The family were unaccustomed to a quiet evening. The radio, their only form of entertainment, continued to play military marches, and for a while, the most remarkable calm seemed to have settled over the city. There was no air-raid siren, and the streets were somehow muffled, with few pedestrians, and no traffic.
Suddenly, soon after it had got dark, there was a tremendous volley of gun-shot. They all jumped, and Clara burst into tears. “It’s not starting again, is it?” said Anna. They waited with their hearts pumping from the shock. Silence descended again.
As they listened, there were footsteps on the stairs, and a quiet tapping on their door. “Only me,” came the voice of their neighbour Senora Pinto.
As Anna opened the door, Senora Pinto burst in. “What was that?” she said.
“We don’t know,” replied Anna. “We’re just praying that the war isn’t starting all over again.”
Looking around, the neighbour noticed that the flag had gone from the window. “You’ve taken down your senyera,” she said. “Why did you do that?”
“There’s no need to advertise which side we were on,” said Manel. “We know what we were struggling for, and we know we’ve lost. The conquerors won’t be easy. They’ll try to get us to do the Fascist salute, and who knows what else?”
“Some traitors were saluting them this morning as they marched into the city,” said Senora Pinto. “We can’t just turn our backs on all those sacrifices and hardships of the last few years. My Enric says that our senyera will stay where it is. Enric says we may have lost, but we’re still Catalans, and we’re still republicans.”
The city was quiet all night, and the children’s school opened as usual in the morning. Manel opened the shop, and did a brisk trade, mainly in cigarettes. The same conversation was on everyone’s lips. “Is it really over?” No-one seemed to know what the sudden burst of gun fire had been during the previous evening, and during the day, at least, it remained quiet. Anna was unlucky with shopping for fresh food at the market, as it was too soon after the cease-fire for anything to have been delivered, so the family supper was as meagre as usual.
Soon after dark there was a sudden engine noise in the street, and then the sound of a big truck braking. Peering up from their basement, they could see very little except the boots of soldiers jumping out of the truck and lining up in the street. A moment later, and heavy boots were running down the steps to their door. A loud banging on the door sent the children rushing to their mother, whilst Manel stood hesitant. There was another burst of banging, and a voice shouted, “We know you’re there, we can see the light! Open up for the nationalist army!”
Manel opened the door and two young soldiers burst into the apartment. “Nationalist heroes or republican rats?” shouted the taller of the soldiers.
“Neither,” stuttered Manel. “I’m a shop keeper, the little grocer’s, up the road.” There was a pause as he assessed the men. “I’ve got some cigarettes here,” he said. “Want a packet?”
The soldiers laughed, and the taller one said, “You understand how this war works. Hand them over, and we won’t trouble you again.”
With shaking hands, Manel opened the drawer in the kitchen table, and gave each soldier a packet of cigarettes.
“Only one?” said the tall soldier. “I think you can do better than that.”
Turning back to the drawer, Manel pulled out two more packets.
The soldiers pocketed the cigarettes, turned abruptly and were gone as suddenly as they had arrived. Manel closed the door.
“What was that about?” said Anna, but before anyone could reply, they heard the soldiers banging on their neighbour’s door.
“Nationalist heroes or republican rats?” came the voice of the soldier once again.
Listening, they heard Enric Pinto shouting loudly, “Republican, but not a rat. A republican hero. It’s you, nationalist scum, who are the rats.”
There was a sickening thump. Manel and his family could only guess what was going on – presumably the soldier had hit Enric. Then they heard more shouting.
“On your feet, and up the steps. You seem to have forgotten who has won this war.”
Peering up from their basement, the family again watched army boots tramping to and from the truck, with several of their neighbours being dragged roughly with them. The people rounded up were forced at gun point and with much abuse, to climb into the truck. Anna and Manel stared horrified until the truck was full, and finally drove away.
Timid footsteps and a quiet knock, and their neighbour was at the door again.
