Lisbon Correspondent

by Lee Conrad

Lisbon Correspondent

It was night when Robert Cassidy returned to his small apartment in the working class Alfama district of Lisbon on one of the seven hills overlooking the city and the Tagus River. Fog and darkness muted vibrant colors of decayed buildings, the steep cobblestone street slippery with dampness. Alfama’s cafés and bars were alive with Lisboetas drinking and listening to melancholy Fado folk songs. Normally he would have stopped at one and downed glasses of wine from the Douro region. Or he would have walked to Rossio Square with its more upscale cafés and met with fellow foreign correspondents and exchanged the latest news and rumors. Europe in the summer of 1936 had an abundance of both, with intrigue thrown in. But tonight, tired and filthy, he just wanted to get to his room and wash away last week’s events with a hot bath, a bottle of Irish whiskey, and lament the fall of man.

In the morning, rested but slightly hung over, he took the number 28 tram to the International Press Agency office in the Baixa district in central Lisbon.

The small IPA office was on the third floor of a building that had seen better days. It held four desks with phones, a teletype, file cabinets and a floor fan that did nothing more than move hot air around.

“Welcome back, Robert. What do you have for me? By the way, you look like hell.”

“Thanks, boss. If you saw what I saw, you would too.”

The boss, James MacGregor, Scotland born, short and barrel-chested with a shock of red hair, was an old hand in the news business with twenty years of experience. He had been in Paris and Berlin as a foreign correspondent and promoted to IPA bureau chief for Portugal and western Spain in 1935. His articles about the right-wing dictator of Portugal, António de Oliveira Salazar, and his Estado Novo government caught the eye of political figures around the world.

Robert was the new kid. Just twenty-three, he gained attention from articles he wrote about corruption that brought down a mayor and four councilmen in his small mid-western American city. When the chance came for a promotion, he took a risk and applied for a job with IPA as a foreign correspondent, hired in London and assigned to the bureau in Lisbon. Both he and McGregor thought it would be an excellent learning experience for the newcomer. Then the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936 and hell with it.

“James, if I have to go back to Spain, I will need a new driver.”

“What for? Didn’t we pay Carvalho enough?”

Robert’s furrowed brow and hazel eyes telegraphed pain.

“He wouldn’t go back, no matter how much we paid him. Carvalho drove back to Portugal like the devil was chasing us. Said we crossed the border of sorrow, whatever that means.”

“Like that was it?” said McGregor grimly. “Type up your notes and let me see it when you are finished.”

Robert sat down at his desk, pulled out his notebook from inside his coat pocket, and inserted a blank page into the Remington. He sat there, his mind racing with the images that disturbed him, and typed the title: Dispatch from Estremadura. He paused, lit a Lucky Strike, and continued. “The fog had finally burned off as the ships on the Tagus River began their westward journey from the port of Lisbon out to the Atlantic and destinations around the world. My driver and I, after crossing the river on the ferry, headed east to a war zone in a rented Mercedes. It has been less than a month since the Spanish Army and its Nationalist and fascist allies staged a coup against the elected left-leaning government of the Republic of Spain on July 18th, 1936. In the Spanish province of Estremadura, along the border with Portugal, the military might of the territorial Spanish Army of Africa, made up of Spaniards and Moorish troops brought over from Spanish Morocco, swept up from the south of Spain and engulfed the area.

“Our drive took us through the flatlands of the Portuguese countryside with its large estates, past undulating wheat fields and cork trees where poorly paid illiterate peasants, with generations of knowledge, skillfully stripped the bark with hand-held axes. This part of Portugal is a feudal society compared to Lisbon and its cosmopolitan atmosphere. Our first destination is the small city of Évora in the Alentejo district, eighty-seven miles from Lisbon and fifty miles from the Spanish border. We refreshed ourselves and continued onwards to the bridge that spanned the Guadiana River, separating Portugal from Spain. We presented our Press passes to the Portuguese border guard who looked at us, shook his head in bewilderment, and passed us through. Then the Spanish border, guarded by soldiers. An officer greeted us with hostility, but nonetheless waved us across. Immediately, we came upon a line of refugees streaming towards the Portuguese side of the river. It was chaos. The voices of terrified Spaniards, who instead of being allowed to pass, found themselves forced back and not allowed to enter Portugal by orders of President Salazar. Many, after their papers and identity were checked by Spanish officers, were pulled aside and shot, their bodies thrown into the river. Others rounded up and made to sit off the side of the road in the brutal heat. My driver looked at me, questioning this misguided journey. We drove on into Spain and horror.

“We made our way to a checkpoint five miles from the border. A soldier motioned us out of the car with his rifle and took us to a Spanish army officer who fortunately spoke English. He said I was not welcome, but that if I wrote a sympathetic article about their crusade to rid Spain of ‘the reds’, I might be allowed back into the country in the future. We continued our journey towards the war and a small town a few miles away.

“We entered the town to a cacophony of cannon, gunfire, and the acrid smell of cordite. Dust and sand, blown around, tried in vain to cover the bloodstains near a shattered, thrown together barricade of furniture and donkey wagons on the main street.

“The people of this town, of no importance other than it was in the way of the rebel army and chose the wrong side, had stood their ground and vowed to defend their Republic. Severely outnumbered and outgunned, the rebels quickly overwhelmed them. The brute force of a professional army silenced the cry of ‘they shall not pass!’, bravely shouted by the townsfolk. The fascist victory cry of ‘Arise Spain!’ echoed among the mud and stone buildings. Flags and banners of the Republic, the trade unions, and community organizations fed the flames of a bonfire that lit up the night. Bits of burning fabric fluttered into the air and returned to earth as ash. The fascist militia and regular army laughed and danced around the bonfire like children on a camp-out as more deadly work took place nearby.

