字体设置:

Chapter 9

FROM Mandalay, in Upper Burma, you can travel by train to Maymyo, the principal hill-station of the province, on the edge of the Shan plateau. It is rather a queer experience. You start off in the typical atmosphere of an eastern city--the scorching sunlight, the dusty palms, the smells of fish and spices and garlic, the squashy tropical fruits, the swarming dark-faced human beings--and because you are so used to it you carry this atmosphere intact, so to speak, in your railway carriage. Mentally you are still in Mandalay when the train stops at Maymyo, four thousand feet above sea--level. But in stepping out of the carriage you step into a different hemisphere. Suddenly you are breathing cool sweet air that might be that of England, and all round you are green grass, bracken, fir-trees, and hill--women with pink cheeks selling baskets of strawberries.

Getting back to Barcelona, after three and a half months at the front, reminded me of this. There was the same abrupt and startling change of atmosphere. In the train, all the way to Barcelona, the atmosphere of the front persisted; the dirt, the noise, the discomfort, the ragged clothes the feeling of privation, comradeship, and equality. The train, already full of militiamen when it left Barbastro, was invaded by more and more peasants at every station on the line; peasants with bundles of vegetables, with terrified fowls which they carried head--downwards, with sacks which looped and writhed all over the floor and were discovered to be full of live rabbits--finally with a quite considerable flock of sheep which were driven into the compartments and wedged into every empty space. The militiamen shouted revolutionary songs which drowned the rattle of the train and kissed their hands or waved red and black handkerchiefs to every pretty girl along the line. Bottles of wine and of anis, the filthy Aragonese liqueur, travelled from hand to hand. With the Spanish goat-skin water-bottles you can squirt a jet of wine right across a railway carriage into your friend's mouth, which saves a lot of trouble. Next to me a black-eyed boy of fifteen was recounting sensational and, I do not doubt, completely untrue stories of his own exploits at the front to two old leather-faced peasants who listened open-mouthed. Presently the peasants undid their bundles and gave us some sticky dark-red wine. Everyone was profoundly happy, more happy than I can convey. But when the train had rolled through Sabadell and into Barcelona, we stepped into an atmosphere that was scarcely less alien and hostile to us and our kind than if this had been Paris or London.

Everyone who has made two visits, at intervals of months, to Barcelona during the war has remarked upon the extraordinary changes that took place in it. And curiously enough, whether they went there first in August and again in January, or, like myself, first in December and again in April, the thing they said was always the same: that the revolutionary atmosphere had vanished. No doubt to anyone who had been there in August, when the blood was scarcely dry in the streets and militia were quartered in the smart hotels, Barcelona in December would have seemed bourgeois; to me, fresh from England, it was liker to a workers' city than anything I had conceived possible. Now the tide had rolled back. Once again it was an ordinary city, a little pinched and chipped by war, but with no outward sign of working-class predominance.

The change in the aspect of the crowds was startling. The militia uniform and the blue overalls had almost disappeared; everyone seemed to be wearing the smart summer suits in which Spanish tailors specialize. Fat prosperous men, elegant women, and sleek cars were everywhere. (It appeared that there were still no private cars; nevertheless, anyone who 'was anyone' seemed able to command a car.) The officers of the new Popular Army, a type that had scarcely existed when I left Barcelona, swarmed in surprising numbers. The Popular Army was officered at the rate of one officer to ten men. A certain number of these officers had served in the militia and been brought back from the front for technical instruction, but the majority were young men who had gone to the School of War in preference to joining the militia. Their relation to their men was not quite the same as in a bourgeois army, but there was a definite social difference, expressed by the difference of pay and uniform. The men wore a kind of coarse brown overalls, the officers wore an elegant khaki uniform with a tight waist, like a British Army officer's uniform, only a little more so. I do not suppose that more than one in twenty of them had yet been to the front, but all of them had automatic pistols strapped to their belts; we, at the front, could not get pistols for love or money. As we made our way up the street I noticed that people were staring at our dirty exteriors. Of course, like all men who have been several months in the line, we were a dreadful sight. I was conscious of looking like a scarecrow. My leather jacket was in tatters, my woollen cap had lost its shape and slid perpetually over one eye, my boots consisted of very little beyond splayed-out uppers. All of us were in more or less the same state, and in addition we were dirty and unshaven, so it was no wonder that the people stared. But it dismayed me a little, and brought it home to me that some queer things had been happening in the last three months.

During the next few days I discovered by innumerable signs that my first impression had not been wrong. A deep change had come over the town. There were two facts that were the keynote of all else. One was that the people--the civil population--had lost much of their interest in the war; the other was that the normal division of society into rich and poor, upper class and lower class, was reasserting itself.

