A Broken Land (21 page)

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Bosom pal.’

The middle-aged captive had been set against the wall of the apartment block and was clearly pleading for mercy, not that it seemed to affect the men who had put him there; they merely stood back and unslung their rifles, shifting the bolts to put a bullet in the chamber.

‘What’s going on?’ Cal yelled in German, which had everyone looking at him, not just Drecker.

‘My, you are full of surprises,’ Hemingway said laconically.

‘What business is it of yours, Jardine?’ Drecker demanded.

Aware that the American’s thick black eyebrows had gone up in surprise, Cal ignored that and concentrated on what was obviously taking place in front of them, the clear prelude to an execution. Fighting to keep any anger out of his voice – Drecker was a dangerous man – he said slowly, again in German, ‘This gentleman with me is an important American journalist. I do not think it will aid our cause for him to see what it is you are planning to carry out.’

‘This man is a traitor, a class enemy and a fifth columnist.’

‘Comrade Drecker, there is no such thing, it is a figment of General Mola’s imagination.’

The use of the word ‘comrade’ caused Drecker some surprise; Cal had rarely been so polite in the past, but it was necessary to save the life of what could well be an innocent man, now sobbing and on his knees. And even if he was not innocent, the poor fellow was entitled to a trial, but it did not soften Drecker up as he had hoped.

‘Then perhaps it is time the Americans, with their soft livers, saw what the revolution does with its traitors.’

‘We are not the revolution, comrade, we are the legitimate government of Spain. Those in revolt are the people we are fighting.’

‘
We
, Jardine?’ Drecker spat.

The idea of being on the same side as the prize shit he was talking to was anathema, but with a life at stake it was worth it. ‘You have seen me fight for the Republic.’ Then he turned to Hemingway. ‘Use your best Spanish, tell him you will let the world know that people are being shot out of hand.’

‘I’ll try.’

The language was not perfect, little better than Jardine’s, but there was no doubting the sentiment or the fervour; what was worrying was the way it seemed to harden a countenance that was already an exercise in humourlessness. Drecker barked a set of orders and up came the rifles. As they did, Cal Jardine’s hand went automatically once more to his holster.

‘Whoa there, friend,’ Hemingway hissed.

It was not that which stopped Cal, it was the look in Drecker’s eye, one which promised he would be next against that wall; maybe if he could have dropped him he would have chanced it, then turned the weapon on his men, but his pistol was empty, the means to reload it not available, and somehow it was clear that a threat would not be enough.

At a second bark the rifles came up and took aim at a wailing fellow now with his head near his knees. Drecker gave the order to fire and the bullets slammed into the poor man’s body, throwing it back. There was a gleam in Drecker’s eye as he stepped forward, took out his pistol, aimed it, then looked at Cal Jardine as if to say ‘this should be you’. Then he pulled the trigger, his final indignity the dropping of his used cigarette on the corpse.

The walk towards the pair who had observed this was slow, the words addressed to Cal, the blue eyes as hard as the lips. ‘Have a
care, Jardine; if you seek to interfere with revolutionary justice you may find that you are the next to be shot.’ Drecker spun round, barked an order, and as he marched off his men fell in behind him.

‘Nice guy,’ said Hemingway.

‘I don’t see this as a time for irony.’

‘I thought you were going to drop him.’

‘What would you have done if I’d tried?’

‘Knocked you out, what else? He would have had to kill me too.’

‘Then you’ll be glad to know that my gun has no bullets.’

Hemingway’s shoulders were shaking with mirth. ‘Now that would have been a dandy trick to pull off. Time, I think, for that drink.’

Cal pointed to the crumpled body, with a deep pool of blood seeping from the shattered head. ‘What about him?’

‘Number of bodies laying around Madrid on a day like this, one more won’t make much difference, and the poor shmuck will never know we just left him to the crows. Besides, I have a pressing need. I want to know why it is Tyler Alverson introduced you by a name that’s different from the one that communist guy used, given he seemed to know you real well. I don’t know a heck of a lot of German but I take it your real name is Jardine?’

