I HAVE FORGOTTEN to mention that we were carrying a burden on our way back from Torremolinos which added to our discomfort in the dust and heat. Gray as he was leaving had urged us to take his radio so that we could get some news from outside, and we had decided to lug it with us lest it should be confiscated before we were able to come back for it. It was a horrid-looking little radio, but we were glad of its small proportions at the time as it was quite heavy enough as it was to carry for miles uphill; but later we discovered what a wretched little thing it was. Voices roared and bellowed and squeaked out of it, all languages sounded alike and all incomprehensible, every station seemed to talk at once on every wavelength, and yet it was almost impossible to find the particular station you wanted at all. When you finally got some English station, either Czechoslovakia was sending directly on top of it, or Seville or Malaga were buzzing on its wavelength to prevent you from getting any outside news. Yet, bad as it was, it became one of the greatest interests of our lives, and after six o’clock (when the electric light in the village was turned on) we were almost always to be found seated in front of its varnished face trying to get some meaning out of the chaotic sounds which strangely roared and shrieked out of it.
Radio in time of war becomes absolutely fascinating. The pronouncements, denials, alarms, rumours, propaganda, speeches of national leaders, make it enthralling to the listener who is at all emotionally involved, especially if he can follow the news in several languages. When we turned the hand on the little dial, harsh voices began to speak, excited, alarmed, denunciatory. After we had heard the news about Spain – the uncertain rumours rather – from England, France and Germany, we listened to Spain herself.
Malaga broadcast perpetually, and always at the top of her lungs. Voices cried on us to stand firm, to repel the wicked Fascists – they are beaten everywhere already, but we must stand firm and complete the victory, destroy them once for all. Then, work for man’s good, create happiness everywhere, build a glorious new Spain. Other voices were issuing instructions, announcing meetings. Sometimes when even the brazen voices grew tired there was music, cante hondo. Madrid spoke more soberly, the crisis was great, but we would meet and overcome it, the voices said. Sometimes some famous politician made an address. Prieto did once, but he is not at all a good speaker, and while his remarks were sensible, no doubt, the only thing which I can remember was a joke he made. The worst thing about the rebellion, he said, had been the weather. The heat in Madrid was at its height, and Prieto, a large fat man with a million things to do was feeling it severely. Azaña only spoke once, at midnight; but it was a very fine speech, simple and from the heart.
A type of announcement which was a pathetic feature of all the Spanish broadcasts, Government and Insurgent alike, were those which individuals and families were allowed to make when they were separated from their relatives and friends and wanted to inform them of their safety. They were always in the same form: ‘Juan Lopez of Malaga, now in Madrid, wants to inform his family that he is safe and sin novedad,’ that is, that nothing has happened to him.
‘The family of Maria Martín of Velez want to inform their relatives in Granada that they are safe and well.’ But we seldom heard them, for they were given during the day when the stations were least busy, and when our radio was not working, so we only occasionally caught a few as we passed some café, whose radio going full blast was always surrounded by a crowd of silent listeners standing in the street within hearing distance.
But the thing we waited for most eagerly was not the foreign stations nor the Government’s but the Insurgent broadcasts from Seville. During the day Seville played music and made personal announcements, in the evening the news began, and I might as well mention at this point that this news was far more accurate than news from the Government side, having indeed some relation to fact which Government news then never did, being simply a recital of triumphs and victories, almost all entirely imaginary, so that we listened anxiously to Seville hoping to get at least some faint idea of what was really going on in Spain. The BBC news at that time appeared to be obtained by adding together news from Madrid and Seville and dividing by three; it was always unlikely and generally fantastic sounding. The French was slightly more reliable, we always felt, perhaps only because the resonant voices of the French announcers carried more conviction than the mealy mouths of the BBC. But with this lack of any probable-sounding news from abroad it is easy to imagine with what excitement we turned on Seville every night hoping by a process of deduction, elimination and guess work to gather from what they chose to tell us at any rate some information about the rapidly changing state of affairs in the country.
Still it was not the news from Seville, however surprisingly related to truth, which made us wait for her broadcasts so eagerly every night, but the speeches of that amazing ‘radio personality’, General Queipo de Llano. Unfortunately few English people speak Spanish or listen in to Spanish stations; for it is very unsatisfactory to have to try to describe Queipo de Llano, he has to be heard. Nothing at all like him can ever have been heard on the air before, and never will be again. He really has tremendous personality on the radio, he creates a character which seems combined of ferocity and a sort of boisterous, ferocious good humour. I am told that he does not drink at all, but he has the mellow loose voice and the cheerful wandering manner of the habitual drinker. He talks on for hours always perfectly at ease, sometimes he stumbles over a word and corrects himself with a complete lack of embarrassment, speaks of ‘these villainous Fascistas’ and an agonised voice can be heard behind him correcting him, ‘No, no, mi General, Marxistas.’ ‘What difference does it make’ – says the general and sweeps grandly on – ‘– Yes, you canalla you anarchists of Malaga, you wait until I get there in ten days’ time! You just wait! I’ll be sitting in a café in the Calle Larios sipping my beer, and for every sip I take ten of you will fall. I shall shoot ten of you for every one of ours! (he bellows) If I have to drag them out of their graves to shoot them! –’
We were later told by one of the Italian journalists who had been present that he always broadcasted in full dress uniform with all his medals on, and that his staff similarly clothed were lined up behind him. It was from this group that there used to come those protesting voices when the general made some unfortunate slip. But it is impossible to give a good idea of Queipo de Llano on the air to those who have not heard him. He had a tremendous fascination for us, we could never resist him. He was like a tyrant in an old melodrama, he could ‘tear a cat’, as Shakespeare says. It was like listening to an old Drury Lane Tamburlane, it was like listening to Mr Punch. But unfortunately it was real.
I must not give the impression, however, that he was the only voice of Insurgent Spain, though he was our favourite performer, for we hardly thought of him as true; but Seville was much the most important Nationalist station then, Granada was inaudible, and most of the northern stations, shut away behind their high mountains, were nearly so. But I remember once hearing a speech from Seville by someone else, I have no idea who it was, which was very fine. The clear earnest voice with its beautiful Castilian accent was expressing noble ideas in noble words – through work, through sacrifice, we were to conquer, to increase men’s welfare and happiness, to build a glorious new Spain. But Oh! how like the speech of the Anarchist I had just been listening to, it was: there were only a few words to be altered. For they were both the voice of the best thing in Spain, pure, passionate Idealism.