“At a gully, a carpet of bodies lined the bottom. The victors shot anyone who supported the Republic. A young woman, clutching a baby’s rattle, lay next to the mayor, his blood-soaked sash of office still around his chest, while the local trade union leader, his union card pinned to his chest, sprawled lifeless a few feet away. They brought a new round of prisoners forward, some with heads hung down, others with looks of defiance towards their executioners. The children of those shot were sent to orphanages run by the church or given to Nationalist families to raise the ‘correct’ way.

“An Army colonel, who minutes before had idly dusted off his black leather boots, addressed the firing squad. ‘Ready, aim …’ Shouts of ‘Long live the Republic’ from the line of condemned men, then the command ‘fire’. The bodies tumbled backward to join their comrades as another line of victims came forward and stared into the abyss.

After a sleepless night in our car, we awoke to a hot orange sun rising above the hills of fig trees and the destruction of the day before. The schoolhouse, the door battered and smashed, the books scattered into the street to be burned, symbolized the hate of ‘old Spain’ for the new secular and democratic ‘People's Spain’. Children of peasants returned to the fields to work, not learn dangerous teachings. Torches were readied to turn this temple of learning into an ash heap, silent and smoldering. The teachers had been hauled away the night before and met the fate of others who supported the government.

“Spain’s Republic lay dying along with its defenders in this small, inconsequential town. The Nationalist rebel army, done with its gruesome work of the day, celebrated their crusade to cleanse Spain of liberalism, heresy, socialism and, yes, democracy. The army prepared to move on up the road to the next village and on to Madrid. They hitched wagons and cannon to horses and mules as soldiers and militia formed up.

“If the public pronouncements of the rebel leaders are any indication, the supporters of the Spanish Republic are in for a rough time. This troubled country might be the harbinger of things to come. Only time will tell.”

Robert pulled the last page out of the Remington and laid it face down as if to hide it from the world, not to be seen. The words were an affront to the soul.

Robert raised his gangly six-foot frame from the wooden chair.

“It’s on the desk, boss. I am going out for a walk.”

It had all come back to him: the sight, the smells, the sheer horror. Robert Cassidy wondered if he had the stomach for war reporting. Writing about corruption and crooked politicians was one thing; murder like this disturbed him immensely. He walked from the center of Lisbon, through the Rua Agusta Arch to the Plaza of Commerce on the bank of the Tagus. He sat on the paved stone steps that led down to the river. The breeze helped clear his mind and settle him. He knew he would have to continue. The world needed to know what was happening in Spain. Robert walked back across the plaza, through the Arch, towards his office, his mind inward.

Robert didn’t notice the short, swarthy man with the pulled down white straw hat step out of the shadow of the Arch and follow him discreetly. In fact, Robert hadn’t noticed him when he left the IPA office. The Portuguese secret police were good at their job.

When Robert walked up the three flights of stairs to the IPA office, he expected to see his boss, blue pencil in hand, at his desk editing his article. Instead, James MacGregor was looking out the window at the street.

“So, what do you think?” said Robert.

“Huh?”

“The article?”

“Oh, sorry. Come here, Robert.”

When he came over to the window, James pointed down.

“Recognize that bloke?”

“No, should I?”

“When you came into work this morning, he was standing in that same spot, and when you took your walk, he left right after you. Now he is back.”

“Who is he, boss?”

“Probably one of Salazar’s state police in the PVDE. A milder form of the Gestapo, but just as dangerous. Did you step on any toes when you crossed the border?”

“Not that I know of.” Robert looked back out the window.

“Did you see anything that you didn’t put in the article?”

“Come to think about it, we followed a line of trucks heading over the bridge into Spain. They had no markings, so I thought little of it. A Spanish officer waved them off to the side, and we passed by them.”

“Did you see what they were hauling?”

“No, but when we came back through, they were still there, and wagons were loading long crates that were being taken from the trucks. I thought I saw German writing on the crates.”

“Hmm,” MacGregor pondered. “Salazar is saying Portugal will remain neutral in this affair, but I don’t believe it. He has a lot in common with the Spanish Nationalists … hates the reds and liberals. Seems to be more German military types showing up in Lisbon, too. Wonder what those crates contained? Guns and ammo, I suspect. Anyhow, this is a hell of an article. Few correspondents have made it into the war zone so far. I will Teletype this into London tomorrow. Congratulations, Robert.”

Robert didn’t feel in a congratulating frame of mind. He felt soiled by what he reported.

James MacGregor sensed his protégé’s mood.

“Let’s head over to the British Bar and see what our fellow key pounders are saying. I could use a decent Scotch. And we go out the back way. We don’t need your new friend following us.”

“Not the Rossio, boss?”

“No, we are going to where the stories are.”

James locked up the office and the two went out the back door, over one street, to where they jumped onto a small tram that was destined for the wharf district of Cais do Sodré. Robert looked out its small window, dismayed at how shabby the city was. The worldwide depression hit Lisbon just as hard as elsewhere. The city desperately needed restoration and rejuvenation. Lisbon’s well-known ornate blue decorative tiles were falling off buildings and chunks of plaster fell to the sidewalks. Rusty balcony railings, with laundry hanging, rickety staircases and unpainted window frames on apartment buildings were the norm. The saving grace during the day was the lushness of the grass and flowers of orange, purple, and red. At night, neon advertising lights for Sandeman port wines and Omega watches above brilliant white street lamps illuminated the city and its wide boulevards.