“They’ve taken Enric,” said Senora Pinto, tearfully. “Perhaps you were right to take down the flag. They didn’t even say where they were going.”
“Stay here with Anna,” said Manel. “I’ll go and see if I can find out.”
When Manel climbed up to the street, he found several distressed neighbours huddled together. It seemed that a number of husbands, and even a couple of teenage sons, had been taken away in the army truck. No-one understood what was happening.
As they stood in shared disquiet, there was a sudden and thunderous volley of gun-shot. “Just like we heard last night,” said one.
Manel had a horrible feeling that he knew what the sound was, but it was one of the women who spoke first.
“That’s the sound of a firing squad. I’ve heard it before. Oh God……”
Several of the people in the street started sobbing. Others were unable to believe what was being said. Manel realised that he had to return home and face Senora Pinto, who was waiting apprehensively with Anna and the children. He walked slowly down the steps and opened the door. The two women were facing him, waiting anxiously for news.
Manel shook his head. “I don’t know,” he started hesitantly, “but someone up there reckons it’s a…” he paused and looked at Senora Pinto.
“What?” said their neighbour.
“A firing squad,” said Manel reluctantly. “Of course, I hope they’re wrong.”
“No,” said Senora Pinto. “I recognised the sound. We’ve had too many years of war, too much violence and terrorism, we all know that sound. We survived all the bombs and bullets of a civil war, and in the first days of peace, this happens.”
Senora Pinto remained strangely calm as Manel accompanied her back to her own apartment, but once inside, and with the door closed, they could hear her howling through the wall.
“Poor woman,” said Anna. “She’s on her own now. She lost two sons in the fighting at the Ebro, and now her husband’s gone. Put the wireless on. Even if it’s that terrible military music, it will be better than sitting in silence, listening to the poor woman’s distress. She still believes that one or other of her sons will return from the war, but it’s very unlikely.”
The wireless was little comfort, however, as the interminable band music was interrupted by an announcement that General Franco was not interested in taking prisoners, and that all republican sympathisers would be executed. “Arresting known republicans in the city has started,” continued the announcer. “Our loyal soldiers are being deployed in firing squads, liquidating the last of the communist and anarchist rats.”
Manel turned the wireless off. Senora Pinto’s howling had ceased, and all was quiet. “Let’s go to bed,” said Anna. “I thought we would be pleased when the war was over, but it seems we are just finding another kind of horror, a new reason to grieve.”
For a few days, all was quiet. Manel opened the shop each day, but without any deliveries he had almost no stock. The last of the cigarettes was gone, tinned food was a thing of the past, and he had little fresh food except meagre vegetables grown in neighbour’s gardens. The city was paralysed, with everyone waiting to see what would happen. Anna continued to struggle to feed her family, and the whole city was hungry. Manel checked on Senora Pinto, but she had retreated into her own grief, and refused all offers of help. Numbly, Anna took the children to school each day, but even there, with the children, there was
an air of silent desperation.
Each day, Anna pulled the cover off of her sewing machine, and started work. The ‘Singer’ had been a present from Manel’s parents when they got married. Anna was already well-known for her skills as a needlewoman, and she had quickly mastered the challenge of the machine. Before he started school, Eduard had enjoyed turning the handle for her; and Clara had also loved being with her mother when she worked. The big kitchen table, the centre of their family life, had not only provided them with an air-raid shelter, and the place where all food was prepared and eaten, but was also where the sewing machine lived, contributing an important extra income for the family.
The bombing had produced a welcome source of sewing for Anna. With many people losing everything when their home was destroyed, and no clothes available in the shops, Anna was in great demand; and curtains from bombed out apartments had become a bizarre source of fabric. She had been kept very busy, especially with families bringing all colours and designs of material to be made into dresses both for small girls and for their mothers. Occasionally she had made a smock for a boy, but few boys would tolerate wearing floral or brightly coloured clothes. More often she found she was adapting a worn shirt from a dead father, to fit a little boy.
