The Poet's Wife (21 page)

I needn’t have worried. The decision is made that, with his marked limp, it isn’t wise for him to fight. I can see how disappointed he is, particularly as this is such a significant battle. Yet eventually he accepts that he can be of greater use in other ways, namely in continuing to drive ambulances.

Taking part in the siege of the Ebro feels to me not far off signing the Republic’s death warrant. The troops succeed in crossing the river at night on pontoons and newly built boats and reach an important target point on the other side. But the might of the fascist forces is more than can possibly be dealt with. Fascist reinforcements pour into the area. Not only that, but for the next four swelteringly hot months, the Republican side is pounded with aerial and artillery bombardments by the nationalists. They prove to be far more effective, not least because of the number of Nazi planes they can count on their side.

Whilst all this is taking place, we travel eastwards and are re-based just a short distance from the Ebro, bringing everything we can find from the hospital that may be of some help to the all-too predictably high number of casualties. We load up dozens of rickety ambulances and trucks and drive in close convoy to our new hospital base which, I am horrified to discover, is little more than a cave. It is a huge cave but, even so, I can barely believe that we are planning to treat wounded men in such conditions.

These days are a blurred whirlwind. I don’t have time to question anything that is going on, nor to eat a decent meal. And I certainly don’t have time to feel fear. We set up over one hundred beds and wait breathlessly as we hear the steady bombardment of the pontoon bridges each day by the fascist forces and the hurried repair work carried out through the night by the Republican fortification units. The war has been brought to me on previous occasions, but never have I been brought to the war, not so closely.

The beds fill up almost immediately as wounded men pour in. We are completely overwhelmed, not only in terms of medical supplies and ambulances but also in terms of the sheer numbers arriving day and night. We cope as best as we can, but we’re painfully aware of our shortages.

Rumours also start circulating that there are dozens more wounded on the other side of the river that need urgent attendance and, whilst some of us have to stay at the makeshift cave hospital, several of us are picked at random to cross the river and given less than an hour to collect everything up and start moving. Up until now, I’ve always known where Henry is. For several days, we’ve barely had a chance to talk to one another yet we’ve always known where the other is and snatched the odd opportunity to squeeze each other’s hand encouragingly or force out an exhausted smile. Yet when I cross the Ebro, he remains on the other side. This terrifies me. A smile from Henry, a few words or a squeeze of my hand, no matter how sporadic, always propels me, gives me purpose. Yet I am not afforded the luxury of dwelling on this for long, for shortly after being told I must cross the Ebro, we are making preparations to leave.

I am thrown together with several other nurses and medical staff who have been transferred from other hospitals, much like myself. Whilst most are Spaniards, these days are a rush of introductions, foreign voices and curious Spanish accents from the furthest-flung corners of the country. We leave early in the morning over the newly repaired pontoon bridge but no sooner have we safely reached the other side than a large number of huge bomber planes loom overhead and begin to pound the riverbanks with missiles. Thankfully, we manage to hide ourselves in the safety of an overgrown olive grove while this continues for half an hour or so, before they circle a few more times and then leave. I shall never forget it as long as I live: lying frozen under a bush, my head buried deep into the prickly reeds along the riverbank as I breathe in their sweet, watery smell and try to imagine that the gunfire above is simply the erratic beating of my heart. An Australian nurse lies beside me, clutching the hand I’ve offered her with so much force that I can’t feel it any more.

As I lie there on the ground, barely breathing with my head in the reeds and listening to the whirr of the bombers overhead, I try to detach myself from my body and watch the scene from above, telling myself I can’t be harmed.

‘
This is just part of it
,’ I say to myself.
‘
It’s not something you bargained for, but you’re going to get through it. Nobody ever said it would be easy. Your father warned you of that, didn’t he
?’ Yes, he did. Father, where are you? What are you doing? ‘
Think of the rest of your life you must live. Think of Henry. Think of your future
.’ Isabel…Isabel…I hear my name being whispered as softly as the rushes and when I feel my sleeve being tugged at I turn my head. It is the Australian nurse, pulling at my arm. ‘Isabel, come. The planes have gone. We must continue.’

