The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

  “Thank you,” the prosecutor says, sitting down, as another murmur spreads through the room.

  “However,” says Don Nicolás Mocholi, not losing any time, “you claimed that the entry wound was found on the posterior side of the defendant’s thigh. Would you be able to determine through expert analysis the position of the injured man in relation to the shooter?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” the prosecutor interrupts. “The purpose of the medical examination was to determine the origin of the injuries, not to assess how they might have been produced.”

  “Objection overruled, the question is relevant. Please respond, Commandant Villegas.”

  “Well, it seems clear that the injured man had his back turned to the shooter at the moment of impact, and was located at an elevated position or leaning forward.”

  “Does this mean that he could have been injured from behind, while fleeing?”

  “It is possible, yes.”

  “Just like Gil Galar. No further questions, Your Honors. The defense rests,” says Mocholi, returning to his seat looking satisfied.

  The president of the tribunal again whispers something in the ear of the speaker, and gives the floor to the prosecutor:

  “The prosecutor has the floor. I ask him to be as brief and clear as possible in his accusation report.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” responds Don Adriano Coronel, standing from his seat. “I will be as brief as I can. But first allow me to again remind the members of the tribunal of the essential characteristics of this trial, to avoid any confusion. We must remember, Your Honors, that, given that this is a summary trial, we cannot reasonably weigh and examine all of the evidence with the scrutiny and meticulousness that we would use if it were an ordinary trial, because quick processing and exemplary punishment are the elements that characterize this type of trial. This has been taken into account here, Your Honors, along with other reasons of a patriotic nature that require immediate sanctions …”

  The prosecutor’s monotonous spiel continues unabated and the first yawns start to proliferate in the room, spreading from one person to another like the Spanish flu that just five years ago devastated half of Europe. Pablo loses the thread of the prosecutor’s speech and is surprised to observe the procession of silent mouths opening and closing among the audience, transformed into a choir of timid singers covering their mouths before a deaf audience. Only when he sees them stand up after a long while does he turn his attention back to the presidential table and discover that all of the members of the council have also stood up to listen to the prosecutor’s request:

  “For this reason, Your Honors, with conscience vested in our just God, the prosecution asks that the arraigned Pablo Martín Sánchez, Enrique Gil Galar, and Julián Santillán Rodríguez, for the crime of armed assault without circumstances mitigating their responsibility, receive capital punishment, and in case of pardon, life in prison, as well as a fine corresponding to indemnity of the families of the victims, in an amount no less than ten thousand pesetas.”

  The three prisoners merely look at their defense attorney, trying to control their emotions, but an intense murmur courses through the audience, which now spills out into the hallway, obligating the president to call for order again:

  “Order, order, or I shall have to clear the room!” he barks, trying to be heard over the buzz of the audience and the bang, bang, bang of his own gavel.

  “In the case of the accused José Antonio Vázquez Bouzas,” the prosecutor goes on as the murmurs die down, “the prosecution sees no problem in modifying the wording of its initial request, and now wishes to request six years of correctional prison, for the crime of engaging in armed acts disturbing the peace, it being unproven that he participated in the aggression against the civil guards. That is all, Your Honors.”

  Seated at the press table, the cub reporter of El Pueblo Navarro—the very same who a week ago tried to convince the famous footballer Patricio Arabolaza to confess his participation in the discovery of the body of the guardsman de la Fuente—scribbles these hurried lines: “The accused men listened to the prosecutor’s requests with apparent calm. Perhaps Pablo Martín grew slightly more pale, Gil Galar a touch more corpse-like, his facial injury flattened and bloodless, his eyes always closed, like a tragic puppet, broken and wobbling on the bench …” Tomorrow, when these words are published, he will smile with satisfaction at the poetic inspiration that seizes him when he least expects it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Prosecutor,” says the presiding judge. “The defense has the floor.”

