by Hugh Thomas
On 1 May, the traditional working-class parades were held throughout Spain. They were accompanied by a general strike called for most cities by the CNT. Along the avenues of the great cities, the now virtually bolshevized socialist youth paraded menacingly and confidently, as if part of an embryo Red Army. (Claridad on 25 April called on every village to form a militia of a hundred men.) The salute of the clenched fist was given to the sound of the ‘International’, or to one of the songs composed in the fighting in the Asturias; or perhaps to ‘Primero de Mayo’ (First of May), or ‘The Young Guard’. Large portraits of Largo Caballero, Stalin, and Lenin were carried like banners down the Castellana in Madrid, from whose elegant balconies the aristocracy, representing the Spain of King Alfonso, watched with fascinated horror. Surely this could not go on? Prieto took the opportunity in a major speech in the by-election at Cuenca to point out that ‘What no country can endure is the constant blood-letting and public disorder without an immediate revolutionary end’. He argued intelligently that the current excesses merely made things easier for fascism; and he spoke of General Franco as a man of sufficient gifts and youth to lead a military rebellion.1 But his audiences did not wish to hear caution. Prieto was physically threatened, in a tumultuous meeting at Ecija, by the socialist youth and other Caballeristas.2
5. Spanish military arrangements, 1936
The elections in the disputed provinces (Cuenca and Granada) were in the end held. In Granada, all thirteen Popular Front candidates won; in Cuenca, three of them, a centrist, a CEDAista, and an agrarian were elected: José Antonio’s candidature there was disqualified on doubtful grounds, while the proposed candidature of General Franco was withdrawn. In both elections, intimidation by hooligans of the Left may have influenced the result.3 Four days later, from his prison, José Antonio (who had always liked Sanjurjo) wrote an open letter to the Spanish soldiers, calling upon them to make an end of all the attacks made upon ‘the sacred identity of Spain’. ‘In the last resort,’ he added, ‘as Spengler put it, “it has always been a platoon of soldiers who have saved civilization”.’4 Gone were the days when José Antonio would say that serving soldiers were useless, that they were all chicken-hearted, and that the most cowardly was Franco.5
On 10 May, Azaña was elected President in place of Alcalá Zamora, by 238 to 5. The occasion was marred by a fight in the corridors between Araquistain, still supporting Largo Caballero, and Julián Zugazagoitia, editor of El Socialista, which supported Prieto. (The CEDA and right-wing parties had not put forward any candidate, and abstained from voting.) After a few days, Casares Quiroga became Prime Minister, with a cabinet much like Azaña’s.1 The acid-tongued Casares had a reputation for strength, but it derived from his time as minister of the interior in 1933, and anyway was unjustified: Azaña recalled him at the time of Casas Viejas sitting nervously on the side of his bed, unable to dress himself. Casares was now ill with tuberculosis. Before he was offered the premiership, Azaña approached Prieto, who had had to refuse, since, as expected, his socialist parliamentary group voted against participation in the government (by 49 to 19). The hope of Azaña was for a grand coalition of men of the Centre which, had it been achieved, might just have saved the country from war. But he did not press the idea as hard as he should have done, and the project perhaps owes more to the hindsight of historians than to its practical possibilities. Still, Giménez Fernández remained in touch with Prieto on behalf of the CEDA. But these ideas always foundered on the same rock as in early May: the hostility of Largo Caballero, and Largo Caballero’s control over his party.
