María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Not very sensible,” I ventured.

“He’s probably a little crazy, yes,” he said, half joking. “But he’s a good sort and he knows what he’s doing; he’s no reckless adventurer, or an opportunist like the ones who spring up all over the place at times like these.”

“What is it that he does, exactly?” asked Rosalinda.

“He gives help to people who need it. He gets people out of Madrid when he can, takes them to some Mediterranean port and from there puts them on any kind of British boat: a warship is as useful to him as a packet boat or a lemon freighter.”

“Does he charge anything?” I wanted to know.

“No, nothing. He doesn’t make anything from it. There are people turning a profit from things like this—not him.”

He was going to explain more to us, but at that moment a young soldier in breeches, shining boots, and his cap under his arm approached our table. He gave a martial salute with a look of concentration on his face and handed an envelope to Rosalinda. She took out a folded sheet of paper, read it, and smiled.

“I’m truly very sorry, you’ll have to excuse me,” she said, hurriedly putting her cigarette case, her gloves, and the note in her handbag. “Something has come up, something unexpected,” she added, then leaned over toward my ear. “Juan Luis has come back from Seville early,” she whispered impulsively.

Despite his burst eardrum, the journalist probably heard it, too.

“You keep talking, you can tell me all about it later,” she added loudly. “Sira, querida, I’ll see you soon. And you, Logan, be ready tomorrow, a car will be here to fetch you at one. You’ll have lunch at my house with the high commissioner and then you’ll have the whole afternoon for your interview.”

Rosalinda was accompanied to the door by the young soldier and countless brazen pairs of eyes. As soon as she had disappeared from view, I encouraged Logan to resume his explanations.

“If Lance doesn’t make any money from it, and he isn’t moved by political concerns, why does he do this?”

He shrugged again, a gesture that apologized for his inability to find any reasonable explanation.

“There are people like that. They’re called pimpernels. Lance is a rather singular individual, a sort of crusader for lost causes. According to him, there’s nothing political about what he’s doing; the concerns that move him are purely humanitarian. Most likely he’d have done the same for Republicans if he’d found himself in the Nationalist zone. Maybe the inclination comes from being the son of a canon of Wells Cathedral—who knows? The fact is, at the moment of the uprising, the ambassador Sir Henry Chilton and most of his staff moved to San Sebastián to spend the summer, and the embassy in Madrid was left in the control of a civil servant who wasn’t up to the job. Lance, as a veteran in the British colony, quite spontaneously took the reins. As you Spaniards say, ‘Without praying to either God or the Devil,’ he opened the embassy as a refuge for British citizens—barely more than three hundred of them at that time, as I’ve heard. In principle none of them were directly involved in politics, but most were conservatives in sympathy with the right, so they sought out diplomatic protection while they waited to find out how events were unfolding. But what happened was that the situation grew beyond what they’d expected—several hundred other people rushed to the embassy for refuge, too. They claimed to have been born in Gibraltar or on an English ship during a crossing, to have relatives in Great Britain, to have done business with the British Chambers of Commerce; any ruse to get themselves under the protection of the Union Jack, our flag.”

“Why your embassy in particular?”

“It wasn’t only ours, far from it. Actually, ours was one of the most reluctant to offer refuge. Everyone did almost exactly the same in the early days: they took in their own citizens, and also some Spaniards in need of protection.”

“And then?”

“Some legations continued to offer asylum and get involved directly or indirectly in the transfer of refugees. Chile in particular; France, Argentina, and Norway, too. Others, meanwhile, once the first period of uncertainty had ended, refused to carry on. Lance isn’t acting as a representative of the British government, however; everything he does, he does on his own account. As I said, our embassy was one of the ones that refused to continue to be involved in offering asylum and evacuating refugees. And it isn’t that Lance is dedicated to helping the Nationalist side in the abstract, but people who as individuals need to get out of Madrid. For ideological reasons, for family reasons—whatever the reasons. It’s true that he began by installing himself in the embassy and managed somehow to get them to grant him the post of honorary attaché so that he could arrange the evacuation of the British citizens in the early days of the war, but from then on he’s acted at his own risk. When it’s in his interest—usually to impress the militiamen and sentries at the checkpoints on the roads—he waves about all the diplomatic paraphernalia he can get his hands on: the red, white, and blue armband on his sleeve to identify himself, little flags on the car, and a huge safe-conduct covered in stamps and seals from the embassy, from six or seven trade unions, and the War Office, whatever he can get his hands on. He’s a pretty odd sort, this Lance: pleasant, talkative, always showily dressed, with jackets and ties that pain you to look at. Sometimes I think he exaggerates so much just so that no one takes him too seriously and so they don’t suspect him of anything.”

“How does he transport people to the coast?”

“I don’t know exactly; he’s reluctant to give away details. At first I think he started off using vehicles from the embassy and vans from his firm, until these were requisitioned. Lately it would seem he’s been using a Scottish ambulance that has been made available to the Republic. And he’s usually accompanied by Margery Hill, a nurse from the Anglo-American hospital—do you know it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s on Calle Juan Montalvo, near the university, almost right at the front. That’s where they first took me when I was injured, then I was moved for the operation to the hospital they set up in the Palace Hotel.”

“A hospital at the Palace?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes, a field hospital—you didn’t know?”

“I had no idea. When I left Madrid the Palace was—along with the Ritz—the most luxurious of the hotels in the city.”

“Well as you can see, it’s now fulfilling other functions. A lot has changed. I was interned there for a few days, till they decided to evacuate me to London. I already knew Lance before I was interned; the British colony in Madrid was already much diminished in those days. Then he came to see me several times at the Palace; part of his self-imposed humanitarian task is also to help his compatriots who’re facing difficulties. Which is how I learned a bit about the evacuation process, but I only know the details that he chose to tell me. Normally the refugees arrive in the hospital of their own account; sometimes they’re kept awhile so that they can pass for patients, till the next convoy is ready. Usually they both go on all the journeys, Lance and Nurse Hill: apparently she’s unique in her ability to handle officials and militiamen at the checkpoints if things go wrong. And they also usually arrange to bring back to Madrid anything they can get off the Royal Navy ships—medicines, medical equipment, soap, canned food…”

“How do they actually make the trip?” I was trying to predict my mother’s journey, to have some idea of what her adventure would consist of.