  Don Nicolás Mocholi, who barely slept last night preparing his plea, does not read his statement but instead recites it, showing off a rhetorical skill he learned in the manuals of Quintiliano, starting with the recommended captatio benevolentiae:

  “Your Honors, gentlemen of the commission, members of the general public: considering that the prosecution is represented by an official of the prestigious legal corps of the army, and the defense by a man who does not have the good fortune to hold even the license to practice law, it is natural that the inevitable prejudices that you may have formed should produce an environment propitious to the opinions of the former. But I do not lose hope at this, and neither do I consider my handling of the case a failure. While there is great skill and talent on one side, on the other side, from this defense, lie the true orientations that should serve as a compass for this respectable council when the time comes to deliberate on the verdict …”

  Perhaps Nicolás Mocholi does not have his attorney’s license, but his words have a hypnotizing effect on the attendees, something we did not see during the prosecutor’s speech, nor that of the speaker of the court. The affable commandant of the carabiniers knows how to provoke the audience, aiming his verbal darts directly at the listeners’ nerve fibers:

  “To you,” he says, speaking to Pablo and his three benchmates, “I ask you not to increase my suffering, which is great, by resenting my inability to defend you. I have seen you weep much over the past night. Keep crying, my sons, because your tears give me the courage to complete the thorny mission I have been assigned …”

  Pablo listens to the defense attorney’s words carefully, especially when he finally gets into the substance, and tries not to get lost in his fancy legalese:

  “Your Honors, we have before us a case of collective delinquency, but not co-delinquency, which is not the same thing. Because for the former, all that is necessary is a group or assembly, while the latter requires communication of desires or intentions to realize a common plan …”

  A draft of cold air momentarily distracts Pablo from Mocholi’s speech. He adjusts his coat and looks in the direction of the draft: one of the room’s high half-windows has a broken pane. Scanning the room, he catches the eye of a girl sitting in the first row of seats reserved for the public, one of the few people not raptly absorbed in the defense attorney’s speech. The girl’s eyes remain fixed on him, with a strange mixture of apprehension and fascination, as if two inner forces were engaged in an arduous battle between her heart and her brain. Only then does Pablo recognize this gaze to be that of the girl who came out onto the balcony in Vera, just one week ago, when he arrived in the picturesque village via the France Road, injured and bound with wire. The woman sitting next to her pulls on her sleeve and instructs her to listen to Señor Mocholi, who continues his complicated peroration:

  “The outcome of the proceedings will convince you, Your Honors, that my clients are not complicit in the act in question, because it is clear that such complicity can only apply to those who cooperate in the execution of an act through other actions, whether prior or simultaneous, and it is a fundamental principle of penal law that only those acts of which such a person is aware can be considered prior, and that complicity by simultaneous actions only corresponds to such a case as when said person assists another by deliberate and manifest action …”

  Pablo again loses the thread, unable to find any relationship between the defe
nse attorney’s speech and what has happened in his life since Robinsón appeared in the doorway of La Fraternelle. Isolated from his surroundings, as if it were not him being tried but someone else, Pablo lets his gaze wander over the diamond pattern of the tile floor, and he rubs his hands together in a state of distraction, gently massaging the bruises left by the handcuffs. Only when he hears his name issuing mushily from behind the mustache of Commandant Mocholi does he snap to attention:

  “… and thus a summary trial is being imposed on these four poor men even though none of them was caught in flagrante delicto, as required under Article 650 of the Penal Code: José Antonio Vázquez was doing nothing but walking along the road, and did not flee when apprehended; Pablo Martín was not even armed; Julián Santillán was detained in the forest the day after the events, and put up no resistance; and as for Enrique Gil, it cannot be confirmed exactly when he was injured, nor has it been established which law enforcement officer injured him, which proves that the serious injury he has suffered was caused by what is commonly known as a stray projectile.”

  Don Nicolás’s words seem to elicit an effect, and a quiet murmur goes through the room.

