On returning to the mess, the men found an unexpected and unusual order had been posted. They read it and re-read it, incredulous. Not only were they given an afternoon off, but they were told that they were to go to the beach for the afternoon, where the cooks would be making supper over fires. They were to wear their fatigue trousers and boots, and were allowed to leave the barracks in singlets, without their shirts. Digger nudged Eduard. “It’s going to be fun,” was all he said.
After the usual dull lunch of stale bread and chewy ham, they watched amused as the cooks loaded a truck with a variety of cooking equipment, and set off for the shoreline. The men followed, and the short walk brought them to a wide sandy beach. There were several fishing boats drawn up, and a few local fishermen. The sun was hot and the water blue. The men split into various small groups and lay down under trees that fringed the beach. Some tried to start a game of football, but most were content to gossip and snooze. As the afternoon wore on, fires were started and the cooks produced huge pans of aromatic rice as well as long skewers of meat to roast over the flames. The sun was setting as the men queued for tin plates of food, and bottles of beer. Returning to their groups, they found they had the best meal that this Moroccan barracks had produced since they arrived.
In the twilight, several young scantily-clad women wandered onto the beach, attracted by the large number of young men. Eduard watched as they paraded in front of him, and was slightly startled when one sylph-like creature walked purposefully to him and sat beside him.
“Give me a taste of your beer,” she said.
Eduard grinned, and handed her the bottle. She sipped it and returned it.
Digger leaned over. “I’ll leave you some space Eddie,” he said. “See you later.” And with that he got up and walked away.
“Eddie!” said the girl. “You have a nice friend, but you are more handsome.”
Eduard was thankful that dusk was falling fast, so that the girl did not see him blush. He stuck the beer bottle into the sand and laid back. The girl lay beside him, and stroked his cheek.
“Where do you come from Eddie?” she asked.
“Barcelona,” he said. “Have you ever been there?”
As soon as he’d said it, he realised what a stupid question it was. This young girl had never been beyond Tetouan. She giggled. “No, but one day you take me there.”
She kissed him and he lay back. This was what Digger had told him would be fun, and he liked it.
“I’ve got no money on me,” he said.
“I’m not worrying about that, beautiful boy,” she said. “Just let me keep you warm. It can become cool as night falls.”
It was very dark when Eduard woke up. The fires were reduced to glowing embers, the cooks had left, and many of the soldiers had returned to the barracks. Of the girl there was no sign. He stood and shook the sand from his clothes, buttoned his flies, and stretched. He’d lost his virginity with the prostitute the others had given him in the box when he first arrived, but tonight had been different. The girl had seduced him slowly, and he’d enjoyed it. With a broad grin on his face he stumbled along the darkened beach, hoping he’d find the way to the barracks.
As he made his way along the beach, he saw other soldiers in various positions with young women, and to his surprise, a few with young boys. He remembered the pale boy who had been so home-sick in the National Service dormitory: but these young boys could hardly be homesick in their own town; why were they so eager to lie with the soldiers?
It was only in the daylight of the next morning, that Eduard realised that his watch was gone. Digger had no sympathy. “What did you expect,” he said, “lying with a girl like that? Your watch was a payment for what she did for you.”
“My father will be furious,” said Eduard. “How can I tell him that I had sex on the beach with a Moroccan girl, and she stole my watch?”
“Will he be shocked?” said Digger.
“Very,” said Eduard. “To be honest, I’m quite shocked myself!”
“Then you must buy another watch,” said Digger, “and say nothing.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clara and Ambros attempted to keep their love a secret from the rest of the staff at the store, but most of the shop girls had guessed, and the next time April 23rd came round, Ambros produced a whole bunch of red roses for Clara, which confirmed their suspicions. Clara, of course, was in a dilemma: how could she give a book to a man who was a librarian? She knew the books in the library were all second hand, mostly from Father Matias’s pawn shop, augmented by bundles brought in for sale by neighbours, but she wanted something a little more special for her boyfriend.
Escaping for an afternoon of shopping, she went to a bookshop to ask for help, and the knowledgeable young man there suggested a recently translated detective novel. “It’s by a famous English author called Agatha Christie, and is all about a detective called Hercule Poirot. It’s recently been translated into Spanish. If it sells well, I think I will be able to stock many more of these stories about the same detective.” Clara thought this would suit Ambros, and the young man wrapped up a copy of ‘Murder on the Orient Express” for her.
Ambros liked the story very much, and read it very quickly. “It says there are more stories by this Agatha Christie,” he said. “Where did you buy this one?”
Clara took him to the bookshop, and he bought ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles.’ He got talking to the owner of the bookshop and explained that he was the librarian at Bonet’s Department Store. It was not long before Ambros was selecting new books for the library from a selection which the bookshop could not sell, and which they offered to him at a cut price. Manel liked this development, but warned Ambros to be prudent with the budget.
Meanwhile, Clara and Ambros had developed a new passion: they loved going to the cinema. There was a wonderful picture palace on the corner of Augusta, a very short walk from the Bonet apartment in Rossello. The Windsor Palace Cinema was huge and luxurious, and showed comedies and dramas, some of which had been filmed in Barcelona.
