textfiles/politics/SPUNK/sp001378.txt

Subject: Re: ajoda #36 - Gonzalez article - retry

Anarchy: a journal of desire armed. #36, Spring 1993
      anticopyright - Anarchy may be reprinted at will for 
      non-profit purposes, except in the case of individual 
      copyrighted contributions.

ESSAYS

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THE POLITICS OF BETRAYAL: Part Two of Life in Revolutionary
Barcelona

By Manolo Gonzalez

Although the events in May had rattled the nerves of the FAI-CNT (1),
the movement toward the collectivization of the economy of
Catalonia and Aragon continued to develop in 1937. It was the
result of many years of study, indoctrination and the power of the
people in arms. The Republic since 1931 had done very little to
transform Spain into a modern society. The Communists' most
immediate concern was to uphold the interests of the Soviet Union.
The Comintern line of the Popular Front had some electoral suc-
cesses in Spain, France, Chile and, in a minor role, in the U.S.A.
But as a force for social and political change it was obvious: the
Comintern was nothing more than an extension of the foreign policy
of the USSR. A shocking revelation was Stalin's support for the
hoodlums of Chiang Kai-shek and his mafia in the Kuomintang, al-
though there were among the International Brigades several Chinese
volunteers, recruited in France. As fate would have it, at this
same moment in history Mao and his Liberation Army were in the
middle of the Long March.

 At my age, though, I was more interested in the military
operations in Spain than in world politics and economic dynamics.
I hung two maps on the wall of my room. One of Spain and another of
Catalonia-Aragon. Pins with miniature red
and black flags covered ``our territory.''
The fascists were yellow arrows. All the
south of Spain was yellow.

 My mother was still grieving the murder of Federico Garc¡a Lorca
in Granada. During the early years of ``La Carreta,'' the roving
theater company organized by Lorca, she had worked as a stage hand
and a puppeteer.

 My father visited us whenever he had a furlough, or when called
back into Barcelona by the FAI-CNT. ``Ah! it is so good to be
here,'' he used to exclaim. ``There is still the joy of an
equalitarian society, and optimistic vision of the future. In
Madrid all is salutes, militarism, intrigues and politics.
Goddammed politicians! Even some anarchists who should know better
are in the Cabinet now!'' He was referring to the inclusion in the
Catalonian government of a CNT trio, Francisco Isgleas, Diego
Santillan, and Pedro Herrera. The participation of the CNT people
was severely criticized among the FAI cadres. The POUM (2) was
excluded from any position in the government.

 Of course my father's indignation was rather disingenuous. The CNT
had compromised its integrity by participating in the Republican
government of Premier Largo Caballero, the so-called ``Lenin of
Spain.'' Juan Lopez, Juan Peir¢, Federica Montseny and Juan Garcia
Oliver, people of long libertarian tradition, succumbed to the
imperatives of the civil war. They got a bitter disappointment when
they realized that Largo Caballero's inclusion of the CNT in his
cabinet was a ploy to cover up the cowardly and precipitous escape
of the Republican government from Madrid to Valencia. The
Republicans, experts in political ambushes and chicanery, used the
presence of the CNT to prevent the creation of a federalist
libertarian republic they though might be installed in retaliation
for their embarrassing galloping. Later the Communists manipulated
the resignation of the CNT. And of course they kicked out Largo
Caballero and brought in Negr¡n.

THE COLLECTIVE ECONOMY

 My father's feelings about the climate of solidarity and the
temporary abolition of class animosity was due to the energetic
implementation of the anarchists' program for the collective
economy. Many industrialists decided to stay in their enterprises
and continue production under the workers' control. Many years
later, historians like Hugh Thomas and Ronald Frazer would note
that the industrial output of Catalonia lost very few hours of
production under the collectivized system.