  “In addition, if that were not enough, the lineup was conducted in an unlawful manner, which means that, given that all of the detainees had met each other either before or after crossing the border, it was not difficult for the accusers to indicate whomever they wished, in order to redirect suspicion away from themselves—”

  “Yeah, exactly!” interrupts Gil Galar from the defendants’ bench, suddenly awakening from his lethargy, and receiving a reprimand from Mocholi in the form of a dirty look. Mocholi continues his defense.

  “It can therefore be concluded that none of my clients took part in the armed aggression, or at least that such participation has not been demonstrated, and to impose such a serious punishment based on mere suspicion would be an affront to the conscience. Tell me, Your Honors, how can you write their sentence if it is to open with a declaration of ‘proven facts’? Can you conclusively confirm in your findings that my clients caused the deaths of the guards, or the injuries of the carabinier? No, plainly no, if I dare speak for you. This is why, gentlemen of the council, considering that there is insufficient proof of the criminal responsibility imputed to them, I ask that my clients Pablo Martín Sánchez, Enrique Gil Galar, and Julián Santillán Rodríguez be punished with incarceration in the medium-security prison, according to the first rule of Article 82, as mere participants in a crime of rebellion against the form of government and not as the leaders or direct perpetrators of the bloody deeds in question: ten years and one day to twelve years in prison. With regard to the other prisoner, José Antonio Vázquez Bouzas, this defense seeks his acquittal, considering that he was not part of the armed uprising.”

  More whispers run through the room, and Don Nicolás Mocholi takes advantage of the interruption to drink a bit of water, bolstering the effect of his words with a calculated dramatic pause before delivering the coup de grace:

  “And now, gentlemen of the council, allow me to digress a moment, because it would be ridiculous to seek any other punishment, and yet, given the seriousness of the penalty sought by the prosecutor, it is an appropriate conclusion to my defense. Have no doubt, Your Honors, all of Pamplona will shed tears if the gallows are raised in the region of Navarre. These pious people will feel deep commiseration with these men, who are not professional criminals. Draw near, gentlemen of the tribunal, to the piety that emanates from the God of Calvary, and away from the implacable justice of the God of Sinai. Remember the principle of in dubio pro reo: in the absence of clear evidence, it is better to absolve a guilty man than to condemn an innocent. And if you are still not convinced, consider that it is pointless to punish the stone that injures, better to look for the hand that threw it. Who knows if, after some time has passed, honorable hands will unwittingly shake that criminal hand!”

  That said, Don Nicolás Mocholi sits back down, casting a soothing glance at his clients, while the whole room seethes with chatter, passions unleashed.

  XXI

  (1918–1921)

  BOMBS HAD RAINED ON PARIS AT the outbreak of the war, and the trickle continued for the rest of the conflict. Airplanes, zeppelins, and longrange cannons launched their payload onto the City of Light, despite the French army’s efforts to preserve the capital. But in a metropolis of nearly three million residents and more than twenty thousand acres, the likelihood that ordnance would hit one’s own roof was rather slim, so the Parisians learned to live with the air raids just as a person learns to suffer in silence through dyspepsia or hemorrhoids.

  One splendid spring evening, with the full moon playing a starring role in the sky, Pablo, Robinsón, and Sandrine left the Cabaret du Père Pelletier and strolled home. They walked in silence, wrapped up in their thoughts. Only Sandrine opened her mouth from time to time to sigh.

  “Is something wrong?” Robinsón asked after the third sigh.

  “No, nothing. I was thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About happiness. And unhappiness. About whether it’s possible to be happy in the middle of a war. Sometimes I think yes, other times no.”

  “And what do you think right now?” Robinsón asked, grabbing her waist.

  “Right now I think I don’t know.”

  “You know what I think?” Pablo interjected. “I think people looking for happiness are like a drunkard looking for his home. He doesn’t know how to find it, but he knows it exists.”

  Robinsón and Sandrine had a good laugh.

  “That’s why I don’t touch alcohol,” said Robinsón, pressing up against Sandrine, “because that way I always remember where home is.”

