Tapestry of Spies (25 page)

“In other words,” said the Reuters man, “it was another bloody muck-up.”

“What I’m wondering,” said the man from the
Standard
, “is bloody why the whole thing was tossed together at the doubletime. They usually don’t like to move so fast, they like to take their bloody time.
Mañana
, eh? Always bloody
mañana.”

“God, the Spanish. Anytime you’ve got the Spanish and the Italians in the same war, you’ve got the potential for a comic opera on a grand scale.”

There were several reporters, however, who did not take part in the cynical give and take, perhaps because they were new to the front or new to war reporting or new to Spain. One of these was a tall, elderly Dutchman of intellectual carriage named Ver Steeg—Ver
Staig
, the pronunciation went, he informed them, his only utterance thus far—who worked for a Dutch press syndicate. He appeared to listen intently to all that was said and when at last the bulletin’s author, Commissar Steinbach, appeared to answer, however obliquely, questions, this spry old fellow moved to the front of the crowd.

“Comrade Steinbach, we hear rumors that the Thaelmann Column of the PSUC Militia did not enthusiastically support the POUM and the Anarcho-Syndicalists in this attack, even though the worker’s militias have been theoretically combined under one leadership,” the
Daily Mail
man began.

“Is this an essay or do you have a question, Mr. Janeway?” Comrade Steinbach replied with an icy gleam in his famously bright good eye.

“The question, Comrade Steinbach, is, first, did the Communist militia aid in the attack, and second—”

Steinbach, a witty man whose incisiveness of mind was as famous as his bright eye, enjoyed these sessions, and interrupted swiftly. “Each militia performed its duties outstandingly,” he said. “The Anarchists were brilliant, the Communists heroic, and our own Workers Party troops solid as a rock. There is sufficient glory for each.” He smiled.

“Is it not a fact, comrade,” asked Sampson, the
Times
man, “that your forces are in exactly the same situation—that is, the same trenches—as before the attack?”

“Certain modifications of our positions were necessary late in the attack as a means of consolidating our advances.”

“In order, if I may follow up, to consolidate your advances, you had to abandon them?”

“It is well known that the
Times
will write whatever it chooses, regardless of the truth, Comrade Sampson, so why bother to press on this issue?” He smiled blandly.

“We’ve heard that the German troops of the Thaelmann Brigade, under the command of Communist Party commissars, never left their trenches, thus isolating your people in the Fascist parapets, and that the slaughter was awful.”

“Good heavens, how do these terrible rumors get started? Fifth columnists, gentlemen, fifth columnists spreading lies. In fact, political solidarity was observed throughout the operation. Losses were acceptable.”

“Why was the attack put together so hastily?”

“The attack was organized at a normal pace.”

“Comrade Steinbach, you know as well as we do these things are prepared weeks in advance. It seems clear this
one was thrown together in less than forty-eight hours. What’s the reason?”

“The attack proceeded normally.”

“Is it true that the Twenty-ninth Division—that is, the POUM militia and the POUM itself—has staked its survival on breaking the siege at Huesca, and as external political pressure against POUM mounts, so will the pressure to take Huesca?” Sampson asked.

“This is a purely military situation; it has no political ramifications. I suggest you check with the Central Committee at Party headquarters in Barcelona for any political questions.”

“Will we be able to tour the battlefield?”

“In due time.”

“Will you release casualty figures?”

“It would serve no purpose.”

“Were British troops involved in the action?”

“The British Centura of the POUM militia—excuse me, the Twenty-ninth Division—had a brave and leading role in the drama. The Centura is a unit of roughly one hundred men, who have been a proud part of the militia since August of 1936. These were among the most ardent troops in the attack.”

At last the Dutch reporter spoke.

“Were there any British casualties?”

Steinbach paused a second.

“It is with deep regret,” he said, “that I announce the death of a revolutionary fighter of great heroism, idealism, and discipline. He was also a great poet and scholar. Julian Raines, author of the famous poem ‘Achilles, Fool,’ was killed in action in the attack against Fascist troops on the outskirts of Huesca.”

There was a gasp.

“Also,” Steinbach continued, “a British writer named Robert Furry perished.”

The press party moved to the trench and Steinbach showed the correspondents the line of attack through a brass telescope.

