These two attacks in just one day were truly extraordinary, not only because the vigilante had shifted from attacking union leaders to members of the elite, but also due to the targets he had selected. For decades violence against Barcelona’s governing class had either been blind, directed at emblematic sites (such as the historic bomb at the Liceo) or had singled out figures who clearly represented what the anarchists viewed as embodiments of repressive power: civil governors, industrialists with a reputation for exploitation, police chiefs, or leaders of the Free Union squaring off against the General Union. Never before, however, had they gone after leading figures of the city’s social elite prominent for nothing else than their privileged positions.
Güell held no political office, nor had he been implicated in any act of repression. He was basically a very typical figure of Barcelona’s high society who, when engaging in political affairs, did so discreetly and always in a diplomatic fashion. An attempt on his life could only represent a warning that it was open season on Barcelona’s best families, who had sought to observe the social struggle from afar, remaining above the fray while delegating the thorniest tasks to men they could trust. After the scare at the soiree in Turó Park, this was the second shot over the bow, and this one was even louder.
* * *
Two days after these violent events the city enjoyed a festive morning. The celebration of a series of acts, which had been scheduled for a long time, fostered a spirit of patriotic reaffirmation and order which was only heightened by the trauma which the most recent attacks had inflicted. On Sunday at eleven o’clock in the morning, the somaténes of Barcelona’s District II were to march through the city. Over 1,400 somatenistas had mustered on Paseo de la Industria, toting their rifles, flags, and pennants, under the command of José Rovira. The new Captain General of Catalonia, Miguel Primo de Rivera y Orbaneja, presided over the act. Present were the civil governor, the chief magistrate of the High Court, a contingent of councilmen, a priest on behalf of the diocese, a number of other dignitaries, and a few of the city’s prominent gentlewomen. The captain general and his staff reviewed the somatenes, after which there was an open-air mass at an altar that had been erected in front of the Museo Martorell featuring an image of the Virgen de Montserrat surrounded with flowers. At the two far sides flew a Spanish and a Catalonian flag. After the mass a Jaen infantry regiment’s military band played a few pieces.
The next day the Círculo de Cazadores club was the dinner venue for the Unión Monárquica Nacional, the body bringing together Catalonian society’s most strident defenders of King Alfonso. As we savored the Duchesse consommé, Windsor soup, turbot with hollandaise sauce and the Carré d’Agneau Maintenon, which was very good (that surprised me for, as one knows, it’s difficult to eat well at a dinner for many people), I stared at the decorations on the tables: a centerpiece made of broom and carnations evoking the Spanish crest. There were two presidential tables: at one sat López Ballesteros, as the city’s civil governor, and the other was headed up by Alfonso Sala, the president of the Unión Monárquica and a Parliamentary representative. The first speech was delivered by the latter.
After commenting on and condemning the most recent violence, Sala dedicated the banquet to López Ballesteros, not only because his application and personal qualities merited such a tribute, “but because he represents the Army, the hope of our country.” He described his handling of affairs as “true and genuine heroism,” which almost brought tears to the general’s eyes, and also defined the ideals of the Unión Monárquica Nacional, declaring that it was the mission of all Catalonian citizens “to feel, before all and above all, love for the Spanish nation.” López Ballesteros then rose to speak about commitment, reminding those gathered that it is always darkest before dawn and assuring them that the end of violence and crime in Barcelona was drawing ever closer.
I spotted Rocabert at a nearby table, and avoided the cynic who had proven to be no friend at all.
When they brought out the liqueurs, López Ballesteros’s assistant came to my table to give me a message. The general wished to speak to me. I dutifully followed him.
“Congratulations, General. This is a great homage to your leadership.”
But our civil governor was not beating around the bush. “Have you heard about the attacks? Do you remember what I told you about Danton? He is no assassin of ours, but an unpredictable killer. I suppose you believe me now.”
“General, you have always provided me with the best information on this strange character, just as I have done with you when I believed that lives were in danger.”
“And of that you can be proud. Now I would like to ask you for another act of service.”
That word had me wary. “I hope that it’s within my powers to assist you, General. I can help, but not serve you; as Quixote said, weapons and letters ought to be joined, but not melded.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” he replied. “After you mentioned Lacalle’s disappearance to me, I looked into a few things. I have confirmed that he indeed may be in grave danger—not from our men, though, but from his own, as there’s a conspiracy brewing within the General Union to purge it of its most moderate elements. That’s why I must ask you, should you find Lacalle before we do, to put me in contact with him. We’re interested in protecting him, as his position, less belligerent than that of his counterparts, represents for us a ray of light in our efforts to bring peace back to the city.”
“But I don’t know if I’ll find him and, if I do, neither can I guarantee that he’ll wish to see you.”
“I’ll tell you my motives,” he continued, all but ignoring my reply. “I think I have a formula for a definitive solution to all the shootings in Barcelona. To this end I want to sit down behind closed doors, as long as it takes, with the mayor; someone who can represent the bosses, like your friend Rocabert; the chief magistrate of the High Court, as an unbiased mediator; and at least three union leaders, Lacalle among them. Nobody will get up from this meeting until we reach a solid agreement for social peace. As you see, the ends I pursue could not be more noble. But the right people must be convened.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure, General, if I’m the right person to help you, but I’ll consider your request, and we’ll see how things play out.”
