CHAPTER 16 : HOMAGE TO CATALONIA
August the 1st, 1937, the besieged city of Barcelona, Spanish Soviet Republic
Run. Run. Don't think. Run, me lad.
Visibly exhausted, and actually feeling beyond exhaustion, the man ran desperately in the street, trying to keep up with Julio. Despite of his best efforts, he was falling behind, and a regular intervals Julio had to throw himself behind a pile of rubble or a street corner, waiting for his foreign companion to catch up. From what the man could see, Julio was clearly getting impatient at him, even though he did his best for it not to show too much. Right now, Julio was crouching behind a burnt tramway car lying in the middle of what had been, only a year before, a well-off residential area.
The man's legs gave one final push to propel his aching body and gave up as soon as he reached the car.
"Sorry, Julio. I'm....sorry" panted the man in his Oxford-accentuated Spanish. To his ears his heart was beating so loudly it covered the rumble of the French artillery hammering at the SSR positions forward of the city. Though in his mid-30s, and thus not terribly older than Julio, he felt sick and feeble after one full month of going from safehouse to safehouse on an empty stomach, with the constant fear that the Seguridad, the SSR's secret police, would raid his hideout. And before that there had been the First Civil War, the haphazard organization of his small Brigadas outfit, the combat, and a serious wound.
You'd think it's all happened to somebody else, thought the man, looking how miserable I look now.
Julio said nothing, but sympathetically patted the Englishman's shoulder, looking at him appraisingly. After a moment of reflexion, he pointed a finger at a house at the corner of the street. Bombs had cracked it open in the first civil war and it still laid like an empty shell, all life having been drained from it a long time ago.
"Let's go there. For quick rest" said Julio, quickly checking the empty street. They couldn't waste too much time, but his instructions were pretty clear, he had to bring the Englishman at the pier, and he preferred showing up late that showing up alone.
As they entered the devastated house, the Englishman wondered who had lived in it. Over the past year, looters had stripped it of everything of value, or that could be used, of course. Still, a few pictures still hung here and there and...
"Well, I'll be ! Julio, look !" said the Englishman in Spanish, cracking up a smile for the first time since Julio had met him.
As Julio looked up, he too flashed a wide smile. Over the remnant of an armchair was hung the portrait of Joaquin Maurin, now sole leader of the Partido Obrero de Unificacion Marxista since the Fascists had captured and executed its co-founder Andres Nin. To find this picture in what looked like a bourgeois home filled both men with a sense of utter absurdity and elation.
Joaquin Maurin, co-founder of the Trostkyist-Anarchist POUM, and a prime target of the SSR Secret Police
"What a road we have travelled since" said the Englishman, "haven't we ?"
Often the silent one, Julio simply nodded approval. He liked to egg on the Englishman into talking anyway. He had read some of the articles the man had written before, and during the First Civil War, and even though he did not read English perfectly he understood them quite well, and liked them a lot.
"Now patriots have to become revolutionnaries, and revolutionnaries have to become patriots. Yesterday's friends have become today's mortal enemies, and yesterday enemies have become our friends" sighed the Englishman "What a debate it must have been in the Anarchist leadership, to abandon the idea of any alliance with a bourgeois state. And this rabidly anti-communist France of all states."
"It sure was" replied Julio. "But the alternative was clear to us all. There was no other choice. The Stalinistas in Madrid can scream all they want that Maurin" he gestured at the picture "is a Fascist, there isn't one man or woman who fought with him in Catalunya who'll ever believe it. Not now, not ever. He did what he had to do for us, for everyone, for Catalunya. He kept the hope alive, he kept the fire alive. One day this fire will light up Spain again. And one day, when French workers too feel its warm glow, that will be thanks to Maurin, our Prometheus !"
The Englishman shot an amused look at Julio. Since the day he had been assigned to him as his "smuggler" and bodyguard, he had grown used to the young man's sullen stance and long silences. Julio the firebrand speechmaker was a welcome and distracting novelty.
