waiting for him at the border which would take him to Germany, where he would join other IRA men, including Frank Ryan. From there they would plan an invasion of Ireland ( Operation Dove ) which would synchronise with the Führer’s planned onslaught on Britain ( Operation Sealion ). Patrick’s role was to go to Burgos prison and brief MacSuibhne about the plan.
Patrick knew that while de Valera (who was acting as both foreign minister and taoiseach) might go along with a simulated escape, he would not accept an invasion of Ireland, firstly because he had declared Ireland’s neutrality in the event of Britain’s war with Germany, and secondly because the IRA had already been proscribed in Ireland.
I find a second letter which my mother wrote to Patrick, again pleading with him to attempt to save Gearóid’s life.
On the journey to Burgos the embassy driver, Javier Jiménez, hardly spoke a word. Patrick records how he frequently went into sulks as a way of expressing disapproval of what they were trying to do. ‘He is a fascist at heart and dangerous in more ways than one.’
Patrick describes the prison:
As the prison door was pushed open by a guardia civil, a shaft of sunlight, like a search light, pierced the dark cell seeking signs of life. A cough was heard before anyone could be seen. I heard a rustling sound and looked down on the dirty straw floor to see two bodies crawling like reptiles towards me. The guard banged the door closed and brandished an oil lamp. There was no window or ventilation in the room. The smell was nauseating. G lay before me, bearded, unkempt with a wild look in his eyes. His left leg was in a splint. I wondered was F making a mockery of us by having a leg of the ‘escapee’ broken.
He recognised me instantly. ‘I can’t run anymore,’ he said in Irish.
The other man was small and thin and coughed frequently.
‘His name is Jesús,’ said MacSuibhne. ‘There is more than one Jesus in Spain, you know?’
I looked closely at the Spaniard. At first I thought it was dirt, but as my eyes adjusted to the light, I realised it was congealed blood which clung to the wrists of Jesús.
G, refusing to speak in English, started to ridicule me, alleging that I wasn’t a real man. I don’t think he realised how deeply those words plunged. He said that I was nothing more than a lackey dressed up like a peacock, that diplomats were traitors, that they failed to secure the thirty two counties. G hurls words like grenades; there can be no hiding, no nuances, no ambiguities with him. His sort of nationalism is transparent, but I’m at a loss to know what drives him. What holds up his part of the sky? Is he an anarchist or a patriot, or some sort of Utopian socialist or a Robin Hood? How can ideology be so strong in such conditions? Are such men as G fundamentally different from religious martyrs?
The soul condemns the body.
***
Diplomacy involves engagement with realpolitik , with subterfuge and secrecy. It is cold and subterranean. It shrivels beside the high flames of idealism.
Nevertheless, Patrick Foley, diplomat, persevered in the weaving of words.
I told G that I was merely a clerk who talked to other clerks. However, it was only when I explained how recognition of a country’s embassies played a vital role in managing to get international recognition for our fledgling state, that he began at last to converse seriously with me. He told me that, unlike him, I wasn’t putting myself in danger, and that he was here to gain recognition for an international republican brotherhood. I told him I was here because my wife (mo bhean) interceded on his behalf.
‘Do bhean?’ he said and grinned.
For years I’ve listened in silence to the raucous ridiculing of the cuckold – the butt of many jokes here in Spain – and now my fears are being compounded in the presence of this man.
***
Patrick Foley was puzzled, not by the courage, but by what he calls the ‘effrontery’ of
Patrick knew that while de Valera (who was acting as both foreign minister and taoiseach) might go along with a simulated escape, he would not accept an invasion of Ireland, firstly because he had declared Ireland’s neutrality in the event of Britain’s war with Germany, and secondly because the IRA had already been proscribed in Ireland.
I find a second letter which my mother wrote to Patrick, again pleading with him to attempt to save Gearóid’s life.
On the journey to Burgos the embassy driver, Javier Jiménez, hardly spoke a word. Patrick records how he frequently went into sulks as a way of expressing disapproval of what they were trying to do. ‘He is a fascist at heart and dangerous in more ways than one.’
Patrick describes the prison:
As the prison door was pushed open by a guardia civil, a shaft of sunlight, like a search light, pierced the dark cell seeking signs of life. A cough was heard before anyone could be seen. I heard a rustling sound and looked down on the dirty straw floor to see two bodies crawling like reptiles towards me. The guard banged the door closed and brandished an oil lamp. There was no window or ventilation in the room. The smell was nauseating. G lay before me, bearded, unkempt with a wild look in his eyes. His left leg was in a splint. I wondered was F making a mockery of us by having a leg of the ‘escapee’ broken.
He recognised me instantly. ‘I can’t run anymore,’ he said in Irish.
The other man was small and thin and coughed frequently.
‘His name is Jesús,’ said MacSuibhne. ‘There is more than one Jesus in Spain, you know?’
I looked closely at the Spaniard. At first I thought it was dirt, but as my eyes adjusted to the light, I realised it was congealed blood which clung to the wrists of Jesús.
G, refusing to speak in English, started to ridicule me, alleging that I wasn’t a real man. I don’t think he realised how deeply those words plunged. He said that I was nothing more than a lackey dressed up like a peacock, that diplomats were traitors, that they failed to secure the thirty two counties. G hurls words like grenades; there can be no hiding, no nuances, no ambiguities with him. His sort of nationalism is transparent, but I’m at a loss to know what drives him. What holds up his part of the sky? Is he an anarchist or a patriot, or some sort of Utopian socialist or a Robin Hood? How can ideology be so strong in such conditions? Are such men as G fundamentally different from religious martyrs?
The soul condemns the body.
***
Diplomacy involves engagement with realpolitik , with subterfuge and secrecy. It is cold and subterranean. It shrivels beside the high flames of idealism.
Nevertheless, Patrick Foley, diplomat, persevered in the weaving of words.
I told G that I was merely a clerk who talked to other clerks. However, it was only when I explained how recognition of a country’s embassies played a vital role in managing to get international recognition for our fledgling state, that he began at last to converse seriously with me. He told me that, unlike him, I wasn’t putting myself in danger, and that he was here to gain recognition for an international republican brotherhood. I told him I was here because my wife (mo bhean) interceded on his behalf.
‘Do bhean?’ he said and grinned.
For years I’ve listened in silence to the raucous ridiculing of the cuckold – the butt of many jokes here in Spain – and now my fears are being compounded in the presence of this man.
***
Patrick Foley was puzzled, not by the courage, but by what he calls the ‘effrontery’ of
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