The Phoenix of Montjuic

by Jeremy D. Rowe

By mid-morning, the sergeant major was satisfied that the band was playing well, and announced a marching practise for the afternoon. Digger grabbed Eduard. “It’s just up and down the parade ground, turn very tight when the man ahead of you turns, keep to the pace, you’ll survive. Report to the Master Sergeant early, remind him you’ve never done it before.”

  Eduard had not felt nervous the night before, nor during the morning’s band practise, but faced with his first parade, both playing and marching, filled him with horror. This was the moment when he’d make a fool of himself. Clutching his trumpet he hurried to the parade ground, and found the Master Sergeant.

  “Staff Sergeant Bonet, reporting for duty, sir. I’ve never done this before, sir.”

  The Master Sergeant, a tall ruddy faced soldier, gave a smile which Eduard could not interpret. Was the man being friendly, or sneering?

  “Have you ever seen the band marching?”

  “Yes sir, in many parades, but just marching down the street, never on a parade ground.”

  “Just follow the man in front. I’ll put you in the second row of trumpets, just in front of the trombones. The buglers lead with the drummers, then trumpets.”

  It took some time for the band to be in position on the parade ground, and Torres took his place on a high podium. “Once through standing on the spot,” he announced, “ and then be ready to march on the first bar of the repeat.”

  The bugles and drums played the opening bars, and the rest of the band joined in. In the dense closeness of all the brass instruments, the noise level was shattering, but Eduard continued to blow. As they came to the first repeat, the Master Sergeant bellowed, “By the left, quick march!” and before he knew what was happening, Eduard was marching. His fears evaporated. The experience was exhilarating. Ahead he could just see the wall of the mess buildings, and he knew the first turn was coming. The drums and bugles turned and began marching through the oncoming ranks. The first line of trumpets turned, and then Eduard followed. He had done it!

  The band marched rapidly back across the parade ground, and again Eduard could see the wall ahead. Once more the bugles and drums turned, the first line of trumpets turned, and Eduard went to turn. Suddenly his feet flew from under him, and he crashed against the wall. Several soldiers nearby staggered, and the formation fell apart. As he stood up, little damaged except to his dignity, he was aware that several trumpeters were laughing, and shaking hands with a trombonist who was smirking with satisfaction. Eduard realised the trombone had tripped him, but at the same moment knew he could say nothing.

  Gathering up his scattered sheet music, which was now completely out of order, and wiping his grazed knuckles on his fatigues, he stood shakily, unsure what to do next. The Master Sergeant marched over to him. “You alright, Staff Sergeant?” he said.

  “Yes, sir, sorry sir,” said Eduard.

  “Marching formation, resume,” barked the Master Sergeant, and the men reformed into their positions. “Ready to march off, sir,” shouted the Master Sergeant to Torres, who seemed unruffled by the incident. The marching resumed without further incident.

  Later Digger found Eduard washing his grazed knuckles under a cold tap. “It was going to happen sooner or later,” said Digger, “but I didn’t think they’d try anything today. It’s part of the ritual coming into a band like this. We’ve all taken a tumble on the parade ground, and it’s how you get up and get on, that makes you one of us. You did yourself proud this afternoon.”

  “Thank you”, said Eduard, “but I did feel a fool.”

  Eduard’s letter to his family caused a sensation. Anna even ran to Senora Pinto to come and bring Carlos so that she could read it to them. “He’s in Madrid, and elevated to Staff Sergeant, and all because he’s so good on his trumpet. I suppose being in the band means he will have a splendid uniform. I wish I could see him.”

  Ambros thought he’d seen a book in the library with pictures of army uniforms. “At the time, I thought it was a bit dull, and no-one would want to borrow it,” he said, “but I’ll look for it in the morning.”

  The following evening they pored over the book. “This one,” announced Clara, pointing to a coloured plate of an elegant uniformed soldier. It says ‘staff sergeant’ – isn’t that what Eduard is?” They crowded round the book and Clara described the picture. “Band staff sergeant: white pill box hat with white feather and gold badge; blue jacket with red details; and blue trousers with red stripe; and there are white straps over the shoulders connected to a white belt.”

