Anna leaned towards her husband and spoke quietly into his ear. “I’ve seen more than enough,” she said. “Let’s slip away.”
“Look behind you,” said Manel, “We can’t escape, and dare not.”
On the balconies of La Pedrera, were armed soldiers watching the crowd, their guns trained like snipers, ready to kill. The crowd was trapped into a cheering and saluting mass. Franco could bask in the false belief that the people of Barcelona were joyous, and delighted to see him.
After a further pause, another group of horsemen appeared. This platoon had far less discipline, rode unruly horses, wore chaotic uniforms, with many bizarre trophies of past skirmishes. They delighted at frightening the crowds by riding straight at them and encouraging their horses to rear up. The swarthy band saluted the crowd, who saluted back – but then they laughed, and rode on.
“Who are they?” whispered Clara to her mother.
“They are the soldiers from Africa,” said Anna.
“The foreign legion,” said Manel.
“Bridegrooms of death, the Africanistas!” grinned Eduardo.
“No laughing matter,” said his father. “They were the most vicious and cruel of all the soldiers fighting for the nationalists.”
“Franco would not be our dictator if he hadn’t had their support,” said Anna.
As the savage band rode on, a much larger troupe of well-disciplined foot soldiers marched round the corner from the Avenida, and came to a halt in front of the family. There was a restless silence, as the crowd waited to see what would happen next; several amongst the throng turned to one another.
“What uniform is that?” said one.
“They don’t look Spanish,” said another.
“They’re Italian, I think,” said a third.
“What are we waiting for now?” said Anna.
“There’s a kind of grandstand been built down at Catalunya,” said a smug neighbour in the crowd. “El Caudillo will be leaving his white charger and mounting the grandstand, to take the salute from his troops marching past.”
Following a prolonged pause, a shouted order, in Italian, gave the signal to move forward.
“The Italians took part in the victory parade in Madrid,” said the man standing behind them, who seemed to know more about the situation. “There were seventeen thousand in the Madrid parade.”
“I think there’s that many marching in front of us right now,” said Anna.
The Italians continued down Passeig de Gracia towards the Generalissimo taking the salute in Placa de Catalunya. They were followed by a small contingent of German soldiers, immaculate in tight-fitting uniforms, goose-stepping with well-rehearsed precision.
“They march in a very funny way,” said Eduard.
“Hush,” said his mother. “There’s danger all around, and we must be careful what we say.”
“These are Hitler’s troops,” said Manel. “I think the way they march is very frightening.”
“And threatening,” said Anna.
As the German platoon continued towards Catalunya, several trucks turned the corner from the Avenida. A large sign on the first truck proclaimed, “Salute the heroes of the Nationalist Army.” Seated on each truck were a number of Spanish soldiers in new and smart uniforms. Each of them was horribly injured, missing an arm or leg, or more, and those that could, gave the Fascist salute to the crowd.
Anna shuddered. As the trucks lumbered past, she turned quietly to Manel. “And who will salute the heroes of the Republicans, the maimed and disabled of our army? The poor men, begging in the streets of our city, their whole lives ruined by their injuries … who will salute them?”
Behind the trucks, came the main army of Nationalist soldiers. In tight formation, and marching slowly and steadily, they advanced down Passeig de Gracia, wave after wave of victorious infantry.
“What chance did my boys have against such troops?” said Senora Pinto. “Do they still lie dead in a ditch, or do they wait, injured and disabled, waiting to get back to Barcelona?”
Suddenly, with a roar, a flight of war planes thundered overhead, skimming over the hills of Tipidabo, and swooping low over the city centre. As they headed out to sea, and turned south, Eduard announced proudly to his parents, “I knew what planes they were. Mostly bombers, and all from the Italian air-force. I’ve seen most of them before when I was plane spotting.”
Another marching band in the midst of the mass of soldiers ensured they kept in step as they marched past, and eventually the last of the soldiers had past. The parade ended with a small posse of motorcyclists, with their lights flashing and horns blaring, and then all was silent.