Clara remembered the gala opening of the Windsor Palace: it had been in 1946, and Anna had told her she was too young to go. “And anyway,” her mother had said, “you won’t understand the film. It’s a history play by Shakespeare, Henry Fifth, with a famous English actor called Laurence Olivier.”
“That’s not the reason to stay away,” said Manel, “but I wouldn’t go with all the Fascist big-wigs turning up. I’m sure there will be good things to see when you’re older.”
Their first visit to the cinema had been for a comedy called ‘Anchor Button’. They had laughed a lot, and afterwards Clara confessed to thinking that the star, Jorge Mistral was very handsome. The local heart-throb had been only twenty-eight when he’d made the film, not much older than Ambros himself.
Films were shown during the day, with very cheap tickets, but Clara and Ambros were always at work. They would go in the evening, arriving for the nine-fifteen showing. Clara pretended not to see several of the shop girls when she was with Ambros at the cinema, but they waved and giggled, so she waved back. They were sometimes early enough for a sandwich in the cafe, but did not go to the grand restaurant. There was also an exclusive night-club on the top floor, but Clara and Ambros could not consider going there, as it was very expensive.
She watched for posters showing Jorge Mistral, and they went to see him in a lavish historical drama called ‘Madness for Love’, which despite its title was a fairly serious story about a queen in Castile many years ago. In line with the curious twisted demands of the Fascist regime, the films made in Barcelona, in Catalan, were dubbed into Spanish.
When it came to Anna’s name day, she was gloomy, remembering the terrible catastrophe which had befallen the Santa Anna procession a few years before. To give her a better day, Manel decided to take her to the famous Windsor Palace restaurant. Clara had put the finishing touches to a new dress for her mother, and Manel was wearing his best suit. They swept past the que
ue waiting for the evening film, and went up the grand staircase to the restaurant.
The overwhelming impression was of the flowers, always with a red theme whatever the season. In one corner the little band sat on a small flower bedecked stage. A cello and a violin provided most of the light classical music, and at times a young trumpeter would stand and move the music into jazzy rhythms.
“It’s lovely,” said Anna. “The trumpeter reminds me of our Eduard; although I think Eduard might be a better trumpeter than that. I wonder if he plays jazz?”
Once back in their barracks in Madrid, the regimental band resumed the routine of rehearsals, marching practise and gymnastics. The bandsmen were glad to be back to their sumptuous evening meals, and remembered with a shudder the poor fare they had received in Morocco. Not long after their return, they were given a free day, and unable to get home to Barcelona, Eduard again joined Digger for lunch at his parents’ house in Guadalaraja.
Once more Eduard had to cope with Senor Lopez’s Fascism, saluting the picture of Franco instead of shaking hands, but he enjoyed being away from the mess, and being with a friendly family. Digger’s sister was as shy as ever, but was blossoming into a very beautiful young woman.
“My sister said it again, Eddie,” said Digger on the train home. “She thinks you are very handsome.”
“The girl on the beach in Morocco said something similar,” smiled Eduard. “Which reminds me, I must buy a watch to replace the one she stole.”
The family in Barcelona were pleased with the new grocery manager, and it was with some relief as well as excitement that Manel and Anna continued the expansion of their business. Their humble grocery shop had grown into a substantial department store, with a food hall selling quality goods including butchery and fish; their clothes ranges expanded, although Anna remained loyal to her ever-growing band of home workers; they opened a furniture department which developed from the refurbished items found on bomb sites into a full department of smart new furniture; and against all odds, Carlos expanded his bicycle and scooter department, and started to investigate selling Seat cars. Manel remained constant to his ideal of employing resourceful young people who had not received a proper education, and Ambros was dedicated to teaching not only neighbours, but also many of the staff, to read.
Eduard, in Madrid, fell in love with the band. He remained uncomfortable with the many encounters he had with the Fascist high command, but his love of music, and his trumpet, and his constant striving for greater musicality, ensured that he knew his life could hardly be better.
Madrid, however, had as many destitute people as Barcelona. On their many excursions to play in various parts of the city, the bandsmen could not avoid the constant presence of the poor. Many of the band seemed to take no notice, but Eduard was disturbed, and resolved to give what he could to the homeless. Tentatively, on one of his regular visits to the Lopez household, he raised the subject with Digger’s father. Senor Lopez strongly defended the Generalissimo’s record, telling Eduard that he was imagining the poverty, and that the nation was thriving under the strangely-named ‘autarky’ policy so strongly pursued by the government.
Manel and Anna had the same consciousness of their good luck in the face of so much hardship. It was many years since the war had finished, but its effects dragged on and on, and many of the population scraped an existence, living without employment or sufficient food, and coping with dire slum conditions. The family promoted their efforts to provided some basic staple foods, like rice and lentils, as cheaply as possible; and Ambros noticed that some of the very poorest of the customers would also climb the stairs to his library to borrow books, or learn to read, and thus better themselves.
Many factories continued to struggle: although it was over ten years since the end of the war, factories which had struggled to re-open after the bombing, found themselves in greater and greater difficulties, and many gave up the attempt, closing and throwing many more workers onto the streets. For many living in Spain, the beginning of the 1950’s was not the new dawn of the better life that they hoped for; they simply had to cope with the continuing greyness and hunger of their desperately impoverished lives.