On 21 May, the Madrid socialists agreed on the following aims: ‘First, the conquest of power by the working class and by whatever means possible. Secondly, the transformation of individual proprietorship into collective social and common property. In the period of transition, the form of government will be the dictatorship of the proletariat.’ On 24 May, Largo Caballero made a major speech at Cádiz: ‘When the Popular Front breaks up,’ he announced, ‘as break up it will, the triumph of the proletariat will be certain. We shall then implant the dictatorship of the proletariat, which does not mean the repression of the proletariat, but of the capitalist and bourgeois classes!’1 Admittedly, Besteiro told a French newspaper that the conditions in Spain were quite different from those in Russia in 1917, and hence the country could not be heading for communism. The communist newspaper Mundo Obrero mocked his inadequate Marxism.2 Though there was now much real violence, the verbal excessiveness on both sides in these months explains much of how matters went from bad to worse. Did Largo hope, by his speeches, to provoke a right-wing military rising whose defeat would lead to his capture of power? It is hard to believe, in fact, that Largo really knew where his rhetoric would lead him. Did the communists?3 Their leadership was still modest in quality, the ‘instructor’ from the Comintern, the Argentinian-Italian Vittorio Codovilla, no doubt even more insistent than ever on following Moscow’s instructions: it was a difficult situation for him to find real revolutionary possibilities opening in Spain at the moment that Stalin desired maximum cooperation with democrats.
In May, too, the anarchists made their contribution to the debates about the future of Spain at their annual congress at Saragossa. The five-year-long controversy between the treintistas and the FAI was patched up, the former being reincorporated into the movement, but the FAI’s policy for the piecemeal achievement of ‘libertarian communism’ by the lightning action of dedicated anarchists in different pueblos remained the most favoured tactic. The congress demanded a continuation of these strikes but also suggested new efforts to reach alliance with the UGT, and made demands for both a thirty-six-hour week and one month’s holiday with pay and higher wages. On the other hand, there was no sign that anyone realized that there was a danger of fascism; and no agreement, in consequence, on the arming of militias, much less the organization of a revolutionary army, as suggested by Juan Garcia Oliver. Durruti opposed this idea on the ground that a revolutionary army would stifle the revolution.1 Idealism there was in plenty, but it seemed so purblind in face of likely military moves that the secretary of the CNT, Horacio Prieto, resigned.
One conference document, prepared by the FAI doctor from Rioja, Isaac Puente, author of an influential study, El comunismo libertario, well expressed what the anarchists expected:
At the end of the violent stage of the revolution, the following will be declared abolished: private property; the state; the principle of authority; and, in consequence, the classes which divide men into exploited and exploiters, oppressors and oppressed. Once wealth is socialized, the producers, already free, will be charged with the direct administration of production and consumption. After the setting up in each locality of the free commune [la comuna libertaria], we will set the new social mechanism on foot. The producers … will freely decide the form in which they are to be organized. The comuna libre will take over the previous property of the bourgeoisie, such as food, clothes, work implements, raw materials, etc. These … will pass to the producers so that they can administer them directly for the benefit of the community. The comunas will first provide the maximum of commodities for each inhabitant, ensuring assistance to the ill and education to the young … all able-bodied men will seek to carry out their voluntary duty to the community in relation to their strength and skill. All those functions will have no executive or bureaucratic character. Apart from those with technical functions … the remainder will carry out their duties as producers, meeting in sessions at the end of the day to discuss the questions of detail which do not require the approval of the communal assemblies …
The basis of society would be the self-governing communes, though ‘the right of autonomy will not exclude the duty of fulfilling agreements of collective convenience’. A group of small villages might be united in a single commune. The associations of industrial and agricultural producers in each commune would federate nationally, and they would effect exchange of goods. As for the family, the revolution shou
ld not operate against it on principle. But separate treatment, social and professional, of women would vanish: ‘Libertarian communism proclaims free love, without more regulation than the will of the man and woman, guaranteeing to their children the safeguard of the community.’ At the same time, through a good sexual education, beginning at school, eugenic selection would be inculcated, so that human beings would henceforward breed conscientiously, in order to produce healthy and beautiful children. (This aspect of the anarchist programme has perhaps been ignored.) The anarchists also had a programme for love:
On the problems of moral idiosyncracy, which love may bring to the society of libertarian communism, the community and the principle of Liberty leave only two roads open … absence. For many illnesses, a change of air is recommended. For the illness of love … a change of commune is recommended. Religion, that purely subjective manifestation, will be recognized in as much as it is relegated to the sanctuary of the individual conscience, but in no case will it be permitted as a form of public show, nor a moral and intellectual coercion [all churches thus would be closed].
