The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

  So, on the night of August 3, 1909, as the legally prescribed time ran out, Pablo Martín Sánchez, draft number 66 in the district of Salamanca, left the City of Bombs to return to the City of Death, to fulfill his patriotic duty. Robinsón, excused from military service for his limp, accompanied him to the station. He promised to meet back up with Pablo a few months later in Ciudad Condal, in case Angela ended up giving a sign of life, although he was convinced that it would be in vain: he was growing ever more skeptical that the young woman who had asked after him at the Vegetarian League was in fact their childhood friend. Basically, his idea was to stay in Barcelona to earn a little money and then travel to France or Germany, where naturism and vegetarianism enjoyed more respect than they did in Spain. But he had not yet mentioned any of this to his soul brother.

  “Listen, Pablo,” he said when they were about to arrive at the Station of France.

  “What?”

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Blood brothers shouldn’t beat around the bush. We have to call a spade a spade, right?”

  “Spill it, Robin. At this rate they’ll be discharging me before you’ve managed to say anything.”

  “Fine. Do you really believe that a man should be tied for life to the first woman he loves, and have eyes for no one but her?”

  Pablo stopped walking abruptly, but said nothing.

  “I don’t know, it seems to me like you ought to enjoy life a little more and stop dragging your ass like a penitent. Don’t think so much about the sad stuff, focus on the pleasures within our reach. Have you ever heard of free love?”

  “Drop it, Robin,” Pablo interrupted, beginning to walk again. “Thanks for the effort, but you’re not going to get Angela out of my head. You do what you like. I’m going to make the search for her the meaning of my life.”

  “Very well, very well, sir. But what will happen if someday you find out she’s married someone else?”

  Pablo stopped again, looked at his friend, and said only six words.

  “Then the search will be over.”

  PABLO ENTERED THE RECRUITING OFFICE ON Wednesday morning and turned himself over to military jurisdiction, but the final deployment of the regiment did not take place until the end of September, a few weeks earlier than the scheduled date because of the flaring war in Morocco. In a twist of fate less random than it appeared, his voyage followed the path of a boomerang: the position he was randomly assigned was the old barracks of Atarazanas, in a Barcelona depleted of soldiers after the recent deployments. All he had to do was take a step forward during the recruit screening process to be assigned to Ciudad Condal, before the speechless stare of the other recruits, who thought he must be crazy because no one wanted to go to the City of Bombs after the recent events. What they didn’t know is that this young man had a powerful six-letter motive for stepping forward: Angela. It was no accident that Barcelona was the last place she had been seen, because she preferred it over Cádiz, Santiago, Burgos, or Zaragoza, where she would most likely have been consumed by nostalgia or desperation. So it was that Pablo ended up spending three long years in the barracks of Atarazanas, believing that sooner or later he would end up finding Angela. While hope is the last thing to be lost, it is often the only thing one has.

  The first few weeks were the most difficult, because the mood was still very tense due to the war in Morocco. The air was full of the fear of being sent to Africa, and although it was unlikely that the new recruits would be deployed immediately, the veterans punished them for their fear and anxiety by inventing the most humiliating practical jokes, with the tacit permission of the higher officers. On the first day, as a welcome gift, the “newbies” were led to the “royal latrine,” the filthiest of all, where the soldiers had been accumulating excrement for days in anticipation of the new crop’s arrival. The stench was so unbearable that some of the instigators covered their noses with scarves soaked in cologne as they laughed and shoved the newbies into the latrine; the most delicate of them vomited as soon as they were inside, and those who withstood the first impact had their heads shoved into the foul pit toilet, to shouts of:

  “Look in there and tell us if you can find any damned Moors!”

  Ten times Pablo was subjected to this humiliating punishment, but even if he had wanted to he could not have vomited. This earned him the respect of the veterans, who had never seen anyone with such endurance. Of course, he never let on the secret to his success, that for him there was no difference between the smell of a fart and a rose, a rotten egg or freshly mown grass, a putrid latrine or the sparkling toilet of the queen of England.

