Pedro thinks about the other man’s words and allows his gaze to scan across the horizon of the fields stretching out before them. He can see the first shift of workers already bent double in the distant fields. He considers his reply for several seconds, but a cogent justification for his fear eludes him. Raul sees it in his face, turns back towards the main village and says matter-of-factly, “Let us get you back to your bed, you have done enough walking for one day.”
*
Over the days that follow Raul comes each morning shortly after sunrise to Pedro’s house to take him for breakfast at the dining hall and to walk him to a new works programme in the village. Each morning the conversation largely follows the same pattern and when they reach the inevitable impasse Raul brings the walk to a halt by repeating the same words, “You have done enough walking for one day.” At which point Pedro returns to the house that has become noticeably quieter. Although his mother and aunt are confused by the morning journeys they welcome the new environment of sobriety and pensive reflection with a nervous trepidation, the memory of the quick to violent anger still very fresh in their minds.
Pedro waits for Raul to arrive on the Sunday morning for thirty minutes before deciding to go out on his own. His son watches him from the dining room table. Soledad gestures in silence across the table to her grandson to go and talk to his father. The young boy nods back towards her and gets up from the table. He walks across to his father, pausing in mid-stride as the man lifts himself out of the chair and starts making his way towards the door. Juanico runs across towards the door to open it for him. He puts his hand on the handle and turning back towards his father asks, “If you are taking the air this morning may I join you?”
The man looks at his son, in his mind musing that it would not be long before they would be the same height. He smiles and nods his head. “I would be honoured to walk with you. Open the door,” he replies. A smile lights up the boy’s face and he allows the golden morning sunlight to pour into the solemn shadows of the entrance room.
They step out into the street and the sun warms their skin reassuringly. They make their way towards the main square in silence. The boy struggles nervously to pluck up the courage to engage his father in conversation; a father that had always seemed distant or at least otherwise preoccupied. He’d often wondered when he would be old enough for his father to start sharing those unspoken burdens. After walking for a few moments he finds just enough courage to try. “You seem troubled, Father. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Pedro looks out across the square to see the new routines. Somewhere deep inside, he had deluded himself into expecting to see people dressed for Sunday Mass. What, in fact, greets him is the same thing he has seen every morning on these walks. The workers rushing to the dining hall, laughing, smiling and triumphantly displaying their red and black neckerchiefs. In contrast, what was left of the middle management now flits tentatively and moth-like in and out of the crowds. Demoted to overall-clad members of the workforce, they nervously glance away as soon as anyone comes too close, the terror of imminent threat paralysing them with anxiety.
Pedro looks across the square for a few moments before answering, “These are strange times we find ourselves in, my son.”
The boy follows the older man’s eyes out across the square before answering, “People look happier, don’t they?”
The father puts his arms around the boy’s shoulders and starts walking across to the tables outside the bar he used to frequent. He replies monotonically, “They do look happier.”
Hanging over the doorway of the bar the coloured stripes of the republican flag waft in the breeze. The two of them sit down and the owner comes out almost immediately to the table to greet them, “Good morning.” His voice lowers as he finishes his sentence, “Don Pedro.”
Pedro looks up at him, slightly taken aback, and then glances around to make sure no one is in earshot. “What do you think you are playing at? Use your head. You could get us both killed,” Pedro snaps quietly.
The man hangs his head apologetically, “Forgive me, sir. I meant no disrespect. With the anarchists in charge no one wants to pay for drinks. I will have to join them if I am to eat. I meant no disrespect.”
Pedro angrily replies, “Call me Pedro and fetch me and the boy coffee.” The man nods apologetically and hurries back to the sanctuary of the empty bar.
Pedro rolls a cigarette and passes the tobacco pouch to his son. With his hands slightly shaking the boy struggles to roll a cigarette. The man brings out the coffees. Both father and son remain silent until the bar owner has retreated to the bar. Pedro stares out across the square as he stirs the steaming liquid. He is unaware that his son is mirroring his actions a few seconds after him. Eventually, the boy can no longer stand the silence and says, “What is to happen to us, Father? What is to happen to the village?”
Pedro looks back from the square to his son and releases a deep sigh before saying, “I don’t know.” He pauses, smiles and then repeats himself, “I am afraid I really don’t know.”
*
Raul comes down the steps of the dining hall and offers his hand to Marianela. She obliges by placing her elbow into the safety of his firm grip. Marianela is the first to notice Pedro and Juanico across the square. Marianela, without turning to look at Raul, asks him, “How are your morning talks with Pedro going?”
Raul forces a short smile to try and mask his true feelings. “I think they are going well. He can see what we are doing is for the good of all us.” The smile leaves his face. “His fear of their authority has soaked through to his core. I am worried that his fear will outweigh what his mind sees and his heart knows.” He changes direction and starts walking towards them. “Come, let us join them for a coffee. Perhaps a normal conversation will help him to see what he has been missing.” Nervously, Marianela agrees, allowing Raul to lead her.
