As they grew into their teenage years, the inseparable brothers Jordi and Juan explored their changing city. Juan, as eyes for both of them, would describe the richly dressed patrons entering the ornate foyer of the Liceu Opera House, before the two would clamber up the steep stairs to the hen roost. The boys were able to experience much Italian opera, and occasionally even German pieces were performed. They also attended concerts, and Jordi’s astonishing ear for the details of melody and harmony ensured a constantly expanding and extraordinary repertoire for his impromptu street performances back in Barceloneta.
The barrio remained obstinate in its refusal to modernise, and the tiny houses, teeming with inhabitants were in stark contrast to the rest of the city. It remained, however, a hotbed of political intrigue, and the small bars and domino clubs were the centre of much heated debate. The businessmen of Barcelona, secure in their grand apartments in L’Exiample, were aware of the power of the Catalan culture over their workers, and the prudent amongst them sought to cultivate friendly links with the leaders of the Barceloneta population. Inevitably, these links led to Alejandro and his sons Jordi and Juan.
One summer evening, following a performance of an opera by Donizetti, Jordi and Juan were leaving the opera house from the side entrance, and turning into the crowds of Las Ramblas, when they were accosted by a well-dressed businessman leaving from the grand foyer.
Politely the man interrupted their enthusiastic chatter about the opera. “Excuse me, but are you the sons of Alejandro Blanxart?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Juan, “I am Juan and this is my brother Jordi.”
“Then you are the famous guitarist, who sings and plays like an angel!”
“I don’t think of myself as an angel,” replied Jordi, “but it is I who plays and sings. My brother here is my eyes. Who are we talking to, sir?”
“My name is Miguel Roca, and I am a businessman here in Barcelona. Many of my workers have told me about your music, young man, and that you know and sing the old folk songs of Catalunya.”
“It is our family’s tradition, sir, that we learn and sing the songs and stories of our heritage. Without the fathers and sons of the Blanxart family, many of the old songs and stories would have been lost,” replied Jordi, with pride. “They have been passed down the generations, and currently I am working to learn them, ready to pass to my children when the time comes.”
“I believe the time has come to pass them far and wide beyond your family, Master Blanxart,” stated Senor Roca. “I believe the time has come for Catalunya to stand up as a culture in the world. The politics are in place!”
Puzzled by this final cryptic remark, Jordi felt that this was a conversation for his father, not himself, and so he invited Senor Roca to visit them in Barceloneta the following day. Giving him the address in Sant Miquel, the boys said farewell to the businessman, and hurried home, unaware of the significance of what seemed to them to be a chance encounter.
Not long before, Senor Roca had been talking with his business colleagues, and had agreed to seek a meeting with Alejandro Blanxart. He was keen to see if all the rumours were true that he held the key to the richness of the Catalan culture. So much of what Senor Roca and his colleagues knew was in the realm of myth and legend, and they were anxious to know the truth.
In preparation for the visitor, Emilia had tidied the upstairs room, and prepared wine and pastries. Xaudrao, ancient and frail, slumbered on a low chair with his blind grandson sitting on the rug nearby.
Alejandro could not guess the importance of the meeting, but felt it appropriate to show considerable dignity with such a visitor. It was a shock, therefore, when Senor Roca arrived with three other well-dressed businessmen beside him. Emilia fussed to get them all seated, and sent Juan running to the nearest chiringuita for extra wine and refreshments. Jordi sat quietly listening to the unexpected commotion, recognising the voice of Senor Roca, and puzzling over the other strangers.
Once introductions had been made, Senor Roca took the initiative. “Senor Blanxart, you will know that many political changes are swirling around our city. You will know of the waves of unrest in the factories, where despite many offers of employment, our workers are often disgruntled with their situation; you will know that Barcelona is booming, leading all Spain in industrial development and output; and most of all you will know that under all of this, the desire for a strong and independent Catalunya fuels the feelings of revolution.”
Alejandro nodded, unwilling to show his hand at this stage. “Go on,” was all he said.
