Authors: P J Brooke
And he and Juan chanted together.
‘Love-light of Spain – hurrah!
Death light of Africa!
Don Juan of Austria
Is riding to the sea.’
They paused and then in unison yelled:
‘Don Juan of Austria is going to the war.’
‘And what were you called?’ said Anita, turning to Max.
‘Me? I was Maximiliano of Mexico.’
‘On account of his incompetence,’ interrupted Juan.
‘That’s not fair!’
‘That’s life, kid.’
As Anita left she kissed Max on both cheeks. Max returned the kisses.
Sin memoria histórica, no puede construirse una sociedad totalmente libre
Without the memory of history, it is impossible to build a free society
Inscription on a memorial near Granada
to workers shot during the Civil War
It was a lonely weekend. Max had become used to Anita’s company, and had to admit that he missed her. Paula phoned on Saturday to suggest Juan could drive down and take him back to Jola for Sunday lunch. But Max pleaded that he needed to rest. Paula phoned again on Sunday to check he was okay. It was a good opportunity to sit comfortably in his little armchair, and go through the rest of Leila’s thesis material. He made notes as he went. She’d been working hard. And had found loads of stuff he didn’t know – or perhaps knew, but hadn’t put two and two together.
On Sunday evening, he reviewed his notes. Okay . . . she’d found proof that after the Civil War, the Socialist mayor who had saved Diva’s beautiful church from being burnt down by the anarchists had been shot by Franco’s goons.
What a bunch of idiots, thought Max. I’d have thought they might have shown him a bit of respect when he’d lost an arm to save that church . . . but no such luck.
She’d put together a list of local people shot after the Civil War: more had been executed than had died during the fighting. Another source claimed that most of the bodies had been dumped in
la fosa común
, the communal grave, outside Diva. Leila was pretty sure where the mass grave was located – a ravine off the track to El Fugón.
‘So Paula’s hunch was right – perhaps Uncle Antonio is there,’ Max said aloud.
Leila had been very thorough: she had gone through the land registry to note the changes in titles . . . and boy, oh boy, property in Diva had changed hands rapidly after Franco’s victory. Max knew that Republican supporters had sold for whatever they could get before their property was confiscated, but the extent to which a small group of Franco supporters had consolidated their wealth and taken control of local government in the town was a bit of a shocker. And there was his grandfather – right in there. Paula had kept her properties in spite of having two brothers fighting on the Republican side, and grandpa had picked up loads more land on the cheap. So that’s where the family money came from, thought Max. Should have realized. How naive can you get? Wonder how much Juan knows?
But there was nothing so far to explain or understand why Leila was killed. Max reread her story on El Gato. She wrote well, he thought, she might have made a good novelist. There was a surprising amount on his family, but then Paula had asked Leila to find out what had happened to Antonio. Towards the end of her notebook, her writing became less legible. It was as if she thought she might be on to something significant, and had to note it all down quickly while it was fresh in her mind. She’d got sidetracked. There were pages on the death of Federico García Lorca. She had made a summary of the facts surrounding his last days where there was agreement between different authors.
1. The exact date Lorca returns from Madrid to Granada is uncertain. But three Granada newspapers announce he is in Granada on 15
th
, 16
th
and 17
th
July 1936. So it’s logical to assume he arrived at the family home, La Huerta de San Vicente, around 14
th
July. So lots of people knew Lorca had returned to Granada.
2. 17
th
July, military rebellion begins under General Franco.
3. 20
th
July, military seize Granada and, with the surrender of el Albayzín on 23
th
July, control all of Granada. Arrests and executions of Republicans and Republican sympathizers begin immediately.
4. 6
th
August, Falangist squad arrive at La Huerta de San Vicente and search the house. Note – but not looking specifically for Federico.
5. 9
th
August, Falangists arrive again at the house. Mistreat family, beat up caretaker, Gabriel Pérez Ruíz, and take him away for questioning.
6. 10
th
August probably, Lorca phones the poet Luis Rosales, whose family were prominent members of the pro-Franco Falange, and asks for help. Rosales offers to hide Lorca in his house in Granada, in la Calle Angulo.
Max swallowed. The Rosales house was just round the corner from his office. He had passed it so many times without realizing.
