“Come help, Pablo, come help, come help, Pablo, Pablo, come help, Pablo …”
“Pablo, Pablo!” Robinsón is shouting, shaking Pablo awake. “You alright, Pablo?”
“Huh? Yeah … I was dreaming, sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I couldn’t sleep. You were dreaming out loud. Looked like you were having a rough time. I woke you up when you started shouting and waving your arms.”
“Thanks. What time is it?”
“It’s still early, Sleep a little more. In fact, I was thinking maybe I’d go look for Naveira, who lives just down the street, and have him help me with the bags so you can sleep a little longer.”
Pablo says nothing, but he sits up on the bed and opens the drawer of the bedside table. He takes out an iridescent object that gives off a greenish glow, and observes it carefully. It is his good-luck amulet, a crystal eye made into a necklace that has accompanied him everywhere since it saved his life many years ago. He squeezes it in his hand, stands up and opens the hovel’s lone window. Dawn is coming on, and the cold air strikes him in the face.
“Robin.”
“What?”
“I had a dream.”
“I know. And?”
But Robinsón’s question is almost rhetorical, because he can read the answer on Pablo’s face.
“I’m going with you to Spain.”
IT IS EIGHT IN THE MORNING on the third of November 1924 when Pablo and Robinsón arrive at the Gare Saint-Lazare, carrying thousands of flyers and a pair of suitcases full of clothing and personal effects. Kropotkin, the faithful wiener dog, is happily leading the way, intuiting that this excursion will be longer than most. A few hundred people have come to meet outside the station, although not all of them are going to board the trains to Perpignan or Saint-Jean-de-Luz: word has spread like wildfire among the community of Spaniards living in Paris, and many have come here to bid farewell to the two parties, who are leaving at almost exactly the same time. There are some tearful women saying goodbye to their husbands, and clinging, bleary-eyed children kissing their fathers. There are also old Republicans who have come to the station to try to convince the revolutionaries that this is a fool’s errand, but no one listens to a word they say. Most of those who have come have done so to pay homage to and cheer on these men who are willing to give their lives for the liberty of their beloved country, some of whom, doubtless the most fearful, carry pistols wrapped in newspaper, jeopardizing the whole mission. But who’s going to tell them what they ought to do at this late hour?
Most of them are anarchists, although there are also some communists, various syndicalists, and miscellaneous revolutionaries. It is true that not everyone who was present last night at the Labor Exchange has shown up, but other unexpected people have joined the ranks: emigrants who see the improvised adventure as a good excuse to return home, deserters hoping to benefit from the recently declared amnesty, and even a few rough sorts who have gotten on board hoping to receive a little food and a bit of money, or at least a free train ticket to the warmer climes of Southern France, now that the autumn chill is starting to make itself felt in Paris. But what is to be done? The revolution needs as many hands as it can get. All the more so considering that just a month ago, optimists were talking about a few thousand men ready to cross the border.
The main organizers of the movement are also at the station, trying to bring order to the slapdash expedition and selecting the leaders of the two groups, who make their way to their respective platforms after having said goodbye to their family and friends. Eighty or ninety revolutionaries and one wiener dog load onto the train for Saint-Jean-de-Luz, with not a woman among them. The train for Perpignan takes on over a hundred, including Ramona Berri and Pepita Not. The adventurers, laden with suitcases, duffel bags, and rucksacks, spread out in the train car cabins, hoping to attract less attention. Some of them even try to sit in first class, but they are quickly ejected by the inspector, who hits the roof when he catches them spitting and tossing cigarette butts on the carpeted floor. Augustín Gíbanel and Valeriano Orobón are the ones responsible for handing out the tickets to the group headed to Perpignan, while Robinsón and Naveira are doing the same with those going to Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Pablo stuffs a few bundles of posters into the bags of his two companions and gives the other bag to Teixidó, so that he can distribute them among the leaders of the other convoy. Pedro Massoni, with his miserly mien, distributes a few francs to the men onboard the trains, watching to make sure no one gets off board after having received the measly stipend.