  To make matters worse, the barracks of Atarazanas had been chosen as the place to incarcerate and judge many of those arrested for the events of Tragic Week, which did not exactly help to calm people’s nerves. Within its walls the military tribunal was convened, and various summary war trials were held, including that of José Miguel Baró, the first rebel executed at the castle of Montjuic. However, when Pablo arrived in the barracks, the case that was on everyone’s lips was that of Ferrer Guàrdia, who in a cruel irony was condemned to death for being the leader of a leaderless revolt. Perhaps fearing that some altercation might take place during his execution, the authorities decided to increase the number of military personnel guarding the fortress, and on the morning of October 13 they stationed a number of soldiers there, including several newbies from the nearby barracks of Atarazanas, which many interpreted as the latest in the series of practical jokes. “So they’ll learn,” said Sergeant Hansen. And among those in for a lesson was Pablo Martín Sánchez.

  They had to wake up at four in the morning to walk to the military fortress. It was a chilly night, and at El Paralelo they crossed paths with various nighthawks who came staggering out of brothels and other dens of iniquity. At Calle Carrera, Pablo lifted his head and had a strange feeling, like a premonition of the future: through the curtains of an illuminated balcony, he saw the graceful silhouette of a female body. From there, laden with heavy rifles and unwieldy belts of cartridges, they ascended the road that winds its way to the top of the mountain, where they joined other companies assigned to guard the fortress. The firing squad was chosen at random from among the soldiers of the Infantry of the Constitutional Regiment, and they were given the customary ammunition mixed with blank cartridges. The rest of the group was spread out over the mountain, in the areas surrounding the fortress and in the gorge of Santa Amalia, the chosen location for executions. This was where Pablo was stationed. Shortly before nine o’clock, he saw the morbid procession emerge through one of the fortress’s posterns, led by Ferrer, looking haggard but dignified. He was wearing a gray flannel suit and a tie, with his head uncovered and an arrogant goatee pointing forward. Curiously, the laces had disappeared from his shoes: they had removed them lest he be tempted to suicide. When they passed near, Pablo heard what the founder of the Modern School was saying to the leader of the firing squad:

  “I can see, lieutenant, that you are very young. How long have you been an officer?”

  “One year.”

  “Only? Oh, what a sad way to start a military career!”

  “Sad? Why?” the lieutenant shot back indignantly.

  “Because when you give the order to fire, you’ll be taking an innocent life.”

  The procession continued on slowly toward the chosen spot for the execution, immersed in tragic silence. As they came to a halt in front of the governor of the fortress, the latter shouted a question, barely audible to Pablo:

  “Do you have any last wishes?”

  Ferrer hesitated an instant, and then said in a firm voice:

  “My only request is that you don’t make me kneel or turn my back to the firing squad. And no blindfold.”

  The officers exchanged opinions under their breath and finally agreed to concede to half of his request: he would die on his feet, and facing forward if he wanted, but with his eyes covered and his hands tied be
hind his back. Pablo saw them bring Ferrer to the end of the ravine, next to the wall, saw Ferrer resign himself to being blindfolded and handcuffed, as the firing squad lined up in front of him and the soldiers made the sign of the cross. Finally, after the order to “Aim,” he could clearly hear the last words shouted by the anarchist educator:

  “Boys, you’re not the guilty ones. Aim well and shoot without fear! I am innocent! Long live the Modern School!”

  Pablo winced at the roar of gunshots. When he dared to open his eyes, the body of Francisco Ferrer Guàrdia was lying on the ground, the skull perforated with bullet holes, ready to be buried in a mass grave for being an atheist and an impenitent. It was one minute past nine in the morning.

  The people of Barcelona responded to the execution immediately but timidly, because they were still fresh from the calamity of Tragic Week. The most notable events were street disturbances and a handful of bombs, to one on Calle del Cid, a few yards from the municipal inn that had given Pablo shelter when he had first arrived in Barcelona. The more progressive political class let its displeasure be known, and at a meeting in Valencia the Republican representative Rodrigo Soriano said the following prophetic words:

  “When they shot Ferrer, the government signed their own death sentence.”