With the two children at school, and Manel at the shop, Anna was as busy as ever at her sewing machine, and life seemed momentarily calm. She didn’t charge much for her labours, but in fact made more than Manel did at the shop with his depleted, almost non-existent, stock.
Despite money in her purse from her sewing, Anna continued to struggle to feed her family. The neighbours thought having a grocer’s shop would make it possible for them to get food when others had none, but this wasn’t true. In fact Manel had next to nothing except a few onions brought to him by those same hungry neighbours who had managed to grow them in their tiny gardens.
Peace had brought famine, and for a while, the whole of Barcelona was starving. Housewives discussed bizarre ways to cook grass and leaves, but such things only made them ill.
Two weeks after the cease-fire, there was a glimmer of hope, with some very limited supplies of basic things like rice, delivered to the city ajuntament. After the obviously corrupt Fascist officers had taken their ill-gotten gains, the remains were distributed amongst the local grocers and corner shops. Manel had been instructed to go at night, and under cover of darkness, had brought a sack of rice back to his shop. In the early hours of the morning, he sat up by candlelight, weighing half kilos of rice into bags, and by daylight was able to place a small sign on his shop door: “Rice here today. Half kilo per family. Only regular customers.”
Word flew round the nearby streets, and a queue had formed by the time he opened. As each person came to the counter, he carefully recorded who had bought a bag of rice; and those who begged for a bag but had no money were served, and their debt recorded. With no choice in the matter, Manel was operating a rationing system, as the town hall had suggested he should, and his customers seemed to respect the honest approach he had.
Once all the rice was gone, Manel closed his shop, and wearily staggered home to sleep. A couple of nights later, he went back to the ajuntament, and got a sack of coarse flour. Once more, he spent the early hours weighing it out, and once more the grateful queue formed at his door. His rationing system worked well, and he continued this tiring routine for many days. One night, there was even an allocation of some rather doubtful-looking sausage, but Manel’s customers were delighted by the first “meat” they had seen in a long time.
It was the middle of February, and Anna was working at home, when she was startled by a well-scrubbed and very young nationalist soldier crashing loudly down the steps, his hob-nailed boots resounding on the stone. He banged loudly on the door. Apprehensively Anna opened the door. Without a word, the soldier thrust a printed paper into her hand, and turned and ran back up the steps.
The paper announced that on the following day, there would be a parade of the glorious victors, to be led by Generalissimo Franco himself. All shops and schools were to remain closed, and all citizens were to line the processional route to welcome their leader. Anna shuddered.
That evening, after Manel had closed his shop, and the children had gone to bed, Anna and Manel talked quietly.
“We must go to this parade,” said Anna, “much as I don’t want to.”
“It’s bad enough to have lost to these cursed Fascists,” replied Manel, “but to stand in line and salute the bloody Generalissimo, is sickening.”
Anna put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Hush, dear,” she said. “We’ve brought two children into this world. For their sakes, we must make the best of the situation, and do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”
“I’ll not salute,” said Manel.
“I’ve thought about that,” said Anna. “I will, and I think you should. I’ll even encourage the children to. I know I stopped Eduard before, but it’s only sensible to go along with the crowd and keep ourselves safe. Look what happened to poor Senor Pinto next door: just keeping his Senyera flying, cost him his life.”
“OK, here’s the deal,” said Manel. “I’ll salute, but every time I put my arm up, I’ll be thinking ‘bastards, bastards, bastards!’ and not even Franco can stop me.”
Anna smiled. “I’ll think the same. But I’ll not tell the children. Let them salute and cheer, it will make them happy, even if they have no idea what it’s really all about.”
The next day was one of Barcelona’s bright winter mornings with warm sun and a wide expanse of blue sky. “Franco will think God’s smiling on him with this weather,” said Anna. “Pity really, much as I prefer the sunshine, I’d have been pleased if it could have rained on his parade.”
