable-looking garage, and bribed the owner to show him another way to cross into Spain. Some miles inland, there was, apparently, a frontier post called Dancharia. Little more than a village, the local farmers were permitted to use it to take their produce into Spain. He bought a motorcycle from the garage owner and, with the aid of an inadequate map, found his way to Dancharia. He had a beer in a small café close to the border crossing and watched the world go by. It was a peaceful sight – local peasant farmers dressed, he imagined, much as their grandfathers and great-grandfathers before them, in smocks with pattens on their feet, drove their animals through the centre of town towards the frontier. Everyone knew everyone and the farmers were waved through with the minimum of documentation. There was a no-man’s land of a few yards and then the Spanish frontier. Again, there seemed to be very little delay in passing the barrier – a brief look at papers and then the single beam which barred the road was raised by a bored offical.
Edward contemplated just walking over the frontier. After all, he had his passport and his documentation was in order. However, his instinct told him that, whereas a local farmer bringing much-needed food would not be turned away, an Englishman with no obvious reason for being in Spain might well be hauled in for questioning or even arrested as a spy. He could not risk it. With his heart in his mouth, he walked back to his motorbike, rode it to within a hundred yards of the frontier, waited until the barriers were up on both sides of the frontier to let through a farm wagon, revved up the engine and sped through, ignoring the shouts of protest from the guards.
As he accelerated hard up empty roads into the Pyrenees, he threw back his head and let out a scream of pleasure at being relieved from intolerable frustration. Several miles further on he halted, suddenly aware of the danger he was in. He had a sketchy map of the area and enough petrol to take him between fifty and a hundred miles, depending on the speed he chose to go. He was far from certain which of the warring parties controlled the area but he reckoned that, if he were stopped by either side, he might be sent back over the frontier or, more likely, shot as a spy regardless of the papers he carried. His only hope was to reach Bilbao by nightfall and claim the protection of the British Consul who could regularize his position in the country.
He suddenly felt inordinately hungry and thirsty. He cursed himself for being in so much of a dream that he had not thought to bring with him some of the food which had been thrust on him on the train and so contemptuously spurned. And those elegant blue bottles of water in his compartment – how idiotic not to have put two or three in his bag. He laid his bike on the grass and walked up to the top of a knoll and looked about him. He saw first a creek and, beyond that, a rough stone hovel which he presumed must be some sort of peasant farm. Crouching low over the broken ground to avoid being seen, he reached the creek and slaked his thirst. It was then that he heard the dogs. He stood up and looked down toward the hovel. What he saw had him staring about him wild-eyed.There were at least six of the brutes, as big as Alsatians but of indeterminate breed. Their tongues lolled out of their mouths and, as they loped towards him, Edward realized there was only one thing to do and that was run.
Their presence should not have been a surprise to him. The Spanish peasant had to defend his little flock of sheep from predators more dangerous than the wolves which still occasionally left their lairs in the mountains to raid the sheepfolds. His real enemy was any stranger, whatever his politics. Politics meant nothing to him. A stranger would be looking for food, most likely with a weapon in his hand. These half-starved dogs were his defence. Edward considered, just for a second, stopping to explain who he was and that he had gold to pay for what he wanted. Then it came to him that his Spanish was not good enough and, anyway, the peasant might very well speak only Basque of which he knew not a word. He might be badly bitten before he could convince the dogs’ owner that he was not a marauder. An undignified run to the motorcycle was the only alternative. He reached it at the same time as the dogs. Kicking them away, he struggled to start the engine, cursing as a piece of Savile Row tweed was ripped by the yellow teeth of the largest of the animals. He gave a cry of relief as the engine started and he sped off, pursued by wild barking. It was borne in on him that Spain was no longer a country which welcomed tourists.