James and Robert walked into the British Bar, its interior lit by a mix of electric lights and oil lamps. The bar was noted for its international selection of beer, thanks to the influx of cargo ships from all over the world. Inside sat a group of animated people at two tables pushed together, mostly men, except for one woman. All spoke English, but with various accents. They were journalists and correspondents, some assigned to Lisbon, others passing through.

“Not the nicest part of town, Robert, but if you want to know what is going on in the world, the sailors here will tell you.” James winked at him. “If you buy them a drink or two.”

They strode over to the table.

“Gentlemen … and lady.” He bowed to the stately blonde, who was just lighting a cigarette. “This is my new assistant, Robert Cassidy, and he has been bloodied. Sent him to Spain, and he made it back in one piece.”

They all raised their glasses to Robert and gave their own equivalent of “hear, hear”.

James introduced him to the correspondents around the table. They were American, French, Belgian and Dutch.

“What will you have, Robert?”

“I’m dying for an American beer.”

James came back with his Scotch and handed him a cool Brooklyn-brewed bottle of Rheingold.

André, from Havas, the French news agency, grabbed a wooden chair for him.

“Sit, mon ami. Tell us what you saw.”

“Now, now, you can all read it in the International Herald in a day or two,” said James.

A chorus of derision erupted.

“Alright then. Give them a taste, Robert.”

“A bad taste,” Robert said morosely.

Robert told them what he saw.

They were all quiet for a minute, digesting what they had just heard.

Marc the Belgian spoke up.

“I was in Barcelona when the people’s militias pushed back the army and its fascist supporters. Barcelona won, but we have all heard the reports coming out of Spain. It is no longer just a coup. The Nationalists met their match in some areas and in others, like what you saw Robert, they have conquered. Their coup failed, and the Republican government did not fall. Now it is civil war, and it will only get worse.”

“Our friend Virginia, from your home country, is heading to Madrid. One of the few women reporters over here,” said James.

Virginia looked at him coolly. She took him all in, the hazel eyes, sandy colored hair and a tall thin build. The cigarette dangled from her fingers.

“Any suggestions, Robert?”

“Yes, find a way in from eastern Spain.”

“Want to come with me?” she teased.

Robert’s face flushed.

James chuckled. “Now, now, Virginia.”

The bartender went into the kitchen and brought the table plates of Alheira de Mirandela, a sausage stuffed with spices, veal, and rabbit with slices of bread.

They ordered another round of drinks as they dug into the food and resumed talking.

The bar filled up as sailors from a Dutch ship came in and sat at the bar. It was still early in the day. Later, this bar would be lively and dangerous.

“Excuse me, my friends,” said Evert, the correspondent from the Dutch paper De Telegraaf.

He walked over to the bar and started talking to one sailor. It appeared he knew him. Evert ordered two drinks, and they went to a table near the door. A half hour later, he returned.

“Get anything, Evert?” asked André.

“Their ship made a stop at Bilbao on the Bay of Biscay. The Basques have been mobilizing for some time. Even though they are part of Spain, the Nationalists hate them for not being true Spaniards. They know the Nationalists would like to eliminate them if they could. The Army rebels from Navarre in the north look to be ready to cut off the Basque territory at Irun by the French border. That seals off not only a way for people and arms to come in, but it stops an escape route for Basques fleeing to France. A grave situation all around.”

Once they finished the food and drinks, the slightly tipsy correspondents said their goodbyes to the bartender and headed off to their news agency offices in central Lisbon.

Virginia walked up to Robert.

“Don’t let what you saw get you down. We are the free press, and we have a job to do. There are already reports that Germany and Italy are sending supplies, planes and men to help those fascist bastards. It is up to us to write what we see.”

“It’s just that I have never seen such brutality,” said Robert.

Virginia wrapped her arm around his. “Your baptism of fire, and not the last, I suspect. I am still the newcomer here, like you. I made my mark writing in the fashion and society pages. They thought I was crazy about wanting to be a foreign correspondent. Not the place for women, they said. The hell with them, and here I am,” she said defiantly.

On the outskirts of Rossio Square, James and Robert veered from the group and took the back way into their IPA office, ensuring their “watcher” didn’t spot them.

Back in the office, James looked out the window. “I don’t see our friend. Why don’t you head back to your apartment? It’s a quiet day in Lisbon. If I need you, I will call you. I’ll wire your article in the morning.”

“Thanks, James. I could use some quiet time.”

A few days later, Robert and James were reading the latest news from the wire services when there was a knock on the door and a tall, well-dressed man with black hair slicked back and a pencil mustache walked in.

“I hope I am not disturbing you gentlemen.” His smile was condescending. He flipped out a wallet with his credentials. “Lieutenant Leonardo Silva of the Polícia de Vigilância E Defesa do Estado.”

James strode forward.

“What can we do for one of His Excellency’s finest policemen?” he said a bit sarcastically.

Lieutenant Silva looked down at James like a hawk sizing up a mouse.

“So, this is where the so-called news of Portugal … and Spain emanates from. Interesting. Just you two?”

“Yes, just us. What can we do for you, Lieutenant?”

James had trouble with police of all sorts his entire career, especially government police like Silva. He didn’t like being bullied, and this one looked like a bully.

Silva spoke to Robert. “Your article about Spain caused a commotion, Senhor Cassidy.” He turned back to James.

“Do you know Estevo Carvalho, Senhor MacGregor?”

