The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

  “I see some things never change,” Pablo says. “You drink his wine, Leandro. We have to celebrate this reunion.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not participating if he’s gonna toast with water.”

  “Merde alors, so let’s not toast then, if you don’t want to, but drink the wine, for the love of God.”

  “You mean for the love of our friend Jesus here,” says Leandro.

  So it is that the strange trio of Pablo, Robinsón, and Leandro sip their respective glasses, while the abstemious anarchist starts to tell them what has brought him to Paris, after making sure the big lackadaisical Argentine can be trusted.

  HOWEVER, IN ORDER TO UNDERSTAND THE story Robinsón is now recounting, we need to know a little back story. The movements against the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera started shortly after the military uprising, both in France, where many syndicalists, communists, anarchists, and republicans of all stripes have immigrated, and in Spain—mainly Barcelona, where Catalan separatists have managed to foment a significant clandestine movement. At the end of 1923, various meetings took place on the French side of the Pyrenees and, shortly thereafter in Paris, the Consejo Nacional de Trabajo (CNT) and other syndicalist groups founded the Committee of Anarchist Relations, in charge of promoting and preparing an insurrection against Primo de Rivera’s Directory. At the start of May, the Committee appointed an executive commission comprising the so-called Group of Thirty, including former members of known anarchist groups such as El Crisol, Los Justicieros, and Los Solidarios, responsible for some of the most famous actions of Spanish anarchism in the last several years, including the assassination of the archbishop of Zaragoza in retaliation for the death of Salvador Seguí, known as “Sugar Boy,” who was riddled with bullets in Barcelona in a plot organized by the Machiavellian Martínez Anido, a proponent of the scandalous Ley de Fugas authorizing authorities to use a prisoner’s escape as a pretext for a summary execution. Other members of this Group of Thirty include the young Buenaventura Durruti, Francisco Ascaso, and Gregorio “Chino” Jover, whom the French police have taken to calling “the Three Musketeers,” and other, less well-known but equally enthusiastic members such as Juan Riesgo, Pedro Massoni, Miguel García Vivancos, Ramón Recasens, Mariano Pérez Jordán (known as “Teixidó”), the brothers Pedro and Valeriano Orobón, Augustín Gíbanel, Enrique Gil Galar, Luís Naveira, and Bonifacio Manzanedo, some of whom will end up departing for the border and playing a decisive role in the attempted revolution.

  Contrary to what is happening in Spain, since last summer much of Europe (with the exception of Mussolini’s Italy) has been experiencing moments of leftist euphoria: the socialists are in charge in France, the communists in Russia; in Germany the Republican Democrats have put the young Adolf Hitler in jail, accusing him of high treason; and in England the Labour Party has taken power for the first time in its history. In Spain, on the other hand, the CNT is virtually banned, and its general secretary, Ángel Pestaña, has traveled to Paris to renew the dialogue with the Committee of Anarchist Relations, which has cooled in the last few months due to disagreements regarding the planning of the revolutionary attack, and to personally learn how the preparations are going. The committee has assured him that they will be able to mobilize up to twenty thousand men ready to enter Spain and participate in the overthrow of the regime, provided that they can count on the necessary organization and support on the Spanish side of the border. Pestaña does not seem to have been very convinced by these optimistic predictions, but he has nevertheless agreed that preparations should continue, with fundraising efforts and attempts to obtain weapons, as well as propaganda campaigns among the exiled population. He has even given his support to the International Group of Anarchist Editions, founded by Durruti and Ascaso with the idea of publishing the pamphlet Spain: One Year of Dictatorship, which claims that the country is prepared for regime change and that all that is needed is a trigger to set off the revolution. But the pamphlet still has not been printed, because that will require the involvement of a young typesetter named Pablo Martín Sánchez, the very man who is now listening attentively to what Robinsón is explaining at the Point du Jour:

  “They sent me from the Spanish Syndicate of Lyon to serve as a liaison with the Committee. But the truth is that the comrades in Paris view us with suspicion.”

