Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “That’s what Mam said,” said Jordi.

  He stumbled off into the gathering twilight of the summer evening, hoping he could find the hut where Tomas and his grandmother lived. He’d been there a few times in daylight, but not at night, and although he’d met Tomas at the door, he’d never been inside. After a while, he found what he thought was the right place, and timidly knocked on the door.

  “Tomas, are you there?” he called.

  To his relief, his friend opened the door a crack, and then when he saw it was Jordi, opened it wide.

  “Whatever are you doing here at this time?” he asked.

  “Can I stay here tonight?” pleaded Jordi. “You know my big brothers, the two who work in the carters’ yard at the factory? They’re both ill. Mam thinks it’s really bad, might be the cholera. She’s sent me … so I don’t catch it too.”

  “Who’s out there at this time?” came the voice of the old lady.

  “It’s Jordi, grandma, you remember, I told you about him. The one I work with.”

  “Then bring him in,” said his grandmother, “Don’t stand out there with the door open. Come on, come on.”

  Tomas beckoned Jordi into the tiny hut. A single candle illuminated a small room. Sitting on a small bed, was Tomas’s grandmother. She was a small woman, with kindly features, and she greeted Jordi with a smile. Her black hair, not yet grey, was pulled back from her face and hung in a tight plait down her back. She was dressed entirely in black, so that her face seemed to glow from the darkness in the candle-light.

  “Tomas told me. Your dad got the sack today. It’s not right. Anyone trying to do good these days, gets punished for it.”

  “It’s worse than that, grandma,” said Tomas.

  “I got home to tell Mam what had happened to Pa, and found both my brothers sick. Mam thinks it’s the cholera. She’s there, with my Pa, looking after them. My sisters have gone to a friend, and Mam told me to come here.” Jordi tried hard to stave off the tears, but a few escaped and ran down his cheeks.

  “I’m glad she did, you poor love. Sit you down. Come, sit here with me,” said the old lady. Jordi sat with her on the edge of the small bed, discovering that he was in fact bigger than she was. She put a bony arm around him.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had much to eat. Tomas, run to the corner, see what’s still hot, and get some supper for the boy.”

  Despite his entire life being turned upside down in one single day, for everyone else in the slum, life was going on as usual. At the factory the next morning, there was no sign of Senor Bertoli, and Ferrer stood at the door of the office. The workers walked past eyes down, without any greeting or acknowledgement. Neither Jordi nor Tomas dared to look beyond Ferrer, to see who had replaced the dwarf, but trudged onwards and up the stairs to their familiar work station. Jordi worked mechanically all day, thinking at times about his father, and wondering what he was doing; and his brothers, lying in the family bed, perhaps dying; and at other times worrying if his Mam would catch the illness. It seemed strange that his own world had collapsed around him, whilst everyone else’s simply carried on.

  A new normality became established. He would go home with Tomas after work, and they would have a simple supper with the old lady. He slept on the floor in the little hut, but this was no hardship as he’d always slept on the floor in the family room. He and Tomas continued their reading lessons with Bonaventura, and were becoming very accomplished readers. They even took a simple story book home to read stories to the old lady, which she enjoyed greatly. The book was called “Aesop’s fables” and the three of them enjoyed the way the characters in the stories were treated fairly, and the bad people got their punishments. “If only real life was as fair,” said grandmother, with surprising vehemence.

  One morning, after a couple of weeks – it seemed far longer – his sisters stopped him as he arrived for work. “Your brothers have gone,” they told him.

  “Gone?” he replied, “gone where?”

  “Heaven, we suppose,” they replied. “Mam’s OK, but Pa’s taken it worse, and thinks it was his fault they got ill. We’re still with friends, and Mam says to stay with Tomas for another week. She’s washing everything in the room, to make sure no-one else gets ill. Oh, and Pa’s taken up politics with a vengeance. He’s channelling all his anger into the workers’ causes. He’s spending all his time with that music shop man, Bonaventura.”

