The Exile

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The Exile

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For Viv

Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.

Richard von Weizsäcker

We do not believe in government through the voting booth.

General Francisco Franco Bahamonde

The whole country shakes with indignation faced with these heartless men who, with fire and terror, want to plunge popular and democratic Spain into an inferno of terror. But they shall not pass.

Isidora Dolores Ibárruri Gómez,

‘La Pasionaria'

VILLARREAL, 8 MARCH 1937

The squad moved slowly on the mountain path, hemmed in by ranks of dark pines. If they spoke, they spoke in whispers. This deep in enemy territory, there was always the possibility of ambush.

The men were anarchists, more accustomed to theoretical debate than war. Only a month ago, they had left training camp eager for combat with raised fists and cries of
Viva La Republica!
Now, their numbers depleted by the harsh calculus of war, they resembled the refugees they passed on the way to the front. Most expected life would be hard in the militia. None expected it would be as hard as this.

The commander saw the sullen looks as he gave orders, the muted threats of desertion. He reminded them the mission was vital for the Republic. He was a gifted speaker, and the men were placated by his words. Some had read his poems before the war though it was the Poet's martial skills they valued now. As they sheltered under the dripping trees, the Poet revealed their objective. They were to meet one of their observers and escort her back to their lines. The men exchanged uneasy glances. Risking their lives for a spy
– and a woman at that – was not an appealing prospect.

It was late afternoon when they saw the small woodcutter's hut on the flank of the mountain, dwarfed by pine woods on the slopes above. Tired by the long march, the men threw down their packs and rifles. In the distance, they heard the dull rumble of artillery fire. The sound distracted them, though they were more distracted by the bundle in the woman's arms as she came out of the hut. No one was expecting the spy to have a newborn child. It was a surprise, the Poet told the men, not at all what he was expecting.

Nor was he expecting the dark-clad troops as they emerged from the trees to encircle the squad. A harsh voice offered a simple choice: surrender or die.

It was not much of a choice.

1

SAN SEBASTIÁN, THURSDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1954

A pale sun was setting behind dark-smudged clouds and the biting wind from the sea signalled a coming storm. Fernando Etxarte tightened his overcoat collar as he crossed the Zurriola Bridge. Two hundred metres away, the heavy sea surged into the narrow river mouth, smashing against the rocks in great bursts of spray that sparkled in the insipid light of the street lamps along the riverbank. The wind was raw and Etxarte was glad of the meagre protection of his Basque beret.

The honeyed glow of lights in the shops and bars at the far side of the bridge held the promise of shelter from the imminent storm. But Etxarte had an appointment to keep. Ignoring the rain, he hurried on, passing static lines of trucks and slow, grumbling cars rattling out greasy exhaust fumes into the fierce wind. Now and again, horse-drawn carts laden with goods slowed the traffic, provoking frequent blasts from exasperated drivers' horns.

Etxarte crossed the road at the end of the bridge, heading into the dense warren of buildings clustered between the river and the harbour. The dark mass of Monte Urgull loomed over him, its steep sides towering over the port, the old fortress on top of the hill now skeletal in whirling showers of rain blown in from the sea. He continued through the narrow streets to the darkened Plaza 18 de Julio, his footsteps echoing under the covered walkway around the sides of the square. Long ago they held bullfights here: mounted nobles dramatically ending the raging attacks of
toros bravos
with the thrust of a spear. Once, there were bright numbers above the first-floor balconies where families had rented seats for the fights. Now, the faded figures looked down on a poorly illuminated row of shops and bars, while above them were shabby apartments, their shutters rattling in the wind, the bird cages on the balconies empty and abandoned until the spring.

At the far end of the square Etxarte came to a small, dingy bar, with a long, zinc-topped counter and a handful of tables along the walls. He paused in the doorway, brushing rainwater from his overcoat, grateful for the warmth inside. Hesitant electric light peered through irregular clouds of black tobacco smoke. A dozen conversations echoed round the bar, some animated and strident, others conducted warily, in low, measured voices. It was a cheerful place despite its spartan interior, a place to drink and smoke and, for those who had money, to sample from the selection of badly prepared tapas on offer.

Etxarte saw the salesman at once. Tall and bulky, a dark coat and hat. He looked successful, judging by the smart cut of his clothes. In fact, he must be very successful, Etxarte thought. You needed to earn good money to eat enough to maintain a bulk like that. Etxarte leaned against the bar and waved to the barman, ordering
patxaran
before he turned to the man in the dark coat.

