Barcelona Sunset Page 6

  “What about us?” asked the sisters. “Can women be involved?”

  “Of course,” replied Vilaro. “Peter Kropotkin is very clear about that. I told you I find it hard to understand what he writes, but if I’ve understood it correctly, he says we must all, men and women, work together, support one another and give happily and voluntarily to help one another.”

  “Isn’t that what we were doing last year?” persisted Jordi. “We were all helping one another when we had the big strike, and we finished up with lots of people, workers like us, getting killed. So what do we do now that will be any better?”

  “Slow down, young man,” smiled his father. “Things are happening, but they are happening slowly, and carefully, to ensure success in the future. We’ll have no more tragic weeks in Barcelona. There’s talk of a new organisation of workers. Without a job in the factory, I have plenty of time on my hands, and I have determined I will be an officer in this new army. I am offering myself as a volunteer for others. It’s to be called the National Confederation of Labour, the “NCL”. There’s talk of it becoming nationwide, across all of Spain, but it’s starting here, in our own city. Bonaventura is joining me.”

  “Can we join?” asked Jordi.

  “Once we’re organised, I hope you’ll want to join. But for now, it will be me and Bonaventura and other friends working to create the group. I need you to keep working, even though I hate you having to go to that factory every day. And you girls,” he continued, smiling at his wife and daughters, “you’ll be needed to keep going as well. I suppose that’s the kind of thing the Russian means, mutual support and co-operation.”

  Barcelona would become the cradle of the new organisation, and the humble room at the back of the music shop would be one of the key places in which men and women would meet to talk about their future and the best way forward. The deaths and failure of Tragic Week hung over them all, and they realised that they must move carefully if they were to avoid further bloodshed. Jordi and Tomas were not the only youngsters brimming over with enthusiasm, but their buoyancy was curtailed by the older wiser men, reminding them of those terrible days when they watched fellow workers being gunned down on the Ramblas.

  Daily life continued to be hard for Senor Vilaro’s family. Food was scarce and expensive, and the bosses kept the workers in place with continued violence. Martial law ruled Barcelona for months after Tragic Week. The Catholic clergy recovered, and supported the middle and upper classes, controlling education and ensuring that working class children still received none. Unions were banned, and newspapers heavily censored or forcibly shut down.

  One evening, Vilaro gathered his wife and children together with grim news.

  “I’m your husband and father,” he said. “I should be providing for you, not relying on you for support. Most of all I hate the thought of your mother on her knees scrubbing the floor at Senor Guell’s mansion. But I’m banned from working, and I’m volunteering all my time to the NCL.”

  “It’s OK, Pa,” said Jordi. “We know we must work hard so that you can get the Confederation organised.”

  “Wait – I’ve not finished. We are in debt. For some weeks, Mam and I have had to choose between paying the rent or buying food. We’ve been buying food. We’ve not been paying the rent. We have to leave this room. It’s small and dark, but it’s been our home for a long time. By Our Lady, I think I’ll even miss the greasy stairs, and climbing up here every day.”

  “We won’t miss the stinking toilet!” said one daughter.

  “Nor climbing over the beggars at the door!” said the other.

  “You can smile, but it has been home,” said Mam, “and we don’t have much of a plan, except to get out …. tonight.”

  “Tonight!” exclaimed Jordi.

  “Yes, son, we must vanish away, take what we can carry, and vanish. This very night,” said his father. “When the bailiffs come in the morning, there’ll be no sign of us.”

  “Where shall we go?” asked Dolors and Carla simultaneously, suddenly serious.

  “No-one will find us in the shanty town where Tomas lives,” said Jordi, “where I stayed when my brothers were ill. I know the way. We can still go to work from there, and there won’t be any rent to pay.”

  “I’d been thinking about the shanty town,” said Vilaro. “For the time being, it’s our best option. And there’s another thing. Your mother must give up her job cleaning for Guell.”

  “Good,” said Jordi forcefully. “We all hate you going scrubbing for that horrible man and his family.”

  “It’s worse than you think,” said his father. “Guell is our landlord. He owns this building. It’s his bailiffs they’re send in tomorrow. If he finds out it’s your mother who’s scrubbing his floors, who knows what he might do?”