"Anyway" said Julio in his broken English, getting up from the ruined armchair "we need go. They're probably already waiting for us at the pier. Now tell me, because you at least owe me this. Will you deliver ? I don't want all this to have done in vain"
Looking into Julio's eyes, the Englishman hesitated, then gravely nodded.
"I will. I speak French. I know Paris inside and out, I lived there for years. I know how to reach some members of the French government, not to mention their Social-Democrats opponents. I have many contacts among British publishers. And I have a direct link to the French forces. I promise you, Julio, that I will be on their backs like trench lice until they commit themselves to an independent Spanish democracy."
"Good." said Julio "Well, now, senor Orwell, let's get you out of this mouse trap"
Eric Blair, aka George Orwell : writer, anti-Fascist fighter, liaison officer
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Headquarters of the French 2nd Armée, in Saragossa, August the 9th, 1937
"Gentlemen ! Please !" said General Maurice Gamelin, raising his hands in a conciliatory way, as the two Spanish delegations once again began to exchange arguments and acid remarks in rapid-fire Spanish across the conference table.
It had been, for General Gamelin, a most peculiar meeting, and one he was quite anxious to put an end to. All in all, Maurice Gamelin aspired only to end this political talk and go back to military matters which he at least understood inside and out - or so he thought. Alas, his orders from Paris had been pretty clear in this respect, and he had to play goodwill ambassador with a dozen factions whose language he did not understand.
Even since before he rose to the enviable post of Chief of Staff in 1933, Généralissime Maurice Gustave Gamelin had always been wary of politicians. These people could make or break a career and Gamelin, who had mostly served as a HQ staff officer, had always done his best not to offend them and to swim with the flow. It was thus no surprise he made a point of being a close associate of Edouard Daladier, the prominent Centrist politician whose party seemed bound to be part of every governmental coalition in the early thirties. In 1934, alas, the flow had suddenly reversed. In one unexpected move, the Right had seized power, leaving Daladier and Gamelin on the beach. General Le Gentilhomme, a simple colonial officer, had been promoted to the post of Chief of Staff, and Gamelin's name had been vaguely floated for a few rather minor diplomatic assignments, so as to soothe his ruffled feathers.
Then, in 1937, the Communists had seized power in Spain and deposed the young Republic who had just triumphed over a Fascist coup a few months before. And when the berated Cabinet in Paris had decided to intervene directly this time, it had been a surprised Gamelin who had been offered to lead French forces to battle. Longing for a last operational command, and almost genetically unable to refuse an order, Gamelin had taken the first train to Perpignan where the forces that would be under his command had begun to assemble. It was to be his last hurrah, and he was decided not to blow it. In retrospect, Gamelin had everything the French government needed for this particular mission. He was an intelligent if completely unimaginative, competent if deprived of any shining talent, and above all his loyalty and commitment to democracy and Republicanism could not be faulted.
General Maurice Gamelin, embarking for his last hurrahIn late June, France had taken a very bold move, leaving only Maginot Line garrisons to guard the German border, and moving three complete armies to a series of jump-off areas near Perpignan. There, the intelligence officers from the French Army's Deuxième Bureau had soon found Spanish Anarchists loathed Madrid's Communist government more than they loathed France's Conservative one. Similar approaches towards Basque autonomists had given the same results, and contacts had been established with a hodge-podge of Autonomist and Anarcho-Syndicalist fractions. As a result, General Duffieux' four French cavalry divisions had entered Euzkadi on July the 2nd, under orders to make a lot of noise and attract as many SSR forces as possible. As the SSR generals had taken the bait, their movements had been monitored by the Armée de l'air who now could fly more or less unopposed as three squadrons of Bloch fighters made sure every SSR plane north of Madrid was downed. Provided with good and conclusive intelligence by his observation planes and by local agents, Gamelin had then moved his main force towards Saragossa and Barcelona, planning to trap the SSR units in central Spain, cutting them from their ports.
