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 the recent history of Spain.
Tuesday, September 29, 1936: The Runover of Alfonso Carlos
On September twenty-ninth he stepped out from No. 9 Theresianumgasse, very close to the renowned school where the young Alfonso XII studied, an elderly man well dressed and with a silver beard.
Alfonso Carlos de Borbón y Austria-Este, the Carlist pretender to the Spanish throne, was a figure well known in the neighborhood, having spent more than half a century living in Vienna with his wife, Maria de las Nieves de Braganza, when the death of his nephew Don Jaime placed him at the head of Carlism.
After delegating much of his duties to Manuel Fal Conde, he led a modest life in Austria. Not coincidentally, with the collapse of the Habsburg Empire, the revolution of 1919 had seized most of his possessions. Yet he maintained his palaces at Puchheim and Ebenzweier and the Viennese apartment from which he set out.
—Don’t stray too far, dear —he said, offering his arm to his wife.
Until very recently, Alfonso Carlos’s life had been devoted to stamping out honor duels. That was his only progressive initiative, for, since he directed the Communion, he gave it an even more reactionary political line, if such a thing were possible.
And that did not displease in Austria, a country transformed into dictatorship after the Austrofascist party, oriented Catholic, won the civil war against Socialist and Communist militias. The Christian corporatist state of Dollfuss welcomed anyone who opposed Marxism, and more so if Catholic. For this reason, Alfonso Carlos’s conspiratorial activity was no secret in Vienna and was, if anything, sheltered by the authorities.
That September morning, our elderly man had just gone out into the street arm in arm with his wife. The two were bound for the Belvedere Palace to stroll through the park. The old aristocrat’s eyes sparkled with happiness as he crossed the street with a confident stride.
—I don’t know why you’re so happy, Alfonso Carlos.
—I’m happy because Guipúzcoa is already in the hands of…
Before he could finish his sentence, he was struck by a military truck. The vehicle braked too late. The truck came speeding downhill as they crossed the inclined Prinz-Eugen-Strasse that separated the park from the block where they resided. The duke fell slightly behind his wife and could not evade the impact.
—Alfonso Carlos! My God, they’ve run him over! They’ve run him over!
The truck stopped, but nothing could be done. A few hours later, Alfonso Carlos died at his home, a fact immediately communicated by telephone to Fal Conde.
—I understand —said the traditionalist—. I will inform the Communion and the General Mola.
And he hung up with a worried look. It could not be another black day for Carlism.
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