  “So we must go now,” said Mam quietly. “We’ll take everything that’s ours, and take nothing we don’t own. We’ll be honest even in such dire circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?” laughed Jordi. “Such a long word, Mam. Are you also learning to read?”

  “Let’s get started,” said Pa, smiling grimly. “We must each take a bundle, and that will be all.”

  Mam searched under the bed, and as well as the familiar chamber pot, brought out a small wooden box. Jordi had often glimpsed it, but never seen it open. Mam wrapped it carefully in her bundle.

  Once the family were ready, they looked at one another. The bundles they carried were small; their worldly possessions amounting to five small packages wrapped in tired bedclothes.

  “We must move quietly and quickly,” said Vilaro. “Jordi, lead the way, you know how to get to Tomas’s. Keep together girls.”

  With tears welling up in his eyes, and without a backward glance in case anyone saw, Jordi lifted his bundle onto his back and started down the stairs. “Goodbye old room,” he thought. “I’ve spent my whole life in you. I’ll miss you.” And as he passed the stinking toilet at the bottom of the stairs, he thought, “I’ll even miss you!” Then he was out into the cold night air, and marching purposefully towards the unknown.

  The family moved quietly and quickly through the darkened streets. The only sound was the tap-tap of Pa’s walking stick. Almost everyone was asleep in bed, or in doorways, or wherever they could lay their heads, and no-one saw the passing of the Vilaros.

  It was nearly midnight when the family reached Tomas’s hut. Not surprisingly, there was no light showing, and Vilaro stopped his son from knocking on the door. “We’ll not wake the old lady. At this time of night she’ll think the devil himself has come for her. We’ll get what sleep we can and come back at day break.”

  Further along the rough track was an area of coarse grass, and the Vilaro family sat down forlornly. Senor Vilaro spoke quietly. “My good wife, my girls, my son: I promise I will do better than this for you, but for tonight this is our only bed. By Our Lady, I swear I’ll do better. To think, not far away, the rich bosses are sleeping in their feather beds, their wives fat and their children content. Somehow, someday, things will change.”

  “We are reduced to very little,” said his wife. “But things cannot get any worse. The only way from here must be up.”

  “Sleep my good family, sleep if you can. Don’t forget girls, and you Jordi, that tomorrow you must go to work; we need your pitiful wages if we are to eat; we cannot afford for you to be sacked, and heaven knows, as my children you will be targets for sacking. We must not give them any excuse to get rid of you. Now sleep.”

  Mam, the girls and Jordi lay down awkwardly on the ground, their lumpy bundles forming uncomfortable pillows. Jordi stared at the stars. Unexpectedly a smile spread over his face. He realised that this strange unpredictable man loved him, and his sisters, and even his Mam, and that all those rough tongue-lashings of the past were odd ways of expressing that love. He turned his head, and saw his father was still sitting up.

  “Pa,” he whispered, “is you awake?”

  “Yes, son, I am. I wish you were sl
eeping, but I can’t sleep myself. I must keep watch. I don’t know what dangers lurk in this strange rough countryside, and I know I must watch what’s left of my family.”

  “Pa,” whispered Jordi again, “we’ll be alright, won’t we?”

  “Yes, son, we will. I promise you. Now try to sleep.”

  The next thing Jordi knew, it was getting light and Mam was shaking the girls awake. “I don’t know what the time is,” said Mam, “but I feel as though it’s time for you to get to the factory.”

  Standing and stretching his stiff body, Jordi said, “We’re close to Tomas’s hut. I’ll go and tell him we’re here.”

  A few minutes later, Jordi returned not only with Tomas, but also his grandmother. “You slept here, all night?” said the old lady. “By Saint Antoni, what is the world coming to?” Unwrapping a muslin cloth, she produced a newly baked loaf. “Here, Senor Vilaro, break this bread and share it, and then let’s get these young people off to work.”

  Each received a fist-sized piece of bread, and devoured it with many mutterings of thanks to Tomas’s grandmother. As he turned to leave, Jordi said, “What shall we do after work? Where shall we go?”

  As he spoke, the factory hooter sounded.

