The Phoenix of Montjuic

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “This is a very unusual situation,” he said. “Our star trumpeter, the stupid man, fell down stairs just as he was leaving his billet for the church parade; broke several bones and knocked himself out. Even squashed his own trumpet. If I was his commanding officer, I’d be looking if I could court martial him, although it’s not against the rules to slip on a flight of stairs. It’s worked out well for our little outfit here, and we’re very grateful to you, young man, for saving the day. You brought us to the attention of the Generalissimo, and in a very positive way. The only challenge remains how we carry out his order. He wants you promoted to one of his crack regiments, to be in one of the top military bands.”

  Eduard gasped.

  “You may well, gasp, young man,” continued the commanding officer. “General Franco has forgotten that you’re a new recruit, and a national service one at that. How we put you into a top band, I don’t know; but no-one wants to tell the Gerneralissimo that his orders will be very difficult to carry out. I can play for a little time, but in the end you’ll have to go to Madrid and play for him again, wearing the uniform of his most important band.”

  The corporal spoke. “May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Go ahead, corporal.”

  “Isn’t the top band a marching band, sir?”

  “It certainly is,” said the commanding officer. “Now you see how great a challenge we face.”

  “Sir,” said Eduard diffidently, “do I have any choice?”

  “Private Bonet: this is an order directly from El Caudillo; as such it is a great honour. Heaven help us, we have to promote you to Staff Sergeant, a rank significantly above your own corporal here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Clara and Ambros took to walking out together on Sunday afternoons. There was little time to talk during their busy working days, so Sundays became precious for them.

  Ambros agreed with Manel and Anna that the opening day for the library would be the twenty-third of April, a day with significance for all book-lovers. When the day came, there was a queue of people waiting to see the new library, and the whole staff ensured that the store opened early. After Clara had seen the initial excitement of the library opening, she went to her own work table where she found a red rose waiting. She smiled to herself.

  Their Sunday expeditions included Guell Park, and the mysterious building site of Sagrada Familia, which they could make little sense of. They went up to Montjuic and stood on the wide promenade in front of the Palau Nacional. On one remarkable weekend, they rode the cable car across the harbour, although the ramshackle streets in Barceloneta to get to the pylon for the cable car were an alarming walk through fishermen’s nets and prostitutes.

  “I wonder what’s happening to Eduard?” said Clara. “We’ve not heard anything since that first letter from Zaragoza.”

  “He’ll have made some new friends,” said Ambros, “and I bet he’s building some muscles. They make you do a lot of gymnastics, and of course, there’s endless square bashing. I expect at this very moment he’s marching around some dull square of gravel.”

  At that moment, Eduard was slumped in the back of a staff car, being driven to Madrid. The last month had been exhausting. His corporal had been assigned to work with him exclusively, and had created an iron regime of fitness and skills. As a future bandsman, he didn’t need the complex manipulations with a rifle that the rest of the platoon was learning, but he had to get skilled at marching and playing his trumpet. At first, he didn’t have the stamina to march and play at the same time, but gradually his strength built, and he even started enjoying the drills.

  The month had started with a change of accommodation. Eduard, and the corporal, were taken out of the communal national service platoon hut, and given officer rooms. Eduard was happy to find he had a small bedroom to himself, slightly bigger than his tiny room at home, although he did little in it except sleep.

  In the evenings, when the others had time to relax, Eduard was given music lessons, mainly to improve his sight-reading, and to ensure he was familiar with the bulk of the army repertoire. He fell into bed exhausted at the end of every day, with his lips swollen and sore from the constant blowing.

  One night he was awoken by strange noises coming from the corporal’s adjacent room. He lie in bed for a while, worried that something odd was happening, and eventually he got up and walked to the corporal’s door. The noises continued, as if someone was in pain. Quietly he opened the door. The bedclothes were on the floor, and there was another man in bed with the corporal. The blond boy turned in horror and locked eyes with Eduard for a moment before turning away. The corporal was caught off-guard for a moment, but then growled, “Go back to bed, Private Bonet. You have seen nothing.” Eduard nodded, speechless, closed the door, and returned to his room.