Robert came over and stood next to James, concern on his face.

“Yes, he is a driver for us. Why?”

“We found him near Rua António Maria Cardoso. It appears a tram struck Senhor Carvalho.”

“Is he alright?” said Robert.

“Sadly, he is dead.”

Leonardo Silva looked at the newsmen to see a reaction, and it came swiftly.

James held Robert back as he leaned into Silva.

“What do you mean, struck? How?”

“We do not know. We found his press pass for your agency in his wallet. I thought you might want to know of his unfortunate demise. My condolences, Senhores.”

With that, he turned his back on them and walked out of the office.

James said nothing until he was sure Silva was out of the building.

“Something is rotten in Denmark,” James said. “Two of Salazar’s thugs snooping around the office since you came back. You stumbled on something they don’t like. Do you know any of Carvalho’s old haunts?”

Robert stood there, still in shock.

“I said, do you know where Carvalho used to stop for a drink or coffee? Maybe someone knows him?”

James sighed and ushered him towards the door.

“Off you go, boy. You’re a journalist. Go find some answers. By the way, that street they found Carvalho on is the location of the secret police. Not very subtle, are they?”

Estevo Carvalho lived in Alfama, close to Robert and nowhere near where he was supposedly hit by a tram. Robert walked a short distance to a massive outdoor elevator, which took him 148 feet up to the top of one of the hills of Lisbon to the Alfama district. The Alfama, with steep walkways, ancient homes, apartments and shops, all butted together with no space between them, held Lisbon’s poor and working class. Courtyards and small parks looked down and over the eight mile estuary of the Tagus. He finally found the small rustic Taberna de Alfama where he and Estevo had spent a few hours weeks ago whispering about Lisbon politics and drinking wine. Estevo leaned to the left in his politics and had nothing good to say about the Salazar regime. He was quiet about it, unlike some of his friends, who were vocal opponents. Estevo enjoyed driving the young American around Lisbon and Portugal. Robert would tell him about America and Estevo would regale Robert with the history of Portugal.

When Robert walked into the taberna, the boisterous crowd hushed and turned towards him. His tall frame and style of clothes were out of place where smallish men with working class clothes and caps predominated. A few women were drinking, but most were men..

One man broke away from a group and walked over to Robert. He was significantly shorter than Robert, black beard stubble, black cap and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. His brown eyes sized up Robert.

“You are Senhor Cassidy, right?”

“Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“I am Inacio Oliviera, a friend of Estevo. I remember when you were here last. Now poor Estevo is no longer with us.” He shook Robert’s hand. His left one rested in his coat pocket.

When the crowd saw the two talking, the conversations resumed to its normal, noisy level.

“You speak good English, Inacio. Where did you pick it up?”

“I emigrated to America and worked at a textile mill in Fall River, Massachusetts in the twenties before the capitalists killed off the economy. Many Portuguese people in Fall River. I came back to Lisbon in 1932. Has been little better here.” His voice dropped. “And we have that asshole Salazar.” Inacio looked around the bar and back at Robert. “Why are you here?”

“Tell me, Inacio, did Estevo say anything in the past week about his work?”

“Come, Senhor Cassidy, let us find a small piece of privacy in this den of madness.”

They went to the back of the tavern to a corner table where it was darker and less crowded. Inacio spotted the bartender and nodded. Shortly, he brought over a pitcher of red wine.

“Senhor Cassidy, what I tell you I did not tell you, understand? I saw them take poor Estevo away.”

“What? Who? A police lieutenant said a tram hit him.”

Inacio laughed. “Estevo? Hit by one of our trams? Impossible. It was the secret police, the PVDE, who took Estevo away. I was going to his apartment so we could walk together to here. He had just said goodbye to his wife, and they came out of the shadows and threw him in a car.”

“How do you know it was the PVDE?”

Inacio pulled his left hand out of his pocket and placed it on the table. The gnarled hand looked as if all the bones had been smashed and healed badly.

“A souvenir from them. Yes, Senhor Cassidy, I know the PVDE when I see them. Those of us in illegal political organizations get visits to remind us not to step out of line.”

“Was Estevo in one of these illegal organizations?”

“No. While he agreed with the opposition to Salazar, he prided himself on his independence. He enjoyed working with you and Senhor MacGregor. It made him feel special and part of the outside world … until he made that trip to Spain.”

“He told you what we saw?”

Inacio frowned. “Yes. The shootings at the bridge and the town. We have Spanish people hiding here in Alfama. If the PVDE find them and send them back, it will be to their execution.”

“Did he tell you about the trucks unloading crates at the bridge as we came back to Portugal?”

“No, that he did not mention. Why? Is that important?”

“Estevo was so shaken on the way back he probably wasn’t paying attention to the trucks. He just wanted to get out of Spain as quickly as possible.”

Inacio sat up straight. Interested in this information. “What is so special about the trucks and their cargo?”

“They were long and square crates. I saw German lettering on them.”

“Estevo was probably beaten so badly because the PVDE thought he was holding back when, in reality, he knew nothing. Poor Estevo. Killed and there is nothing we can do.” Inacio shook his head and took a sip of his wine. “I used to work at the docks and I visit friends there sometimes. There has been an increase in German cargo ships. Nazis. I despise them! Last week …”

Two men in dark suits stepped into the bar, stood at the entrance, and looked around. Again, the place quieted down. The bartender and Inacio exchanged glances. Inacio rubbed two fingers across his forehead. The bartender began to sing the national anthem of Portugal. Immediately, everyone in the bar joined in and joyfully surrounded the two men.