The general indifference to the war was surprising and rather disgusting. It horrified people who came to Barcelona from Madrid or even from Valencia. Partly it was due to the remoteness of Barcelona from the actual fighting; I noticed the same thing a month later in Tarragona, where the ordinary life of a smart seaside town was continuing almost undisturbed. But it was significant that all over Spain voluntary enlistment had dwindled from about January onwards. In Catalonia, in February, there had been a wave of enthusiasm over the first big drive for the Popular Army, but it had not led to any great increase in recruiting. The war was only six months old or thereabouts when the Spanish Government had to resort to conscription, which would be natural in a foreign war, but seems anomalous in a civil war. Undoubtedly it was bound up with the disappointment of the revolutionary hopes with which the war had started. The trade union members who formed themselves into militias and chased the Fascists back to Zaragoza in the first few weeks of war had done so largely because they believed themselves to be fighting for working-class control; but it was becoming more and more obvious that working-class control was a lost cause, and the common people, especially the town proletariat, who have to fill the ranks in any war, civil or foreign, could not be blamed for a certain apathy. Nobody wanted to lose the war, but the majority were chiefly anxious for it to be over. You noticed this wherever you went. Everywhere you met with the same perfunctory remark:' This war--terrible, isn't it? When is it going to end?' Politically conscious people were far more aware of the internecine struggle between Anarchist and Communist than of the fight against Franco. To the mass of the people the food shortage was the most important thing. 'The front' had come to be thought of as a mythical far-off place to which young men disappeared and either did not return or returned after three or four months with vast sums of money in their pockets. (A militiaman usually received his back pay when he went on leave.) Wounded men, even when they were hopping about on crutches, did not receive any special consideration. To be in the militia was no longer fashionable. The shops, always the barometers of public taste, showed this clearly. When I first reached Barcelona the shops, poor and shabby though they were, had specialized in militiamen's equipment. Forage-caps, zipper jackets, Sam Browne belts, hunting-knives, water-bottles, revolver-holsters were displayed in every window. Now the shops were markedly smarter, but the war had been thrust into the background. As I discovered later, when buying my kit before going back to the front, certain things that one badly needed at the front were very difficult to procure.

Meanwhile there was going on a systematic propaganda against the party militias and in favour of the Popular Army. The position here was rather curious. Since February the entire armed forces had theoretically been incorporated in the Popular Army, and the militias were, on paper, reconstructed along Popular Army lines, with differential pay-rates, gazetted rank, etc., etc. The divisions were made up of 'mixed brigades', which were supposed to consist partly of Popular Army troops and partly of militia. But the only changes that had actually taken place were changes of name. The P.O.U.M. troops, for instance, previously called the Lenin Division, were now known as the 29th Division. Until June very few Popular Army troops reached the Aragon front, and in consequence the militias were able to retain their separate structure and their special character. But on every wall the Government agents had stencilled: 'We need a Popular Army', and over the radio and in the Communist Press there was a ceaseless and sometimes very malignant jibing against the militias, who were described as ill-trained, undisciplined, etc., etc.; the Popular Army was always described as 'heroic'. From much of this propaganda you would have derived the impression that there was something disgraceful in having gone to the front voluntarily and something praiseworthy in waiting to be conscripted. For the time being, however, the militias were holding the line while the Popular Army was training in the rear, and this fact had to be advertised as little as possible. Drafts of militia returning to the front were no longer marched through the streets with drums beating and flags flying. They were smuggled away by train or lorry at five o'clock in the morning. A few drafts of the Popular Army were now beginning to leave for the front, and these, as before, were marched ceremoniously through the streets; but even they, owing to the general waning of interest in the war, met with comparatively little enthusiasm. The fact that the militia troops were also, on paper. Popular Army troops, was skilfully used in the Press propaganda. Any credit that happened to be going was automatically handed to the Popular Army, while all blame was reserved for the militias. It sometimes happened that the same troops were praised in one capacity and blamed in the other.

But besides all this there was the startling change in the social atmosphere --a thing difficult to conceive unless you have actually experienced it. When I first reached Barcelona I had thought it a town where class distinctions and great differences of wealth hardly existed. Certainly that was what it looked like. 'Smart' clothes were an abnormality, nobody cringed or took tips, waiters and flower-women and bootblacks looked you in the eye and called you 'comrade'. I had not grasped that this was mainly a mixture of hope and camouflage. The working class believed in a revolution that had been begun but never consolidated, and the bourgeoisie were scared and temporarily disguising themselves as workers. In the first months of revolution there must have been many thousands of people who deliberately put on overalls and shouted revolutionary slogans as a way of saving their skins. Now things were returning to normal. The smart restaurants and hotels were full of rich people wolfing expensive meals, while for the working-class population food-prices had jumped enormously without any corresponding rise in wages. Apart from the expensiveness of everything, there were recurrent shortages of this and that, which, of course, always hit the poor rather than the rich. The restaurants and hotels seemed to have little difficulty in getting whatever they wanted, but in the working-class quarters the queues for bread, olive oil, and other necessaries were hundreds of yards long. Previously in Barcelona I had been struck by the absence of beggars; now there were quantities of them. Outside the delicatessen shop at the top of the Ramblas gangs of barefooted children were always waiting to swarm round anyone who came out and clamour for scraps of food. The 'revolutionary' forms of speech were dropping out of use. Strangers seldom addressed you as tu and camarada nowadays; it was usually senor and usted. Buenos dias was beginning to replace salud. The waiters were back in their boiled shirts and the shop-walkers were cringing in the familiar manner. My wife and I went into a hosiery shop on the Ramblas to buy some stockings. The shopman bowed and rubbed his hands as they do not do even in England nowadays, though they used to do it twenty or thirty years ago. In a furtive indirect way the practice of tipping was coming back. The workers' patrols had been ordered to dissolve and the pre-war police forces were back on the streets. One result of this was that the cabaret show and high-class brothels, many of which had been closed by the workers' patrols, had promptly reopened. [Note 8, below] A small but significant instance of the way in which everything was now orientated in favour of the wealthier classes could be seen in the tobacco shortage. For the mass of the people the shortage of tobacco was so desperate that cigarettes filled with sliced liquorice-root were being sold in the streets. I tried some of these once. (A lot of people tried them once.) Franco held the Canaries, where all the Spanish tobacco is grown; consequently the only stocks of tobacco left on the Government side were those that had been in existence before the war. These were running so low that the tobacconists' shops only opened once a week; after waiting for a couple of hours in a queue you might, if you were lucky, get a three-quarter-ounce packet of tobacco. Theoretically the Government would not allow tobacco to be purchased from abroad, because this meant reducing the gold-reserves, which had got to be kept for arms and other necessities. Actually there was a steady supply of smuggled foreign cigarettes of the more expensive kinds. Lucky Strikes and so forth, which gave a grand opportunity for profiteering. You could buy the smuggled cigarettes openly in the smart hotels and hardly less openly in the streets, provided that you could pay ten pesetas (a militiaman's daily wage) for a packet. The smuggling was for the benefit of wealthy people, and was therefore connived at. If you had enough money there was nothing that you could not get in any quantity, with the possible exception of bread, which was rationed fairly strictly. This open contrast of wealth and poverty would have been impossible a few months earlier, when the working class still were or seemed to be in control. But it would not be fair to attribute it solely to the shift of political power. Partly it was a result of the safety of life in Barcelona, where there was little to remind one of the war except an occasional air-raid. Everyone who had been in Madrid said that it was completely different there. In Madrid the common danger forced people of almost all kinds into some sense of comradeship. A fat man eating quails while children are begging for bread is a disgusting sight, but you are less likely to see it when you are within sound of the guns.