  Three weeks into his intensive training, the commanding officer appeared, and was very pleased with the smartness of Eduard’s salute, and his ability to march and play.

  “Well done, corporal,” he said. “There’s a promotion in this for you as well.”

  “Thank you sir,” replied the corporal.

  One day, a staff sergeant from the stores arrived to measure Eduard. “They’ll have your new uniforms ready for you in Madrid,” he said. “Fatigues, daily uniform, full mess dress, God knows what else. We need to get your measurements right, as they’re sticklers for smart-fitting uniform, not like scruffy national service kids. Sit down, private, I have to measure your head.”

  In preparation for his transfer to Madrid, Eduard had been given permission to write a letter to his parents. He told them of his intensive training, especially his skills marching and playing, and of the many new pieces of music he had mastered. He knew they would be suitably amazed to read that he was now “Staff Sergeant”, and that other recruits had to salute him as he moved around the barracks.

  His corporal never referred to the strange incident with the blond boy, and Eduard decided he would never tell a soul. He remembered the sudden change in the boy’s attitude to army life, and realised that his corporal had been responsible for giving the boy some comfort when he was at his most home-sick.

  In the car bumping over potholed roads to Madrid, Eduard thought back over that last conversation at the barracks. His corporal had been elevated to the same rank, and had stood at the car door. The commanding officer had come to see his departure, an unprecedented event.

  “Good luck Staff Sergeant Bonet!” said the commanding officer, and saluted him.

  “Thank you sir,” said Eduard, giving a crisp salute.

  “Good luck Staff Sergeant!” said his former corporal.

  “Thank you Staff Sergeant!” replied Eduard, smiling. “Thank you for everything.”

  His former corporal, now a staff sergeant himself, smiled and nodded. “You’ll do well. Enjoy Madrid.”

  Eduard had a strange urge to hug his former corporal after all they had been through for the last month, but he resisted, threw his kit bag into the car, and climbed in after it. The door slammed and they sped out of the parade ground.

  Sitting on a bench on the promenade at the Palau National, with the sun setting behind the spires of the great palace, Ambros turned to Clara. “We’ve been coming on walks for many weeks now. I spend all my working time in the library thinking about our Sunday afternoons. It’s the best time of the week.”

  Clara smiled and nodded, wondering where this conversation would lead.

  Suddenly Ambros went down on his knees. Clara said, “What are you doing?”

  Ambros smiled. “I’m asking you to marry me,” he said. “Will you be my wife?”

  Clara leaned forward and kissed Ambros on the forehead. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something. I loved you before we started to walk out on Sundays, and I knew when you left the red rose on the library opening day, that you were falling in love with me. Oh, yes, yes, yes!”

  Behind them someone started clapping, and Ambros stood up sheepis
hly.

  “Well done, mate,” said the stranger who was clapping.

  “Thanks,” stuttered Ambros, pulling Clara to her feet. They kissed clumsily, then Clara pulled away. “I’m only fifteen,” she said. “We should wait a year or two.”

  “Fifteen!” exclaimed Ambros. “I thought you were older, but it doesn’t change my mind. We’ll be friends for a while, and I think our love will grow stronger. Your brother was old enough to go to the army when he was eighteen, so let us get married when you are the same age.”

  “Eighteen?” said Clara. “That will be 1951. It seems a long way away.”

  The car pulled onto the gravel of the parade ground, stopped and the door opened. Grabbing his kit bag, Eduard stepped out. The orderly opening the door saluted.

  “Staff Sergeant Bonet, I presume?” said an officer.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Eduard, saluting. “Reporting for duties, sir!”

  “Relax, staff sergeant, we’re all the same rank here. We know your story, and we think you’re very brave to join us in this way. Brave or foolhardy, we’ll see which quite soon. Come with me.”

