“Comrades?” asked Jordi. “Comrades, like we read about in Kropotkin’s book?”
“And what’s more, you will have another surprise. Tomas will be coming with you because his grandmother, the little old lady who has helped us so much, will also be on the stage!”
“Senora Adabelle Tomas?” asked Jordi, puzzled.
“The very same lady. She’s a long history of supporting workers, and her son, Tomas’s father, and his mother, were both lost to the cause when Tomas was tiny. She’s not spoken about it much, but Bonaventura knows her, and wanted her contribution and sacrifice to be recognised. She has brought much good sense to the committee.”
The next morning, Jordi was bursting with excitement when he met Tomas to walk to the factory, and Tomas matched him in enthusiasm for the evening ahead. The day seemed to drag, but eventually they could escape and hurry to the Palau. Ahead of them, hurrying in the same direction, was the unmistakable silhouette of Senor Ferrer, the tall, scary supervisor from the factory. Jordi and Tomas slowed a little to avoid catching up with Ferrer, but to their alarm he continued walking towards the Palau.
Crossing the dusty scar of demolition which was slowly becoming the Via Laietana, they spotted Senor Vilaro, leaning on his stick, outside a small tobacconist’s kiosk, as arranged. To their horror, Senor Ferrer also saw their father, and nodded to him as he passed. Ferrer continued into the Palau just as Jordi reached his father.
“That was Senor Ferrer, wasn’t it?” said Jordi, breathless.
“It certainly was,” replied his father. “I hope there’s nothing sinister about him being here. He won’t be allowed in without a ticket. Speaking of which, here are yours’. I must leave you to go through the main door, whilst I go to the side where I am to meet Senora Tomas to go to the stage. At the end, we will meet back here once again. This is a moment of history, boys: you must never forget it.”
Suddenly he was gone, limping quickly towards the stage door, and the boys, clutching their precious tickets, walked nervously towards the wide glass doors, feeling apprehensive. Everyone else seemed to be so much older and for a moment Jordi wished he could hold Tomas’s hand. The moment passed, he took a deep breath, and marched forward.
Jordi remembered the outside of the building with its amazing statues of musicians, but was unprepared for the magnificence of the interior.
Showing their tickets, they were greeted and waved towards an impressive staircase. Underfoot there was a thick carpet, and either side glass columns supporting a wide marble hand-rail. Tomas’s eyes were wide open, and Jordi told him how he had watched the glass palace being built. “Wait until we get inside,” said Jordi. “There’s a fantastic glass dome. I saw them putting it in place with a huge crane.”
The stairs took them up to a wide lobby, where the throng of people had their tickets checked again. Looking at the tickets the boys held, a fierce-looking woman wearing a large hat, suddenly smiled and told them to go all the way to the front. As boys, they must sit on the floor in front of the stage.
They made their way down the aisle. The grandness of the building was overwhelming, but the friendliness of the crowd, smiling as they passed, reassured them that they were safe. A few other teenage boys and girls were already seated on the floor, and with nods and smiles, they joined them. Stretching their necks back, they looked up at the great glass dome, glowing golden in the setting sun. It was hard to know where to look, so magnificent was the decoration of the building.
“This is really a palace,” said Tomas. “I’ve never been anywhere like this. Look at these great statues over our heads; and all these balconies of people.”
“And look, high up there, the black and red flag, the same as the little one at our hut, hanging across the great organ. It would be amazing if someone plays it. Tomas, I’ve dreamed of coming inside, ever since I watched it being built,” replied Jordi.
A long bony hand suddenly fell on Jordi’s shoulder, and Senor Ferrer, sitting directly behind him, leaned forward to talk into his ear. Jordi shuddered.
“Young Vilaro, isn’t it? I’ve been watching you each day at the factory. Nice to see such a good hard worker, even if his father got the sack.”
