A few days later, the Swedish newspaper Rockbalius Triduojer carried the following headline: “He who has not seen Verdun has not seen the war.”
AFTER THE “VERY SERIOUS INFRACTION” COMMITTED in the trenches, Pablo Martín Sánchez had his press credentials revoked, preventing him from practicing the profession for the rest of the conflict. He only avoided deportation or a war trial because the military had more urgent matters to attend to. In any case, the annulment was unnecessary, because on arriving in Paris, Pablo was determined not to go back to work as a journalist as long as the censor board was the measure of all things, and he prepared to look for work that would allow him to survive until the end of the conflict. Whatever there was. Whatever he found. Whatever he had to do.
“I’ll sing in a cabaret if I have to,” he said to Robinsón on return from Verdun.
The City of Light had transformed into a surprising, paradoxical spectacle; perhaps the penury of the soldiers at the front had excited the epicurean spirit of those who had the good luck to remain in the rear guard. The theaters, cafés, and casinos, which had been shuttered at the start of the war, were now fuller than ever. Absinthe, which had been prohibited by the French government in an attempt to crack down on alcoholism and avoid the degradation of the race (in the verbatim words of the ordinance), was now again wetting the whistles of those who knew where to find it. What’s more, the famous fortune-teller Madame de Thèbes, in a fit of optimism or blindness, recently predicted that the war would end in the spring, and triumphant airs were blowing through the streets of Paris:
“I tried to rent a balcony on the Champs Élysées,” Pablo heard one man saying to another in the middle of the street, “to watch the troops go by in the victory march.”
“And?” the other man asked.
“Too late, they were all taken.”
In these circumstances, Pablo had little trouble finding work in Paris: within a few days he was emptying ashtrays and bussing glasses at the Cabaret du Père Pelletier, where every night an artist named Sanhédrine delighted clients with her velvety voice and voluptuous curves, while at the back of the room a young man with a bowler hat and an unwieldy beard never took his eyes from her.
“What was all that about free love, Robin?” Pablo would whisper as he passed.
“Va te faire foutre,” his old chum would mutter, his eyes glued to his “emotional companion” until she gave up the stage to the incredible, the fascinating, the renowned hypnotist Sergio Antunes. Then, Robinson would leave the room to go wait for the artist at the Café du Croissant, where just a few years before, Raoul Villain had shot and killed Jean Jaurès, wiping out all traces of prewar pacifistic ideals in one fell swoop.
So went the days, weeks, and months. The United States joined the fray, and then the Bolshevik Revolution swept Russia. Just when the war’s end was finally in sight, Paris was bombarded, and Sandrine was left voiceless and out of work.
– 23 –
Then the captain general of the Sixth Region, in accordance with Article 652 of the Code of Military Justice, declared that a summary trial would be pursued only against the four suspects whom he deemed had been caught in flagrante delicto, that is: Pablo Martín Sánchez, Enrique Gil Galar, Julián Santillán Rodríguez, and José Antonio Vázquez Bouzas, and that the rest of the detainees and suspects should be appropriately tried in ordinary military court.
CARLOS BLANCO
La Dictadura y los procesos militares
SOMEONE ONCE SAID THAT MILITARY JUSTICE is to justice as military music is to music, and this dire aphorism will be put to the test today. Ever since word got around, the bars of Pamplona have been abuzz with the events of Vera and nothing else. Some people mutter under their breath that the Rivera dictatorship is looking for a distraction to make the people of Spain forget about the disasters of the war in Morocco, and what could be better than the heads of a few bungling anarchists to burnish the reputation of heavy-handed justice and savoir faire, as Don Miguelito likes to say in his amorous prancing with La Caoba. A summary war tribunal is the right venue, others say, but how to choose the victims from such a large band of revolutionaries? Best not to be excessively cruel, the authorities seem to think, lest the people accuse us of hubris or disproportionality, like the ancient Greeks. Let us be magnanimous, and leave Bonifacio Manzanedo in the care of the nuns in Vera, since it would be poor taste to bring a case against a recent amputee. But the other two injured men will receive no such mercy. For them, we shall seek capital punishment, because God has accused them with his infallible finger! While we’re at it, let’s also throw the book at the former guardsman for having bitten the hand that fed him, and that little lamb Vázquez Bouzas, who after all is the only one who was arrested in flagrante at the scene of the crime … So let’s get going, open the proceedings.