Ravenously hungry, weary beyond anything he had ever imagined, dishevelled and covered in oil – and worse – but happier than he had been in months, Edward rode into Bilbao at seven that evening and asked the way to the Torrontegui Hotel. The city was quiet but everywhere he looked there were ruined buildings and bomb craters. Bilbao, capital of the Basque region, was, as Atkins had warned him, under siege. The Basque nationalists had supported the Republic from the beginning of the war because it had promised them an independent Basque country. In their hearts they now knew the Republicans would be defeated but they fought on with dogged determination, understanding full well that under General Franco they would be mercilessly repressed. General Mola, whom Franco had charged with subduing the Basque region, had reduced the area round Bilbao to a desert and the city itself to something resembling a last redoubt. Without being aware of it, Edward had had amazing luck. He had found a way into the city when anyone in Bilbao would have told him there was none. He had taken minor roads, often little more than mountain paths, avoiding road blocks and patrols, which had brought him safely through the encircling army.
Bilbao was hungry but no longer starving. Mola’s fleet in the Bay of Biscay had threatened to sink any ship bringing supplies but, just a few days before Edward’s arrival, English ships had broken through with food and humanitarian aid – an ‘interference’ in Spain’s civil war which Franco’s sympathizers in Britain had been quick to condemn. However, the Basques had no air force to speak of so there was nothing to prevent the daily bombing of the city. Once again Verity was in the front line. When Bilbao fell, journalists supporting the Basque cause could expect no favours.
When Edward stumbled into the lobby, he was immediately surrounded by about a dozen journalists who had made the hotel their headquarters. With a great effort he asked for Verity. She was upstairs and someone was sent to fetch her. While he waited, patient in his exhaustion, he drank the Spanish brandy and soda he was offered and the ache in his limbs began to ease.
‘Edward, is that really you?’ The voice was unmistakably hers. He turned to see Verity standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister.
He looked up at her with a pleasure indistinguishable from pain and stumbled over to the foot of the stairs. ‘Yes, it’s me. I’m afraid I . . .’
He got no further. Light as a bird, she hopped into his arms, indifferent to the watching journalists. He held her close enough to hurt her but she did not complain and, when they kissed, did not seem to notice that he smelt of sweat and dirt. When at last he let her go, she asked gently, ‘Why are you here, Edward? I mean, it’s wonderful that you are but is there something wrong at home or . . . ?’
‘It’s such a relief to see you, V. I know you must think I’m mad and perhaps I am mad but for the last few days I haven’t been able to think straight. I’ve had this awful feeling that you were in danger and, now I’m here, I see that you are. I’ve got to get you out of here.’
‘I can’t possibly leave now,’ Verity said, scandalized, ‘and, anyway, I couldn’t. I can’t think how you got in. When I came back here I had to pull every string I could think of to cross the border and I’m an accredited journalist. The only way out now is by sea and that’s dangerous. They say the harbour’s mined. In any case, if you think I would desert my friends now . . . Someone has to be here to report what is happening.’
‘But does it have to be you?’
‘Silly! Of course it does. I don’t mean that – if I wasn’t here – someone else might not get the story but, you see, I
am
here. It’s as simple as that.’
Edward was too hungry and tired to protest further. ‘Is there anywhere we could get something to eat? I can’t talk until I have eaten.’
‘My poor lamb! Despite everything, there are still some restaurants open. We’ll go to the Excelsior. I’m due to meet Bandi and Gerda there in any case.’
She shooed away the others who wanted Edward’s ‘story’ and took him up to her room to wash. And there on the narrow bed, despite his hunger and fatigue, he made love to the girl he now knew he needed whatever the cost.
Bilbao was not Madrid with its sophisticated café life. It was a manufacturing city and its concerns were serious: money, not pleasure, but the siege had left it weakened and gloomy. However, as is always the way, the poor might be on half rations but the rich – and this included the foreign journalists – could still eat well. Edward assuaged his hunger with a highly seasoned pork stew washed down with a rough local wine which made his head swim.
He told Verity of his mad journey, his eagerness to see her and be assured she was well and of the excuse he had come up with – finding James Lyall.
‘He’s not here. I don’t know where he is. He’s probably in Madrid.’
‘Why did you leave Madrid? I’m glad you did, of course. I might never have got there and, anyway, I suppose one has more chance of being killed there than here.’
