Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “There are even reports of rival anarchist groups shooting at one another. Earlier today there was a gun battle between groups on either side of the Ramblas, firing at one another from upper floors and roofs of buildings.

  “There is also a rumour that the police have lost control of the city. This is not true, although they are very stretched in some areas. The shooting this morning on Via Laietana was an attempt to capture the police station, but the station was successfully defended and the anarchists killed. Please also tell your readers that reports of police provocation are untrue.”

  Companys continued in this vein for some time, but the reporters scribbled little in their notebooks: it was a story of random murders and general mayhem, and most of what he said, they knew already. When the President finished his statement, there were a few questions from the press, mainly suggesting that the Generalitat had underestimated the anarchist threat in the city, despite it being clearly under their noses.

  The President agreed that it was well-known that many members of the council were anarchists; but that they had been democratically elected to their positions. He reminded the reporters that they had to recognise that the anarchists did not believe in any kind of hierarchy of control, so could not be held individually responsible for the actions of their fellows. He continued to defend the police despite some intense questioning about police provocation being at the root of all the disturbances.

  Suddenly, one of Company’s staff rushed in with a note for the President. Companys sat heavily, and read the note twice through before looking up at the reporters.

  “Gentlemen, I have just received a note which disturbs me greatly. I will stop only to tell you of its contents, and then must go into session with my staff. I am informed that a train has just arrived at the Estacio Nord with a large number of anarchist soldiers. It seems that in addition to the armed anarchist groups already lurking in our city, we now have an anarchist army. You must excuse me, gentlemen.” With that, he stood and abruptly left the room, followed closely by the ministers who had been with him.

  As the doors slammed behind the President, the assembly of reporters burst into noisy discussion.

  A colleague Jordi recognised from one of the many Barcelona daily papers, approached him.

  “What are you going to tell London?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Jordi. “I don’t have a very good understanding of what’s going on, and it will be very confusing for the British.”

  “It’s very confusing for us,” said the reporter.

  “I don’t want to write anything that will stop people from volunteering for the International Brigade,” said Jordi. “We’ll never beat the fascists without international help.”

  “You can be sure photos of the street barricades will get to London eventually.”

  “But that will take time,” said Jordi. “I’m waiting for a day or two before I send my next despatch; although sooner or later I’ll have to say something. The News Chronicle readers will be very confused if I just send reports about the shortages of meat, and at the same time they see pictures of barricades.”

  The press hung around for a while, none anxious to try to report the messy situation, and were rewarded by a secretary returning to the room with a statement from the President.

  “We have offered to talk to the anarchist leaders, if they can be identified, to negotiate for a truce. Meanwhile, we ask everyone to record carefully and accurately what is happening in the barrios, so that eventually a true history of these turbulent days can be compiled.”

  “If they can be identified!” exclaimed one of the local reporters. “We know they have no leaders; that’s why we’re in this mess.”

  Walking home, Jordi reflected on the day’s events, and smiled a guilty smile that he alone knew that his own wife had unintentionally supported the communist cause by releasing the factory’s stock of armoured cars. Laura was horrified to be told that the slip of paper she’d processed to release the tanks was a forgery, but Jordi reassured her that she’d done nothing wrong. Indeed, he said, no-one knew it was a forgery until Companys had told them in the press conference.

  “It’s alright for you,” said Laura, “but I’m the one who has to walk through those factory gates tomorrow morning. What kind of a reception will be waiting for me?”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about,” replied Jordi. “The management commune is dominated by communists, and they’ll be secretly pleased that the tanks hit the streets. They may pretend it was a mistake, but who knows, one of them may have been the forger!”

  Two days later, in the middle of the night, they were terrified by a sudden and loud banging upon their door. Holding the black cat in his pocket, Jordi opened it to find his mother.

  “Mam, what’s happened?” he said.

  “I need you to hide your father,” she said. “He’s a wanted man.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Right here,” said Pa, stepping out of the shadows. “Sorry about this son, but I won’t stop long.”