‘Señor Ramirez?'

‘You must be Señor Etxarte.'

‘That's me. Another drink?'

‘Not when I'm working,' Ramirez said. ‘Well, perhaps just a brandy. A large one.'

The barman brought the drinks. They drank in silence.

Ramirez leaned over Etxarte's glass and inhaled suspiciously. ‘What is that?'

‘
Patxaran
. A Basque speciality. Made with local berries and anís.'

‘
Joder
. It smells like something you'd buy at a pharmacy.'

‘It's an acquired taste,' Etxarte said, defensively.

‘So is buggery. And it's no reason to try that either.'

Etxarte frowned. He was here to do business, yet the salesman seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to him. Etxarte had expected a little more seriousness and less aggression, given the nature of their business. After all, he was the customer.

‘Did you bring the goods, Señor Ramirez?'

The big man looked at him fiercely. ‘Not here. Too many flapping ears. Pay the bill and we'll talk outside.'

Etxarte did so, wincing at the tab the salesman had run up. Still, he reasoned, it was for the Cause. Everything he did these days was. The salesman was waiting outside. Grey sheets of rain swept the desolate square and water fell noisily from the awnings of bars and shops, forming pools of water the colour of dull steel on the cobbles.

‘Dismal night,' Ramirez said. ‘You have fucking awful weather here.'

‘But convenient for us,
verdad
?' Etxarte smiled. ‘It's an ill wind...'

‘Discretion. That's what these transactions require,' Ramirez said, pulling on leather gloves. ‘Where do we meet your friends?'

‘I'd rather not say.'

‘Of course. Security should always be a prime consideration. So I deal with you?'

‘I'm not actually responsible for buying equipment, Señor Ramirez. We have a quartermaster to do that. We don't meet with him; in fact, we don't even know who he is, it's safer that way. But the cell is a collective, so all our decisions are made as a group. One voice, one people – and all for Euskadi,
Señor
Ramirez.'

‘
Bueno
. I'll deal with all of you together. That's been my intention all along.' Ramirez lit a cigarette and breathed blue smoke into the wavering curtain of rain. ‘What's really important to me is being paid, as I'm sure you understand.'

‘
De acuerdo
. You'll appreciate I can't tell you where we're meeting the others. The fascists are constantly trying to infiltrate our movement, so we have to be careful. I'll give you directions as we drive. In the dark you won't remember the route we take. And of course, I'll accompany you back here again, after the transaction.'

‘Fine. My car's parked in the boulevard near the town hall.'

As they made their way towards the boulevard, the rain grew heavier. Etxarte saw rivulets of water falling from the rim of the salesman's black homburg as he hurried to a line of parked cars.

‘Here's my car.'

‘A Buick?
Hombre
, that must have cost you plenty.'

‘The rewards in this business are considerable,' Ramirez said. ‘But then, so are the risks.' He opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat. Etxarte scurried to the other side and scrambled in, glad to be out of the freezing rain.

‘So,' Ramirez said, ‘which way do I go?'

As Etxarte gave him sparse directions, the Buick's big engine growled into life and the car slid forward, arcs of rain flickering in the pale headlights. Within a few minutes they left the lights of the city behind and the darkness closed in. Etxarte directed Ramirez in monosyllables as they followed the contours of the foothills. Ramirez made little conversation. Etxarte took that for professional discretion: no questions asked, no superfluous information to compromise either party. Very professional. No wonder Señor Ramirez came so highly recommended.

‘So your leader won't be here tonight?' Ramirez asked, staring ahead into the darkness beyond the headlights.

‘It isn't necessary,' Etxarte said. ‘We make tactical decisions within the group. But the quartermaster sources our equipment and arms and passes on communications between us and other cells in the region. He keeps his identity secret from the cell and keeps in touch using coded messages. That way, if anyone's captured and tortured, they can't betray the entire movement.'

‘Very effective.' Ramirez nodded. ‘You're clearly very well organised.'

Etxarte smiled. It was a long time since anyone had praised his efforts.

The road began to rise into a black mass of hills. Etxarte leaned forward and pointed to a gate by a steeply sloping field.

‘It's just through that gate. You'll see lights on your right and a track up to the house.'

‘Thank God for that,' Ramirez grunted. ‘I thought we going to end up in France. And you know what they say about the French.'