“We went to ground, your mother, your father and I. We didn’t go near any official building, and knew the rest of the story only from newspapers. Your grandfather was a martyr for anarchy, and the papers covered it extensively. We thought no-one would link Santiago with us, but one day, nearly two years later, your father was challenged as he walked on the Ramblas near the opera house. He looked quite like his father Santiago, and was recognised by a small group of thugs in the pay of the bosses. I assume he didn’t deny who he was when they challenged him, and they murdered him in cold blood, in broad daylight.”
Tomas was shocked by Grandmother’s story, but found himself beginning to glow with a kind of pride. Looking up, Grandmother said, “Perhaps I should stop. This is a shock for you all.”
Tomas smiled at his grandmother. “No, go on. I want to hear the whole story. Go back first to my grandfather. You say he was a terrorist and martyr. Was he executed, as he expected?”
“Yes, he was, just as he expected. Shot by firing squad, up at Monjuic, one of so many martyrs killed in that terrible place. He was buried in an unmarked grave, because I did not dare go and claim his body.”
“What became of my mother?”
“This part is even harder to tell. Your mother was with child when your father was murdered. A baby, who was you, Tomas. I’m so sorry to tell you, but your mother died in childbirth. You were a healthy, strong baby, and she lived long enough to hold you in her arms, and name you Tomas, but then she just slipped away.”
Tomas was shocked. Grandmother came across the room to comfort him, and Jordi felt his eyes filling with tears. Vilaro felt himself inadequate in the circumstances, and looked at Ferrer, who was in turn regarding Grandmother with renewed admiration. Bonaventura nodded quietly to himself, as the final pieces of the jigsaw fitted into place. The owner of the music shop remembered the bright young teenager, also called Tomas, close to his own age, who had regularly visited the shop with his beautiful mother Adabelle. He remembered how sweet she had been when he smiled at her, and how he had found out her name, and silently and secretly loved her despite the considerable difference in age, a memory he had cherished, and hid away for many years.
A peace fell upon the room. Tomas’s new knowledge filled him with unexpected pride. Grandmother spoke in almost a whisper. “So you see, it’s in your blood to be an angry young man. In honour of your father and your grandfather, you must continue the fight.”
Suddenly the subdued atmosphere of the room was shattered by a loud banging on the front door of the shop.
“Whoever can this be at this time of night?” muttered Bonaventura, as he started down the stairs.
“Be cautious when you open the door,” said Vilaro. “I’ll come with you.”
“And I,” said Ferrer. “I’ll bring my gun.”
“Point it at the floor, and take your finger off the trigger,” said Bonaventura. “We don’t need any more accidental gun fire.”
Opening the door a crack, there didn’t seem to be anyone there, but looking down Bonaventura found a long wooden box had been left on the step. Opening the door wider, so that more light fell on the box, he read, ‘Musical Instruments, handle with care’.
“Bring it in,” said Vilaro. “We’ll see if there’s any snow.”
As Vilaro and Bonaventura dragged the box into the shop, Ferrer stepped outside, with gun at the ready, to see who might have delivered it. The night-time Ramblas was deserted.
“It’s heavier than it looks,” said Bonaventura, “and I don’t think I’ve any tools to get it open.”
Jordi, who had come down to see what was happening, ran back upstairs and returned with a crowbar.
“Where did that come from?” asked his father.
“Another of those things about me you’ll never know,” grinned Jordi. “Let’s get this thing opened.”
With some difficulty, the lid was prized from the box. Under a layer of straw were six rifles. The men looked solemnly at one another.
“Now it’s real.” said Bonaventura. “Now we join our Russian brothers. In picking up one of these, we put our flesh and blood on the line. As we may use these guns to kill others, we know they will use their guns to kill us. Never was there a more deadly adventure.”
The next morning, the toad was back in his place begging outside the music shop, and of course, watching anyone going in and out. Inside, Bonaventura revealed an excellent hiding place for the guns. There was an old upright piano, largely covered in piles of music manuscript, in the crowded back room of the shop. With help, Bonaventura moved the dusty piles of paper from the piano, and then dragged the piano away from the wall. A trapdoor in the floor was revealed. Pulling it open, the men climbed down into an empty cellar.