  Before the week was up, Jordi and Tomas were surprised to come out of the factory to see both Senor Vilaro and Senor Bonaventura waiting for them in the dusty lane. “Don’t ask any questions,” said Vilaro. “Say nothing, but follow us back to the shop.”

  Once inside the now familiar parlour at the back of the music shop, the boys were surprised to find another man, unknown to them. “This is Senor Guardia. He has some important news,” said Bonaventura.

  Jordi and Tomas nodded to the new man, who smiled grimly.

  Turning to Bonaventura, Guardia said, “You are sure we can trust these young lads, Bonaventura?”

  “With complete certainty,” replied Bonaventura. “I know them well. This is young Jordi Vilaro, whose father you met earlier today; and this is Tomas, equally trustworthy, whose grandmother cares for him and who has also been committed to the cause for many years.”

  “Very well,” said Guardia. “The news is not good, but our opportunity for rebellion is at hand.”

  “Tell us,” urged Vilaro. “We are ready.”

  “I promise you, you won’t like what I’m going to tell you,” continued Guardia. “The military governor needs soldiers, to fight against the tribesmen in Morocco. These are our brothers, defending their desert against our Spanish lords and masters. Senor Guell is among the wealthy Barcelona merchants trying to exploit the tribesmen in Morocco. Even the King in Madrid is supporting this war, and we have no love for our king. Do you follow me?”

  Guardia paused and looked around the stiflingly hot room. Jordi and Tomas were puzzled how the troubles in far away Morocco could possibly relate to them.

  “Go on,” urged Vilaro.

  “The governor is conscripting young men from the Barcelona mill workers, and forcing them to go and fight.” Jordi gasped. “As you know, many of us in the workers’ federations are pacifists, against this kind of random warfare against other working men. But my story gets worse: wealthy families can buy their sons out of the conscription – the price is roughly what your father would have earned in a year.”

  “That’s not very fair,” said Tomas.

  “Don’t interrupt Senor Guardia,” said Vilaro. “He’s coming to the point.”

  “Yesterday,” continued Guardia, “a group of conscripted workers were taken to the port, to embark for the voyage to Morocco. Their wives and families were there to see them go, knowing that most of them would never return. They were to sail in a boat owned by your precious Marques de Comillas, owner of the factory where you work.”

  “We saw him, with his flashy car!” said Jordi.

  “The same,” said Guardia. “But there was a riot at the port. Wealthy ladies, including the wife of the Marques, were giving religious medals to the hapless workers. Suddenly the workers’ mute compliance evaporated, and they turned in anger. They threw the medals into the sea, and with their women and mothers, started to shout at the wealthy women. “Down with the war!” they shouted. “Let the rich go! All or none!” That was a true revolutionary moment. This night, workers are meeting together all over Barcelona. The initial anger at forcing young men to be conscripts, is turning into a much bigger campaign. Soldiers fired over the heads of the conscripts yesterday, but soon they’ll be firing to kill workers.”

  “It’s dangerous and risky,” said Bonaventura, “but as Vilaro has said, we have been getting ready for this moment. What shall we do?”

  “It will take a few days to be properly organised, but we will call a general strike,” said Guardia. “We must show our colours, knowing that we will be challenged. We must
show we are against the military which supports our tyrannical mill owners; we must tell the world that we will not tolerate the meddling priests, enjoying a high life with their wealthy patrons. And more than anything else, we must make sure that the middle classes and the wealthy hear our cries of rage against the appalling living conditions of us all, the working people of Barcelona.”

  “Once upon a time,” said Jordi, looking at his father, “you said you’d like to throw a bomb into the Palau de la Musica. You remember?” The others in the room gasped at Jordi’s bluntness. “The day it opened, when I had persuaded you to take me to watch. Guell and Comillas were there, weren’t they?”

  “And all their cronies and fat cat wives,” said his father. “Would that I had thrown that bomb!”

  “It would have had no more effect than the opera house bomb,” said Bonaventura, “and that was very dramatic.” He paused as if he was going to say more, but frowning towards Tomas, he stopped abruptly. Jordi noticed this strange exchange of looks, and resolved to find out more about the opera bomb.