The leaflet delivered by the enthusiastic soldier had given the route of the parade, and the family decided that they would go to Passeig de Gracia to join the crowds. It seemed that all of Barcelona was on the streets, as few of the population had dared to stay away. Standing on the corner of La Pedrera, the family could hear that the procession was coming north along the Avenida del Generalissimo Francisco Franco, the wide boulevard recently carved diagonally through the Eixample. Military music was combining with the loud cheering of the crowds. Seeing their two children, the people surrounding them pushed the family to the front of the crowd, so they all, including Eduard and Clara, had a good view of everything.
As the music grew louder, and the people surrounding them started to cheer, Manel whispered into his wife’s ear: “Bastards, bastards, bastards!”
Anna nodded grimly.
Around the corner from the Avenida, came a number of police motorcycles, clearing the route, and stopping regularly to allow the beginning of the cavalcade to catch up. A city with a tradition of King’s Day parades, knew how to create a procession, and the turn-coats of the city council, who had remained to welcome the Generalissimo, had forced many reluctant citizens to assist with the arrangements.
Behind the motorcycles, came a group of monks and nuns, staggering under the weight of the great effigy of Santa Eulalia from the cathedral.
“He does think God is on his side,” muttered Manel. “Only Franco could imagine that a Fascist victory is a Christian triumph.”
Santa Eulalia was notoriously heavy, and many of the population had seen the effigy before, when it had been paraded on the saint’s holy day. The monks and nuns paused at the top of Passeig de Gracia to catch their breath, and then continued their slow progress down the wide boulevard towards Placa de Catalunya.
Around the corner came a large and well-rehearsed band, far more disciplined, and musically superior to the chaotic musicians who had marched into the city on the day of the cease-fire. Coming to a halt in front of La Pedrera, and almost treading on Eduard’s toes, the band launched into a rousing tune which some of the crowd recognised. A man next to Manel leaned close.
“That’s the new Fascist song,” he said. “It’s called ‘Face to the sun!’ I think we’re going to
hear it a lot in the coming days. We must give the Fascist salute when we hear it.”
Horrified, Manel and Anna glanced around. Sure enough most of the crowd was standing with right arm stretched out. Anna and Manel joined the salute with shaking arms, looking at one another, and mouthing in unison, “Bastards, bastards, bastards.” Seeing their parents giving the salute, Eduard grinned and joined in, but Clara frowned and hesitated. Anna pushed her daughter’s arm into the air.
“My dead husband will be turning in his grave,” came a voice close behind them. They turned and found that their neighbour, Senora Pinto, had found them in the crowd. “I feel very disloyal to his memory,” she continued, “but I’m joining in with this hideous nonsense to stay alive.”
The band marched on. There was a long pause, and they heard the music fading away as the musicians arrived at Placa de Catalunya. Clara said, “Is that it?” but just as she spoke, a group of soldiers on horse-back rounded the corner. Again, quite unlike the exhausted army which had invaded the city a month before, these were the peacocks of the victorious army, with uniforms and plumed helmets to match their inflated status, all mounted on matching black stallions. As they rode past, they repeatedly gave the Fascist salute, and the crowds saluted back.
A short distance behind the officers, came Generalissimo Franco, Captain General of the Nationalist army, the self-appointed dictator, El Caudillo of all Spain. Riding a huge white stallion, the fat little man tried hard to look both in control and highly superior, but the crowd could see he was frightened by the enormity of the lively horse he was trying to control. When he could, he gave brief Fascist salutes at the crowd, but much of the time he clung to the reins.
Armed soldiers marched either side of El Caudillo, with guns at the ready. The crowd, recognising the dangers of disobedience in the presence of their dictator, cheered and saluted.
Another group of extravagantly dressed and decorated officers, riding sleekly groomed black horses, followed the dictator, and the crowd continued the enforced cheering and saluting.
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 2