Illiteracy would be energetically fought. Culture would be restored to ‘those who have been dispossessed of it’ (by capitalism: the presumption behind the use of the word ‘dispossess’ clearly being that, in the golden age of the remote past, things were better than they were in 1936). A national federation of education would be installed—its mission being specifically to educate humanity to be free, scientific and egalitarian. In addition:
All questions of rewards and penalties will be excluded … The cinema, the radio, the teaching missions … will be excellent and effective aids for a rapid intellectual and moral transformation of the existing generations … Access to arts and sciences will be free.
There would be no distinction between intellectuals and manual workers, since each would be both.
As evolution is a continuous line, [the programme concluded] even though sometimes not always direct, the individual will always have aspirations … to do better than his parents and his contemporaries; all those anxieties of … creation—artistic, scientific, literary—will not be at all out of place in the free society which would cultivate them … there will be days of general recreation, hours daily for visits to exhibitions, theatres and cinemas.1
Communists, socialists and left republicans greeted these aspirations with their usual neglect: the anarchists might be useful to have on the same side as oneself at the barricades, but not at the committee table. But shortly these ideas would be put into practice in thousands of villages and towns.
On 25 May, meantime, General Mola issued a detailed strategic plan.2 José Antonio entered into correspondence with Mola, a letter being carried to Pamplona by his law clerk, Rafael Garcerán. He did not promise full support as yet, but discussed terms, pledging that 4,000 falangists could help the rising at the start.3 On 30 May, Sanjurjo gave Mola his blessing to act as coordinator of the conspiracy, on the assumption that he, Sanjurjo, the symbol of victory, would be the head of the new government, and that the Carlists would play a part.4 On 3 June, Mola had his first discussion with a leading Carlist, José Luis Oriol.5 That same day, the director-general of security in Madrid, Alonso Mallol, who knew perfectly well what was afoot, drove up to Pamplona to try to catch Mola red-handed; Mola, warned by his friend, Santiago Martín Bagüeñas, the chief of police in the capital, was able to conceal all evidence of conspiracy.6 On 5 June, when José Antonio was transferred from Madrid to Alicante gaol, Mola circulated a political document, describing how the success of the rising would be followed by a ‘Directory’, comprising a president and four others. All would be officers. They would have the power to issue laws. These would later be ratified by a constituent assembly, elected ‘by suffrage in the manner that shall be deemed most appropriate’. The Cortes and constitution of 1931 would be suspended. Laws not in accord with the ‘new organic system’ would be abolished, and those people who received ‘inspiration from abroad’ would be outlawed. But the Carlists did not agree to the programme, despite a six-hour interview between Mola and Fal Conde in the Navarrese monastery of Irache on 16 June.1
Meantime, ideology even affected the bull-fighting season. At Aranjuez, for example, the two alguacils galloped into the ring with clenched fists raised. Uproar followed. Every moveable object—cushions, hats, and bottles—was thrown into the ring in protest. The first fight was delayed three-quarters of an hour while the ring was cleared up.2 There were brawls, with some deaths, between CNT and UGT in Málaga. A British manager of a lace factory was mysteriously murdered in Barcelona. José Antonio by then apparently had accepted the inevitability of a military rising and of the Falange’s part in it. But he did do so less from conviction as from a belief that the Falange would be crushed if it did not side actively with Mola’s organization: in the last issue of the banned falangist journal, No Importa, he wrote, ‘Watch the Right. Warning to madrugadores: the Falange is not a conservative force.’ A little later, he warned against ‘thinking that the ills of Spain are due to simple rearrangements of internal order and will vanish when power is handed over to … charlatans lacking any historical understanding, any authentic education’.3 Fewer reserves were felt by Calvo Sotelo. Despite the lack of any concession in Mola’s programme to the monarchy, he told the general that he only desired to know the hour and the day in order to be one more soldier at the army’s orders.4 Gil Robles was not a part of the conspiracy, but he knew of its existence, and some of the CEDA’s funds were later transferred to the use of the plotters.5 By this time, he had convinced himself that the continuing disorder was part of a plan to bring economic collapse as a justification for revolution. His family were already in St Jean de Luz, in France, and he realized that his hour had passed. There is some evidence that he would have liked to have been more a party to the conspiracy than the generals permitted.1 Not only, however, were his followers leaving him for the Falange; some did so for Calvo Sotelo.