  “Come in quickly, and tell me what’s happening.”

  Sleepily Laura joined them, then was jerked wide awake as Pa told the story.

  “I went with the others to Aragon, as you know. I was probably the oldest on that train. When we got to Zaragoza we were billeted in a derelict church. We were a raggle-taggle bunch of soldiers, but all proud to be Stalinists, and committed, and ready to fight. We’d not been there long when another group of men arrived, this time from some kind of people’s militia, Marxists, and not my kind of men at all. There was this bumptious senior officer, called himself ‘commissar’ and he starts shouting orders. My brigade didn’t like this, and there was a lot of grumbling. I watched and listened for a few days, and decided the only thing to do was to get rid of this nasty little Marxist commissar. He was just like Franco, and we were there to rid Spain of nasty little men.

  “I waited my time, and one evening saw the opportunity. It was quiet, and dusk was falling. The commissar was sitting alone in the ruined churchyard, smoking on a tombstone. I shot him at close range, and slipped quickly back into the church. In the gathering gloom and commotion, I didn’t think anyone saw it was me. Next morning, we were all arranged on parade, and some new officer announced that the murderer would be found and shot.

  “I assumed that sooner or later, I’d be identified as the killer, so I waited for a chance to desert. When the moment came, I abandoned the brigade. I waited for a chance to get a train back to Barcelona, and yesterday the moment came when a whole brigade of soldiers was loaded onto a passenger train. It wasn’t my brigade, so I just moved in amongst them, and got on board. No-one asked for any papers.”

  “But why are you here?” said Jordi. “What’s wrong with the music shop?”

  “The toad’s there every day,” said Mam.

  “But not at night?” asked Jordi.

  “No, and thank Christ I arrived there at night, in the darkness, yesterday. The toad was back this morning,” said Pa, “so I waited until it was dark again, then crept out, and came here.”

  “The whole city is a mess,” said Jordi. “You can’t trust anyone, and no-one is safe. I don’t even know who the toad spies for any more. I’m sure he’s a double agent, or worse.”

  “Worse,” said Pa. “He’ll sell his own mother, that one. Give me a day or two to get some supplies together, then I’ll go. I’d like to go back to the fighting, but I’m getting too old for it. This adventure to Aragon has nearly killed me. Do you think I could go and hide up in that strange Spanish village on Monjuic? It’s derelict, isn’t it?”

  Jordi laughed. “No chance. It’s not derelict, and now it’s full of fascists. The one good thing the police have been doing in the last few months, is rounding up fascist sympathisers, and locking them in the Spanish village. You’re going to have to get out of Barcelona. It’s not just the toad, the city is full of spies: they’re everywhere. If anyone is looking for you, they’ll find you
.”

  “You know that strange apartment building on Passeig de Gracia, the one Gaudi designed?” said Laura.

  “La Pedrera?” asked Mam.

  “That’s it,” said Laura. “It’s the headquarters of the Soviet secret service.”

  “Thank God Stalin’s on our side,” said Pa. “He might be our only chance to beat the fascists. Perhaps I could find refuge in La Pedrera.”

  “That would be hiding in plain sight,” said Jordi, “although they might be sympathetic to a Stalinist on the run.”

  “Let’s get some sleep,” said Laura, “and decide what to do in the morning.”

  Pulling Jordi to one side, Mam whispered, “Is the black cat safe?”

  With his hand in his pocket, Jordi whispered, “I’m holding it now. It never leaves me.”

  The May Day riots in the city seemed to die away as suddenly as they had started. Companys failed to broker a peace between the anarchists and the communists, but there was little appetite for continuing the fighting in the streets. Barricades were dismantled and pavements repaired. Few foreign journalists reported the riots in the foreign press, and the international brigade continued to grow in numbers.

  The city settled back into the surreal routine it had adopted before the May Days. Bombing raids continued spasmodically; food shortages increased; men and women went off to war, and they returned maimed, in coffins, or simply exhausted. The population struggled on, becoming more and more tired of the daily effort to survive. The animals in the zoo died of starvation, and most of them were eaten by the residents of the Born area.