IN THE PROVINCIAL PRISON OF PAMPLONA, the harsh trumpet call rings out at seven in the morning, but it awakens none of the four defendants, as they have already opened the curtains of their eyelids so as not to miss the prologue of the play they are about to star in. Last night, after hearing the bad news, they were visited in their cells by the illustrious commandant of the carabiniers, Don Nicolás Mocholi, whom they have all chosen to defend their case. While they are aware that he is not a lawyer; there were not many choices, after all, and at least he appears to be a good man, this dapper Mocholi, which is already something, all things considered. The defender did not even bother to ask them if they were innocent or guilty, but only tried in his soothing voice to encourage them, and invited them to remain calm, advising them not to say anything during the hearing unless absolutely necessary. This morning, at first light, the jail was filled with the commotion appropriate to the solemn occasion, with all necessary precautions, increased safety measures on the exterior, and the prison staff reinforced with civil guards and soldiers from the artillery command. It is not yet seven thirty when the four accused men are brought their usual morning meal, though this time breakfast is accompanied by a tough, sweet bun, as if to tell them they had better gather their strength, for they will need it. Shortly before eight, a few guards enter the cells, frisk them again absurdly, and instruct them to put on their coats—who knows if this is because it’s freezing cold in the hearing room or so they won’t have to appear before the tribunal in their ridiculous pajamas. Then they are led, hands cuffed in front, to the penitentiary’s auditorium, where their trial is about to begin: a summary war council where they will not be judged as members of a revolutionary movement but as the perpetrators of the crime of armed assault on the forces of order, resulting in the death of two civil guardsmen.
The footsteps of the prisoners and their guards are heard in the third gallery of the lower level, where some of the other political prisoners dare to cheer them along. “Chin up, che!” comes from one of the last cells, and Pablo recognizes the speaker and thanks him in his heart. The footsteps continue into the entrance of the main building housing the hearing chamber, and they stop in a small, dark anteroom for the admittance of the tried, where prison chaplain Alejandro Maisterrena is waiting for them. In a tone that suggests he already knows the answer he asks the guards, “Listen, is it not possible to remove the handcuffs from these poor wretches?”
“You know we’re following orders from higher up, Father.”
“What about loosening them a little?” he asks, gesturing at the injuries on the prisoners’ wrists.
“You’re too good, Father. If it were up to me we’d tighten them.”
Don Alejandro chooses not to insist, lest they think he sympathizes with these impious anarchists. A few muted voices are heard from inside the room, this being a public hearing, and the more impatient spectators having already found their way in, hoping to beat the crowd. Santillán asks if anyone has a cigarette, but just then the bell rings announcing the start of the tribunal and an assistant opens the door of the anteroom, instructing the prisoners to enter in single file. Santillán is first in line, held by two
civil guards, his gray hair and mustache contrasting with his dark brown eyebrows. Next is José Antonio Vázquez Bouzas, diminutive compared to the former civil guard, his low stature having gotten him out of military service. After that comes Pablo, with a few days’ scruff and an inquisitive look, and then finally Gil Galar, leaning on the chaplain’s shoulder, pale, emaciated, and with his head carefully bandaged, perhaps to inspire compassion among the judges. The entry of the four inmates raises the first murmurs of the morning, despite the fact that there are not many spectators yet, except for the numerous journalists who have congregated at the tables set up for them.
The four men are brought to the center of the room, where they are made to sit down on the defendants’ bench. It is colder than one would have expected, graveyard-cold, but luckily the prisoners are wearing their coats. Presiding over the tribunal is Colonel Antonio Permuy of the Infantry Regiment, still absent from the head table opposite the accused, already occupied by the chairman, Don Manuel Espinosa, and another five captains acting as judges. To the right, at the prosecutor’s table, lieutenant Don Adriano Coronel adjusts his uniform, showing signs of impatience. Defense counsel Don Nicolás Mocholi’s athletic figure is seated on the other side of the head table, rubbing his vitiligo-addled hands and casting soothing looks at his clients. From a dais behind the accused men’s bench, the investigating judge, Castejón, is serving as rapporteur, leafing nervously through various pages as if looking for some lost document; next to him, serving as assistant secretary, Sergeant Ortega places on the table the damaged rifle of Corporal de la Fuente and a box containing weapons, munitions, French money, and other articles confiscated from the insurgents which may be used as evidence in the hearing. The scene is completed by various transcribers, bailiffs, and assistants, as well as soldiers and security guards positioned at strategic points around the room.
At eight o’clock sharp, as the bells toll from a nearby church, the president of the tribunal, Don Antonio Permuy, enters the room with all the pomp he can muster, adjusts his glasses, and does the perfunctory three bangs of his gavel:
“Sit down gentlemen, please. The session has begun.”
A shiver runs down Pablo’s spine. With no warning, a retching feeling surges from his stomach up his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth that will remain there throughout most of the hearing. The acting rapporteur, special investigating judge Señor Castejón, opens the military tribunal by reading a hundred pages of legal briefings to the backs of the accused, while the public section of the room gradually fills with spectators. First he explains the facts of the case and the investigations that led to the detention of the culprits, highlighting the inestimable assistance offered by the residents of Vera and the forces of order. The journalists take notes compulsively, following the rhythm of the stenographer’s typing, as he sits on the other side of the room, facing them like a conductor. Occasionally the crowd breaks out in murmurs, especially at the mention of the possible involvement of celebrities such as Miguel de Unamuno, Ortega y Gasset, Rodrigo Soriano, and Blasco Ibáñez, although the investigating judge makes it quite clear that their participation in the attack will not be considered in this summary hearing, but in the ordinary hearing that will take place later; but the most noise occurs at the description of the death of the two civil guards at the quarry of Argaitza, producing murmurs of indignation among the audience. After the narration of the facts, there is a reading of one of the posters found under the entry door of the foundry of Vera:
“You yourselves may judge the intentions of the traitors,” intones the officious voice of the rapporteur Castejón, “who distributed these statements in an attempt to recruit the assistance of the incorruptible people of Vera: ‘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 …’”
PABLO KNOWS THE TEXT BY HEART, and his attention wanders outside the room, where he hears the distant sound of pounding, probably of a hammer. Maybe it is coming from the prison workshops, where they make the espadrilles that cover the feet of half the workers in Spain, bearing the label of Almacenes Ruiz, a company that has made a killing by exploiting prison labor.
