A Most Uncivil War

by Nicolas Lalaguna

  The solider responds, putting the rifle over his shoulder, “And the girl, sir?”

  Without looking back, the officer responds as he walks away, “As you please and then with the others.”

  The soldiers cross the garden as Marianela pleads with Pedro, “Please don’t let them kill me.” Unable to bear it, Pedro looks away and closes his eyes. The soldier grabs Marianela by the hair and drags her over the top of the barricade. Juanico starts crying loudly. A small smile teases the corner of Soledad’s mouth. Marianela wails as the soldier drags her through the house by the hair with her feet flailing wildly, trying to gain purchase on the ceramic tiles.

  Two of the soldiers usher Pedro and his family through the house. The second in command tells them to go to the casino where they will be held until their story is confirmed. As they are marched through the house Pedro sees two of the soldiers wrestling Marianela onto the floor in the dining room. Her screams are cut short as one of them punches her hard across the cheek, knocking her unconscious. The soldier walking beside Pedro smiles and pulls the door shut.

  In a matter of hours the soldiers manage to retake the village, capturing thirty-seven fighters and killing several hundred more. Many of the villagers who surrender are brought to the steps of the casino where they are held at gunpoint. The square is in ruins, with many of the buildings little more than bomb craters and pools of blood hardening in the earth. The soldiers have already started dragging the bodies in to a pile at the side of the square.

  At 11:30am the officer addresses the villagers. “We have captured your village. In the defence of our great empire I have been authorised to execute any and all revolutionaries. For those of you that wish to admit your guilt now, the priest will hear your confession and I will give you the honour of a Christian death. Those that do not will die as the godless dogs that you are,” he shouts in his most officious tone.

  The square remains silent. The trade unionists in the crowd stare at their feet, trying not to catch anyone’s eyes. The officer continues, “Anyone knowing of a revolutionary that does not come forward is complicit in their crimes and will die alongside them.” The square maintains its silence. The officer looks across the blank, tired faces, most of whom avoid his gaze. The silence drags on uncomfortably long. Eventually, the officer speaks, “Perhaps an example will help jog your memories.” And with that he turns back towards the centre of the square.

  In the centre of the square the thirty-seven fighters who have been captured are tied together in lines, kneeling on the floor, soldiers standing guard over them. The first line is dragged to its feet and pulled forwards towards the crowd. The priest that had arrived with the soldiers blesses the firing squad one by one. The officer turns back to the crowd on the steps inquisitively. On each side of the casino a line of twenty soldiers stand with guns trained on the crowd. Pedro can see Raul in the second line of prisoners. The first volley from the firing squad echoes around the square and the line of men fall to the ground. The officer watches the crowd. “Still nothing,” he says. He nods to the soldier in charge of the prisoners who drags the next line to their feet in front of the line of corpses. The five men stand staring at the firing squad.

  Pedro tries to focus on Raul’s face across the square. The once proud, intelligent man is now washed out and vacant. Raul lets his unfocused eyes wander across the faces of the villagers he had called comrade. He sees Pedro looking back at him. The priest starts blessing the firing squad again as they cock their rifles. They take aim. With the little strength he has remaining, Raul shouts, “They shall not pass,” to which three of the prisoners standing with him respond, “Comrades, raise the flag…” The gunshots ring out and echo through the streets and houses. Their voices are silenced in a split second, their defiance cut short. Many of the crowd finish the sentence in their heads, of revolution. The officer grimaces as he watches the bodies collapse down onto their fallen comrades. In all, it takes just over ten minutes for all thirty-seven male prisoners to be shot while the crowd are forced to watch. As the last of the corpses are loaded unceremoniously onto the flatbed of the truck the officer turns back to the crowd.

  The midday sun hides the shadows and bakes the blood soaked earth. “Still no one remembers any revolutionaries. Perhaps you need a demonstration of how serious we take this situation. Bring out the women.” As he waits the officer paces up and down in front of the crowd on the stairs of the casino apparently talking to himself, “It is truly remarkable how these animals don’t have the intelligence to fear God or their betters, yet they are loyal like whipped dogs to comrades.”

  A soldier returns to the square, dragging a line of women tied together by their hands behind him. Their heads have been roughly shaven, the slips are caked in dried blood and mud and their bare skin is pockmarked with bruises and cuts. Beaten and abused, the women’s remaining strength is barely enough to keep them standing.

