CONTENTS
Dedication
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright
for my husband Ian, and our grandchildren
PREFACE
This novel completes my trilogy exploring the history of Catalonia. As with the previous two books, this novel is not a history book. The twists and turns of the actual history are fascinating, but would form a very long and heavy history book. By creating three fictitious families, I have aimed to highlight the struggles and triumphs of daily life.
The several generations of the Blanxart family took the reader through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in “The Lions of Catalunya”; the Vilaro family endured the difficult years of the early nineteenth century, and the civil war, in “Barcelona Sunset”; and in the current volume, the Bonet family survive the deprivations following the civil war, and live to see the blossoming and booming city which hosted the Olympic Games in 1992.
I have enjoyed learning the history of my adopted city: and I hope readers will be equally fascinated. Perhaps those who have never visited Barcelona will be inspired to come.
“Barcelona, like a jewel in the sun! Viva! Barcelona!” (Freddie Mercury and Mike Moran)
Jeremy D Rowe
July 2018
CHAPTER ONE
“It’s very quiet,” whispered Clara. They were familiar with the routine: the air-raid warning would sound, and wherever they were, or whatever they were doing, they would crawl down into the cave under the big kitchen table, and lie together on the mattress which was permanently waiting.
This time it was different. They lay still and listened to the silence. They could hear nothing but the ticking of the kitchen clock. “Clara’s right,” said Anna. “It’s very quiet; strangely quiet.”
Clara loved snuggling under the kitchen table. When the loud siren sounded and her mother told her they must get under the table, she was always pleased. She would grab a cushion for a pillow, and dive between the table legs, onto the mattress. Her brother Eduard, older by only three years, took things far more seriously, and would not join in with her giggling as the family lay together.
Of course she didn’t like the noises that came later: her giggling would stop with the thunder of bombs near and far, as the city endured both night-time and day-light raids. Anna would hold her children close, and if Manel was at home, he would be there with them, squashed into the small space on the floor. Clara would often fall asleep, whilst her parents were keeping an anxious vigil.
She’d never counted them, but for a long time Clara had spent more nights under the table than in her own bed; and it had been rare to go to bed in the tiny bedroom she shared with Eduard, and wake up in the same place in the morning. Even when she was in her own bed, she was fully dressed, and she couldn’t remember wearing her nightdress.
In the summer, it had been hot with the four of them tightly packed like sardines under the table, but in the chill of winter, Clara was glad of her parents’ warmth. This life of noise and bombs frightened and worried her parents, but for Clara it was normal. Even her sensible and worldly-wise big brother, escaping from school at the end of the day, would enjoy running around the local bombsites with his friends, playing at war and pretending to be hit.
There had been no parade for Kings Day that year. With the republican army near defeat, and the Nationalists just across the Ebro River, ready to conquer the city, there was no appetite for the fun of Kings’ Day, nor any sweets for the children to share.
The Bonet family had been out in the winter sunshine, and wondered at the huge crowds of people wandering the streets of the city. Everyone was hungry, many wearing threadbare clothes, and some with no shoes, but in the warmth of the sun, there were many managing a half-smile on their grim face. How so many had survived the bombardments of the city was something of a miracle, and that they had the strength to walk the streets was a comfort.
There was much gossip: the International Brigade, it seemed, were leaving; politicians and journalists were packing up and heading for Figueres; the population was aware that the nationalists were at the gates; the republican army was demoralised and without ammunition. There was little enthusiasm for the war to drag on.
Inevitably, even on Kings’ Day, the air-raid siren had sounded, and the crowds scattered – most to their own homes, and some to one of the few public shelters. Back under their kitchen table, Clara’s mother whispered to her husband.
“It seems it will never stop. There are so many of us left in the city, but without food, it’s getting hard to stay alive. There are so many people wandering, many of them begging. How long can we go on?”
“Hush,” said Manel, “we’ll not frighten the children.”
“When I grow up, I’ll be a soldier,” said Eduard.
“No,” said his mother. “When you grow up, they’ll be no more war. You’ll not be a soldier.”
Three weeks after Kings Day, with the children still at home with their mother, getting ready to go to school, and their father already at the his little grocery store where he spent many hours every day, and evening, the air raid had sounded unusually early in the morning. Manel had run home, arriving to find his family tumbled down under the table.
“Something’s happening,” he said. “Many of the shops are staying closed, so I shut the shop. Just as I was leaving, the air-raid sounded, so I ran all the way. The trams have stopped. Put the wireless on, Anna.”
The wireless warmed up slowly, and then crackled into life. There was nothing but military music. “Turn it off again,” said Manel.
“It’s nice to have you home, father,” said Clara.
“That may be,” replied her father, “but when the all-clear sounds, I must run back and open the shop. I’ve little for sale, but I can’t risk being closed when there might be a customer.”
The family lay on the floor in silence. The only sound was the ticking of the mantle clock. Manel peered up at the paper calendar on the wall: it was 26th January 1939.
