with five kids in a coal town in West Virginia. Know what they paid them with?’
The colonel shook his head.
‘Coal,’ Tom said.
‘What were you paid in?’
‘Ideals,’ Tom said. ‘Do you have any objections to those, comrade?’ thinking: ‘Watch your tongue, or you’ll blow it.’
‘Why didn’t you join the Party?’
‘Which party?’
‘There is only one.’
‘You don’t reckon the Democrats or the Republicans?’
‘There’s not much to choose between them, is there? They’re all capitalists.’
‘What do you believe in, Colonel?’
‘In the class struggle. I believe that one day the slaves and not the slave-drivers will rule the world.’
‘Rule, Colonel?’
‘Co-exist. But please, I am supposed to be asking the questions. Do you believe in God?’
‘I guess so. Whether he’s Muslim, Buddhist, Jewish, or Catholic. Or Communist,’ he said.
‘The Fascists believe they have God on their side. Maybe you should fight for the Fascists.’
‘Perhaps I should at that.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t allow that.’ The colonel almost smiled and his pointed ears moved a little. ‘You see, we need pilots.’ He leaned forward and made a small, untidy entry in the exercise book.
At first Paris was a disappointment. The inhabitants of the arrondissement where he was staying resented penniless mercenaries on their streets and the other foreigners taking part in the crusade, particularly the Communists, were hostile to an American who, although he had picked fruit in California and collected duck shit at the east end of Long Island for fertilizer, still possessed the sheen of privilege. He was either slumming or spying.
When one Russian on his way to Spain as an adviser – they were all ‘advisers’, the Russians – accused him in a café of being a spy he resorted to his fists, a not infrequent expedient when his tongue failed him. The Russian, a Georgian with beautiful eyes and a belly like a sack of potatoes, fought well but he was no match for the middle-weight champion of Columbia.
‘So,’ the Russian said from between fist-thickened lips, ‘if you’re not a spy what the hell are you?’ He picked himself up from the wreckage of a table.
‘An idealist, I guess.’
‘With a punch like that?’ The Russian shook his head tentatively and touched one slitted eye. ‘Are you reporting to Albacete?’ Tom said he was. ‘Maybe I will become your commissar,’ continued the Russian. ‘I would like that.’ Followed by other advisers, he walked into the rain-swept street.
When the Russians had gone the sturdy bespectacled man in the corner said, ‘So you pack your ideals in your fists?’
Tom, who was beginning to think that ideals could get him into a lot of trouble, said, ‘He asked for it.’
‘And got it. Where did you learn to fight like that?’ His accent was Brooklyn, as refreshing as water from a sponge.
‘Columbia,’ Tom said, sitting at the table. ‘Where did you learn to talk like that?’
‘A rhetorical question?’
‘Rhetorical, Jesus!’
‘I come from Brooklyn and I mustn’t use long words?’ He beckoned a waiter. ‘Beer?’
‘Fine,’ Tom said, examining a bruised knuckle.
‘You a flier?’
‘Am I that obvious?’
‘I can see it in your eyes. Searching the skies. My name’s Seidler,’ stretching a hand across the table. His grip was unnecessarily strong; when people gripped his hand firmly and looked him straight in the eye Tom Canfield looked for reasons – he had become wise in the coal fields and the orchards.
The waiter placed two beers on the table.
‘Are you going to Spain?’ Tom asked doubtfully because with his spectacles and the roll of flesh under his chin Seidler did not have the bearing of a crusader.
‘To Albacete. Wherever the hell that is.’
‘Why?’ Tom asked.
‘Because Spain seems like a good place to fly.’
‘You’re a pilot? Wearing spectacles?’
‘For reading only.’
‘So why are you wearing them now?’
‘And for drinking beer,’ Seidler said.
‘Okay, stop putting me on. Why are you going to Spain?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Me, a German Jew, Hitler and Mussolini, Fascists in Spain … Or am I addressing a punch-drunk college dropout?’
‘I used to collect duck shit,’ Tom said.
‘Guano,’ Seidler said. ‘Best goddamn fertilizer in the world.’ He took a deep draught from his glass. ‘So your old man went bust?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Instinct,’ Seidler said tapping the side of his nose. ‘Who interviewed you? A Polak with pointed ears?’
‘He told you?’
‘Said you were a flier, too.’
‘A very stupid flier,’ Tom said. ‘Eyes searching the skies … Didn’t you have your eyes tested before you started flying?’
‘I’m short-sighted which means I can see long distances.’
‘So?’
‘I keep crashing,’ Seidler said.
After that Tom Canfield enjoyed Paris.
On 28 November Seidler and Canfield departed from the Gare d’Austerlitz on train number 77 on the first stage of their journey to the Spanish city of Albacete which lies on the edge of the plain, half-way between Madrid and the Mediterranean coast.
There were many volunteers on the train, French, British, Germans, Poles, Italians, and Russian advisers. Tom felt ill at ease with the leather-jacketed Russians: he had journeyed to Europe to fight injustice, not espouse Marx or Lenin or, God forbid, Stalin. But, as the train paused at small stations he was comforted by the crowds on the platforms waving banners, offering wine and, with clenched fists raised, chanting, ‘No pasarán!’ – they shall not pass. He was also cheered by the