 But where the collectivization was most successful and created a
true climate for social justice was in the agriculture of Catalonia
and Aragon. Ironically, to the later chagrin of the Communists the
decree of October 7 of 1936 issued by Communist Minister of Agri-
culture Vicente Uribe gave legal basis for the peasant unions of
the CNT and UGT (3) to expropriate the land. Literally hundreds of
years of exploitation and misery were erased by the insurgency of
the peasants in arms. Dozens of small towns and villages were in
control of committees of share-croppers and itinerant farm workers.
Once the priests and the landowners were expelled or executed all
kind of experiments started, blueprints for a new society.
Marriages were recorded by the husbands and wives themselves. The
mayor and civil register clerk as representative of the State were
eliminated. Money was abolished and in many cases there were a
large number of vouchers, local ``people's Pesetas,'' that were
accepted for all the essentials of everyday life. A friend of mine,
a young refugee from Zaragoza, had a handful of ``proletarian
money.'' We decided to try it in a cooperative shop to buy molasses
and stalks of sugar cane. To my surprise it was gladly accepted. 
The shopkeeper had business with the village that issued the
revolutionary currency. But we were politely turned down when we
offered to pay for our cinema tickets with the symbol of the rural
revolution.

 Although salaries still were basically the only income of the
Catalonian working class, their standard of living went beyond
their income. New benefits were implemented like free education,
health insurance, and for the first time in Spain a system to
compensate for industrial accidents, including death benefits for
widows and orphans.

A VALLEY IN SPAIN CALLED JARAMA

 On November the 7th of 1936 the frontal assault of the fascists
to capture Madrid was defeated. I moved my red and black flags a
few inches away from Madrid. The Republic decided to counterattack
to avoid cutting off the capitol from the rest of Spain, especially
from Valencia where the government had moved.

 The arrival of arms from the Soviet Union, the formation of the
International Brigades and the highly motivated militias of the UGT
and the CNT made up a powerful military force that would be used by
the council of defense of Madrid. Two professional army men, Rojo
and Miaja, gave the necessary technical advice to the People's
Army.

 Although the fascists had been repelled in the streets of Madrid,
the capitol was still in danger. Franco's artillery reached most of
the city, and of course the Nazi and Italian planes bombed the
civilian population almost daily.

 It was decided to attack the fascists in the area near the
Valencia highway. Battalions were assigned to specific objectives
near Casa de Campo and Jarama. At that time the volunteers of many
nations were positioned in ways to strengthen the young Spaniard
recruits and the rather green workers' militias. The Europeans had
military experience, especially the Austrians, Poles and Germans.
But the Americans were still in training. They called themselves
the Lincoln Battalion, under the command of Robert Merriman, a
young professor from the University of California at Berkeley.

 On February 17th Merriman was alerted to be ready to go into
battle. He had time only to train his men in the use of their
rifles. The weather was miserable; rain pelted the young volun-
teers. It was freezing cold. The Americans were moved closer to the
front in trucks. Slowly they moved near enough to hear the din of
combat. The Americans together with the British and Canadians were
assigned to the counterattack of the Loyalists. In charge of
planning the operation were General Gal and Colonel Vladimir Copiþ,
a couple of Soviet mercenaries. Merriman was told his attack would
be supported by artillery, tanks and the 24th Brigade of the
regular Spanish Army. But behind the military plan, was one of
those Byzantine plots, probably concocted by Andr‚ Marty, the
paranoid head of the International Brigades, a soul brother of
Stalin. ``Copiþ disliked Bob,'' remembered Marion Merriman, wife of
the American Commander, ``Copiþ was arrogant, stubborn and
politically immature. I disliked him intensely. He was a prima
donna of a soldier. He strutted around in high polished boots, wore
a pistol on his hip, carried map and binocular cases.'' Besides the
animosity of Marty, and probably Stalin, toward the Americans,
Merriman was not a Communist. Commander Bob Merriman would later
disappear on the Aragon front, under strange circumstances.