  Anna was enthralled. “He’ll look wonderful,” she said.

  Manel brought a word of caution to their excitement. “Don’t forget he’s been promoted into one of Franco’s crack regiments. Just hope he never has to do more than play his trumpet. He’s in the army that is still arresting and executing republicans.”

  “I did my national service in 1946,” said Ambros. “I spent the whole time in a dreary barracks near Alicante, never saw anything else. I spent the whole time dreading being put into a firing squad, but they don’t use the raw recruits for that, only the regular soldiers. Thankfully, I never had to kill anyone. It’s said that Franco is very proud of his bands, and loves the military music. We must hope Eduard has a good time in the band, and never sees any other kind of action.”

  “Amen to that,” said Anna.

  After a week of drill, and more drill, the order came for a public performance by the band. “This is an easy one, Eddie,” said Digger. “We do it fairly regularly. We get taken by buses to the Royal Palace of El Pardo, we line up on the wide drive in front, and just play for an hour or so. There’s no marching, but your uniform must be absolutely immaculate.”

  “What’s the significance of El Pardo?” asked Eduard.

  Digger rolled his eyes. “You country bumpkins,” he said. “It’s El Caudillo’s residence. He loves the military music, and he dresses in his best uniform to come out onto the balcony to listen to us. We start and finish with ‘Face to the Sun’ but it won’t be a solo for you, it will be the big show-off version for the whole band, just as we’ve been rehearsing; and don’t worry, even the jealous trumpeters won’t dare to try anything, not with the Generalissimo watching.”

  At the front of the band, with only the bugles and drums ahead of him, Eduard had a clear view of El Caudillo when he came out onto the balcony. As soon as he appeared, the band launched into its spectacular version of Face to the Sun. Franco gave the band the Fascist salute, and anyone nearby who was not playing, saluted back. As he played, Eduard thought, “Bastard, bastard, bastard.” On the bus back to the barracks, he wondered if his letters would be censored. Did he dare tell his father that he repeated the “bastard” thought in his head every time he played the anthem? When he asked Digger about censorship, Digger simply replied, “Who knows? Best not to write anything dangerous, don’t want to get into trouble, don’t want to rock the boat. We have the best job in the whole Spanish army, possibly the whole of Spain, so don’t do anything to spoil it, Eddie.”

  The lending library was a great success. Ambros had a long list of subscribers, and every day readers would come to exchange books, often giving him their comments whether they had enjoyed the book or not. One or two people called on him in the library, but did not borrow a book, whispering to him discretely, that they could not read. Ambros proposed to Manel that he could offer a reading class in the library, perhaps one evening a week. Senora Pinto was the first to sign up, and soon Ambros had six ladies eager to learn. Men didn’t join; perhaps it was too difficult for them admit that they couldn’t read; and anyway more men than women had been to school, so illiteracy was not as much an issue for men.

  The library was also a success for the whole department store, and many people coming to change their books would often stop to buy goods from one of the other departments.

  Downstairs, and to Manel’s surprise, Carlos’s motor scooter business was also busy. With petrol hard to find, few people could run a car, and many of
the middle classes had pre-war cars stored idly at home. Scooters used far less fuel, and were cheap to buy. At first Carlos dealt only with second-hand scooters, and spent many hours servicing them and making sure they would be reliable. Eventually the time came for him to start stocking new models, and he proudly displayed his sign ‘Main Agent for Vespa Scooters’.

  Eduard often wondered about the store. It had been part of his life for many years, and he hoped fervently that it was continuing to flourish and grow. He would look around the mess dining room, with its lavish menu and generous portions of food, and think of the department store in Barcelona. Could they have a restaurant? Could it be even half as grand as the officers’ mess? What an interesting idea. As soon as his national service was over, he’d go home and start planning. A restaurant in the Eixample? It could be a very good idea.

