Much of the character of the Legión stemmed from Millán Astray himself, who formed the force in his own image – or rather a romanticized version of his own image. He was married to a woman who’d sworn a lifelong chastity vow, and there was more than a hint of eroticism in his obsession with death and manliness. Many of his ideas about soldiering came from a confused account of the samurai way of life found in a book called Bushido: The Soul of Japan by Inazo Nitobe, an international bestseller published in 1899 and one of the favourite books of President Teddy Roosevelt. Millán Astray claimed to have translated the book from English into Spanish, and he treated it like a bible that provided not just the inspiration for how to be a warrior, but a whole philosophy of life. What Millán Astray probably didn’t know was that Nitobe was a Christian Japanese married to an American Quaker, who had been educated in English and, as one expert has put it, was ‘in almost every way imaginable … the least qualified Japanese of his age to have been informing anyone of Japan’s history and culture’.16 Many of his ideas were a curious fusion of Christian and Japanese thinking, resulting from the distortion of ordinary Confucian values. But Millán Astray thought he was on to the real thing, and the Spanish Foreign Legion was the product of this twisted journey of samurai practice through the hands first of a Japanese Christian convert and then of a Spanish maniac. The result was a savage body of disciplined fighting men, their eye-patchwearing founder, mutilated with the scars of his many battles, screaming at them to die like heroes.
At least that was the image they presented. However, in a highly critical report following a rare but devastating defeat by Moroccan rebels in 1921, a Spanish officer attributed the legendary bravado of the Legión to a cocktail of alcohol, morphine and cocaine, while their leader was described as a ‘theatrical clown … who trembles when he hears the whistles of bullets and flees his post’.
In 1936 Millán Astray was no longer officially in command of the Legión, having been promoted to general. But as its founder, and as a sycophantic follower of his erstwhile subordinate Franco, whom he saw as an almost Christ-like saviour of Spain, he was still a prominent figure and was now head of the Nationalist propaganda department. There was a charged atmosphere in the Nationalist zone at the time – the disasters of the first few days of the rising had been forgotten in the wake of Franco’s astonishing victories as his forces marched up through Extremadura and the west of the country to unify the northern and southern Nationalist-held territories. Blood flowed freely as political opponents – real or imagined – were despatched in their thousands. Almost anyone could fall under suspicion, the principal bogeymen being ‘Reds’ as a whole; Freemasons – for their perceived support of the Republic; and advocates of autonomy for the Basque Country and Catalonia – which usually extended to Basques and Catalans in general. But often the killers on the Nationalist side – as on the Republican side – were not even this discerning. Another propaganda official, Captain Gonzalo de Aguilar, boasted that he had shot six of his own innocent farm workers at the outbreak of the rebellion, pour encourager les autres. This from a man who thought all the country’s problems were due to the introduction of modern drains – the usual illnesses weren’t killing off the working classes as they once had.
Meanwhile this nostalgic harking back to the Middle Ages was taking a less violent but no less anachronistic form in the same building where Millán Astray’s propaganda department was housed. There a Hindu alchemist called Sarvapoldi Hammaralt was beavering away in the university’s chemistry labs, trying to produce gold for Franco, having persuaded the authorities that he had the formula for making the precious metal so long as it was for a good cause. He did help the propaganda department read messages written in invisible ink, and carried out experiments on the bodies of dead Moroccan soldiers, but never produced the promised gold and eventually had to escape after accusations of spying for the British.
It was against this backdrop, in October 1936, that the ‘play’ of Unamuno’s clash with Millán Astray was enacted in the Salamanca University ceremonial hall on El Día de la Raza. It was witnessed by a man called Luis Portillo, a lecturer in law at the university and a poet who would later flee to Republican Spain and eventually settle in Britain, where he would father a future leading member of the Conservative Party. His account of the clash was later published in London by the magazine Horizon, edited by Cyril Connolly.
After Unamuno opened the ceremony, a couple of speeches were made on the current situation, about how the Civil War was a purifying experience from which the gold of pure Spain would emerge, having cleansed itself of the enemy or ‘anti-Spain’, as the Republican side was often characterized. Then Millán Astray, thin and battle-scarred, got up from the public benches to speak, to the cries of ‘¡Viva la muerte!’ from his cronies. After branding all supporters of the Republican government as criminals guilty of armed rebellion and high treason, he started warming to his theme.
‘The Basque Country and Catalonia are two cancers in the body of the nation,’ he boomed. ‘Fascism, which is Spain’s health-bringer, will know how to exterminate them both, cutting into the live healthy flesh like a resolute surgeon free from false sentimentality. And since the healthy flesh is the soil, the diseased flesh the people who dwell on it, fascism and the army will eradicate the people and restore the soil to the sacred national realm.’