 The battle had been going on for ten days when the Americans were
ordered to move. The promised support never arrived. Copiþ insisted
on the attack; Merriman was awaiting the support of planes and
tanks. He had serious doubts about the military expertise of Gal
and Copiþ, but was pushed by the presence of several British
officers with direct instructions to proceed with the attack. Amid
contradictory orders the Americans were sent to the battlefield.

 Several months later my father related the disaster to a group of
Catalonians. I was reading Catalunya a newspaper in Catalan.
Castillian was still hard for me. ``Palitos, come here you have to
learn this,'' said my father while narrating the plot against the
Americans. ``And to the attack they went. Oh! the gallant boys.
They attacked the enemy. They charged with bayonets and grenades.
They confronted death singing songs of freedom, and died with their
fists high in a last gesture of defiance, certain of the final
victory.'' My father knew the price of all that gallantry. Of about
450 Americans, 160 were killed. Bob Merriman was wounded. Gal and
Copiþ escaped behind the lines. In a final irony, they were
recalled to Moscow and shot. After World War Two Marty was expelled
from the French Communist party.

 A few years later in France I found a collection of songs from the
Spanish Civil War. Among them there was a remembrance of Jarama.

 ``There's a valley in Spain called Jarama 
 It's a place we all know too well 
 For 'twas there that we wasted our manhood,
 And most of our old age as well''

The music was ``Red River,'' an old ``old west'' American tune.

 In March of 1937 a new offensive on Madrid was initiated by the
Italian fascists. They based the attack in Guadalajara, about 25
miles from the Capital. This time the fascists confronted the 14th
division, along with other shock troops of the Republic. Cipriano
Mera was the CNT commander of the central forces. A great
organizer, disdainful of the military `experts' and wise to the
tricks of the Communists, he announced that his troops would decide
the moment of attack, He wanted to avoid another carnage like
Jarama. When Mera saw the Russian tanks advancing and Lister and El
Campesino launching their attacks, the anarchists in an irre-
sistible charge terrorized the Italians.

 Many anti-fascist Italians, anarchists and socialists, fought in
Guadalajara, among them Pietro Nenni, future Prime Minister of
Italy.

REPRESSION AND COUNTERREVOLUTION

 By June of 1937 the NKVDþpredecessor of the Russian KGBþhad moved
in force into Barcelona. June 16 Andr‚s Nin was arrested and moved
to a secret jail in Madrid. On instructions of Stalin he was asked
to `confess' crimes and to be a fascist agent. Tortured to death,
his body was never found. After Nin most of the leadership of the
POUM was jailed, executed or forced into exile.

 George Orwell, a member of the POUM militia, barely escaped arrest
and had to leave Spain. His book Homage to Catalonia was one of the
first to denounce the Communists' role in the betrayal of the
Spanish revolution.

 Among my parents' friends and the FAI-CNT a wave of indignation
helped mobilize militias, the press and international public
opinion against the crimes in Catalonia. I heard about the murder
of Camillo Berneri, an Italian anarchist philosopher; he was
arrested in a hotel, taken to the subway near Lacayetana and gunned
down. A few days later in the Urquinaoa Square a boy, grandson of
the anarchist educator Francisco Ferrer, was murdered. A friend of
my father, Domingo Ascaso, brother of Paco, a Commander in the
Madrid front, was killed in jail. The most terrible crime of those
days was the execution of about thirty members of the Libertarian
Youth. They were shot at the Moncada cemetery, and left in an open
grave.

 The central government in Valencia not only wanted to stop the
collectivization, but also to comply with the directives of Stalin
to annihilate the Trotskyites. It was part of the price exacted
from Spain for the military aid. The gold reserves of the country
went to the Soviet Union.

 The militias were abolished and many battalions incorporated into
the People's Army. Women were not permitted on the battlefield. My
mother stayed at home now; she hid her rifle, pistol and
ammunition.

 The government moved to Barcelona at the end of 1937. In March of
1938, Barcelona was bombed by German and Italian planes.