Gamelin's classic battle plan had worked almost perfectly, and had been greatly helped by General Dufieux's vigorous push towards Oviedo, while the Généralissime's own forces had taken Valencia. The French Infantry Divisions were now about to enter Barcelona, where a large SSR garrison was trying to resist a full siege. One of the most important factors of the plan had been the tendency of some division commanders to give a certain leeway to their regiments in adapting to the local situation. To avoid antagonizing the population, most regiments had been teamed up with Spanish forces who were in charge of maintaining order in the liberated areas and of establishing good contacts with the local population before the French infantrymen marched in. And here lied the crux of Gamelin's problem, as the Spanish Government-in-exile and the Anarchists /Autonomists were far from having the same goals for post-liberation Spain.
Well, enough of this nonsense thought Gamelin, rising up.
"Gentlemen ! I have to emphasize it again, France has no intention of meddling in the internal affairs of Spain ! My mission here is, with your help, to re-establish the Spanish Republic, NOT to enslave it in any way ! I understand Mr Maurin and the Basque leadership have some demands they intend to make. And I know Colonel de la Cierva also has some instructions from the government-in-exile. May I suggest we first turn to the business of defeating the Stalinist government before deciding who will be the mayor of Barcelona ?"
"General" said a Frenchman wearing a light civilian trenchocat over a Spanish Republic Air Force uniform, "you don't understand. You must.."
"No Môssieur Malraux I must not" sniped Gamelin, slamming his fist on the table. His patience with this exalted adventurer had, over the past few days, grown beyond thin and into utter non-existence. "Since you have seen fit to unduly promote yourself to the rank of 'Group Captain', then you shall stick to military protocol, which requires you to remain silent in the presence of senior officers until they ask your opinion!"
Visibly offended, the man sat down, crossing his arms in defiance to Gamelin's beloved military protocol, and traded some whispered remarks with one of the POUM delegates.
André Malraux, writer, adventurer, and Spanish Irregular
"Well, General, if I may, with your permission, then" began the thin and intense Englishman who had escaped from Barcelona.
"Yes, Monsieur Orwell, please" sighed Gamelin, his eyes still fixed on the French adventurer who was smirking.
"We are all aware that there are many operations going on which require your attention, and that it is pointless to debate the future of the Spanish Republic while this future is still fought for. I nevertheless feel, I am sure in fact, that we could reach a deal right now, with Mr Alcala's government in exile, on some general principles. For example, could we agree that liberated provinces be temporarily controlled by local democratic forces, provided they do not try to eliminate other democratic parties ?"
As the government's delegates, after some consideration, nodded cautious approval, Orwell pressed on, looking more intently at Colonel de la Cierva, President Alcala's special liasion to the French HQ in Spain.
"And in the name of the movements we all represent, we'd agree to organize a quick conference soon, for all democratic parties to attend"
"Something like the Pact San Sabastian of 1930 ?" asked de la Cierva warily, referring to the treaty by which Spain's democratic parties had agreed to overthrow the Bourbon Monarchy some years before.
"Well, yes, something like that indeed. Some general agreement about the kind of Republic we all want, maybe a declaration on general, yet essential principles, like freedom of speech and such things"
"That", said de la Cierva, "would be acceptable - depending on the exact wording of the declaration of course. But on one non-negotiable condition. General Gamelin, as a friendly yet neutral force, shall be our arbiter as long as French troops are in the country. Would you agree to that, General ?"
Oh, Christ thought Gamelin, as everyone turned to him Don't dabble in politics, never dabble in politics, it's not your job nor your place, Maurice.
Why did my orders have to deal with politics ?
Fiddling with his pen, fidgeting under the collective gaze, he finally rose up.
"Very well, gentlemen... Yes, I agree - that is, I agree to take this offer to my government. In the meantime, my forces will assist you in maintaining order, in a spirit of strict neutrality of course, and I insist on this point. Tell your people my orders are to re-establish the Spanish Republic, and that is what I am going to do. With them if I can, against them if I must. I don't want trouble, gentlemen. And above all" he said, glaring meaningfully at Malraux "I won't tolerate any adventure."
And now I have to explain that to Paris, lamented Gamelin as de La Cierva rose to shake his hand. They'll take my stars back for sure.