“Senor Ferrer!” gasped Jordi. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“This is where I want to be. I work for the bosses, and I keep the factory running, but they don’t know how much I despise them and their meanness. You remember that day your father was sacked, and I held my gun at your head? There were no bullets in it.” Ferrer chuckled, “I wouldn’t have shot you.”
“You frightened me,” said Jordi.
“Just doing my job,” replied Ferrer. “And how is life in your little hut, up on the mountain?”
“You know where we live?”
“Of course. And how is it that none of Guell’s men have ever been calling around for the little matter of unpaid rent? Because I’m covering for you, pretending I don’t know. It’s a little victory for me against the boss. It amuses me, and it’s saved your father’s bacon.”
Before Jordi could reply, the great organ came to life and played a stirring melody. The audience leapt to its collective feet, and Jordi and Tomas stood up, Jordi glancing round to see the extraordinary sight of Senor Ferrer smiling. The stage filled with people, most of them sporting big beards like his father’s. Among the stage party, Jordi could see his father, and Tomas’s grandmother, and Senor Bonaventura. The audience broke into applause which almost drowned out the organ. Bonaventura came to the front of the stage, and signalled the audience to sit down. Everyone sat as the organ reached the end of the tune.
“Comrades,” began Bonaventura, and there was renewed applause at being addressed in this way, “we gather in this Catalan building for an important and historic meeting. Before we begin, we will record the meeting with a photograph. Please all remain still whilst Comrade Enric takes a picture.”
Used to the needs of photographers, the audience fell silent, and stared steadfastly and solemnly towards the stage. Photographer Enric first took a photograph of the audience, then turned his equipment and took a picture of the stage party.
As the photographer and his assistant packed their things, Bonaventura spoke again. “We have many speeches this evening to introduce our Confederation of Labour. The plan is grand and bold, and has been put together over many months by a loyal, hardworking, and dedicated group of comrades. First we will hear from Comrade Vilaro, one of the founding members of our collective.”
Amongst scattered applause, Jordi’s father stood up. He leaned heavily on his stick as he walked across the stage; Jordi knew his limp was always worse when he was stressed. At first he looked dwarfed by the surroundings and import of the moment, but as soon as he spoke, he seemed to grow, and soon had the capacity audience hanging on every word.
“Comrades, many of us here fought the mill owners and bosses through that terrible week we have come to call “Tragic Week”. We watched our comrades fall, struck by the capitalist bullets. We were unprepared, and incapable of responding to the bullying tactics of the capitalists. We know that at least one hundred and fifty of our brothers and sisters were slain in the streets of our city, their blood running in the gutters of Las Ramblas. It must never happen again.”
Applause greeted such sentiment, and Jordi watched his father with new admiration. This man, carrying the crowd before him, was his own Pa!
Senor Vilaro was still talking: “The bosses thrive on poverty and scarcity. They control our daily lives, and our deaths. They have learned that their pampered and rich existence depends on keeping us, their workers, poor and hungry. They, who have plenty to eat, make sure we don’t have enough. They, who can buy anything with their riches, make sure we never have enough money for even the most basic survival. Barcelona is a rich city, but the riches are in the pockets of a very few men. We crawl on our bellies, searching for scraps, whilst their tables groan with bloated feasts.”
Jordi began to fear that
his father was becoming carried away with his own oration, but clearly Pa was reading from a well-prepared text. Soon Vilaro stood down, and others speakers took over, equally rousing the crowds to enthusiastic applause.
Speakers told the audience about the work of many different Russian writers, and urged them all to learn to read, however hard it would be to find teachers, books, or time for lessons; others spoke about Charles Darwin and his descriptions of evolution, and how the bosses treated the workers like animals; there were speeches about fields and factories, bread and water, sanitation, education, and the daily grind of the factories.
Finally Bonaventura brought forward a rather elderly man in humble clothing, with a long grey beard, introducing him as Comrade Juan Gomez Casas. The Palau fell silent, recognising the frailty of the older man. When he spoke, however, his voice was loud and clear and full of passion.