  Meanwhile, his tumultuous induction into one of Franco’s crack regiments continued its exhausting progress. Day after day, the marching routines got trickier, the music harder, or faster, or both, and the time in between, spent cleaning boots or in the gymnasium, more tiring. Even the grandiose evening dinners in full dress uniform were demanding, and not the relaxation that might have been expected.

  One day, Digger announced that they had a day of respite from all the chores, and he proposed a visit to his family home in Guadalajara. “It’s just an hour on the train. I’ve told my parents all about you in a letter, and they’d like to meet you. It would be a good excursion away from all this military stuff for a day.”

  Eduard agreed eagerly. “What do we wear when we go out from the barracks?” he said. “Fatigues or uniform?”

  “Just fatigues,” said Digger. “We are allowed to wear full dress only for a special occasion, like a wedding or funeral. Besides, fatigues are more comfortable for a day out.”

  It was arranged that they would go the following Sunday, when church parade was cancelled. Although still wearing army boots, and in fatigues, it felt odd to Eduard to be out on the streets of Madrid without marching, and without a senior officer keeping an eye on them.

  “By the way,” said Digger, “my family don’t know me as Digger. They call me Diego at home.”

  “And I’d rather be introduced as Eduard,” said Eduard. “I’m Eddie only at the barracks.”

  With military passes, they did not have to pay for train tickets, and for the first time, Eduard was aware of the prestige in which his regiment was held in the capital. They wore their forage caps, with the red tassels, so were conspicuous as they walked to the station. Despite it being Sunday, there were frequent trains to Guadalajara, and by mid-morning they were walking towards Digger’s family home. Their forage caps caused more of a stir in the sleepy town, and after a while, they took them off and tucked them into their epaulets.

  Eduard was aware that Digger’s father was a banker, and that he came from a staunch nationalist family, but he was unprepared for the overt political atmosphere in the home of Senor Lopez. A huge portrait of Franco dominated the living room where he met Digger’s family. A maid took their caps, and Digger indicated that they should leave their boots in the front hall. In stockinged feet, they walked on the luxurious Turkish carpets of the grand townhouse, and were greeted not by handshakes, but by Fascist salutes by Senor Lopez. Digger introduced his mother, and then his sister Emma, who was a teenage girl, still at school. Eduard explained that he also had a sister, but she had been working in the family business for some years. Emma was overcome with shyness, and had little to say, but was entranced by Eduard.

  The meal was typically long and drawn-out: seated at a grandly arranged table, the family were clearly keen to impress Digger’s young friend, and expressed great surprise when they discovered he was only eighteen years old. The food was not as sumptuous as the daily fare in the officers’ mess, but none the less grander than anything served in the Bonet apartment; and Eduard was unaccustomed to having a maid looking after them. The household boasted a cook and a butler as well as the maid. The butler entered the dining room once they were all seated, and served soup. He returned when the maid had cleared the dishes, followed by the cook carrying a large joint of pork on a silver salver. The butler ceremoniously carved the meat on the sideboard, and the cook brought the plates to the table followed by the maid carrying a heavy dish of vegetables.

  During the meal, Eduard told them about the development of his family’s department store, and Senor Lopez told him that there were several similar stores in Madrid. Eduard was left, however, with a feeling that the family considered themselves to be somewhat superior to a mere grocer. Digger’s father was a banker, who had benefitted significantly by being on the winning side in the civil war.

  As they were preparing to leave, Emma pulled Digger to one side. “He’s very nice,” she said, “but you didn’t tell me how handsome he is!”

  “Is he?” said Digger. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  On the train, Eduard thanked Digger for arranging a good day away from the regiment. “And you have a very pretty little sister,” he said. “Given a year or two more, and she will be a great beauty.”

  Digger laughed. “She said something similar about you, but I’ll not say more, or you will develop a very swollen head.”

  “It must be odd for a girl of her age to still be at school,” said Eduard. “My sister didn’t go to school. She’s very clever, but all that she knows, my father taught her; and even I helped a little.”