  Jordi was at home typing the bizarre story of how good giraffe meat tasted, whilst Laura had gone shopping. He had become used to her shopping expeditions taking some time. Increasing food shortages had made hunting for supplies tedious and time-consuming. The air-raid alert had sounded, and he had gone downstairs to the lobby, looking for his wife. He was beginning to worry about her, when he heard an enormous explosion. In a city used to bombing raids, explosions and loud noises were not unusual, but this was different. A sound more like a volcanic eruption, with a long multiple booming roar, filled the air. Instinctively he ran outside. In the distance, towards Placa de Catalunya, was a monstrous column of smoke. Unable to imagine what could have caused such an almighty blast, he became agitated and confused, worried about Laura. A young woman came running past.

  “What’s happened?” he called to her.

  “It’s the Coliseum,” shouted the woman. “It’s dreadful.” And she ran on.

  Jordi felt helpless. He had no way of knowing where Laura was, and which direction she would come from. Other bombs were falling, their thudding noise loud, but insignificant after the Coliseum explosion. People ran past, some with torn clothes, and some with blood on their faces.

  Finally Laura ran up to him. She was shaking with fear and shock.

  “The Coliseum?” asked Jordi.

  Laura nodded. “But not a direct hit. The bomb fell into the street immediately outside the theatre. It was a direct hit on a truck of munitions, explosives. The truck exploded.”

  “That was the noise I heard,” said Jordi.

  “I should think all Catalonia heard it,” said Laura.

  “I should go and see,” said Jordi. “This is big story. Will you stay here whilst I go?”

  “No,” said Laura. “I know you need to report it, but I need to be with you. I need to hold on to you. I’ll come. There are many injured and we may still be able to help.”

  “And many dead?”

  “Many, many dead. Mostly just passing by in the street, innocent, just like we all are,” said Laura.

  As more people came rushing past them, Jordi and Laura walked resolutely towards the disaster. Neither the frightened people running away, nor Laura’s account, prepared Jordi for the scene of devastation. Of the Coliseum, there was little left; and similarly most of the buildings opposite in the street and nearby, had been destroyed. Crushed and burning vehicles littered the wide boulevard, mostly unrecognisable. Dead horses lay where they had fallen, and an army of civilians were going from body to body to see if anyone was still breathing. Looking into the shell of the destroyed theatre, Jordi knew that no-one could have survived in there. He turned to Laura.

  “How close were you?”

  “I’d passed the Coliseum a few minutes before. I’d heard the siren, and was hurrying to get home to you. I suppose hurrying like that saved me, as I was just far enough away.” She paused, and looked into Jordi’s face. “It was nearly me,” she said. “Nearly me.”

  “We can’t do anything here,” said Jordi. “Come on, let’s go home. I’ll have to try and write about this.”

  He took a final look around the scene of carnage, and with heavy hearts, they trudged home, their conversation gloomy and pessimistic.

  The Basque country fell to the Nationalist forces in the summer of 1937. The regional government of the Basques moved to Barcelona, and the city received a large contingent of Republican Basque soldiers. The tired soldiers endured a long slow train journey from Bilbao, and once arrived in the city, found enough energy to form up into a great column to march proudly to Placa de Catalunya. Their arrival brought a little cheerful relief to the war-weary citizens, who turned out on mass to welcome them. They marched proudly, each wearing a large crucifix on the front of his uniform, symbolising the deep Catholicism of the Basques. Despite the proud marching of the soldiers, and the enthusiastic welcome, many who watched reacted simply with “Too little, too late.”

  Somehow the Coliseum bomb seemed a turning point in the war, and the city was becoming fatalistic. Few could see any way out of the conflict except through defeat. The small communist cell continued to meet at the Begemot Bar, but was becoming increasingly depressed.

