Barcelona Sunset Page 8
Very quietly, and discretely, Tomas went to each neighbour, and told them secretly of the plan to demolish the slum. Without arising any suspicion, most of the residents left with whatever they could carry, and within two days, the slum was a ghost town.
A few days later, Jordi and Tomas were preparing to leave for the factory early in the morning, when they saw smoke rising from the slum below them. Mam had already left for her job at the baker’s, but Pa and Grandmother stood and watched the boys hurrying down the hill.
A scene of chaos met them near St Antoni’s fountain. A group of ruffians with cudgels, were going from shack to shack, expecting to rouse the occupants, and make a sport of beating them. Directing the operation, on a fat cart-horse, was the grotesque dwarf, Bertoli, wielding a long whip. Behind the frightened horse, two further bully-boys carried flaming torches, and following Bertoli’s instructions, set fire to each hut. The blue Mediterranean sky was quickly obscured by acrid smoke. The dry timber of the huts, impregnated with years of water-proofing tar, burned quickly, with much crackling and spitting. Bertoli wore an expression of frustrated anger: he had hoped to catch the residents unawares, and had been looking forward to harassing and bullying them. Although he was not expected to actually kill anyone, he would not have cared if one or two were trampled beneath the huge hooves of his cart-horse. Suddenly he spotted Jordi and Tomas and without regard even for his own men, he screamed “Vilaro!” and kicked the horse into alarming action. With a malicious laugh, he lunged forward. The ruffians stopped their task to watch this sport, but Tomas knew all the ways of the slum, and grabbing Jordi, they vanished into a tiny alley, far too narrow for the cart-horse or its fat burden. The cart-horse reared up, and Bartoli slid backwards from the saddle into a well-positioned pile of manure. Jordi and Tomas, pausing in their flight, turned just in time to see the fat man vanish into the pile of odour. Grinning, they turned and ran. The dwarf’s gang of men roared with laughter, and returned to the task of destroying the huts of the barrio. Bartoli, stinking as well as furious, lashed their backs with his long whip, but they glanced over their shoulders at the dwarf, and continued to laugh. For Bartoli, the final humiliation was his inability to get back on the horse, which towered over him. Just for a moment, it appeared that the horse itself was laughing.
Breathless, the boys arrived at the factory, and as they entered the gate, Ferrer motioned them to one side. “It’s today, isn’t it?” he asked without needing to explain. Jordi and Tomas, both breathless but still giggling at Bertoli’s performance, nodded. “I can’t imagine why it’s funny,” said Ferrer. “Go to your places and get to work. You can tell me the joke another time.”
By the end of the day, the whole area was a smouldering mass of blackened timber; and the following day a gang of navvies with shovels and barrows were sent to flatten the charred remnants in preparation for the concrete which would be the foundations of the new factory. The building site created a large barrier for the walk to work for Jordi and Tomas, and they had to take a diversion, skirting eastwards nearer the sea, and walking up the Ramblas to get to the factory. At street level, it was hard to see what was happening on the big site, but each evening, back at the hut, they could see progress on the new building.
The walls did not rise as high as they expected, although the building itself was extraordinarily long and wide. From their vantage point on Monjuic, the family could see the new factory would be more extensive than the Mediaeval ship yards, which had always appeared to be the biggest building in the city. The three tall chimneys of the electric power plant stood towering just beyond the building site, and an iron skeleton criss-crossed the wide space of the future factory, presumably to hold up the roof. One day they returned to see the amazing sight of hundreds of panes of glass being fixed on the roof. “It will certainly be very light in there,” observed Mam, “but it will be like a greenhouse in the summer.”
Shortly after the glass roof was fixed, carts started to arrive with machines, but they were not the massive spinning and weaving looms the boys worked with at their factory. Something very different would be happening in the new building.
A week later, the sisters arrived home, almost running up the hill in their excitement. “A sign has gone up by Sant Antoni’s Market,” they reported breathlessly. “The new factory is recruiting girls and women as machinists. It says ‘training will be given’ and promises better wages than in the mills. We’re going to apply for jobs.”
