Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser

modern building, banded broadly with chalk-green and white stripes. It was the only building whose door was lit.
    The Swiss led them past the guards and up the high steps. At the head of the stairs was a balcony, with offices branching from it. An armed workman stopped them.
    â€œThe mayor sent us,” said the Swiss, in Catalan.
    The workman opened a door.
    It was a high, hot room, lit with naked bulbs whose white unbearable dazzle made them narrow their eyes. The walls were ranged with straight wooden chairs. At the far side, behind a square dark desk, the secretary got to his feet.
    â€œYou are from the train, they tell me?”
    The Swiss explained that they brought a message from the passengers; as he spoke, the secretary signaled with a nod to four of the men in the anteroom. They came in and closed the door behind them softly.
    The secretary motioned for them all to sit down. He spoke a few words to the Catalans, and came back to the Swiss. “Tell them what you have told me,” he said.
    The Swiss repeated their mission. The four men sat there, not answering with any motion. The Swiss handed the letter to the secretary, and Peter emptied the beret carefully on the glossy desk.
    THE SECRETARY READ the document. Even sitting, bent over paper, his body had dignity, and his long face, the cheeks crossed and braided by lines, dominated the room. He leaned over the desk, stretching the paper towards the nearest committee-member.
    The two lines of people faced each other—the four dark Catalans sat opposite the Swiss, Peter, Helen, and Toni. The secretary turned his engine-eyes on them. The first man passed the paper on to the second. With a long hooked gesture, the secretary pulled a light steel table to him, spooled a sheet out of the typewriter, settled a new page, and began to type lightly and rapidly.
    No one said a word. Helen leaned over to Peter with a full, rich gesture, bending forward from the breast to ask him a question. She was looking at a large photograph framed on the wall over the secretary’s desk. The Catalan who had just finished the letter followed her eyes.
    â€œWho is he?”
    Peter shrugged slightly, and asked the Swiss, they had dropped into whispers. Peter put his mouth near her ear.
    â€œLluís Companys, President of Catalonia.”
    The committee-man nodded.
    The secretary finished the lines he was typing. His lips tightened, the deep sharp groove down his lone upper lip became lighter, and his lined forehead cleared. He reached over his desk and inked a seal. The room was quiet, now that his machine had stopped. The stamps of rubber seal on paper had a final, military note.
    The secretary stood up, and began to read in a flat voice.
    â€œThe Workers’ Committee of Catalonia hereby thanks the passengers of the train of the Madrid-Zaragoza-Alicante line, now detained in the Moncada station, for the expression of their recognition of the position in which Catalonia and all of Spain has been placed. The committee wishes to assure the passengers that every effort will be made to continue to provide for their comfort and complete safety. Por el Comité Trabajador de Cataluña .”
    The secretary sat down and drew a telephone toward him. Peter and Helen stared, fevered with the sign. The secretary was speaking softly. Then the lines were up, the people held the communications. The brightness of the room, the heat, the promise that the telephone meant!
    The secretary turned his typed sheet over to the Swiss.
    â€œSay that some of us have our sympathies in theirs,” whispered Helen. “We can tell him, at least!”
    â€œYes,” Peter said the Swiss. “Tell him!”
    The Swiss had a settled face, pitted and firm. It shifted, entrenching further in solidity. “No,” he answered. “We have no place in their politics.”
    â€œForeign nationals.”
    It seemed impossible to continue without any indication, without making any