[Note 8. The workers' patrols are said to have closed 75 per cent of the brothels.]

A day or two after the street-fighting I remember passing through one of the fashionable streets and coming upon a confectioner's shop with a window full of pastries and bonbons of the most elegant kinds, at staggering prices. It was the kind of shop you see in Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix. And I remember feeling a vague horror and amazement that money could still be wasted upon such things in a hungry war-stricken country. But God forbid that I should pretend to any personal superiority. After several months of discomfort I had a ravenous desire for decent food and wine, cocktails, American cigarettes, and so forth, and I admit to having wallowed in every luxury that I had money to buy. During that first week, before the street-fighting began, I had several preoccupations which interacted upon one another in a curious way. In the first place, as I have said, I was busy making myself as comfortable as I could. Secondly, thanks to over-eating and over-drinking, I was slightly out of health all that week. I would feel a little unwell, go to bed for half a day, get up and eat another excessive meal, and then feel ill again. At the same time I was making secret negotiations to buy a revolver. I badly wanted a revolver--in trench-fighting much more useful than a rifle--and they were very difficult to get hold of. The Government issued them to policemen and Popular Army officers, but refused to issue them to the militia; you had to buy them, illegally, from the secret stores of the Anarchists. After a lot of fuss and nuisance an Anarchist friend managed to procure me a tiny 26-mm. automatic pistol, a wretched weapon, useless at more than five yards but better than nothing. And besides all this I was making preliminary arrangements to leave the P.O.U.M. militia and enter some other unit that would ensure my being sent to the Madrid front.

I had told everyone for a long time past that I was going to leave the P.O.U.M. As far as my purely personal preferences went I would have liked to join the Anarchists. If one became a member of the C.N.T. it was possible to enter the F.A.I. militia, but I was told that the F.A.I. were likelier to send me to Teruel than to Madrid. If I wanted to go to Madrid I must join the International Column, which meant getting a recommendation from a member of the Communist Party. I sought out a Communist friend, attached to the Spanish Medical Aid, and explained my case to him. He seemed very anxious to recruit me and asked me, if possible, to persuade some of the other I.L.P. Englishmen to come with me. If I had been in better health I should probably have agreed there and then. It is hard to say now what difference this would have made. Quite possibly I should have been sent to Albacete before the Barcelona fighting started; in which case, not having seen the fighting at close quarters, I might have accepted the official version of it as truthful. On the other hand, if I had been in Barcelona during the fighting, under Communist orders but still with a sense of personal loyalty to my comrades in the P.O.U.M., my position would have been impossible. But I had another week's leave due to me and I was very anxious to get my health back before returning to the line. Also--the kind of detail that is always deciding one's destiny--I had to wait while the boot-makers made me a new pair of marching boots. (The entire Spanish army had failed to produce a pair of boots big enough to fit me.) I told my Communist friend that I would make definite arrangements later. Meanwhile I wanted a rest. I even had a notion that we--my wife and I--might go to the seaside for two or three days. What an idea! The political atmosphere ought to have warned me that that was not the kind of thing one could do nowadays.

