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    The Lisbon Correspondent
    The Lisbon Correspondent
    The Lisbon Correspondent
    Ebook76 pages1 hour

    The Lisbon Correspondent

    By Lee Conrad

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    About this ebook

    The Lisbon Correspondent, Valladolid Station, and Barcelona Passage are stories set during the early days of the Spanish Civil War in the summer of 1936.

    The Lisbon Correspondent follows reporter Robert Cassidy as he travels over the Portuguese border to Spain as fighting erupts between nationalist troops who have begun a coup and supporters of the left wing republican government. What he finds in his travels shatters his soul and endangers his life.

    Valladolid Station is the story of Alejandro Serrano, a railway union official who must rally his supporters and defend the railway line to Madrid from nationalist troops and their fascist supporters. By the end of the day he meets an unexpected foe.

    Barcelona Passage tells the story of amateur athletes who are political activists and trade union members who travel to Barcelona as participants in the Olympiad Popular, the alternative Olympics to the Nazi sponsored one in Germany. It is the days before the nationalist rising and members of the American team as well as others find themselves in the middle of a rising storm of revolution and chaos.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLee Conrad
    Release dateMar 14, 2022
    ISBN9798201382070
    The Lisbon Correspondent
    Author

    Lee Conrad

    Lee Conrad lives in upstate New York with his longtime love and their three rescue cats. His stories have appeared in Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Ariel Chart, Sundial Magazine, The London Reader, Books ‘N Pieces, Blood and Bourbon, Written Tales and The Blue Lake Review.

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      Book preview

      The Lisbon Correspondent - Lee Conrad

      The 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 cafes and bars were alive with Lisboetas drinking and listening to melancholy Fado folk songs. Normally he would have stopped at one and drank glasses of wine from the Douro region. Or he would have walked to Rossio Square with its more upscale cafes 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 Evora in the Alentejo district, 87 miles from Lisbon and 50 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 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 checked by Spanish officers, 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

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