Golden Earrings (5 page)

A
fter she had finished her work at the market, Teresa would take me and Ramón to the Casa del Pueblo while we waited for Papá and Anastasio to finish at the factory and come to collect us. It was a type of communal workers’ house set up by the Radical Party, with meeting halls, classrooms, a library and a café. Teresa would buy food at the cooperative, and we would spend the rest of the afternoon watching a theatrical production, or squashed up together on one of the wooden benches in the instruction rooms, struggling with the rudiments of reading and writing taught in the free classes. Despite the lack of concentration caused by our malnourished bellies, the three of us did our best to improve ourselves.
Celestina Sánchez
I would write over and over again in large, uneven letters.

When our mother was alive and making a little money in a sweatshop, Papá had sent Ramón to one of the municipal-subsidised schools offered by the clergy. But after my brother returned home one day with a black eye because he hadn’t answered a mathematical problem quickly enough, my father withdrew him. After that, Papá joined the Radical Party and that was how he had met Teresa.

There was never anything between Papá and Teresa but friendship based on shared suffering. But it was obvious that
my father respected the flower seller. ‘Do everything Teresa tells you,’ Papá advised me. ‘She has a sense of direction.’

Despite my father’s admiration for Teresa and his enthusiasm for the Radical Party’s proposed reforms, he didn’t entirely give up on the idea of God. Crucifixes still hung above our beds. Rather, he saw the difference between the worship of a divine being and the behaviour of the Spanish clergy. He shared Teresa’s disgust that the convents and monasteries of Barcelona were amongst the wealthiest in the world, prospering on stocks and investments while the poor perished around them.

‘The true evil that afflicts humanity stems from religion,’ Teresa said. ‘Have you noticed that in Barcelona a workman never greets a priest on the street? They never even exchange a glance. It’s because the convents and the monasteries are the ruin of us. They pay no rates so everyone else in the district has to make up the difference. They pay no taxes on their orphan labour so all the laundresses and embroiderers are put out of work.’

Our life continued along the humdrum routine of the flower market, the Casa del Pueblo, then home and bed, until one day in July when everything changed forever.

Papá and Anastasio did not return from the factory at their usual time. Teresa was due to lead a meeting of Damas Rojas in the communal room and had no choice but to take me and Ramón with her.

The women moved the wooden chairs into a circle when they saw Teresa arrive. I recognised a number of them as regulars at the Casa del Pueblo. There were a few intellectuals, teachers from the rationalist schools, but most of the women were semiliterate factory workers with furrowed brows and twisted, arthritic fingers. There was Juana, who worked at a chocolate factory and whose clothing always smelled of peanuts and cocoa; and Pilar, a fishmonger whose greasy hair and clothes reeked like the port when the tide was out. Núria from the slaughterhouse was
there too, stinking like a graveyard, her fingernails and shoes stained with blood. Ramón and I always did our best to avoid sitting next to her in the reading classes. Although they couldn’t vote, the women of Damas Rojas were determined to see change. They were formidable in mob action, putting themselves in the frontline at strikes. They counted on the fact that the police were less likely to open fire on women who reminded them of their mothers. Usually they were right, but not always.

Teresa began the discussion. ‘We’ve been waiting for change for years. Maura’s reforms are deadlocked in the Cortes. Nothing has come of the promises for representative government. Nearly half the men and a third of the women in textile factories in Barcelona and the Ter Valley have been locked out. It’s time to take matters into our own hands.’

Her remark brought a profusion of voices, either murmuring agreement or crying out in protest. Although I couldn’t understand most of the discussion in the hot, crowded room, it was clear that there was tension in the air.

A woman with a baby in her arms rose to her feet. ‘There is nothing we can do! We are too poor. Spain can’t compete with the United States in the cotton market — that’s why they are closing the factories. How can people who can’t rub two
céntimos
together take matters into their own hands?’

Paquita, a willowy woman who worked as a teacher at La Escuela Moderna, responded. ‘On the contrary, Spain is a wealthy country — but the money is in the hands of a few. If the money was shared around equitably, instead of the majority of Spaniards living in poverty, then a domestic market might be created. If that were to be the case, what happens internationally wouldn’t affect Spain so drastically.’

