Winter of the World (35 page)

‘I’m illiterate,’ said Dave, who was not.

‘Me, too,’ said Joe Eli, who taught Spanish literature at Columbia University in New York.

Teresa spoke in Spanish. Her voice was low and calm and very sexy. ‘How many times do you think I have heard this joke?’ she said, but she did not seem very cross.

Lenny moved closer. ‘I’m Sergeant Griffiths,’ he said. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you, of course.’ His words were practical, but his tone of voice made
them sound like an amorous invitation.

She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘That would be most helpful,’ she said.

Lloyd spoke formally to her in his best Spanish. ‘I’m so very glad you’re here, Señorita.’ He had spent much of the last ten months studying the language. ‘I
am Lieutenant Williams. I can tell you exactly which members of the group require lessons . . . and which do not.’

Lenny said dismissively: ‘But the lieutenant has to go to Bujaraloz to get our orders.’ Bujaraloz was the small town where government forces had set up headquarters. ‘Perhaps
you and I should look around here for a suitable place to hold classes.’ He might have been suggesting a walk in the moonlight.

Lloyd smiled and nodded agreement. He was happy to let Lenny romance Teresa. He himself was in no mood for flirting, whereas Lenny seemed in love already. In Lloyd’s opinion Lenny’s
chances were close to zero. Teresa was an educated twenty-five-year-old who probably got a dozen propositions a day, and Lenny was a seventeen-year-old coal miner who had not taken a bath for a
month. But he said nothing: Teresa seemed capable of looking after herself.

A new figure appeared, a man of Lloyd’s age who looked vaguely familiar. He was dressed better than the soldiers, in wool breeches and a cotton shirt, and had a handgun in a buttoned
holster. His hair was cut so short that it looked like stubble, a style favoured by Russians. He was only a lieutenant, but had an air of authority, even power. He said in fluent German: ‘I
am looking for Lieutenant Garcia.’

‘He’s not here,’ said Lloyd in the same language. ‘Where have you and I met before?’

The Russian seemed shocked and irritated at the same time, like one who finds a snake in his bedroll. ‘We have never met,’ he said firmly. ‘You are mistaken.’

Lloyd snapped his fingers. ‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘Nineteen thirty-three. We were attacked by Brownshirts.’

A look of relief came briefly over the man’s face, as if he had been expecting something worse. ‘Yes, I was there,’ he said. ‘My name is Vladimir Peshkov.’

‘But we called you Volodya.’

‘Yes.’

‘At that scrap in Berlin you were with a boy called Werner Franck.’

Volodya looked panicked for a moment, then hid his feelings with an effort. ‘I know no one of that name.’

Lloyd decided not to press the point. He could guess why Volodya was jumpy. The Russians were as terrified as everyone else of their secret police, the NKVD, who were operating in Spain and had
a reputation for brutality. To them, any Russian who was friendly with foreigners might be a traitor. ‘I’m Lloyd Williams.’

‘I do remember.’ Volodya looked at him with a penetrating blue-eyed stare. ‘How strange that we should meet again here.’

‘Not so strange, really,’ Lloyd said. ‘We fight the Fascists wherever we can.’

‘Can I have a quiet word?’

‘Of course.’

They walked a few yards away from the others. Peshkov said: ‘There is a spy in Garcia’s platoon.’

Lloyd was astonished. ‘A spy? Who?’

‘A German called Heinz Bauer.’

‘Why, that’s him in the red shirt. A spy? Are you sure?’

Peshkov did not bother to answer that question. ‘I’d like you to summon him to your dugout, if you have one, or some other private place.’ Peshkov looked at his wristwatch.
‘In one hour, an arrest unit will be here to pick him up.’

‘I’m using that little shed as my office,’ said Lloyd, pointing. ‘But I need to speak to my commanding officer about this.’ The C.O. was a Communist, and unlikely
to interfere, but Lloyd wanted time to think.

‘If you wish.’ Volodya clearly did not care what Lloyd’s commanding officer thought. ‘I want the spy taken quietly, without any fuss. I have explained to the arrest unit
the importance of discretion.’ He sounded as if he was not sure his wishes would be obeyed. ‘The fewer people who know, the better.’