 By the middle of 1938 a negotiated peace agreement, in which the
Republic could either save territory or be part of a transition
government, was the most we could hope for. The animosity between
the central government and autonomous regions of Catalonia and
Aragon was deepening, mostly on the issue of a strategy to end the
war.

 The western democracies, already alarmed by the presence of the
Red Army in Spain, were now repelled by the repression and the
assassinations of the leaders of the POUM.

 Still all during 1937-38 the Republic confronted the superior
forces of Franco, the Moroccan mercenaries and its other allies,
the Nazis and Italian fascists, in a series of battles: Brunete,
Belchite, Teruel in which the flower of the Spanish working class
was decimated. All Republican offensives had to stop due to the
lack of ammunition, planes and tanks. The Soviet Union doled out
its military aid on the exaction of political payment: atrocities
against the opposition to Stalin.

 The last offensive in the Ebro cost the lives of about 18,000
Loyalists. The battle was fought between July and September 1938.
It too failed for lack of war materiel.

 The trials of the old Bolsheviks had started in Moscow. Hitler and
Stalin were soon to seal their friendship in a pact. Negr¡n decided
to appease the western democracies by removing the International
Brigades from Spain. He hoped this would pressure the Nazis and
Italian fascists to stop their intervention. Barcelona gave an
emotional farewell to the Internationalists. On November 15 of
1938, in a last parade through the streets of Barcelona, under the
colors of many nations the volunteers left Spain. But not all.
About 6,000 Germans, Austrian, Czechs and other men without a
country to return to stayed to ``die in Barcelona.'' I made an
entry in my diary. ``Went to say good bye to the I.B.'s. Threw
geraniums. I went with Libertad.''

 Libertad was my friend. We shared a passion for cinema and
American jazz. We satisfied our addictions with French movies and
the radio transmissions of Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington and
Django Reinhardt. We also managed to collect phonograph records.
Eventually we accumulated about a hundred 78s. My parents' tastes
were toward Stravinsky and Flamenco, and they frequently demanded
I tone down the record player.

INTO EXILE

 I lost all interest in the conflict when I realized we had lost
the war and the revolution, just as my father had predicted. I
folded my maps and replaced them with photos of jazzmen and
Libertad and me in the Ramblas, on the beach and in the May 1st
parade.

 The childcare center had now become a refuge for many adults who
were disgusted by the repression in Barcelona and who wanted to
dedicate time and effort to their families. My mother was seriously
involved in the theatrical activities of the center. My father was
moved to the front of Aragon, a rather quiet area but soon to
explode in the final offensive of General Yag<61>e, the fanatical
Catholic ally of Franco. Barcelona, my city, would fall to the
fascists at the end of January of 1939. The revenge on Catalonia
was horrific. In the first week of occupation the fascists executed
over 10,000 men and women. Mostly anarchists.

 Quietly my parents decided to go into exile in France and then to
Latin America where we had relatives. Other anarchists, writers and
intellectuals, already on the death list of Franco and the
Communists, agreed to a plan to escape.

 But before leaving, the people in the childcare collective decided
to offer a program never to be forgotten. For a couple of weeks,
while our curiosity reached a rare level of expectation, my mother
and other puppeteers were rehearsing, writing and trying voices. A
finely handcrafted array of puppets was created out of vats of
papier-mƒch‚. Collections of miniature weapons, lances and swords
were accumulated.

 On a certain Saturday a neatly printed program announced the
presentation of a four-act production of Hamlet. The program
included a summary of the plot, and notes about the lights and
stage. The stage was new and the technical accomplishments were an
achievement of great pride.

 About two in the afternoon people started to arrive. All the
puppeteers and voices were already out of sight. We children were
given the front rows. We could almost touch the mystery and
excitement. After a short musical introduction, performed on two
guitars and a drum, the hall was darkened and simultaneously the
stage was illuminated, provoking exclamations. Soft white lights,
subtle colors and contrasting shadows enhanced the proscenium.