“We leave now, out the back way, Senhor. They are PVDE. They want me, you, or both of us. Do not rush, act casually.”

Robert and Inacio stepped out into the Lisbon night. Here the streetlamps were subdued, unlike center Lisbon, which was aglow. Here, shadows played tricks on Robert’s mind. He saw PVDE men everywhere, but it was an illusion born of fear.

“Let us go to a private club where we can talk, free from prying eyes.”

“I don’t think you are a simple dock worker, Inacio.”

Even in the darkness of Alfama, Robert could see Inacio smile.

Inacio took Robert down a narrow street to an alley and an ancient stone building with a heavy wooden door and shuttered windows. He knocked once, then three times. A narrow panel opened, and a set of dark eyes peered out. The scraping sound of a large bolt being shoved open echoed in the alley and a bulky man with a black bushy beard looked out the partially open door. He looked down the alley both ways and motioned them in. They stood in a cramped alcove that had a stool for the man to sit in. A door led from the alcove into another room … the “private club”.

“You have me completely lost, Inacio.”

“That is good. You do not want to know anything about this place or where it is,” Inacio said with an unexpected hardness to his voice.

The club was the extremely poor cousin of the clubs Robert had visited in America. Well-worn wooden chairs and tables, the homemade small bar, the selection of liquors limited. A keg of wine nestled on a rack in the corner. Men would go over and pour from its spigot into glasses and mugs of various sizes and shapes. Blue smoke of cheap tobacco engulfed the small room. There were no embellishments, no pictures, no name of the club. It looked entirely neutral, and that is how this club wanted it to appear, but Robert knew from instinct where he was. This was one location of the opposition to Salazar’s Estado Novo.

“Let us sit, Senhor Cassidy.”

“Inacio, please call me Robert.”

Before they could talk, a large bull of a man walked over and sat down uninvited and looked at Robert with hostile eyes.

“Who is your well-dressed friend, Inacio, and why do you bring him here?”

“Let me say that the taberna had some unwelcome visitors, for my friend and I, Afonso. My friend is Robert Cassidy, the journalist who wrote that article about Spain that I read to all of you. Estevo was his driver.”

Afonso’s eyes softened.

“Olá, comrade. A friend of Inacio is a friend of mine.”

He stood and slapped Robert on the back, almost knocking him out of the feeble chair.

Inacio went to the bar, asked for two ceramic mugs, and then went to the wine keg. He filled the mugs while talking to a young man standing near it. They both walked over to the table.

“Robert, this is Pablo. He is a Spaniard from Andalusia. He escaped from the onslaught with the help of some friends and smuggled over the border.”

Pablo was in his mid-twenties, short, with dark hair and soft brown eyes. His threadbare suit hung on him. It was clear to Robert that he had a rough month.

“Don’t let his appearance disturb you, Robert. He is fattening up with some good Portuguese food, right, Andalusian?”

Pablo laughed.

“They saved my life, Robert. I was in hiding for three weeks in the hills on my own. I am the president of my trade union affiliated with the UGT. I was in my office when the fascists and the Moroccan soldiers entered my town. I was burning our membership list and other documents. The army was shelling the working class quarter of town with cannon and mortar shells. I joined the crowd fleeing out the back way. Many were shot by soldiers who flanked the town. They knew this was a town loyal to Madrid. It was night when I finally made my way out and into the hills. I slept in a shepherd’s hut the first night, afraid to even step out of it.” Pablo took a sip of wine, the memories painful. “I was here the night Inacio read us the article you wrote. The government censors and suppresses the news in Portugal. We rely on foreign papers from the ships in the harbor and the BBC. Thank you for your article.”

“Estevo paid a steep price for it. The PVDE murdered him,” said Robert.

“Many people are dying, Robert, not just Estevo. My comrades in Andalusia are probably all dead. Why does your country, America, sit back and do nothing while people are being slaughtered?” he countered.

“I don’t know, Pablo, but there are others like me that want and will get the news out. Maybe we can wake people up. Maybe we can make a difference. To me, I see ominous times ahead. If we don’t stand up to these fascists now, the world is in for some serious trouble.”

“Do you mean that, Robert? That you will try to wake people up? Not just in your own country, but others as well?” said Inacio.

Robert thought hard about his words thrown back at him.

“Yes, Inacio.”

Inacio sat back in his chair, a faint smile on his care-worn face. He had been in this fight for so long he had almost given up. Salazar’s oppression of political parties, trade unions, and freedoms had worn down many. Portugal’s jails held others just like him. The Spanish Nationalist coup and situation in Spain had changed everything. The outcome of who won would have profound implications for Portugal, its workers, and the opposition. He and others needed the Spanish Republicans to win and the Nationalists to lose. Here was a foreigner, an American, who could help.

“Robert, you are intelligent, no? You are aware of where you are, what kind of club this is?”

“Yes, Inacio, I am aware. So, what do you want?”

“We will give you leads, as you say in your business, and you write the articles for the IPA.”

“What if I don’t like your leads?”

“You are free to write what you want. We have no such freedoms, but you might get a story no one else has. Robert, the world does not know what is happening here. In time, there will be many reporters in Spain. But here? Poor backwards Portugal? No, but believe me Robert, Portugal will be important in the next few years, for all sides in the coming conflict between democracy and fascism.”

Robert knew then that he would rely on Inacio to lead him to the stories.

“I will have someone take you away from this place and to your apartment. Remember, you don’t know this club. I will be back in contact with you, Robert.”

