had.
Then they were in the rich northern suburbs. From the look of the elegant houses the Civil War might never have happened. ‘Does the ambassador live out here?’ Harry asked.
‘No, Sir Sam lives in the Castellana.’ Tolhurst laughed. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. He’s next door to the German ambassador.’
Harry turned, open-mouthed. ‘But we’re at war!’
‘Spain’s “non-belligerent”. But it’s crawling with Germans, the scum are all over the place. The German embassy here’s the largest in the world. We don’t speak to them, of course.’
‘How did the ambassador end up next door to the Germans?’
‘Only big house available. He makes a joke of glaring at von Stohrer over the garden wall.’
They drove on into the town centre. Most of the buildings were unpainted and even more dilapidated than Harry remembered, though once many must have been grand. There were posters everywhere, Franco and the yoke-and-arrows symbol of the Falange. Most people were shabbily dressed, even more than he remembered, many looking thin and tired. Men in overalls with scrawny weather-beaten faces walked by, and women in black shawls, patched and mended. Even the barefoot skinny children playing in the dusty gutters had pinched watchful faces. Harry had half expected to see military parades and Falangist rallies like in the newsreels, but the city was quieter than he had known it, as well as dingier. He saw priests and nuns among the passers-by; they were back, too, like the
civiles
. The few wealthier-looking men wore jackets and hats despite the heat.
Harry turned to Tolhurst. ‘When I was here in ’37 wearing a jacket and hat on a hot day was illegal. Bourgeois affectation.’
‘You’re not allowed to go out
without
a jacket now, not if you’re wearing a shirt. Point to remember.’
The trams were running but there were few cars and they weaved their way among donkey carts and bicycles. Harry jerked round in amazement as a familiar shape caught his eye, a hooked black cross.
‘Did you see that? The bloody swastika’s flying beside the Spanish flag on that building!’
Tolhurst nodded. ‘Have to get used to that. It’s not just swastikas – the Germans run the police and the press. Franco makes no secret he wants the Nazis to win. Now, look over there.’
They had stopped at an intersection. Harry noticed a trio of colourfully dressed girls wearing thick make-up. They caught his glance and smiled, turning their heads provocatively.
‘There are tarts everywhere. You have to be very careful, most of them have the clap and some are government spies. Embassy staff aren’t allowed near them.’
A pith-helmeted traffic policeman waved them on. ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’ Harry asked.
Tolhurst ran a hand through his yellow hair, making it stick up. ‘God knows. It’s a terrible atmosphere; the newspapers and radio are wildly pro-German. Himmler’s coming on a state visit next week. But you just have to carry on as normal, as much as you can.’ He blew out his cheeks and smiled ruefully. ‘But most people keep a suitcase packed, in case we have to get out in a hurry. Oh, I say, there’s a gasogene!’
He pointed to where a big old Renault was puttering along, slower than the donkey carts. Fixed to the back was what looked like a large squat boiler, clouds of smoke pouring from a little chimney. Pipes led under the car from the thing. The driver, a middle-aged bourgeois, ignored stares from the pavement as people stopped to look. A tram clattered by hooting and he swerved wildly to avoid it, the unwieldy vehicle almost teetering over.
‘What the hell was that?’ Harry asked.
‘Spain’s revolutionary answer to the petrol shortage. Uses coal or wood instead of petrol. OK unless you want to go uphill. The French have them too, I hear. Not much chance of the Germans being after that design.’
Harry studied the crowd. A few people were smiling at the bizarre
Then they were in the rich northern suburbs. From the look of the elegant houses the Civil War might never have happened. ‘Does the ambassador live out here?’ Harry asked.
‘No, Sir Sam lives in the Castellana.’ Tolhurst laughed. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. He’s next door to the German ambassador.’
Harry turned, open-mouthed. ‘But we’re at war!’
‘Spain’s “non-belligerent”. But it’s crawling with Germans, the scum are all over the place. The German embassy here’s the largest in the world. We don’t speak to them, of course.’
‘How did the ambassador end up next door to the Germans?’
‘Only big house available. He makes a joke of glaring at von Stohrer over the garden wall.’
They drove on into the town centre. Most of the buildings were unpainted and even more dilapidated than Harry remembered, though once many must have been grand. There were posters everywhere, Franco and the yoke-and-arrows symbol of the Falange. Most people were shabbily dressed, even more than he remembered, many looking thin and tired. Men in overalls with scrawny weather-beaten faces walked by, and women in black shawls, patched and mended. Even the barefoot skinny children playing in the dusty gutters had pinched watchful faces. Harry had half expected to see military parades and Falangist rallies like in the newsreels, but the city was quieter than he had known it, as well as dingier. He saw priests and nuns among the passers-by; they were back, too, like the
civiles
. The few wealthier-looking men wore jackets and hats despite the heat.
Harry turned to Tolhurst. ‘When I was here in ’37 wearing a jacket and hat on a hot day was illegal. Bourgeois affectation.’
‘You’re not allowed to go out
without
a jacket now, not if you’re wearing a shirt. Point to remember.’
The trams were running but there were few cars and they weaved their way among donkey carts and bicycles. Harry jerked round in amazement as a familiar shape caught his eye, a hooked black cross.
‘Did you see that? The bloody swastika’s flying beside the Spanish flag on that building!’
Tolhurst nodded. ‘Have to get used to that. It’s not just swastikas – the Germans run the police and the press. Franco makes no secret he wants the Nazis to win. Now, look over there.’
They had stopped at an intersection. Harry noticed a trio of colourfully dressed girls wearing thick make-up. They caught his glance and smiled, turning their heads provocatively.
‘There are tarts everywhere. You have to be very careful, most of them have the clap and some are government spies. Embassy staff aren’t allowed near them.’
A pith-helmeted traffic policeman waved them on. ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’ Harry asked.
Tolhurst ran a hand through his yellow hair, making it stick up. ‘God knows. It’s a terrible atmosphere; the newspapers and radio are wildly pro-German. Himmler’s coming on a state visit next week. But you just have to carry on as normal, as much as you can.’ He blew out his cheeks and smiled ruefully. ‘But most people keep a suitcase packed, in case we have to get out in a hurry. Oh, I say, there’s a gasogene!’
He pointed to where a big old Renault was puttering along, slower than the donkey carts. Fixed to the back was what looked like a large squat boiler, clouds of smoke pouring from a little chimney. Pipes led under the car from the thing. The driver, a middle-aged bourgeois, ignored stares from the pavement as people stopped to look. A tram clattered by hooting and he swerved wildly to avoid it, the unwieldy vehicle almost teetering over.
‘What the hell was that?’ Harry asked.
‘Spain’s revolutionary answer to the petrol shortage. Uses coal or wood instead of petrol. OK unless you want to go uphill. The French have them too, I hear. Not much chance of the Germans being after that design.’
Harry studied the crowd. A few people were smiling at the bizarre
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