“And here’s another thing,” continued Jordi. “The editor of the paper, Robert Donald, says he’s a socialist, but he has an office big enough for three families to live in, with good modern furniture. And that restaurant! That famous Irishman, George Bernard Shaw, was there. Isn’t he a socialist? Apparently he eats regularly in that expensive place. How does he square that with socialism?”
“He’s known to be a great admirer of Lenin,” said Eulalia, “and yet you saw him in an expensive restaurant. You say he eats there regularly?”
“That’s what they said,” said Jordi.
Steven joined in with him. “Yes, we had a great adventure, but we’re left with very mixed feelings. Somehow, it all seems wrong. For some years, I’ve belonged to the communists; but it’s only now that I know why. It’s no surprise that there was a revolution in Russia. The surprise is that it hasn’t happened here, or in London.”
“Our time will come,” said another in the bar.
“Let us hope it will come without bloodshed,” said Jordi. “I don’t want to see the streets of Barcelona filled with the maimed and crippled, like they have in London.”
Jordi slowly learned to master his new typewriter, and continued to write reports for the Daily Chronicle. As the opening of the international exhibition drew nearer, various potential trouble makers were rounded up and put in prison. His Mam arrived rather breathlessly one day to tell him that both his father and Tomas had been arrested. She told him that they were both locked in La Model Prison, in the Eixample. The police were targeting known anarchists, but seemed to assume that the communists would not cause difficulties.
Jordi applied for a permit to visit his father in the prison. He did not tell the authorities that he intended to write about the prison for the newspaper, and said simply that he wanted to see his father.
Arriving at the visitor’s door, he showed his permit to the first doorkeeper, and was admitted to a cold entrance lobby. He shivered despite the warmth of the day outside. A prison guard met him, and unlocked a large metal door, which clanged shut behind them, and was re-locked noisily. Advancing in the gloomy corridor, they came to an enclosed courtyard, hexagonal in shape, with light streaming in from high windows. Five wings of cells were built from this central area, each wing accessed though a large door made of heavy steels bars, and like all doors in the place, locked.
“Vilaro … political prisoner,” muttered the guard. “Follow me.”
Another heavy door was unlocked with much jangling of keys, and Jordi followed the guard up steep metal steps to the first floor. They walked along a gallery, passing locked doors, and stopped before a cell near the end of the walkway. Jordi closed his eyes, feeling in his pocket for his black cat. The last time he walked on such a metal gallery was in the heat and the din of the London newspaper, a time of wonderment and excitement; now he was oppressed by the damp, cold atmosphere of La Model prison, home to his father, and Tomas, and countless other unfortunate men.
“Knock when you want to come out. I’ll be waiting outside the door,” said the guard, and he pulled the heavy door open. Jordi hesitated, and then walked forward. A small barred window high on the wall cast a pale light into the cell, as his father and another man stood to see who had arrived. To Jordi’s alarm, the door closed behind him, and he heard the key turn in the lock.
“Jordi, by our Lady, have they locked you up too?” said his father.
“No, I’m just visiting,” said Jordi, thinking that this was such a stupid thing to say. “I got a permit to come and see you. Christ, it’s dreadful in here.”
“You get used to it. Did you bring anything for us?”
“A bag of apples, Pa. Sorry it’s not much, but Mam said that’s what you’d want.” said Jordi, shivering. “It’s a hot day out there, with a blue sky,” he blurted out. “Why is it so cold in here?”
The other man in the cell had sat down, and Pa handed him an apple, which he started to eat noisily.
“Oh, Pa, I’m so sorry you’re here. It must be hell.”
“As I said, you get used to it. I’m not sorry – in fact I was quite proud that the police knew me, and know how strong my feelings are about them. They didn’t arrest me without a struggle; but I was stupidly unarmed when they came for me. I enjoyed kicking them, but there were too many of them and they easily handcuffed me.”
“How long are you here for?” asked Jordi.