“We can’t store guns down here if it’s damp,” observed Vilaro.
“I know,” replied Bonaventura, “but it’s not. It’s dry and safe. And no-one would suspect it’s here. We’ll store everything down here, and if we ever get searched, the guns will not be found. Jordi, start handing the guns from the box down to me.”
Jordi felt odd taking the first rifle from the box, as if repulsed by handling the lethal weapon, but no-one noticed as they set about storing the guns in a work-man-like manner. Once stored, the piano was pushed back over the trap-door, and the piles of papers returned to it. The facade of being a music shop was preserved.
Each night, at roughly the same time, another box of rifles was deposited outside the music shop. They were relieved that the deliveries took place when the toad had gone back to wherever he slept, and he did not see the boxes arriving. Once emptied, they would leave the heavy crates outside the shop, and they would have vanished by morning. They never once saw who delivered the boxes, nor who collected them.
Gradually the cellar filled with rifles, and boxes of ammunition were also lowered into the gloomy space. After a while, pistols and smaller guns were delivered, with the smaller bore ammunition they needed. Steadily an arsenal was accumulated, although it was obvious that some of the weapons were old, and one or two even rusty. Time was spent down in the cellar, cleaning the guns, and hoping they were all in working order.
The NCL was known to be an anarchist organisation, and found itself in competition with other political groups in the city. Despite their diligence in reading various communist authors, not only Kropotkin, but other, older authors including Marx and Engles, the leadership of the NCL, including Bonaventura and Vilaro, saw themselves as further to the left than even the communists. They were dedicated to anarchist methods which they believed to be the only way to change society, and to remove the rich from their positions of power and authority. They believed that the rich of Barcelona, and of the rest of Catalonia, should forfeit their wealth and their lives.
Now that the story of Grandmother was known to everyone living in the tiny apartment above the music shop, there was greater openness about their ideals, and their aims to eliminate the wealthy classes. Tomas’s knowledge that his grandfather was Santigo Salvador gave him enormous pride, and fuelled his terrorist passion. He stopped going to the mill, and relied on the NCL funds to keep him going. After some hesitation, and a long discussion with Pa, Jordi gave up working at the uniform factory, and both young men now dedicated their time and lives to the cause. With guns wrapped in cloth to look like bundles of washing, the two young men would walk down to the beach beyond Montjuic for target practice, and both became proficient with the rifles.
Jordi, however, remained unhappy with the acceptance of casual violence, and became alarmed by his friend’s enthusiasm. He was fearful that Tomas would follow his grandfather’s footsteps, and carry out some terrorist act which would get him shot. Tomas reacted to his friend’s worries by grinning, and saying, “So if I die for the workers of Catalonia, is that such a bad thing?”
Salvador Segui, the NCL’s general secretary, continued to regularly visit the music shop, and was very pleased to be told about the growing arsenal of weapons. He told them
that other small groups of NCL members were also collecting arms, and that soon there would be enough in the city to stage an attack upon the mill owners and industrialists. He was pleased that Jordi and Tomas were no longer working for the owners, but he encouraged Ferrer to continue at the mill, as he had achieved a singular reputation as a very reliable spy.
Jordi saw almost nothing of his two brothers-in-law, and was surprised to bump into them on Placa de Catalunya one bright summer’s morning.
“J-J-Jordi!” came a familiar stammer from behind him, and he spun round to see Benet hurrying towards him. Running to catch up was Jaume.
“God almighty,” said Jaume, “you’ve got even taller. You must now tower over your Pa!”
Jordi laughed. “You think I’m tall? You should meet Tomas; he’s a lot taller than me, although neither of us will ever catch up with Ferrer.”
“We have n-n-news,” said Benet. “We’ve joined a new union, the GUW, G-G-General Union of Workers. Lots of the s-s-shop boys in the Eixample have joined.”
“Some of the members are real Communists,” said Jaume, “but we’ve just joined to try to get better wages.”