  And he was not mistaken: on October 23, the liberals took power again, with Segismundo Moret at the head. A few days beforehand, Pablo had made a promise, inspired by the deep impression that the legal assassination of Ferrer had produced in him: as soon as he found the love of his life, he would dedicate all the strength he had left to fighting against the government that sent its most brilliant men to the firing squad. I’ll believe it when I see it, Prime Minister Maura would have said if he had been privy to Pablo’s intentions: while Maura only had ten days left in office, Pablo was in for three years of service, three long years with no news of Angela.

  – 16 –

  The dense shadow of the night was thinning out into the first lights of the dawn, the cold, hostile dawn that stabbed them with frosty winds, these men spurred on by political ideals and chance. They began to be able to make out the silhouettes of the humble homes of Vera de Bidasoa. The revolutionaries advanced in silence, as though they sensed something unclear but threatening. Bonifacio Manzanedo, in front, immediately behind him Pablo Martín Sánchez and Julián Santillán, two of the most dedicated of this group of ad hoc warriors.

  JOSÉ ROMERO CUESTA,

  La verdad de lo que pasó en Vera

  NEXT TO THE MAIN ROAD THAT descends from Napoleon’s Pass to Vera, back in the thick woods, there is a weed-choked path unworthy to be called a road, impassible to mules, donkeys, or horses. But Piperra, the guide from Zugarramurdi who helped Gil Galar’s group cross the border, insists on taking this path, and no one has the energy to argue at this point, unaware that the only reason the guide wants to avoid the main road is that it passes next to the farmstead of Eltzaurdia, where some of his relatives live. However, more than one of them comes quickly to regret not having put up a fight, because the footpath proves to be almost impossible: the rain has turned it into a mud bog, slippery and dangerous in the dark, and not even their walking sticks prevent them from falling down over and over as they slide in the mud like filthy pigs. Those who are carrying electric flashlights have no choice but to light them. On both sides of the path, fallen oaks appear to laugh at the partisans’ pitfalls, as they mutter strings of blasphemies and curses before the silent audience of ash, holly, and beech, wild hazelnuts and ferns. Only Robinsón, who miraculously still has his bowler hat unsullied on his head, feels in his element, in a sort of spiritual osmosis with nature, and he even takes time to harvest a few herbs growing at the edge of the path, plants called horsetail that are supposed to be good for the circulation and for healing poultices.

  When the platoon gets past the heart of the woods the trail finally becomes more manageable. A dog barks nearby, but Kropotkin, having learned his lesson, does not respond to the provocation. The strange dog is guarding a stable full of animals, which the revolutionaries skirt in silence to continue their descent toward Vera. Starting here, the road improves noticeably, corresponding to the final length of the old Roman road. The rain has given way to clouds, indistinct from the smoke rising from the sleepy chimneys of the first houses, signs that they are approaching the village. It is not yet one in the morning when the road opens onto the Carretera de Francia and the first houses of Vera can be seen in the darkness, triggering a flood of adrenaline among the revolutionaries, who stop their progress, not knowing exactly what to do next, disconcerted by the silence and calm reigning in the village. Did they expect to find the people in arms, the streets filled with barricades?

  “Now what do we do?” someone asks.

  “There’s no light in the Errotacho mill,” says Piperra, who knows the village well.

  “Nor at the Itzea house,” adds Martín Lacouza, not to be outdone.

  Indeed, the mill is the first building on the left, followed closely by the farmhouse of Itzea, the residence the Baroja family has kept in Vera since 1912. But Don Pío, contrary to what some will later claim in a spirit of malice or betrayal, is not at home at this moment, and cannot see the group of forty-some-odd men (and one wiener dog) about to pass beneath the window of his study.

  “What we do is go into the village and find out what’s going on,” suggests Gil Galar, always ready for action. “From here everything seems calm, but who knows.”

  “That’s true,” avows Luís Naveira. “We’ll walk all together, in formation, and cross the village with weapons ready. If the revolution hasn’t broken out here yet, we’ll have to be the ones to make the first move. If we find anyone in the street, we’ll invite him to join the uprising, and then we’ll head to the foundry to inform the comrades. Then we’ll attack the barracks of the Civil Guard and contact the revolutionaries from Irún and San Sebastián. Does anyone know how to get to the foundry?”