I jump up and join the group on the hillside trail as we start to walk through the heat and swarms of flies with our heavy packs. It is a gruelling journey. The sun is suffocating despite the early hour, but we also have to walk past wounded and dying men on the track. We’ve been hurriedly briefed before we left that we are to set up hospital a little way on at a large white hermitage and then return for the men we can still help. When there are this many injured men lying on both sides of you, without dropping to your knees and giving each one of them the time they deserve, it’s impossible to say whether they have a chance of survival.

It’s not the same as it was with Jean-Marie, for I was instructed to tend to him and him only. I gave him my full attention and it was only by doing so that I could grant him as gentle a passage into death as was possible under those circumstances. Yet here I am, walking through a deathscape of contorted figures, writhing in silent agony, not able to tend to a single one of them. For this is what strikes me most about the scene: the silence. Many men have long since died, but those who are still hanging onto life are not screaming in pain; rather I see their lips moving in noiseless agony as I walk alongside them, a layer of thin mist glazed over their eyes.
Put one foot in front of the other, Isabel. Keep walking, keep breathing, that’s right. You’ll come back for these men very soon.

We reach the hermitage and we do indeed return to the banks of the Ebro to help as many men as we can. Could we have saved more? It’s a question I fear will always return to haunt me. Weeks later, rumours circulate about the number of lives lost during the siege of the Ebro, the hardest fought battle of the entire war. It is well into four figures, with thousands more wounded or taken prisoner. And was it worth it? That battle has finally destroyed the Republican Army as an effective fighting force. So I think it’s fair to say that it was the beginning of the end for us. Yet if any man or woman loses their life whilst fighting for something they believe in from the core of their soul, I can hold my head up high and say without flinching: Yes, it was worth it.

A
s the dreadful
realisation of what the failure of this battle really means begins to set in, we are given news to further dampen our spirits. A meeting is called in which we are informed that the International Brigades are to be sent back to their own countries. It seems that their presence in Spain can’t be justified any longer and we can only assume the worst from this news. I feel ill at the thought of it, what it means for our cause. And what it means for Henry.

It isn’t until the Battle of the Ebro comes to its violent close that I see him again. At first, I barely recognise him. He is painfully thin and drawn and has grown a thick beard and moustache. I suppose it’s his eyes that give him away – those unfailingly kind blue eyes which hold in them so much warmth but now, even more pain and disappointment. I spot him before he sees me and I catch my breath, leaning against the wall to steady myself as I watch him unload equipment from the ambulance. But then I can’t hold back any longer and at the same moment, he sees me. As our eyes meet, he stares at me – a stare that is long and deep and hard and truthful – and we move towards each other and I feel his thin arms around me and his tears on my neck and I hold him close and never want to let go.

That same evening, he suggests we go for a walk. We make our way slowly up the steep pine-clad hill beyond the huge white hermitage, stopping every few minutes so that he can rest his foot. Eventually, we reach the top and sit, panting on the shrub as we gaze down to the hospital and the fertile valley. I draw my breath in. It is so beautiful – so utterly unlike the south of the country during the summer months where the land is scorched dry and brown by the fierce sun. Digging my fingers into the warm pine needles I close my eyes and take long, deep breaths. I imagine that I am there as a traveller. That I haven’t witnessed the death of countless men and that my country is at peace.

‘What are you thinking?’ Henry sits beside me, so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek, light as a feather. I smile and lean back so that I am propped up by my elbows and continue to look out across the valley.

‘How beautiful it is here, and how peaceful.’

I look back towards Henry, who has pulled his good leg up towards him and placed his chin on top of it as he stares out across the landscape. Suddenly, before I am able to control myself, I open my mouth and a torrent of words tumble out that have been building up since our reunion earlier that day.

‘Henry, now that the International Brigades are being disbanded, does that mean that you’re going straight home?’

