The financial situation was affecting everyone else, and undermining the previously bullish dictator. When Steven came to proof-read Jordi’s latest report, he found it was the announcement of the resignation of Rivera. This was one of the first reports Jordi read to London via his own telephone in his own room.
Politically, things were moving quickly. Anarchists were blowing up capitalist targets in the city, and Jordi’s communist group was meeting regularly at the Begemot. Older unions were flexing their muscles, and new unions were being formed. The city fathers in Barcelona seized their opportunity, and called local elections.
Jordi worried if he might be overwhelmed, working alone to report the election, and he had a long conversation with Steven, to ensure his active support. He contacted London, and secured an agreement to bring Steven properly onto the payroll as an employee of the News Chronicle. Steven opened a bank account, with just as much trepidation as Jordi had had, and started regular hours, not only working alongside Jordi in his room, but also going out and collecting information and news bulletins about the rapidly changing political scene.
The crowded streets of the city were filled with people carrying political banners; there were daily workers’ marches, and every vacant wall space was plastered with posters. It was clear the Catalan independence movement was gaining momentum. In April 1931, pro-Republican parties won a landslide victory in Barcelona, and in the face of near-anarchy in Madrid, King Alfonso the Thirteenth suspended the monarchy, and sailed for France and exile. Jordi secured an interview with the prominent politician Francesc Macia. He took Steven with him to the meeting, and they were thrilled to find Macia’s optimistic mood. The elderly politician told the young reporters to be in the Placa Sant Jaume on 14th May, when there would be an important announcement from the balcony of the Generalitat building.
The square was packed to capacity with excited Catalans. Rumours had circulated the city for several days, and an enormous cheer went up when Macia appeared on the balcony. As the cheering and flag-waving died down, Macia spoke to the crowd, and announced that the landslide result of the election enabled him to proclaim the Free Catalan Republic.
Suddenly a firm hand landed on Jordi’s shoulder. Spinning round, he looked up into the grinning face of Ferrer.
“At last,” shouted Ferrer, through the din of cheering, “Catalonia stands proudly as an independent socialist state. Victory to the workers.”
“Come back to my room,” said Jordi. “We must celebrate, and I must telephone London.”
With such crowds, Jordi, Steven and Ferrer had no hope of catching a tram, so they hurried back to Placa d’Espanya, Ferrer marching along with his long legs, and Jordi and Steven jogging to keep up with him.
Ahead of them they saw a familiar fat dwarf. “There’s the toad,” exclaimed Ferrer. “He’s not noticed us. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time!” And sprinting ahead, he gave Bertoli a resounding kick on the bottom, sending him sprawling into the gutter, and nearly being trampled by a horse. They laughed and ran on, with the toad’s shrieks of vengeance falling on deaf ears.
They grabbed a bottle of Cava en route, and giggled like school-boys when the warm and well-shaken bottle bubbled everywhere when they opened it. Using Jordi’s collection of cracked tea-cups, they toasted the new Republic, and Jordi attempted to scribble a report for London.
“I must telephone quickly,” he told the others. “This will be in time for the lunchtime edition of the paper. There’s just a chance I’ll be one of the first to phone the news through, and I’d love it to be another scoop for the paper. It will do wonders for my reputation with my new editor.”
Seated side by side on the chaise, Steven and Ferrer finished the bottle of Cava whilst Jordi dictated his report to London. Putting down the telephone, he turned to Steven and Ferrer with eyes glistening.
“I did it!” he exclaimed. “No-one else had the news yet. It will be all over the world within a few hours, but I got the message to London first. They’ve held the lunchtime edition of the paper to change the headline with the Catalan story. Phew!”
Hardly had he spoken, than the phone rang. It was Walter Layton himself, the new editor of the News Chronicle. They watched as Jordi nodded, then stammered his thanks. Putting down the phone, he turned to the others.
“That was the editor, the real big-chief. He’s really pleased. He said I’ve put Catalonia on the London map, and I’ve put myself on his map. I just got a pay-rise, and so did you Steven.”
“Congratulations to you both,” said Ferrer. “But I’ve a feeling the real hard work is only just beginning.”
Election euphoria was short-lived. Within a few days, all kinds of disturbances broke out in the streets. A week after the announcement, Steven was talking with Jordi in his room. Suddenly they heard a commotion in the street below. From the window they could see men fighting all around the Placa d’Espanya. They ran down the stairs, and directly into the melee.
“What’s happening?” Jordi asked a grim-faced policeman.
“It’s a riot,” snapped the policeman. “One minute we’ve got a new Republic, next minute these bloody workers think they can do what they like.”
At that moment, a young man staggered towards them, blood pouring from a wound on his forehead. Steven took him into the lobby of the apartment block, and tied his handkerchief around the young man’s head. Jordi followed, and shut the door against the noise of the fighting.
“Sit on the floor, and get your breath,” said Steven to the young man. “What going on?”
“There was a lot of people waiting for trams, over there where they start from, and someone shouted out something about ‘they’re our trams now’ and ‘we don’t have to pay fares no more’, and everyone tried to get on. There was a couple of police and tried to get them off again, then everyone started fighting. There was a truck full of police over by the Espanya Hotel, and they came running with night sticks at the ready and joined in. I think that’s how I got hit.”