7. Rosales orders the Lorca family
not
to reveal where Federico was hiding. Note – is there confusion over dates? Luis Rosales later claims it was 5
th
August. But can’t be, was probably 10
th
August.
8. 11
th
August? Militia arrive at La Huerta de San Vicente, under the command of Ruíz Alonso?? looking for Federico. Luis Rosales claims that Lorca’s sister, Concha, had inadvertently blurted out that Federico was hiding in the Rosales’ house, and that was how Ruíz Alonso knew where to go to arrest Lorca.
9. 16
th
August, Lorca is arrested by Ramón Ruiz Alonso, and is taken to the Civil Government in la Calle Duquesa, and handed over to the Civil Governor. The same day Lorca’s brother-in-law, Concha’s husband, the Mayor of Granada, Manuel Fernández Montesinos, is shot.
10. 18
th
or 19
th
August, Lorca taken to the area of Víznar and shot alongside a lame schoolteacher and two bullfighters.
Max found himself drawn like a fly into the web of uncertainty surrounding Lorca’s death. What was Leila going to come up with next?
She had drawn up a number of lists and a diagram.
List One. Who Knew Where Lorca Was Hiding?
1. The Lorca family.
2. The Rosales family.
3. The chauffeur who drove Lorca and Luis Rosales to Calle Angulo.
4. Possibly the caretaker, and the nursemaid, Angelina.
5. Perhaps some close, trusted friends of the Rosales family – but unlikely.
Leila then wrote: ‘IT HAS BEEN ASSUMED THAT LORCA’S HIDING PLACE WAS COMMONLY KNOWN, BUT IT WASN’T. The assumption that Lorca’s sister had blurted out to Ruiz Alonso or whoever on or around 11
th
August where Lorca was hiding CANNOT be true. Concha had returned to her Granada flat in la Calle San Antón on the same day Lorca left La Huerta San Vicente on 10
th
August.’
There was a gap, and Leila had scribbled: ‘Recheck dates. Also if Ruiz Alonso knew where Lorca was hiding on 11
th
August why did he not arrest him earlier? ANSWER – BECAUSE HE DID NOT KNOW. WHO THEN REVEALED LORCA’S HIDING PLACE???’
Max paused. This was all very interesting, but did it have anything to do with her death? Unlikely. Leila was an ambitious PhD student, hoping to prove something other historians had overlooked. So what next? Max turned the page of her notebook. At the top she had written: ‘SUMMARY.WHAT DO WE KNOW?’
Max noticed Leila switched her list notation from numbers to letters. It was the sort of thing he did. He could never explain why:
a. Lorca was arrested by members or ex-members of Acción Popular.
‘Acción Popular . . . that was one of the small fascist parties supporting the Franco rebellion,’ thought Max.
b. Paula said that Antonio had forbidden her to ever speak to Pablo again because he may have betrayed a friend, and he could no longer be trusted.
c. Paula said that both Antonio and Lorca had friends across the political spectrum. If they were involved in the arts, their politics did not matter.
d. Paula said that Pablo, her husband, had been a member of Acción Popular, and then later had joined La Falange.
e. It looks like the only friend of both Lorca and Antonio who was a member of Acción Popular is Pablo Romero.
Shit, thought Max. I never knew grandpa was in that lot. Oh Sweet Jesus . . . Leila’s been shifting stones. This is getting a bit too close to home.
What next? Leila had drawn a diagram of Lorca’s friends in Granada with arrows linking connections between them. Antonio knew Luis Rosales; Antonio knew Pablo Romero who also knew Lorca. And then in red ink in a circle next to Pablo Romero’s name, Leila had written, ‘Acción Popular.’
Max’s head had begun hurting again, and the asthma was going to kick in any minute. He took a quick puff of his inhaler. Why had he never tried to talk to his grandparents about the Civil War? Why had it taken a complete stranger to discover things about his own family? Okay . . . . it had all happened more than thirty years before he was born. But you can’t decide to forget things like this. Sooner or later history comes back to haunt you. There are always those with a plan to destroy the past. It may even work for a generation or two if they all agree it’s best to forget the past. Too inconvenient, too many harsh truths, so best forgotten. But the past never forgets you.
Max took more painkillers and went to bed. Next morning he felt a lot better, more willing to face the truth. In the end, the truth was concrete. He smiled: it was not just Allah’s will. There had to be an explanation of what happened to Leila, and why.