  “Why is that?” asks Pablo.

  “Because of Pascual Amorós.”

  “Ah, that.”

  As Leandro’s face indicates that he does not understand, they explain the matter to him. Pascual Amorós was a syndicalist from Barcelona who had to run away to France a few years ago, supposedly fleeing prosecution. He started living in Lyon with a few of his comrades in arms, and soon began collaborating with the Spanish Syndicate. But one day someone discovered that he was actually the right hand of Bernat Armengol, known as “the Red,” an infiltrator from the police who had worked in Barcelona on orders from the impostor Baron of Koenig and Bravo Portillo, the ringleaders of a band of gunmen on the bosses’ payroll. The slogan “Viva la anarquía” tattooed on his arm fooled no one: with his life threatened by his own comrades, he had no choice but to return to Spain, where a few months later he was condemned to death by garrote for robbing a bank in Valencia.

  “And since some of his old friends are still members of the Syndicate of Lyon,” Robinsón concludes, “Durruti and company don’t trust us. All in all, it’s understandable; things being the way they are, you can’t take any risks.”

  “But, then, why’d the guys here agree to have you come?” the Argentine asks, somewhat lost.

  “For money.”

  “For money?” Pablo and Leandro both wonder at once.

  “Yes, for money. Even an anarchist revolution requires money, as much as it pains us. The Committee is not doing well in terms of financing. The French comrades are still recovering from the war and the Spanish expatriates have a hard enough time just trying to feed themselves, let alone contributing money to the cause. The Solidarios haven’t got a cent left from the robbery of the Bank of Gijón, even though that brought in more than a half-million pesetas … between the rifles they bought in Éibar and the creation of the Group of Anarchist Editions, they’ve spent it all, so most of them have had to find work in Paris. The fact is that in Lyon the Spanish Syndicate is doing well at the moment, and at the start of the summer Ascaso and Durruti came to ask us for money for the publishing project. We told them we were sorry, but in Paris we had already made donations to the newspaper Le Libertaire and to the International Bookstore on Rue Petit. So they had no choice but to tell us the truth: they needed the money to finance a revolutionary movement to overthrow the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera. We reached an agreement: we gave them the money and in exchange they accepted our collaboration in the mission. This is why I came to Paris, to join the Group of Thirty.”

  The three men sit pensive for a few moments, until the silence is broken by two regulars who come in laughing loudly, say hello and sit down at a table at the back of the tavern. While Leandro goes to wait on them, Robinsón lowers his voice and confesses:

  “I didn’t just come to visit you, Pablito: I also came to ask you to work with us.”

  “…”

  “We need help from people like you.”

  “…”

  “Our future is at stake. And that of millions of Spanish people—”

  “But it’s been years since you lived in Spain, Robin.”

  “True, but I would like to be able to return someday without feeling ashamed to look people in the eye. Think about your mother, think about your sister: are you going to let them rot while you’re here, safe and sound?”

  Pablo looks his friend in the eye, while his mind fills with images of his mother, sister, and niece, the women he abandoned to their fate when he left in exile. He thinks that perhaps yes, perhaps he’s right, perhaps the time has come to try to change things. But he immediately thinks no, what business does he have getting involved in some crazy plot
? Primo de Rivera will soon fall under his own weight, and a failed coup would only serve to reinforce his power.

  “In any case,” Robinsón interrupts Pablo’s thoughts, “I’m not asking you to sign up for the mission, only to help us by printing a few posters.”

  “Are you going to go?”

  “Yes, it seems crazy, but it’s as if I feel an internal voice telling me to go. If Spain rises up in arms against the bandits in charge, I’m not planning to stand around doing nothing. If they need me, I’ll be there. The more of us there are, the better our chances of success.”

  “But is the operation ready?”

