There was little need to tell Pablo what was wrong. He could see from the look on her face as she pushed open the café door that the news was bad.
For nine nights they lost sleep, and each day Concha sought confirmation of where Emilio had been taken. She was now a familiar figure at the government offices. Eventual confirmation that her son was in a prison close to Cádiz brought a strange sense of relief. The prison was more than two hundred kilometres away, but at least they knew something for certain.
Concha’s first thought was to make the journey to see her son. If she could take him some food, at least he would not starve.
‘But it’s a ridiculous distance to travel,’ said Ignacio. ‘Particularly on your own.’
‘I have no choice,’ said Concha.
‘Of course you have a choice!’ insisted Ignacio.
‘One day you will understand,’ she responded patiently, ‘when you have your own children.’
‘Well, God help you. That’s all I can say.’
The journey there took her two days. Despite the papers she had, which were meant to allow her safe conduct, the frequent checks by soldiers and Civil Guards were often carried out with aggression, and on several occasions she was certain she would have to turn back to Granada.
When she eventually arrived, Concha’s request to see her son was denied.
‘He is in solitary,’ barked the officer on duty. ‘He has currently lost all his privileges.’
Quite what those ‘privileges’ might be in this awful place, she could not imagine.
‘How long will that last?’ she asked, numb with disappointment.
‘Could be two days, could be two weeks. Depends.’
She did not have the heart to ask what it depended on. In any case, she would not have any faith in the answer.
The basket of food was left. She had no idea if it would ever reach him. Inside one of the walnuts she had packed in the bag, she had concealed a note. It was just a mother’s letter, with superficial news of family life and messages of love sincerely meant, but when it was found his time alone in a cell was increased by a week.
Tales of conditions inside prisons reached Pablo and Concha from many sources. Occasionally someone succeeded in escaping but the more common stories were of the daily firing squads and the arbitrariness of the lists of victims.
While Concha was preoccupied with the personal drama of her son’s imprisonment, mothers were losing sons all over the country. Sons were losing mothers too.
By the autumn, Nationalist bombers were terrorising the defenceless people of Madrid and nobody was safe. Even mothers queuing for their children’s milk were blasted to eternity. The capital city was Franco’s real goal and Nationalist troops had reached the outskirts of the city. Leaflets had been dropped warning the population that unless they handed the city over, it would be wiped off the face of the earth.The relentless air raids were beginning to wear the population down. They were sitting targets.
Everyone, whether they supported the Republic or Franco, followed what was taking place in Madrid.What happened to the capital city could determine the outcome of this conflict for the whole country.
At the beginning of November, the first Russian planes arrived and counterattacks began. Though the Republic was now doing better in the air, the Nationalists began to have some success on the ground.That same month they took one of the city’s suburbs, Getafe, which gave them hope that they were on their way to complete victory.
Antonio studied the newspapers more closely than ever and often read out extracts to his mother as she dried the glasses in the morning.
‘“In spite of bombardment from Republican troops the Nationalist army has taken the area of Carabanchel and significant bridges have been gained, which could allow access to the inner city,” ’ Antonio read. ‘“Hand-to-hand combat has been taking place on the streets and losses run into thousands on both sides. Franco’s troops have pushed through Republican lines into the University City.” ’
Antonio did not know that his mother was already well abreast of events from listening early each morning to a banned radio station broadcasting from Málaga.
‘It could be the end of it all,’ said Antonio. ‘Perhaps Franco is about to get his way.’
Ignacio, who had come into the café and heard Antonio’s comment, saw the opportunity to comfort his mother. ‘Well, Mother,’ he said, ‘as soon as Franco can declare victory, you might have your Emilio back.’
‘That would be a relief,’ she said, smiling at the thought. ‘But doesn’t it depend what the charges against him are?’
‘I suppose it might. I’m sure they weren’t serious, though.’
It sometimes suited Ignacio to take a conciliatory position with his mother. It assuaged his occasional pangs of guilt that his indiscreet talk over his brother’s homosexuality might have led to his arrest. If he had anticipated the severity of his brother’s sentence and the grief it would cause, he might have been more careful, however much Emilio sickened him.
Franco’s victory in Madrid was not as imminent as Ignacio thought.The exhausted citizens of Madrid saw uniformed soldiers marching past them, and assumed these men were battalions of Nationalist troops. With some astonishment and much joy, they soon realised their error. The strains of their revolutionary songs and the distinctive tune of ‘The Internationale’ told them that these were Brigadistas, members of the International Brigades, who had come, as if by magic, to their rescue. Among them were Germans, Poles, Italians and English, and it was said that, to a man, they were going fearlessly to the frontline.