At 8:35, a long whistle announces that the Perpignan train is about to depart. The intrepid Gíbanel is the last to board, dragging a heavy suitcase which he claims contains several hams but which is in fact full of Winchester rifles. Scarves wave from windows and the air fills with fleeting kisses. Ten minutes later, another whistle announces the departure of the train to Saint-Jean-de-Luz. More scarves wave in the air; more desperate kisses fly. When the train starts rolling the parties who have come to see the liberators off begin to disperse, until the only people left on the platform are Durruti and Ascaso, watching the train disappear out of sight.
“Don’t you get the feeling we’re sending them directly into the lion’s mouth?” Ascaso asks, his voice hoarse, not daring to look at Durruti, who takes a moment to respond.
“You know what, Francisco?” he finally replies, not taking his eyes from the spot where the train disappeared. “If I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s that the struggle can be won without heroes, but not without martyrs.”
Pablo doesn’t know it yet, but he has just boarded a train bound for the gallows.
PART TWO
– 10 –
To the Spanish people:
Spain is going through a moment that is so absolutely critical, so great has been the number of crimes and injustices suffered by our disgraced citizenry under the thumb of swine in frock coats, spurs, and cassocks, that it is about to explode like a steam engine under too much pressure.
If we truly love justice and progress, if we have not lost that precious garment called dignity, if we have, finally, the very least a people can have—a sense of shame—we must take advantage of these good circumstances and march, all together as one man, to unleash the axe of vengeance on the Alfonsos, the Anidos, the Riveras, and all the swine who have covered us in blood and insults before the eyes of the civilized world. Should we fail to take action, we would deserve to be called cowards, accomplices to all the misfortune that weighs upon us, and worthy of the bitterest disdain of the whole educated world, which will consider us impotent to escape the quagmire we are drowning in.
Let us save Spain, my friends! Long live liberty!
Revolutionary poster printed at La Fraternelle
BOARDING A TRAIN TO START A long journey almost always produces a rumbling in the stomach. So we can imagine what a person feels when boarding a train along with eighty companions determined to start a revolution to liberate a whole country.
But Pablo’s head is still elsewhere, a bit groggy from lack of sleep and the early departure. The train has left the Gare Saint-Lazare right on time, and the revolutionaries have spread out discreetly through the cars, although the large farewell party didn’t exactly help them go unnoticed. Of the Group of Thirty, only five boarded the train for Saint-Jean-de-Luz: Robinsón, who is repeating the same trip he made a week ago; Luís Naveira, “El Portugués,” with his thick Galician accent, strident voice and elegant Catholic manners; Juan Riesgo, who appears to be a hoarder of physical abnormalities: hunchback, lazy eye, harelip; Enrique Gil Galar, who is missing a finger from his left hand, like the good carpenter he is (despite his appearance, which is rather that of a romantic poet); and Bonifacio Manzanedo, an affable explosives expert from Burgos, who has something in common with Pablo of which neither is aware: they were both among the 150 men detained three years ago in Bilbao for the much-talked-about murder of the director of the Altos Hornos foundry in Biscay.
Each of the leaders boards a different car and takes responsibility for a group of about fifteen men, distributed in various compartments. Pablo is in the group led by Robinsón, and almost without trying he’s been promoted to something like lieutenant (if such a term can have any meaning in anarchist jargon). But as his body travels southward, his mind is going in the opposite direction: as he settles into his seat, he can’t help thinking about the Beaumonts, whom he neglected to tell about his sudden decision to return to Spain and quit his job as caretaker of their estate. As soon as he arrives in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, he will send them a telegram. While he’s at it, he will also inform old Faure, who will surely foam at the mouth. As luck would have it, Pablo hasn’t come across Julianín amongst the revolutionaries, and he is hoping that the young apprentice will take the reins at the print shop. With these pragmatic thoughts, which you might call unworthy of a revolutionary, the now-ex-typesetter of La Fraternelle falls asleep. Let us take this brief rest as an opportunity to go over a few events unfolding in Paris as the group of revolutionaries passes through Orléans, Tours, and Poitiers.
