The Phoenix of Montjuic

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  When Manel and Eduardo got home from the shop that evening, Anna was hard at work sewing. Manel’s eyebrows shot up when he saw that Anna had cut a leg off of the trousers. “Are you sure that’s what you should be doing?” he asked.

  “It’s what he asked for,” she replied. “Senor Pinto only had one pair of good trousers, and I’ve had to completely re-make them for Carlos.”

  “Poor Carlos,” said Eduardo.

  “Don’t say that,” said Anna. “I said that this afternoon, and he was cross with me. He’s happy to be home, and said he’s better off than his brother or his father. Both of them are dead and buried.”

  The summer of 1939 continued to creep by. The return of Carlos was the only happy moment in an increasingly hungry and gloomy city. Manel and Anna relied on their wireless to bring them news, but they became reluctant to switch it on for fear of more and more dismal announcements. Restrictions on life in Spain under the new dictatorship were bad enough, and it was clear that Europe was drifting towards another war.

  “If Germany goes to war, the Nazis will expect Franco to support them,” said Anna.

  “I cannot imagine that Spain has anything left to offer,” said Manel. “We saw all those victorious Nationalist soldiers at Franco’s parade in the spring, but even they won’t have the stomach for another war so soon. And anyway, as far as I can tell, our country is bankrupt. We can’t even get enough to eat, and there’s no chance of re-arming. The next war will be fought with planes and tanks and battleships: Spain has next to nothing left of these. Franco must know we’ve nothing left to give.”

  “And how many would support the Nazis?” said Anna.

  “The Italians will,” replied Manel. “Mussolini tried out his best troops against us in the war, and it was Italian bombers and fighters that flew overhead at the parade. We must hope for the best, that we don’t get dragged into another conflict. It will soon be September and the children can go back to school. Perhaps our lives will become less of a struggle in the autumn.”

  Through August, the family continued to listen to the wireless, despite the depressing news, and they were gathered round their crackling set when war was declared between Germany and Great Britain. Barcelona collectively held its breath to see if Spain would be dragged into the war, but when Franco finally made a statement, it was to tell the world that he would not bring his troops into the new conflict. Manel and Anna, like most of Spain, breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps shattered lives could now be rebuilt.

  Carlos had a different view of Franco’s position. “If they tried to get the men back into the army again, they’d have a mutiny. Even the Nationalist soldiers on the winning side were tired of war. Only the bloody Moroccans would stand by Franco, and that’s because they’re such blood-thirsty buggers. Franco’s turning them into policeman-soldiers, and will keep control of us all with them. At least for me, my fighting days are over. Let’s hope this European war will be finished quickly and ordinary people can get on with living, those that are left alive.”

  The school opened in the second week of September, and Anna had made a pretty new dress for Clara. With Eduard well-scrubbed and walking reluctantly on one side, and Clara grasping her mother’s hand, bouncing happily along on the other, they set out for school. Balmes was busy with pedestrians, and the September sunshine brought an air of optimism to the young family. They waved at their father as they passed his shop, and turned into Valencia.

  There was a crowd around the door of the school, and Anna sensed that something was amiss. Although Sister Frigido was standing at the school door, they were surprised to see Father Matias in the street, in deep conversation with other families. As they got nearer, he looked up and spoke sternly.

  “Anna Bonet, I must speak to you. Send your boy into school, but keep the girl with you. I have something to tell you.”

  Puzzled, Anna sent Eduard into school, where he slid past the formidable Sister Frigido, and turned to her priest, Clara still clinging to her hand.

  “Is there a problem, Father?” she asked.

  “Education is for boys only,” the priest stated indifferently. “The boy will continue his education here; but there is no provision for girls.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Anna.

  “No, you wouldn’t. It’s a clear directive from the Catholic Church, and will be obeyed.”

  He turned away, but Clara grasped his sleeve. “What about Senora Mirlo?” she said. “She’s waiting for me in there.”

  The priest turned to the little girl and replied without emotion, “Senora Mirlo doesn’t work here anymore. All of the teachers here are sisters of Our Lady, and as their priest, I support them.” Turning to Anna he said, “Take your girl home and teach her not to be so impertinent.” Clara burst into tears.

  When Anna pulled Clara out of the crowd, she saw there were several other mothers with tearful girls. They looked at one another, shaking their heads, but none knew what to say. Anna shrugged her shoulders and walked away slowly.

  Manel was shocked, but defiant: “I learnt to read and write, and do the sums, and I didn’t go to school. I learned from my father and Clara will learn from me. I’ll not have my daughter grow up illiterate, even if that’s what bloody Franco wants.”

  “The Fascists think a woman’s place is in the home,” sighed Anna.

  “So let Clara be in our home,” said Manel, “but that won’t stop her learning. You’ll see, soon she’ll be reading better than me!”

  Later that day, Eduard skipped up Balmes, and bounded down the steps to their basement. “No more soppy girls at school!” he announced gleefully.

  Anna stared at him, and abruptly he stopped giggling “What did I do?” he said indignantly.

  “There’s no school for your sister,” said Anna. “She’s very upset. So am I, and your father.”