“What are they going to make?” asked Mam.
“We don’t know yet, but the jobs will be sitting down, and using machines. It’s got to be better than the old mill.”
The girls wore their Sunday best for the job interview, and were a little crestfallen that it was a simple test to ensure they weren’t lazy or simple in the head. Their boyfriends met them outside the factory and walked with them up the hill to meet the rest of the family. Mam was pleased to meet two such respectable young men who looked like brothers, “but we’re not, we’re just best mates.”
Carla introduced Benet, Senor Cardona, who said he worked in a s-s-sweet s-s-shop on the glamorous new boulevard Passeig de G-G-Gracia; and Dolors presented Jaume Martell, who worked in a ‘tabac’ in a side street not far from Benet’s shop. With good jobs in good shop businesses, the two appeared to have excellent prospects, and Mam was pleased at the thought of two handsome sons-in-law, although she was surprised to discover that Benet had a stammer. She would later hear from Carla, that her daughter considered the stammer to be very sweet.
Senor Vilaro was not so sure. He knew both shops catered for the well-heeled families of the Eixample, and he didn’t trust anyone who made a living by associating with the rich families of the city. For the time being, he held his counsel.
“We’ve given in our notice at the mill,” announced the girls breathlessly, “and we start work in the new factory, at the beginning of next month when the building is finished.”
“Make sure you come and tell us all about it,” said Mam. Her smile faded for a moment as she looked at the two eager young men. “And you make sure you look after my girls,” she said sternly.
The two men grinned, nodded and smiled knowingly. “We m-m-most c-c-certainly will,” said Benet.
The next day, it was Jordi’s turn to be excited, as a fresh notice for employment in the new factory appeared on the wall of Sant Antoni’s Market, inviting young men who can read, to apply for work in the despatch department. Although Jordi was unsure what a despatch department was, he went to the new factory at the end of the day to find out what the work was, and how much was to be paid. He promised to tell Tomas what he discovered.
Jordi was given a reading test, which he found very easy, and was offered a job immediately. The pay was nearly double that of being a trolley boy, and although it was still a low wage, it was a significant increase for a young man from the slums. Without being very clear what his duties would be, Jordi agreed to start work the following month, and next morning went to Senor Ferrer to tell him that he was leaving.
Without his immediate boss in the room, Ferrer could speak kindly to Jordi. “I wish you well, young Vilaro,” he said, “but there won’t be anyone to look out for you in the new place, so keep your wits about you. It will be strange here – no Vilaros left, and once there were six of you. If you have any problems, get a word to me.”
At that moment, Ferrer’s boss came into the room, and the supervisor’s tone changed instantly. “Get to work, Vilaro. Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean you can slack off these last few days.”
“Another one going to the new factory?” said the boss. “We must get replacements quickly if we are to keep up with the master’s targets.” Jordi had turned to look at the manager who had taken Bertoli’s place, and the manager saw him looking. “Get to work, young man, or you’ll be leaving sooner than you want, and without pay!” Jordi ran from the room and up the stone stairs, unable to stop himself from grinning at the thought of leavin
g the noise and dust of the mill behind. His young protégé was less happy, as he had come to rely on Jordi to get him through the day. “You’ll survive,” Jordi told him. “I did.”
Tomas wouldn’t follow Jordi and his sisters to the new factory. He felt uneasy that it all looked too good, and he felt more secure in his tedious job watching the loom. “We’ll still walk to work together,” he said, “and at the end of the day, you can tell me all about life in the shiny new factory.” Jordi was startled to hear a new ominous and sarcastic tone in Tomas’s voice.
One early morning, a month later saw several hundred workers converging on the new factory. Carla and Dolors were sent with a huge group of women, mostly young, towards the long machine shed. They turned to wave at Jordi, but he was already out of sight in the throng.
