A Most Uncivil War Read online

  Pedro laughs as the boy runs past him with head down and eyes fixed firmly on the doorway into the garden. Pedro surveys the cart. “An excellent day’s work. Bring one of the boys here early and I’ll have the paperwork ready for you to take. Get it onto the first train,” Pedro says. Esteban smiles and nods his head as he unhitches the mule and leads it through to the stable area. Pedro waits for the old man to leave and then closes the barn door behind him.

  As soon as Salvador enters the garden he sees Juan Nicolas sitting at the table in the cloistered alcove. The moment they see each other both of the boys’ faces reflect the other’s smile back.

  “What did you learn today?” Salvador asks as he stands over the other boy, looking at the book inquisitively.

  Juan Nicolas places his hands on the open bible and says in a very deliberate and measured tone, “You must not bother me when I am reading.”

  Incredulous, Salvador persists, “You have already learned to read in one day?” Seeing his chance to impress his friend, Juanico begins weaving an over-elaborate fantasy. Marianela watches them through the mesh window in the kitchen. Her eyes moisten and a small smile begins to appear.

  After dinner Marianela clears away the meal and puts the children to bed while Soledad and her sister move their chairs out onto the street. Salvador watches his mother as she carries Juanico up the stairs. Marianela notices the boy watching her and smiles back at him. It is a reassuring smile that feels like being held.

  Pedro completes the paperwork for tomorrow’s shipment, updates his accounts ledger and then leaves the house. Walking out onto the street he finds Soledad and her sister have been joined by another woman and her daughter from around the corner. Night after night they have the same conversations he thinks to himself as he smiles at each and nods politely. He wonders whose turn it is today to be the target of their vitriolic sniping as he quickly excuses himself and hastens towards the taverna in the square.

  When Pedro reaches the square he is greeted by the same sights he has seen his whole life; the same people taking their evening walks, the same children running and playing, and the same guitar music coming from the same tavernas where the same men stand and drink. He feels a monotonous inevitability rising up before him. He looks down at the dusty road and lets out a sigh. No one is close enough to hear it.

  He crosses the square and finds Manolo, the policeman, sitting at one of the benches smoking. “Good evening, Don Pedro,” the other man greets him. Pedro doesn’t sit down; he stays standing in front of him taking in the view of the square. Manolo continues, “I understand you have hired a new worker. A Basque, I was told.”

  Pedro starts rolling himself a cigarette. “Yes. A pleasant enough chap. He will help bring in the peaches.”

  While Manolo continues, Pedro remembers how all conversations with the policeman have the slightest hint of interrogation about them. This one was no different. “Is he a Union man?” the Civil Guard asks.

  Pedro draws deep on his cigarette before replying, “I don’t know. It did not come up, so I imagine not.”

  Manolo makes a mental note. “I would like him to report to the station so I can see his papers. These are difficult times, Don Pedro, and we can’t let just anybody into our village.”

  Pedro nods his head. “Of course. I will tell him tomorrow.”

  While the conversation is going on Pedro continues scanning the square as Manolo scrutinises Pedro. Pedro sees Raul enter the Casa Del Pueblo, the workers’ bar and meeting house on the other side of the square. He looks back down at the floor and says nothing while he waits for Manolo to comment on it, trying not to draw attention to it. Unaware, Manolo continues, “Good, make sure you do. I won’t keep you from taking the air. Have a good evening.”

  Pedro smiles back at him and nods his head. “And you too.”

  Raul makes his way through the tables in front of the Casa Del Pueblo. He pauses for a second as he notices Pedro on the other side of the square. Realising that he is talking to a Civil Guard officer he quickly looks down and hurries into the building.

  Inside the bar the tobacco smoke is thick and the coarseness of the raised voices smothers the melody of the guitarists in the corner. Oil from the garages, dust from the factory and soil from the fields coat the clothes of the patrons. The smells and noises wrap around Raul like swaddling as he makes his way through the crowded bar. He is almost instantly put at ease.

  Behind the bar is a heavyset man dressed in black and splashing wine into glasses. The cigarette in his mouth bounces precariously as his thunderous voice abuses one of the patrons from behind a toothless grin. A mounted bull’s head at the end of the room and the bullfighting posters adorning the walls look down on the patrons sympathetically.

  Raul takes a stool at the end of the bar. In the corner of the room there are four men sitting at a table huddled over their drinks and speaking furtively to one another under cupped hands. Two of them watch Raul as he positions himself at the end of the bar. From the corner of his eye he sees them watching him.

  The man behind the bar turns to Raul, “Good evening, stranger. What would you like?”

  Raul answers him instinctively, “Red wine, please.” And before he finishes his sentence a glass is in front of him and the owner is splashing wine into it. “Thank you,” says Raul as he pulls the glass across the bar towards him and away from the puddle of wine.

  Hearing the accent, the barman questions him further, “Basque, no? I have a cousin in San Sebastian. Good people.”

  Raul takes off his beret and puts it on the bar. “Thank you. I am new in town. I am working the fields of Don Pedro with Esteban and his family.” He takes a drink.