“Not all the leaders of industry favour the Castilians; some of us have Catalonian backgrounds and we sympathise with the workers. We are concerned to develop our factories into fair places where all men earn good wages. We are not communists, but we reject the cruel Castilian form of capitalism. We believe the workers will be galvanised into a new kind of unity if they are united as Catalonians, working in their own country, an independent and free Catalunya!”
Jordi gasped. Such words were treasonable only a few short years before, and even now, in the 1850’s were dangerous. That such sentiments were coming not from the grumblings of the workers in the local barrio bars, but from respectable city businessmen was indeed extraordinary.
“What have you heard,” continued Senor Roca, “of the mood of the workers? We have had so many piecemeal strikes, discontentment is rife, and yet the city is alive and expanding. The arrest of Senor Barcelo has made matters a great deal worse. We come to seek your advice.”
Choosing his words carefully, Alejandro replied. “Yes, I hear of much unhappiness. We know Senor Barcelo well - he is a good man. Chatter in the bars and in my own chiringuitas turns constantly to the conditions of the workers, and their hatred of Castile. It may seem an echo from the past, but memories are long, and the scars from previous battles remain. Josep Barcelo is a man of the people, and you would do well to befriend him.”
“I fear it is too late for that. The authorities in the Generalitat have condemned Barcelo to death,” continued Roca. “We are fearful of what will happen.”
“They are the puppets of the Castilian government,” came Jordi’s voice from the corner of the room. All turned towards him, and even sightless he could tell he was the centre of attention. “When Senor Barcelo is executed, and he will be, any day now, it will be the signal for a general strike. I listen a lot, and I hear much. Your factories will be devastated, and your machines smashed. Who knows what conspiracies are at work? Is Madrid simply out to destroy Barcelona business, or are they naïve enough to think executing the workers’ leader will subdue the desire for independence? Gentlemen, the opposite will be true. The death of Josep Barcelo will give us another Catalan martyr, and be the rallying cry for Catalans everywhere to unite.”
“It is as we feared,” said Roca slowly and with a heavy heart. “We have tried to intervene and save the life of Barcelo, but he is to die within the week. Then I fear, our beautiful city will be subject to the laws of anarchy. What is to be done?”
“Without a focus or rallying point, you may be right,” said Alejandro. “The same old battles will be fought all over again. Castile will continue to attack Catalunya, and we will continue to fight back. Little has changed since the days of my ancestor Joan Blanxart, and he died at the hands of Castilian soldiers more than two hundred years ago. He was the first Catalan martyr, and there have been many more. Hundreds died during the great siege, all martyrs for Catalunya. Barcelo is yet one more in this sorry catalogue of death.”
“But the politics are different now, father,” said Jordi. “Perhaps the time has come to rally the people behind the senyera.”
There was a silence in the room. Alejandro needed time to think: had they arrived at the time when the flag of Catalonya would fly again? Roca and his colleagues waited without understanding: they had never heard of the senyera. Juan looked around wondering who would speak first. And Jordi sat quietly, smiling at the effect of this words.
Slo
wly, and with dignity, the old grandfather Xaudaro sat up and opened his cloudy eyes. “Blood was spilled when our senyera was created, and blood will be spilled again. There have been many martyrs to the cause of our beloved Catalunya, and there will be many more. Now is the time to be brave, and unfurl the flag. Now our time has come.”
There was a further silence, and then Alejandro spoke. “Gentlemen, I beg your patience at this time of crisis. I must speak to my father and my sons privately. We must be sure that this is the moment. If you return this evening, we will give you our answer.”
Mystified, Roca and his friends agreed to return, and climbed carefully down the steep stairs. Alejandro saw them to the street, and then returned to his father and his sons. “Is this the moment?” was all he said.
Xaudaro replied first. “Let us proceed with caution. We will reveal the senyera and the book. We shall keep the sword hidden. The flag will give a rallying cry to the workers, as we have discussed, and the book can be printed for all to read the true stories of our land, not just the myths and legends of childhood. But the sword is ours, sacred to the memory of past Blanxart martyrs, and not to be revealed until the situation is clear. With Barcelona full of so many different factions, including many anarchists who will enjoy an opportunity for trouble-making, the time is not ripe yet for the sword.”