“I don’t know. They don’t tell us such things. I’ve been arrested, but not charged with a crime. No trial, no sentence. Tomas is in here as well. He’s lucky to be alive, as he put up a terrific fight. I couldn’t do anything but watch from the police van when he was being arrested. One policeman hit him so hard, he passed out, but he revived in the van.”
“I wonder if he’d like me to visit him?” said Jordi. “I could apply for a permit.”
“Don’t bother,” said Pa. “He’s heard all about your little jaunt to London, and thinks you are a traitor. I do too, but I’ll not kill you for it. Tomas will. He was spluttering with anger when he found out. If they let you into his cell, you’ll not come out alive. And I don’t want to hear about it, either. Grandmother and Bonaventura will be turning in their graves, the way you’re betraying the cause of working men.”
“Pa!”
“Is your Mam alright?” Jordi nodded, speechless at his father’s attitude to him. “Thanks for the apples, son. Now you’d better go.”
With that, Vilaro banged loudly on the door of the cell, and the guard opened it. Vilaro’s banging triggered other inmates to bang on their cell doors, and a gradual rising cacophony of noise filled the wing of the prison. The banging of metal cups on cell doors was joined by random shouts of anger from the prisoners, and the sound was ringing in Jordi’s ears as he followed the guard back down the metal stairs.
Coming out into the sunlight of Carrer Rossell, Jordi leaned against the wall, taking in the warmth of the sun, turning the black cat in his fingers. The daily life of the city was buzzing all around him, as if nothing was unusual, and yet just behind these walls, hundreds of men were locked in dismal cells. The contrast was hard to comprehend, as Jordi walked thoughtfully back to his comfortable room, and his typewriter. Somehow, he had to convey the bleakness of the prison to his readers, and the frustrations and horrors of being locked up without a charge, a trial, or a sentence, and no notion of when you’d be released.
CHAPTER TEN
Jordi regularly checked his post-box in the ground floor lobby, but rarely received mail. He was thus surprised to find a large brown envelope propped up on top of the post-boxes, addressed to him. Taking it down, he saw that it was from Robert Donald in London.
In his room, he relished the unfamiliar pleasure of opening an interesting package, and found that he had been sent a permit for the press box at the forthcoming opening of the international exhibition. His London editor had applied successfully for the permit, and sent it to Jordi, together with much glossy literature about the exhibition, papers which were unavailable to the humble people of the city, and a lavish souvenir booklet.
Jordi woke early on 20th May, 1929, and was pleased to see the day would, as usual, be one of bright sunshine and a clear blue sky. He dressed hurriedly in his formal clothes, which he had not worn since his London adventure, and hurried down the stairs. With a high level of security in the area, he was not surprised to find a policeman stationed at the door of his apartment. Although it was still early, crowds were beginning to gather. Walking between the newly-finished Venetian Towers, he started to walk up the grand Avenue of Americas. He had not gone far, however, when he came to a police barrier. Most of the public were being directed to the sides of the wide avenue at this point, but showing his press pass, Jordi was allowed though. As he neared the top of the paved road, there was an ominous-looking group of men, not in uniform, but behaving like policemen, stopping the few people who had been allowed though the first barrier. Drawing closer, he gasped as he recognised the
formidable bulk of Bravo Portillo. Showing his press pass once more, he was allowed through, but not without feeling very uncomfortable under the gaze of Portillo’s thugs.
As he rounded the Magic Fountain, it suddenly became roaringly alive, spurting water high into the air, and gently showering all those up-wind of it. Jordi smiled in the knowledge that remembering such minor details would give his reports the character and human interest that his editor liked. He felt a measure of pride looking at the four huge columns representing the four blood-red stripes of the Catalan flag. That moment in London, when he said “I am not a Spaniard, I am Catalan,” came back into his mind.
Continuing up the grand staircase built into the hillside, he reached the doors of the great Palau Nacional. Another check of his papers, and he was directed through the exhibition rooms to the great arena. Taking a seat in the press area, he was excited to see that he would have a very good view of the ceremony. Slowly the great space filled up: the mayors of all the small local towns in their colourful robes taking the rows of chairs on the floor; and areas for other dignitaries in the surrounding galleries. He admired the huge assembly; and the full symphony orchestra on the stage. He nibbled a rather stale bread roll, as he watched, and shortly was joined by another young man, probably of his own age, who asked if he could sit next to him.
