Jackfrom FREDERICK LUTZ
The Front
October 23, ‘37
Dear Shirley,
Another of your frequent and most welcome letters arrived today and
this afternoon I find the time to answer it.
Heard Langston Hughes last night; he spoke at one of our nearby
units–the Autoparque, which means the place where our Brigade trucks and cars are kept
and repaired. It was a most astonishing meeting; he read a number of his poems; explained
what he had in mind when he wrote each particular poem and asked for criticism. I thought
to myself before the thing started "Good God how will anything like poetry go off
with these hard-boiled chauffeurs and mechanics, and what sort of criticism can they
offer?" Well it astonished me as I said. The most remarkable speeches on the subject
of poetry were made by the comrades. And some said that they had never liked poetry before
and had scorned the people who read it and wrote it but they had ben moved by Hughes’s
reading. There was talk of "Love" and "Hate" and "Tears";
everyone was deeply affected and seemed to bare his heart at the meeting, and the most
reticent (not including me) spoke of their innermost feelings. I suppose it was because
the life of a soldier in wartime is so unnatural and emotionally starved that they were
moved the way they were.
Fredfrom MARY ROLFE
Friday, November 25, 1938
Dearest Leo [Hurwitz] and Janey [Dudley]:
The enclosed note was written after the first two bombings on
Wednesday—and I thought when I started that I could overcome the reaction of the
morning, but I had to stop. Now, though still a little limp and sickish, I can write of
the last two days with more or less ease.
The first raid, at about 10:30 A.M., came while two American soldados
and I were in a shop buying cigarette holders. The boys had come to Barcelona to buy some
trinkets for their girls and I went along with them to help them choose. The shop we were
in is some three or four blocks from the hotel and some six or seven blocks from where the
first bombs fell. The siren sounded just as we were paying our bill. We saw the people
hurrying along the Paseo de Gracia (our street) into sheltering doorways, or hugging the
walls. We stepped into a doorway, going out to look up when the anti-aircraft started and
I spotted three planes—enemy planes flying high, they looked minute. The guns were
hot on their trail and the boys pulled me back into the doorway because very often the
shrapnel casings of the aircraft shells fall and get you. As we got back to the doorway we
heard the bombs falling—and the boys made me crouch down, close to them with my head
buried in my arms. The sound of those bombs, and they sounded close (as we found later
they were) is hard to describe—crashing through the air as if to break the very air
itself, screeching and whining and then the contact as they hit their target—as if a
thousand wrecking crews were tearing down buildings at the same time. I wasn’t frightened
then, my mind was blank—I was concerned only with crouching down in the doorway. We
got up then and started walking to the hotel, the people in the streets came to life,
continuing to walk to wherever they had been going when the alarm sounded; we reached the
next corner to see a crowd of people pointing up at the sky and then a shout arose, and
cheering as our guns got one plane—it came down hurtling through the air head over
heels. We were excited, forgetting completely the bombs falling a minute before and we
hurried to the hotel to find Ed. We found him there, worried but relieved to see us.
Everyone talked about the downed plane—but soon life went on as usual. Soon we heard
the siren blow three times, meaning all’s well, the raid is over, and we went out
again—Ed, the two boys, Capa and I. We went to the Rambla—a long street in old
Barcelona (Barcelona was once a small village—the Rambla was its main street with
narrow, winding streets stretching on either side of it—and although the Rambla is
one thoroughfare it has various names—like Rambla de Flores, because of the numerous
flower vendors, etc.). We stepped in a shop where Ed and Capa bought some shirts, leaving
them there while one of the boys and I went on. We walked leisurely, looking in the
windows of the numerous shops in the twisting streets, stopping to buy some decorative
combs and finally going to a little antique shop stuck away in one of the little streets
where I had bought a locket some weeks ago. We found a necklace for his girl and again,
just as we were paying the bill, the siren started. This time we knew we were in danger
because this quarter had been often hit, the last time only a week and a half ago. We left
the shop, the boy with me starting to run, and so I ran too. But as I ran I could feel the
panic growing in me and I stopped him—"let’s follow the people here—they
know where the refugios are—we mustn’t run" I said. Meanwhile thoughts
raced furiously through my mind—"I mustn’t get panicky, I mustn’t be frightened.