  “You must run! There’s the first hooter!” said his father. As they turned to leave, he shouted after them “Come back here. With the help of this wonderful lady, we’ll find our way forward.”

  At work, Tomas asked Jordi what was happening, but Jordi wouldn’t talk until they were outside the factory. After work, when they reached Tomas’s hut, his grandmother was waiting for them.

  “You see the big hill with the castle, ahead of you?” she asked.

  “Of course,” replied Jordi, “that’s Monjuic, where all the fighting used to be, where they killed Senor Guardia.”

  “There’s some huts on the side of the hill, and your mother is waiting for you. She’s got a hut for you. I think you’ll be very pleased.”

  Although he thanked the old lady, Jordi privately thought that he was unlikely to be very pleased that his mother had found a hut. He was very apprehensive of the kind of life they would be leading in these primitive conditions.

  “You must wait here for your sisters,” continued Tomas’s grandmother. “When they get here, take them with you and go on along this track, until you get to Sant Antoni’s well. Then turn right up the hill and head directly towards the castle. Your mother said she’d be watching for you.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Tomas. “Look, here’s your sisters. Let’s take them up the hill.”

  The little group walked along the dusty track to St Antoni’s well, where the usual gaggle of women were collecting water and washing clothes. They saw the lane to their right leading towards Monjuic between countless other shanties and tumble-down huts. Eyes peered at them from dark interiors, noting them as strangers, even though Jordi and his companions fitted inconspicuously into the down-trodden poverty of the slum.

  The lane started to get steeper as they nearer the castle, and the huts seemed to be built almost on top of one another. Suddenly a sacking curtain was pulled to one side, and his mother was standing there.

  “Mam!” exclaimed Jordi. “I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to find you.”

  “Isn’t this splendid?” asked his mother.

  “Oh, Mam,” said Jordi. “It’s a hut. Thanks to Our Lady, you’ve found it. But it’s not really splendid.”

  “Turn around, young man, and don’t be ungrateful. Turn around and tell me what you see.”

  Turning, Jordi became aware, for the first time, of the view from the door of the hut. His sisters, turning with him, gasped. “By the Virgin, now I see,” said Jordi, and his sisters nodded with him. The whole of Barcelona was laid out before them: the immediate haze of the shanty town below them, and beyond it the smoky patchwork of factories and the sparkling new roof of Sant Antoni’s Market; further afield the trees of the Ramblas stood out as a green line through the buildings, and beyond them, the dense barrios of the old city with the spires of the cathedral. Far away, to their left, rose the majestic hills of Tibidabo, with the mansions and gardens of the mill owners just visible. The setting sun glowed in the sky, creating a magical silhouette of the church of the Sacred Heart, on the hill top.

  As they watched, the whole sky turned orange. “Never forget,” said Mam, “the beauty of a Barcelona sunset.” The golden light glowed on their faces.

  Turning to their right, the evening sun glinted on the sea.

  “The sea, the sea,” exclaimed Jordi. “Look, there’s the column of Columbus, and the beach at Barceloneta. We went down there, once, and bought supper from one of those kitchens: chipirones from a chiringuita!”

  “I’ve never been up here,” exclaimed Tomas. “Gosh, is this where you’re going to live?”

  “For the time being,” said his father, coming out from the darkness of the hut.

  “Pa!” said Jordi, turning and hugging his father.

  “Get off, boy,” grunted Senor Vilaro. “We’ve still a lot to do, and it will be dark very soon. Tomas, get back to your grandmother, and thank her from all of us for telling us about this place. Perhaps one day she’ll come up to see the view for herself.”

  “I’ll call for you on the way to work tomorrow,” said Jordi. “After all I’ll have to pass your door.”

  Their euphoria was quickly dashed when they entered the hut. It was small and dark, and completely empty, save for the small bundles they had carried the night before.

  “Where will we sleep?” asked the girls.

  “Here, on the floor,” said Pa solemnly.

  “There’s no chairs,” said the girls in unison.

  “I’ve always slept on the floor,” grinned Jordi. “What’s the problem?”

  The next morning, there was another surprise for them. As they struggled up from sleep, Mam pulled back the rough curtain at the door, and the morning sunrise flooded into the little hut, brightly illuminating every corner.