Anna turned to Senora Pinto. “I’m exhausted just watching all this,” she said, “and somehow it seems to me that the peace is more frightening than the war. Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER TWO
Manel could not remember why he had been so passionate to have a shop. As a young man, with little education, he’d worked in a butcher’s shop as the ‘boy’, earning a little pocket money, and observing how the business worked. He’d got a taste for the independence enjoyed by his boss, the butcher; and he liked the idea of having his own business. He’d coped with the gory side of the butchery business, but had no interest in becoming a butcher. He determined to have a small grocery store which would be at the centre of its local community. A chance meeting in a shop on Balmes with the elderly owner had given him his opportunity. When he first saw the shop, it was dark and dusty, with little trade, and the owner was pleased to retire and hand it over to Manel to manage. The owner wanted no more than a regular rent, and despite his youth, Manel was soon managing the shop. Apart from paying rent, he was in every other way his own boss, often sleeping on the floor and up with the lark to sweep the floor and the pavement outside. By sunrise, sacks of onions and nuts and bundles of firewood were arranged on the pavement, and the bacon slicer was humming.
Before the war, he had begun to build a reputation for reliable and courteous service, and the immediate residents were reliant on him for their everyday needs. The shop buzzed with gossip from the barrio, and Manel ruled over everyone with youthful enthusiasm. In 1929 he had married Anna, and the young couple found a basement apartment, not far from the shop. Manel stopped sleeping at the shop, but continued to rise early to go there and start his day sweeping the floor.
Customers, especially the elderly ladies, loved the bright young man behind the counter, with his apparent endless energy, bounding up and down the ladder to fetch cans of vegetables, measuring out bags of rice, and giving small samples of the latest cheese. He mainly sold dry goods, but was also happy to buy bundles of vegetables from customers who had grown them on the small gardens they tended. He took considerable pride in the cleanliness of the shop, washing his marble counter every day, sweeping the worn wooden floor. The dried bacon gave the shop its distinctive smell, and the jams and preserves brought colour and brightness with their little floral covers sewn by Anna. Manel was always wearing one of the clean, crisply starched aprons that Anna had sewn for him.
It was the aroma in the shop that Manel, and many of his customers, would never forget. Faintly there was a smell from the bundles of firewood; and stronger than that a whiff of coffee. There was a hint of soap, and overwhelming everything was the wonderful perfume of smoked bacon. Manel sliced the slabs of prosciutto on his alarming bacon slicer, with its razor-sharp spinning blade, and the cutting of the smoked meat gave the little shop an aroma of cosy welcome, as if here would be found both comfort and sustenance.
The elderly owner of the shop had visited, and been delighted in the transformation the young man had made to the business, and had suggested, without Manel asking, that the name above the shop be changed. Thus it had been repainted “Manel Bonet” – and the local customers were soon talking about running round to “Bonet’s” every time they needed a cup of sugar or salt.
Manel was still only 28 years old when the civil war had started, and wit
h Anna’s agreement, he had remained behind with his family and business, a loyal supporter of the republican cause, but not volunteering to fight. He hung a senyera from the window at home, and a similar smaller flag fluttered over the door of the shop, just like most of the other shops in Balmes. At first, he had no trouble stocking the shop, and the war seemed distant and did not affect their lives. Gradually, however, supplies started to dry up. First it became hard to get enough rice, a staple of many of his customers, and then abruptly there was no ham. Little by little, he ran out of stock, and local warehouses had little to offer him. He was saddened to see his thriving business dwindle so soon after he had built it up, but his situation was no different from any other businesses in the city. Slowly the civil war was choking the city to death.
Peace had brought no respite. Farms were in ruins, farmers who had survived had no hired hands, or even family, to get the land back to production; animals had been slaughtered, and there was no plan to breathe new life into the countryside. A few older people in the barrio had managed to keep their gardens tilled, but they had little to spare beyond their own needs, and it was rare for Manel to receive a bundle of onions or carrots.
Each day he would open the shop, and sweep the step; and once a week he would carefully clean and oil the bacon slicer even though there was nothing to slice upon it. The rituals of his shop kept Manel focussed, and helped him find an optimism that somewhere in the future there would be a happier life with plenty to eat.