  Clara and Ambros were inseparable on Sundays, and it became a regular routine for Ambros to call for her after lunch. One day he proposed that they should inspect the famous flea market at Glories. “It’s quite a long walk,” he said, “and we may not like anything we see there, but it will be fun, and we shall have ice cream on the way back.”

  Clara was always ready for an adventure, and readily agreed. The long walk down the Avenida del Generalissimo Franco was interesting, and the flea market at the junction with Meridiana was a chaotic jumble of tumble-down shacks. Wandering amongst the crowds, the couple admired all kinds of things for sale: clothes of all kinds, mostly very worn and tired, chipped cups and saucers, strange ornaments, largely debris left from war. The few items of furniture were invariably damaged, and it seemed that there was a very large amount of stuff that was unlikely to be sold.

  Suddenly, rounding a corner they saw a familiar face: Ferran Perrella, the manager of the grocery department at the store, presiding over a small stall of mixed items. Turning away, Clara said, “I’ve never liked that man. He’s not seen us; let us go a different way.”

  “No, wait,” said Ambros. “I’m curious to see what he’s selling.”

  They waited until Perrella was turned away, then advanced a little. Clara gasped. “Those shirts – they’re the very same as the ones at the shop. Father did an excellent deal, and bought bulk.”

  Ambros was puzzled. “And those tins of olives. Isn’t that the same brand he sells in his department? There seem to be quite a few things from the grocery department which look familiar.”

  Clara said, “Come away. Let him not see us. I have a nasty feeling he’s stealing from us.”

  “I’m thinking the same thought,” said Ambros. “Who keeps an eye on stock control at the store?”

  “No-one really,” said Clara. “We just assume everyone’s honest.”

  “Sadly that’s not a safe assumption,” said Ambros. “We need to investigate this a little further. Does he have a key to the shop?”

  “Yes,” said Clara. “Several of us have keys: you, me, mother, father, Perrella, and even Carlos and Senora Pinto.”

  “So he could go and let himself in at any time, help himself to anything, and come here on Sundays to sell the stuff.”

  “I suppose so,” said Clara. “What shall we do?”

  “Say nothing,” said Ambros. “He’s not seen us, so he does not know we suspect him. I’ll go to the store some time when it’s closed. There are always jobs to do in the library with new books arrivin
g, or returned books to put on shelves. I’ll see what’s going on. We might tell Carlos to keep an eye on things as well. He goes now and again to work late on the engine of an old scooter.”

  “Don’t tell mother and father yet. We don’t want to worry them, and they have always been very trusting,” said Clara.

  “You’ve all been very trusting,” said Ambros. “I think that time of trust is over.”

  The next day, Ambros took Carlos to one side. “You work late sometimes, don’t you?” he asked. “Ever seen Senor Perrella when you’ve been here late on your own?”

  “Yes,” said Carlos. “He’s very diligent, often checking stock I suppose.”

  “Anything odd about him?”

  “Not really,” said Carlos, “except for that big rucksack he always carries. Heaven knows what’s in it.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Ambros.

  Eduard was summoned to the band sergeant major’s office. It was a Friday morning.

  “At ease, soldier,” said the sergeant major. “We need a very unusual conversation; in fact I have to admit I’ve never had this conversation before. Please sit down, as we must talk man to man.”

  Eduard frowned, and sat.

  “You’re in a very strange position, young man, thrust here by our noble leader. You are a trumpeter in one of the most important bands of the regular army; and yet, you are a national service man. Yes, it’s a very strange situation.”

  The commanding officer paused, and Eduard waited, unsure where this conversation was leading.

  “So, young man, you have to make a decision. As a national service recruit, your time in the army finishes just two weeks from today, and you will be free to leave. Uniquely, you have a choice. I am authorised to offer you a contract to join the regular army as a staff sergeant. It’s most irregular, as all your colleagues have come into the regular army by a much harder and challenging route. Because of the Generalissimo’s intervention, you have gained access into an elite section of his army. So tell me, do you want to leave and go home to civilian life, or do you want to join the regular army?”