For under the surface-aspect of the town, under the luxury and growing poverty, under the seeming gaiety of the streets, with their flower--stalls, their many-coloured flags, their propaganda-posters, and thronging crowds, there was an unmistakable and horrible feeling of political rivalry and hatred. People of all shades of opinion were saying forebodingly: 'There's going to be trouble before long.' The danger was quite simple and intelligible. It was the antagonism between those who wished the revolution to go forward and those who wished to check or prevent it--ultimately, between Anarchists and Communists. Politically there was now no power in Catalonia except the P.S.U.C. and their Liberal allies. But over against this there was the uncertain strength of the C.N.T., less well-armed and less sure of what they wanted than their adversaries, but powerful because of their numbers and their predominance in various key industries. Given this alignment of forces there was bound to be trouble. From the point of view of the P.S.U.C.-controlled Generalite, the first necessity, to make their position secure, was to get the weapons out of the C.N.T. workers' hands. As I have pointed out earlier, the move to break up the party militias was at bottom a manoeuvre towards this end. At the same time the pre-war armed police forces. Civil Guards, and so forth, had been brought back into use and were being heavily reinforced and armed. This could mean only one thing. The Civil Guards, in particular, were a gendarmerie of the ordinary continental type, who for nearly a century past had acted as the bodyguards of the possessing class. Meanwhile a decree had been issued that all arms held by private persons were to be surrendered. Naturally this order had not been obeyed; it was clear that the Anarchists' weapons could only be taken from them by force. Throughout this time there were rumours, always vague and contradictory owing to newspaper censorship, of minor clashes that were occurring all over Catalonia. In various places the armed police forces had made attacks on Anarchist strongholds. At Puigcerda, on the French frontier, a band of Carabineros were sent to seize the Customs Office, previously controlled by Anarchists and Antonio Martin, a well-known Anarchist, was killed. Similar incidents had occurred at Figueras and, I think, at Tarragona. In Barcelona there' had been a series of more or less unofficial brawls in the working-class suburbs. C.N.T. and U.G.T. members had been murdering one another for some time past; on several occasions the murders were followed by huge, provocative funerals which were quite deliberately intended to stir up political hatred. A short time earlier a C.N.T. member had been murdered, and the C.N.T. had turned out in hundreds of thousands to follow the cortege. At the end of April, just after I got to Barcelona, Roldan, a prominent member of the U.G.T., was murdered, presumably by someone in the C.N.T. The Government ordered all shops to close and staged ah enormous funeral procession, largely of Popular Army troops, which took two hours to pass a given point. From the hotel window I watched it without enthusiasm. It was obvious that the so-called funeral was merely a display of strength; a little more of this kind of thing and there might be bloodshed. The same night my wife and I were woken by a fusillade of shots from the Plaza de Cataluna, a hundred or two hundred yards away. We learned next day that it was a C.N.T. man being bumped off, presumably by someone in the U.G.T. It was of course distinctly possible that all these murders were committed by agents provocateurs. One can gauge the attitude of the foreign capitalist Press towards the Communist-Anarchist feud by the fact that Roldan's murder was given wide publicity, while the answering murder was carefully unmentioned.

The 1st of May was approaching, and there was talk of a monster demonstration in which both the C.N.T. and the U.G.T. were to take part. The C.N.T. leaders, more moderate than many of their followers, had long been working for a reconciliation with the U.G.T.; indeed the keynote of their policy was to try and form the two blocks of unions into one huge coalition. The idea was that the C.N.T. and U.G.T. should march together and display their solidarity. But at the last moment the demonstration was called off. It was perfectly clear that it would only lead to rioting. So nothing happened on 1 May. It was a queer state of affairs. Barcelona, the so-called revolutionary city, was probably the only city in non-Fascist Europe that had no celebrations that day. But I admit I was rather relieved. The I.L.P. contingent was expected to march in the P.O.U.M. section of the procession, and everyone expected trouble. The last thing I wished for was to be mixed up in some meaningless street-fight. To be marching up the street behind red flags inscribed with elevating slogans, and then to be bumped off from an upper window by some total stranger with a sub-machine-gun-- that is not my idea of a useful way to die.

 

人们可以从缅甸北部的曼德勒乘上火车,直接到达眉谬——该省主要的山间驻地。它位于掸邦高原的边缘。这是一种令人不舒服的旅程。你是在典型的东方城市气候中出发的——灼热的阳光,沾满泥土的双手,鱼、香料和大蒜的气味,熟透了的热带水果,黝黑面庞的拥挤人群——你只能无奈地忍受和适应列车车厢里的一切。当列车在海拔四千英尺高的眉谬刚刚停下来的那会儿,你可能以为自己仍在曼德勒。但只要一走出车厢,你就仿佛踏上了地球的另一面。突然之间,你就呼吸到了有点类似英国的那种凉爽、芳香的空气,你的周围尽是绿草、蕨丛、枞树和叫卖篮子中草莓的粉黄面颊的山区女人。

在前线待了三个半月以后,重新回到巴塞罗那时,眼前的一切,使我重又想起了昔日在缅甸时的那番情景。骤然发生的和令人惊异的氛围变化,何其相似。在回巴塞罗那的路上,前线的气氛仍停留在列车车厢里:肮脏、噪音、拥挤、烂衣服、匮乏感,以及同志间的友谊和平等。在离开巴巴斯特罗时已挤满了民兵的火车,在沿线停靠的每个站台上都有越来越多的农民挤上来;有人带着一捆捆蔬菜,有人手中倒拎着尖声惊叫的家禽,有人扛上来袋口紧扎却又满地滚动的麻袋,原来里面装满了活兔子,还有人把一大群绵羊赶进车厢里,塞满了所有的空间。民兵们高唱革命歌曲,歌声盖过了列车的隆隆声,他们或者亲吻停靠站每一个漂亮女孩的手,或者向她们挥动着红黑相间的围巾。葡萄酒、茴香酒、浑浊的阿拉贡烈性酒,接连不断地你传给我,我传给你。举起用西班牙山羊皮缝制的酒袋,你可以随心所欲地把酒柱喷进坐在车厢任何角落的朋友的嘴里,这可是省了许多麻烦。紧挨着我坐的是个黑眼睛的十五岁男孩子,他正在向两个面如皱革、听得入神的老年农民详细地讲述种种令人感动的前线经历,我丝毫也不怀疑,他在编造自己英雄般建树功勋的战斗经历。不一会儿,那两个老头打开随身的包裹,取出羊皮袋,给我们斟上黏稠的暗红色的酒。是的,每个人都极为开心,比我所能表述的更开心。但是,当火车穿过萨瓦德尔,驶入巴塞罗那以后,我们便陷入了似乎格格不入和浓浓敌意之中,让我们产生突然到了巴黎或伦敦的那种感觉。