Cigarettes remained the only thing in plentiful supply, and each morning Manel would unlock the cabinet ready for the steady stream of workers who would call for their daily smokes. They’d ask if he had anything else for sale, but often there was nothing.
He continued to make nocturnal visits to the Ajuntament to pick up the tightly rationed rice and flour which the city council distributed, and Manel could tell that the bags he carried back to the shop had been opened, and some of the contents removed. He was grateful for what he received, and posted small signs on the shop door when he had some new stock. On rare occasions he received small bags of tea or ground coffee, and these were divided into tiny packets to share fairly amongst his regular customers.
It was quickly apparent that he needed to create a rationing system in his shop, and he kept careful records in a ledger, giving priority to regular known customers in the immediate barrio. He was thankful that his father had given him sufficient knowledge of reading, writing and mathematics to keep his ledger in good order. When he gave credit, he asked customers to sign the ledger, and he was constantly surprised by the large number of them who were illiterate, and could only make a cross instead of writing their name.
A network of pawn shops was opened and controlled by the Catholic church, and now and again, one of Manel’s customers would arrive with cash to pay debts. They would sigh, and tell him, “That’s the good cutlery we had years ago as a wedding present,” or “My son’s never coming home from the war, so I’ve pawned his bicycle.”
Anna’s routine was the same every day. There was the daily struggle to find something to eat, and the constant responsibility of her children. She would rise early with Manel, and boil water for him to shave and perhaps make a weak cup of coffee. She would shake the children awake, and get them to wash, and if there was anything to eat, give them a small breakfast. She would walk down Balmes, passing Manel’s shop, and turn into Valencia where the children attended the Catholic school. On the way home, she would go into the church on the corner, “La Mare de Deu dels Angels”, to light a candle, if there were any, and pray. She found since the end of the war, her prayers seemed to be all about food, and hoped that Our Lady would give her sufficient to feed her family.
When she was really desperate, knowing that she had sent her children to school hungry, she would join the queue to climb the wooden stairs up to the statue of the Virgin, and whisper her prayer for something to eat, “If not for me, then for my children,” she would tell the Virgin.
When whispering her confession to Father Matias, she would often divulge her obsession with feeding her family. The young priest was always rather abrupt with her, showing none of the warmth she would have liked in a priest. It seemed he was a supporter of the Fascists, and had little empathy for republican families. Curtly, he told her that trying to feed her family was not a sin, but she must not complain, and carry the burden just as her Lord had carried His. She had to bite her lip to not retort that this was little comfort.
Eduard, now nine years old, would bring Clara home at the end of the morning, and they would call for their father, who would close the shop for the siesta, and they would walk together up to the apartment on the corner of Rossello. Sometimes Manel would be bringing a small bag of rice or something from the shop; sometimes Anna had received a tiny piece of bacon fat from the church; but often there was nothing to eat.
“Some of the kids at school have told us they eat grass,” said Eduard.
“Yes,” said Clara, “their mothers boil it up in a saucepan, with salt.”
“And it makes them ill,” said Anna. “I know about that, but it doesn’t help. Cows and sheep live on grass, but we can’t.”
Slowly the long hungry summer of 1939 crept by. School finished for the children at the end of June, and Eduard often went with his father to the shop, proudly wearing a miniature apron made by his mother to match his father’s. Customers trickled in and out, but with so little to sell, there was little for Eduard to do. Clara would go with her mother to Sant Antoni market, from which they would regularly return empty-handed. The streets were full of beggars, many displaying horrific war-wounds, and the city was a cheerless and forlorn place. The summer sun failed to dispel the pervading greyness of the impoverished streets.
One evening, after darkness had fallen, Anna and Manel were startled by shrill screeching coming from their neighbour, Senora Pinto. Manel rushed to see what had happened, and Anna stood at her door, fearing the worst. After a moment, Manel called to his wife. “Anna, close the door and come round. Here’s a great surprise!”
Shutting the door behind her, Anna climbed the steps to the pavement. Other neighbours were running towards Senora Pinto’s, some calling out “It’s a miracle, it’s a miracle!”