He looks away from me and his expression clouds as he begins to fumble in his pocket before drawing out a packet of tobacco. ‘Yes,’ he says slowly as he begins to roll a cigarette. ‘Yes, it does. Do you want one?’

I shake my head and notice that his hands are trembling as he lights it. ‘I haven’t told my parents yet about Stan,’ he says quietly. ‘They have a right to know,’ he continues, very softly so that his words are almost inaudible. ‘I know that you do too, Isabel. I’ve not told you a thing.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Talking about it makes it more real, I suppose, and the truth is that I partly blame myself. Stan wouldn’t have come out here if it weren’t for me. He always wanted to do what I did and we were fairly inseparable and…well, it’s not fair that he’s dead and I’m not. It’s not bloody fair.’ Henry’s head falls forwards and he clasps at a clump of grass and digs his fingers deeply into it, closing his eyes. ‘He was shot at the Battle of Jarama, the same battle I got my injury. Clean through the heart.’ I hear his voice catch. ‘At least he didn’t suffer.’

I reach a hand out and place it over his and after a while, with his eyes still closed, he brings his other hand on top of mine. It feels warm and calloused. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve contacted them, my poor parents probably think that the pair of us are dead. Isabel…’ he stops and opens his eyes and stares at me, eyes wide with an expression of fear ‘…how do I tell my parents that their son is dead?’

I return his steady gaze and instinctively reach out to stroke his hair. ‘You’ve lost a brother too, Henry,’ I murmur. His head drops onto my shoulder and the tears that have been holding themselves back for all those months spill out as his body is racked with sobs. We sit there for a long time as the sun starts to dip and the birdsong becomes more frenzied in the golden light. Quite some time after his cries have subsided, I feel his breaths become more even on my shoulder and think that he has fallen asleep. I draw my head down slightly and see that his eyes are still open. He is just leaning against me in contentment, his eyes scanning the horizon.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You must go home and tell them. They need to see you.’

Henry lifts his head off my shoulder and looks me deep in the eye. ‘I know. I’m going to spend some time with them. But then I’m coming back here. Back to Spain.’

‘What do you mean?’

He takes a deep breath and inches a little closer, gazing at me with an intensity I’ve never seen. ‘I mean that since we’ve been separated I’ve not been able to get you out of my head. I mean I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I mean that you’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. I mean that I love you. I love you, Isabel.’

I can’t say anything. I continue to look at him as I search his eyes; search my soul for the words I so desperately want him to hear. But at that moment I am too shocked and too deliriously happy to be able to utter a single thing.

‘Oh Isabel, please don’t look at me like that.’ He turns away and drops his head into his hands. ‘If I’ve said the wrong thing…if I’ve offended you or assumed something I should never have done then you only need to say the word and I swear, I shall never bother you again. You must only—’

‘Henry…’ He looks up to meet my eyes, and as he does so, something in the deepest, most secret corners of our souls reach out for one another. Something that travels far beyond words. When I look into Henry’s eyes I see something there I’ve never experienced and know will only happen once. Beyond my tiny reflection bathed in the light of the sinking sun, I see my past, my present and my future all coming together and winding their strands of time around his. I know that he is experiencing it too and as his lips softly close on mine I am aware, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, that I have transformed from
I
to
we
, and that there is no going back.

I
have
no idea how many people turn out that day in Barcelona to bid farewell to the International Brigades. I’m sure we must number in our thousands. It is an unusually warm November afternoon and I crane my neck above the sea of heads to try to catch a glimpse of Henry who is marching with his comrades in the parade.

The atmosphere is electric. A band plays the
‘
Internationale
’ as the soldiers stride down the wide street lined with plane trees and people are waving red handkerchiefs and calling ‘
No pasarán! No pasarán
!’ These words, ‘They shall not pass’, have been printed on banners and painted on walls in every Republican stronghold and are the common refrain of the left. It is impossible to hear the words without joining in and before I know it my right fist is raised in the air and I am shouting ‘
No pasarán
’, again and again.