“Of course,” said Jordi.
“I’m Josep Sunol,” said the man. “La Rambla Magazine. This is quite an event, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” replied Jordi, “but I am sorry to say, I’ve never heard of La Rambla Magazine. Perhaps I should have done: I even lived on the Ramblas at one time.”
Josep laughed. “No, you won’t know about La Rambla Magazine, as it’s not been published yet. It’s new, and the first edition will be published shortly.”
“I’m Jordi Vilaro,” said Jordi. “I work for the Daily Chronicle.”
“Never heard of that either,” said Josep.
Jordi smiled broadly when he replied. “It’s a London daily paper. I’m the Barcelona correspondent.”
“So the world’s press are here,” said Josep, “as they should be, of course. Tell me, do you have to file your reports in English?”
“I do now, but at first I had to get them translated.”
“Do you speak English?” asked Josep.
“Yes I do, but I’m not a great expert. I still get my reports checked by a British friend before I send them. He often makes changes, but not so many recently. He’s Scottish, so apparently I speak English with a Scottish accent.”
“Have you been to London?”
“Yes,” replied Jordi, “quite recently. I flew from El Prat to Croydon Aerodrome.”
“Wow,” said Josep. “Tell me all about it.”
Before Jordi could reply, there was a great noise coming from the huge crowds which had gathered, standing ten-deep from Placa d’Espanya all the way up to the Magic Fountain.
“What’s that?” said Josep.
“I’m not sure. There’s a lot of cheering, but the sound is strange. There’s some shouting going on as well.”
“It’s frustrating being in here. We will have a great view of the opening ceremony when it happens, but we’re not outside seeing what’s happening,” said Josep.
At that moment a breathless reporter joined the others already seated in the press enclosure. “It’s not good,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of anti-royalty and anti-Rivera shouting going on. Portillo’s men are barging into the crowd and grabbing people; and they’re not doing it very gently. There’ll be a lot of people nursing bruises and broken arms by the end of the day.”
Suddenly, the air was filled by a trumpet fanfare, and the crowd in the hall rose.
King Alfonso the Thirteenth, in a grand military uniform, entered the royal box, closely followed by his English wife, Queen Victoria Eugenia. Some of the royal princesses and princes filed in behind them. There was a spontaneous burst of applause, as the king and queen waved to the assembled masses.
After a pause, the Spanish dictator, Primo de Rivera and his family, took their seats. The dictator waved to the crowd, but there was scant applause, and many of those who had stood for the king, remained seated. Rivera scowled.
Another group arrived, this time the Mayor of Barcelona Darius Freixa, and his family, and senior councillors. He received as much applause as the king and queen, and it was clear that the assembled mayors of local towns were pleased to see him. Rivera scowled some more, and the king and queen looked at him, clearly noting the animosity of his reception, compared to that given to Barcelona’s Catalan Mayor.
Moving to the lectern with its large microphone, Mayor Darius welcomed the royal party in Spanish, followed by a welcome for the dictator, and all the gathered dignitaries. He was joined at the microphone by a small posse of civilians, who repeated the welcome in English, French, German, and two other languages which neither Jordi nor Josep could identify. Looking in his programme, Jordi saw that there were representatives from several other European countries, and he assumed the strange languages were Norwegian, Danish or another Nordic tongue.
The king declared the exhibition open in his usual diffident manner. Few of the people present had ever seen him before, and they were struck that his good looks were not matched by much confidence; they also were aware that the queen appeared never to communicate with her husband, behaving as if they were unknown to one another.