“It’s very quiet,” whispered Clara.
“Clara’s right,” said Anna. “It’s very quiet; strangely quiet.”
“There were rumours yesterday,” said her father. “Customers coming into the shop had many stories. It was hard to know what was true and what was merely gossip. Apparently Franco’s army crossed the Ebro, and have been assembling just beyond Montjuic. If the bombing has stopped, it’s to let the army enter the city.”
“There was much talk at the school gates yesterday,” said Anna. “Lots of people are leaving the city. One of the mothers was saying that there’s not many of the International Brigade left: most of them have gone home.”
“I liked those Englishmen and Americans,” said Eduard. “Some of them gave us sweets.”
They lay in the silence for a while longer.
“Clara’s right,” said Anna. “it’s so quiet. Could the war be over?”
“Let us not be too hopeful,” said Manel. “But you’re right. It’s strangely quiet. I’m going to go and look.”
“Be careful,” said Anna. “The all-clear’s not sounded.”
Leaving his wife and children under the table, Manel opened the door quietly, and walked slowly and warily up the steps to the street. He stood a few steps from the top with the pavement just below eye-level. The stree
t was deserted, as it always had been during an air-raid, but the silence was deafening.
“What’s happening?” came a hushed voice close by, and he turned to see his neighbour also standing near the top of his basement steps, similarly curious and perplexed.
“I don’t know,” said Manel. “Is it over? I’ll go back down and put the wireless on again.” Returning down the steps and opening the door, he told his family that it seemed to be safe to come out from under the table, and he asked Anna to turn on the wireless.
The wireless always seemed very slow to warm up when there was an urgent need to listen to it, but soon Anna had it tuned to a nationalist station, and turned the volume up. After some more military music, an announcer came on and gave a very breathless announcement.
“Nationalist troops have this morning entered Barcelona. As I speak to you, the nationalist army is marching north, along the Grand Via. There is no resistance, and the people of the city are welcoming the victorious army with open arms.”
“Welcoming them?” asked Eduard.
“I think it might be safe to go and see what’s happening,” said Manel. Anna got the children into their coats and they climbed up the steps to the street. “Stay close,” their father reminded them. “We don’t know quite what we’ll walk into, but sadly, this is a historic day for Barcelona. We must go and see what’s happening.”
Other families were coming out of their apartments, and there was a strange mixture of excited relief, and apprehensive curiosity. As the growing throng of neighbours headed towards the Grand Via, they were all startled by the sudden sound of the all-clear. There was a little laughter at being surprised outdoors by the familiar siren, but once the noise had died away, there was a great buzz of conversation between the neighbours.
“I bet there won’t be any school today,” Eduard announced.
“Nor work, either,” said his father. “It seems the whole city, or what’s left of it, is on the street. No-one’s gone to work, there won’t be a shop open.”
Anna smiled at her husband. “That won’t matter much,” she said. “There wasn’t much to buy even when they were open. Your shop was like them all: not much to sell. A pity we can’t eat cigarettes!”
“Although quite what is in some of those cigarettes, I’ll never know,” smiled Manel.
“Listen,” said Eduard. “What can I hear?”
“Is it a band?” asked Clara.
It was only a short walk from their Eixample basement down to the Gran Via, and they joined the crowds on the pavement. Faintly they could hear some kind of strange rumbling or grinding, and faint music, coming from the south, from Placa D’Espanya.
“The nationalist army,” said another in the crowd. “They’ve just walked into the city without a gun being fired. It’s all over for Barcelona.”
The grinding sound grew, and soon they saw a lone tank rumbling along the Grand Via. Sitting on top was an officer of the nationalist army, although no-one could identify him, or his rank. He was waving a large Spanish flag. The turret of the tank swung slowly from side to side, almost like an elephant’s trunk.
The citizens of Barcelona watched in silence. They were exhausted by the war, hungry and ill. In defeat, their relief was mixed with dread for their future. As the tank drew level with Manel and his family, the turret swung towards them, the soldier sitting on it seemed to look straight at them, and he gave the straight arm Fascist salute. One or two neighbours standing in the crowd sheepishly returned the salute. Eduard went to put his hand in the air, but Anna pushed his arm down quickly. “I don’t think so,” she hissed at her son.
Some distance behind the tank, came a rather chaotic military band. With battered instruments, and many of their number injured or killed, it had been very difficult to create a proper musical group, but those who could, had been persuaded to march and play, and the sound, although disordered, was recognisably a military march.
The tank rolled on towards Placa Catalunya, followed by the dishevelled band. Next, and incongruously, came another officer, this time riding a large horse, which he was having a great deal of trouble controlling. Now and again he would make the Fascist salute, but much of the time he was clinging to the reins, and struggling to remain on the horse and maintain his dignity.