  The orderly grabbed Eduard’s kitbag and marched smartly behind him, but the officer who had greeted him walked relaxed into the building.

  “This is the officer’s mess, staff sergeant. You’re going to find things very different here from the little rural national service barracks you’ve come from. Your orderly here will take you to your room, get rid of those national service fatigues, and change you into your dress uniform; he’ll show you around later. When you’re dressed, he’ll bring you to the mess for a drink and some grub. I’m Staff Sergeant Lopez, Diego Lopez. My friends call me Digger.

  “I’m Eduard.”

  “Great; we’ll call you Eddie! Oh – and Eddie, bring your trumpet to dinner.”

  Eduard followed the orderly, and was secured into the tight-fitting dress uniform. Stiffly, he followed the orderly to the mess.

  Eduard was unprepared for the officer’s mess: a well-appointed room with leather chairs, a haze of cigar smoke, and a long and well-stocked bar. Since the war, such lavish provisions had never been seen by civilians, and Eduard struggled to maintain composure.

  A small group of officers was standing talking, and Eduard was taken to them. “Gentlemen, this is our raw recruit, greener than green, Staff Sergeant Eddie Bonet.” Eduard saluted. The men laughed. “Not in the mess, boy. We’re always relaxed here. Save the military stuff for the parade ground. Now, a drink before dinner.” A large glass containing bright red liquid was thrust into Eduard’s hand; the others picked up their glasses, and grinned. “Welcome to Madrid.”

  Eduard sipped the liquid: he had no idea what it was, but he liked it very much. “Don’t sip, Eddie, get it down!” came the cry, and he gulped the drink.

  “Now,” said Digger, “before we go to dinner, you have to solve a mystery for us. There’s a parcel been delivered by a special messenger. It’s for you. None of us has ever had such a delivery. You must open it.”

  He led Eduard to a big box on the floor in the bar. There was a big red ribbon tied in a bow, but no label. Hesitantly, Eduard undid the bow. Suddenly a scantily-dressed young woman sprang up out of the box, grabbed Eduard and kissed him long and hard on the lips. “Welcome to Madrid!” shouted the other officers, whilst Eduard blushed as red as the girl’s lipstick.

  “We’ll get your orderly to put your present in your room,” said Digger. “Now come to supper.” Wobbling slightly from the strong drink, and with a great smear of red lipstick across his face, Eduard followed the others into the officers’ dining room. The wood –panelled room was glittering with silver candelabras and crystal wine glasses. This time Eduard could not conceal his amazement. “We eat in here?” he said.

  “Dinner every evening,” said Digger. “Breakfast and lunch are a bit more spartan, just fatigues in the main mess hall, but it’s full dress uniform in the evenings. Your orderly will dress you every evening for dinner.”

  Eduard was placed next to Digger, who explained that he had been assigned to teach him “the ropes” for the first few days. The musicians sat and chattered animatedly for a while, and then suddenly with a great scraping of chairs, they stood for the senior bandsman to take his place at the top table. “He’s Sergeant Major Torres, conductor of the band, and known behind his back as ‘Tosser Torres’. You’ll have to meet him formally after dinner.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Sergeant Major Torres, “We welcome a new-comer this evening. Please give the usual applause to Staff Sergeant Bonet.”

  The men clapped and cheered loudly. Eduard hoped his blushes were not too obvious.

  “And now, I would like to invite our new staff sergeant to play. Staff sergeant, ‘Face to the Sun’ if you please.”

  Eduard looked around. After the surprise of the girl jumping out of the box, he was unsure if he was being wound-up a second time, but Digger nodded and smiled, and whispered, “Go on, Eddie, play!”

  Eduard put his trumpet to his lips. The men turned to a large photograph of General Franco and raised their arms in the stiff Fascist salute. After an introduction on the trumpet, the men sang in thunderous bass voices. Eduard played well, but all the while remembered his father’s words: “Bastard, bastard, bastard.” He wondered how long he could keep up this pretence of loyalty whilst all the while hating the Franco regime.

