Read Online Waiting for Robert Capa by Susana Fortes - Free Book Online
Authors: Susana Fortes
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to appear as he wasnât. Behind which mask was he hiding? Which was he? The happy bohemian and seducer or the lonely man who could sometimes fall into silence on the other side of a collapsing bridge? âIâm nothing, nothing.â Gerta remembered how he told her this near the edge of the Seine. He used his fragility to hide his pride. Perhaps all his charm was rooted in his ability to pretend: in the shyness he instinctively hid his courage within, his way of smiling, or shrugging his shoulders, as if nothing was wrong, when in reality he was furious. So many contradictions: his blazer hanging open, those strong hands, his worldly air, and that rare ingenuity of an obedient child when he allowed someone to counsel him on his wardrobe. But that costume game brought results. If it wasnât for that respectable new image that wearing a jacket and tie gave him, Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung magazine would never have given him that assignment he was now on in Spain. At first he was hesitant about accepting the offer, because the magazine, like all German publications, found itself part of Goebbelsâs iron-fisted propaganda machine. But he wasnât exactly in a position to be able to choose or reject his projects. All he was asked to do was interview the Basque boxer Paulino Uzcudun, scheduled to fight the German heavyweight champion Max Schmeling in an upcoming match in Berlin.
Andréâs fascination with Spain was instantaneous. There were days when he returned to his pensión , and as big as he was, heâd throw himself on the bed listening to La Niña de Marchena or to Pepita Ramos, and it reminded him of home. The country reminded him a great deal of Hungary, those rowdy streets, the tavern scene with its strings of garlic hanging from the ceilings, wineskins filled with red wine, stages for flamenco ⦠The Gypsy within him did not hold back. He joined right in, taking portraits of those around him with such a penetrating intensity it was as if he were trying to rob them of their souls. When he was finished with his sports assignment in San Sebastián, he continued onto Madrid to cover the huge protest on April 14, the fourth anniversary of the Republicâs proclamation. There was a charge in the air, and André could feel the tension in the streets. How they hated the Confederación Española de Derechas Autónomas (CEDA), the right-wing coalition that, less than a year ago, government-led, had launched an attack on the miners rebellion in Asturias. The wounds were still fresh, but the political issue did not stop the Spaniards from celebrating their holidays and religious festivals as they wished. Sevillaâs Holy Week, for instance, where André had arrived by train, along with a thousand other visitors, to soak up the imagery: women with mantillas and pinned carnations cheering on the passage of Jesús del Gran Poder, singing songs of devotion to all the passing brotherhoods, the Nazarenos dressed as Ku Klux Klan, zigzagging through the narrow streets and the firecracker smoke until dawn. He had never imagined a festival where the sacred and the profane were so intertwined. Observing it all objectively, with a look that still hadnât been fully adjusted, still a bit raw and superficial but forming a new layer of skin to it all: dancers in frilly dresses stomping furiously in the April wind, young men on horseback, Premier Alejandro Lerroux touring the city in a carriage whose horses were adorned à la Andalucia , fun-loving drunks, tourists, cats perched on undulating tin-plated rooftops. An old man in his doorway sharpening a knife, next to him a small bundle covered in cloth with an opening on one side revealing the dark-skinned little face of a sleeping Gypsy girl. The war was about to begin.
âYou have to experience this country,â he wrote Gerta in a letter, not knowing that in a short while sheâd be traveling through it, under fire from
Andréâs fascination with Spain was instantaneous. There were days when he returned to his pensión , and as big as he was, heâd throw himself on the bed listening to La Niña de Marchena or to Pepita Ramos, and it reminded him of home. The country reminded him a great deal of Hungary, those rowdy streets, the tavern scene with its strings of garlic hanging from the ceilings, wineskins filled with red wine, stages for flamenco ⦠The Gypsy within him did not hold back. He joined right in, taking portraits of those around him with such a penetrating intensity it was as if he were trying to rob them of their souls. When he was finished with his sports assignment in San Sebastián, he continued onto Madrid to cover the huge protest on April 14, the fourth anniversary of the Republicâs proclamation. There was a charge in the air, and André could feel the tension in the streets. How they hated the Confederación Española de Derechas Autónomas (CEDA), the right-wing coalition that, less than a year ago, government-led, had launched an attack on the miners rebellion in Asturias. The wounds were still fresh, but the political issue did not stop the Spaniards from celebrating their holidays and religious festivals as they wished. Sevillaâs Holy Week, for instance, where André had arrived by train, along with a thousand other visitors, to soak up the imagery: women with mantillas and pinned carnations cheering on the passage of Jesús del Gran Poder, singing songs of devotion to all the passing brotherhoods, the Nazarenos dressed as Ku Klux Klan, zigzagging through the narrow streets and the firecracker smoke until dawn. He had never imagined a festival where the sacred and the profane were so intertwined. Observing it all objectively, with a look that still hadnât been fully adjusted, still a bit raw and superficial but forming a new layer of skin to it all: dancers in frilly dresses stomping furiously in the April wind, young men on horseback, Premier Alejandro Lerroux touring the city in a carriage whose horses were adorned à la Andalucia , fun-loving drunks, tourists, cats perched on undulating tin-plated rooftops. An old man in his doorway sharpening a knife, next to him a small bundle covered in cloth with an opening on one side revealing the dark-skinned little face of a sleeping Gypsy girl. The war was about to begin.
âYou have to experience this country,â he wrote Gerta in a letter, not knowing that in a short while sheâd be traveling through it, under fire from
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