Inacio waved a hand at a young man standing by the bar.

“Take our friend where he needs to go. Be careful, and watchful.”

Inacio stood and shook Robert’s hand.

“Go now.”

The young man and Robert left the bar and entered the alcove. The doorman peered out of the sliding spot and cautiously opened the door, looked both ways, and motioned them out. It was past midnight.

Out on the street, Robert told the young man where he lived.

“What is your name?” he enquired.

“You do not need to know that, Senhor.” The young man caught himself. “Sorry, I do not mean to be disrespectful. Security, you understand. We have lived under Salazar for so long that we are mistrustful.”

“Alright. You are young. Are you a student?”

“Yes, Senhor. I study economics at the University.”

After a few blocks, and in a roundabout way, Robert found himself in familiar territory. He knew now he could find his way to his apartment.

“Thank you, my friend. I will be fine from here.” When he turned to say goodbye, the young man had disappeared like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

* * *

The next day, Robert told James of his night.

“Excellent work. I don’t think I will send you back to Spain just yet. After your article, the army would probably shoot you. No, I think we can break some stories here. Spain and those fascists are still in our sights. Get to work, Robert. Do some digging with your new friend.”

The IPA office stayed open late now. It was much easier for Robert to slip away under the cover of darkness. James would close the office after giving Robert ample time. It was cat and mouse with the PVDE.

Robert took the small yellow tram from Baixa to Portas do Sol in Alfama. It was a damp night and the stench from the ancient sewers enveloped him. He passed a lottery vendor hawking tickets as the owner of a small market chased children away from his fruit bin. A whisper in English reached out to Robert as he walked by the side of a small tobacco kiosk.

“Do you know what wolfram is?”

“Jesus, Inacio! You scared the shit out of me.”

“Do not keep going straight. We turn here. They are looking for you.”

Inacio lit a cigarette and offered one to Robert.

“I don’t smoke.”

Inacio laughed. “You will before you leave Lisbon. So, do you know what wolfram is?”

“Some kind of mineral, right?”

“Yes, Portugal mines it and so does Spain. Germany and Great Britain seek after it. Wolfram is highly valued as the primary source of the metal tungsten for electrical components and armor-piercing projectiles. Germany needs Portugal as an ally and for our wolfram and Germany wants the Nationalists to win so they can get wolfram from Spain once things have settled in their favor. We can’t let either of those things happen. I am not a friend of Great Britain, but right now, the Nazis are the enemy and my friends in Spain are dying. Robert, the guns going to Spain and wolfram are all related. We have to stop both.”

“Inacio, I am a reporter. I’m not supposed to take sides and I certainly am not supposed to get involved in this kind of intrigue.”

“Isn’t intrigue your ‘bread and butter’ as they say in America? We do not want you to take part in any actions we might take. We will furnish you with information and you decide if there is a story the world needs to know. I believe you will make the right decision. Both you and Senhor MacGregor see how the world is turning.”

* * *

Robert sat down with James the next day to discuss their options. James educated Robert on Salazar and his playing both sides with both Great Britain and Germany. Great Britain had historically been Portugal’s longest ally, but Germany and Mussolini’s fascist Italy were kindred spirits to Salazar’s corporate state. Salazar knew the leftwing government on his border was a threat to him and unacceptable. He would keep Great Britain as an ally and surreptitiously aid Nazi Germany in aiding the Spanish Nationalists. There was nothing inherently wrong with wolfram being freely traded with Germany, but James MacGregor knew this information was vitally important to their readers, especially the ones at 10 Downing Street.

“Alright Robert. We will see how far we can run with this. They will probably throw us out of the country … or worse. But this is our job. No time to be meek when the world hangs in the balance. Go to it, but be careful, son.”

* * *

“First thing,” Inacio said, “We have to get you out of this suit. I hope we can find some dock workers’ clothes that fit.”

They were once again at Inacio’s club. The young student who had walked him home days before had hijacked Robert as he left his apartment one night. In the back of the club was a false door that led to a small warehouse. There were bins of clothes, rifles, pistols, and assorted ammunition.

“Ah, these should do. Try them on.”

Robert sniffed as they handed the clothes to him. The clothes were well-worn and pungent from old sweat.

“Tonight, you are a dock worker.”

The small party of men left for the harbor and the docks. While they looked the part, they were not there to work, but to observe and to seek information.

They walked towards a warehouse where cargo was being offloaded to await transport to their destination. Inside, men continually moved wares to holding areas. Inacio called out to one of them.

The man walked over to Inacio and Robert as the other men that had come to the dock with them mingled about, keeping a watchful eye for police.

“What goes, Inacio?” The man looked at Robert suspiciously.

“He is ok. A friend. Any German ships come in today?”

“Yes. We unloaded her this afternoon.” He winked at Inacio. “The cargo is over there waiting for pickup tomorrow.” He pointed to a large stack of crates.

“Anything unusual put on the German ship?”

“Not today, but last week one of them took a shipment of rocks.” He laughed. “Stupid Germans. Don’t they have rocks in their own country?”

Inacio looked at Robert and nodded.

“Thank you, amigo. We won’t be long.”

“Don’t be. The harbor police will be back through.”

Inacio and Robert walked over to an area of crates off to the side.

“We have many friends here, Robert, but there is always one who betrays.”

The two circled around the side of the cargo, the crates with German writing on them. A crowbar nestled against the wall. A few crates were low enough, and Inacio pried one open. Its wood slats made a creaking noise as they pulled the nails loose. They both stopped and looked around. Luckily, the noise in the warehouse masked their activity. They opened the crate.