  “Yes,” responds Piperra, “it’s just on the other end of the village, on the Carretera de Lesaga. Follow me.”

  And the revolutionaries take out their pistols, stepping straight into the wolf’s mouth.

  The picturesque hamlet of Vera, as the newspapers are wont to describe it when they bother to mention it at all, consists of two main neighborhoods: Altzate, which the revolutionaries have just entered, and the neighborhood of Vera proper, home of Saint Stephen’s parish, City Hall, and the Plaza de los Fueros. There are two possible ways to get from one neighborhood to another: either by following the Carretera de Eztegara, which runs parallel to the Zia River, now swollen with the autumn rains, or by taking Calle Leguía, which goes directly to City Hall, as Piperra is well aware.

  “If we take Leguía, we’ll pass in front of the barracks of the carabiniers and the Civil Guard.”

  “Then let’s take the main road,” suggests Santillán, knowing that a barracks is not such an easy thing to take by force. “If we have to face the Civil Guard, it will be better to do it with the foundry workers at our side.

  But in order to reach this point of bifurcation, the group has had to make their way along the Calle del Altzate, where a dog barked in one of the houses, perhaps alerted by the smell of Kropotkin or by the uncertain footsteps of the insurgent battalion. This is not a negligible fact, as it is the barking of dogs that will light the fuse that will ultimately inflame newspapers all over Spain. The dog’s owner is the village constable, Don Enrique Berasáin, known as “the Dandy” for his feeble demeanor or for his habit of overgrooming. He has just gone to bed after finishing his nightly round, and is in the process of affixing his snood—which keeps his meticulously maintained mustache in place overnight—when he hears the urgent barking of his old mastiff, who this time is not barking at nothing: when he gets up from the bed and looks out the window, Don Enrique Berasáin still has time to see a large group of ragged-looking men wearing backpacks disappear down the street toward the neighborhood of Vera. “Too many to
be smugglers,” the constable thinks, unsure whether to call the mayor or the Civil Guard. But what else could those men be up to at this ungodly hour?

  As Berasáin gets dressed, the revolutionaries continue forward, advancing in a tight group, except for Pablo and Robinsón, who have taken out the subversive flyers and are placing them in doorways. When they reach the intersection, they unanimously agree to follow the suggestion of the former civil guardsman Santillán, so they set off on the Carretera de Eztegara toward the foundry. Thus, the Dandy does not spot them as he makes his way out his front door, cursing his bad luck, and fearfully walks up Calle Leguía toward the barracks, having taken the precaution of bringing his late grandfather’s spear along, just in case. He had thought when they offered him the job of constable that his most difficult task would be making sure that people didn’t toss papers on the ground and that the children were all at home by ten o’clock at night. On the other side of the river, the band of revolutionaries is advancing through the shadows with halting steps, finding not a soul on the streets save a black cat arching its back from the abandoned driver’s seat of the streetcar that runs between Altzate and Vera. Just after that, the alley enters a tunnel of leafy trees, and the sound of the water makes the unexpected silence surrounding the group seem even denser by contrast. The revolution has clearly not broken out in this village, where the people seem to be sleeping like angels.

  “Why the devil aren’t the men of this damned village out in the street?” Gil Galar asks, speaking loudly. When someone tells him to lower his voice, he gets angry: “The sooner they know that we’ve arrived, the better, am I right?”

  But the group continues advancing, silently and steadily like an army of ghosts.

  The Carretera de Eztegara enters the neighborhood of Vera and ends shortly thereafter, opening onto the main avenue, which splits to the right and left depending on whether you want to go to Irún or to Pamplona via Lesaca. On the instructions of the expedition’s guides, the posse turns to the left and soon they can make out the lights of the foundry, whose machines apparently never get tired, working day and night. As the revolutionaries approach, the sound of the motors becomes more audible, and the light of the ovens glows through the large windows, illuminating the path. The smokestacks exhale smoke peppered with sparks that crackle as they come into contact with the cold, wet night. A stone wall separates the pavilions from the street, and the revolutionaries hug close to this wall until they reach the entrance, firmly locked at this hour. On the façade of the main building, engraved in stone, the name of the factory appears in large letters: “Fundiciones de Vera.”