A Most Uncivil War

by Nicolas Lalaguna

  Before reaching Pedro’s front door Raul notices Marianela is following down the road behind them. When she sees him waiting for her she starts to run. Raul puts the shotgun over his shoulder and waits for her to catch up. They embrace in the middle of the road. “Thank God you are all right. And my son, is he hurt?” she asks.

  Raul smiles and turns back towards Pedro’s house saying, “Your son is fine. He is just cleaning up what is left.” Marianela notices the three people standing by the door; two of them are workers from the factory armed with shotguns and the third is the doctor’s nurse carrying the doctor’s bag. The two men take up position next to the door with their backs to the wall.

  Raul glances up and down the street, unslings the shotgun and holds it in front of him in one hand, the other he uses to lean against his walking stick. He nods to the first man, who unlocks, opens the door and enters the house. The second man follows quickly behind him. From inside the house the two women scream and the young boy starts to cry. Raul hobbles in as quickly as he can, shouting, “Calm yourselves, calm yourselves.” Marianela stands for a few seconds exchanging looks of bewilderment with the nurse before she hears Raul’s voice calling them both in.

  *

  At the hastily erected barricades outside the guard’s office Salvador crouches behind an overturned café table listening to one of the other men appraise the situation. He stares down at the earth beneath his sandals as he listens to the man talking. Once he has heard enough he stops the other man, “Enough, the council took a vote and we have decided we need to bring this situation to an immediate conclusion.”

  “Of course, sir, right away, sir,” the other man replies.

  Salvador stares at him unblinkingly from underneath the peak of his cap. “I neither ordered you nor asked you anything. I am no sir, and I was just letting you know what I am about to do.”

  Rebuked, the man stares back in embarrassed silence. Salvador raises himself onto his haunches and shouts over the top of the table, “Listen to me, brothers. Until now you have been following orders and have committed no crime. Your officers, on the other hand, are guilty of oppressing the working men and women of Spain and attempting to overthrow the government. If you surrender in the next twenty seconds you will be arrested and tried by a workers’ council. If you do not surrender then we find you guilty of insurrection, oppression and assassination. The punishment for these crimes is death. We shall burn down the building and everyone in it and we will sleep well in our beds tonight, knowing that you condemned yourselves.”

  From inside the guard’s office Manolo starts shouting back his defiant response. His arteries, thick and scarred, struggle to pump blood to his overripe, strawberry pitted face. He rushes to the window and with all his strength wails, “How dare you make demands of me, dog. You son of a whore, you bastard of a Jewish whore. It is you that shall be executed for your —” He never finishes his sentence. The top left-hand side of his face and forehead explode, covering the wooden window frame.

  Behind the barricade Salvador drops back down to the floor, shouting, “What was that, who shot?”

  For a moment Manolo doesn’t move. He stares pathetically at the window frame in front of him, not exactly focusing on the splattered glass and wood, but not entirely unaware of it either. Just as suddenly as he had stopped mid-sentence, so his legs buckle beneath his weight and he crumples to the floor. The Assault Guard standing behind him lowers the smoking pistol to waist height and turns to face the other men. The other men stare back vacantly. “I am not dying for this piece of shit and neither are any of you,” he tells them. He offers the gun handle first to them and shouts towards the window, “We surrender. Our officer has had a change of heart and taken his own life. We surrender, don’t shoot.” The other men just stare blankly at him. One of them falls to his knees weeping uncontrollably.

  Chapter 20

  In the days following the stuttering insurrection in Aragon and Catalonia many of the towns and villages across the region move straight to revolution, collectivising the property, farmland, shops and factories. Where previously poverty, hunger and suffering were the lot of the workers, now education, healthcare, hygiene, new clothes and electricity are fast becoming achievable aspirations. Buoyed by their victory in Barcelona, the CNT marches across Aragon with its sights firmly trained on the retaking of Zaragoza, Pamplona and eventually the whole of Spain.

  The stone walls of the church loom precariously over the smoking pyre of the antique icons and smouldering timbers, naked to the elements in their now roofless shrine. The estate house of the duke, re-purposed, houses many of the peasant families that have previously been sleeping in the fields and storehouses. Where once they shared the straw-strewn earth with the animals they now lie wrapped in cotton sheets, watched over by intricately carved oak bedsteads.

  Every evening a delegate from each work group in the village reports to a council held in the town hall, reporting on the day’s work and voting on decisions for the following day. The following morning those same delegates return to their work group with a report on the meeting from the previous night and the topics requiring a vote for the following night. Over the course of each day the report is discussed and a new delegate decided on to represent the work group the following night.

  By Wednesday morning the workers’ council has collectivised the factories, shops, bars, barbers and nearly all of the surrounding agricultural land in the village. Over the front of all the main buildings the red and black flag of the CNT hangs proudly with the collectivised credentials of their new roles daubed in white paint across them.

