That night as we sat down to supper, someone knocked at the door and shouted, “Francisco, the workers are taking up arms! The prime minister has resigned. The Civil Guard is loyal to the Republic, but the governor is afraid the military will attack the capital tonight.”
My father was wearing breezy pants and a sleeveless shirt, so he went to the bedroom for his short-sleeved shirt and hat. Then he took his pipe from the shelf and kissed my mother on the forehead.
“Francisco, please be careful,” my mother pleaded. I could see she was trembling, despite the heat.
“Don’t worry, darling. This’ll be over after maybe four gunshots. There’s nothing more cowardly in this world than a fascist.”
Before my father realized it, I was following him down the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re going, little shrimp?” my father’s friend asked, gently pulling me back by my collar.
“I want to go with you. I’m practically grown now.”
“And you think killing a man is a game?”
“We’re not going to kill anybody,” my father interrupted, sliding his arm around my back. “Don’t you remember what happened in Africa? Those cowards at the military base are all full of talk about the fatherland and honor, but they’re a bunch of traitors. Besides, Marco is thirteen years old now, almost a man. He should see with his own eyes how the fascists are gift wrapping the revolution for us that we’ve been awaiting for so long. They’ve choked at the ballot box and know we’re for real this time. We won’t let them steal our liberty again.”
The three of us headed for Monteleón Station, where some activists with the National Work Confederation passed out guns and greeted workers with raised fists. Excitement sparked in the air even though it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. With the guns, we headed to Luna Street, where most of the union headquarters were located. I was surprised to see a boisterous multitude coming down the street with arms raised high, begging loudly for weapons.
“Let’s head to party headquarters at the Segovia Bridge. They’ll know what to do there. These anarchists are incapable of organizing things,” said my dad’s friend.
We spent most of the night walking through the city, which seemed to be one big street party. Sunday dawned as we made our way down Segovia Street into the socialist sector. People were running this way and that, and the general jubilance seemed to celebrate the military uprising rather than fear it.
“Where’s Largo Caballero?” said my father to a girl who held an armful of folders and documents.
“In a meeting,” she answered, not pausing.
My father had known Largo Caballero since they were kids, when they lived near each other in Madrid’s Chamberí neighborhood. Father walked into the meeting room without knocking, and we followed. Half a dozen men were deep in discussion around a table.
“Mr. Alcalde, come in; don’t be so calm about it,” Largo Caballero goaded. Then, lifting his fist into the air, he said, “Comrades!” to which everyone responded in kind. “The fascists have opened up the doors of paradise for us. We failed in ’34, but this time no one will stop us. We’ll flush the cowards out of government and get someone with guts. It’s time for the brave to step forward,” he continued.
I did not understand why everyone was so happy, but their optimism was contagious. People were hugging and singing, speaking of how they would create a new world, a world without classes or injustice, a world where all men were equal and those who did not want to be part of it would meet death.
Chapter 4
The Montaña Barracks
Madrid
July 19, 1936
I eventually fell asleep on a bench. Someone threw a blanket over me, and before it was even light outside, my father was shaking me awake. I looked at him blankly, trying to remember where I was and what had happened during that strange night.
“Go back home and let Mom know I’m all right.”
“Where are you going, Dad?”
“To the Montaña Barracks,” he said. There were circles under his blue eyes.
“But Mom, she—”
“Women have the gift of creating life, which is why they always protect and care for it as the most sacred thing that exists in this world. War is for men. We must destroy the world to build a new one. Do you understand? It’s either them or us. There are only two realities: the one that wants to impose fascism, or the socialist paradise. Now, head back home.”
I left him and was surprised to find the trolleys running at that hour. I hopped on the first one that arrived, and it was obvious that the city had stayed up all night. People walked along the streets in near hypnosis. On one side were the workers in armed groups and on the other, the remaining inhabitants who didn’t have to work since it was Sunday. People meandered along the streets and parks, and all the cafés were open because it was too monumental a moment for normal business hours. The city seemed to be split between those who felt the war to be a grand adventure and everyone else, as impassive as always and heedless that everything was about to change. On my way home, I passed a few trucks dragging cannons toward the Montaña Barracks, as well as groups of civil guards running toward the improvised front.
My mother was waiting for me though the rest of the house slept peacefully. When she saw me, she burst into tears and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. “Oh, thank goodness nothing happened to you. I waited up all night, listening to the radio. Things have gotten ugly. The military has won in Seville, Zaragoza, and other posts, so this is more than a coup d’état.” She led me into the kitchen and started fixing me some breakfast. “But where is your father?”
“They’re surrounding the Montaña Barracks.”
My poor mother covered her face with her hands. Yet she maintained control of herself and managed to warm the milk and pour some into the coffee she handed me. Then she sat beside me. “Men think they can change the world with bullets, but the only thing that can transform our planet is tenderness. If children were left with their mothers when they start to really discover life, we’d teach them that the only way to be brothers and sisters is to soak in tenderness. Hatred has never changed anything. The cemeteries are full of hatred and greed. Humanity’s real problem is in our hearts. Do you understand me, Marco?”
“I don’t know. How can we convince a fascist that he’s supposed to love? That’s impossible. They want to kill us. What really matters is who kills first and who dies first.” I was reciting from memory the things I had heard my father say hundreds of times at party headquarters or over card games in cafés.
She clucked in response. “Go on, go to bed. You probably haven’t slept all night.”
I washed my face and was about to crawl into bed when I noticed my mother from across the room. She was taking something out of the dresser, a little piece of paper. I did not know then that it was a holy card with a picture of a saint. She kissed it and whispered something with her eyes closed. Then she put it back and called my sisters to come to breakfast. That little ceremony frightened me more than the guns and war cries from the night before. Because if my mother was harkening back to the old god of her ancestors, I knew she must really believe that the jubilance would not last and that the streets would soon be stained with blood.