Pedro and Juanico look up from the table as the two reach them. Pedro greets them, “Good morning, Raul, Marianela.” Marianela smiles.
Raul replies, “Good morning, Pedro, Juan Nicolas. Might we join you for a coffee?”
Pedro points to the empty chairs. “Of course.” The two sit down.
The waiter comes across and asks, “What would you like?”
Raul looks around the table, “Is everyone having coffee?” They all smile back and nod back at him. The waiter sheepishly makes his way between the tables and back into the bar.
Pedro opens the conversation, “I was expecting our usual walk this morning.” Juanico and Marianela sit in silence, their heads moving back and forth as the men speak.
“I felt that you had probably seen and heard enough from me for one week. But I am pleased to see the two of you taking the air.” Pedro smiles and offers his tobacco around the table. Only Raul accepts it.
“I believe my leg is almost better and it is time for me to get back to my fields,” he says as he watches the other man rolling the dry tobacco.
Raul looks up briefly, partially raising one eyebrow. He lights the cigarette before responding, “Your fields are being worked by the collective for the village. If you wish to, you can work with us.”
Pedro watches the man’s face, closely trying to interpret any minute expression as he speaks. He continues, “As I said to you at the beginning, if you wish to maintain land as an individual as some of your previous allies have, the collective can allocate you a field to work. But you cannot hire anyone and any land that falls fallow will be expropriated back into the collective.” No one responds. The waiter brings the coffees and puts one in front of each of them. They all wait in silence for him to leave. Once out of earshot Raul continues, “We can help you with any irrigation channels to your land and you will be allowed to barter or buy with the collective stores.” Pedro nods his head as he listens.
Marianela stops glancing between the two men and focuses
on the boy sitting opposite her. She remembers how she held him to her chest when he cried to be fed. She remembers sitting with him as an infant, gently stroking his soft stomach to help him fall asleep. Juanico notices from his peripheral vision that Marianela’s head has stopped moving and looks back across the table towards her. Her deep brown eyes stare back warmly at him. He allows his mind to filter out everything but her eyes. He wrestles with an inner conflict; a part of him is angry at her treachery towards him and his father but at the same time he nostalgically hankers to be safe and warm in her arms once again. Their gaze doesn’t break from one another even when the men continue talking.
“And what of my family?” Pedro asks.
Raul answers him, “If they work for the collective they will continue receiving food and pay. If they work in your field then they will have the same relationship as you will have. You will not be harmed; in fact, you will be helped when we can afford to. We are working to bring electricity, water and phones to all of the houses; you have no need of the water because you have the pump in the garden. And, of course, you will not get a phone while you are outside of the collective. After all, we are still at war. But as for the electricity, when we get to your house it will be included as it is for everyone else.”
Pedro pushes the cigarette into the corner of the ashtray and watches the end fold under the pressure. “I will need to talk with my family to see what they wish and perhaps we can give you our answer tomorrow?” he asks.
Raul smiles at him. It is a warm smile. “There is no rush, Pedro. We are not forcing you to do anything. We are simply taking away your opportunity to oppress anyone. If you wish to be an individual, that is your right. Equally, it is our right not to toil in order to make your life better. The doctor, the school; all of these things are here for all of us. Unlike before, you will not be charged for these things.”
Pedro feels the pressure clamped around the back of his neck and head lessen as the fear lifts. “Thank you, Raul,” he says.
Laughing through his response, Raul replies, “You do not have to thank me. All you have to do is not harm the workers or the collective. As long as you do that you are welcome to be part of the village.” Pedro looks down at the cup. Raul continues, “Pedro, you were mostly good before this happened. And since. Well, since you have not once tried to leave the village to join the enemy nor tried to undermine our revolution. Pedro, you are not our enemy. Not unless you wish to shackle us back into our prisons of servitude, and hunger, and torture. While you respect us and our freedoms you will come to no harm.” Pedro nods his head. Raul carries on, “If you wish to leave with your family no one is stopping you. You can take a train to Zaragoza. You and your family can cross the lines there if you wish. I warn you though; the word from the front is that the fascists are killing anyone that attempts to cross the line. You are better here with us. Our young men and women are fighting to make this country safe again. Wait until we have put down this uprising.”
The two men sit in silence as they think through the conversation. Pedro finds it difficult to balance the two positions vying for authority in his mind. On the one hand, Raul and Marianela are the only people in his life who see him as their equal, while, on the other, everything he has ever known or learned tells him that they are his inferiors. His earliest memories are of being told that it was God’s will that these people were born peasants. He struggles with the belief deep inside that they are inferior and he is superior. He is suddenly very aware of feeling uncomfortable. He avoids making eye contact with Raul or Marianela, knowing that if he looks into their eyes he will only see himself staring back.