Following the signs, Jordi found ‘Despatch’. It was a long room, with a series of large double doors, currently closed, which appeared to lead to the main factory. Looking closely, a large sign over each door proclaimed ‘shirts’, ‘trousers’, and other garments. One door was labelled rather mysteriously ‘tunics’. In the middle of the room were wooden crates, and beyond them desks with what appeared from the distance to be writing equipment. It was all fairly strange.
Jordi walked forwards to a young man about his own age. “I’m Jordi,” he said. “Is this the despatch department?” The young man looked at him, grunted and nodded. The group waited in silence, some standing, but most lounging around on the tables.
Suddenly another door opened and a big fierce-looking woman, wearing what appeared to be some kind of military uniform, appeared. “Get on your feet!” she snapped, “We’ll have no sitting around in this department!” The boys stood to attention as if they were soldiers on parade. “This is the most important department in the factory: ‘Despatch’. My name is Senora Soler, but you will call me ‘ma’am’. I will call each one of you ‘boy’. I am not interested in your names. I don’t expect you to talk to one another except as part of the work. I don’t allow any gossip.”
Jordi began to feel very uncomfortable with this brutal woman. He had little experience of soldiers, but he began to think she was very like a military man, not really a woman at all.
“Once the machinists are up to speed,” continued Soler, “which they will be tomorrow you can be sure, trolleys will arrive through those doors there.” She pointed to the line of wide double doors. From the direction of the doors, came a hum of machines, which would gradually increase during the day as more and more girls started work. Jordi imagined that his sisters were somewhere beyond those doors, and he wondered if their introduction to the work was as alarming.
“This is my desk,” the woman continued, mounting a small podium. “I receive orders for despatch, and will allocate each order. You will work in pairs. The trolleys arriving from the machine shops will have garments in boxes of ten. One of you will collect all required on your order sheet, and pack the order in a wooden crate. The other boy will write out the label, and return it to the crate. When completed, you will nail the lid on the crate and pass it to the carters’ yard.”
“Today is a training day,” she went on. “You must learn quickly. Watch and learn, watch and learn.” Pausing, Senora Soler, spat hugely into a metal spittoon beside her desk, then continued, “and the stuff will come very thick and fast through those doors.”
“Today we will test each team of boys. We have some sample trolleys waiting at each door. I will give each pair of boys an order, and we will see how well you do. Each of today’s crates will be checked very carefully to ensure there are no errors. When you have completed your order, you will wait by your crate for inspection. We will begin.”
Jordi looked at the boy who had grunted, who nodded. This seemed to be all the communication needed. They were now a team. Senora Soler advanced upon Jordi and his team mate, and handed them an order paper. They looked at it, and their eyes opened wide. Their order was to be sent to an address in Great Britain.
‘150 shirts, 100 tunics, 100 pairs trousers, assorted sizes.’ The boys looked at one another and round the room. Everywhere pairs of workers were similarly engaged.
After a while, the boys had assembled the order in one of the big wooden crates, and Jordi had written the label. “Bring the box to the despatch area, ready for checking,” boomed Senora Soler, “and if it’s correct, which it had better be, nail the lid and use the correct stencil to put the destination on the box.” Jordi and his team mate struggled to move the box, but managed to drag it across the room. All around, other teams were doing the same. Gradually a silence fell as each team completed the task and stood nervously beside their box.
Senora Soler moved efficiently from box to box. At first all seemed well, with Soler grunting reluctantly when each box was found to be correct. Perhaps it was better to be away from the roaring machines and choking dust of the mill, but with this brutal woman in charge, coping with the pressure in the room was clearly going to be very hard.
Soon after this, and slightly to their surprise, Senora Soler announced a lunch break, “of only ten minutes, so make the most of it and woe to anyone returning late.”
Jordi and his companion perched on a packing case in the yard outside the despatch room, and each pulled a sandwich from his pocket.
“Not quite what I expected,” said Jordi.
“Could be worse,” replied the other boy.
“I’m Jordi.”
“I heard before,” replied his companion. “Alvar. Just call me ‘Al’. I’ll call you ‘Jo’.”