  “Mam!” exclaimed the girls, “it’s too bright!”

  “It’s the Lord’s sunrise,” laughed Mam, “come to brighten all our lives. Be pleased to have its warmth on your faces. Now get you up, and off to work. I’m not sure we can hear the factory hooter from up here.”

  In fact, they heard a cacophony of hooters from many factories, which made them laugh. “Everyone’s summonsed,” smiled Pa. “Everyone’s off to work at the same time, all over the city, all to their various hell-holes. And I’m off to Senor Bonaventura. He’ll not know what’s been happening, and why I’ve not been there. There’s a lot to do.”

  It was a long slow task furnishing the hut. Now and again, Mam or Pa would return triumphant with some item found discarded, and often broken, but with ingenuity they would make the best of what they found. Mam, in particular, got to know some of the neighbours, and returned with gossip as well as water from Sant Antoni’s. As for Pa, his changed circumstances gave Senor Vilaro even more enthusiasm for the fledgling Worker’s Confederation.

  Life settled, although for a long time both Mam and Pa kept looking over their shoulders to see if Guell’s henchmen were coming to collect the unpaid rent. They were surprised, and a little puzzled, that no-one followed Jordi or the girls to collect the debt.

  Work at the mill was tedious and exhausting. One day they were all saddened to hear that Senor Moles, Pa’s old drinking partner, had suddenly dropped dead at the loom, not an industrial accident, but simply a heart attack probably brought on by the incessant hard work and poor nutrition. Like so many of the poor of Barcelona, Moles’s body was consigned to an unmarked pauper’s grave, just one more of the disposable mass of humanity upon whom the wealth of the city was based. “Funny, isn’t it?” said Pa. “The nasty ones, like Senor Bertoli, grow fat in the pay of the mill owners, and survive to old age, whilst the simple hard-working folk like Softy Moley get taken young. We are like ants, working hard, but gaining no reward. No-one notices when an ant
is trodden on. Let’s hope he’s getting his reward in heaven.”

  “Amen to that,” said Mam.

  The hut became home for the Vilaro family, and Mam got a job in a small baker’s shop at St Antoni Market, which gave the family a little more income, and good bread to eat. She endured long hours, rising before dawn to assist the baker, but the work was clean, and the bakery a better place to work than the factory, or on her knees scrubbing. They made the hut comfortable, began to eat better, and even managed to buy some good-as-new clothes from the second-hand stalls which crowded the walls outside the new Sant Antoni Market.

  Senor Vilaro worked industriously at learning to read and conquer the challenging political books suggested by Bonaventura, and became closely involved in the growing political workers’ movement. One day he came home with a small flag. It was a simple rectangle, divided on the diagonal, one half black, the other half red, and he nailed it over the door of the hut, alongside their little Catalan senyera, the yellow flag with its four blood-red stripes.

  “That’s our new flag,” he told the neighbours proudly. “Soon you will see that flag all over the city. It will be as important as our old senyera. And it will be hated by the bosses as much as the Castilians hate the senyera.”

  A few days later, Jordi returned home to find his father in an unaccustomedly good mood. Jumping up and leaning heavily on his walking stick, Pa danced Jordi round the tiny space. “Guess where you’re going tomorrow?” he asked his son.

  “To work, I suppose, it’s not Sunday.”

  “Yes son, to work in the day. But after work you will bring Tomas to the glass building you wanted to see when it opened. You’re to come to the Palau de la Musica. I’ll be waiting there to meet you.”

  “Pa, you must be joking. You hate that place.”

  “No, Jordi, not the place. I hate the fat cats who go to concerts there, but not the place itself. It stands for Catalonia, and our heritage. And tomorrow it will stand for the workers.”

  “Pa,” said Jordi, “you’re talking in riddles. I don’t understand.”

  Sitting down, and calming down, Senor Vilaro spoke solemnly to his son. “Tomorrow we will launch the NCL, the new Confederation of Labour. It will be the first meeting, and I am to address the crowd from the stage. As a comrade of the organising committee, I will be part of this historic moment, and you, Jordi, will be there in the crowd to see me, and see all our comrades.”