“I hope you will. Enjoy your evening, Vilar.”
“Thank you, General.”
On my way out of El Círculo I spotted Rocabert’s strong back as he faded into the darkness of the night. Farewell, farewell, José María.
* * *
At a time when so many disappearances were going unpunished, others were subject to the intense scrutiny of the law, with its myriad procedures. Why were some investigated while others were not? I often asked myself this question in those days. One possible answer was that many violent crimes had an identified and detained culprit, while the infinite series of political attacks were enveloped in a thick fog.
The case of the son who killed his mother’s lover, one of the most widely covered of all those in which I was involved during those years, was summarized by the prosecutor, Mr. Torres Badía, in his closing brief as follows:
“Jesusa Hidalgo Casas and Antonio Sánchez Pacheco lived as a couple in a shanty in the La Prosperidad district, in the town of San Andrés, with her son, the defendant Luis García Hidalgo, age seventeen. There were frequent fights between the two lovers, and on the evening of April 1, Sánchez Pacheco quarreled with Jesusa, verbally and physically attacking her, for which the defendant reproached him. Antonio then told Luis García that he was going to blow his brains out and, drawing a revolver, threatened him and the woman with it. In response, Luis García grabbed a knife lying on the kitchen table and stabbed Sánchez in the second intercostal space, puncturing his aorta and lung, wounds which would prove fatal.”
According to the prosecutor, the actions of Luis García constituted a homicide and, accounting for the fact that the defendant was a minor, he asked for a sentence of six years
and one day of prison, and the award of legal costs, and compensatory damages of three thousand pesetas to the victim’s family.
I, meanwhile, argued something that was plain as day: Luis García did nothing more than defend his mother from an assault by her companion, who had threatened to kill her. In light of this, I asked for my client’s complete acquittal.
The tribunal in this case was made of the section magistrate Don Ignacio Rodríguez Pajares and justices Don Evaristo Casado and Don Saturnino Bajo. Seventeen witnesses were summoned to testify.
After the provisional conclusions of the parties were read by the secretary, the questioning of the defendant proceeded. A tanner by trade, he had no criminal record.
The young man explained that on the day in question he had returned from work exhausted and yearning to get to sleep. His mother asked him to wait for Antonio Sánchez to arrive so that they could all eat together. After tiring of waiting, they had supper at nine thirty before retiring to their respective bedrooms.
Antonio arrived later and, as was his habit, began to berate and verbally abuse the defendant’s mother. Luis, awakened by the shouting, admonished Antonio for his conduct, telling him not to raise such a ruckus, as the whole neighborhood was asleep and it was too late to be making so much noise.
Sánchez Pacheco faced off with him and threatened to kick him as he began to beat his mother, simultaneously insulting both. When Luis intervened again on behalf of his mother, Sánchez produced a revolver, with which he threatened the defendant, who opened a window and shouted for help.
With the man continuing to pose a threat, and finding himself defenseless and convinced that he was going to fall victim to his aggressor, in order to repel the attack Luis grabbed a small knife from the table, one used to cut bread. Without intending to cause wounds as serious as those he did, he then stabbed Sánchez with the weapon. Seeing him wounded, he proceeded directly to the nearest police station to explain what had happened and turn himself in.
The defendant told the jury that the year before, after returning from the festivities at the romería of San Medín, Sánchez had battered his mother severely and, as a result of a blow to her chest, they had to remove part of her breast at the hospital.
Then it was time for the accused’s mother, Jesusa Hidalgo, to testify; she provided the same account of events as that given by her son. The coroners, Saforcada and Rois, then explained how the wound was produced and the causes of death.
After this, the witnesses proposed by the prosecutor were questioned by the defense, one by one. María Juvernos and Antonio Martínez, neighbors of the defendant, reported that the latter was an excellent young man, while the victim as an irascible character who was constantly abusing Luis’s mother.
And then the defense’s witnesses testified: the former warden of the prison, Don Juan Álvarez; police officer Ricardo Medina; security guard José Calvet; and José Soto, a neighbor. All of them vouched for Luis García Hidalgo’s character, the officer and guard confirming that he had turned himself in at the station immediately after the incident.
With the testimony phase completed, the trial proceeded with the examination of the evidence, and we proceeded with our closing arguments.
The prosecutor’s performance was able and eloquent. He began by talking about the jury’s duty and asked for a guilty verdict, in accord with justice. He then proceeded to describe the facts, pausing to examine those points where, in his view, there were contradictions. He analyzed the defendant’s and his mother’s statements, expressing his surprise at how perfectly they coincided, “as if following an agreement.”
He pointed out some minor inconsistencies in the testimony given and, finally, argued that it was a case of homicide, albeit with the mitigating factor that the defendant was under eighteen years of age and, as such, a minor, before requesting a verdict of guilty.