“You never c-c-come to s-s-see us,” said Benet. “I can give you little samples of sweets for your Mam if you visit the shop.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jordi, coolly. “We’re very busy at the music shop, and Pa would not be keen on me walking up into the Eixample.”
“Are we too posh for you?” asked Jaume.
“No, you’re not too posh and I like you both, but Pa thinks you’re too middle class. He’s very fierce about that, and I’ll not clash with him about it.”
“P-P-Pity,” said Benet. “Your s-s-sisters would like to see you.”
“No, I’ll not come,” said Jordi. “Even here in Catalunya, I’m a long way from home. Still, tell my sisters you saw me, tell them I’m fine, wish them well.”
Jordi turned and walked away, leaving his brothers-in-law frowning. “What was that about?” said Jaume.
“I’m not s-s-sure,” said Benet. “I thought he’d be excited we j-j-joined the new union, but he j-j-just ignored it, didn’t say a w-w-word about it. Isn’t that what his P-P-Pa and him, and that friend T-T-Tomas, are all about?”
Jordi was thoughtful as he walked down the Ramblas. Benet and Jaume were nice men, and probably made his sisters very happy, but to Jordi, they didn’t seem to have any idea what was going on in their own city.
There was always sporadic gunfire, but Jordi ignored it. It was usually trigger-happy men trying out new weapons, or people like himself at target practice. As he neared the music shop he heard a volley of gunshot coming from the direction of the Raval. Something told him it was different from the usual, and he broke into a run. Bursting into the shop, he found his father standing there in some agitation.
“What’s happening?” said Jordi.
“I’m not sure,” said his father. “But the toad’s not in his usual place, and there’s been a lot of firing. It’s coming from the back of the market. Comrade Salvador Segui was here earlier, and he told us things are getting difficult. He thought he was being followed. I’m not sure what’s going on. He asked Bonaventura to go with him. They’ve gone to another safe house in the Raval.”
“We should go and see what’s happened,” said Jordi.
“Not without a gun,” said his father. “We must be prepared for anything. Going unarmed would be foolish.”
Thrusting loaded pistols into their pockets, Jordi and Vilaro hurried down the tiny lanes of the Raval behind the Boqueria Market. Turning a corner into Carrer de la Creu, a grisly sight met their eyes. Salvador Segui lay on the ground, blood oozing from several gunshot wounds. Kneeling beside him was a distraught Bonaventura. Looking up, he saw Jordi and Vilaro, and shouted, “Be careful. It’s a trap. Get back and take cover!”
Jordi hesitated, but his father rushed on and put his hand on Bonaventura’s shoulder. “Who did this?”
Bonaventura was shaking with the shock, but managed to say, “A gang of thugs. Well armed. Bastards in the pay of the bosses, you can be sure. This has Portillo’s stamp on it.”
At that, another shot rang out. The bullet passed clean through Vilaro’s hand, and into Bonaventura, who staggered forward. Jordi watched in horror, and nervously pulled his gun from his pocket. He was ready to shoot, but the assassins had vanished and a crowd was gathering. Vilaro, kneeling, looked up at his son: the two of them equally helpless.
Someone from the crowd tied a dirty rag around Vilaro’s hand. Someone else, bending over Bonaventura, shouted, “He’s still alive.”
Vilaro looked down at his friend. “But not for long, I fear. Farewell old friend. The fight goes on, I promise.” Kneeling between the dead body of Segui, and the dying Bonaventura, Vilaro, despite his own pain, repeated in a whisper, “The fight goes on, I promise.”
Bonaventura’s eyes opened, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips, a slight nod of his head. He tried to speak, but his eyes closed, and silently he died.
Jordi looked around. Across the street he saw Bertoli, in street clothes, without his toad costume, staring at them through his pebble glasses, accompanied by a small group of policemen. Bertoli nodded. Jordi moved nearer to him, his gun in his hand. “You knew this was planned, didn’t you?” he said to Bertoli.
“Revenge will come to you all one day,” growled Bertoli.
Jordi lifted his pistol and aimed shakily at Bertoli, but one of the police stepped forward. “Put your gun down, boy. Look at what you’re facing.”
