Then my name was German. In short, I could be nothing else but a German spy bringing out important information to Hitler. I trembled at the fact that in my pocket of my topcoat flung carelessly next to the valise were highly interesting military notes that I had obtained in my visit to the Aragon front, notes that had been given me by the general staff at Sietamo. Life moves swiftly in Spain these days. Once suspect of being a spy, your life is not worth a Catalonian peseta in Franco's camp, which is not very much.
Justice is swift and secret.
No wonder, then, that I had a few jittery moments while I explained to the chief in charge the innocent character of my material. At last he gave the order to allow me to pass. When I returned I found all my stuff in the suitcase had been gone over as with a fine toothed comb, everything was scattered on the floor and some of it was lost. But, what was most important, nobody had thought of looking in my topcoat. And so packing up my bag and throwing the coat nonchalantly over my arm, I went on to the next official in the line.