Then it was my turn, and I gave it all I had. Defending Luis García Hidalgo before a jury, which tends to decide with its heart rather than its head, obligated me to seek to touch and move them. Thus, I underscored the young man’s good conduct, attested to by all the witnesses, including those called by the prosecution, and how he suffered seeing his mother enduring constant beatings and harassment from a heartless villain.
The members of the jury nodded and there were clear indications of agreement amid the public. I was doing well. It was time to lay it on thick.
“This young man before you did nothing but defend his mother. So, let me talk to you about my own mother, who died just a few years ago, under dramatic circumstances. If death, which tore from my arms that blessed woman who had brought me into the world, had taken earthly form, I too would have assailed it with all my might, employing any and every instrument at my disposal to do so, proud of having fulfilled my sacred duty to defend my mother’s life. And I would have sat as a good son, unrepentant, at the same table at which my client sits today, for having defended her life.”
In the front rows some ladies were sobbing, and shouts of support echoed from the public, forcing the judge to call for order in the court. I concluded my argument pleading for a verdict of not guilty.
After being instructed by the judge, the jury recessed to deliberate. They quickly came back with a verdict. The charges were officially nine, and on every count the jury declared the defendant to be absolutely innocent. As a result, the court issued its verdict, acquitting Luis García, and announcing that the court costs would be borne by the state.
Upon hearing the decision, the defendant, a decent young man, was overcome with emotion and embraced me, while his mother passed out, a common reaction in these situations, and had to be revived right there at the courthouse.
* * *
When I came out of the courtroom, several people approached to congratulate me and to discuss aspects of the trial. I lingered for a while to speak with them, but they were not enough of a distraction to keep me from noticing a ragged-looking street urchin standing next to a lamppost, observing the situation and waiting for me.
After concluding my chat with my curious well-wishers, I walked across the Salón de San Juan and noticed that the boy was following me.
I spun around and asked him who he was.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Vilar, you can trust me. El Chimo sent me.”
“I’m fine, I just don’t like people following me. And tell me, what happened to Joaquín?” I asked, sincerely interested in the boy sent off at too tender an age to be held in a state correctional facility.
“I shared a cell with him for a few months at the jail in Burgos, and we talked a lot. You know El Chimo, he gets around and makes friends right away. He told me, when I got out, to come and give you some information. He also told me I’d find you at the High Court. I’ve come lots of days, and today I’ve finally found you.”
“Here I am. Tell me what El Chimo had to say.”
“He told me in the Modelo de Barcelona prison he’d met Cándido Fagés, also known as Albert Blum, who was locked up for assaulting a woman you defended, a singer called María Nilo. Blum managed to escape when they were transferring him, and El Chimo says that he’s certain his guards let him get away. El Chimo says he’s also sure—because people he trusts have told him, you know how you hear about everything in jail—that Blum’s the killer they call Danton, and he wants you to know because he’s grateful to you for the good job you did defending him, free of charge.”
I tried to calmly digest the flood of information pouring from the youngster. “What you’re telling me is very interesting … How long have you been looking for me?”
“About a week.”
“Where have you been sleeping this whole time?”
“In the street.”
“We’ll have to do something about that.”
I gave him twenty pesetas and wrote down the address of a parish shelter where they would give him room and board for at least a few days.
“Thank you, Don Pablo. El Chimo said you would help me out.
”
“I hope it’s the last time I have to. It wouldn’t be good if you had to contract my services.”
The kid ran off as I lit up a Cuban to help me reflect on the new turn of events.
12
One morning, as Eduardo Dato was returning to his Madrid residence after a debate in the Senate, he was the target of shots fired by three terrorists who approached the Navy ARM 121 vehicle in which he was riding. His assailants rode on a dark red motorcycle with a sidecar, its license plate number erased. To shouts in Catalan of “Long live anarchy!” they opened fire on the president of the Council of Ministers and his driver, Juan José Pascal. Rushed to the emergency room, Dato died minutes later.
The news came as a terrible blow to me personally, since Dato had taken me under his wing as I made my first forays into politics. During my time in Spain’s capital he had taken me on at his practice when I was but a neophyte and his political career was blossoming with a series of ministerial positions.
That elegant, conciliatory, and upright gentleman who had backed the first Spanish legislation to protect his country’s working class was the least just and, at the same time, the most logical victim of Spain’s most demagogic and violent villains. Dato had always refused to accept personal security. In the different political posts he held, however, he had seen to it that both the monarch and several of his associates were protected when he had it on good account that they were facing serious threats. Dato was opposed to the death penalty (“I shall not shoot!” he used to say), though this did not keep the anarchists from executing him. A firm believer in the Church’s social doctrines, he was the Spanish politician among all those leaders in office who fought hardest for the country’s workers, whether conservative or liberal.
His contributions to the welfare of his nation’s workers were many: rest on Sundays, invalidity and old-age insurance, the right to cheap housing, care for pregnant women, scholarships for their children, legislation governing accidents on the job, and the regulation of hours, among others. And now a group of men purporting to be representatives of the workers had assassinated him, just hours after a meeting of the Council of Ministers in which he had supported a nascent workers’ retirement law, sponsored by him and designed to benefit those who worked much but had little to eat.
A Barcelona Heiress Page 17