Jordi was scribbling in his note-pad, but found he was writing questions, rather than reporting the contents of the dull speeches. “Are the king and queen estranged?” and “How much to write about the reception given to Rivera?” He knew he could hide behind anonymity in the British press, but he was worried that Portillo’s thugs could identify him. “Are the politics of today more interesting to the British readers than the contents of the exhibition halls?” and “Robert Donald wanted me to keep an eye on fascists like Portillo, but how to do it and stay safe?”
Eventually the tedium of the welcoming speeches came to an end, and with another noisy fanfare the royal party retreated.
“Quick,” said Josep, “let’s run round the back and see what happens next!”
Running around the massive building proved to be a quick way of getting to the promenade overlooking the Magic Fountain. The king and queen, in a highly polished Hispano-Suiza, were being driven slowly past the fountain, and turned down the hill towards Espanya. The royal children followed in the next car, then Rivera and his family, and finally Darius Freixa and his. Once more there was the muddle of cheering and shouting, and Jordi watched as the official thugs plunged into the crowd to silence any protesters they could grab. Jordi and Josep ran down the steps and past the fountain.
Halfway down the hill, the procession stopped. The managing director of the Hispano-Suiza car factory escorted the king, with the princes, into one of the pavilions, the one dedicated to Communication and Transport. Jordi knew that the exhibits included a new locomotive from the Maquinista factory in Barceloneta, as he had watched it being delivered on a gigantic trailer. The queen, with her daughters, was taken into another pavilion which, Jordi’s programme told him, was an exhibition of fabrics and clothes. He intended to visit this Palace of Costume, as he was interested to see the fabled multi-coloured velvets, and see if he could identify the faded material of his chaise.
Whilst the king and queen were inspecting the exhibits, Rivera remained in his car. Mayor Darius, got out and walked forward to the dictator, and it was clear that some great argument was going on. Although the crowds were being kept at bay by police, Jordi’s press pass enabled him to get closer to the dictator. Rivera was shouting angrily at the mayor, and repeatedly pointed forcefully at the Magic Fountain. Jordi frowned. How could the dictator object to something as innocent, and amusing, as a fountain? Then he was close enough to hear a fragment of the shouting. Rivera was demanding that the four columns representing the stripes of the Catalan flag, be demolished immediately.
> Grabbing Josep, Jordi said, “This is real coup. I’ve got so much to write up for my London readers, but this will be my first report. Accounts of the aeroplanes and telephones, and steam engines and all the other stuff can wait. This is the politics, symbolised by those columns, and if they demolish them, it’s a great political statement. I’ll tell the world, you can tell Barcelona.”
Walking away from the mayor’s and dictator’s altercation, Josep said, “You get excited by this kind of thing, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Jordi. “It’s why I love doing what I do. I really believe in telling the world what life is like in Catalonia.”
When he got home, later that day, having struggled through immense crowds, Jordi’s head was buzzing. He quickly scribbled a list of tasks: aspects of the day which would trigger important reports for the newspaper. He would return later to view the many exciting exhibits, but first he had to deal with the realities of the opening ceremony. His first encounter with both the king and the dictator had left him with confused impressions of both men, and the reactions of people towards them; he had luckily gained an insight into Rivera’s attitude towards Catalonia, and in his view, this would be more important than writing about steam trains or aeroplanes. He watched the obvious enmity between the king and the queen: he hoped he was not imagining troubles hidden behind the glittering jewels and gaudy military uniform.
He revelled in his luck of securing a room with such an excellent view of the exhibition site. He sat typing up the day’s reports with the gathering twilight turning the exhibition into a magical place. Glass pillars on either side of the Avenue of Americas were lit by electricity, creating an extraordinary effect all the way up the hill; and in the distance the Magic Fountain had sprung into life, with its sensational ever-changing light show.
Amidst all this magic and fantasy, real life had intruded. He was troubled by seeing Bravo Portillo’s thugs, back on the streets of the city. It appeared the police were complicit in the open brutish violence used. Jordi was driven to report what he saw, and at the same time frightened of the consequences. He even felt a pang of sorrow for men such as his father, locked up because of what they believed in, and subject far more than he, to the casual violence.
Barcelona Sunset Page 21
