To commemorate the 90th anniversary of the Civil War, José Ángel Mañas recreates in Zenda, day by day in this section, what happened in 1936, perhaps the most pivotal year in all of modern Spanish history.
Friday, September 11, 1936: Mass at the Alcázar
I absolve you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…
The Father Camarasa spoke the ritual words. After another unsuccessful attempt by the Republicans to obtain the surrender of the Alcázar, the besiegers had yielded to Moscardó’s request to allow a priest to enter and offer them spiritual aid. Father Camarasa entered the fortress at eleven in the morning and, after a general in articulo mortis absolution for those present, prepared to celebrate Mass before an improvised altar in the Alcázar’s subterranean halls.
There were almost a thousand people, including children and women dressed in tattered rags and gaunt, yet with a nearly fanatical gleam in their eyes. Some shed tears; those who did not kept a stern, solemn demeanor. The men avoided showing any sign of weakness. Everyone was mindful of Moscardó’s presence in the front row, a man who had sacrificed his own son and led the resistance with a firm hand.
Thousands of bombs had already fallen on the Alcázar: the fortress’s current state—two eastern towers and the eastern façade ruined, the courtyard floor lifted, the walls machine-gunned from top to bottom—stood as testimony to the destruction. In the endless days of siege, the defenders had endured the constant staccato of machine guns, the ceaseless bombardment that drove them into the cellar shelters, and, finally, the steady hum of the drill that grew louder and closer, reminding them of the attackers’ intent to blow the building apart. This last threat prompted the late sorties, organized into small groups under the direction of Captain Vela. With these nocturnal forays, they hoped to discover, in neighboring houses, the infamous drill. And, equally, the need for food, which after two months had become acutely scarce, forced them to make some risky ventures.
Yet, despite everything, they remained, Father Camarasa noted, as he watched them by candlelight. And there he stood, the canon of Madrid Cathedral, by explicit authorization of General Riquelme. The general had made one last attempt to negotiate the surrender, sending as envoy Commander Vicente Rojo, but that too failed. That is why he returned with Moscardó’s demand that a priest be sent to them.
Father Camarasa was a stout man, wearing a starched-collar shirt beneath a plain dark suit, neat and placid in appearance. He had appeared at the foot of the Alcázar, crucifix in his hands. A moment later, he slipped through a gap in the wall. On the other side, he was met by several Civil Guards who escorted him to Moscardó, and his eyes were not blindfolded as those of Commander Rojo had been.
The attackers’ artillery granted them a lull in the bombardment, a pause that lasted for the duration of the Mass. It was understood, after the talks with Rojo and Moscardó’s rejection of surrender, that this Mass was the Republican general’s final courtesy before the final assault and the detonation of the Alcázar.
The priest faced the crowd to deliver the final blessing. As he looked over the tired faces, knowing that within a few hours all of them would lie beneath the Alcázar’s rubble, their worn expressions recalled for him the earliest Christians in their catacombs.
Ite, missa est. May the Lord have mercy on you, he concluded.
All the entries of 1936 Day by Day
Interview with José Ángel Mañas about 1936 Day by Day