George was still waiting for a safe-conduct pass, and transport. He wanted to go the short distance south of the capital to the Jarama valley, to report on the state of play there. A few other journalists had already returned to the Telefónica bleak faced and disbelieving. Nearly two thirds of the battalion lost. And what had this suicidal bravery won? Stalemate. The two sides were dug in now, entrenched.
He wanted to go. And then again he didn’t. If George stopped filing stories, his money would run out. But it left him so little time to look for Felix. He could never go back without her.
‘Why don’t I go to Valencia instead?’ he asked Ilsa. Lots of correspondents had already left. The story in Madrid was over, they said. Valencia was the place to be now. And surely someone there must have run into a slight young nurse from Sydenham – a pretty nurse with long hair and lively eyes and a face so terribly, terribly young.
Unless she had gone south. Málaga had fallen to the Fascists. Refugees were dying on the roads, machine-gunned on their march. He’d heard there was no shortage of atrocities on the road from Málaga. Wasn’t that what they wanted in London? Maybe . . .
‘Forget it, George,’ said Ilsa, sharply. ‘You’re stuck in Madrid till you get your pass. So go and write a story on the blood transfusion centre. The world should know about that too. It’s going to help us win the war. It’s a huge step forward.’
‘Really?’
‘Just wait. You’ll see. It’s on the Príncipe de Vergara. You can walk through the top of the park if you like . . . what’s left of it. Just ask the way to Salamanca.’
‘What about my pass?’
‘It won’t happen today. Not enough transport.’ She waved him off irritably. ‘Go on. Go and do something useful with yourself.’
‘Wait. What’s it called?’
‘The Instituto Hispano–Canadiense de Transfusión de Sangre. Number thirty-six. You can’t miss it. Go on, go.’
George wrote the details in his notebook, underlined the address, and set off, ears and eyes open to passing aircraft. He was less jittery these days. Better at hiding his fear. But you couldn’t be too careful. This was a war that broke all the rules. George had never felt so powerless.
As he got closer, he realised the area was almost unscathed. He understood how it worked now: most of the city’s Fascists had escaped, but their properties in the richer suburbs of Madrid remained. Franco did not like to bomb his own.
The first thing George saw was the queue, stretching down the boulevard. He was used to queues by this time: queues for bread, queues for water, queues for medical treatment. Women and children could be found waiting in line for hours, anywhere in the city. But this was different. Here the people of Madrid were queuing to give, not to receive. They were giving away their blood. It lifted his spirits. He began to whistle.
A woman in a colourful headscarf glanced at him and smiled, and began to hum along. What was that tune? He blushed, and faltered. Then others took it up. Good God! He knew what it was now. One of the Republican songs. ¡Ay, Carmela! ¡Ay, Carmela! ¡Deberemos resistir! He didn’t understand all the words, but his Spanish was improving enough to get the gist of it. We must resist! What would they take him for? But the tune was irresistible.
Time he made himself scarce.