“Well, will you look at that? MacGregor was right.”

Inside were twelve bolt action rifles. Machine oil wafted out of the crate.

“Ok, my friend. We know.” Inacio waved to his camaradas. “Let us leave.”

* * *

“So that is how it went, boss. You were right about the guns. Those rocks had to be wolfram.”

“We don’t know if it was wolfram or not Robert.”

“But …”

MacGregor stared at his young reporter and smiled. “Certainly, you can mention a cargo of rocks, with a mention that Portugal and Spain have wolfram mines and the Germans want the ore. Our readers can figure out the rest. As for the guns, we write that our sources report German guns being driven over the border in Portuguese lorries to Spain. No need for you to mention you saw them being delivered.” He sighed. “As it is, we could be asking for trouble with this article.”

* * *

They took him on a sunny morning, September 4th, as he left his apartment to catch the tram to the IPA office. Two men on either side of the entrance came up to him, grabbed his arms, and shuffled him into a black Peugeot.

“Hey, what is this?” he protested loudly.

The people on the street, knowing what this was, looked away and hurried on.

They shoved him into the back seat where a man was already waiting. One of the men that had grabbed him went to the driver’s side, got in, and slammed the door. The other squeezed into the backseat. Robert was pinned, unable to move. They drove slowly away. In the passenger seat, Lieutenant Silva of the PVDE turned and faced Robert.

“Senhor Cassidy, you have been a naughty boy.”

They drove around to the back of the PVDE headquarters on Rua António Maria Cardoso, where two of the men pulled Robert out of the car and escorted him into the building and down two flights of stairs to a dank cellar lined with cells. They opened one and shoved him in. The metal door clanged shut.

Robert yelled out the small grate at the top of the door. “You can’t do this! I’m an American and with the press.”

The men laughed and went back up the stairs.

Robert looked at his bleak surroundings, a filthy mattress on the floor and a chamber pot, walls moldy and crumbling. Dampness seeped through; silverfish scuttled along the stone floor. One bare light hung from the ceiling. He heard moaning from the cell across from him.

It was hours before someone came for him. His guard smelled of tobacco and onions. He took Robert back up the two flights to the main floor and then another two floors to a hall with several offices. The guard knocked on room 16.

“Enter,” said the voice within.

His guard motioned him in and left.

Lieutenant Silva sat at a large desk with assorted papers and file folders stacked in front of him. Four large file cabinets behind him, a flag of Portugal on a pole, and a picture of Salazar on the light green wall. A large window overlooked the street. The two men that grabbed him at his apartment stood off to one side. A single high back wooden chair was placed in front of the desk.

Lieutenant Silva motioned to the chair. “Senhor Cassidy. Sit, please.”

Robert hesitated. Silva nodded to one man who forcibly moved him to the chair.

“I demand to know why I am here. I’m an …”

Silva slapped his hand on his desk and scowled.

“I ask the questions here, not you, Senhor Cassidy.”

Silva’s oily smile returned.

“Now then, let us get down to business. You wrote a very damaging article about Portugal. You are not in America. We have strict laws governing what can be written. Even if published outside of the country.”

“I wrote the truth, Lieutenant.”

“The Estado Novo decides what is truth in Portugal, not you. Are you a communist, Cassidy?”

“No, I am a Democrat.”

“Just as dangerous as the reds, we think.” Silva leaned back in his chair and eyed Robert. “Your visit to the cargo wharf and discovery of German weapons and the wolfram was not just you alone, right? Who told you about them? Who led you there? You see, we know more than you think. The PVDE has informers everywhere. All it takes is a few escudos for some to even turn in their own mother. So, answer my questions and please do not make me repeat myself.”

Robert glared at Silva. “No newspaperman worth his salt turns in his sources. We are not the PVDE.”

Silva’s frown reappeared.

“Have it your way, Senhor Cassidy. Take him back to his cell.”

“I demand to contact the American embassy.”

Silva’s men yanked him up and out of the chair.

“Have a pleasant night Senhor Cassidy. We will talk again tomorrow.”

After they put Robert back in his cell, some hard bread and watery soup was passed through a slot at the bottom of the cell door. Robert forced down both. Exhausted and in despair, he lay on the filthy, bug-ridden mattress. The single bulb, still lit, taunted him with a reminder of where he was.

Hours of attempts to sleep, to no avail. He would get up and pace in the small cell, wear himself out and try to sleep again. He was dying of thirst and yelled out the small grate for water. An hour later, a cup of water slid through the door slot. He drank it and choked on its rancid taste, barely keeping it down. More hours passed and again he was in front of Silva, again the same questions, again Robert declined to answer and again back to the cell.

Eventually his guard, still reeking of onion, motioned him out of his cell and they took the long walk up the stairs to Silva’s office. Twice he stumbled, catching himself on a railing so as not to fall. His guard just stood there, offering no help. He looked at the windows. It was night. He did not know what day it was.

The guard knocked on the door of number 16.

Silva shouted “Enter!”

The Lieutenant sat at his desk, no other guards, but in the chair a welcome surprise.

Robert choked out a raspy “Hi, boss.”

James MacGregor looked at Robert and then to Silva with loathing.

“You are free to go, Senhor Cassidy, but with a warning. Any article we deem damaging to the interests of Portugal and you will be expelled from Portugal.”

“How …?”

“Go,” Silva said angrily.

“Let’s not talk here Robert,” said James.

Once outside in the cool Lisbon night, James told him. “The American embassy and some press friends put pressure on the PVDE Director and Salazar himself to release you to keep this from blowing up into an international incident.”