  “But she’s just started learning to read,” said Eduard.

  “And she’ll carry on learning, and you’ll help your father teach her, and there’ll be no more comments about soppy girls.”

  With so little to sell, and few customers, Manel had time on his hands. Eduard would take Clara to the shop on his way to school in the morning, and she would proudly put on Eduard’s apron. Manel gave Clara a little space in the corner to do her work. With little money for paper or pencils, he managed to find an old slate and some chalk, and Clara quickly learned to write letters and some easy sums. It seemed that arithmetic came easily to her.

  One day, not long after she had been turned away from the school, an unexpected customer came into the shop.

  “Senora Mirlo!” cried Clara, and rushed to put her arms around her former teacher.

  “Clara!” exclaimed Senora Mirlo, as surprised as the little girl, to meet in the shop.

  Manel had never met Senora Mirlo, and was rather surprised by this encounter. Senora Mirlo quickly explained, and then admired the chalk letters on the slate.

  “You’re doing well, Clara, “she said. “Is your father teaching you?”

  “Yes,” said Clara, “but he’s not as good as you!”

  “You mustn’t say that Clara,” she replied. “You’re very lucky to have a father who’ll do this for you. Most of the little girls from our class will not be as lucky as you.”

  Manel smiled at the young teacher. “She misses you,” he said. “I hear they gave you the sack as well.”

  “I was told I had no job unless I took holy orders. I have not yet decided what to do,” said Senora Mirlo. “I loved teaching the little ones.”

  Looking desperately around his depleted stock, Manel found a small screw of tea, and gave it to Senora Mirlo. “It’s not very much,” he said, “but it’s a small ‘thank-you’ for getting my girl started last year. I’ll do my best for her now, build on what you started. She’s going to come to the shop with me each morning to do her school work, and after siesta, my wife will be teaching her to sew.”

  “The best of both worlds,” replied Senora Mirlo. �
�Proper education and a useful skill. That will be excellent.”

  A few days later, Manel had another visit from Senora Mirlo, who handed him a parcel. Clara pressed close as her father opened it. There were several school books, a big bundle of sheets of paper, and a couple of pencils. Amongst them was another small parcel, another book wrapped in brown paper. Senora Mirlo pulled out the smaller parcel, and leaned close to Manel. “Don’t open this one in the shop,” she said. “Wait until you get home.”

  “Very well,” replied Manel, “but let’s look at these others.”

  There were several story books, graded for learning to read, and a rather formidable book densely packed with sums, starting from very easy, culminating in calculations which Manel himself would find difficult.

  “This is wonderful, Senora Mirlo,” said Manel. “Clara, say thank-you to your teacher.”

  Clara felt strangely tearful as she mumbled her thanks.

  “And what are you going to do?” asked Manel.

  “I’ve made my decision,” said Senora Mirlo. “I could try and get a job in a shop or a factory, but in truth, I love teaching, so I’m going as a novice to the nunnery. I go next week. I’ll take holy orders, but for me, it’s a way of becoming a teacher. Perhaps God is calling me, I’m not sure, but I think He wants me to teach.”

  Fishing in her bag, she brought out a small black leather-covered bible. “This is for you, Clara. It was given to me when I was a baby, long before I could read. One day you’ll be able to read it yourself. Treasure it, and perhaps one day give it to your little girl.”

  Clara took the bible solemnly, and stood silently. Instinctively, she knew this was a significant gift from her teacher, and she was unsure what to say. Looking into Senora Mirlo’s eyes, she silently nodded her head.

  “You have been so good to us,” said Manel. “You go with our thanks and best wishes, and I know my wife would say the same if she were here.” He looked wistfully around the shop, but Senora Mirlo anticipated what he was looking for.

  “No, don’t look for something for me,” she said. “The packet of tea was lovely, and more than enough. Besides, I can’t take anything with me to the nunnery.” Pushing her glasses up her nose, she took a deep breath. “I must go now. I don’t know if I’ll see you again, but God be with you and your family, Senor Bonet.”

  Returning home for the siesta, Manel told Anna about Senora Mirlo’s visit, and Clara showed the precious bible. Opening it, Anna read aloud, ‘Maria Montserrat Mirlo, on her baptism, 20th June 1920’. She’s only nineteen years old,” said Anna. “We shall put your name in here as well, Clara, with today’s date, the date Senora Mirlo gave it to you.”

  Manel then produced the mysterious extra parcel which he had been instructed to take home. “What can it be?” said Anna.

  “Open it and see,” said an impatient Eduard.

  It was another story book, again the kind for teaching children to read, but this time in Catalan. Manel smiled. “The forbidden language. This is how we’ll keep it alive, even when we’re not supposed to. We will read and enjoy these stories in Catalan at home, and secretly.”

  “I wonder how many other families in Barcelona will be doing the same?” said Anna.