  A soldier kicks the back of the first woman’s knee, forcing her forwards onto her knees. He pulls back her head and forces open her mouth. A second soldier steps up with a five litre demijohn of castor oil which he pours into her coughing and spluttering mouth. They two soldiers repeat the process down the line. When they finish with each woman a third soldier kicks her in the stomach, forcing her already weakened body to the ground. By the time they finish with the last woman the castor oil starts to take effect and each in turn starts vomiting and defecating uncontrollably.

  The three soldiers stand over them grinning. The women shiver and shake in their failing states. It is Juanico that recognises Marianela first, third in the line. Blood, urine and excrement stain her groin and behind. Juanico reaches for his father’s hand and grips it tightly. Not wanting to draw attention, his father leans down and whispers, “Do not look.”

  With tears rolling down his cheeks he replies, “But look at what they have done to our maid. Look at what has become of my Marianela.” Pedro scans the line of women hoping that his son is wrong and then he sees her. Her face is masked in earth, blood, bruising and inflammation. He feels his stomach turning with cowardice and bile as a tear rolls down his cheek.

  The officer paces up and down the crowd, watching the faces staring back at the spectacle in controlled horror. He allows himself a small smile. “So be it,” he says and gives the order. The women are dragged one by one to their feet and shot in the back of the head. As Marianela falls to the floor Juanico lets out a cry. The officer turns quickly and pushes his way through the crowd until he reaches Pedro and the boy. Pedro pulls the boy into his chest and wraps his arm around him. “Of course,” the officer says, “apparently, you are the gardener, no?” Pedro nods his head. The officer grabs his elbow and pulls him through the crowd behind him. They reach the bottom of the steps and he pulls the man around so that he is facing him. “Do you want to tell me why your son is so attached to one of these dogs?” he asks him.

  Pedro looks down deferentially and replies, “His mother died in childbirth and the maid was his wet nurse. It is nothing more than that.”

  Before he can continue a soldier comes across the square with the estate manager, Garcia, walking behind him. The soldier whispers something into the officer’s ear. The officer holds his hand up to silence Pedro as he listens to the soldier before turning to face Garcia. Garcia nods his head. The soldier takes a step back and the officer turns back to Pedro. “You are very lucky; this man represents your employer and corroborates your story,” he says.

  Pedro holds his son sobbing tightly to his chest as he listens. Fear grips his throat and he mouths the words “Thank you” towards Garcia.

  The officer smiles. “Very lucky indeed. A moment later and the two of you could well have joined the wet nurse. You are free to return to your house,” he says. The officer self-importantly waves them away as he turns back to the crowd. “Now then. Where were we? Oh yes.”

  Epilogue

  On the 1st Fe
bruary 1939, close to the French border, the Republican government sits for the last time on Spanish soil. A week later Franco passes a law making all previous republican activity a criminal offence, followed almost immediately by the fall of Catalonia and the border to France closing. By the beginning of April 1939, Franco’s dictatorship has been recognised by the governments of Britain, France and the United States of America. General Francisco Franco Bahamonde goes on to live and rule as the dictator of Spain until his death in 1975.

  By the time Juan Nicolas is in his mid-eighties both of his sons have moved to the city where they raise their families from behind desks and computer screens. Their children in turn have distanced themselves even further from the family and its history, only visiting to briefly savour what was left of their rural past like a tasting menu that they can tell their friends about. They never stay for long and invariably when the weekend draws to a close they leave Juan Nicolas under the shadow of the olive tree with just his regrets for company.

  An autumnal breeze whispers through the bows of the tree just as the old man parts the beaded curtains onto the inner courtyard. After a light lunch of a fried egg and some melon he is tired and makes his way across to his chair in the shade. He closes his eyes that are already shaded by the peak of his cap and drifts into a fragile sleep. The heat of the sun warms his bones and muscles. They stop aching for a few minutes as he crumples in on himself in the arms of the wicker chair.

  He doesn’t hear the first knock at the door, but as the door opens and the voice carries through the house he shakes himself awake. “I’m coming. I’m coming,” he calls back as he struggles to lift himself out of the chair.

  The voice carries once more through the house, “I am looking for Juan Nicolas that used to live here,” it calls out.

  “And he is still living here if you will give him a moment,” the old man replies. As the gnarled hand wrapped in washed out, greying skin pulls the beads of the curtain back a memory takes form before Juan Nicolas’ eyes. A memory from over seventy years earlier.

