Home > Remember Me : A Spanish Civil War Novel(5)

Remember Me : A Spanish Civil War Novel(5)
Author: Mario Escobar

I have no idea how, but the next day I convinced Mom to let me take some food to Dad. The workers had kept watch on the Montaña Barracks all day, and the besieged military inside showed no signs of giving up. Rumors that rebel reinforcements would come from Zaragoza, Valladolid, or Burgos encouraged them to hold out.

I headed for the barracks in one of the crowded trolleys and listened to all the news and gossip. Apparently, the coup d’état had failed nearly everywhere in Spain, especially the big cities, except for Seville and a few provincial capitals in Castilla la Vieja.

I jumped off at a stop on Gran Vía and walked with my hands in my pockets to Príncipe Pío hill. I had never paid much attention to the huge, squared building up there. It looked modern, more like a hospital than army barracks. As I drew closer, I found myself surrounded by more and more people, as if I had walked into a market or fair. Yet a hundred yards ahead, a mix of workers, soldiers, and civil guards were crouching behind improvised barricades. Artillery and machine guns were aimed at the building, but if not for the weapons and cannons, no one would have guessed that one of the first battles of the war would start there.

I spotted my father stationed at one of the cannons with other socialist workers. Each union group and political party had its own emblematic paraphernalia which its members wore on their necks or arms. As I walked toward my father, one of his friends slapped my neck down, and I cried out in surprise.

“Get your head down or they’ll take it off with a bullet. What do you think you’re doing here?” the man demanded.

I could not understand what he was angry about. War seemed like a grand game to me. I had no inkling of the danger and suffering it could leave in its wake.

“I brought Dad some food,” I said, taking care to crouch low.

“Your dad is up there at the cannon. Deliver it and then get out of here. This is no place for kids.”

I walked along, crouching down among the men. A few kept their sights aimed at the barracks, but most were circled up together talking, smoking, or drinking cold beer.

“Marco, what are you doing here?” Dad asked in a wearied tone when he saw me. The bags under his eyes had grown deeper, and his summer tan contrasted with his gray hair and black hat.

“I brought you some food.”

His initial frown faded when he saw the white bread, chorizo, and sausage rounds. When I pulled out the bottle of wine, several of his friends gathered around with keen interest. My father elbowed them away good-naturedly and went up to a dark-haired man. “Here, Orad, this will help us regain our strength.”

The man smiled and stretched out his hand to take a slice of bread with chorizo. He savored it as if it were the finest delicacy and washed it down with a long swallow of wine. When a round of shots rang out, everyone dove to the ground except for this man, Orad, and my father, who both seemed immune to fear. “Just like a fascist to ruin a good meal,” my father growled, turning, aiming, and firing a few rounds.

When the air had calmed, he sat beside the cannon and continued to eat. He offered me a bit, and I felt like the happiest person in the world.

Just then, airplanes flew overhead. Everyone ran around in confusion, expecting a bomb to fall, but the sky grew strangely clouded as thousands of pieces of paper rained down. My father grabbed one as it floated, and I saw it was a warning pamphlet for those who resisted in the Montaña Barracks. In the name of the Republic, the papers formally discharged any soldiers who rebelled and disobeyed the Republic’s orders.

I stayed with the men for a few hours. Many of them killed time by playing cards or singing, until a group of soldiers approached the barricade and spoke to Orad.

“We have to attack. We can’t let night fall,” one of the soldiers said.

“I doubt that a few blasts will drive them out,” said an artilleryman.

“In a few minutes, we’ll bomb them from overhead. That will be the signal.”

Once the soldiers left, my father turned to me. “Get out of here before things heat up.”

I agreed to leave and had just picked up the empty wine bottle when the sound of airplanes pierced the sky. I heard a whistling noise, and then I instinctively covered my ears at the sound of an unbearably loud explosion. Bombs were hitting the ground around the barracks, but one struck the front of the building, which then crumpled over the double staircase.

Orad gave the order to load and fire the cannon under his command. The explosion threw me backward to the ground, and I balled up with my head between my legs, as if doing so could protect me from the blast. The machine gun shots sounded over our heads, and for a few minutes chaos reigned. A wounded man fell down beside me, and when I glanced over, our eyes met. He seemed more like a scared child than a militiaman.

Soon another soldier fell down near me, and his rigid, bloody body left me no doubt that he was dead. I had never seen a cadaver before. His face was disfigured and had lost its human factions. He looked more like a scrap of meat lying forgotten in an alley.

I felt strangely alert. The smell of gunpowder and the blast of cannons sent the adrenaline racing through my veins. I decided to look up. My father was firing nonstop and shouting for his men to do the same. A group of men sitting on the ground continued to load the guns and hand them to the shooters.

We heard machine-gun fire coming from one of the rooftops of the building behind us. The windows of the barracks in front of us shattered in response.

I do not know how long the shooting lasted, perhaps only a few minutes, but it was an eternity to me. We saw a white flag in the building, and the militiamen hurried toward the stairs. Most of them had their guns raised high in victory. My father’s group was about to join them when Dad waved them back and shouted for them to get down.

The burst of machine-gun fire from the fascists fell like hail on the militiamen advancing toward the barracks. Dozens fell, and those who managed to escape retreated to the barricades. Our group held nothing back in response. My father was enraged by the fascists’ deceit and the naïveté of his comrades. It had been a dirty coup, not a gentlemen’s agreement.

At noon, when the sun was beating down hard, we saw white flags again. This time no one moved until the doors of the barracks opened and the first soldiers threw down their guns. Some of the barrack defenders ran out, throwing down their helmets and guns and shouting, “Long live the Republic!” The assault guards advanced first, and a mass of militiamen from the gamut of political parties and labor unions followed. Everyone cheered, and some belted out battle songs. My father turned and ordered me not to move an inch.

While I waited, I heard a few shots. Later I heard the shouts of some officers who were dragged out of the barracks and beaten with sticks before the crowd. Blood flowed everywhere, but what stood out to me was the fear on the prisoners’ faces.

I disobeyed my father and snuck up closer to the building out of curiosity. I had to pick my way around bodies lying on the cobblestones and step over more covering the stairway. I saw a boy my age pointing a pistol at an officer who walked down the street with his hands above his head.

A journalist took photographs nearby, and curious bystanders had gathered to watch as the militiamen collected all the guns. When I tried to get into one of the barrack yards, I was blocked. Cadavers were lined up in groups of ten. Some officers who had committed suicide still held weapons in their hands. To one side, groups of men shot the Falangists who had joined the rebel soldiers.

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