Looking outside, Jordi said, “It’s calming down. Most people are walking away. There’s a few others been injured, none too bad. Doesn’t make a story for the paper, but if it’s the start of a trend, we must keep an eye on it.”
A few days later, Ferrer came to Jordi’s room. “The mood in the mill is very strange,” he said. “It’s like that fight outside here the other day, about getting on the trams without paying. People don’t know what this republic really means. We’ve talked a lot at the communist meetings about ‘power to the people’, but the people don’t know if they’ve got power or not. The anarchists are loving this – they thrive on confusion, and are building up a big following of angry workers. Since you left, Jordi, the workforce has become dominated by the anarchists. Even the peasants who used to work on farms, who didn’t know anything about politics when they arrived, are being radicalised when they get here. The mill is like a bomb waiting to explode. I don’t want to be there when it happens, because they’ll see me as one of the bosses, not a worker like themselves, and they’ll not think twice about who they murder.”
Creating a new republic out of the chaos of Catalonia was no easy task, and with the conflicting organisations of communists, unions, and anarchist groups competing for the loyalties of the workers, a strong president was essential.
Francesc Macia was juggling the demands of land owners, the church and the army on the one hand, and the hunger and low pay of workers on them other. Rural workers, paid even worse than their urban counterparts, felt little better than slaves, and the republicans campaigned against the rural land-owners, seeking urgent land reform. Change was, however, very slow, and there was no sense of urgency.
Peasants were fighting for land, and the land-owners, supported by the church, were fighting back. Churches and convents were set on fire and for a while the police did not intervene. Authorities in Madrid seemed powerless and responded to Macia’s representations for Catalan independence, by granting some measure of h
ome rule to Catalonia.
Jordi arranged another an interview with Francesc Macia, who was pleased that the London News Chronicle was interested in developments in Catalonia, but Jordi was dismayed to find that the elderly man was not only out of his depth coping with the huge demands being made upon him, but also struggling with rather frail health. Although there had been a great deal of rejoicing, it was quickly apparent that Macia was unlikely to lead the emerging Catalan nation, and he was no match for the strong anti-Catalan opposition of conservative army officers.
In 1933, Francesc Macia died. He was seventy-four, and the fifty-year-old Lluis Companys became President. Companys had been the member for Barcelona of the Madrid National Assembly since the 1931 general election, but just as he was made President of Catalonia, a further national election changed the complexion of the Assembly once more. The new coalition included a significant number of fascists.
It was October 1934 when Jordi confronted the new president with the political turnmoil: “How will Catalonia cope with this new right-wing coalition in Madrid?”
“It’s confrontational, to say the least,” replied Companys, “but we will not be swayed from our purpose. With fascists in the Madrid coalition, Catalonia cannot remain within the Spanish state. As President, I have declared the independent State of Catalonia within the Spanish Federation.”
“You say it’s controversial. Isn’t it dangerous as well? Will the Madrid government let Catalonia go its own way?”
“Of course it’s dangerous,” said Companys, “but if we believe in democracy, we must stand up for our beliefs.”
“The people of Barcelona will support you,” said Jordi.
“I know most will,” said Companys, “but not all. I think I can count on the communists, and probably most anarchists; but there are many land owners and industrial bosses who will favour Madrid; and the Catholic priests remain far to the right. The priests have even opposed opening schools for the workers’ children.”
“I am lucky that I learned to read without going to school,” said Jordi.
Companys smiled. “Yes, you are. It’s people like you we rely on to spread the word. You’re a member of that communist cell which meets at the Begemot Bar, aren’t you?”
Jordi was startled. “Yes, I am,” he said. “How do you know?”
“The city is full of spies,” laughed Companys. “There are no secrets. Now, before you go, let me ask you a direct question. Do you have a gun?”
Jordi was startled again. “No, Senor Companys. I’ve always opposed violence. Years ago, I practised shooting down at the beach, like many young men at the time, but I gave that up. At the Begemot, we are a communist group, but we hope for a peaceful revolution. We have seen too much violence from the anarchists. We must strive for the workers without any more being killed.”
“A noble sentiment, young man, but no longer sensible. I expect you know the anarchists are well-armed. The time has come for all left-thinking men, and women, in Barcelona to be armed. I believe there will be a terrible struggle ahead. Let us hope I am wrong, but I tell you, get a gun or a rifle, and remember how to use it. And be prepared for the worst.”
That evening, Jordi called on Ferrer.
“I saw Lluis Companys this afternoon,” he said. “He told me to get a gun.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Ferrer. “The whole city is talking the same talk. Even I have taken notice, and I’ve cleaned my old gun, that one that frightened you all those years ago.”
“I suppose I’m naive,” said Jordi, “but I don’t know where to get one. Presumably the city is full of them, but it’s an underworld of trading I don’t know about.”
“I do,” said Ferrer. “Leave it to me.”
The next morning, before sunrise, Jordi was woken by loud footsteps running up the stairs. “If that’s Steven, he’s very early,” he thought.