Red wool, red wool,
What are you saying?
Red wool, red wool,
What would you like
To tell us?
Frederico García Lorca,
Bodas de Sangre
(
Blood Wedding
)
in a version by Ted Hughes
Anita phoned early to say she would be staying in Diva to chase up some loose ends. ‘I’ve just got León’s report about Leila’s mobile,’ she said. ‘Talk about sloppy work. I don’t think he checked anything. There’s a couple of things which I need to discuss with you when I’m back in Granada.’
‘When will you be over?’ Max asked.
‘Should be tomorrow. But I’ll ring and let you know.’
‘Fine. I’ve got a feeling there’s a lead in Leila’s thesis notes.’
‘Okay. See you tomorrow.’
Max decided he needed some air: he’d been cooped up in his flat for days now. He got a walking pole and gingerly descended the stairs. It was painful, but not too bad.
It was great to be out. A walk down to Plaza Nueva would do him good. The Albayzín, however, is not the easiest place for a man with broken ribs: the steps and cobbled pavements which gave the place so much of its character and beauty now made progress difficult.
Max walked slowly down la Cuesta de María de la Miel to el Aljibe del Gato, then down la Cuesta de Granados into la Calle del Aljibe de Trillo, and then zigzagged through tiny narrow cobblestoned streets into la Calle de San Juan de los Reyes, and then finally down la Calle del Bañuelo to el Paseo de los Tristes.
The names are pure poetry, he thought. The hill of Mary of the Honey, the Well of the Cat, the Pomegranate Hill, the Street of the Threshing Well, the Street of St John of the Kings, the Street of the Bath, the Path of Sorrows.
He came out on el Paseo de los Tristes at the Arab baths. The restoration work was still going on. Max asked a workman when he thought it might be finished.
‘Another six months,’ the man replied. ‘Every time we move a stone, some expert gets excited . . . and then another expert turns up to examine it. And then they have a fight. It’s all over the papers, and we’re off site for another month!’
Max laughed: typical Granada. Once you start digging, you hit an eighteenth-century wall. There’s something Renaissance under that, then Moorish, and you end up with some Roman temple, which is when the quarrels really start.
Max paused at the bridge, el Puente de Espinosa. Espinosa, he thought. Thorny, prickly, difficult. He looked over the bridge, the ducks below squawking with indignation – not enough water in the river, el Río Darro. It was a sunny morning, surprisingly quiet for an August day. You could usually hardly walk along el Paseo de Los Tristes for the tourists taking photographs of the Alhambra, photographs of each other sitting on la Puente de Cabrera, photographs of each other in front of the view of the Alhambra. And every five minutes, the photographers all had to scuttle to the pavement, then breathe in deeply to let a taxi or a little bus squeeze past. It was a miracle nobody got squashed.
Max crossed into la Plaza de Santa Ana. There was a morning wedding in the church. He smiled. The ladies of Granada did love to dress up. There were some fine dresses on show, shimmering red silk, gold lace, and black linen cutwork. The traditional rose-embroidered shawls were still popular. Lorca would have approved. He paused to admire the smiling bride and groom: he, a little embarrassed, she, proudly showing the wedding ring.
Maybe the family were right. Maybe he should get married and settle down.
Max entered Plaza Nueva, heading for la Gran Taberna. A familiar figure emerged from a bar. Blast, it’s Navarro, thought Max, gripping his walking pole tight.
Navarro came up to him, big fist clenched in anger. ‘You fucking bastard. I know it was you. Got me suspended. If you think you’re going to get away with it, you’re fucking mistaken. I’ve got friends in this city who owe me favours. Watch your fucking back. There’ll be an accident one day, a nasty accident. Won’t be ribs this time.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ protested Max.
‘You know fucking well. Some fucker shopped me. I know it was you. Now I’m under investigation. You’re fucked.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me. You shouldn’t have done what you did.’
‘Only doing my duty. Can’t make a tortilla without breaking eggs, can we?’
‘You can’t use the methods you used in Argentina here.’
‘What happened in Argentina has fuck all to do with you. You’re going to be sorry you ever fucked with me. You’re going to have to keep looking behind you every step. One dark night . . . expect an accident.’