  The barman’s smile develops into a gum-revealing grin. “Of course. Well, you are more than welcome in my bar.” He tops up the glass and turns back to his conversation further down the bar. Raul lets his senses drink in the surroundings, and in return, the noises, smells and view reward him by bathing him in the comforting familiar.

  Not much time passes before one of the men from the corner table approaches the stool next to Raul. He watches the man approach in his peripheral vision. The barman turns to the man. “Do you need more wine?”

  The man from the table leans against the bar and places the earthenware jug down. “Please.” As he does so, he places some coins on the bar and a tin of tobacco. Peeking out from under the tin is a union membership card.

  The man turns to half face Raul. “New in town?”

  Without looking up, Raul answers him, “From San Sebastian by way of Zaragoza.” The man pushes the coins across to the barman as he noisily puts a full jug down. Raul moves his own tin of tobacco closer to the man’s, half sliding his own union card out from underneath it. The letters CNT on the two cards reflect one another as if a mirror has been placed between them.

  The man looks down for just long enough to recognise the reflected image. Both men then nonchalantly pick up their tobacco tins with the cards once again hidden underneath and pocket them. The man points Raul across to his table and says, “Please join us.” Obligingly, Raul stands up and follows the other man across the room. As they get close to the table one of the men sitting down pulls an empty chair out for Raul.

  The man that brought Raul across from the bar catches the barman’s eye and nods towards the door. The barman nods his head and signals the two guitarists to move out onto the patio in front of the bar. The two musicians quickly reposition themselves.

  Raul sits down at the table and quietly introduces himself. The first man replies, “I am Antonio, I am the local organiser. We had word from the regional office that you might be coming through our village.”

  Raul leans one elbow on the table, rests his chin against his hand and cups his fingers over his mouth as he speaks. “How did you receive word?”

  One of the others answers him, “Th
e rail workers hold the messages that we cannot trust to the telegrams. The message came from Barcelona.”

  In the dark, smoke-filled corner the five men lean into the table as they speak only loudly enough for each other to hear. Raul continues, “How many members do we have in town?”

  The fourth man, who until then had remained silent, speaks, “Just over 1,000. The UGT has a couple of hundred and there are probably around another 1,000 too scared to organise.”

  The first man picks up where his comrade leaves off, “Are you here to help us organise?”

  Raul’s lips tighten and disappear. He pauses briefly before looking up at the other man and responding, “I am sorry, no. I need to stay hidden. I am wanted in Barcelona. It is best I stay hidden.” He drains his glass and pulls on the cigarette. The four men watch him and wait. Raul looks over his shoulder and listens to the men at the tables around him to reassure himself that it is safe talking. The moments pass as his audience remains silent waiting for him.

  Eventually reassured, he continues, “My branch is in Poble Sec and the guards are going house-to-house.”

  The first man responds, “The Civil Guard here is a son of a bitch. As soon as he hears you are here he will demand your papers.”

  Raul smiles. “I have papers that will feed his appetite. He won’t be a problem. Tell me about Pedro the gardener. I am working his fields.”

  The second man answers him, “His father died in the colonies fighting. He has inherited a position his father worked for. He is a quiet man. His workers don’t complain. They say that his mother is the head of the family in that house.”

  Raul asks, “And what of the story of the workers and the maid?”

  The first man answers him, “The truth is that the maid fucked someone, and the workers paid for it with a beating from the guards.”

  The second man finishes the story for him, “The Civil Guard wear the blood for that.”

  Raul presses the men, “So nobody died, nobody was raped?”

  The first man answers while the others just shake their heads, “No. My wife is friends with the maid. She won’t say who the father was, but her heart was broken. She has never been with another man since. A terrible story, all of that.” Two of the men nod sympathetically as he continues, “She is a good girl, but half the woman she was when she arrived. The village has broken her.” Raul allows a smile of gratitude to flash across his face before it returns back to its default position: an emotionless, studious stare. He sips at the wine.

  The two guitarists outside the doorway audibly change their tune. The men sitting with Raul look towards the doorway to see one of the guitarists nodding back towards them. The first man at the table leans across the table. “If you’re armed, give it to me now. That son of a whore guard is coming in and could check you.” Raul pulls the revolver from his belt and passes it under the table with his union membership card. As the other man takes the two items and hides them in his jacket pocket he asks, “Have you got your papers on you?”

  Raul responds, “Of course.”

  Manolo walks into the bar and stands in the doorway. The room falls silent as most of the men turn to watch him. As he peruses the bar, the silence continues for a few seconds before the conversations slowly began to restart. Manolo’s gaze stops on Raul and he walks across to the table. Two of the men at the table stand up to leave. As he reaches the table Manolo grasps the handle of the revolver in his belt holster and shakes his head. The two men sit down again quickly.

