Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [5]
Anji, ever practical, had walked over to a desk and bought a cheap pamphlet. The painting was reproduced on the outside and she was reading the contents with a confused frown. She was unconsciously chewing one side of her lower lip as she concentrated, which Fitz found rather cute.
‘Guernica has been commissioned by the Republican government for the Spanish pavilion at the 1937 World’s Fair in Paris...’
There was something nagging him. Something about the cheap prints he’d seen as a kid. He’d seen it more recently as well. It had been reproduced somewhere so obvious he hadn’t even noticed where it was.
‘It expresses the artist’s reaction to the destruction of the Basque town of Guernica earlier this year,’ Anji continued.
‘A reasoned response,’ the Doctor remarked. He was pacing up and down in front of the painting, tilting his head at strange angles as if he was trying to find the one spot in the room from which the painting didn’t feel wrong.
‘Reason!’ Fitz realised he’d said it too loudly. Not only were his friends turning to look at him, but other visitors paused to stare. As if he cared. That’s where he’d seen the painting recently. He yanked the old paperback book out of his pocket. Cracked it spine open so he could see the entire cover design. A 1960s Penguin edition of The Age of Reason. Badly foxed. And wrapped in a reproduction of the painting before them.
A reproduction that screamed of outrage and horror and of the inhumanity of a town being razed to the ground. That told the world that this was wrong, that limbs shouldn’t be severed in that way, that animals and people shouldn’t die that way. That a town, a way of life, a dream had been shattered and fractured and destroyed – stomped into non-existence by sheer brutality – and that the world should take notice before it was too late.
In contrast with the cool detachment of the barely finished artwork in front of them, which spoke of nothing more than paint on canvas and a commission fulfilled.
How could a reproduction have a passion that the real version lacked?
* * *
The trapdoor opened without a protest, flooding the stagnant gloom with illumination. As he closed his eyes against the sudden light, Alberto felt Luiz’s large hand on his arm, a silent warning. He could hear boots on the steep stairs. Many boots. It wasn’t Joaquín then. It wasn’t their ally: it must be the enemy. Unless... something had happened to Joaquín and he had sent others to rescue Alberto and Luiz from their hiding place. Yes, that could be it. These would be allies, come to help them, get them to somewhere safe, secure. Perhaps even over the border.
Luiz’s grip on his arm tightened. Alberto opened his eyes cautiously, unwilling to find out if he was right or wrong. Through the rack he could see glimpses of men, methodically moving along the cellar towards them, shoving over each shelf as they reached it. Uniformed men. The dreaded blue uniforms: the Guardia de Asalto.
‘Alberto Martinez and Luiz Hernades. You are arrested for treason against the Republic! Come forward and face the charges against you!’
Alberto’s eyes glanced towards his companion. Luiz was a big man, strong, competent. He had been in the street fighting of the last fortnight, though, and he was exhausted from the aftermath of the adrenalin rushes. And from the fear that this very thing would happen. That he would be branded a traitor, dragged away and never seen again. The same fear Alberto had; the one that was coming true. The odds of fighting their way out were not good, not as debilitated as they were and with Alberto’s still useless arms. Luiz returned Alberto’s glance, let his eyes flicker agreement. They would fight if they had to. They had killed for their ideology and they wouldn’t stop the fight now it was their turn to lose.
‘Come on, you fascist traitors!’
Two guards had reached the rack now. Alberto could see the gleam of the rifles slung over their shoulders. He could almost reach