战争期间,每一个在相隔几个月两次来到巴塞罗那的人,都毫无例外地觉察到了这里发生的巨大变化。令人惊诧的是,不管他们是先在八月、后在一月去的,还是和我一样先在十二月、后在四月去的,大家反复议论的就是一件事:那里的革命气氛已经消失。无疑,对于任何在八月去过那里的人来说,到了街道上的血还未干掉、民兵驻进小旅馆的十二月,巴塞罗那已经变得好象是资产阶级的了,但是,对于我这样刚从英国来的人来说,它却比我事先能够想象得到的一切都更像是一座工人的城市。现在,高xdx潮已经退去。巴塞罗那再次成为普通的城市,一座因战争而多少有些凋敝和破败的城市,不再有工人阶级占优势的明显迹象。

这里人们的变化是令人吃惊的。民兵制服和蓝色工作服已经不见了,差不多人人都穿着西班牙裁缝精心缝制的时髦夏装。大腹便便的男人、时髦的女人、豪华轿车,比比皆是。(看起来,还没有私家车,不过,任何人,不论是“什么人”,好象谁都买得起。)新的人民军——一支在我离开巴塞罗那尚不存在的部队——军官们成群结队地走动,数量多得惊人。人民军以一比十的官兵比例配备军官。军官中有一部分人曾在民兵中服过役,基本上都是以军事骨干名义从前线抽调来的,但是,大多数则是进过军校、而不愿参加民兵的年轻人。人民军的官兵关系确实与资产阶级军队的不同,但仍有明显的社会差别,薪金和制服的不同就足以表明这一点。士兵穿的是一种粗糙的褐色紧身军服;军官则穿着全套精致、收腰的卡其布制服,像英国军队中的军官制服,当然仅仅是有那么点像而已。我懒得去猜想他们二十人中有没有一个以上的人真正地参加过战斗,可他们的皮带上全都挂着自动手枪;我们在前线时,如果不是特别嗜好或花上一笔钱,就不能得到手枪。我发现,我们在街道上行走时,人们总是在注视着我们脏兮兮的样子。当然,如同所有在前线待了好几个月的士兵一样,我们的模样的确十分可怕。我意识到自己看起来像个稻草人。我的皮夹克破破烂烂,织针的军帽早就变了形,而且常常滑下来遮住眼睛,我的长靴除了开裂的鞋帮几乎什么都不剩了。我们中间的所有人,多数都是这副尊容,再加上我们浑身污垢、满面胡须,也就难怪人们总是投来惊诧的目光了。但是,真正容纳感我感到惊讶的,还是此后三个月里接连发生的许多怪事。

在接下来的几天里,通过大量的迹象,我发现我最初的印象没有错。这座城市已发生了巨大的变化。其中有两个突出的变化决定和影响了其他事情的发生。一是人们——全体居民——对革命战争的兴趣已经丧失大半;二是社会重新回归贫穷和富有,上层和下层。

人们对战争的普遍莫不关心,已经到了令人触目惊心甚至是令人厌恶的程度。这使得从马德里甚至巴伦西亚来到巴塞罗那的人也感到震惊。主因也可能在于巴塞罗那远离真正的战争。一个月以后,在塔拉戈纳,我目睹了同样的情形,在这个漂亮的海滨小镇上,人们的一切依然如故,似乎从没受过任何干扰。原先遍及西班牙的民兵志愿者,从一月起逐步减少,二月,政府在加泰罗尼亚掀起了一场参加人民军的大规模动员运动,人们热情高涨,但这次运动并没有达到征集更多士兵的目的。战争仅进行大约六个月,西班牙政府就不得不采用征兵手段,如果这是对外战争,采用这种办法也许尚在情理之中,但在国内战争中这么做就似乎太不正常了。这无疑与人们对战争偏离最初的革命目标深感失望密切相关。那些自发组成民兵队伍,并在战争的头几个星期里就把法西斯赶回萨拉戈萨的工会成员,却做了大量的事情,因为他们相信自己是在为工人阶级掌握主动权而战。但是,事情也变得越来越明显——工人阶级失去了对主动权的控制。普通人,特别是城市无产阶级,他们往往是被迫卷入各种内外战争的,他们也许不应因对战争存有某种冷漠而受到责难。没有人想输掉战争,但绝大多数人还是渴望战争早点结束。这一点你无论在哪里都能觉察到。人们到处都能听到同样看似轻描淡写的评论:“这场战争——可怕,不是吗?什么时候才会结束?”稍有一点政治头脑的人早就觉察到,眼下这里所发生的事情,其实主要是无政府主义者和共产主义者之间进行的两败俱伤的斗争,而不是在与佛朗哥作战。对好多人来说,食物短缺才是最重要的事情。结果,“前线”被认为是一个神话般遥远的地方、年轻人消失的地方,他们要么永远回不来了,要么就会在三四个月后兜里装着大笔钱回家休假。(民兵休假期间的薪金,通常能够提前支付。)至于伤员,即使他们仍然甩不掉拐杖,也得不到任何特殊的照顾。参加民兵已经不再时髦。商店——通常总是最能体现大众倾向的地方——明显地表明了这一点。在我初到巴塞罗那的时候,多数商店尽管简陋破旧,但几乎家家商店都经营民兵装备。军帽、拉链夹克衫、军用皮带、猎刀、水瓶、左轮手枪皮套等等,在每家商店的橱窗里都有陈列。现在,商店明显地精明起来,而战争却被抛在脑后。稍后我发现,我回前线所需要的装备,特别是人们在前线急需的那些东西,已经很难买到了。