Perhaps shocked to hear the armed forces so blatantly given a role as oppressors and murderers of ordinary civilians, the public remained silent. From his presidential chair, Unamuno, who had not been planning to speak, began scribbling notes.
‘Every socialist,’ Millán Astray continued, ‘every Republican, every one of them without exception – and needless to say every communist – is a rebel against the National government, which will soon be recognized by the totalitarian states who are aiding us, in spite of France – democratic France – and perfidious England.
‘And then, or even sooner, when Franco wants it, and with the help of the gallant Moors, though they wrecked my body only yesterday, today deserve the gratitude of my soul, for they are fighting for Spain against the Spaniards … I mean the bad Spaniards … because they are giving their lives in defence of Spain’s sacred religion, as is proved by their attending field mass, escorting the Caudillo and pinning holy medallions and Sacred Hearts to their burnouses …’
Carried away by his own rhetoric and contradictions, the general floundered.
‘¡Arriba España!’ came the cry from the Falangists around him.
Clinging to this lifeline, Millán Astray took up the call.
‘¡España!’ he shouted.
‘¡Una!’ the crowd answered in mechanical response to the Nationalist rallying cry.
‘¡España!’ he repeated.
‘¡Grande!’ came the reply.
‘¡España!’
‘¡Libre!’
Inspired by the general and responding to the heightened atmosphere in the hall, the Falangists rose to their feet and, holding out their right arms in fascist salute towards the photo on the wall, cried out, ‘Franco! Franco! Franco!’
There was a lull after this commotion, and as people sat down again attention turned, perhaps with a little embarrassment, to the elderly philosopher sitting on the dais. How would the great man react to this very unacademic behaviour in his sacred university? Very slowly, Unamuno rose to his feet and began to speak.
‘All of you are hanging on my words,’ he said. ‘You all know me and are aware that I am unable to remain silent. I have not learned to do so in seventy-three years of my life. And now I do not wish to learn it any more. At times to be silent is to lie. For silence can be interpreted as acquiescence. I could not survive a divorce between my conscience and my word, always wellmated partners. I will be brief. Truth is most true when naked, free from embellishments and verbiage.
‘I want to comment on the speech – to give it that name – of General Millán Astray who is here among us. Let us waive the personal affro
nt implied in the sudden outburst of vituperation against Basques and Catalans in general. I was born in Bilbao in the midst of the bombardments of the Second Carlist War. Later I wedded myself to this city of Salamanca which I love deeply, yet never forgetting my native town. The bishop, whether he likes it or not, is a Catalan from Barcelona.’
Unamuno paused for a second. The bishop at his side appeared uncomfortable at being reminded of his place of birth.
‘Just now,’ the philosopher continued, ‘I heard the necrophiliac and senseless cry Viva la muerte – long live death. To me it sounds the same as Muera la vida – death to life. And I, who have spent my life shaping paradoxes which aroused the uncomprehending anger of others, I must tell you as an expert I find this outlandish paradox repellent. Since it was proclaimed in homage to the last speaker I can only explain it to myself by supposing that it was addressed to him, though in an excessively strange and tortuous form, as a testimonial to his being himself a symbol of death. And another thing: General Millán Astray is a cripple. Let it be said without any slighting undertone. He is a war invalid. So was Cervantes. But extremes do not make the norm. Unfortunately there are all too many cripples in Spain today. And soon there will be even more of them if God does not come to our aid. It pains me to think that General Millán Astray should dictate the patterns of mass psychology. That would be appalling. A cripple who lacks the spiritual greatness of Cervantes – a man, not a superman, virile and complete in spite of his mutilations – a cripple, I said, who lacks that loftiness of mind is wont to seek ominous relief in seeing mutilation around him … General Millán Astray would like to create Spain anew – a negative creation – in his own image and likeness, and for that reason he wishes to see Spain crippled, as he unwittingly made clear.’
As he paused, Millán Astray exploded. Jumping to his feet he screamed, ‘¡Muera la inteligencia!’ – Death to Intelligence!
A fascist poet and journalist in the audience, José María Pemán, tried to correct him. ‘No. Long Live Intelligence! Death to bad intellectuals!’
With tensions quickly rising, the armed Falangists around the general took up the cry, unholstering their pistols amid the shouting. One pointed his machine-gun at Unamuno’s head. A number of the university professors in their colourful gowns moved to protect him. Arguments flared up around the hall over academics who had disappeared or been shot over the previous months. Above the din Unamuno spoke once again, back straight and arms folded.
‘This is the temple of the intellect and I am its high priest. It is you who are profaning its sacred precincts. I have always, whatever the proverb might say, been a prophet in my own land. You will win but you will not convince – venceréis pero no convenceréis. You will win because you possess more than enough brute force, but you will not convince because to convince means to persuade. And in order to persuade you would need what you lack – reason and right in the struggle. I consider it futile to exhort you to think of Spain.’
