Spanish Testament by Arthur Koestler

Author:Arthur Koestler [Koestler, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crónica, Historia
Publisher: ePubLibre
Published: 1936-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Saturday, February 6th.

Several air raids during the morning. No news from London since Thursday, so feel certain my messages are not getting through. Went to Civil Governor’s Residence, as I wanted to find out whether I could use radio for S O S message telling the world that Italian troops are going to capture Málaga. But at the Governor’s Residence they’ve all lost their heads. Went to military headquarters with same object, but Villalba is invisible and has left orders that la presse —la presse, c’est moi— is not to be allowed to cable anything about the military situation except optimistic propaganda stuff. Army people always imagine that if they call a defeat a victory it is a victory and the dead will arise. They believe in the magical effect of lying propaganda Just as bushmen do in the prayers of the witch doctor.

In the meantime G. G. has got ready to leave. An official is taking her in his car to Valencia. I have just time to scribble a few words on a scrap of paper for her to phone from Valencia to the Foreign Editor of the "News Chronicle": "Málaga lost. K. staying. Try to obtain appointment of Sir Peter Chalmers-Mitchell as acting honorary Consul so that he may mitigate the slaughter."

At 2_p.m. the exodus from Málaga begins. The road to Valencia is _flooded with a stream of lorries, cars, mules, carriages, frightened, quarrelling people.

This flood sucks up everything and carries it along with it: civilian, deserting Militiamen, deserting officers, the Civil Governor, some of the General Staff. From the arteries of Málaga it sucks all its powers of resistance, its faith, its morale. Nothing can resist its magnetic force. The road to e east has become a road for one-way traffic. Nothing more coming through from the capital; no munitions, no food, no organizer, no saviours —although even now it is not too late.

Nobody knows the fate of this stream once it is lost beyond the first bend in the road to the east. Odd rumours go the rounds in Málaga: the rebels have already occupied Vélez, the next town to the east, about thirty miles away; the stream of refugees is flowing into a death trap. According to another rumour the road is still open, but under fire from warships and aeroplanes, which are mowing down the refugees with machine-guns. But nothing can stop the stream; it flows and flows, and is incessantly fed from the springs of mortal fear.

At 4 o’clock I decide to have a look at what is happening in Vélez. My driver, although he is a former Militiaman, is infected by the panic; he tries to persuade me to drive on through Vélez to Valencia and not to come back. To calm him I tell him that we will decide when we get to Vélez. As the car drives off I see that all our luggage is stowed away in it, although I have given no orders for this to be done.

We

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