Members of the anarchist movement, who were strong believers in freedom, even if not always the most disciplined of fighters, were also arriving to help defend Madrid against Franco, and there was further fighting in the University City, including an attack on the hospital, held by the Nationalists. The area was soon back in Republican hands and the frontline once again redrawn.
Later in November 1936, Ignacio was browsing through that day’s right-wing newspaper, getting the latest on what was happening in Madrid. Unlike the rest of his family, who could not bear to read the biased reports of the right-wing press, Ignacio ostentatiously did so, and his muttered remark that it was a pity that Franco had given up the fight for Madrid at this stage was too much for his normally phlegmatic father to take.
‘Ignacio,’ Pablo said, finally losing his temper, ‘do you really think it’s right for soldiers to kill innocent people?’
‘Which innocent people?’ Ignacio did not conceal his scorn. ‘What do you mean by “innocent”?’
‘The ordinary people of Madrid, of course! Women and children who are being blasted to bits. What have they done?’
‘So what about all those prisoners then? They hardly deserved to die, did they? Don’t talk to me about innocence! There’s no such thing!’ Ignacio slammed the table with a fist.
Ignacio was referring to the execution of a thousand Nationalist prisoners earlier that month. Madrid had been a city of mixed sympathies, both Republican and Nationalist, and when the army coup took place, many Nationalists who were trapped inside the city were forced to go into hiding. In spite of this, many had been flushed out and imprisoned. When it had looked as though the Nationalist army might be on the point of taking Madrid in early November, there was serious concern that the army officers now in prison might join the invading force.To prevent this from happening, several thousand prisoners were evacuated and shot in cold blood outside the city by Republican guards who were eager to join the defence of their capital.
Pablo was silenced. Even die-hard supporters of the Republic were ashamed of what had happened. He walked away. Sometimes this was easier than pursuing an argument with his son, and though he totally disagreed with him, Ignacio’s final words rang almost too true. In this conflict it was sometimes hard to say who was completely without blame.
The horror continued in Granada. One afternoon in December, when the streets were dark by
early afternoon and the cobbles shone like metal under the streetlamps, two Nationalist soldiers came into the bar. This time there was no need for them to hammer on the glass.The bar was open and still full of customers having coffee after their lunch.
‘We’d like to take a look around,’ one of the soldiers announced to Pablo, in a manner that was too friendly for comfort.
The café owner made no attempt to get in the way of their search, knowing that it would only incite them to unnecessary aggression.
Behind the bar was a small kitchen and, off that, a small office not much bigger than a cupboard where Pablo did his ordering and kept his chaotic inventory of goods in and out. As well as a desk, there was an old wooden chest of drawers that spewed out papers even before the Fascist vandals set to work ransacking it. They turned each drawer over until the contents of the chest emptied, not pausing to read even one piece of paper. They were like children, grinning to each other as the mess in the room worsened, enjoying the blizzard-like effect as they tossed papers in the air. It looked just like a game.They were not in the slightest bit interested in the bills for bread and ham.
Pablo continued to serve at the bar.‘Don’t worry,’ he said bravely to his wife. ‘We’ll clear the mess up later. We’ve got nothing to hide and I’m sure they’ll soon be gone.’
Concha sliced carefully through a huge slab of manchego, arranging it with more than usual care on a plate, successfully making herself look busy and at ease. Inside, her stomach churned with fear. Silently she and Pablo agreed that a pose of complete innocence was the best approach to the situation.
Customers continued to drink and talk in quiet tones but the tension in the room was palpable. People in Granada were accustomed now to such intrusions, and though it was hard to talk naturally in this atmosphere, they were determined to hold on to the small routines of their lives, such as the ritual of visiting a bar or café at least once a day.
The two intruders were not really there to search. Once the room was blanketed in white, their attention turned to the real reason they had come. It was the radio that interested them. The rest had been a charade. With a triumphant look on his face, the taller of the two soldiers reached for the dial, turned it on and stood back. There was no need to tune it. A signal was already being picked up and a voice now filled the room. It was the unmistakable tones of the communist radio station that regularly broadcast its updates on the current state of events across the country. He turned up the volume so that the sound carried out of the room and into the bar. There was a definite smirk on the face of the younger soldier as he appeared in the café. The radio now blared around the room. Pablo and Concha immediately ceased their activities and behind the barrier of the bar, they clasped hands. All eyes focused on the Fascists who stood, arms folded, perfectly calm.
Concha always listened to the radio in the very early hours of the morning, when Pablo had cleaned up the last of the ashtrays and glasses and the rest of the family had retired to bed.