  Standing before him is an old, thin, grey man, with a face that has aged but is unquestioningly that of his friend. The tears start rolling down his wrinkled face as soon as he recognises Salvador standing in the doorway. Sal smiles back and his eyes, monochromed by time, fill with tears. “I didn’t know if you would still be here,” he says. He holds his hands out and walks towards Juanico. The other man pushes them away and engulfs him in an embrace. They hold each other tightly, their bodies are fragile and weakened by the years and delicate to the other’s touch. The two men hold each other for several seconds before pulling away to look at each other’s faces. The years haven’t been kind to either of them but close up Juanico can see just how dark grey and drawn Sal’s face has become.

  A young woman steps through the door and steadies the older man at the elbow. Until that moment Juanico had often wrestled with his memories of his childhood, but in that moment he can see Marianela looking back at him. The woman is in her late forties, has long, black hair with strands of dark brown when the sun catches it; soft, tanned, olive skin and wide brown eyes. Juanico can’t pull his gaze away from her. “She has your mother’s face, but exactly your mother’s face,” he says with his hand over his mouth.

  The woman smiles and kisses him on both cheeks, “I am very pleased to meet you, Don Juan Nicolas. I have heard a lot about you,” she says with an accent. Salvador allows his daughter to help him to the table. He formally introduces them. My oldest daughter, Marianela. My oldest friend, Juan Nicolas.”

  “Let me get you both coffee, you are staying for coffee, no?” Juanico asks.

  Marianela replies, “Please, let me get the coffee. I am sure it is all easy to find.” She pulls out a chair for him. Juanico graciously accepts it; overcome by emotion, he is grateful for the chance to sit down. He puts his hand on top of his friend’s hand.

  “It is truly remarkable how much she looks like your mother,” he says. She smiles again and makes her way back into the house. Salvador rests the walking stick against the table beside him. “I am sorry we could not let you know we were coming.” His Spanish is strongly accented.

  Juanico holds his friend’s hand tightly. “All these years I feared the worst. All these years.” He smiles.

  Salvador is frail and he struggles through cataracts to see his friend. “I did not know who was left in the village, if anyone would remember me. But when I got back to Barcelona I knew I had to come and see. We brought Cati back to be buried with her family.” He pauses for a second, his voice cracking, “And comrades. I just had to… ” before he finishes his sentence his voice splinters and the pain overwhelms him. His head falls forwards and he begins to cry. Juanico holds his hand tightly, his own voice silenced by the sorrow racking the man in front of him. The two men sit in silence, Salvador’s shoulders shuddering slightly as the sadness grips his heart and the tears roll down his face without a sound.

  The three of them sit for several hours as the two men tell each other of their lives since the war. Marianela sits in silence at the end of the table watching and listening. As the sun finally starts to dip behind the roof and the warmth begins its onward journey west the two men fall silent, the cold reaching their ailing bodies. “Are you staying close by?” Juanico asks.

  Marianela answers him, “We are driving back to Barcelona tonight and then flying back to London tomorrow.” Juanico nods his head with regret. Sal smiles at him. They stare silently at one another taking in the other’s face and consigning it to memory for the days and months that would follow.

  “Before you go I have something for you. A letter my father left for you in his will,” Juanico says as he lifts himself out of the chair and slowly makes his way back into the house.

  Once out of earshot Sal turns to his daughter and whispers, “That man has nothing to say to me, take the letter. I do not want to insult my old friend. That monster killed your grandmother; I want no part of his deathbed confession. That bastard will get no forgiveness from me.” Marianela holds her father’s hand and resignedly nods.

  Juanico finds the letter at the bottom of the drawer and returns to the hallway where Salvador and his daughter are waiting for him. He hands him the letter. Salvador holds the other man’s hand tightly as he takes it. “My old friend, I wish we could have grown old together. I would have liked that.”

  Juanico, feeling his eyes filling with tears once again and his vision clouding, replies with a smile, “We still can.”

  Sal puts his arms around the other man, holding the letter tight against his sharp shoulders. “It is far too late for all of that.”

  They break the embrace and Salvador hands the letter to his daughter. He turns towards the front door. Marianela kisses Juanico on both cheeks and says, “I will make sure he writes. It was a pleasure to meet you, Don Juan Nicolas.”

  Juanico stands in the doorway watching the woman help her father into the car and then the car drive down the street and turn right at the end of the road. He leans back against the door and listens intently to the disappearing noise of the car’s engine. His frail body visibly slumps as the tears roll down his cheek. He knows what the letter said and he curses his own cowardice for not having the strength to embrace his brother. A brother who only had months left to live, a brother dying of a cancer that would finally silence the once optimistic and proud revolutionary that he had been in awe of, a brother that he knew would never read the letter.

 

 

 
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