“As you can see, gentlemen,” he said, “it’s terrible terrain to cross at night, but our brave fighters were able to get within bomb range before being spotted. You can see the redoubt.”

“Keep your ’eads low, boys,” called a redheaded Cockney captain with a bloody leg. “Bob the Nailer don’t give a bloody damn who you are.”

“Is that where the Englishmen died?” asked Sampson.

“Bloody right,” said the runty little man. “Up there. Comrade Julian went out alone to bomb an enemy machine gun. His chum went out after him. They sent the gun to hell, but neither man made it back.”

“I say, captain,” said Sampson, “what’s your name? And what part of England are you from.”

“Legion, chum. And I’m from all over.”

“Hmmm. So there are no bodies?”

“No. But no man could survive up there,” said Steinbach.

“Perhaps they were taken prisoner,” said a young American correspondent—to some laughter.

“I’m afraid prisoners are seldom taken on this front,” said Steinbach, a special, almost magical vividness coming into his good eye. “We all feel his loss keenly. He was one of those special men. You are all familiar with his poem ‘Achilles, Fool,’ which has been taken to express the confusion of a generation. Well, perhaps by the end, Comrade Raines had solved his confusion.”

“What about this other chap?”

“Only Julian Raines is important, as the symbol of a revolutionary generation who, rather than living his life
in the comfortable circumstances of his birth, instead chose to come to Spain and risk everything for his beliefs.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to get one more drop of blood out of the poor wasted sot,” said the Reuters man.

“Gentlemen,” said Steinbach, coyly pretending to shock, “you are too cynical. Let me read you from Comrade Raines’s last, unfinished poem. It’s called ‘Pons’ and was discovered among his effects.”

Steinbach took out a sheet of paper, cleared his throat, and read:

“Good Christ,
that’s
from the man Auden called the most promising voice of his generation? Come on, Steinbach, get your boys to give it a little distinction before you put it out.”

Again there was much laughter, and even Steinbach seemed to take part in it. He was able to laugh because he knew it was a good story and they’d use it. Salvage
something
out of this bloody mess, if only one more martyr for the English left.

When it came his turn, Levitsky worked the telescope back and forth across the scaggily vegetated ridge near the city, a good half mile off. He could see brush, gulches, mud, and the Fascist line of sandbags running across the crest. It was, as this sly one-eyed propagandist Steinbach had said, terrible terrain for an attack at night, in the rain.

Julian, you idiot. To die like a flea among millions of fleas in the mudbath of history
.

He stepped back, turned for a second, and looked where
the Englishman Sampson stood, a hard, trim young man with narrow, suspicious eyes and precise, perhaps military manners and authority. Sampson smoked a pipe and took notes with impressive efficiency and wrote beautifully, it was said. Levitsky, a little shaken perhaps, tried to adjust to the immensity of his loss and, worse, the hideous resonating irony of it.

I was so close. I came so far, I was so close
.

It had been snatched away by Julian’s utter stupidity. How could he be so frivolous with his own life? And poor Florry’s, too. God knows, Florry had reason to follow him, but it was all such a bitter waste.

He went back to the instrument. Nothing. It was just the same, scruffy no-man’s-land. Did he expect to see the dead rise?

“Mr. Ver Steeg?”

It was Comrade Steinbach, calling from the group of reporters farther down the trench. “We are returning to La Granja. You don’t want to be left up here if a Fascist bombardment begins.”

“Ah,” said Levitsky. Yet he did not at once move. For if Julian were gone, there was nothing left to do, except save himself.

If Koba’s hounds are to hunt me, let them hunt me hard.

“Best get goin’, chum,” said the little English captain, then turned away and headed back to his men gathered at the other end of the trench.

But Levitsky suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Without his mission, he was just a man. His death, which might have had political meaning, suddenly had only a personal one. It was as if his life, in all its fragility, had been handed back to him.

He started up the trench and as he was drawing near
the ladder, he ducked into a bunker scooped in the wall. It was filled with gear; two men slept noisily.

Several bombs lay on the table, iron eggs with checkerboard surfaces. He made his decision in a split second, and snatched one up and put it into his hip pocket. He gripped the thing out of sight. It felt heavy and authoritative in his hand. He could remember flinging them by the dozens into White positions during the civil war.