‘That’s very noble,’ said Teresa, pacing the floor. ‘But it’s not realistic, Paquita. How are we going to convince the rich to share their wealth without force? The only way is to take that wealth for ourselves — in a revolution.’

‘Revolution is going too far,’ Carme, another teacher, replied. ‘We need to strike across the board in
all
industries and in
all
cities. If the textile-industry workers alone strike, the factory owners will simply bring in scab labour. But if the whole country unites and strikes, we will bring them to their knees.’

‘Easy for
you
to say, Carme,’ the woman with the baby scoffed. ‘You don’t have children. The workers can’t afford to strike. As it is, we don’t eat some days. Our family needs five
pesetas
a day to exist on, but even with both my husband and I working from morning to night, the most we ever make is four.’ The woman fell silent for a moment, and took a breath before continuing. ‘I lost my poor little Ignacio because we couldn’t afford medicine.’

‘It will take more than a strike to save us,’ a male voice said.

All eyes in the room turned to the doorway, where Papá was standing with Anastasio. My father was pale-faced, stricken. It was the same look that he had worn the night my mother died.

‘They are calling up the reservists for Morocco,’ he said.

Cries of horror rang through the room. For several months, skirmishes between Spanish troops in Morocco and Riffian tribes had been intensifying. Spain had an international mandate in Morocco, and there was a fear that the French, who also had interests in the Rif, would take over the protectorate if Spain’s army proved incapable of maintaining order. It was only later that I came to understand the politics. What I saw that day, from the way my father grasped Anastasio around the shoulders, was that he was afraid that not only reservists would be sent to Morocco but conscripts too.

My mind shifted to Amadeu, who had lost his legs in Cuba and now had no choice but to beg. I remembered his words,
When our poor families saw us off at the dock, they were farewelling most of us forever
, and felt something I didn’t understand bearing down on me: a premonition of doom.

My terror was echoed by the women around me. The state of the soldiers who had returned from the wars in Cuba and the Philippines was imprinted on many of their memories.

‘They are going to take our husbands again!’ cried Juana. ‘But Antoni has already served. Our youngest child is less than a year old.’

The woman with the baby pursed her lips before asking, ‘Like last time? With no means for a wife and children to live on while their men are away?’

‘And without compensation for disability,’ said Teresa through gritted teeth. ‘Like poor Amadeu.’

‘And what about our sons?’ screamed another woman. ‘My twins have just turned eighteen. They’ve been called up for military training.’

‘It’s only the reservists for now,’ said Anastasio gravely. ‘They say it’s only for police action. But from the numbers that are being called up, it seems they are expecting heavy fighting. I suspect it’s a matter of time before the rest of us are called.’

‘But if you can pay, they won’t take your sons,’ Papá added. ‘You can get them exempted from military training.’ For all he had suffered in his life, it was the first time my father had sounded so bitter.

‘How much must you pay?’ asked a woman with wiry hair that stuck out in all directions. ‘I’ll sell myself if it will save my sons.’

‘Fifteen hundred
pesetas
,’ Papá replied.

The room fell into a shocked silence. It was more money than any of these women would make in three years; for some, more than they would make in their entire working lives. Many of the women had several sons. Even if they could, by some miracle, obtain fifteen hundred
pesetas
, which son would they choose to save?

‘Who can pay that?’ said the woman with the wiry hair, a bewildered look in her eyes. ‘Who can pay that sort of money?’

‘The rich, of course,’ said Teresa, folding her arms. ‘If you are of the
bourgeoisie
you can dip into your savings or take out a loan. But to the rich, fifteen hundred
pesetas
is nothing. It’s like a sneeze to them. La senyora Montella would spend more than that a year on flowers.’

‘Our men are going to be sacrificed,’ said Juana, so quietly that we had to strain to hear her, ‘so the wives of the iron magnates can decorate their tables with flowers?’