  The three friends were about to laugh, but the sound of a siren interrupted them. It was the signal announcing that enemy planes were near, telling Parisians to hide in their cellars and basements. It sounded like the lament of an animal going to slaughter.

  “They sure love a full moon,” whispered Pablo.

  And although they were getting used to it, they quickened their pace across the Jardin des Tuileries, while the luminous rays of the searchlights explored the celestial dome, and the violent curtain fire of the anti-aircraft artillery was starting to crackle. For a few days the German Gothas had been trying to fly over Paris, in a desperate attempt to change the course of the war, which had taken a definitive turn in favor of the Allied Powers since the United States joined the fray. But the defensive artillery had managed to repel the attacks, leaving the bombers to scatter to the outskirts. That night, however, was going to be different.

  “Listen!” said Pablo, pointing at the sky.

  The drone of an airplane, like the buzzing of a colossal bee, seemed to be drawing nearer the spot where they were standing. Within seconds a tremendous explosion reached their ears.

  “That bomb fell in Paris!” exclaimed Robinsón.

  Then another ordnance exploded even closer.

  “Get down!” shouted Pablo.

  And the next bomb fell just a few yards away, leaving them deaf and covered in dust. Two more explosions rang out as the droning sound disappeared into the distance.

  “Are you alright?” Pablo asked, spitting dirt.

  “Yeah,” responded Robinson by his side.

  “And you, Sandrine?”

  Sandrine said nothing. They saw her stand up from the dust and rubble, eyes wide, as still as a ghost. She was not injured, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out: she had been left mute. From the impact, the doctors would say. From the shock, the neighbors would say. From the fear, the clients would say at the cabaret. And what do we do now? Robinsón would ask. She makes her living by singing. All we can do is wait, while they diagnose the goiters, rest, and hope her voice comes back. And if possible, get a change of scene. Get out of Paris if the war allows it. Quit hearing the sound of explosions, the whistle of the siren, the sound of a light switch clicking but no light coming on.
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  A week later, Pablo bid farewell to his friends at Gare d’Austerlitz, where the workers were finishing up fixing the destruction produced by one of the bombs dropped during the night raid. Regularly, every fifteen minutes, there was a violent, dry explosion, and Sandrine would shudder: it was Bertha, the German long-range cannon, which had been spitting its shells every morning for a week, from six to eight o’clock, with strict German punctuality, at a distance of more than sixty miles.

  “We’re going back to Lyon,” Robinsón had said to Pablo the night before.

  And then, at Gare d’Austerlitz, they embraced, not knowing that it would be years before they saw each other again.

  PABLO STAYED IN PARIS UNTIL THE end of the war, deep into the autumn. Only then did he decide that the time had come to return to Spain, to rejoin his mother, his sister, and little Teresa. Hopefully the police had stopped looking for him; after all, more than five years had passed since the failed attempt on the life of Alfonso XIII. If I don’t go home now, I never will, he said to himself.

  But first, he had a promise to keep. He rummaged in the bottom of a drawer for a black leather diary, with a date engraved on the upper left corner: 1916. He had not opened it since leaving the trenches of Verdun. He hadn’t dared. He ran his fingertips over the rough, cracked leather of the cover. Finally making up his mind, he opened the diary to the first page, looking for an address where he could send it. Nothing. “Here, one lives outside of time, outside of the world,” said the first sentence. And then he could not stop reading Benjamin Poulain’s words composed for Annabel Beaumont, his fiancée, his chérie, his fifille, his petite chouchoute, words that displayed the soft side of a man who had shown nothing but obstinate courage at the battlefront. By the time he reached the last page, he had a lump in his throat. Later that night, he quit his job at the Cabaret du Père Pelletier. The following morning, he filled a knapsack with his scant possessions and settled his bill with the owner of the inn. He made his way to Gare du Nord, bought a ticket for Lille, and boarded the train, setting out on a trajectory that he would repeat many times in years to come.