与此同时,共和国政府展开了一场反对政党民兵、支持人民军的系统宣传。形势令人难以理解。自二月起,从理论上讲,所有武装力量都已并入人民军。其实,民兵只是名义上按照人民军的政策路线改编的,薪水和委任军衔的级差很大。原则上,各个师应由混合旅改编组成,即由部分人民军和部分民兵共同组成,但实际上,唯一的变化就是把名称改换了一下。例如,把先前叫做“列宁师”的马统工党控制的民兵,改称“第29师”。由于直到六月也很少有人民军开赴阿拉贡前线,因此民兵能够完全保持自己的独立性和特殊性。但政府的宣传人员却仍坚持不懈地在每堵墙上用模版涂上“我们需要人民军”的字样,并通过政府控制的无线电和共产党报纸对民兵进行攻击,极带恶意地嘲笑他们是一批缺乏训练、纪律涣散的乌合之众等等。人民军自然总是被描绘成“英雄的军队”。听了这样的宣传,马上就会令你产生志愿奔赴战场不体面、坐等应征入伍才光荣的感觉。然而,他们对民兵在前线坚守着阵地,人民军却在后方休整训练的这一明显事实却罕有宣传。如今,重返前线的民兵队伍通过街道时,已经不再能够听到喧天锣鼓、看到彩旗飘飘的那种景象了。他们多在凌晨五点街道尚且冷冷清清的时候,被悄悄地送上火车或卡车。而人数不多的应征人民军战士开赴前线,则如同昔日一样,极其隆重张扬地穿越大街小巷,但即便是这些人,由于人们对战争的兴趣普遍减少,也很难受到多少热情欢呼。事实上,民兵部队只是在名义上同人民军是一样的,但人民军更善于利用报纸进行宣传,他们说来说去意思只有一个,任何荣誉都必须让给人民军,而所有责任都应由民兵扛着。在同一个部队里,这种一方屡受表彰而另一方倍受责难的事时有发生。

除了所有这些事以外,社会风气也有了惊人的变化——若非亲身经历你就很难相信。在第一次来到巴塞罗那时,我认为这里是一个几乎没有阶级差别和贫富差别的城市。当时的情景看上去就是这样的。“时髦的”衣服是反常的东西,没有人阿谀奉承或索要小费,服务员、卖花女和擦鞋匠直视你的眼睛,叫你“同志”。我根本没有看出这是期待和虚伪的一种表现。无产阶级意识到革命已经开始,但成果从未得以巩固。可资产阶级恐慌了,他们不失时机地将自己乔装成工人。在革命的头几个月里,他们中肯定有很多很多的人,心术不正地穿上工作服,高呼革命口号,并以这种方式安全地逃过一劫。现在,一切重又恢复常态。漂亮的宾馆、饭店里,坐满了大吃大喝、一掷千金的有钱人。而对于工人阶级来说,工薪没有任何提高,食品价格却扶摇直上。除了价格高昂,各种商品经常短缺。当然,遭受痛苦的是穷人,而不是有钱人。富人可以毫不费力从宾馆、饭店里得到他们想要的任何东西,但在工人阶级居住区,要购买面包、橄榄油和其他生活必需品,则必须排上几百码的长队。先前,我为巴塞罗那没有乞丐感到吃惊,现在却随处可见。在拉姆拉斯的熟食店门外,一群群光着脚的孩子,正在焦急地等待着从店里出来的人,准备冲上去要点吃的。“革命的”称谓方式已被抛弃。如今,陌生人很少称呼你为tú*和同志,通常是先生和usted。Buenosdías在开始代替salud。服务生又穿上上浆的衬衫,巡视员用最娴熟的方式阿谀奉承顾客。我和妻子走进拉姆拉斯的店里买袜子。店员先鞠了个躬,接着又搓搓双手,如今这些礼遇性的动作连英国人自己在二三十年前都不用了,而他们却固守成习。收小费的习俗也在暗地里流行起来。工人巡逻队已被强令解散,战前的警察重新回到街道上来。结果,原本被工人巡逻队关闭了的卡巴莱**之类的酒吧、歌舞厅和高级妓院,纷纷重新开张。[1]有个虽小但却意味深长的例子是,为了富有阶层的利益改变商品供给的方式,烟草短缺就是最好的证明。对于大多数吸烟者来说,烟草短缺得令人绝望,街头甚至出售用碎甘草根代替烟草的所谓烟卷。我也曾经被迫吸过(许多人都曾吸过)。佛朗哥控制着加那利群岛,西班牙所有烟草是那儿种植的。结果,政府放只有战前库存的一些烟草。这些存货又是那么少,以至于烟草商店每周只能开一次门,在排了几个小时长队以后,如果你还算幸运的话,也许能够买到只有3/4盎司重的一小袋烟草。原则上,政府是禁止从国外进口烟草的,因为这意味着耗费购买军火和其他必需品的极为有限的黄金储备。但实际上,仍有大批非常昂贵的外国香烟被走私入境。“红好彩”等牌子的香烟,成为最能牟取暴利的商品。你可以在高级旅馆中公开买到香烟,即使街头店铺也很少遮遮掩掩,只要你肯花十个比塞塔(相当于一个民兵一天的薪金),就可以买上一包。走私是为了富人的利益,因而得到多方庇护纵容。只要你有足够的钱,没有买不到的东西,要多少有多少;只有面包供应的定量较为严格,可能属于例外。如此悬殊的贫富差别,在几个月以前是难以想象的。那时,无产阶级仍在或好象在控制着局势。但是,若把所有的责任完全归结于政权的转移,那也是不公平的。造成这种结果的一个重要原因是,在巴塞罗那这个地方,除了偶尔的空袭外,战争并未真正威胁到人们的生命安全。凡是到过马德里的人都认为,那儿的情形可不是这么回事。在马德里,面临的共同危险使所有人都产生了某种同志般的友情。一个肥胖的男子在大吃烤鹌鹑,而孩子们却站在一边乞讨面包,那是令人厌恶的。在枪炮声大作的时候,你不可能见到这样的情形。