Chapter 22
As August begins and the unrelenting summer sun beats down on Spain so the Nationalist insurgents march on Extremadura. By mid August Badajoz crumbles and the southern and northern regions of control are linked. In early September Largo Caballero is named Prime Minister of the Republic, the Nationalists capture and close the border between France and the Basque territories and Italian aircraft set up bases in Mallorca and begin bombing the Republican controlled mainland. In the second week of September the British and French governments cut off support to the Republic while insurgents, backed by the governments of Germany and Italy, capture San Sebastian and Rhonda. On the 10th October 1936 the Republican government announces the setting up of the Popular Army which is to be made up of army units still loyal to the government and structured as a traditional military hierarchy.
A few days earlier word had reached the village that a nationalist column had taken several villages to the north. This is in Raul’s mind as he stands at the bar with several of his colleagues looking out across the square. Like many of the preceding nights, the conversation is once again focused on the socialist government’s decree to disband the anarchist revolution and support the communist-led defence. Raul feels angry and sad as he looks at the faces of the men pleading with one another. They plead with each other for the new government to see reason and to recognise the effectiveness of the collectivisation. Like many of the nights before, they argue in agreement with one another. With raised voices they explain what the other already knows, that not only had they been able to produce enough to feed the village but they had already sent several lorries to what was left of the militias at the front line. A front line that was getting ever closer, Raul thought to himself as he looked out of the bar.
The discussion in the bar that night follows the same pattern as many of the nights before, the same people argue for handing authority to the communists while the others argue for continuing the revolution whatever the cost. As every night previously, Raul finds himself torn. Torn between the revolution and the fear of losing the war. He, like many across Spain, realises that they now stand alone and the governments of the world have left them to die. He had been fighting the capitalists and the fascists for the majority of his life and he knew that if they failed to halt them now then those he cared most for would probably be killed or rot away in prisons. As he stands and listens to the discussion his thoughts are of his loved ones, his family and his comrades.
Raul looks over the shoulder of the man speaking at the square behind him. His attention has been drawn to the fact that several of the children and the adults have all, within moments of each other, stopped and looked up to the skies. Raul watches them for a few seconds, unable to understand what it is he is seeing. One by one more and more of them stop moving and look towards the skies. As the realisation of what it is that he is witnessing dawns on him the voices of the men around him fall silent in his mind. He pushes through the crowd of men towards the doorway of the bar where he begins to hear a distant, almost inaudible, whine like an electric lamp.
The noise seems to be coming from the north-west. He can see the mannequin-still people all facing in the same direction as he makes his way through the tables on the pavement and into the square. He looks into the cloudless night sky over the top of the police station. The men he was standing with follow him out and take up positions amongst the tables in silence staring at the star-filled sky. The moon lights the square with an unnatural blue tinge, washing out the faces staring up to the heavens. The whine becomes loud enough to discern from the silence of the night and the silence of the square.
It is then that he sees them; seven vulture-like silhouettes in a v shape in the distance, blinking the stars out as they pass in front of them. The glass in his hand drops to the ground, shattering as it hits the paving stone. The moment he realises what it is that he is seeing he screams, “Take cover, get out of the square, they are coming.” The silhouettes accelerate towards the village as they dive towards the ground. He runs into the middle of the square still screaming, “Take cover; take cover.” The silhouettes pass high above the village as the whining sound of the propellers is drowned out by the high-pitched whistling of the swastika-adorned bombs cascading from their bellies. The villagers start running in a confused maelstrom of
bodies in every direction. Raul can hear the whistling getting louder and louder as he picks up a small boy and pushes him into the arms of the nearest person. “Get under cover,” he screams.
The loudest whistle stops in an instant, when it is followed immediately by a deafening, dull thud that reverberates through the earth like a wave. The shockwave runs up Raul’s legs and lifts him off the ground. In the time it takes for an eye to blink the world freezes and falls silent. Raul feels the earth and his body ripple as one. Before he has time to process the information coming from his senses the world explodes in white light. The people running from the north-east corner of the square are lifted off the ground like children’s toys and tossed across the square towards him. Raul stumbles back and the pressure of the blast pushes him down towards the earth. There is another thud from the centre of the square almost immediately followed by a third from somewhere behind him.
The second bomb explodes, picking up the limp bodies rolling across the square and flinging them in a new direction. Raul feels himself being pushed in the same direction. The heat of the blast burns his hair and melts the flesh on his neck as he pinwheels lifelessly across the earth, unable to control his flailing limbs.
The open mouths of the screaming people are rendered mute as the earth rolls in waves beneath them. Blast after blast explodes in lines across the village as the depressingly recognisable smell of burning flesh and cordite fills his nose. As abruptly as it starts, it appears to end. Raul notices that he is lying on the earth blinking, watching the vultures pulling away into the distance and leaving the terror-engulfed village shrinking nonchalantly into their past. The scorched flesh and open wounds across the back of his head and neck bleed into the earth, soaking his shirt in its crimson, muddy pool.
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