 And very slowly, as though moved by a breeze, the curtains opened
to reveal the castle of Elsinore. The audience was mesmerized when
amid the thinnest of bluish veils the ghost of Hamlet's father
appeared above the esplanade. We were caught up in the illusion of
the supernatural. Hamlet, that solemn, neurotic Prince of Denmark,
revealed himself a revolutionary hero, a defender of the people, a
challenger of hedonistic and venal rulers. But this Hamlet too
gradually convinced us of his love for Ophelia and we were drawn
into the inexorable perfidy of the politicians who would betray
both of them.

 Gertrude the Queen, sensual of voice, elegant of movement and so
fascinatingly ambivalent, so enraging to Hamlet. The King, never a
doubt in him, lustful, crude, voracious for wine and food. We
children relished his jokes and jeered at Hamlet's brattish
ripostes.

 Every nuance and sarcasm was enhanced to our intense delight. In
Polonious, idiotic, sentimental, senile we recognized the delusions
of the European middle classes: the same platitudes, the same
wisdom of selfish individualism we had been brought up to despise.
When Hamlet is asked by Polonious ``What are you reading, my
lord.'' He answers: ``Words, words, words.'' We roared and screamed
with pleasure. ``My lord'' was one of the many nicknames given to
the President of the Republic, Aza¤a, an erudite, but pompous and
overblown orator. ``Words, words, words'' was how we ridiculed his
speeches. The casual killing of Polonious symbolized our contempt
for the bourgeoisie.

 The puppets were magically alive. Such ease, such individuality.
The soliloquy was recited as the inner metaphysics of anarchism,
our contradictions and concerns with moral issues. We children and
adults alike were immersed in the anguish of this hero puppet,
dressed in black, a fragile reminder of our own pain at the
threshold of exile. For all of us in that moment it was our truth:
``...to be or not to be?'' We all had our answer. I, too. I wanted
to be. I wanted to love.

 The tension grew unbearable. Then, surprise, there was an
intermission. The children ran to get snacks of bread and molasses.
I had to look behind the stage. My mother was exhausted. She waved
and threw me a kiss.

 We rushed back to our seats. This time my friend Libertad was next
to me. Now we were back in the conspiracy, the malevolence, the
deals. But Hamlet, the good tribune, noble, generous, proclaimed
justice and revolution. Horatio cried out the moral conscience of
the people. Now we hated the King, he had to die.

 When the final duel came, we screamed ferociously for Hamlet. The
clash of the swords was real, sparks jumped between the duelists.
The voices were excited, full of power.

 A cry of horror arose when Hamlet was stabbed with the poisoned
sword. ``Treason...treason,'' we shouted. ``He's faking...he has to
get up...come on!... fight back, kill the bastards!'' Slowly Hamlet
died in the arms of Horatio, although he had time to exhort every-
body to the barricades and overthrow the monarchy.

 Our little puppets. How passionately they had loved. How nobly
they had died, even as their little bodies convulsed with pain.

 The final scene mobilized the people. Union banners, miniature
cannons, signs proclaiming workers' unity, a contingent of FAI-CNT
and, finally, Hamlet, covered by a red and black flag. We children
stood up, we raised our arms and clenched our fists high above our
heads. It was a furious, solemn homage to the hero of the people.

 In December 1937 the childcare closed. The ex-nuns, through the
influence of the Quakers, were given asylum in England. Many
children were sent to Sweden. Nobody in our center wanted to send
their sons and daughters to the Soviet Union. My parents told me,
``We stay together. To the end. We live or die, but we stay
together!''

 The ``fifth column,'' automobiles with armed fascists, started to
roam Barcelona, shooting people, attacking unions and offices of
the leftist press. Priests again were seen lurking here and there
around Barcelona.