“Comrades, this evening is the culmination of many years of struggle and dedication. Tonight we bring coherence and strength to the struggle of working men and women everywhere. We can state our principles clearly. We believe in mutual aid, federalism, and workers self-management. We reject terrorism, and instead believe in peaceful self-help. We believe in respect for all, and that equality will only be achieved when all workers work for one another, not for mill owners and other bosses.”
“Although we will be a confederation of labour, we embrace the underbelly of our city, and welcome street sellers, the unemployed and the down-and-out of society into our number. Every beggar, every cripple, every destitute human being crawling our streets, is a product of our capitalist society. We reject that society, and through strength we will find a new way forward, and a new society where all our comrades have a home, have enough food and clothing, and live in mutual respect for one another.”
Comrade Juan continued in this vein for some time, and Jordi began to feel sleepy. The speech was long and some of it very hard to understand, but at last he sat down and Bonaventure stood for one last time. “Comrades,” he declared, “before we depart, we will have the organ play our anthem again. Let us all stand, and those who know the words please sing. Comrades, this is our anthem, ‘The Internationale’.”
All stood, and to Jordi’s surprise, many of the throng, including his own father, knew the words of the anthem, and sang lustily. Jordi stared at his father, as he had never seen him singing except when drunk; and as he looked into his father’s eyes, he saw reflected his Pa’s passion for the cause. The song was long and its words complex, but the repeating chorus was clear and easy.
When the chorus came around for the third time, Jordi had begun to understand the words. “This is the final struggle,” he sang. “Let us group together.”
He could hear Tomas beside him, also starting to join in; and in another surprise in this most surprising of evenings, the deep bass of Ferrer boomed behind him.
“And tomorrow the Internationale will be the human race.”
At last the huge meeting finished with much applause, and with the organ ringing out the tune of the Internationale once more, the crowd started to leave the building. As Jordi and Tomas shuffled to the doors, Ferrer’s long fingers descended on Jordi’s shoulder. “Not a word tomorrow at the factory, boys. Forget you saw me here, or else I might have to put a bullet in that gun!” Jordi turned to see if the tall man was joking, but Ferrer had vanished into the crowd.
CHAPTER FOUR
Life, despite its constant deprivations, settled into a routine. The hut became a comfortable home for the family although they never became reconciled to the contrast between the grand mansions of the city with electricity and gas and running water and feather beds, and their own dirt floor and ramshackle furniture. Senor Vilaro saw his humble home as a symbol of the workers’ struggle, and was almost proud of living in such squalor. It certainly gave credibility to his strongest political ideals.
At the factory, Ferrer organised for Tomas to be promoted to being a machine minder, and made Jordi the senior trolley boy, with a young and very frightened new recruit to care for. He remembered his own first few days, and treated the kid kindly. On the surface, Senor Ferrer remained as fierce as ever, but Jordi was no longer scared of him. Once or twice, just as Ferrer was berating a hapless worker for laziness, Jordi thought that the supervisor had winked at him - but he was never sure.
Every so often a child died, choking to death in the thick atmosphere, or crushed in a machine. The new boy was mortified, and Jordi reflected that he once had been sick at the sight of a crushed child, and had become immune to the gut-wrenching emotions of such an accident.
Bonadventura’s little office was constantly busy, and great was the excitement and rejoicing when membership topped twenty-five thousand. This had been achieved in less than a year from the meeting at the Palau de la Musica.
One evening in the spring of 1914, Tomas and his grandmother were surprised to receive a visit from the supervisor Ferrer. It was dusk, and obviously Ferrer did not want to be seen visiting the hut near Sant Antoni’s well.
“You must forgive this intrusion into your privacy,” began the supervisor, crouching in the doorway, “and if anyone should ask, you will deny seeing me here. I come out of friendship, even though this might surprise you. May I come in, as I do not want to be seen talking to you in the … erm … street.”
“Senor Ferrer, welcome,” replied Tomas. “We live a very humble life here, but you can come in.”