‘Why?’ said Lloyd, but before Volodya could reply he figured out the answer for himself. ‘You’re hoping to turn him into a double agent, sending misleading reports to the
enemy. But, if too many people know he has been caught, then other spies may warn the rebels, and they will not believe the disinformation.’

‘It is better not to speculate about such matters,’ Peshkov said severely. ‘Now let us go to your shed.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Lloyd. ‘How do you know he is a spy?’

‘I can’t tell you without compromising security.’

‘That’s a bit unsatisfactory.’

Peshkov looked exasperated. Clearly he was not used to being told that his explanations were unsatisfactory. Discussion of orders was a feature of the Spanish Civil War that the Russians
particularly detested.

Before Peshkov could say anything further, two more men appeared and approached the group under the tree. One of the newcomers wore a leather jacket despite the heat. The other, who seemed to be
in charge, was a scrawny man with a long nose and a receding chin.

Peshkov let out an exclamation of anger. ‘Too early!’ he said, then he called out something indignant in Russian.

The scrawny man made a dismissive gesture. In rough Spanish he said: ‘Which one is Heinz Bauer?’

No one answered. The scrawny man wiped the end of his nose with his sleeve.

Then Heinz moved. He did not immediately flee, but cannoned into the man in the leather jacket, knocking him down. Then he dashed away – but the scrawny man stuck out a leg and tripped him
up.

Heinz fell hard, his body skidding on the dry soil. He lay stunned – only for a moment, but it was a moment too long. As he got to his knees the two men pounced on him and knocked him down
again.

He lay still, but all the same they started to beat him up. They drew wooden clubs. Standing either side of him they took turns to hit his head and body, raising their arms above their heads and
striking down in a vicious ballet. In a few seconds there was blood all over Heinz’s face. He tried desperately to escape, but when he got to his knees they pushed him down again. Then he
curled up in a ball, whimpering. He was clearly finished, but they were not. They clubbed the helpless man again and again.

Lloyd found himself shouting a protest and pulling the scrawny man off. Lenny did the same to the other one. Lloyd grabbed his man in a bear hug and lifted him; Lenny knocked his man to the
ground. Then Lloyd heard Volodya say in English: ‘Stand still, or I’ll shoot!’

Lloyd let go of his man and turned, incredulous. Volodya had drawn his sidearm, a standard-issue Russian Nagant M1895 revolver, and cocked it. ‘Threatening an officer with a weapon is a
court-martial offence in every army in the world,’ Lloyd said. ‘You’re in deep trouble, Volodya.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Volodya. ‘When was the last time a Russian was in trouble in this army?’ But he lowered the gun.

The man in the leather jacket raised his club as if to hit Lenny, but Volodya barked: ‘Back off, Berezovsky!’ and the man obeyed.

Other soldiers appeared, drawn by the mysterious magnetism that attracts men to a fight, and in seconds there were twenty of them.

The scrawny man pointed a finger at Lloyd. Speaking English with a heavy accent, he said: ‘You have interfered in matters that do not concern you!’

Lloyd helped Heinz to his feet. He was groaning in pain and covered in blood.

‘You people can’t just march in and start beating people up!’ Lloyd said to the scrawny man. ‘Where’s your authority?’

‘This German is a Trotsky-Fascist spy!’ the man screeched.

Volodya said: ‘Shut up, Ilya.’

Ilya took no notice. ‘He has been photographing documents!’ he said.

‘Where is your evidence?’ Lloyd said calmly.

Ilya clearly did not know or care about the evidence. But Volodya sighed and said: ‘Look in his kitbag.’

Lloyd nodded to Mario Rivera, a corporal. ‘Go and check,’ he said.

Corporal Rivera ran to the boathouse and disappeared inside.

But Lloyd had a dreadful feeling Volodya was telling the truth. He said: ‘Even if you’re right, Ilya, you could use a little courtesy.’

Ilya said: ‘Courtesy? This is a war, not an English tea party.’

‘It might save you from getting into unnecessary fights.’

Ilya said something contemptuous in Russian.

Rivera emerged from the building carrying a small, expensive-looking camera and a sheaf of official papers. He showed them to Lloyd. The top document was yesterday’s general order for
deployment of troops ahead of the coming assault. The paper bore a wine stain of familiar shape, and Lloyd realized with a shock that it was his own copy, and must have been purloined from his
shed.