  At the end of the anthem, they turned to Eduard and once more applauded. As they sat down, Digger leaned over. “That was outstanding, Eddie. They said you’re a brilliant trumpeter, and you are. There’s one or two here going to be a bit jealous. Thankfully I’m just a boring old drummer, so got nothing to lose, but there’s a few trumpeters over there we’ll have to keep an eye on. I can see they’re already muttering together.”

  Flushed with success, Eduard enjoyed a meal which to him was sumptuous. “Do you eat like this every day, or is this just because it’s Sunday?” he asked.

  “This is ordinary fare,” said Digger. “We eat well, but doesn’t everyone, now El Caudillo is leading us?”

  “But there’s still rationing in the country,” said Eduard. “Much of what we’re eating is unknown to ordinary people, and what there is remains in short supply. My father is a grocer, and we think we eat well at home, but it’s nothing like this.”

  Digger turned to Eduard with a serious expression. “Be careful how you talk. Comments about problems in the cities are not welcomed by the high command. Franco’s policies are turning our country around, and we must believe it. Now eat up and enjoy some more of this excellent wine.”

  At the end of the meal, Sergeant Major Torres stood to walk over to Eduard. The entire mess stood with him and was silent. “Congratulations, Staff Sergeant,” said Torres. “You did well. Welcome to Madrid.” He turned on his heel, and the room burst into conversation again

  His orderly was waiting for Eduard at the end of the meal to make sure he could find his way to his room. The prostitute was waiting for him, naked in his narrow bed.

  “I’ve never done this before,” he said, both alarmed and excited.

  “No problem,” said the girl. “Let me undress you, and I’ll look after everything.”

  It was the same Sunday evening that Clara and Ambros decided to tell Anna and Manel that they were in love and hoped to marry. As expected, Anna wanted them to agree to wait a year or two, and Ambros was pleased to reassure her that they’d wait until Clara was eighteen. Manel walked down to the shop to collect a bottle of cava, and they toasted the young couple over their Sunday supper.

  “Wait until we tell Eduard,” said Clara. “I am sure that he’s not tasting anything as sweet as this cava.”

  “When we have a letter from him, we may be able to write to him,” said Anna. “Meanwhile, let’s keep this a secret. We don’t want gossip in the staff, do we?”

  Ambros left the little supper soon after, and wandered happily home, hugging to himself a warm glow, which was both his love for Clara
, and the cava wine. The next morning, he was at work bright and early, and left another red rose on Clara’s table, even though it was not April the twenty-third.

  Just as Manel was unlocking the shop, his son was finding his way to the band room. After the euphoria of the previous evening, the hard work would now start. He hesitated at the door. Digger was already there, and called him over. “Trumpets down there in front,” he said. “Now you’ll meet the rest of your section.”

  Gradually the other bandsmen arrived, dressed in the sober fatigues of daily chores, and soon all were tuning their instruments. Other trumpeters arrived, but did no more than grunt at Eduard as they took their places. Sergeant Major Torres arrived, and the band stood for him.

  “Gentlemen, at ease. This morning we will run through several of our well-established marches. I would remind you that I expect crisp playing with a very precise sense of rhythm. We will start with Los Generales.”

  Eduard rifled through the sheaf of music on his music stand and found a piece which he had played many times with his teacher in Zaragoza. He was shocked, however, to find that the band played the well-known march much quicker than he had practised it. He was relieved that he could keep up, but at the end he knew his fellow trumpeters were smirking.

  “Fast, isn’t it?” said the nearest trumpet. “Bit of a shock, green boy?”

  Eddie grinned. “A bit”, he admitted.

  Sergeant Major Torres told them that they were all a little sleepy, and were playing sloppily. “We’ll have to cut the grog ration if you lot can’t wake up in the morning,” he said. “Now let’s play it again with a little more commitment, even, dare I say, passion.”

  The bandsmen laughed, but applied themselves readily to the rehearsal.