  As 1940 approached, family life settled into a new regular routine: Manel would leave early to open the shop, and after their meagre breakfast, Eduard and Clara would be next to walk down Balmes. Eduard would deliver Clara to her father, and continue to school. Manel would teach Clara in between serving customers and at the end of the morning, Eduard would call for them to go home for lunch and the siesta. Anna meanwhile would be juggling her sewing with trying to make something for the family to eat in the middle of the day. After the siesta, Eduard would do his homework at one end of the kitchen table whilst Anna and Clara worked on the sewing at the other. Manel would return to the shop, but often sat rather forlorn and lonely, as there were very few afternoon customers except one or two walking home from work and needing cigarettes. At the end of the day, just before the children went to bed, the family would get together and almost religiously read a page or two of the precious Catalan stories.

  Eduard did not enjoy school. He was an intelligent boy, quick to learn and good in practical situations, but impatient and almost sullen when faced with lessons he considered to be a waste of time. In particular he clashed with the nuns and priests at the school in the endless religious lessons, and constant visits to the Catholic church on the corner of Balmes. Anna rarely saw any of his teachers, but when she did they always had the same message about him: he’s lazy. Anna knew her son wasn’t, but she could not see how to improve his attitude.

  At home, Manel chastised him. “You’re very lucky to go to school,” he said. “You sister would love to go, but can’t. Please don’t do anything to get yourself expelled. You’re a clever boy, so learn to play the system, keep Father Matias happy.”

  “He’s never happy,” said Eduard.

  “I don’t like him very much, either,” said Anna, “but he is our parish priest, and we must respect him for that.”

  Within a few weeks, matters came to a head. Eduard had been looking at an encyclopaedia at school, and had found a picture of the Friar Martin Luther. He’d asked Father Matias about him, and had been beaten for asking the question.

  “What’s a heretic?” he said, when he got home.

  “I’m not sure,” said Anna, “but I think it’s very bad person.”

  “Does it mean a German?” said Eduard.

  “No, not at all,” said his mother, “although some Germans seem to be quite evil.”

  “How can we find out more?” said Eduard. “There’s hardly any books here at home, and I dare not ask at school.”

  Manel frowned. “Books are part of learning,” he said, “and you’re right. We’ve nothing much at home, and going and buying books is too expensive. We must think about that.”

  Every day at the school there was another ritual which was considered to be as important as the prayers and visits to the church. This was the singing of the Falangist anthem, ‘Face to the Sun’. Every boy knew all the words by heart, and was expected to stand and salute the photograph of Franco hanging on the classroom wall. Eduard had noticed the enthusiasm with which Father Matias sang, and all the boys would join in lustily to ensure they did not incur the priest’s temper.

  Stocking the shop continued to be a headache for Manel right through the autumn. He continued to get a limited stock of basic foodstuffs from the town hall, and continued to say nothing about the obvious way in which town hall officers were giving themselves a share of each bag of food, leaving short weight for the shop-keepers of the city.

  Anna, on the other hand, had never been busier. After re-making Senor Pinto’s clothes for Carlos, she was inundated with requests to similarly re-make clothing for other neighbours. The erratic supply of curtains from bomb sites slowly dwindled, but the work of making floral dresses from old drapes was replaced by the steady stream of customers wanting clothes from deceased family members re-made into wearable garments. Her sewing machine whirred away all morning and all afternoon, and Clara’s quick fingers soon mastered sewing buttons. Anna had amassed a big button box, and Clara was delighted when her mother presented it to her, saying, “You’re in charge of this now. I’m sure you’ll enjoy playing with it, but it will also be very useful.”

  The button box had been started by Anna’s mother, and was a delightful mixture of many kinds and varieties of buttons. When she had a few moments, Clara loved to pull out some of the more elaborate and unusual buttons and arrange them on the table. There were huge buttons from ladies’ coats, odd-coloured bone buttons from men’s jackets, tiny pastel buttons from baby clothes, even a few sparkling buckles, and lots more enchanting stuff.

  Clara’s work, however, rarely needed the exotic contents of the button box. Mostly she sewed buttons onto re-made shirts or trousers, and these were always the plainest of the buttons, and the dullest of the se
wing. She quickly became very efficient, and spent a lot of time watching her mother and thinking about the needlewoman skills she would soon conquer.

  At the other end of the table, Eduard would sigh over his homework, and reluctantly ask Clara for help. Although his reading and writing were much quicker than his sister’s, he struggled with the arithmetic, and she could often help him. Anna watched wide-eyed as the little girl unscrambled some strange work with fractions, and realised her daughter found such arithmetical conundrums unusually easy. Eduard was in a dilemma: he hated admitting to his little sister that he needed help, but equally his fear of Sister Frigida drove him to get the homework finished and correct, even if he had to eat humble pie and get his sister’s help.

  Next door to Manel’s grocery shop was a small and rather dark bicycle repair workshop. During the war, Sergio, the man running it, had struggled with little work, but with the peace had come business for him. The shortage of money and lack of resources, meant that many were using bicycles to get around the city; and with the dreadful unmaintained roads, full of potholes and hazards, punctures had become common place. Many people could repair their bikes themselves, but increasingly Sergio’s workshop skills were needed.

  One evening, long after dark, Manel was locking his shop, when the bicycle repair man came out to the pavement.