When Cal looked to demur, Hemingway added, ‘A dollar bill gets me the hotel register.’ It only needed a nod then. ‘In my experience a reporter only does that when he’s trying to hide a story from a rival.’

I
t did not take long to realise that summary executions were taking place all over Madrid, and as far as anyone could tell, all over Spain, if the reports were true. If it was not politics – and there was a lot of that – it would be, Cal thought, all the usual historical reasons that surface when society collapses: the settling of old scores, the avoidance of a due debt or even retaliation for an imagined slight long past. To try and stop it was dangerous and actually futile; it had its own dynamic.

For all they were still amateurs, the International Brigades had halted the Nationalist advance, albeit at a horrendous cost in men wounded and killed, and then began a successful counter-attack. The Foreign Legionnaires – Franco’s best troops – were being pushed out of the University district and still the other columns could not breach the defences before the city centre.

There had been any number of crises, the whole defence a
close-run 
thing, with aerial combat daily and the front ebbing to and fro. On one black day, the militias before the Toledo Bridge broke, only the prompt action of the top Spanish general stopping a rout, he rallying the fleeing fighters, then leading them personally back into battle with nothing but his pistol as a weapon.

Florencia, over the next few days, was in a state of emotional turmoil, a very changed person from the one Cal had known, given to sudden outbursts of tears during the day and nightmares later, and in no fit state to go back to the fight. There was no mystery to what he was observing, he had seen it too many times and had blessed his luck that though he could recall clearly the death and mutilation he had witnessed, he also had the capacity to contain it within himself.

She was seeing dead comrades, having visions of heads and limbs being blown off, of smashed bodies with staring eyes, while, on top of that, reliving every action of her own, every grenade thrown, the face of each enemy she had killed and many she had not, who would appear in her dreams like ravenous beasts ready to tear her apart. All he could do was hold her soaked-with-sweat body and comfort her with useless platitudes.

That meant he spent time in the hotel, his only action to acquire bullets for his pistol; he was waiting for Florencia to either recover or admit her problem so he could take her away from the front. If his days had their material comforts, they also brought forth a feeling he should really be on the way to Valencia to find out if the government were willing to buy arms from a source that would scare them rigid; they did not know old Zaharoff as he did – if he said it was safe to deal, that would be the case.

Then there was no avoiding Hemingway, or at least his probing. Tyler Alverson had been taken to task for his subterfuge and had
come out fighting, telling his colleague, Ernie, in no uncertain terms that he would have done just the same, while admonishing Cal to stay shtum; not that ‘Ernie’, when not writing articles about what he was witnessing, failed to press.

‘You know, Jardine, I work for one of the best-resourced
news-gathering
outfits in creation, which has a phenomenal library, and as for contacts, well, you can imagine. So if you have been a naughty boy, it is either in the collective memory or the files. You can save them some dollars by just telling me what I want to know.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

Hemingway then tried to get him drunk and, given he had hollow legs and a big swallow, it had been a challenge to stay sober, or, in truth, to stay quiet when not. For all that, as a companion he grew on Cal; he had a fund of scabrous tales, many of them in which he was the fool or victim, and he was very much a man’s man, who promised that they would, one fine day, go hunting game in Wyoming and fish marlin together off the Florida coast.

‘Any man that can drink like you, Cal, I call good company.’

Ernie had been an ambulance driver on the Italian Front in the Great War, had a medal for bravery for saving a man’s life when wounded himself and, since publishing his first pieces, had covered as many wars as Tyler Alverson; he was a hard man not to respect, even if, when it came to bullfighting, a sport he extolled, Cal was on the side of the animal.

It was strange to observe these journalists; each day they would go out and seek a story, into the midst of a desperate battle, then come back to their reasonably safe haven – the city was still being bombed – and act as though it was just a normal day’s work. Tyler and Ernie ribbed each other but it was clear there was mutual respect, and Cal
took pleasure in both their company, while keeping a tight lid on his own history.