I’ve got to be calm—if we reach the refugio in time, good—if we don’t there’s
nothing we can do about it—but we must not run—Ed will be worried about
me—I wish I could somehow let him know that we’ll be all right." We followed the
others coming out on the Rambla de Flores where we found two Metro stations (these, of
course, are used as refugios—although Barcelona is full of newly built,
completely safe refugios). We followed the others down to the subway—and I was
struck by the order and lack of hysteria. No one pushed or shoved—everyone was quiet,
composed—we all helped to get the kids down first—and soon we ourselves went
inside, going deep into the station and standing close to the wall. The people talked
together, played with some dogs who had come down with us, the children romped—these
people will never be crushed. Mussolini and Hitler, however much they bomb, will never
break the morale of these wonderful, courageous people. We heard the guns, the sound
reverberating in the tunnel, and again bombs falling. My friend and I talked in low
tones—about anything—I can’t remember now—we held each other’s hand and we
both tried hard not to tremble. Soon the lights were on—we could go out. As we came
up the stairs of the Metro we saw the puffs of smoke from the guns directly above us and
we knew the bombs had fallen close to us. (Three blocks from where we were—we found
out later). We walked home, both of us talking fast, but we walked slowly.
We found Ed and the other soldado looking for us frantically and
we all embraced in the street—it was like a reunion. "Sure, I feel
fine—don’t worry—I’ll be all right." We went in to lunch—and I got
through it somehow. It was when I went upstairs that the reaction began—that’s when I
had to stop the letter I began to you. I got a terrific stomachache—it doubled me up
for ten minutes, and when it was over I was exhausted and shaking as if I had just dug a
well or pounded rock. I was alone—Ed was writing his story at the Ministry. I tried
to read—but the letters danced before my eyes and so I put my book aside and just sat
in the chair—thinking—this is what the barbarians have been doing to the Spanish
people for two years; I had witnessed the ruthless murder of an innocent people because
fascism’s voracious appetite must be satisfied—I saw what I had been reading
about—the systematic terrorization of a people, by which the fascists hope to bring
them to their knees—and I saw the people reiterate the words of Pasionaria—which
by now have become part of their lives—"Better to die on one’s feet than to live
on one’s knees." Think what these murderous raids have done to the lives of these
people—to their nervous mechanisms—to their sanity. And what a heritage for the
kids! Here was I, coming from comparative freedom, well-fed, my nerves shattered by my
experience—and then think of the Spanish people who have lived through this horror
for two years.
But the bastards weren’t through with us. At seven o’clock they came
again—this time I watched from our window—saw the powerful lights cutting the
sky trying to locate the planes, saw the puffs of smoke from the guns and the flares going
up—and the welcome sound of our planes—our little chasers going after them.
Nothing excites the people as much as to see or hear our planes—they go wild with
excitement—shouting themselves hoarse—every single time they come. I was alone
when the siren sounded at 11:00. I watched only a little while this time—I threw
myself on the bed, too tired to undress, and just lay there, anger mounting—"the
bastards—the bastards," saying it over and over again until I could think no
longer. Ed came in a little after midnight, bringing the news that the Bank of Spain had
been hit in the first bombing, with an incomplete count of 40 dead, 124 wounded, mostly
women. We went to sleep finally—and then began the night—six times they came
over—the sirens shrieking each time—the guns furiously shooting—six raids
in the night—six times to create terror. [Herb] Matthews [New York Times
correspondent] came in to see us in the morning, telling us how each time he had awakened,
jotted down the time, and then tried to go to sleep again. There was no panic in the
hotel—but there was anger and hatred for the fascists. And then at 9:30 they came
again—to be driven off quickly.
When the siren sounded again—this time meaning release—we
went out, Matthews, [Robert] Capa [the photographer], Ed and I, to see the damage. We
found one building which had been hit in the second bombing—twisted and
mutilated—piles of broken glass and debris in front of it–a huge crater in front of
the doorway where the bomb had fallen—a water main cracked. Everywhere around the
building—all the houses had piles of glass and debris being swept out of
them—the concussion often creates terrific damage—in all the little streets off
that main street on which the building was had the little piles of broken glass and debris
lining them—the gutters were covered with brick and mortar. We drove on past the Bank
of Spain—the bomb had fallen right clean through it—we went down to the port
where huge craters showed where bombs had fallen, breaking water pipes; crews were
feverishly at work repairing the damage—there was no sign of panic or terror
anywhere—people went about their daily tasks, walked in the very spots where bombs
had fallen—sat in the cafes along the waterfront—sat on the benches along the
streets. We talked to one man (Ed wrote about him in his dispatch)—he told us most of
the people had spent the night in the refugios—thereby lessening the toll of
lives. He was calm when he told us about his demolished house—a smile on his face
when he told us he had been able to save his family and then the full proof of what these
people are made of when he said to us in farewell "I would invite you to my
house—but you see, it isn’t there anymore."