At about the same time as the conductor of the train to Saint-Jean-de-Luz was shouting “All aboard,” back in Paris at Flammarion publishing house, 26 Rue Racine, box after box began to emerge filled with pamphlets by Blasco Ibáñez, who finally settled on the title Alphonse XIII démasqué: La terreur militariste en Espagne. The print run is staggering, because the Valencian author has ceded his author’s royalties to the publisher to be spent on propaganda and distribution, and that is what the brothers Max and Alex Fisher, editors in chief of Maison Flammarion, have done, launching an initial print run of 150,000 copies, which will be spread all over Paris within a few hours. For the Spanish edition, titled Una nación secuestrada, under the responsibility of editor Juan Durá, another Valencian exiled in Paris, the idea is to do a mind-boggling run of one million copies, which Blasco Ibáñez is planning to sneak into Spain. “Using airplanes if necessary,” he is reputed to have said. The little book is over seventy pages long, and in it, Blasco takes a decidedly anti-monarchic (even more than anti-dictatorial) stance, howling for a remedy to the tyranny misgoverning Spain. It is planned to translate the pamphlet into most of the languages of Europe, as well as Hebrew, Arabic, and Japanese. The Valencian author’s gesture will end up being compared to Zola’s seminal “J’accuse …!”.
But if we dwell for a moment on this event it is not merely to kill time with literary chitchat while we wait for Pablo to wake up on arrival in Saint-Jean-de-Luz along with the rest of the comrades, but rather because the commotion that will arise in Paris in response to Blasco Ibáñez’s incendiary pamphlet is going to have a very particular impact on the development of this story. We recall that today at noon, the trio of Durruti, Massoni, and Vivancos were supposed to meet with the Valencian author at Chez Pepe on Montmartre, to receive the money Blasco has agreed to give them to buy firearms for the incursion. But of course Blasco will not show up for the meeting. Who knows if it’s because he forgot, or is too busy enjoying the success of his pamphlet, or because he was unable to get together the money he promised. The fact is that when the young anarchists enter the restaurant on Place du Tertre, the host will tell them that Blasco Ibáñez hasn’t made an appearance there all morning. In the evening they will go looking for him at the hotel, but will only find his secretary, Carlos Esplá, who will explain to them that the publication of the pamphlet has led to the author receiving a few threats (including one challenge to a duel to the death) and he has decided to retire to his house in Menton on the Côte d’Azur. So farewell to arms, and another defeat for the Committee of Anarchist Relations. But there is no going back now.
When Pablo wakes up in the train, the first thing he sees is a furtive hand retreating from his backpack.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” he barks at the hand’s owner, a bald, toothless man in the facing seat. Robinsón has disappeared, and the compartment is filled with cigar smoke.
“Easy there, comrade, don’t get bent out of shape, we’re in the same boat. Perico Alarco, at your service,” the man says, extending his hand and smiling like a broken piano. “And this guy here is Manolito Monzón. Say hello, Manolito,” he says, nudging his companion’s ribs with his elbow. “He’s deaf and dumb.”
“Fine by me,” Pablo replies, “what I want to know is what you were doing rifling around in my bag.”
“Nay, compadre. Whatcha mean rifling around? We weren’t rifling around. We just wanted to see those li’l papers we heard ya got in there. If we’re gonna go to Spain and hand ’em out, we at least wanna know what they say …”
With a sour face, Pablo reaches into the bag and takes out a couple of posters.
“Here, take them. When you finish reading them, pass them onto other comrades. But with discretion, eh?”
“Well, thing is, see,” says this Perico, his eyes bulging like a slaughtered sheep. “This here Manolito knows how to read, but he can’t talk. When it comes to shooting the breeze I’m an expert, but with the whole reading thing, I sort of can’t … Would you mind reading it for me, pal?”
Just then Robinsón arrives, with Kropotkin nipping at his heels, and sits next to Pablo.