—————————————————————

*法语,你。——译者

**指有歌舞或滑稽短剧等表演助兴的餐馆或夜总会。——译者

[1]在奥威尔原书的脚注中写道:“据说工人巡逻队关闭了75%的妓院。”在他死后发现的一张勘误表中写道:“这一数据应予以修正。我并没有很好的证据证明在战争早期卖淫活动减少了75%,而且我确信无政府主义者只是致力于将妓院‘集体化’,而非查禁它们。但是打击卖淫(海报,等)的行动确实存在。那些精明的妓院和裸体卡巴莱演出在战争开始时的早几个月里关闭了,直至战争进行了一年后才重新开张,这是事实。”

—————————————————————

我记得,在巷战后的一两天里经过一条经营时尚商品的街道时,碰巧看到一家甜食店的橱窗里摆满了各式精致的酥皮糕点和糖果,但价格令人吃惊。昔日的这类商店现在仍能在邦德街或和平街(delaPaix)看到。我还记得,我当时真的为这样一个饱受饥饿和战争创伤的国家,居然还会把钱浪费在这些东西上,感到过莫名的恐怖与震惊。但愿我没有含求过什么个人的优越感。在数月的艰苦生活之后,我极度渴求过美味的饭菜和葡萄酒,鸡尾酒,美国香烟,以及诸如此类的东西,我承认,自己沉湎于任何我能买得起的奢侈品中。在巷战开始前的那个星期里,我的心里总在想着几件事,这些事又以某种离奇的方式相互纠缠不清。首先,正如我所说过的,我忙着尽可能把自己安顿得舒适一点。其次,由于吃喝过度,整个那一周我都感到身体有些不舒服。我一感到身体不舒服,就倒下来睡上半天,起床后又是饱餐一顿,接下来身体还是不舒服。与此同时,我也在悄悄张罗购买左轮手枪的事。我非常需要手枪,因为在战壕里手枪比来复枪更方便,来复枪有时则比较难以施展得开。政府只把手枪比来复枪更方便,来复枪有时则比较难以施展得开。政府只把手枪发给警察和人民军,根本不发给民兵,你只有找无政府主义者,从他们的秘密仓库中非法购买。经过一番紧张忙碌和许多恼人的周折以后,一位无政府主义者朋友给我弄到了一支26毫米口径的小型手枪;这是一件破烂货,连五码以外的地方都打不到,不过有总比没有要好。此外,我也在为离开马统工党民兵组织、加入某个确实能够把我派到马德里前线战斗的组织,预作准备。

早先,我已经告诉过大家我想离开马统工党。就我个人的偏好而言,我还是宁可加入到无政府主义者的行列中去。如果能成为全国劳工联盟的一员,就可能进入F.A.I.民兵组织。但有人告诉我,F.A.I.更可能把我派到特鲁埃尔,而不是马德里。如果想去马德里,我就必须参加国际纵队,这就意味着必须得到一名共产党员的推荐才行。我找了一位共产党员朋友,他在西班牙医疗救护队工作,我把自己的情况向他作了解释。他似乎非常希望接收我,他说如果可能的话,让我再邀请(英国)独立工党的其他一些英国人跟我一起来。要是我的身体状况好一点的话,或许我当时就同意了。现在很难说清如果当时那样做了后来又会怎样。在巴塞罗那战斗开始前,我很有可能被派往阿尔瓦塞特,那样的话,我也就不可能目睹密集居民区中发生的战斗,很可能只好接受官方对这一事件所作的描述了。另外,在巴塞罗那战斗期间,如果我接受了西班牙共产党的命令,又要保持对马统工党同志们的忠诚感,那么我自己的立场又会怎样?我的休假时间只剩下一个星期,因此,我迫切希望在回前线以前恢复健康。此外,选择哪个组织毕竟是个决定个人命运的大事——我只有等,边等边让靴匠给我做一双新的军靴。(或许所有西班牙部队里也找不到我能穿得上的大军靴。)我告诉我的共产党员朋友,以后我会做出具体安排的。同时,我想休息一下。我甚至有个想法,带我的妻子去海边玩上两三天。好主意!然而政治氛围告诫我,这可不是想干就能干的事。