  “No, goodness no, there’s still a lot to do. For now, we’re only getting ready for when the comrades in the interior give us the signal, it would be crazy to go in to liberate Spain if the people in the country aren’t ready to go through with the revolution. I don’t think the thing will be ready until the end of the year. But when the moment arrives, we’ll need to have everything well organized. So, what do you say, can we count on you?”

  “I don’t know, I’d have to discuss it with old Faure, the owner of the print shop, to see what he thinks.”

  “Don’t bother, we’ve already spoken with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, he came yesterday to the back room of the International Bookstore on Rue Petit, a windowless little hovel we use for meetings. We wanted him to print an eight-page pamphlet for us called Spain: One Year of Dictatorship, which we’re planning to distribute for free among the Spanish expatriates here in Paris. A good print run, a few thousand copies. At first the old man didn’t catch on, but we finally convinced him by telling him that we’re also planning to publish a trilingual review and an anarchist encyclopedia—”

  “So what do you need my help for?”

  “For the revolutionary broadsides we want to print for the incursion. When we cross the border, we want to bring posters to distribute among workers and the civilian population, a direct call to revolution against the dictatorship. It’s safer to print them here than there, and the comrades in the interior already have enough difficulty just trying to hold meetings without getting arrested. But old Faure told us no way, he didn’t want to hear another word about it. That he has enough problems in France, he doesn’t need to go looking for them in Spain, and that he didn’t want to lend his press for crazy revolutionary projects. You know that since the Great War he’s become a pacifist, especially since he got to know Malatesta and published his manifesto Toward Peace. I say it’s nothing but the paranoia of an old, washed-up anarchist, because you tell me what has he got to lose publishing the broadsides if he’s going to publish the pamphlet?”

  Leandro has now returned to his position in the trench behind the bar, and as he casually prepares two absinthes, he asks:

  “Did I miss anything important?”

  “No, nothing,” says Pablo, pensive, and when he finishes off his wine with a final gulp, he bids farewell: “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work. The old Minerva has left me stranded and I don’t want to abandon Julianín too long with the Albatross …”

  The Minerva is an old pedal-operated press that, having worked for over thirty years, is ready to retire. The Albatross is not much younger, but it is still capable of printing eight hundred sheets an hour.

  “See you later?” Robinsón asks.

  “Yes, of course, come find me at the end of my shift so we can go home.”

  And, touching his brim with his index finger, Pablo takes leave of his two friends. In the street, night has already fallen, and emaciated specters are silhouetted in the light of the streetlamps. These are hard times in Paris, the euphoria of the Olympic Games having given way to a period of economic recession. The franc is in freefall, but the exiled Spaniards have other worries to fill their bellies. The wheel of the revolution has started to turn, and it seems intent on catching Pablo in its vortex.

  II

  (1896)

  HE COULDN’T. FOR ALL THE MANY TRAIN voyages he would later make, Pablo could never forget that first trip between Baracaldo and Madrid. Neither the asphyxiating heat, nor the tobacco smoke that permeated the train cars, nor the terrible smell of feet that seemed to bother his father so much, was enough to undermine the fascination that this first journey produced in the boy. With his nose pressed against the windowpane he watched objects go by with dizzying speed: trees, houses, and cows; farms, hills, and telegraph poles; workers with faces furrowed by a thousand wrinkles and children running along with the train and waving at the passengers. And all of this enlivened by the uncontainable logorrhea of one of the fellow passengers in the compartment, a retired railroad crossing keeper who narrated the passing scene, telling the most outlandish stories, full of exaggerated facts and figures:

  “The net weight of a train car,” he was explaining to his patient companions in the compartment, with the excitement of someone recounting the life of a famous bandit, “is thirty-six tons, and that’s when it’s empty! It has a length of eighteen meters and a height of three and a half. The beams are mahogany, holm oak, and white oak, and it is covered with paneling made of teak, a wood that comes from Northern Europe and is immune to atmospheric changes—”

  “And is it true that the last car is the safest?” Pablo interrupted him, producing a look of disbelief in Julián, taken unawares by his son’s unexpected loquacity.