When I first walked into the streets of Barcelona I was amazed at what
I saw. When we read about Spain in the newspapers, articles, and books, we read of the
front, of cities bombed, and I came expecting to find a war-like—or what I thought
was war-like—atmosphere over everything and everybody. Here in Barcelona, the city
goes on living its life—shops do business, people work and sit in the cafes. When you
are in the city for a while you begin to see the effects of war. You see that there aren’t
many young men in the streets—and if there are they are in uniform, home on leave or
recovering from wounds. You see the wrecked buildings where bombs have fallen—and you
see the women and the kids, tattered, ragged, and hungry. But you see too that everywhere
are a people who are fighting for their lives, their country—the raised
fist which greets you in Salud is not just a gesture—it means life and liberty being
fought for and a greeting of solidarity with the democratic peoples of the world.
Barcelona is a beautiful city—surrounded by hills and mountains—an ever blue
sky—palm trees lining the broad avenues—a city which in peacetime must have been
a joy to live in. And the people—how can I tell you how wonderful they are—how
truly a beautiful people the Spanish are. They are an intelligent people and an
understanding people, and even now, in midst of their war, the education of its people
goes on—schools for kids, girls from the Basque country and Andalucia who three
months ago couldn’t read, now holding down leading and important jobs in Government
agencies.
Hemingway was here for a few days—but once you meet him you’re not
likely to forget him. The day he came I had been slightly sickish, but Ed came up and got
me up out of bed to meet him. When I came into the room where he was he was seated at a
table and I wasn’t prepared for the towering giant he is. I almost got on my toes to reach
his outstretched hand—I didn’t need to, but that was my first reaction. He’s
terrific—not only tall but big—in head, body, hands. "Hello", he
said—looked at me and then at Ed and said "You’re sure you two aren’t brother
and sister?" which meant—"what a pair of light-haired, pale, skinny
kids!" He told us another time when we were driving back to the hotel from somewhere
of his correspondence with Freddy Keller—how he told Freddy he’s got good stuff, but
he must study—must educate himself and above all study Marx. That was what he had
done all winter in Key West, he told us—otherwise, he said, you’re a sucker—you
don’t know a thing until you study Marx. All of this said in short jerky
sentences—with no attempt at punctuation. Before he left he gave us the remainder of
his provisions—not in a gesture, just gave them to us because he knew we needed them
and because he wanted to give them to us. I’m still a little awed by the size of
him—he’s really an awfully big guy!
And now—I’ll say goodbye—I promise not to let so long a time
go by the next time I write.
Maryfrom EVAN SHIPMAN
June 21, 1938
Dear Ernest [Hemingway]:
I wish we had had a few days in Paris together. Marty [Hourihan] was
still there when I got in. You know they sent him out across the mountain. I don’t know
how he ever managed it with that leg.
The damn fools sent me across the mountain too. They knew I had been
expelled from France but they told me it was perfectly safe. I no sooner left the Carabineros
at the top than the Guarde Mobile spotted me—It was a bright night and they
fired a couple of shots over my head. I lay low for an hour and then began again, changing
my line to come out at another place on the road. Then when I got to the road I was so
damned jollied up and excited that I made a mistake and started right back into Spain
again. I got almost to the French Customs before I was able to get my bearings. The Carabineros
had told me about a staircase going down the mountain to Cerbere from the road. I couldn’t
find it for the life of me, and I kept going back and forth and back and forth around
those turns in the moonlight. If the Guarde Mobile were looking they must have
thought the whole 43rd Division was on its way over. And they did think something like
that, too, because finally I gave up looking for that staircase and followed the road
right in and then I found the staircase—the bottom of it where it meets the road
again—six Guarde Mobile were there. I couldn’t dodge them. They wouldn’t
believe that I was the only man coming down the mountain. "Why we saw at least a
dozen" they said. And two of them took me to the station and the rest went up the
mountain to hunt. They hunted all night.
You know Port Bou—the way the whole town seems to be in the bottom
of a cave. Well the Fascists bombed us twice the day I was there. There are good refuges
but even then it’s not a nice place to be bombed. When I got over and the Guarde Mobile
had me I said, anyway, that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about anymore. There’s a
good big mountain between me and those planes. Can you believe it? I was not in that jail
one hour—had no sooner gotten to sleep and I was tired—before there was the God
damndest crash of bombs just up the street—not a hundred yards away from the jail. I