Military and religious parades brought temporary respite to many dull lives, and Eduard’s regimental band travelled the length and breadth of Spain, giving band concerts and taking part in all kinds of parades. It was early in 1950, that a notice was posted in the mess announcing a trip to Barcelona, with a grand parade culminating in a band performance in the famous Barcelona football stadium.
As soon as he knew the dates of the trip, Eduard wrote to his family, telling them to find a way to be in the football stadium for the great event. He didn’t tell them that General Franco would be appearing, as he knew that would deter his parents. He also applied for leave to visit his family at home following the band’s performance, staying with them overnight instead of returning to barracks. He was particularly excited that this would be the first time they would see him in his full dress uniform.
As the train pulled into Franca Station, Eduard could hardly conceal his excitement. Manel and Anna were in the crowd waving at the bandsmen as they formed up outside the station to march to their barracks, but Eduard could not spot them amongst the throng. Although wearing only fatigues, they had their instruments ready, and formed into their familiar positions in the wide street outside the station. With a quick “Attention!” from their Sergeant Major, they were soon blasting ‘Los Generales’ and heading south, past the grand customs building on their left, and the even grander Reial Academia on their right. As they marched into the gloomy road beside the dock, towards the Christopher Columbus column, Eduard shuddered. It appeared they were about to march to Montjuic, and he could think of nothing worse than being billeted in that dismal castle with its recent and continuing history of executions.
The march was halted abruptly outside the Palau Capitania General.
“Are we billeted here?” asked Digger under his breath.
“It looks like it,” replied Eduard. “I’ve always wondered what it was like.”
The soldiers on guard saluted as the main doors swung open, and the men marched into the courtyard of the palace. They were brought to a halt, and the doors slammed closed behind them. Their Sergeant Major took a position on a short staircase to address the band.
“At other times, regiments visiting this city are billeted in Montjuic Castle, but you may be aware that the castle is full of prisoners, and fully occupied with the process of executing those republicans foolish enough to oppose our great leader. We are very fortunate to have been offered rooms in this, the Palau Capitania General. After the rough dormitories of Tetouan, and the austere barracks of other cities, this is extraordinary luxury. I have been asked to remind you to treat this place for what it is, a palace. There will be considerable punishments for anyone who fails to respect the building. Dinner will be served in the main hall of the palace, but as there is no time to change, you will come to dinner in your fatigues. In the morning, you will put on your full dress uniform after breakfast, and be ready to parade by ten hundred hours.”
As the men were dismissed, the Sergeant Major approached Eduard. “Staff Sergeant Bonet: you have been given leave of absence tomorrow evening. Following the concert in the football arena, the band will travel by bus back to this billet. You will be dismissed when the band boards the bus. This means you will be dismissed in your full dress uniform, an unusual dispensation from convention. You will be expected to report back to this building the following morning promptly at nine hundred hours.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” replied Eduard.
The following morning, the bandsmen were ready in the courtyard to assemble for the parade. As they waited they exchanged stories of the grand rooms in which they had spent the night.
“There’s a throne room, left from the days when we had a king,” said one.
“We were in a long corridor with high windows overlooking the docks,�
� said another.
“It was a very long way to the toilet,” said a third, “so I pissed into a huge plant pot, containing a palm tree.”
“That will have killed it,” said his companion, grinning.
As the men joked and compared experiences, the Sergeant Major brought them to attention.
The band was brought out of the main gate into the shadowy dockside road. The dilapidated warehouses cast dark shadows across the road making it gloomy despite the brilliance of the rising sun. From the Ciutadella Park came the sounds of a crowd and the religious part of the parade started its laborious trek towards the band. With the great effigy of Santa Eulalia held high, the monks staggered under the weight of the float, and Eduard was reminded of the dreadful day when the float of Santa Anna was bombed. Many nuns walked beside Santa Eulalia, singing quietly and fingering their rosary beads as they walked. The float passed the bandsmen, who then stood in formation behind it, and when their sergeant major gave the signal, they started to play. The music seemed to give impetus to the monks straining under the weight of the effigy, and they made quicker progress towards the Christopher Columbus column.
At the beginning of the Ramblas, the procession came out from the shadows of the warehouses and turned into the sunshine of the wide boulevard. The band marched briskly, and often had to stop when they became too close to the religious group: this was nothing new for them, as they had followed many such processions in towns the length and breadth of Spain. The parade made its way slowly through the city. At the great open space of Placa de Catalunya, the religious group pulled away to the right, to continue through Portal de l’Angel and thence to the cathedral. The band, however, continued across the square, and at a greatly accelerated pace, marched smartly up the Rambla de Catalunya. Buses were then used to transport them to the football ground.
Barcelona boasted an excellent football team, but with Franco’s insistence, they had regularly allowed the Madrid teams to beat them. This gave the Generalissimo great satisfaction, but greatly increased the hostility towards him in Barcelona. Arriving at the ground, the men prepared for their familiar marching routine.
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 18