  “Who told you that, my boy?”

  “My papa.”

  “Well, your papa couldn’t be more right. Do you think a gatekeeper like myself would travel in third class if it weren’t because it’s the last car?”

  In Miranda de Ebro and in Ávila they changed locomotives, and Pablo was able to observe, eyes wide open, how the operators performed the process of decoupling and recoupling the cars. But what excited him most on this first trip was the loud voice of the stationmaster, who at the end of every stop would shout “All aboard!” at the top of his lungs, and the throng of passengers would push to enter the cars, hoping not to get left behind as the train departed with all their belongings inside.

  While the journey was full of emotions and discoveries, the best part was waiting for them when the train reached its destination. Night was coming on when they pulled into Madrid’s North Station, which at the moment was overrun by a multitude going from one end to the other like frenzied ants in a trampled anthill. Pablo had never seen such a large, diverse crowd. Men with frock coats and top hats mingled with withered old ladies begging for alms and boys shouting the morning newspaper headlines or selling travel blankets to the passengers going to the trains. The outside of the station was also seething, and above the froth of voices rose the shouts of the drivers of buggies, popularly referred to in Madrid at the time as simones, after their inventor. When Julián and Pablo exited the station dragging the suitcase, two of these drivers had come to fisticuffs competing for clients who could afford the luxury of hiring a cab. One was leaking blood from his nose and the other was trying to recompose the damaged burlap toupee intended to conceal his unconcealable baldness.

  The Martíns ran away from the station as if fleeing the plague, got onto a streetcar, and crossed the city toward the neighborhood known as Injurias, by the river Manzanares, to stay at a humble inn that a friend in Baracaldo had recommended. They shared a bed with squeaking springs and a mildewed mattress, and fell deeply asleep beneath the watchful eye of a reproduction of the Holy Christ of Lepanto hanging somewhat askew over the head of the bed. The next morning, they got up early, at six tolls of the bell of a nearby church, and ate at the inn in silence with the other early risers, who were more concerned with keeping the cockroaches off the tables than with making conversation with the other diners. Not a bad breakfast for a fleabag hotel, thought Julián as he dipped the strange little donuts in his coffee, pastries the innkeeper had called tontas as she served them.

  The competitive examination for the Primary Education Inspectors Corps was to be held at the address 80 Calle de
San Bernardo, in the building of the Central High School, and that is where father and son headed: Julián, reviewing in his mind the list of the Gothic kings, in an attempt to calm his nerves; Pablo, mouth agape and feeling distressed in this city of more than half a million. Leaving the inn, they took Calle Toledo, went through the gate of the same name and arrived at the Collegiate Church of San Isidro, whose entrance was thronged with people, despite the parish priest’s attempts to get them to form an organized line. Father and son kept a safe distance, curiously observing the scene.

  “What’s going on?” asked Pablo.

  “I don’t know, Son,” responded Julián, also surprised by the religious fervor of the Madrileños.

  “It’s for the saint,” said a voice behind them.

  The Martíns spun around to find themselves face-to-face with a miniature donkey covered in roses, carnations, and geraniums. At its side, holding its lead, a flower seller smiled affably.

  “They have Saint Isidore inside,” he continued explaining, “and at seven o’clock the church will open so the faithful can come venerate him. Care for a carnation for your lapel, sir?”

  “No, no thank you,” Julián replied, snatching his son’s hand forcefully and making off toward Plaza de la Constitución, which a few years later would become known as Plaza Mayor.

  They skirted the square via the Cava de San Miguel and shortly arrived at the Plaza de Santo Domingo, where the Calle de San Bernardo has its origin, showing that it is possible to cross Madrid by jumping from saint to saint. It was half past seven in the morning, and there was a market.