He looked at Heinz, who straightened, gave the Fascist salute, and said: ‘
Heil Hitler!
’

Ilya looked triumphant.

Volodya said: ‘Well, Ilya, you have now ruined the prisoner’s value as a double agent. Another coup for the NKVD. Congratulations.’ And he walked off.

(iii)

Lloyd went into battle for the first time on Tuesday 24 August.

His side, the elected government, had 80,000 men. The antidemocratic rebels had fewer than half that. The government also had two hundred aircraft against the rebels’ fifteen.

To make the most of this superiority, the government advanced over a wide front, a north–south line sixty miles long, so that the rebels could not concentrate their limited numbers.

It was a good plan – so why, Lloyd asked himself two days later, was it not working?

It had started well enough. On the first day, the government had taken two villages north of Saragossa and two to the south. Lloyd’s group, in the south, had overcome fierce resistance to
take a village called Codo. The only failure was the central push, up the river valley, which had stalled at a place called Fuentes de Ebro.

Before the battle, Lloyd had been scared, and he spent the night awake, imagining what was to come, as he sometimes did before a boxing match. But once the fighting started he was too busy to
worry. The worst moment was advancing across the barren scrubland, with no cover but stunted bushes, while the defenders fired from inside stone buildings. Even then, what he had felt was not fear
but a kind of desperate cunning, zigzagging as he ran, crawling and rolling when the bullets came too near, then getting up and running, bent double, a few more yards. The main problem was shortage
of ammunition: they had to make every shot count. They took Codo by force of numbers, and Lloyd, Lenny and Dave ended the day unhurt.

The rebels were tough and brave – but so were the government forces. The foreign brigades were made up of idealistic volunteers who had come to Spain knowing they might have to give their
lives. Because of their reputation for courage they were often chosen to spearhead attacks.

The assault began to go wrong on the second day. The northern forces had stayed put, reluctant to advance because of lack of intelligence about rebel defences – a feeble excuse, Lloyd
thought. The central group still could not take Fuentes de Ebro, despite being reinforced on the third day, and Lloyd was appalled to hear that they had lost nearly all their tanks to devastating
defensive fire. In the south, Lloyd’s group, instead of pushing forward, was directed to make a sideways move, to the riverside village of Quinto. Once again, they had to overcome determined
defenders in house-to-house fighting. When the enemy surrendered, Lloyd’s group took a thousand prisoners.

Now Lloyd sat in the evening light outside a church that had been wrecked by artillery fire, surrounded by the smoking ruins of houses and the strangely still bodies of the recently dead. A
group of exhausted men gathered around him: Lenny, Dave, Joe Eli, Corporal Rivera, and a Welshman called Muggsy Morgan. There were so many Welshmen in Spain that someone had made up a limerick
poking fun at the similarity in their names:

The men were smoking, waiting quietly to see whether there would be any dinner, too weary even to banter with Teresa, who was, remarkably, still with them, as the transport due
to take her to the rear had failed to appear. They could hear occasional bursts of shooting as mopping-up continued a few streets away.

‘What have we gained?’ Lloyd said to Dave. ‘We used scarce ammunition, we lost a lot of men, and we’re no farther forward. Worse, we’ve given the Fascists time to
bring up reinforcements.’

‘I can tell you the fucking reason,’ Dave said in his East End accent. His soul had hardened even more than his body, and he had become cynical and contemptuous. ‘Our officers
are more afraid of their commissars than of the fucking enemy. At the least excuse they can be branded as Trotsky-Fascist spies and tortured to death, so they’re terrified of sticking their
necks out. They’d rather sit still than move, they won’t do anything on their own initiative, and they never take risks. I bet they don’t shit without an order in
writing.’

Lloyd wondered whether Dave’s scornful analysis was right. The Communists never ceased to talk about the need for a disciplined army with a clear chain of command. By that they meant an
army following Russian orders, but, all the same, Lloyd saw their point. However, too much discipline could stifle thinking. Was that what was going wrong?

Lloyd did not want to believe it. Surely Social Democrats, Communists and anarchists could fight in a common cause without one group tyrannizing the others: they all hated Fascism, and they all
believed in a future society that was fairer to everyone.