  Jordi and Laura were joined by Ferrer and the others as they huddled around the wireless at the bar, for a broadcast from London. Jordi translated for the others as they heard the British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain boast of his success in achieving a peace deal with Hitler. Pictures appeared in newspapers in Barcelona, of Chamberlain holding the scrap of paper which he had signed with the German Chancellor.

  “Is our fate sealed by that piece of paper?” said Laura.

  “I fear it is,” replied Ferrer. “That’s why the British will not come to our aid. They are trying to keep the peace with Hitler, and they know coming here to fight against Franco will turn Hitler into an enemy.”

  Jordi nodded. “I know that my newspaper in London has been campaigning against the government there. The News Chronicle is on our side, and has told the British people that Chamberlain’s peace deal is not worth the paper they’ve written it on. I think Hitler is their enemy, just as Franco is our’s.”

  By the autumn of 1938, things were getting grim in the city. To bring some momentary light relief and to raise international awareness, Pau Casals arranged a concert in the Liceu Opera House, which had miraculously escaped bomb damage. Many reporters were invited, and Lluis Companys was in the audience. Jordi and Laura were excited to attend a rare evening of respite from the dreariness of the war, but found the event profoundly disturbing as the majority of the audience were wounded soldiers, returned from the front with missing limbs, several listening to the concert from stretchers.

  For men and women who had endured some of the worst conditions known to man, there was an intensity of attention when Casals took centre stage, as if they were drinking in the calm and peace which flowed from the maestro’s cello. Both Laura and Jordi found tears were flowing down their cheeks, as did many of the audience, overwhelmed by the contrast between the beauty of the music and the sombre reality of everyday life. Jordi grasped his wife with one hand, and with the other held tightly to the tiny black cat.

  As the applause died away, Casals put his bow to one side, and stood to address the audience. “This concert is being broadcast across Spain, and a recording will later be played in the United States of America. Our beautiful
nation is on its knees,” he said. “We know that many have given so much for Catalonia, and we thank all those who have made sacrifices. Many of you here today will carry the scars of this conflict for the rest of your lives. Catalonia will never forget you.

  “And so many have given the ultimate sacrifice; paying for our freedom with their lives: Catalonia will never forget them.

  “But the battle is not over. The enemy is at the door. Our people are exhausted and hungry. We appeal to the world, in the name of freedom and humanity, come to our aid. It’s not only weapons and soldiers: we need clothes, food and medicines for children and the elderly.”

  He paused to give his words dramatic effect, then with a deep breath roared out, “Let the world know: if you allow the fascists to win Spain, you will be the next victims of this madness!”

  There was a clamour of agreement to his words. Nodding to acknowledge the applause, he sat and played a Bach suite. The audience noise died away as the beauty of the solo cello filled the vast auditorium. In the distance, the rumble of bombing continued. Little did anyone know that Pau Casals would never play in his beloved homeland again.

  Walking home from the concert, Jordi and Laura had a heightened awareness of the constant background rumble of bombs and artillery fire which had become a normal part of their lives.

  “Is it because of Pau Casals playing that we are hearing the noise of war with new ears, or is the rumble of guns getting closer?” said Laura.

  “I think it’s both,” said Jordi. “The concert has awakened our sensitivities, made us more aware; but at the same time the war is coming closer. As Casals said, ‘The enemy is at the door’.”

  It was a lovely evening. How many times had they spoken of the contrast between the beauty of the Spanish summer and the horror of war? As they walked towards their rooms, the July evening was balmy and warm.

  “Let’s walk on up to Montjuic,” suggested Jordi. “It’s too warm to sleep, and we don’t know how much longer we will have the freedom of our city.”

  They walked on past Placa d’Espanya and up through the abandoned trade fair buildings, now requisition as barracks. Avoiding the Spanish Village, they turned towards the Palau National and the castle at the top of the hill. Beyond them stretched the wide plain of the Ebro River, and further away the front line of the Nationalist forces. They were not alone on the mountain top. Many others had gathered to watch the battle below them.