“Grandfather is right,” exclaimed Jordi. “We shall listen to his wisdom. Let us give them the senyera; let us give them their history, but let us keep the sword until that glorious moment when the world celebrates the re-birth of our nation.”
Grandfather continued, “The sword is no longer a weapon of death and destruction; it to be carried solemnly by the Lion of Catalunya, at a time of celebration, not general strike or strife. Alejandro, my son, I passed the title to you a few short years ago. It may be that you will carry the sword to the people, before your time is out, or it may be that Jordi here will carry it. But that time has not yet come.” The old man paused and laughed. “And now you youngsters have a task! Between the three of you, you have to reveal the hiding place.”
“The sword!” exclaimed Jordi. “Am I to hold the sword at last?”
“For a moment only,” replied his father. “We will lift the stone, remove the book and senyera, and return the sword. I hope to God we are doing the right thing.”
Alejandro and his sons descended the steep stairs, leaving grandfather listening from above. All the rest of the family except Emilia were sent to one of the chiringuitas, and told to stay away until Juan came with a message. Alejandro looked around. Juan’s face was illuminated with excitement; Jordi was solemn and Emilia, who knew nothing of the conversation in the upstairs room, was puzzled.
“The timing of this ceremony has been thrust upon us by events in the city beyond our control. I pray we are not making a mistake. Emilia, please roll up the rug.”
Still puzzled, his wife did so.
“Now Jordi, kneel with me on the floor. You feel the outlines of the flagstones beneath your fingers? Can you feel this stone? Can you feel all around it?”
“Yes, father, and I feel small holes, like slots alongside it.”
“This is the hiding place. Your great, great grandfather, the sculptor Antoni Blanxart, fashioned this sleeping place for the sword, and here it has rested these many years. The secret will be revealed today to you, my son, and you, Emilia my wife, and for the first time to someone who will never be the Lion of Catalunya, but who will be the eyes of the Lion, to you Juan. These small slots you feel, Jordi, are the secret to lifting the stone.”
Alejandro rose and fetched iron bars from the fireplace. Handing one to each son, he told them to find the slots and insert the bars. Jordi feeling with his fingers, and Juan searching with his eyes, each found a slot, and pushed the bars in. Alejandro handed another lever to his wife, and told her to find another slot. “It’s hardly women’s work, I know,” he apologised, “but we’ll need your help.”
Inserting a fourth bar himself, he instructed them all to heave. Slowly the slab rose, and they carefully slid it to one side. Juan gasped and went to touch the wrapped sword, but Alejandro signalled for him to stand back.
“Jordi, my son, one day you will be the Lion of Catalunya. It is right, then, that you have the honour of taking the sword from its chamber.”
Jordi’s fingers moved forward slowly, feeling the edge of the hole that had now been revealed in the floor. First he found Francesc’s book, and lifted it up. “That is the book with the stories of our land,” explained his father. “The stories your grandfather has told you. With luck, Senor Roca and his associates will have that printed and distributed soon. But give the book to your brother who can read it to you, and now grasp your inheritance, the sword of Catalunya.”
Jordi’s fingers moved again in the cavity, and soon found the fabric of the senyera, wrapped around the cold steel of the sword. He lifted the weight, and groping carefully, found the hilt. Although he could not see the flag, he unfurled it easily, and Emilia caught it as it dropped. Slowly, Jordi stood up and held the sword revealed in all its simple glory.
From upstairs, came grandfather’s voice. “Have you got it, boy? Grasp it well and feel its shape. Bring it to me, that I may see it for one last time. The chamber will not be opened again in my life time.” And Jordi carefully carried the sword up the steep stairs and handed it to his grandfather. The old man caressed it, and then called for Juan. “Juan, eyes of the Lion, you should hold the sword also, as the time may come when you wield it for your brother.”