  He stands beside the table in silence for a few moments, his hand clutching the revolver and his eyes looking at each man in turn. He stops on Raul, “You’re new in town, aren’t you? Show me your papers.” Raul reaches into his jacket pocket and passes him his identity papers. As he does so he watches the policeman’s hand on the revolver very carefully to see if there is any reaction to him reaching into his jacket pocket. He sees none.

  Manolo scans the papers and then looks back at the two men who were about to leave. “Where were you going in such a hurry?”

  One responds while the rest of the table stay silent, “We were just going to another bar.”

  The policeman turns back to face Raul. “And you. Where are you from?”

  Raul looks up at him. “I am working for the duke’s gardener.”

  Manolo taps the identity papers on the table in front of him. “I didn’t ask that, Basque. I asked you, where are you from?”

  Raul nods apologetically. “Forgive me. I have been working in Zaragoza but there is little work there now.”

  The conversations around the bar stagger nervously along as the patrons share a heightened awareness of the tension ratcheting up at the corner table. Manolo continues, “Take care, peasant; I can hear where you are from in your accent and I’ll have none of your people’s trouble here.” He raises his eyebrows as he puts the card in the pocket of his uniform jacket. “You can get your card from the station tomorrow evening once I have checked it.” Raul gratefully bows his head. As Manolo turns to leave he makes one last comment, “Steer clear of these anarchists if you want to stay out of trouble.”

  The four men remain silent as they watch the policeman walk out of the taverna. After twenty seconds one of the guitarists nods towards the men at the table. The first man passes the revolver and union card back under the table to Raul, “Well, he knows you are here now, we’ll see how good your papers are if you are not picked up tomorrow.”

  Raul smiles and the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkle. “Do not worry about the duke’s little lapdog. Whatever he once was, he is not it anymore.” He smiles and looks reassuringly at the men around the table before continuing. “He has been too focused for too long on the scraps from his master’s table. You can see that he has lost his nose for hunting a long time ago.”

  The men continue talking late into the evening. They listen in rapt awe as Raul tells them of the strides being made by the workers and the union in Barcelona, the bosses and the politicians cracking down on dissent, the tales of the expropriations from banks and the local communities rallying around their Ateneus. As the men sit listening late into the night, the images he weaves in his stories increasingly seem millions of miles away from where they sit in a little Casa Del Pueblo in a little village.

  Chapter 9

  The five years that follow Raul’s arrival in the village are turbulent times for Spain; General Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship fails, King Alfonso XIII establishes a republic and in the elections that follow, the socialists and republicans win control of the country and immediately start passing laws to protect and empower the workers. In the summer of 1931 the antagonism between the ruling class and the newly-emboldened working class begins to manifest itself on the streets in the form of repression and resistance.

  In the village Pedro embarks on his thirty-third year of a life that with each year seems to demand less of him. He oversees the workers maintaining the gardens of the duke while disinterestedly acquiescing to the changes in their working conditions. He spends his free evenings quietly observing the goings-on of his family and the villagers.

  As the years pass Pedro increasingly embraces a calmness that he discovers in himself when observing others. He welcomes with open arms the growing distance between himself, the observer, and the world around him, the observed. The withdrawal doesn’t go unnoticed by those around him. His mother, finding herself growing emotionally distant from her son, seeks refuge in the church and the words of the priest.

  Marianela watches Pedro pulling away from his family. She listens to his once-deep rich voice give way over the months into a more emotionless monotone. The fondness she once saw in his eyes when he watched his son slowly disappears. With each step the man takes away from the family, the slow, awful surrender in her heart inches forward. She watches Pedro age in front of her and it ignites a desperate longing
for purpose and an outlet for her feelings. Marianela focuses on the young boys.

  Salvador is a tall and strong thirteen-year-old boy. The downy hair covering his chin and top lip is the only remaining evidence of his youth. He works in Pedro’s fields by day and in the evening shares his time between Raul’s lessons and Juan Nicolas’ attentions. Raul introduces him to a world unlike anything he has ever heard. A world where men and women are equals and where there are no masters, priests or police to fear. He sits enthralled, listening by candlelight to tales of comrades fighting across Spain and the rest of the world, all the while imagining a time when he and his mother will be treated with respect.

  The years for Juan Nicolas are more difficult. Each day he increasingly struggles to bridge the gap between the world he learns about at school and the one he witnesses at home. During the day the priest teaches him that the peasants are animals, while in the evening the maid and her son are the only ones that show him any love. His own father ignores him, his grandmother treats him like little more than an annoyance and all the time the priest, citing the word of God, tells him that it is the divine order of things.

  Petrified of being thought stupid, Juan Nicolas refuses to vocalise his confusion to any of the adults or his classmates and none of them offer an explanation unprompted. Confused, alone and scared, the young boy turns to the older boy for answers at the precise time Salvador is developing in a direction he cannot follow.

  With his arrest warrants still open in Barcelona, Raul continues working in the village under his false papers. After watching him closely for several years, eventually, Pedro promotes him to managing his labourers in the field. During the evenings Raul shares his time between Salvador, his work colleagues and the union representatives. As the years pass Raul’s status among the workers in the village grows.