A heavy veil seemed to fall on the room, as if the women were facing the futility of their existence. There they were, struggling to make a living, struggling to feed their families, struggling to improve themselves by learning to read and write, even struggling to make society better and fairer. But it was all futile. In the end, when our lives were weighed against those of the rich, ours were valued at nothing.

Immediately after the decree recalling reservists to active duty was published in the official
Gaceta
, the Third Mixed Brigade in Catalonia was mobilised. Protests against the war broke out in Madrid when the First Mixed Brigade, which was stationed in that city, was called up next.

Although the press was censored, rumours about the situation in Morocco were rife: the Spanish army had deliberately taunted the local tribes into battle so that the officers could receive combat pay; the Spanish soldiers were being routed by the Rif guerrillas; the government, which had been reluctant until now to fight in Morocco, was being forced to send troops by the Jesuits, who had vested interests in the country’s mines. The last rumour served to further inflame the anti-clerical sentiments of the worker population.

‘We should be turning our rifles on the clergy not the Rifs,’ Teresa told the women of Damas Rojas. ‘The Rifs are as oppressed as we are. Spain has no right to be plundering their lands.’

‘Why don’t they send the priests to fight instead?’ senyora Fernández, our neighbour, suggested. ‘They have no families and are of no earthly use to us.’

For a few hopeful days, it seemed only the reservists would be called, but then Anastasio received his notice to report to the Barcelona barracks. To my surprise, my fiery brother took the news stoically, as if injustices were his lot in life. It was Papá who worked himself into a fury.

‘You must go to France,’ he told Anastasio. ‘I spoke with a man who will take you out of Spain tonight.’

‘No!’ said Anastasio, jumping to his feet. ‘If I flee, they will put you in gaol. Then what will happen to Ramón and Celestina? They will be out on the street. Say no more of this plan … to anyone!’

After Anastasio’s refusal to desert, Papá seemed to age even faster. The worry lines around his eyes deepened and he walked about with his shoulders hunched. Anastasio wavered from isolating himself to embracing Ramón and me so robustly that it hurt. ‘You’ll take care of Celestina, won’t you, little brother?’ he asked Ramón the day he had to report to the barracks. ‘You’ll always watch out for her?’

Ramón nodded solemnly, although his face wore the same lost look that Papá’s did.

I thought of Anastasio’s handsome features and his strong physique. ‘He’ll be all right,’ I told myself. But inside I was crumbling.

When I went to the flower markets, I looked for the gypsy woman with the crimson scarf. I wanted to make a wish for Anastasio to come home safely, no matter how perversely she granted my desire. But I couldn’t find her.

The date set for Anastasio’s embarkation was 18 July, a Sunday. The afternoon was hot and the air in the apartment was stifling. Trickles of sweat poured down my neck although
I had just washed. Teresa came to our apartment with a new dress for me.

‘You must look nice for your brother,’ she told me. ‘It will lift his spirits.’

Although the dress was made from a lesser grade of cotton, it had pretty bishop sleeves and roses appliquéd on the skirt. I was so used to my old patched frock that when I put it on I felt like a princess.

The battalion Anastasio was to travel with to Morocco was due to march down las Ramblas at half past four in the afternoon. The atmosphere on the street was sultry, the air laden with the oppressive humidity that heralded a thunderstorm. Las Ramblas was already crowded when we got there, not only with the families of the reservists and the few unlucky conscripts, but with promenaders out for their Sunday afternoon stroll. So many bodies pressed together created a curious scent that was a mix of lavender water and rose soap, perspiration and horse manure.

We took our place in the crowd.

‘Here they come!’ somebody called out.

We turned to see the soldiers marching down the boulevard, escorted by a police guard. People began to call out to their husbands, sons and fathers. A young boy broke away and ran in front of the battalion. His father saw him and hoisted him onto his shoulders while his wife took her husband’s rifle and marched along beside him. One of the policemen stepped forwards to pull the soldier back into line, but another policeman restrained him. ‘It’s only by the grace of God that we aren’t being sent with them,’ I overheard him say. ‘Let them have a moment longer.’