  “Nothing will happen at first,” said Guardia, “But come back together in a week. I will have news. Be vigilant.”

  Jordi found it hard to settle at work, with so much buzzing around in his head. He stayed at Tomas’s hut, and in the evenings they talked in hushed tones. He was surprised to find the old lady had a feisty enthusiasm for the workers uprising. She had vivid memories of many events from her younger years, remembering the bomb thrown by a Catalan at the king’s wedding, and told them all about the attack in Via Laietana on the military governor in 1893. She had surprisingly clear memories of the bomb thrown down onto the wealthy audience in the stalls at the Liceu Theatre during a performance of William Tell, the same year. Jordi was left thinking she knew more about the opera bomb, than she told them, but she had moved on to speak about the attack on the Corpus Christi procession in 1896, which led to the terrible Monjuic Trial, and the executions of anarchists, some of whom the old lady had known. She told them how dangerous it would be in the coming protests, and explained to the boys that they were following in a great tradition. Not for nothing was Barcelona known as the City of Bombs. Most of all, she encouraged Jordi and Tomas: “Get ready to fight,” she told them.

  Finally the week had passed, and the boys hurried with Senor Vilaro to the dusty parlour at the music shop. Senor Guardia was waiting for them, but it was Bonaventura who had the first news.

  “I’ve had a letter,” said Bonaventura. “Hand delivered from Senor Lorenzo. He says, ‘A social revolution is breaking out in Barcelona, and it has been started by the people. No-one is leading it. It is a coming together of Liberals, Catalan Nationalists, Republicans, Socialists and Anarchists.’ The time has come.”]

  “Many of us have seen his letter,” said Guardia. “It has galvanised everyone into action. The day after tomorrow, the 26th July, there will be a general strike. All workers will be called out. We will bring the city to a standstill. Our day will finally come.”

  Such a plan, involving thousands of workers, could not be kept a secret, and the mill owners had the military ready to subdue the rebellious workers. Before the morning of 26th, battle lines were drawn up.

  If the anarchists saw the General Strike as an opportunity for chaos, they were proved right, but without good leadership, the next few days were unfocussed and confusing. On the first day Jordi, Tomas and Senor Vilaro went to the Franca Station, and helped tear up the railways lines, preventing troop trains from bringing soldiers to the city. The physical task was rewarding, but they were unsure how much their action was contributing to the workers’ cause. Two days later, they joined a group going from church to church, setting fires to desecrate the sanctuaries. Again, they had fun being so sacrilegious, but continued to be unsure how this was helping.

  There was hand to hand fighting in the Ramblas, and overnight barricades were built. This provoked the army into fiercer fighting. The military governor declared a state of war in the city, and ordered the troops to start firing on the workers. Suddenly the strike became deadly, and Jordi watched horrified as men he recognised from the factory, were gunned down on the Ramblas. He ran for cover into the music shop, terrified by the scenes he had witnessed.

  Later in the music shop, close by one of the barricades, Jordi, Tomas, Vilaro and Bonaventura met together. “It’s not going to work,” said Vilaro. “Once more the workers will be defeated. What started as a strike, has turned into a war. We’ve brought death to our fellow workers.”

  “There’s bad news,” said Bonaventura. “Senor Guardia has been arrested. He’s held up at Montjuic. There will be a show trial. I shudder to think of his fate.”

  “What’s the charge?” said Tomas.

  “Armed rebellion,” replied Bonaventura, “even though it was the soldiers who were armed, not the strikers.”

  “He wasn’t even a soldier,” said Jordi, “He was a teacher.”

  By the end of Tragic Week, about one hundred and fifty strikers had been killed, and just a handful of policemen and soldiers had perished. Senor Guardia, along with four other scapegoat revolutionaries, was executed by firing squad, in the moat of Montjuic Castle.