12
The years 1929–32 were the period of world depression; a bad time for a government to take power anywhere. True, had it not been for the depression, Primo de Rivera might not have fallen in Spain. But his successors did not act as if they realized the nature of the economic crisis, though they themselves had been borne to power partly by it. Azaña and his ministers behaved as if they thought they were dealing primarily with constitutional or cultural problems. Even the socialist ministers (between 1931 and 1933, Prieto and Largo Caballero were ministers of finance and of labour) did not seem to realize the needs, in a world financial crisis, of the economy. Partly because the ministers were inexperienced, partly because there was doubt about their policies, and partly because no one had money with which to take risks, the Spanish rich and the international financial community were hostile to the republic to begin with. Prieto’s arrival at the ministry of finance led, first, to the withdrawal of a loan from J. P. Morgan, negotiated by his immediate predecessor under the King, Juan Ventosa. The church burnings in May 1931 delayed the reopening of negotiations for it. There was a run on the peseta throughout 1931. Prieto later did his best to protect the currency, negotiating with Russia to buy oil at 18 per cent less than that offered by English and US companies, and insisting on licenses for foreign equipment.1
Nevertheless, throughout 1931, Prieto, for all the world as if he were an orthodox governor of the Bank of England, concentrated on trying to stabilize the peseta. His even more orthodox successor as minister of finance, Jaime Carner, did the same. They did prevent the international quotation for the peseta from dropping faster than it had before: the consequence was that, while the international value of the peseta declined by 25 per cent between 1929 and 1931, it only fell a little over 10 per cent in 1932, and remained thereafter stable until 1936. It is arguable that, had it not been for the continuing political uncertainty, the number of strikes, and the threats of revolution from Left and Right, the peseta would have increased its value by 1934. It would seem improbable,
at all events, that right-wing or international financial conspiracies can be blamed for the fall of the republic, whatever Juan March might have been doing with his money.
Industry was in these years at a low level for reasons largely out of Spain’s control. The figures are dispiriting: taking 1929 as a base of 100, the index of industrial production was below that in 1935; after the elections of 1936, the index fell to 77. The index of share prices was still more gloomy. Again with 1929 as a base, prices had fallen to 63 in 1935.1 The most depressed side of the Spanish economy were the mines: less coal, than other minerals. Coal production certainly fell, though only moderately, from 7 million tons in 1931, to just under 6 in 1934, rallying to 7 in 1935. Spanish coal could not, however, compete with English prices and, if citrus fruit exports were not to suffer, some English coal had regularly to be imported to balance trade. On the other hand, the mining of manganese ore dropped to nearly nothing in 1935; production of pyrites, potash and pig iron fell by over a third between 1930 and 1935; lead, zinc, silver, tungsten and copper by over a half; and iron ore by a quarter. Steel production fell steadily from 1,000,000 tons in 1929 to 580,000 in 1935, not only because of world conditions but because the republic needed less steel than Primo had needed: there was no Moroccan war to service, while the republic, like all governments in the 1930s, believed in roads, not railway expansion. Some sectors, however, did well during the republic—electric power, from increased development of hydro-electric plants, increased by nearly half between 1926 and 1936. So did building. In truth, most countries (the USA, Britain, France and Germany) had worse problems in the depression than Spain. Thus while Spain’s index of industrial production had dropped over 10 per cent, German and US production dropped nearly 50 per cent in 1932.