Finally, when the sword had been passed to all, even Emilia taking it for a moment, it was wrapped in a new cloth, and returned to the stone chamber. The lid was levered back into position. Emilia unrolled the rug, and the crowbars were returned to the fireplace.
When Senor Roca and his friends returned in the evening, the Blanxart family were ready for them. A small stool had been placed in the centre of the room, and the senyera hung from the roof beams. Emilia now joined her husband as Juan waited below to bring their guests up.
Roca arrived in a state of agitation and excitement, rushing up the stairs ahead of the others, and speaking before he sat down. “Calamity,” he exclaimed, “Barcelo has been executed, even as we were speaking this morning, he was being led to his death. He was garrotted at noon. I believe we are on the brink of civil war.”
“Then there is no time to lose,” said Alejandro. “Has a strike been called?”
“Yes, a general strike, immediately. The city will be at a standstill.”
“Will the people rally to the flag?”
“I believe they will, and we must do all we can to encourage them. We need pamphlets printed and distributed, and we need copies of the senyera. The moment has come when leadership matters most. From the disaster of this morning, and the ashes of the pending strike, we have the opportunity to rise like the phoenix. Senor Blanxart, are you with us?”
Pulling a large cloth to one side, Alejandro revealed the small printing press they used to print pamphlets. “I will produce the pamphlets here. You must use your contacts to print flags - we need hundreds. The strikers will rally on Las Ramblas tomorrow. They must be carrying the senyera, and understand the message of solidarity we can print in our pamphlet!”
One of Roca’s friends, called Fernando, who had spoken little, stepped forward. “I have a mill in Vilassar de Dalt where we can weave such a flag on one of our great looms. I can produce a hundred in an hour. Let me take this one as a sample, and we will work through the night. I have a small group who are fervent Catalonians and will not see this as strike-breaking, but as support for their fellow workers.”
“No,” said Alejandro, “This is an ancient senyera, and it must stay here. If ever it leaves the house, it will be with me or my sons. You can see the simple design. Four stripes of blood across the yellow background. Remember it well, and make your copies sir.”
Roca interjected, “I understand Senor Blanxart, Fernando. It is a powerful
design because it is so simple. Just remember as you have four fingers to dip in the blood, so there are four stripes on the flag. Now go and make flags!”
Fernando, charged with his task, left quickly. The others settled urgently to agreeing the wording of the pamphlet. Once that was done, they turned their attention to Francesc Blanxart’s book. Jordi held it and caressed it. “Gentlemen, I cannot read a word of what is in this book, but my grandfather and my father have told me the stories so that I know them by heart. If one of you has a printing press that can print this book, let it be done with all speed. My brother Juan will come with you, to guard the book, and to assist with setting it in type. He will guard it with his life. In giving you my brother for this task, I am giving you my eyes, so I urge you to send him, and the book, back again quickly, as without him I am truly blind.”
Josep Barcelo was executed in 1855. The general strike which followed rallied public opinion away from Castile, and created a vision of the future Catalunya as an independent state. In less than twenty years, Catalunya was declared a federal republic, independent from Spain, with its distinctive flag, the senyera with its four blood stripes. Juan had returned his great-grandfather’s book, and together with the original Blanxart senyera, it was returned to lie with the sword in the special chamber under the floor.
Jordi thus grew up in a period of rapid change. Suddenly everyone wanted to read Francesc’s book, and then when they discovered it was available only in Catalan, wanted to learn to read the language. From being the whispered underground chatter of subversives, Catalan became the language of choice for those who could manage it, and workers throughout the region met in the evenings to learn the language which they felt should have been their mother tongue. In Barceloneta, where many people spoke Catalan fluently, the demand was to learn to read and write, and the Blanxart house abandoned all the other activities of translation and coping with Castilian in favour of constant Catalan reading and writing lessons at many levels. A senyera hung from the first floor window: the first time since the destruction of La Ribera back in the early 1700’s that the flag was displayed openly. All over the city, senyeras appeared, and with them a cult of Catalan culture.
The Lions of Catalunya Page 24