His arms falling to his sides, his voice lowered to a more resigned tone. ‘I have finished,’ he said.
The apoplectic Millán Astray was unable to counter with any eloquence and merely pointed to Franco’s wife, shouting, ‘Take the Señora’s arm!’
This Unamuno did, and the two walked out of the hall and the hullabaloo, the philosopher dignified and pale, the dictator’s wife stunned and silent. Had she not been there Unamuno might not have left the university alive.
When Franco heard later what had happened he wanted Unamuno to be shot, but embarrassment over the disappearance of Lorca was still high and in the end the elderly academic’s international reputation probably saved him. Nonetheless he was sacked as rector and placed under virtual house arrest at his Salamanca home, where he died two and a half months later of a stroke, on the last day of 1936. Paradoxical to the last, this former sympathizer of Franco, now an implacable enemy of the brutality of the Nationalists, was hailed at his funeral as a Falangist hero.
As a result of the clash, however, Franco became aware of the danger of having such a volatile character as Millán Astray as head of propaganda. He kept him in place for some time afterwards, but eventually had him replaced. It was the beginning of Millán Astray’s gradual fall from grace. By the time he died in 1954, Franco refused even to attend his funeral. For both the philosopher and the legionary, men obsessed in their own ways with death, the confrontation between them proved to be their last great performance.
13
Saragossa
From his accent, the little man with the white hat seemed to be from Cádiz, just like the woman who had asked me the same question moments before.
‘What time is the Madrid train leaving?’
I assumed they were together, having caught sight of them hanging around at the back of the queue, and put the repeated question down to nerves about travelling or fear of missing the train. As before, I turned and pointed to the screens on the other side of the ticket hall where the departure times were clearly shown and indicated the information he sought. He gave a brief smile and then hurried off, rather nervously, I thought. With hindsight I seemed to be partially aware of a shadow passing behind me as I spoke to him, but perhaps my mind was filling in the gaps afterwards.
After a few more minutes’ waiting in the queue it was my turn at the counter. I wanted to see if I could change my ticket and travel that evening to Madrid rather than wait till the following day. I had come to Saragossa to visit nearby Belchite, a small town in the Aragonese desert destroyed in the Civil War and whose ruins had been left untouched ever since. Now, though, I didn’t want to spend the night here: Saragossa was an ugly, dry place with little charm, although, in my experience, the people were friendly.
‘There’ll be a charge,’ the girl behind the counter said. It was then that I noticed something was wrong. The bag on the trolley – it looked like mine, but wasn’t it slightly rougher-looking, and paler? These thoughts flashed through my mind at the speed of a camera shutter – a second later I realized that it wasn’t my bag, just one that looked a bit like it. Even then I still took time to register what had happened. Perhaps I’d picked up my neighbour’s bag instead of my own. I looked behind me to see a portly, sweaty man in a business suit holding a black briefcase in his left hand. No, not that. I looked to my left and right. Nothing. Understanding finally dawned. I opened the bag I’d thought was mine: it was completely empty. Someone had done a switch and robbed me of everything: credit cards, passport, wallet, cash.
‘My bag,’ I said, almost swallowing the word in shock. The girl behind the counter looked impatient. I was holding up the queue. ‘I’ve been robbed,’ I said. ‘They’ve stolen my bag.’
There was no response. She didn’t deal with robberies, only selling and changing tickets. Like grinding rusty machinery, my mind started piecing together what must have happened. The Cádiz couple, who were now nowhere to be seen, had been distracting me, turning my attention momentarily away from the bag on the trolley while an accomplice behind my back swapped it for one that looked similar. Annoyed by the old man’s question – I’d already explained to his wife – I hadn’t noticed a thing, my mind wandering back and forth from what had happened during the day to where I was hoping to be that night. Anywhere but the present. And now the bag was gone.
The businessman was scowling at me for holding things up. I looked desperately around the ticket hall for a sign of the little couple. For an awful moment, though, anyone and everyone might have been guilty. I felt I was surrounded by thieves, all trying to take something from me.
‘Didn’t you notice anything?’ I said to the others in the queue. No one stirred. They were all lost in their own thoughts and worlds, just as I had been.
‘Please,’ I said, turning back to the ticket girl, ‘call security.’
As though the effort might kill her, she lifted her arm and pointed sleepily to the security guards’ office on the other side of the hall. I should go and report to them myself if I t
hought there was something wrong. But in the meantime I was keeping people waiting, so if I didn’t mind …
I sprinted across the hall. There might still be time to catch the thieves if we hurried. They couldn’t have got far. For a second I oscillated between looking for them myself and getting help from the guards. But I might not be able to answer for myself if I did manage to find them on my own.
The guards’ office was closed and no one responded to my pounding on the door. Looking around, I caught sight of someone in a blue uniform with handcuffs and a gun hanging from his belt.
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