  At the first meeting of the workers’ council it is decided that all children under fourteen would attend school, and those from fourteen years of age to sixteen would work in the mornings and attend school in the afternoons. It is decided that anyone of working age would be considered part of a work group, even if they were unable to work. During the second meeting it is argued that if restaurants are collectivised food can be saved and the surplus can be sent to the front to feed the militias. Each vote is carried unanimously.

  The workers’ council allows Pedro and his family to stay in their home, but the storeroom at the back of the house, his livestock and his agricultural land is collectivised. The council decides that while Pedro is recuperating, he and his family will be supported by the collective. In return, his mother and aunt work with the seamstress mending clothes and Juanico works in the fields in the morning and attends school in the afternoon. The family, without options, begrudgingly agrees.

  For those first few days Pedro stays in the house drinking the family’s allocation of wine. He makes no attempt to hide his seething temper, refusing to speak to anyone outside the family unless called specifically by the council. He spits drunken disdain at the doctor and nurse when they visit to check on his recuperation, and when his family tries to engage him in conversation he spews angry bitterness at them as well.

  Those first few evenings Pedro finds himself quietly crying himself into a drunken maudlin stupor late into the night alone in his bedroom. The overwhelming feeling his evenings conclude with is one of confusion as to why his aspirations have been at such odds with those closest to him. Lying in his bed, his shirt stained with wine, he struggles to understand what has happened. The workers have taken everything his family had worked for in response to the crimes of others. He sees himself caught in the middle, at once both powerless and responsible.

  Each night his struggle with his lack of options drags him further down. If the rebels retake his village as the news reports suggest they will then he is likely to be executed for not fighting. Equally, if the revolutionaries crush the rebels then his past abuses of his own workers will surely condemn him to death eventually. Each night the drunken self-exile of political loneliness drags him deeper into the wineskin and each night he surrenders to the warm embrace of an unconscious stupor, his only
companions, guilt and shame.

  Each evening the council listens to new proposals and then sends them back with the delegates to the work groups to vote on them. Proposals for a swimming pool, a football pitch, a library and a medical centre are all passed on the proviso that their first priorities, above all others, are the health of the villagers and the militias fighting the rebels.

  By the end of the first week hardly any money is passing between hands in the village; the individualists barter their produce with the council while the needs of the rest are met by the collective. All surplus labour is put to developing the village and producing food for the front. The extending of the electricity cables out from the main buildings to the surrounding houses and the digging of new wells and irrigation channels crisscrossing all of the surrounding fields start almost immediately.

  As the first week draws to a close the CNT members vote and unanimously pass the motion that as a village they must do more to defend the country. The following morning 200 workers volunteer to join the militia column marching from Barcelona towards Zaragoza.

  As the committee meeting draws to a close and the work group delegates start to make their way from the council chamber, Raul notices Salvador and his mother standing at the side of the room watching. He politely excuses himself from the conversation and makes his way through the crowd inching its way towards the great wooden doors.

  Salvador and Marianela both look serious, the same reluctant smile teasing the corners of their mouths.

  “Good evening, Comrades,” Raul says through a smile. With the crowd thinning, the three of them start to make their way towards the door. Raul puts his hand on Sal’s shoulder. “What is with the sad faces? Can you not hear what we are achieving here? Everything we have fought for. Everything that we believed. In this little village we are showing the world what men and women working together can achieve.” Sal silently nods as he welcomes the reassuring palm resting gently on his shoulder.

  Marianela allows her gaze to linger on her son for a moment before turning to Raul. “I don’t know about all of that. What I do know is that my son plans to join the columns marching for Zaragoza.”

  Raul squeezes the muscle running from the base of Salvador’s skull to the top of his shoulder. He feels the tight strength of the man’s muscle in his hand through the bandana around his neck. “He must do what he feels he must. The revolution will be won in the villages, the fields and at the front. You know that,” he replies.

  Marianela realises that he will not be the ally she was hoping for. “I will not have him die defending bourgeois interests in a city hundreds of miles from his home.”

  Sal puts his arm around his mother’s shoulder. “It is not like that, Mother. We need to make the revolution across Spain.”

  Without missing a beat, Raul continues the younger man’s sentence, “The battle to protect our village has simply moved. If we lose it in Zaragoza, or Madrid, or even here, we will lose the whole of Spain. They will not stop. They mean to crush all of us under the heels of their boots. All we have done here is to push them back. This will not be over until every village, town and city across the country has risen up and is in the workers’ hands.” The three of them walk through the lobby of the building. Marianela hangs her head and looks at the stone tiles beneath her feet. The two men glance at one another. Raul smiles at Salvador, squeezes his shoulder gently and nods his head in affirmation of the younger man’s decision.