“Pleased to meet you, Al,” said Jordi, and held his hand out. Alvar, however, didn’t shake it, and merely grunted an acknowledgement. There was a silence as the boys ate their snacks.
After a pause, Alvar started to speak, haltingly at first, but then with conviction.
“My brother … my kid brother … died in a mill … choked to death cleaning the dust and muck under the machines. I thought he was lucky the machine itself didn’t get him, but now I’m not so sure. Kids who get crushed in a machine die a horrible death, but it’s quick. I watched my brother die slowly. Just a little kid, lying on a bed, coughing and spitting, and crying out for breath. Took a week to die. Nothing we could do. This job’s got fresh air, got to be better than anything in the mill. Haven’t seen anything yet that will kill us.”
“Except that dragon!” smiled Jordi ruefully. There were hidden depths to this new friend, and he would have to be patient and wait for him to tell his story. “I’ve no watch,” he continued. “How do we know when to go back in?”
“’Course you’ve no watch. Nor have I, nor has anyone I know. We’ve ate the snack. We’d best be going back.”
That night Jordi was home before his sisters. “Let us out at five o’clock!” he exclaimed. “She told us we’d never be this early ever again.”
“She?” questioned his Mam.
“Yes,” said Jordi. “The boss in my section is a woman. Big and scarey.”
“What’s it coming to, if bosses are women?” said Mam.
Senor Vilaro laughed. “You can’t expect to be treated equally, and then be surprised when you find a woman doing men’s work. The NCL stands for workers’ rights, and that includes women. I’m pleased to hear about Jordi’s boss.”
“You wouldn’t be so pleased to meet her,” grinned Jordi. “She’s very alarming.”
“Perhaps women have to be frightening if they are to succeed in a man’s world,” said Vilaro.”It’s something we should talk about with Bonaventura. Do women have to be frightening to be managers?”
“Like most men are!” said Jordi.
At that moment, his sisters burst through the door.
“We’re exhausted!” blurted out Dolors.
“It’s hard: far harder than we expected,” declared Carla.
“With a very severe boss, walks up and down all the time with a cane,” said Dolors.
“Gives a vicious poke if you stop work,” said her siste
r.
“Is it a man or a woman?” asked their father.
“Man of course,” replied Dolors.
“Of course,” echoed Carla.
“Not ‘of course’,” said Vilaro. “Jordi’s boss is a woman.”
“More a dragon,” laughed Jordi. “Half woman, half dragon I think!”
Mam was impatient to hear more details about the factory. “So tell us, what are you making?”
“They’re uniforms,” said Carla.
“What do you mean?” said Mam.
“Exactly what she says,” said Dolors. “Uniforms … for soldiers. Soldiers’ uniforms.”
Carla went on, “I’m on trousers. Terrible rough thick cloth. The machines are electric and cope with the heavy material. I have a huge pile of pieces, all ready cut out, and I sew the long main seams, then put in the waist band. It’s tricky, and it has to be done very quickly. Today I was slow and the supervisor told me I must speed up, but it was the first day, and everyone was slow, so we’ll all have to do better, worker faster, tomorrow.”
Dolors said, “And I’m on tunics. They’re more complicated than trousers, and we’re all struggling. It’s the same thick cloth, in this dull boring colour called ‘khaki’. It’s rough on our hands, and the pressure is on to work fast, like Carla says.”
“My section despatches these uniforms,” exclaimed Jordi, “to all over the world.”
“What countries?” asked Vilaro, suddenly very serious in his manner.
“Places in England I’ve never heard of, and in France, and in Germany, and many other places,” replied Jordi slowly. “But they’re … enemies, aren’t they?”
“There’s talk of a war,” said Vilaro. “There’s talk of it starting soon, and all finished by Christmas. Mainly between Britain and Germany, I think, but they’ll fight on French soil, French farmlands. They’re just waiting for an excuse to get it started. Making the uniforms is just part of getting ready.”