Hemingway had checked up on Manfred Drecker, now a member of the so-called Fifth Regiment, which, once the Civil Guard had been purged, was now responsible for security in the capital. Wholly communist, they were committed killers, and he also pointed out one thing Cal had not noticed: the correspondent of the Russian newspaper,
Pravda
, did not reside with the other journalists in the Florida Hotel – he was accommodated in the Soviet Embassy.

‘Making up stories.’

‘Lies more like.’

It was all very chummy, but then came the day of the file, produced and waved over a dry Martini by Ernest Hemingway, unusually having stayed in the hotel when everyone else had departed to the front.

‘Cost an arm and a leg in cables, Jardine, but I have got you nailed.’

‘Can I see?’ Cal asked, nodding to the folder lying on the mahogany bar, hoping it did not contain too much.

‘Hell no! If you do you’ll find out who’s spilling your beans. But I now know you are more than just an ex-soldier, so what are you up to?’

‘I can’t be up to much, Ernie, I have spent the past few days eating, drinking and nursing my woman.’

‘Hell, I wish I was nursing mine. How is she?’

Cal looked into his drink. ‘You know, Ernie, that’s the first time you’ve asked.’

‘Don’t like to pry.’

‘She’ll recover, people do.’

‘You?’

‘Never had the problem, too callous probably.’

The folder was lifted and went to Hemingway’s nose, as though he was sniffing the contents. ‘What’s it like shooting a guy in cold blood?’

‘It’s like shooting an animal, and it was not cold blood.’

‘Kinda rough finding a guy in your own bed and with your wife.’

That image was one he saw more often than most: the terrified face of Lizzie’s naked lover, her just as fearful, just as he put a bullet through his eye. He shook his head and lifted it as Ernie responded.

‘Had a dame once who threw me over. Maybe I should have shot the bastard she married but, unlike you, I would not have been acquitted.’

The fact that Cal was now looking into the mirror behind the bar, and the expression on his face, made Ernie turn round, to see Florencia, still pale and drawn but nothing like she had been, standing a few feet away. Had she heard what Hemingway said, because it was not something Cal had ever told her about?

‘Good news. Juan Luis is on the way from Saragossa and he is bringing with him the Barcelona militia.’

‘I hope you’re not planning to join them?’

She nodded towards Hemingway. ‘This, what he said, is it true,
querido
?’

There was no point in denying it, so he nodded, unsure of her reaction given she turned and left. ‘Thanks, Ernie.’

The reply showed that for a man not easily embarrassed it was still possible. ‘I didn’t shoot the poor guy, you did.’

Florencia neither immediately mentioned what she had overheard, nor allowed herself to be swayed when Cal found her changing into her fighting overalls. His assertion that she was unfit for combat was not met with her usual temper, but quietly rebuffed.

‘
Querido
, sometimes you must just do things. These are my people coming to Madrid, men and women I have grown up with, and they are coming to drive the Nationalist pigs into a sewer, which is too good for them.’

‘OK. But I will be with you at all times.’

‘In battle?’ she asked, with just a hint of her old coquettishness.

‘No.’

The hand on his cheek was cool. ‘That pleases me.’

‘One promise: that once Mola’s columns have been thrown back, you will come with me to Valencia. You know why and I will need your help.’

She smiled. ‘For the cause,
querido
, as much as to be with you.’

‘I can’t marry you, much as I would like to. My wife is a Catholic and won’t consider a divorce.’

For the first time since he had brought her back from the Casa de Campo she laughed. ‘I am an anarchist, I don’t believe in marriage. Tell me about what the American said.’

‘How long before Juan Luis gets here?’

She accepted that he did not want to say. ‘Not long, and I want to meet him on the Saragossa Road. Let me come into Madrid as a Catalan.’

If anything, Juan Luis Laporta, as well as his men, looked hardened by what they had been experiencing, leaner and fitter, not that their efforts had produced much in the way of an advance in Aragón; that
had become a stalemate, thus, on paper, the reason for the shift to Madrid where they could be of more use.