“Comrade!”

Levitsky turned. It was the English captain.

“Forgot this, old man,” he said, holding out Levitsky’s notebook. “Sure you ain’t too old for this sort of thing?”

Levitsky smiled, took the notebook, and headed out after the other reporters moving back through the scrubland to La Granja.

By the time he caught up, they had come through the orchard and into a meadow. Ahead, through the line of trees, Levitsky could see the big house with its red tiles.

In the courtyard the reporters milled around amid the soldiers, all of them waiting to be served a meal. The smell of rice and chicken from nearby cook pots filled the air. There was much laughter and camaraderie. Levitsky could see the Britishers teasing the American about his prisoner question and he could see the French reporters arguing strenuously among themselves over some political point.

And he could see Comrade Bolodin, with one man, walking toward him.

His first impulse was to run.

Don’t, he told himself. You old fool,
stay calm
. Let’s see him pull his NKVD card here, in the center of a POUM encampment.

Levitsky began to slide through the crowd.

The big American was drawing closer. They’d grab
him first, then pull the cards—guns, too, probably—and haul him away. He only had a few seconds. He put his hand in his pocket and removed the bomb. He held it muffled in his coat and with his other hand managed to get the first pin out. He continued walking through the crowd toward the big house; then, abruptly, he turned aside and headed to one of the three smaller buildings off to the side. A guard saw him coming.

“¡Alto! Arsenal!”

“Eh?” said Levitsky, approaching.
“No hablo …”

“¡Arsenal!”
repeated the guard.

Levitsky nodded, pulled the last pin, and in one swift motion tossed it through the window. The guard dropped his rifle and began to run screaming. Levitsky ran in the other direction.

The first blast was muffled; the second lifted him from his feet and threw him in the air. He landed, stunned. Men ran in terrified panic. Smoke filled the air. The small house blossomed flames.

“Run! Run! There’s more to blow!” somebody shouted. A pair of hands picked him up. He looked up into the face of the young British reporter Sampson.

“Go on, old man! Get out of here! Run for your bloody life.” Levitsky ran around the side of the big house and through the orchard. Behind him, there was another detonation.

He turned into a gully and began a little jog down the creek bed. The mountains in the distance were cool and white and beautiful.

“¿Amigo?”

A man in a trenchcoat stepped from behind the trees. He had an automatic.

“Comrade Amigo. Manos arriba, ¿eh?”
said the man smilingly, gesturing for Levitsky to raise his hands.

“No hablo,”
protested Levitsky blandly.

The man smiled and relaxed as he came near and seemed to lower the pistol, and Levitsky knew this meant he was about to hit him. When the man lashed out suddenly with the pistol, meaning to crack Levitsky sharply across the cheekbone, Levitsky broke the blow with one hand and with the other struck upward, driving the crucifix nail into the man’s throat.

The man fell back, gasping, his eyes filled with stunned astonishment that such an old fool could hurt him so terribly. The pistol fell into the dust. The man went to his knees, trying to hold the blood into his throat with his hands. He tried to cry out but couldn’t. He tried to rise, but couldn’t.

Levitsky knelt next to him and carefully placed the point of the nail into the ear canal, and plunged it inward. With a convulsion, the man died. Levitsky quickly plucked his papers from the breast pocket, finding him to be one Franco Ruiz, according to a SIM identity card. He pulled the body into the brush and picked up the pistol, a short-barreled .380 Colt automatic. He hurried down the creek bed, finding himself surprisingly impressed with Comrade Bolodin. The American was smart, yes, he was. He’d found him, and with a better man than Franco Ruiz, he would have taken him.

Night was falling as Levitsky hurried along the creek bed. He almost froze. He had no exact idea where he was headed other than east, away from La Granja. He shivered as the cold rose to penetrate his coat. The creek bed crossed under a country road after a while, and he chose the road, his feet acquiring an urgency that seemed almost involuntary. On either side in the twilight, the empty fields fell away, their crops unharvested, their
farmers driven away. Several miles off a shell or a bomb exploded and now and then came the crackle of shots outside Huesca, but otherwise there was no sign of war in the strange, empty stillness of the land. The Pyrenees off on the left had become indistinct, a wall. Beyond them lay France, and freedom.