 I invited Libertad to tea in my house. She came with a jar of plum
jam. My mother made us tea and served some cakes made of rice
flour. Then we played records. We sang along to Ellington lyrics
and cried to ``Solitude.'' When Armstrong sang ``I can't give you
anything but love,'' we held hands and knew much about love.
Rataplan, my cat came to play with us, and bestowed his favors with
unusual impartiality. We went out to the patio. The weather was
already cold. My plants were ready for hibernation. Some swallows,
flying low, made passes over our heads. Night was coming and we
knew we had only a little while to say good-bye.

 Libertad's father arrived to escort her home. The streets were
dangerous now. He had a pistol under his arm in a sling like a
gangster and a revolver in the pocket of his jacket.

 For a last few moments my friend and I were alone together in a
corner of the house. ``Palitos, don't look so gloomy,'' she told
me. ``We are alive, we will survive.'' Then she kissed me. First on
my cheek, then on my lips. I responded the best I could. Her father
came to help her with her coat. ``See you in France, Palitos,''
Libertad turned and gave a little wave as she walked out the door.

 In the middle of January of 1939 my parents and some other friends
managed to capture two G.M. trucks. Everybody carried a weapon. My
mother carried her old pistol. We left Barcelona in the dark, at a
furious speed. Far away we could hear the rumble of artillery. At
every turn of the road we found people moving toward France. The
trucks climbed the Pyrenees slowly and with great difficulty. The
road was icy, slippery. We walked the final trek to the border with
France. The French had stationed Senegalese troops to control the
refugees. I liked the guards with their black faces and red
colonial kepis. An entry in by diary ready: ``January 29. We
crossed the border. Cold but sunny. Can't walk much, frostbite.''
Spain was behind us now.

 After W.W.II I came back to France to attend university. I met
Libertad again. We had survived.

 In July of 1986 I returned to Catalonia. It was the 50th
anniversary of the Civil War. Barcelona had changed. The infamous
Mayor Josep Maria de Porcioles, a Franco favorite who probably
hated Catalonia, had destroyed the most interesting views in the
city and left developers from Madrid free to construct modernistic
buildings without character or elegance, just simple greed.
Industrial slums, blocks of apartments like the sad, grey projects
of Moscow, had been erected in a period of twenty years. Franco had
managed to degrade Barcelona. So now a plan to restore the old
neighborhoods was in full swing. Our house was still more or less
intact, but the street was full of porno shops and `American'
bars. Cars were parked in chaotic clusters everywhere on the
sidewalks.

 The veterans of the Lincoln Battalion visited some battlefields.
I met Steve Nelson, the Commander of the right wing in the attack
on Brunete. We took an air conditioned bus looking for the town.
It was a hot, dry summer day. Brunete had a new highway, and auto-
mobiles of European tourists speeded through at full blast. Steve
guided me to the streets where the battle had been the worst,
where hundreds of men fell in hand to hand combat. Steve pointed
out a field near an old wall. ``There is where Oliver Law died.''
He was the Captain of the Battalion, the first Afro-American to
lead white men into battle.

 Seated in an open cafe we had French sodas, bread and chorizos.
We talked about America, when suddenly Steve said: ``You guys,''
meaning the anarchists, ``were so full of fire, so full of
passion. You had such a rare nobility. It took me a couple of
years in an American jail, the confessions of Kruschev and a bro-
ken heart before I finally left the Communist Party. Ah!, but
Spain...Barcelona...the FAI-CNT...that was life. The romance of my
youth. Nothing has ever touched it. I would not have missed it for
anything in the world.''

                                Notes

1. The FAI-CNT was the Iberian Anarchist Federation in alliance with the
anarcho-syndicalist National Confederation of Workers.

2. The POUM was the Workers Party of Marxist Unification, a small 
revolutionary anti-Bolshevik party allied with the revolutionary anarchists.

3. The UGT was the Socialist-controlled General Union of Workers, a non-
libertarian and less radical rival of the anarcho-syndicalist CNT.