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Authors: Alex Rosenberg
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bordellos, sending men south toward the Ebro. More and more of those who could get out—the wealthy, freemasons, loyal naval and air force officers—were leaving for France.
Gil picked a newspaper off the bar. The Nationalists—Franco’s troops, including Italians and Germans—had finally cut off Cataluña from Madrid. Meanwhile, on Moscow’s orders, the Catalan government was rounding up anyone who didn’t accept the discipline of the Spanish Communist Party. The last remnant of the POUM leadership—the left opposition—were all put up against a wall and liquidated. It was the sort of reaction to disaster Gil had come to expect. Lose another battle; blame it on the motley conspiracy of Trotskyites, anarchists, utopian socialists, and others who could never take Comintern orders—Stalin’s orders. Matters were dealt with by the Spanish Communist Party’s version of the Soviet secret police. In fact, they had help from the real one—the NKVD, more efficient in dealing with enemies on the left.
As he was about to leave, Dr. Marti passed along the open front of the café, smiled at him, stopped, and came into the glow of the bar. “May I join you?”
It was a rare occasion. Gil smiled. “What can I buy you?”
“You can get me anything but a sangria.” He was using the familiar tu, and Gil noticed immediately. It was the first time in a year Marti had been friendly. He decided to take advantage of the moment.
“Dr. Marti—”
“Call me Marti. That’s what friends do, Romero.” He smiled as he made his point.
“ Molt be .” He hoped the Catalan carried the same meaning as the Spanish muy bien . “I was about to ask if you were a party member. I assume so, since you are director of a city hospital.”
“I am indeed. Fully paid up.”
“But if you’ll excuse me, it’s obvious you’re not loyal to the party. You hired me instead of sending me to the barracks or even having me arrested. You’ve helped me cover my tracks.”
“You’re a good doctor. And I am a poor Stalinist. In fact, I am no communist at all. But I would have lost my post if I hadn’t joined. And you?” Marti’s frankness was more than disarming. It was dangerous. An admission like that could cost him his position, or much worse.
Gil wondered, Is he trying to smoke me out? Surely not. He already knows enough to sell me to the NKVD or their Spanish acolytes. He decided to be cautious.
“I am some kind of Marxist, or at least a dialectical materialist, and that’s enough. I won’t take sides in parochial disputes on the left.”
Marti looked at him. “Dialectical materialism? You are a doctor, a scientist. You can’t accept that mumbo jumbo.” He drank off half his beer, looked at Gil, and continued. “The only part of dialectical materialism that’s right is the materialism part.” The thought had a faint echo in Gil’s memories of Paris. Gil said nothing. He wasn’t going to tip his hand, take sides, give hostages to fortune. The silence hung between them.
“Well, if you are not going to be straight with me, joven , I’m off.” Marti raised the glass of beer and then finished it off. “Good night.” Marti’s smile was genuine and left Gil even more perplexed.
By September things were falling apart for the Republic. First there was the pointless offensive on the River Ebro by a Republican army that fought well only when defending. Gil recalled its victory in the battle of Madrid. The Fascist general, Mola, besieging the city, claimed to have four columns outside and a fifth column within. But the Republican army had succeeded in resisting encirclement for three years. It was fighting on the offense that seemed to be beyond them. Now, losing on the Ebro front, the Republican government premier , Negrin, unilaterally withdrew his best soldiers, the International Brigades, from the war altogether. And he invited the fascists to send their “volunteers” away. Why? Gil could only laugh out loud. Did
Gil picked a newspaper off the bar. The Nationalists—Franco’s troops, including Italians and Germans—had finally cut off Cataluña from Madrid. Meanwhile, on Moscow’s orders, the Catalan government was rounding up anyone who didn’t accept the discipline of the Spanish Communist Party. The last remnant of the POUM leadership—the left opposition—were all put up against a wall and liquidated. It was the sort of reaction to disaster Gil had come to expect. Lose another battle; blame it on the motley conspiracy of Trotskyites, anarchists, utopian socialists, and others who could never take Comintern orders—Stalin’s orders. Matters were dealt with by the Spanish Communist Party’s version of the Soviet secret police. In fact, they had help from the real one—the NKVD, more efficient in dealing with enemies on the left.
As he was about to leave, Dr. Marti passed along the open front of the café, smiled at him, stopped, and came into the glow of the bar. “May I join you?”
It was a rare occasion. Gil smiled. “What can I buy you?”
“You can get me anything but a sangria.” He was using the familiar tu, and Gil noticed immediately. It was the first time in a year Marti had been friendly. He decided to take advantage of the moment.
“Dr. Marti—”
“Call me Marti. That’s what friends do, Romero.” He smiled as he made his point.
“ Molt be .” He hoped the Catalan carried the same meaning as the Spanish muy bien . “I was about to ask if you were a party member. I assume so, since you are director of a city hospital.”
“I am indeed. Fully paid up.”
“But if you’ll excuse me, it’s obvious you’re not loyal to the party. You hired me instead of sending me to the barracks or even having me arrested. You’ve helped me cover my tracks.”
“You’re a good doctor. And I am a poor Stalinist. In fact, I am no communist at all. But I would have lost my post if I hadn’t joined. And you?” Marti’s frankness was more than disarming. It was dangerous. An admission like that could cost him his position, or much worse.
Gil wondered, Is he trying to smoke me out? Surely not. He already knows enough to sell me to the NKVD or their Spanish acolytes. He decided to be cautious.
“I am some kind of Marxist, or at least a dialectical materialist, and that’s enough. I won’t take sides in parochial disputes on the left.”
Marti looked at him. “Dialectical materialism? You are a doctor, a scientist. You can’t accept that mumbo jumbo.” He drank off half his beer, looked at Gil, and continued. “The only part of dialectical materialism that’s right is the materialism part.” The thought had a faint echo in Gil’s memories of Paris. Gil said nothing. He wasn’t going to tip his hand, take sides, give hostages to fortune. The silence hung between them.
“Well, if you are not going to be straight with me, joven , I’m off.” Marti raised the glass of beer and then finished it off. “Good night.” Marti’s smile was genuine and left Gil even more perplexed.
By September things were falling apart for the Republic. First there was the pointless offensive on the River Ebro by a Republican army that fought well only when defending. Gil recalled its victory in the battle of Madrid. The Fascist general, Mola, besieging the city, claimed to have four columns outside and a fifth column within. But the Republican army had succeeded in resisting encirclement for three years. It was fighting on the offense that seemed to be beyond them. Now, losing on the Ebro front, the Republican government premier , Negrin, unilaterally withdrew his best soldiers, the International Brigades, from the war altogether. And he invited the fascists to send their “volunteers” away. Why? Gil could only laugh out loud. Did
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