El Sol
Wed. 27. Oct.2004 |
history
We had to walk in a single file for 7 – 8 hours across the Pyrenees until we entered Spain. We were issued deck shoes for better grip and to make less noise. My boots were tied by the shoelaces and hung around my neck. At sunrise, from the top of the Pyrenees, I had my first glimpse of the Mediterranean - a vivid deep blue – something I shall always remember.”
This is not a story about tourism. Its not even a story about travel. It’s a story about one man who left the East End of London 70 years ago this summer. He crossed the French border into Spain with a group of men and women that made up part of the International Brigades that fought for Republican Spain, for the defence of a fragile democracy in Europe, and for the hopes of a young, progressive and visionary government. In the process they witnessed a nightmare rehearsal of WW2. As Laurie Lee wrote: “To Spain, so backward and so long ignored, the nations of Europe were quietly gathering”.
Of the 2000 men and women who made up the British contingent, only a handful are now still alive to tell their story. One of those is Sol Frankel. I had arranged to meet Sol in a café on the sea front in Almunecar. Andalusia. When I arrived I found him seated at a table sipping a cup of tea. A walking stick was leaning against another chair and an old brown A4 envelope was positioned in the middle of the table. As I approached and introduced myself I reached out to shake his hand. Sol shifted position and thrust his left hand into my palm. I clumsily grasped his fingers and looked at his other arm. He smiled: “It was a bullet. Went right through it” he said.
His eyes conveyed a gentleness and a softness. I couldn’t imagine this man with a rifle. His smile was disarming and carried an infectious warmth. Where was the hardness that had fuelled this man to take up arms?
“Given Britain had agreed to a non-intervention policy throughout the civil war, and that is was technically illegal to enlist in a foreign army, what led you Sol to defy your own country, to defend - possibly with your own life - an unknown country like Spain?”
“I was born in Stepney, East London. I was a typical anti-fascist, not uncommon then amongst the Jewish working classes living in the midst of the inner city. I fought in the battle for Cable street for example against Mosley, and later volunteered to help out in the Spanish Children’s refugee camp where 3000 Basque kids had been evacuated to North Stoneham. I did what I felt I had to do.”
It was during this experience that Sol decided to do more to help the Spanish Republic and enquired about volunteering as part of the International Brigades. Sol was in historic company, others too had felt drawn to the cause: Jack Jones, George Orwell and Laurie Lee were amongst some of names often remembered. The idea of the International Brigades was proposed in 1936 by Maurice Thorez, the French communist party leader. Joseph Stalin agreed to it and so in September, just two months after the outbreak of the civil war, the Comitern began organising the formation of the volunteers. In Paris an international recruiting centre was set up and a training base for recruits established in Albacete in Spain.
Back in Britain, Sol had approached the British Communist Party They lent him the fare to get to Paris by boat. At Dover, passengers suspected of going to Spain were stopped. "I said I was going to visit an uncle in Paris, it was lucky they didn't search me for I had an English-Spanish dictionary in my pocket."
In Paris he was met by the French Communist Party who provided him with a train ticket to the Pyrenees. On the train he was told to keep his head down, as French Police would be looking for foreigners making their way to the border. “But they weren’t all bad,” Sol smiles as he remembers peering out the windows and seeing the French Police giving him the Communist salute as he passed through many stations.
At the border he was taken to a series of safe houses whilst others joined him from other countries. “There were three or four of us from Britain” but many others from France, Italy and even Germany. Eventually a coach arrived one night and about 70 of us left for the mountains. We then had to cross the Pyrenees on foot. In Spain another vehicle took us to Figueras where we were all housed in the town castle for a few days before being moved on. I was later moved on to Gerona and then Albacete where I undertook my training.”
“Most of us had done some military training” he recounts, “so were already familiar with a lot of it. We worked in companies according to where you were from. The training lasted two weeks before being moved off the front. For some reason I stayed for four weeks. I was lucky I suppose”
“How did you get away?” Sol’s endearing smile returns, “ I ran. I could run really fast in those days”.
Months later Sol was to hold a mountain pass near the mouth of the Ebro. His most vivid memory of this time was when the bridge was blown up and they couldn’t get the equipment across. But his details were vague. He was trying to recount a story from 67 years ago. Certain events were clear in his mind; others had left him a long time ago. The International Brigade, had very little motorised equipment. Nearly everything had to be carried by hand, even heavy machinery and artillery had to be dismantled in order to be carried. Someone might carry a wheel, another the barrel of a large gun. Resources were scarce for the Republican defenders.