There was a loud banging on his door, and as he rushed to open it, Steven fell into the room.
“Companys’s been arrested,” he said. “I just heard. People are hurrying to the Generalitat to see what’s going on. We must get there.”
“We’ll grab a tram on the Grand Via,” said Jordi, “if we can get on one.”
In Placa de Sant Jaume, a crowd was gathering, shivering slightly against the early morning chill. Spotting Josep Sunol in the crowd, he pushed through to ask him what was happening.
“It’s not good,” said Josep. “It seems Companys was in his office, been working all night, I suppose. They came for him in the early hours.”
“They?” asked Jordi.
“Portillo and his bullies. Police at the door just stood to one side.”
“Where have they taken him? The police station on Laietana?”
“No,” said Josep. “The policeman on the gate over there reckons they went straight down to the port. He’s on the Uruguay by now.”
“That old rusty tub! It’s not good. Apparently it’s foul on board, and full of fascist terrorists. Portillo will release the fascists, and keep Companys, and anyone else they fancy catching.” said Jordi.
“They can’t hold him without a trial,” said Steven.
Josep shook his head, and smiled a little. “If only! No they’ll have a kangaroo court and lock him up. Now the real struggle begins.”
“I’m going to get on the Uruguay and see what’s going on,” said Jordi.
“Be very careful,” said Josep.
“You might get on that old boat quite easily,” said Steven, “but you need to be sure you will be allowed to get off again.”
The next day, Jordi went back to the Generalitat, to see if he could get a permit to go on board the Uruguay. To his surprise, the clerk gave him an immediate permit to go on board that morning. “They’ve said they’ll allow a few members of the press to witness the trial of Companys. It’s to be held at noon, on board the ship. Guard this permit with your life, as without it, you’ll be staying on board for a lot longer than an afternoon.”
“Thanks,” said Jordi. “I don’t expect to stay long.”
“Ever been on board before, young man?” asked the clerk.
“No, but I’ve been in La Model. That was pretty grim.”
“Pretty grim!” laughed the clerk. “La Model’s a picnic compared to the Uruguay. Good luck!”
Arriving at the quayside, Jordi could see the old ocean liner moored off-shore. An armed civil guard checked his permit, and then indicated a small and scruffy boat which would take him out to the prison ship. Two other men were already sitting in the boat, and grunted at Jordi as he gingerly climbed in and sat down beside them. Despite the warm autumn sun, a chill seemed to descend upon Jordi as the boat chugged out past the fish docks.
“Vanguardia,” said one of the men, shaking hands with Jordi.
“El Punt,” said the other, offering his hand.
“News Chronicle, London,” said Jordi.
The other two reporters looked at him in some surprise, but said nothing.
The Uruguay looked almost attractive from the distance, but as they drew near, Jordi could see the accumulation of rust and dirt which covered the once-grand liner. Not only did it look dreadful, but there was a strange stink hanging over it. Pulling alongside, the armed guard indicated to Jordi that he should climb a vertical rope ladder up the side of the boat. Thrusting his permit firmly in his pocket Jordi started the assent. The ladder swung against the filthy ship as he climbed, grazing his knuckles. Aware that he was being watched both from below and above, he tried to look as if he climbed such ladders every day, but in fact he was very frightened.
At last he reached the top, and stepped onto the deck. Breathing the stinking air, he waited whilst the other two newspapermen clambered up behind him, both finding it as hard as Jordi. Another well-armed civil guard looked at them with contempt.
“Cigarettes?” said the guard.
The local reporters hastily searched their pockets, and each handed the guard a packet of cigarettes.
The Vanguardia man glanced at Jordi, and handed him a pack, which he in turn handed to the guard. “You owe me,” grunted the Vanguardia man.
Pocketing the cigarettes, the guard told them to follow, and he marched up a steep flight of stairs to what had once been a grand saloon. To one side, a small group of chairs had been set up for the few reporters and observers, and the guard used his gun to point them that way. They sat silently, looking around the squalid room. A number of civil guards were hanging around, all of them playing with various kinds of pistols and rifles. Jordi had never felt so intimidated.
A number of men entered. They were dressed in an assortment of military uniforms, but Jordi could not identify regiment or rank. They sat at a long table facing the assembled audience. In the centre of the room was a single chair.
Jordi watched as Lluis Companys limped into the room, his face bruised and his hands tied behind his back. He gasped when he saw Bravo Portillo behind Companys, holding his gun to the President’s head. Pushing him violently, Portillo thrust Companys towards the lone central chair, and the President staggered forward, and went to sit.
“Did we tell you to sit?” shouted Portillo. Companys struggled to his feet, gripping the chair behind him to maintain his balance.
There was a long silence, broken only by the strangled breathing of Companys. At last one of the uniformed men stood, and walked around the table to the forlorn president.
“The independent State of Catalonia,” he said, speaking quietly and full of menace. “What kind of fool are you, to imagine Madrid will allow such a thing? You thought you were so clever, sitting in your grand office in your Generalitat, you and your communist friends. You have been found guilty … of…”
Barcelona Sunset Page 23