Verity raised her eyebrows. ‘You think so? You wait until tomorrow. The morning bombing raids are . . . well, you’ll see.’
‘Mola has a strong air force then?’
‘It’s not under Mola’s command,’ she said bitterly.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They’re German planes – the Condor Legion to be precise.’
‘German planes flown by German pilots?’
‘Yes. No one will ever admit it, of course. One theory is that Hitler told Franco he would like to try out some of his weaponry before the real war starts.’
Edward was very tired and his brain was fuddled by wine but he tried to think. ‘How do you know they’re German?’
‘We can see the markings on the planes as they fly over. There’s almost no anti-aircraft fire from the city so they can fly as low as they like.’
‘But you don’t know they are flown by Luftwaffe pilots.’
Verity leaned towards him confidentially. ‘You asked why we came here. We were sent. David Griffiths-Jones got information from a spy in Franco’s headquarters that they are going to try something special here – to show how near they are to winning. We don’t quite know what but David wanted witnesses.’
Edward wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘I’m too tired to follow all this. What sort of thing have you been sent to witness?’
‘A major attack on Bilbao, I guess.’
‘Oh God! I wish I could take you back to England. You oughtn’t to be here. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Dope! That’s why I wanted to come. No one cares about the war any more in England. I need a scoop to wake people up to what’s going on here. Sitting in the Hotel Florida in Madrid, talking and drinking with Belasco and Sefton Delmer – you know him? He’s my rival at the
Daily Express
– that wasn’t good enough. I mean, there were some good moments. I remember once, when Sefton forgot the blackout and hadn’t drawn his curtains, the police fired through the window as a warning. You should have seen Sefton’s face when the mirror behind him broke and he realized he had missed death by a hair’s breadth.’
Edward wanted above anything to sleep but had not the energy to get up and walk out of the restaurant. At ten o’clock – the time most Spanish considered eating dinner – the restaurant began to fill up. Gerda and André arrived having obviously quarrelled. Gerda expressed her amazement at finding Edward there. Kavan did not trouble to hide his indifference and made nasty little jokes about Edward’s appearance, which was certainly bizarre. He had cleaned up in Verity’s room but the clothes he was wearing were still the torn, dirty trousers and shirt in which he had ridden into Bilbao. Matters were made worse by Gerda’s delight in hearing from Verity – Edward was almost asleep – how he had broken through the frontier on his motorbike. She stroked his forehead and murmured endearments to rile Kavan the more.
At last they staggered back to the hotel – all of them the worse for wear. It was natural that, with death an ever-present reality, those who watched and waited should drink too much but Edward, through his fatigue, was aware that Verity was very nearly drunk. He thought that on another occasion he would reprimand her. He hung on to Gerda with one hand and Verity held his other arm. Kavan followed, muttering to himself. Edward was provided with a room at the Torrontegui – apart from journalists, and there were not many of these, the hotel was empty – but he found himself in Verity’s bed and the last thing he remembered thinking before sleep finally overcame him was that she smelt of sweat and wine and it was the scent of paradise.
Edward woke the following morning to the ‘crump’ of bombs falling quite close by. It was not a sound he had ever heard before but it was unmistakable. He tumbled out of bed just as Verity came into the room fully dressed, excited and bright-eyed, as though she had been given a present.
‘The manager says we ought to go down to the basement but I’m going on the roof. Are you coming?’
Edward still ached in every limb and his head hurt but he could not say anything other than that he would join her as soon as he had washed and dressed.
‘No time for that! It’ll be over in a few minutes and you will have missed all the fun – not fun, I don’t mean that, but . . . oh, get a move on, do.’
From the roof, Edward could see huge plumes of smoke rise above the city and people running around the streets in panic looking for shelter. He noticed inconsequentially that it was going to be a lovely day. There was no wind and the sun was rising in a cloudless sky. The crushing superiority of the enemy’s air power was manifest. An occasional pop-pop from an antiaircraft gun somewhere behind them was all the defence the city could muster and it was treated with justified contempt by the pilots racing through the sky above their heads. One plane flew low over the hotel roof and Edward and Verity instinctively ducked.