By mid-July 1938 Franco’s troops had managed to split the Republican forces and had reached the Mediterranean. The Republic launched a spectacular counter-offensive across the River Ebro in order to re-establish contact with Catalunya. After three months of terrible fighting and great losses, the Republican army were forced back.
Sol´s gaze told me he was still there at the Ebro, but then his smile returned him to the café and he reached for his tea with his left hand.
“And how did you receive your injury Sol?” I finally asked.
This story has been remembered well. He imitates shooting a rifle across the table towards the entrance of the cafe. “I was shooting facing this direction” he recounts, shuffling his bad arm into use. “When suddenly I felt a pain in this arm. I had been shot through my right arm from the back.” He puts down his pretend weapon and rolls up his sleeve to show a scar on both sides of the upper arm. “Bullet went right through see? It felt like I had been kicked by a horse. A couple of mates held me up and helped me to where a stretcher could get to me. Eventually an Ambulance came and took me away. I was later moved to the Hospital in Barcelona. I stayed there 3 days. I remember that well as we were bombed every night. I thought I would be out in a couple of days and back onto the front. But the bullet had severed the muscle and the nerves. So I was moved to the International Brigade hospital. From there I was eventually returned home. We received a truly warm welcome on return at Victoria Station. Hundreds if not thousand came out to greet us. By that time of course the International Brigades had been disbanded as you know.”
The International Brigades had been disbanded when the President of the Republic, Juan Negrin announced at the League of Nations that his government would unilaterally withdraw all foreigners from the Republican Zone. It was a desperate and unsuccessful gesture to win the support of the western powers. It had no effect, nor was it reciprocated by the Fascist states that had supplied armies of support for Franco: 70.000 troops from Italy, 14.000 from Germany, 20.000 from Portugal and 34.000 from the Foreign Legion and Morocco.
It was Dolores Ibárruri, the Communist leader who addressed the Brigades as they left Spain and left them with a message fro the future:
“We shall not forget you, and when the olive tree of peace is in flower, entwined with the victory laurels of the Republic of Spain – return! Return to our side for here you will find a homeland – those who have no country or friends, who must live deprived of friendship – all, all will have the affection and gratitude of the Spanish People who today and tomorrow will shout with enthusiasm – Long live the heroes of the International Brigades!
SoI glanced down at the brown envelope, still lying unopened in the middle of the table. I caught his eye and pushed it towards me. Reaching inside I pulled out an International Brigade Passport dated 1937 with his details hand written in Spanish. “Partido Politico: anti-fascista” it said. The passport was burnt by time, faded and crumbling at the edges. It carried no photo, but plenty of official republican stamps on its delicate surface. The Popular Front government had lasted but a few months before civil war broke out. This was the first time I had ever seen an original document from that short-lived government. I was holding a museum piece. History rested in my palm. Slipped between the pages was an old sepia photo of Sol at the front. He was in a vague uniform, smoking a pipe between several other men. One was bare-chested and had a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. Above him was an arrow that Sol had drawn and a name. Added some time later were the words “killed”. I gently placed the items on the table and from the envelope pulled out a life membership card for the UGT (UNION GENERAL DE TRABAJADORES), and a letter from the Spanish Government offering him Spanish Nationality in thanks for his sacrifices made. The letter had been sent out after the Spanish parliament had passed unanimously a motion granting citizenship to every International Brigade Soldier, living or deceased.
“Well, it took Spain 60 years to fulfill its promise Sol, but they did it. However, Britain doesn’t allow dual nationality in these cases does it?”
“No it doesn’t. So I didn’t take them up on that because it would have meant giving up my British Nationality. Silly really. Otherwise I would have.”
I gently placed the items back into the envelope and pushed them back to the center.
“Do you always carry this stuff around with you Sol?”:
“When I come to Spain yes. Not many people ask me, or are interested, though I have been interviewed quite a few times. For the David Leach film for example, or by students of Paul Preston, the historian.” (Sol had been featured in a documentary about the civil war called Voices from a Mountain)
Sol shifts his limp right arm on to his lap and gazes out to sea. I imagine him, boots hanging around his neck looking down to the Mediterranean after the marathon trek across the Pyrenees. I try to see in him what it is that drove him to volunteer in one of the most symbolic struggles of the last century. Was it just a principle, a belief, an ideology? Or was he doing just what he felt he had to do?
“ Do you still see any of the others from the Brigades Sol?”
“There is not many of us left now. Probably just about 20. Each year we still get together. But each year there are less and less of us. Once upon a time we would have a meal and spend a few hours together. Now we just meet for a drink and don’t stay long. We are all getting on a bit now you see.”
© Paul Read
|