Bending to get through the small doorway, Ferrer went into the hut. Tomas introduced him to his grandmother, and they all sat rather awkwardly in the tiny space, knees almost touching. The sight of the unusually tall man, folded up in their little room was both amusing and menacing for Tomas.
“To come directly to the point, there are plans to build a far bigger factory here in Barcelona. The ‘good’ mill owners, we all slave for, have seen an opportunity to make even more money: the factory will not be a mill, but will employ hundreds of workers sewing garments of some sort. There will be many new jobs created in the new factory. Possibly a good opportunity for you Senor Tomas, and you could tell your friend Jordi as well.”
“Many thanks, Senor Ferrer,” replied Tomas, “but I sense you have other news to warrant coming especially to visit us.”
“I regret that I have. I am sorry to tell you that the new factory is to be built right here, on this site near Sant Antoni.”
Grandmother gasped. “Yes, senora,” said Ferrer, “right here where this … erm … shanty town, is now. Your hut will be torn down, and you and all your neighbours will be rendered homeless.”
“Is there no end to the cruelties we are to suffer?” said Senora Adabelle, sadly. Looking up with her moist eyes, she paused, and then went on, “Senor Ferrer, “I can tell you have taken a risk to bring us this news, and I thank you for it. We should be grateful for a small mercy that we have had a warning. I fear I am getting too old for another move, but at least we have some time to prepare.”
“Only a little, I fear,” said Ferrer. “The bosses will be sending bailiffs within a week, to move you out. You’re squatters, and they won’t be gentle. If you’re still here you will be in mortal danger. Oh and Senor Tomas, do not be too shocked to discover that you know one of the bailiffs … he is a certain bully named Senor Bertoli.”
It had become dark in the narrow lane outside the hut. Ferrer, bending low and glancing each way, went to leave. On the threshold he turned and repeated a phrase Tomas had heard before, “Not a word tomorrow at the factory, boy. Good luck Tomas; and may the Virgin be with you, Senora.” With that he nodded and was gone.
Tomas wasn’t sure which was the greatest shock, the loss of their home, or the fact that Ferrer had come to warn them. He and his grandmother sat in silence for a while, each reflecting on the news.
“Perhaps with their new factory, the bosses will pay the workers better,” said Tomas at last. “Perhaps some good, will come out of this.”
“You’re a good boy, Tomas,”
said his Grandmother, “but I don’t know where your optimism comes from. Be very careful; don’t rush into the unknown. No good will come of this, not for the workers. It never does. Your parents died for the cause, and you will continue the struggle. I’ll visit Comrade Bonaventura tomorrow, to see if he has heard this news. Perhaps you should run up to your friend Jordi. Tell him what we know, and ask his father if he knows where we can live. It’s not long since I was able to help Senor Vilaro find a hut to live in. Now it’s ourselves who need a home. I’d like to be gone before the bailiffs arrive, and will feel much better if we can be settled quickly.”
“I’d love to be here for the bailiffs,” joked Tomas, “mainly for the chance to hit that horrible dwarf Bertoli. He is exactly the type of man to be a bailiff, a really nasty piece of work!”
Tomas was breathless when he got to the Vilaro hut on the hillside, and once inside he quietly told them Senor Ferrer’s news. Vilaro did not hesitate to tell Tomas that he must bring his grandmother to stay with them in their hut whilst they found somewhere to live. “After all, she was so good to us when we were homeless, it’s the least we can do.”
Mam agreed. “We’ve space enough. The girls are often away at night, and although I pretend to disapprove, I know they are sleeping with respectable shop boys somewhere in the Eixample, and probably in feather beds, so who am I, to stop them?”
When Tomas brought his grandmother to the hut the following evening, she was disproportionately grateful to the Vilaro family. Although she was breathless from the climb, she was charmed by the stunning view of the city, and set down a small bundle of possessions. Jordi and Tomas made a few journeys in the dark, between the two hovels, until there was nothing of consequence left in the old lady’s home.
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