It did not take long to establish the real reason – the communists were taking control and needed to be checked; three thousand Barcelona anarchists were just the people to do it, this extracted from their leader as Florencia went down the long line of trucks to say hello to many of her old comrades. It was plain he was now trusted.

‘You must be careful, Juan Luis,’ Cal said, having told him of what he had witnessed: not just that one execution but clear evidence of others, hard to miss with their bodies left in the street or hanging from lampposts with placards pinned on their chests detailing their supposed crimes. ‘And don’t think they won’t suspect your reasons for coming here. I don’t have to tell you they are suspicious of everyone.’

‘Task number one, my friend, is to eject the Nationalists, then we can deal with Stalin’s lackeys.’ He had lost none of his bravado, Laporta, evidenced by what followed. ‘And when we have cleansed Madrid, we can go back to Barcelona and shoot their Catalan cousins.’

‘There’s a couple of war correspondents I’d like you to meet. Americans.’

Laporta’s eyes narrowed. ‘To tell them what?’

‘About yourself and the aims of your movement.’

‘In America they execute anarchists.’

‘They’re not in America, they are here.’

‘To the front first, let us see the eyes of Franco’s pigs, then maybe I will talk with these
Yanquis
.’

The stop on the Saragossa Road had been to form up the column
on foot; like the International Brigades, they would march through Madrid to the cheers of the locals, to bolster their morale. They already knew which part of the front they were going to – their job was to throw the Spanish Foreign Legion back over the San Fernando Bridge.

Invited, he declined to join in the march, at the head of which would be Juan Luis, and behind him each company, for they had formed themselves properly into a quasi-military unit, each led by a commander. Quite apart from it being Laporta’s treat, he would have felt like a charlatan.

That Florencia was determined to take part was only natural, and it was a positive that in meeting some of her long-time companions she seemed to have regained some of her spirit. She entered Madrid just behind Laporta, her hand raised and fist clasped, singing, along with the others, all the best-known anarchist songs. And, as had the brigades, they went straight to the fighting front.

‘So what happens now, Cal?’

Alverson asked this while not bothering to hide his disappointment; not only was his prime story not doing what he should, namely seeking out weapons and telling him how, but Laporta, the man of the moment, had declined to talk to him. They could see him now, moving around as if he were a great general, making encouraging remarks to his men.

‘It’s too late to launch any attacks today,’ was the deliberately misunderstanding reply.

‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘Tyler, I won’t leave here without Florencia, and she won’t go until the enemy have at least been sent back across the river, but she has
promised me that once things are settled here she will help me.’

‘And this Laporta guy?’

‘Let me flatter him a little.’

‘Up for that, is he?’

‘And some.’

‘Hello,’ Alverson exclaimed. ‘Here come reinforcements.’

There was no mistaking the provenance of the approaching column, some hundred men in their black uniforms, and with Drecker at their head it was clear here were members of the Fifth Regiment come to strut their stuff.

‘Not to fight?’ Alverson asked, when Cal mentioned that.

‘They have done precious little fighting up till now. Killing yes, but not anybody who has a gun to point at them.’

The jeers from Laporta’s men were quick to arise and they were sustained as the communists marched past them, accompanied by a raft of rude gestures. Surprisingly, they halted and about-turned before falling out, dispersing into the line of buildings that backed on to what was the present front line, part of the university. Only Drecker stayed in sight, lighting up once more.

‘Maybe they are here to fight, Cal – to show the anarchists they are not the only hope.’

‘Possible, I suppose. Let me go and talk to Napoleon over there and see if I can get him to give you an interview.’

In the gathering gloom, Laporta’s men were lighting fires, and as he approached him, Cal was vaguely aware that the communists were forming up again – it had been, as he had guessed, no more than grandstanding. By the time he joined the man he had just nicknamed ‘Napoleon’ they were in the process of marching off back to the city centre.

Burly, still in his battered leather coat and hat, Laporta was playing the part Cal had assigned to him to perfection, hands on hips, spinning round, as though his eyes could encompass a battlefield he had not a chance of seeing properly without attracting sniper fire. Seeing Cal approach, he grinned and spoke in a loud voice.