The higher ranking soldier cleared his throat. He would need to project his voice to make himself heard above the sound of the radio. Concha loosened her tight grip on her husband’s hand and moved slightly forward. She would not give this pair the satisfaction of an interrogation. She would give herself up now and save everyone time. It was not to be so easy, however. She could feel her husband’s hand locked around her upper arm and then, a moment later, he had pushed her almost roughly to one side and now stood in front, almost blocking her view of the soldiers.
There was a fraction of a second in which she might have protested, but then the moment had passed. Pablo held out both wrists, was handcuffed, and seconds later was being led out into the street and away. His look silenced his wife. She knew what it meant. If she spoke up then they would take not just him but her as well. This way they only got one of them.
She was racked with guilt, but shock allowed her to carry on with her day’s work in a dream state.
Mercedes walked into the café about an hour after the soldiers had left with her father. She had spent the morning with Paquita and her mother, helping them to organise things in their new apartment. The fabric of her friend’s home in the Albaicín had proved to be unstable after the summer bombardment, and for safety’s sake they had been obliged to find somewhere else to live. For the first time in a while, Mercedes wanted to dance and she hoped to find Antonio at home. He could just about pick out a tune and her need was strong enough for her to overlook the fact that he was a poor substitute for Javier or Emilio.
Concha was in the office reordering the last of the strewn papers when her daughter appeared. She knew immediately that something was wrong. She had not seen her mother so pale since the night that Emilio was taken away. Moments later Antonio returned home from school and Concha calmly informed them both of what had taken place.They were distraught but there was nothing to be done.
Ignacio returned late that night, unaware that anything was amiss. His mother was locking up for the night and his reaction to his father’s arrest was one of anger. It was not directed against those who had arrested him, but against his own family, in particular, Concha.
‘But why did he have to listen to that radio?’ he protested. ‘Why did you let him?’
‘I didn’t let him,’ she explained quietly. ‘It wasn’t him listening to it.’
‘It was Antonio!’ he shrieked, his voice cracking with anger. ‘That rojo brother! The stupid bastard - he’ll be the death of all of us, you know. He doesn’t care - you do realise that, don’t you? He doesn’t care!’
His face was almost up against his mother’s. She could feel his hatred.
‘It wasn’t Antonio,’ she said quietly. ‘It was me.’
‘You . . . ?’ His voice was quieter now.
She explained that it was she who had really committed the crime.
Ignacio was furious with both his parents. His father should have stopped her from listening in to subversive radio stations, and she should not have made herself an object of such suspicion by campaigning for Emilio’s release.
‘You should have kept a low profile,’ he raged at her. ‘This is already branded the “café de los rojos”, even if Father didn’t realise it!’
But there was nothing that could be done. Some days later they heard that Pablo Ramírez was in prison not far from Sevilla.
When first arrested, Pablo had been locked up, along with hundreds of others, in the cinema of a nearby town. Many prisons were makeshift at that stage. The Nationalists were arresting so many thousands of people that the ordinary prisons were overflowing. Bullrings, theatres, schools and churches all became places to lock up the innocent, and the irony was never lost on the Republicans that places of pleasure, entertainment, education and even worship now became venues for torture and killing.
In the cinema where Pablo found himself, afraid, disorientated and in the dark for twenty-four hours a day, people slept in the foyer, in the aisle and slumped in the uncomfortable wooden seats. This had lasted a few days before a group of them was transferred to a prison two hundred kilometres north. No one bothered to tell them its name.
The prison had been built for three hundred inmates but now held two thousand.At night they lay tightly packed in rows without so much as a finger’s width in which to turn and with nothing to cushion them from the stone floors. It was a cold hell. If one man coughed the whole cell-full was woken, and their proximity to each other meant that a single case of tuberculosis could spread like a forest fire.
Pablo was moved to several different prisons during this period but the routine was the same in all of them. The day began even before dawn broke, with the menacing jangle of keys and the thunderous sound of metal bolts being slid across to release the prisoners from their cages. There was a breakfast of thin gruel, enforced attendance at religious services, the singing of fascist patriotic songs and long hours of pure tedium and discomfort in the icy, lice-ridden cells. Dinner was like breakfast but with a ha
ndful of lentils tossed into the liquid and it was at this stage of the day that fear began to stir their bellies.
After their evening meal, a few men began to mutter prayers to a God they hardly believed in. Sweat broke out on every temple and hearts palpitated. It was time for the execution list to be read out in the dull monotone of the prison governor. They were obliged to listen, dreading the sound of each first syllable in case it was the beginning of their own name. The condemned would be taken away that night and shot the following dawn. The list seemed arbitrary and appearance on it could be a matter of chance, as though the warders had sat around a brazier drawing lots to pass the time.
For most there was a mixture of nausea and relief at realising they would live another day. Always, one or two who had heard their names lost their self-control, and their raw, helpless grief jolted the others from complacency. It could easily be them tomorrow.
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