Jordi looked up. The group of police were all staring at him, guns drawn. At that moment his father called him, “Jordi, come, help me get home.”
Jordi turned to his father, and as he did so, he heard the toad’s gravelly laugh. As he walked away, the police rushed forward and grabbed the body of Salvador Segui, and hurried away with it. The crowd gasped at the unseemly speed, and lack of respect for the body.
Rough men, the kind who slaved all day in the sweat-shops of the Raval, carried Bonaventura’s body solemnly to the music shop, whilst Jordi supported his father. Coming in through the door, they were met by Grandmother, who had already heard what had occurred.
“I did not have the chance to lay out the terrorist my lover, or my son, all those years ago. In their names, I will lay out Comrade Bonaventura,” said Grandmother, taking control of the situation. “Come put him on the shop counter. When Mam gets home she can help me. But first, Vilaro, let us look at your hand.”
With Jordi’s help, Pa unwrapped the dirty rag from his hand. The wound looked very nasty, but had stopped bleeding.
“We must wash that, and tie it up with a clean rag,” said Grandmother. “We don’t want you to lose your hand.”
Suddenly Jordi felt he needed to sit down, and dumped himself at the bottom of the stairs. He looked across at Bonaventura. It was one thing to know about strangers being shot in the streets, he’d seen enough fellow workers gunned down in the last few years, but the reality of losing his good friend, who had taught him to read, who had provided a home for them to live in, and who had shared with him so much about life, was hard to bear. Tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
The shop door burst open, and Tomas and Ferrer burst in. “We’ve heard rumours…” started Tomas loudly, then stopped abruptly as he saw Bonadventura.
“Quietly,” said Grandmother. “He died in the street less than an hour ago. Vilaro’s been shot. And Jordi’s had quite a shock. He saw it all.”
The next day, the toad was back. Jordi watched him from the office window. “I bet you could shoot him from here,” he told his father, “quite easily, for target practise.”
“No,” said Pa, “don’t. You can be sure he’s told the police all about us, and if he’s shot from here, we’ll all be arrested and our lives will be forfeit. We must live with the slimy thing on our doorstep, and perhaps turn him to our advantage. After all, he said he can be bought, and will do anything for
anybody given the right price.”
President Eduardo Dato was assassinated in Madrid a few days later. Although the timing was probably a co-incidence, the members of the NCL in Barcelona were delighted by this significant revenge killing, and felt to a large extent that Segui and Bonaventura’s deaths had been avenged. Their pleasure in Dato’s death was short-lived, however, as Bravo Portillo, convinced that the Barcelona anarchists were responsible for the President’s murder, set about exacting terrible revenge in the streets of the city.
Tomas regretted that it was not he who had been to Madrid. “I’d have loved to have been there, and aimed my gun at Eduardo’s head,” he said. “It’s time to get real. We will never beat this system, which is grinding ordinary working men into the dust, without bloodshed.”
Jordi and Tomas became aware that they were unable to agree on the best way forward. After a close friendship which had lasted many years, watching out for one another in times of distress, and becoming almost like brothers, the two started arguing, and Vilaro was fearful that the two friends would soon become enemies.
Tomas was becoming more and more committed to the anarchist cause, and advocated random acts of terrorism, whilst Jordi remained reluctant to use a gun, and continued to hope for a peaceful solution to their problems.
“Peaceful solution!” mocked Tomas. “We’ve not had peace in Barcelona for many years. In fact, I don’t think there’s been any chance of a peaceful solution as long as I’ve been alive, or even since my grandfather bombed the opera house, or even further back than that. The ruling class have had it easy for too long. They know they’re sitting on a powder keg, and it’s time to blow them up.”
“But so many innocents will die in such terrorism,” said Jordi. “I know we need a revolution, and I believe I am a true communist, but I still don’t understand why mankind cannot resolve these problems without killing one another. The Russian revolution was needed; it was essential for the future of all the oppressed millions in Russia, but surely a way could be found without killing so many.”
Barcelona Sunset Page 13