“‘Let us save Spain, my friends! Long live liberty!’” the investigating judge finishes reading the pamphlet, raising murmurs around the room.
“Silence, please,” demands the president of the tribunal, hammering his gavel against its sounding block.
When order has been restored, the time comes to hear the statements made by the insurgents during the interrogations. These are recited by Judge Castejón and followed keenly from the bench by the four accused, who cannot keep from making faces of surprise and disbelief hearing what some of their comrades have said. Soon, the former guard Santillán stands up from the bench and tries to protest, but Mocholi signals to him from his table to sit back down, because there will be time for arguments later. The court also hears the statements of the carabiniers Pombart (whose hat Naveira perforated just before he died) and Prieto (who was seriously injured in the forest), as well as of the corporal who fatally shot Abundio “El Maño” Riaño. The proceedings continue with the reports from the autopsies and burials of the civil guards, which provoke a wave of signs of the cross among the crowd. Next, the judge reads the indictment against the detainees, including Francisco Lluch, who has not managed to convince the tribunal that he had nothing to do with the attack and that he was only crossing the border to visit his dying father. Finally, amid great expectation, they announce the provisional findings of the prosecutor and the defense attorney, followed by the reading of charges by Judge Castejón, after which presiding judge Antonio Permuy is ready to give the floor to the accused, if they wish to expand on their statements.
“One moment, Your Honor,” says Mocholi. “Considering that my client Enrique Gil Galar has suffered serious head injuries, I wish to request the temporary suspension of the hearing so that a medical examination can be performed to determine if he is in full possession of the physical and intellectual capacity to speak for himself.”
“Request granted,” agrees Don Antonio Permuy, after exchanging a few whispered words with the court speaker. “The session is suspended for the time necessary to perform a medical examination of the accused.”
The exam will only take twenty minutes, during which Gil Galar is led to the prison infirmary and examined by two military doctors, Commandant Eduardo Villegas and Captain Angel Bueno. Once they have finished, they return to the chamber and the hearing resumes with the doctors’ declaration that the prisoner is in full possession of the mental and physical capacity to speak on his own behalf.
“The accused have the right to expand on their statements if they wish,” repeats the president of the tribunal.
But the four prisoners have little to add, and only wish to clarify a few points. Julián Santillán, for example, denies having been detained in flagrante delicto, because he was captured the day after the events in question and put up no resistance.Vázquez Bouzas speaks up to assert that he hadn’t been fleeing when he was arrested, but was going along his way far from the events. Gil Galar, struggling to stand, states that when he heard the civil guards shout “Halt!” he made a half-turn and started running, as demonstrated by the bullet he received behind the ear. Finally, Pablo stands, opens his mouth, and says nothing. He looks at the defense attorney Mocholi, and, before sitting back down, says:
“I have nothing to add to my previous statements.”
And then it is the prosecutor, Don Adriano Coronel, who asks for another suspension in the session:
“Your Honor, the prosecution considers that, since the Code of Military Justice places special importance on expert tests performed before the trial, and since we are so fortunate as to have Drs. Villegas and Bueno in the room, it would seem appropriate to h
ave the rest of the accused men in this summary trial undergo a medical examination to determine the origin and nature of their injuries.”
“Does the defense accept the prosecutor’s request?” asks Don Antonio Permuy in a begrudging tone that suggests that it would have been simpler to make such a request at the same time as the previous expert intervention.
“Of course, Your Honor, the only reason I didn’t make the same request myself was to avoid unnecessarily interrupting the process of the trial,” says Mocholi.
“The session is suspended again,” the presiding judge proclaims as he stands up, annoyed.
This time the interruption will take half an hour, and when Pablo, Santillán, and Vázquez Bouzas return to the room and the procedure resumes, the doctors state that the bruises on the prisoners’ wrists were caused by the handcuffs. With regard to Pablo Martín’s injured thigh, they declare that it was caused by a firearm, with the entry wound on the posterior side and exit wound on the anterior side, with an upward trajectory. However, the injury is not considered serious, as there is no bone damage.
“Tell me just one thing, Commandant,” the prosecutor says to the military doctor who provided the report. “Can you specify what type of firearm produced the injury of the accused Martín?”
“Everything seems to indicate that it was a bullet from a Mauser rifle, such as those used by the Civil Guard.”
The Anarchist Who Shared My Name Page 45