  Sometime later, Bonaventura sat reflecting on the events of the week. “Guardia must not die in vain,” he told Vilaro. “We shall rise again, but next time we must be much better organised.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jordi finally went back to live with his Mam and Pa. The family’s circumstances were much reduced with the loss of wages from both brothers and Vilaro himself. The sisters gave all their meagre earnings into the family pot, as did Jordi, but most days they were all hungry. Senora Vilaro took on menial scrubbing jobs, hating every minute on her knees in Guell’s grand house. Hardest of all was finding the rent for their room, and the prospect of being homeless was constantly on the horizon. The family was subdued both by the deaths of the two brothers and the failure of the recent strike. Daily, Jordi and his sisters plodded reluctantly to the factory, knowing that their small incomes were essential to keep a roof over the family.

  To save money, they would sit in the dark in the small room, and long gone were the days of sending out for a paper twist of fried potatoes. Pa was at home a great deal at this time, brooding and struggling to smoke less, saving money on tobacco. He stopped getting his hair cut or going for a shave, growing a thick bushy beard, telling his family that he wanted to look like “those Russian blighters!” His only recreation was a daily visit to Senor Bonaventura in the music shop, from which he would eventually return in an ominously quiet mood. Jordi’s reading lessons continued after work, but it was too dark in their room to read in the evening.

  “Pa,” said Jordi, one evening. “You’ve changed. You’re quieter somehow, not as fierce as before, and yet underneath something is smouldering. You know, you’ve not got drunk once since they gave you the sack. Some men would have drowned their sorrows in drink, but not you. What are you thinking? What do you and Bonaventura talk about all day?”

  Jordi’s mother looked quickly to her husband to see how he would react, but Vilaro smiled. “You’re a clever boy, Jordi, and you notice things. Yes, I know I’m different. I thought I’d get revenge for the deaths of your brothers when we had the strike. What muddled thinking was that? And I thought with Senor Bonaventura, we were organised and ready to stand up to the mill owners. We weren’t. We were a raggle-taggle army of ill-prepared ordinary working men, without a good enough plan, and without ammunition. And the ammunition we need isn’t just bullets, it’s knowledge. It’s important that you can read – that’s a big step in the right direction.”

  “How dare they keep education for themselves?” he went on. “You have as much right to an education as any of them; we have a right, all of us. And if you want to know what we talk about in the little dusty room at the back of the music shop, I’ll tell you.” He paused dramatically and looked round the dark room. “I’ve been learning to read, just like you.”
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br />   “Pa!” exclaimed Jordi, “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s not easy, and I’m not as quick to learn as you and Tomas, but it’s opening up a whole new world.”

  “You can read stories to us,” said Mam.

  “Fairy stories,” giggled the girls.

  “Yes,” agreed Vilaro, “I’ll read to you. But the stories are not fairy stories, or funny. I’ve been struggling to read a little book translated into Catalan from French. It’s called ‘The Conquest of Bread’, written by a Russian gentleman called Peter Kropotkin.”

  “What a funny name!” said Mam.

  “He came from wealthy parents, I understand,” continued Pa, “but spent a lot of time watching the terrible lives of the peasants in Russian, and then writing about them.”

  “What did he write? What did he say about the peasants?” asked Jordi.

  “I’m not sure yet,” replied his father. “My reading is very slow, and there are many, many words I don’t know. Even Senor Bonaventura finds the book difficult. But slowly, slowly, I’m getting there. Each page, we stop and talk about what we’ve read.”

  Senor Vilaro looked across the darkened room at his family, and smiled. “You know I thought getting a snack break was a big achievement at the factory. It was nothing. Reading Senor Kropotkin’s book is showing me a whole new world of thinking. It’s the thinking which we need to get properly organised, so we don’t have another chaotic failure like Tragic Week.”

  “I’d like to try and read this book,” said Jordi, “if it’s so important.”

  “Of course you can try,” said his father, “but we’ll do best to study it together with Senor Bonaventura. Apparently there are others Kropotkin has written. Senor Bonaventura is trying to get hold of them. We must get Tomas involved as well. You younger people will be the key to our future success.”

  Suddenly the dark room seemed to be alight with an unexpected fervour and passion growing from Senor Vilaro’s enthusiasm. His eyes glowed.