“What day is it?”

“It is Sunday the sixth. Three days in that hellhole is enough for anyone. Some never get out alive. You were lucky, being an American, no torture. They were sending another warning, but it backfired, I hope. I have a taxi. Let’s get you to your apartment. Take a few days off. You need it.”

Robert slept like the dead for almost two days, only rising to eat, then he crawled back under his blanket, hoping pleasant dreams would erase his memory of the cell. Dreams and nightmares collided, making that impossible.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, the eighth, finally rested, he rose at six o’clock, bathed, shaved, and dressed for work. The morning fog hung over the Tagus like a shroud. As the dawn broke and blue skies appeared, a shattering boom echoed through Lisbon followed by still another. Then the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire. Robert ran out of his apartment into a throng of people from the neighborhood, some in panic, others just curious. They all gravitated to a small park overlooking the river.

“Are the ships firing on Lisbon?” said one old man.

“No,” said another. “They are being fired upon.”

As Robert stood there, a voice whispered behind him. “Here to watch the show, Senhor Cassidy? My apologies, you do not know what is going on, do you? Your sources have abandoned you or they are in some of my cells. What do you think, hmm?”

Astonished to see him, Robert said, “Why are you here, Lieutenant Silva?”

“Oh, I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

There is that oily smile again, thought Robert. Standing at the edge of the crowd, Silva’s two henchmen watched them intently.

“Let us go over to that bench and sit. I can tell you what is happening and what will happen.”

They sat down. Silva looked out over the Tagus and sighed.

“What a beautiful river and city my Lisbon is. Unfortunately, we have those that want to upset the order of things. We must punish them, like we will with those mutinous sailors below.”

“What mutiny?”

“I am sure you will find out eventually, so I will give you the scoop as you say.”

Another volley of cannon fire echoed around the river. One of the large navy ships was hit and seemed to lose its steering. Sailors were jumping off it as it headed towards the opposite shore of the Tagus.

“The two vessels below are the destroyer Dão and the frigate Afonso de Albuquerque. Another never got away from the dock. The mutineers on board intended to seize the ships, dispose of their officers, and sail out of Portugal to Valencia, Spain to join with their communist brothers in fighting our friends, the Nationalists.” He turned his nose up and sniffed as if detecting a rank odor. “The mutiny was to begin at 0300. That did not happen. Now they are trying to escape.” Silva looked directly at Robert. “We knew of their plan at 0100. Do not look astonished, Cassidy. I told you we have informers everywhere.”

As Robert looked down at the doomed ships, a patrol boat came up on the Dão and raked it with machine gun fire.

“Those fortresses on the hills on either side of the river are the Almada and the Alto do Duque. We may have some disloyal sailors, but the rest of the navy and the army are loyal. Of course, my men in the PVDE are arresting the civilian plotters who helped these sailors. All communists mind you. Maybe you know a few, Cassidy?”

Nearby, an old woman all in black clutched her rosary beads. “Those poor boys.”

Silva flashed her a look of warning and she backed away into the crowd.

“Ah, see Cassidy, it is over.”

The ships listed, clearly damaged and unable to escape the onslaught from the fortresses straddling the river. White flags and sheets were being draped across the ship’s railings, signaling defeat. More patrol boats arrived and circled them like lions around wounded prey. The sky a bright blue, the fog gone, but the smoke of cannon lingered. The battle, if one could call it that, over.

“Well, Senhor Cassidy, time for both of us to report for work. I know I will be busy.” Silva stood up. “We might look the other way when you write about this. After all, we won.”

Robert arrived at the office where James was already on the phone. He motioned Robert to his desk.

“I saw it, James, the ships on the Tagus.”

James hung up the phone. “Tell me.”

Robert described what he saw, and the information given to him by Silva.

“Silva told you all that? He is being generous. I don’t trust him.”

“As he said, they won. If it had been the other way and I wrote it up, I would have been put on the first ship out of Lisbon.”

“Write it up, Robert. Leave nothing out except our good lieutenant’s name, of course,” James said, winking at Robert.

Robert sat at his desk and put an empty sheet of paper in the Remington and began typing. An hour later, he handed three pages to James to review and edit.

“Looks good, Robert. A couple of typos but easily fixed.” He smiled. “You’re getting the hang of this. I think I will keep you around,” he joked.

James MacGregor fixed the typos and wired off the story to the head office in London to be distributed to papers around the world. They had scooped everyone on the “Mutiny on the Tagus”.

“So, what do you think? A stroll over to the British Bar for a decent Scotch and some American beer?”

“Lead on, you’re the boss.”

Robert and James closed the office. It was early afternoon and a brilliant sunny day in Lisbon. Their watcher was nowhere in sight. Robert thought back on the sailors killed, being rounded up and awaiting prison for their mutiny. He wondered if Inacio was among the civilians Silva said were filling his jail. There was intrigue, danger and death in Lisbon, all leading back to the upheaval in Spain. He knew the next few years would lead him to more. He remembered what Estevo said, that Portugal and Spain shared a border of sorrow. How much more sorrow, how much more blood? Robert Cassidy knew his work was not finished and this part of the world was not done with him.

About the author

Lee Conrad lives in upstate New York, is a Vietnam-era veteran, worked at IBM, and as staff at a major labor union. His stories have appeared in Down in the Dirt, Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Longshot Island, Commuterlit, Ariel Chart, Sundial Magazine, and The Magazine of History and Fiction. Visit his wordpress site and his facebook page.