  *

  In the house Pedro lowers himself down the stairs carefully, holding on tightly with one hand to the crutch and the other to the banister. Juanico carries the still-bubbling, blackened cast iron pot of bean stew through to the dining room. Pedro’s aunt follows him through with two long loaves of bread. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs he notices his mother sitting at the table waiting for the food to be brought to her. He feels the muscles in his thigh throb angrily in time with his emotions. He hops across the tiled floor and joins them at the table. His aunt spoons out the beige broth into the bowls while his mother cuts the long loaf of bread into slices. The flaking crust falls to the table and the floor with each saw of the serrated knife. She flings chunks of bread across the table to each of the plates. Pedro clumsily lowers himself into his chair and lets the crutch fall with a crash to the floor.

  The room once again falls silent, save for the sound of knife on bread. Juanico sits unmoving, staring at the stew in front of him. He can hear his father’s laboured breathing beside him. Once the bowls are filled Soledad’s sister takes her seat. All four of them lower their heads and close their eyes. The words of the prayer are barely louder than the exhalation of breath that they cling to. Soledad raises her head first, crosses herself and then plunges a chunk of bread into the broth, her sister and grandson follow. Pedro pours the wine into his cup, empties it in one visit to his mouth and then immediately refills it. He closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of the warm, thick liquid reaching his stomach.

  The sound of lips and tongues slapping against spoons like cats lapping at their food draws his attention back to the room. He opens his eyes and looks around the table. From the corner of her eye Soledad can see her son has not yet started. She chooses that moment to start the conversation she has been playing out in her mind for nearly three days.

  “We cannot let these godless — ” she offers, but doesn’t finish her sentence.

  Her son’s determined tone cuts her off, “Eat your dinner and shut up. You have nearly got me killed once already.”

  “But my son —” she implores him.

  “I told you, woman, shut up. Whatever you are about to say could get us all killed. So I am warning you, shut up and eat. Do you understand?” She looks down at her food. He slams his hand on the table. “Do you understand?” he asks again, his determination now dripping with anger. She silently nods her head. Neither the aunt nor the son looks up from their bowls. Pedro empties his cup again, refills it and gets up. Leaving his food untouched, he limps across the hall to the back door, splashing wine onto the tiles as he goes.

  *

  On reaching the covered walkway outside the town hall, Marianela takes her leave and the two men watch her walk away in silence. Raul waits until she turns the corner before speaking, “She loves you very much and she only says it because she fears for your safety.”

  Salvador puts his hand on his friend’s shoulder and starts walking across the square towards the bar. “I know. But you also know that I am needed at the front with the rest of our militias. The village is now safe in the hands of the collective with you guiding it.”

  Salvador walks slowly, recognising the tired gait of his friend. They reach the tables outside the bar and both men sit down facing out onto the square. The owner hurries over and quickly wipes down the table. “Evening, Comrades. Wine or coffee?” Both men ask for coffee. Sal slides his belt around slightly to reposition the revolver and holster to over his hip. Both men roll cigarettes in silence as they watch their fellow workers taking the evening air.

  “What is the news from the city?” Salvador asks.

  Raul lights his cigarette; the dry, stale tobacco leaves burn and a bitter smoke wafts across the table. As he replies smoke rolls from his mouth and nostrils, “The word is that Barcelona and Madrid are secure. Zaragoza has fallen to Mola and the Carlists, Franco and the moors kill everything in their path as they march up from the south.” He flicks the ash from his cigarette into the metal ashtray.

  “That’s not what I meant,” the younger man says.

  The bar owner brings across the coffees and places them down in front of them. Raul replies, “I know. You are not to worry. Barcelona is secure. We’ll hear something soon enough.” The two men silently watch the people wandering through the square. Uncomfortable, Raul brings the conversation back to safer ground; “If we do not inspire the revolution behind their lines, or at least retake
the cities, we will soon be surrounded. You are doing the right thing. And as for your mother, do not worry; I will talk to her. She will understand.”

  Sal sips his coffee and takes a moment to formulate his response before vocalising it. “Good, I will go to Caspe in the morning then and from there join with the column.”

  Raul smiles sincerely back at him and says, “And do not worry; I will give my life before letting this village fall.”

  The two men look at one another with mutual admiration for a few seconds, smile solemnly and then nod a begrudging acceptance of the situation. The minutes pass and they find comfort in watching the workers strolling carefree through the square. Both men try to focus on the scene playing out in front of them, but their minds’ eyes keep returning to imagined pictures of the fighting and suffering peppering the rest of the country. The nightmare images in their minds seem like a continent away from the utopian idyll playing out in front of them.

  *

  The following morning Marianela goes to the station with Salvador. The rucksack over his shoulder is filled with cured meats and tinned peaches that she had prepared for him long before he had woken up. With the rifle over his shoulder and the cap pulled down to shade his eyes he looks like any other peasant going out to hunt.

  When they reach the platform he sits down next to his mother on the bench. The shade of the roof protects them from the early morning glare. He takes the cap off. She holds his hand tight between both of hers on her lap as they watch several other young men from the village arriving. As each one arrives they put their bags down and settle in on the wooden platform for what was likely to be a long wait.