在城市的奢华和不断出现的贫困、街道上的虚假繁荣,包括花店、彩旗、宣传海报和拥挤的人群等等的表象下面,存在着一种明显和可怕的政治上的敌对和憎恨。无论持哪种观点的人都不无胆颤心惊地预感:“快有麻烦了。”眼前的危险,既简单又不难理解,其实就是那些希望革命深入和希望革命停止或避免革命的人们之间、无政府主义者和共产主义者之间的对抗。就政治而言,除了加联社党和他们的解放同盟外,现在,加泰罗尼亚没有什么其他力量了。相反,全国劳工联盟有难以琢磨的武装力量,他们虽然缺乏精良的装备,对自己想要什么还不如对手明确,但他们人数众多,在许多重要行业占有优势,具有相当的实力。假如与这样的武装力量联合,注定会有麻烦。在加联社党控制的自治政府看来,最重要的是,要保证自己阵地的安全,就必须从全国劳工联盟工人的手中夺取武器。正如我早些时候所指出的那样,逐步瓦解政党民兵实际上就是为了实现这一目标的一种安排。同时,战前的武装警察、国民自卫队等等,已经恢复并得到进一步加强和装备。这只能意味着一件事。特别是,国民自卫队属于那种欧洲大陆型的宪兵,他们在过去的近一个世纪里忠实地充当了有产阶级的保镖。政府同时发布一条命令,凡私人藏有的武器一定要上缴。这项命令自然没有得到遵从,很清楚,只能通过武力从无政府主义者那儿夺取武器了。这样一来,很快就谣言四起,由于检查制度严厉,报纸对遍及加泰罗尼亚的各种冲突的报道总是含糊不清、相互矛盾。在许多地方,武装警察对无政府主义者控制的重要地点发动攻击。在靠近法国边界上的普奇达(Puigcerdá),一帮马枪骑兵被派取占领了海关,先前海关由无政府主义者和安东尼奥?马丁——一位著名的无政府主义者(后被杀)控制。[1]我想,类似的事件在费卡洛死和塔拉戈纳也都发生过。在巴塞罗那,工人阶级控制的郊区,也曾有过一系列不那么过分激烈的争吵。在过去的一段时间里,全国劳工联盟和劳工总会的成员接二连三地互相谋杀,随谋杀而来的是多次盛大的、蓄意煽动政治仇恨的葬礼。早些时候,有个全国劳工联盟成员被谋杀后,送丧的队伍多达数万人。四月底,在我到达巴塞罗那之后,劳工总会的一个著名人物罗尔丹?柯尔塔达被谋杀了,估计是全国劳工联盟的人干的。政府命令所有的商店关门,举行了盛大的葬礼游行,其中主要是人民军队伍,游行队伍很长,从头到尾经过一个地方就得两个小时。我在旅馆的窗前,冷眼相看。很明显,这种所谓的葬礼就是意在炫耀武力,这种事情还会继续发生,还有可能继续流血。当天夜里,我和我的妻子被一二百码以外加泰罗尼亚广场传来的枪声惊醒。第二天,我们得知是全国劳工联盟的一个男子遭到了枪击,大概是劳工总会中的某个人干的。显然,所有这些谋杀事件很有可能都是内奸干的。人人都能判断得出来,国外的资本主义报纸反复报道并大肆渲染罗尔丹被杀事件,可对由此产生的报复性谋杀却刻意地只字不提,从中可见他们对共产主义者和无政府主义者之间长期争斗的态度。

—————————————————————

[1]在奥威尔死后发现的勘误表上写道:“我被告知关于我对这一突发事件的论述是不正确的,并可能使人产生误解。”

—————————————————————

“五?一”节就要到了,全国劳工联盟和劳工总会都在筹划参加大游行的事。全国劳工联盟的头头们比他们的大多数追随者要更为温和,长期以来他们一直在致力于同劳工总会实现和解。的确,他们的政策主张是试图把两大联盟合并为一个更大的联盟。全国劳工联盟的想法是应该和劳工总会一起游行并显示他们的团结。但到最后一刻,游行被取消了。非常清楚,游行只会引起暴乱。因此,5月1日这一天平静无事。这的确是一件怪事。巴塞罗那,这个号称革命的城市,也许是唯一一个在那一天没有举行庆祝活动的非法西斯的欧洲城市。但是,我承认,当时我长舒了一口气。那时,人人都希望(英国)独立工党小分队加入马统工党的游行队伍,但也担心出乱子。我唯一担心的是大家有可能被搅和到某一种毫无意义的巷战当中去。行进在红旗飘扬、口号震天的街道上,然后被从街道旁窗口跳出来的某个手持冲锋枪的陌生人打死——这种死法儿可不是我所希望的。