Telling the others to stand back, Manel beckoned for his wife to go down into Senora Pinto’s. There Anna found her neighbour crying tears of joy, with her arms around a dishevelled and emaciated young man, squashed by his mother into the best armchair.
“It’s Carlos!” exclaimed Senora Pinto, “Alive!” She rocked and kissed her son, muttering over and over, “Alive, alive!”
Anna felt the tears welling up in her own eyes, as she embraced her euphoric neighbour. Carlos, overwhelmed by the sensation he had caused by coming back from the dead, remained silent.
“How wonderful,” said Anna.
From the door, Manel told the gathering neighbours to pass the word around, but to go home and leave some peace and space for the Widow Pinto and her long-lost son. Anna nodded at her husband and prepared to leave. It was only as she stood that she saw the battered wooden crutches propped in a corner. Turning abruptly back to Carlos, she gasped to see that he had only one leg. Impulsively, she kissed the young man again, then fled outside to her husband, her tears flowing freely.
Back in their own kitchen, Manel said, “Tomorrow, we’ll hear the whole story – where he’s been and what happened to him, but for now, we must be thankful that he’s alive after all.”
“But did you see….” said Anna.
“The crutches?” said Manel. “Yes. He’s just one of so many who will bear the scars of war for the rest of his life.”
The following morning, Senora Pinto knocked on their door with a bundle of clothes.
“These were my husband’s,” she said. “I’ve been reluctant to give them away, or pawn them, and now I’m pleased I didn’t. Can you cut them down for my Carlos? He’s so thin, and my husband was a fat man.”
“I’ll need to come and get Carlos to put one of these shirts on,” replied Anna, “and of course I’ll be pleased to do what I can.”
“Come this afternoon,” said Senora Pinto. “He’s still sleeping. He was exhausted and hungry when he got here last night. I helped him into bed, and he fell asleep immediately. He’s not yet told me his story, but I fear it will not be very nice.”
When Anna went to her neighbour after the siesta, Carlos was awake, and dressed in one of his father’s huge shirts. He remembered Anna from before the war, and smiled a thin smile of recognition. Nervously, Anna asked Carlos if he could stand up. “It’s OK,” said the young man, “I’ve got used to standing on one leg. It’s a more than a year since the left one was blown off.”
With Carlos’s hands on her shoulders to steady himself, Anna took out her pins, and started to sort out Senor Pinto’s shirt. “I could get two of you in this shirt,” she smiled, and Carlos laughed.
“You’ve made him laugh!” exclaimed Senora Pinto. “Now I know I’ve got my boy back home again.”
“What about these?” asked Anna, holding up Senor Pinto’s baggy trousers.
“Please cut off the left leg,” said Carlos. “I can’t stand a long empty trouser leg flapping around. I’m stuck on these crutches, so let the world see why; and I’ve been thinking … I’m the lucky one. My brother will never be coming back, nor will my father. There was a time when I wanted to die, but that’s in the past, and I’m glad to be home with Momia.”
Anna felt her eyes filling with tears as Carlos explained how he had seen his brother die in his arms, and how he had lain in a ditch, expecting that he himself was dying. An unknown man, a soldier, had found him, tied a tight belt around his shattered leg, and carried him to a bombed farmhouse nearby. A small group of women sheltering fearfully in the ruins, had looked after him, and surprisingly, he didn’t die. Some weeks had passed, and the small band of homeless women had cared for him. Without any money, and almost helpless, he had remained in the ruin, with the war continuing around him. The women brought him water, and shared what little food they had. At last, they got hold of crutches, and Carlos had hesitantly learned to walk again. He’d set out to walk home, every step difficult, and had managed only a short distance each day. He’d slept mainly in bombed ruins or dry ditches, and had survived on eating berries and fruits from the hedgerows. By chance, in one ruined village, he had found a doctor, who had done his best to amputate his shattered leg. Once he was able to carry on, it had taken him many long weeks to struggle back to Barcelona. All the while he had no knowledge that his mother and father would still be alive, or that he would find their apartment intact.
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 3