The Second Son

I think there’s a central government somewhere, but Barcelona doesn’t like to admit that. The Lefties they elected in February-socialists calling themselves a Popular Front, which is bizarre when no one really likes them and they’re well behind the curve at every turn-are a kind of mythological beast that shouts at everyone from Madrid and tells them how to be proper Lefties-who to adore, who to hate. This week, I think it’s the anarcho-syndicalists-I still have no idea what that means-whom we’re all supposed to be burning in effigy. And that’s just the boys who are in their own camp.

It gets much easier when they turn to the Right. There it’s basically two groups that the Lefties scream at-hard-line monarchists and hard-line fascists, and both of them marching with crosses. Very big crosses. Vast crosses. Epic crosses. There’s a scent of the Crusades in all this.

The first call themselves Carlists. They want the king back. Very Catholic. Lots of pedigree. Spanish arrogance drunk on holy water.

The second are the Falangists, a version of Mussolini’s Fascisti, although I suspect they find Hitler just as inspiring. They’re relatively new. I think they invented themselves around the same time the Reichstag burned. Catholic (as long as the priests tell the people to follow them). Militarists. And hell-bent on rooting out anyone who even recognizes the name Marx.

Unlike the Left, the boys on the Right actually talk to each other. That makes them far more dangerous.

It’s only a matter of time before it all blows up. So it’s going to be news, and that means you’ll have to bear with me. You’ll also have to make sure Lotte can bear it as well. I need you for that. I’m asking you for that. Not for too long, I hope. But then there are always those u

Anyway, I’m losing my train of thought. And I’m tired. That seems to be a constant.

I imagine most of this letter is blacked out. I know. My apologies.

Watch the papers. It won’t be long. And Pathe Gazette will be there.

Cock-a-doodle-doo,

Georg

He was right, of course. The opening ceremonies of the Olimpiada Popular, slotted for the nineteenth of July, never happened. Instead, two days earlier, all hell had broken loose.

The first reports started arriving on the afternoon of the eighteenth. They were of no help, wires and rumors coming in from Morocco and the south: ten dead, then fifty. Something had happened in Melilla on the northern coast of Morocco; a colonel had arrested a general. The question was, was the colonel on the Left or the Right? More than that, whose soldiers were dying, and what were they dying for? By the time Georg made it to the consulate for confirmation, the number was at two hundred. A fascist group of officers-calling themselves rebel Nationalists-had secured all of Morocco, and another group on the mainland was heading for Seville.

Georg read the wire from the prime minister in Madrid-THEY’RE RISING? VERY WELL. I SHALL GO AND LIE DOWN-and knew the Lefties had no idea what they were in for. By 9 p.m., word had come through that Queipo de Llano-one of the more vicious generals in the uprising-had marched into Seville with four thousand rebel fascist soldiers and taken her in a matter of hours. Queipo was clever: he simply arrested and shot anyone who wouldn’t join him.

Hoffner took his camera and headed for the Rambla. Everyone was out. News never waited long in Barcelona.

There were already loudspeakers up on the trees, music for the most part-for some reason Rossini was getting the majority of the playing time-but every so often an a

“These are isolated incidents.”

“The government has put down the failed military rebellion.”

“Do not take matters into your own hands.”

“Anyone arming himself will be arrested.”

The anarchists were not so convinced. Georg latched onto a small group who were more than eager to have a foreigner film their fight to save Spain.

Down at the harbor, while waiting for more men to arrive, Georg found a sheet of paper and began to write to his father:

11 p.m. The place is madness. They’ve already started putting up barricades, waiting for God knows what out of the barracks. An hour ago I saw thirty men armed with knives, bats, and guns that hadn’t been used for over twenty years. They broke into a police armory. The commanding officer handed out every last weapon before joining them.

These are anarchists. They know what happens if the army finds no resistance. Women are armed as well. I suspect I’ll be seeing children. They speak about the fascists as if they were an army of foreign conquerors-not Spaniards, not brothers. They have no shared history. They are the enemy.

We’re down at the docks. The smell of fish is overwhelming, nets abandoned, the heat suffocating. Food will be crucial soon enough, but it’s guns they need now. We’re crouching behind a pair of trucks. I’ve heard the crack of rifle fire from time to time, but everything is strangely calm. My group is after the ships. There’s a shipment of dynamite on one of them. No organization. They simply wait for critical mass and then run at what they need. They’ve told me where they want me to stand as I film. They want it filmed.

Fifteen more arrive. They don’t look like revolutionaries. They wear trousers, leather shoes, well-shaved. Each has the red and black bandana around his neck. They, too, are glad I’m here.

We’re not the rebels, one of them tells me. We defend what is ours. The fascists are the enemy of Spain.

They ask me to film them as they crouch behind the trucks. They run and I film.

They’re on the ships now. Either they’ll come back or they won’t. I’ll give them another ten minutes, and then I have to get back up the Rambla. We’ll see where I sleep.

Throughout the night, the workers found guns and rifles and grenades and fitted trucks and cars with armor plate. And they waited. Georg stole two hours of sleep at a cafe, Tranquilidad, on the edge of the Raval. It was an anarchist stronghold. News kept pouring in until the first real shots came just after dawn.

10 a.m. I’m in a building across from one of the big fountains, I can’t remember which one. We’ve been on our feet, ru

The entire country is in it now. Madrid sends orders that aren’t orders. The Republican government-anarchists, socialists, Communists (imagine those meetings)-are letting everyone run free. The prime minister is gone. His replacement, Barrio or Barria (no one speaks clearly enough for me to catch the name), lasted for all of about two hours. The fascist generals are claiming control of a third of the country-it’s inconceivable how easy it was for them-and we’re focusing on taking the telephone exchange.

We’ve heard of churches pillaged, priests beaten (or worse). I saw something I couldn’t understand. A man next to me explained. Nuns, he said. Mummified corpses of nuns dragged out onto the streets. You could see the ripped cloth around the bodies, the bones. They were thrown across the steps to the church. I wanted to look away, but there’s no doing that through the viewfinder. My hand cranks and it all happens. I’ll burn the film.

We’ve just heard there’s a battalion of Falangist rebels getting ready to take the Diagonal (they’ll cut the city in half if they do). There’s also an artillery regiment of fascist rebels marching from the Sant Andreu barracks-90,000 rifles inside. Whoever gets the Diagonal takes Barcelona. My hotel is under rebel control. I suppose I won’t have time for a nap.

While Georg found another safe nook, a General Goded was arriving by seaplane from Majorca. He had been told to take the city for the rebels. He wasn’t counting on the Guardia Civil joining the workers, a column of four thousand men, eight hundred of whom were climbing the Via Laietana toward the Commission of Public Order. The crowds roared, rifles and fists reached to the skies, and the Republican fighters-with some crack sniper fire-retook the Ritz and the Colon, while the anarchists overran the telephone exchange. And all this by 2 p.m. It was now just a matter of time before the fascists were done for.