“It seems there’s been some trouble in the first car,” the vegetarian explains, a bit worried. “Apparently a few guys started playing mus and a lady put up a big fuss. They don’t understand that the whole thing could go to shit because of stupid stuff like this. Well, let’s cross our fingers and hope the gendarmes don’t show up during the trip.”
The men playing mus are four Zamorans from Villalpando who had been inseparable back in Paris, earning the nickname “the Villalpando clan.”
“Robin,” Pablo stands up, taking advantage of the chance to make an escape, “Would you be so kind as to read the broadside to our friend here? I need to see a man about a horse.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Pablo gets up, giving a copy to Manolito Monzón the deaf-mute and another to Robinsón. As he squeezes past him, he whispers:
“Keep an eye on the bags. I don’t trust these two one bit.”
“Perico Alarco, at your service,” the toothless man introduces himself, standing and perfuming Robinsón’s beard with breath that reeks of rancid bacon. And the poor vegetarian begins to read the poster as quickly as he can, hoping to get rid of the interloper as soon as possible.
“It says, ‘Spain is going through a moment that is so absolutely critical, so great has been the number of crimes and injustices suffered by our disgraced citizenry under the thumb of swine in frock coats, spurs, and cassocks, that it is about to explode like a steam engine under too much pressure—’”
“Olé!” shouts Perico, and his attention wanders out the window until he hears Robinsón read the final “¡Viva la libertad!” whereupon the toothless man shouts “¡Viva!” with vehemence, eliciting an echo from two anarchists passing through the corridor. “Thank you very much, my friend. Of course, you wouldn’t happen to have a little wine to wet our whistles, would you? This here Manolito and me sure get thirsty on long trips.”
“Sorry, I don’t drink.”
“Aye yay yay, it’s me who feels sorry for you. So nothing, nothing to improve our lot!” and elbowing his companion’s ribs again, they take their leave, just as Pablo returns.
“Quite the pair,” Robinsón murmurs.
“You can say that again. Can we blame the dictatorship for them, too?”
“No, for them we have the local governments and the Church to blame. If those two had gone to Ferrer’s school, they’d have turned out differently, and you know that better than anyone. But we need a revolution for them too.”
“For them and with them.”
“Well, yes. What can you do? Hey, do you want to work on removing the letterhead from the broadsides?” Robinsón suggests, noticing that the posters still bear the printer’s mark, with La Fraternelle’s logo (two outstretched hands) and the inscription
“Imp. La Fraternelle, 55, rue Pixérécourt.”
“It doesn’t matter now, Robin. Mr. Savage can take his print house and shove it. If the revolution succeeds, I’ll stay in Spain. And if we fail, we won’t have to pay any rent in jail. Or in the grave.”
Robinsón smiles bitterly. Shortly, the train stops its progress, and all of the passengers are ordered off with their luggage. A few of the revolutionaries cast worried looks at each other, fearing the worst. Those carrying firearms hesitate between hiding them and ditching them. But when they step onto the platform they are relieved to learn that it’s just a transfer to a different train. Most of them take advantage of the occasion to eat the food they’ve brought from Paris: a hunk of bread, a slice of cheese or ham, a few boiled eggs, or a bit of fruit. The leaders step aside for a brief talk, exchanging opinions. It seems that two of the revolutionaries who had been riding in the last car got off in Tours and did not get back on. In Poitiers, another two said they had motion sickness, and that they would spend the night there and complete the journey the next day, but no one is betting on seeing them again. Five more will disappear at the Bordeaux station.
When they arrive in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, it is already the dead of night and there have been another ten desertions. Saint-Jean is a fishing village just a few kilometers from the border, and its Basque name, Donibane Lohizune, refers to the legend that the town was built on a swamp. The population is not quite seven thousand, and it is separated from Ciboure (Ziburu, in Basque) by the gash of the river Nivelle, which has its mouth at the Bay of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, an anteroom of the Bay of Biscay and the tumultuous Cantabrian Sea.
The Anarchist Who Shared My Name Page 20