He was leading an enormous column of marching soldiers. Unlike the defeated Republican army, every one of these men shouldered a rifle. They marched smartly, and had an air of victory about them. Manel whispered to Anna, “They look so smug. Can’t they see the resentment in the crowd?”
“I’m sure they are just as pleased as all of us that the war is over, and they are still alive, and fit enough to march. They’ll be pleased to go home.”
The men were marching in large platoons, and between each platoon was an officer, sometimes two or three officers, marching ahead of their group. Whilst the foot soldiers maintained a slow steady march, eyes fixed on the road ahead, their officers turned to the crowd, giving Fascist salutes all the way. Once more a few returned the salute, but most people remained resolutely silent.
Anna and Manel were astonished at the enormous number of soldiers marching past them. “We had no chance against so many,” said Manel. “Our army was outnumbered, made worse by the departure of the International Brigade, and we were running out of arms and ammunition.”
Anna looked down the road. Thousands more soldiers were pouring into the city. “Let’s go home,” she said. “I feel a bit sick, seeing this enemy marching through our streets.”
On the way back to the apartment, Manel said, “You know, we had that old Catalan flag hanging in the front window, all through the war. I’ve a feeling that it’s not a very good idea now. I certainly don’t want to welcome the fascists with a Fascist salute, but we don’t need to provoke trouble by leaving the senyera for all to see.”
Once back in the safety of their basement apartment, Manel took down the Catalan flag, and decided to go and open his shop, and see if any others opened. Anna walked the children to school, but as Eduard had predicted, it was closed, and they walked home again. Anna turned the wireless on, but there was nothing new. It was a strange day, and Anna couldn’t decide if she should pull the mattress out from under the table. Was the war really over?
It had been three long and dreadful years since that fateful announcement on the radio that General Franco had started the civil war. At first, Barcelona had seemed quiet, with the war happening a long way away. In the Eixample they had been largely unaffected by the communist and anarchist in-fighting in the city, although they had been horrified by the shootings in the streets, and had kept well away from dangerous areas. They had been aghast at the bombing of Guernica, but it remained a problem for others. Manel had seen a number of friends volunteer for the army, but with a stable job and a family to feed, he remained at home. He and Anna were fearful of the fascists, but they seemed to be remote from everyday life in the city.
Their complacency had been shattered, however, at the beginning of 1938. Suddenly the war was all around them, as Italian planes commenced a heavy bombardment of Barcelona. The air-raid drill, which they had practised in a light-hearted way, become a way of life over night. Some days, in the spring, the air-raid sirens had sounded many times. Clara was still at home then, and Anna and she would cling together under the kitchen table, Anna fretting about Eduard at school, and Manel at the shop.
It was not long since the Catholic church on Balmes had opened the school, and she had been delighted to enrol Eduard. Neither Anna nor Manel had been to school, but, with his parents’ encouragement, Manel had taught himself to read, and to learn the basic figures needed to run his shop. Less than a year after Eduard started at the school, the air-raids had begun. The parents had been invited to see the air-raid shelter that had been dug under the school, and they knew their children would be taken down there when the siren sounded, but it didn’t stop them worrying. When Clara reached her sixth birthday, she had also started school, but had misse
d many days, either because the family had been awake all night with the noise of the bombing, or because a day-light raid had started whilst they were walking to school, and they’d run home again.
Clara, however, had loved school, mainly due to her lovely young teacher, Senora Mirlo. The young teacher was smiling and kind, and made her classroom an oasis of sunshine in the sombre city. Dressed in floral dresses, and with sparkling rimless glasses, she was adored by all of the children in her charge. Clara was sad when school was interrupted by an air-raid, and adored everything about the happy classroom created by her teacher. In the gloomy war-torn city, Clara’s classroom was a little ray of light in her life. Eduard, who had also enjoyed his start at the school with Senora Mirlo, had become less keen, and this was largely because he was taught by rather fierce nuns, with unsettling names like Sister Frigido.
It had been a grim Christmas, with daily bombing raids, and the city had looked towards the new year with nothing but despair. Now, before January was over, it seemed the war had ended.
“School tomorrow,” said Anna brightly, to the children. “If it really is all over, you can stay in your classroom all day, and not go down to the shelter.”
“It’s very smelly down there,” said Eduard. “I would be glad if I never went down there again.”
“I hope you won’t,” said his mother. “Now let us see if we can make a nice supper for when your father comes home.” With a sinking heart, she turned to the cupboard to begin the daily challenge of making something reasonable for a meal, with almost no ingredients. Even with a husband owning a grocery shop, she had little to work with, and like many Barcelona housewives, she had become clever at making something out of nothing. “Let’s hope the end of the war means we can get some nice things to eat,” she said.
Manel came home earlier than usual. “Nothing much happening,” he said. “Hardly any customers, probably because most shops stayed closed.”
“No school, either,” said Anna. “I hope it will be open tomorrow. I need to get the children into school, and then go and hunt for something to eat.”
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 1