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 Spain’s recent history.
Saturday, October 10, 1936: Again the Truck
Cheers! Identify yourself, comrade.
Pepe Mañas
carried on going through checkpoints for so long that they no longer bothered him. Many militiamen knew him by sight and stepped aside without further ado. He was a convinced Republican, even having sympathized with anarchism during his student days. But the course of events in Madrid, the injustice of so much senseless death, beginning with his own father, were corroding his convictions. And something in his gaze, perhaps a hint of rebellion, had irritated the militiaman who signaled him to halt.
“That expression doesn’t amuse me, comrade. I don’t believe you work in the CNT without an affiliated card. Today there isn’t anyone who isn’t affiliated. Do you know what I think? That you belong to the Fifth Column. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to get on the truck, comrade. Take him to the Bellas Artes checka so they can identify him!”
Mañas didn’t even protest. He got onto the truck. There were a handful of men who looked dejected. In some way he was almost hoping for it. After all, what more could he lose? Only his dignity remained. Drawing on it, he realized he was the only one detained in a suit and shoes — leather, worn but decent. Perhaps that’s why they stopped him. The others wore proletarian overalls, espadrilles. There were five of them. All with their heads bowed.
Mañas swallowed hard and thought of his father’s nails, dirty with the greasiness of the rifle after the struggle with his killer. He thought of the people who had died in the last few weeks, and, seeing the frightened faces around him — two workers whispering — he understood that he had himself caused his detention.
In reality, more than a card from a party or a union that might arouse suspicion or hostility, all it took was to pass the checkpoints looking straight ahead with confidence. It was usual not to be blocked at all. He knew that. Still, he had fixed a defiant look at that militiaman. He did it deliberately: in a sense he was seeking to be detained. There had been too many sleepless nights. It was exhausting to keep his head down.
And there he was.
The truck started and passed in front of the Secretariat of Supplies, on what was then the Paseo del Cisne. Fortunately, his friend Ángel Navarrrete, pistol at the belt, was stepping out at that moment. Seeing him in the back, he signaled the driver to stop.
“Who are these men and where are you taking them, comrade?”
“They’re suspects who haven’t identified themselves properly. They’re going to the Bellas Artes cheka.”
“Bring down the man in the suit right now.”
“But…”
“You heard me clearly. Take him off immediately. He works in Abastos. He’s a friend. Or maybe you want to have trouble with me, comrade…”
Navarrete’s tone grew threatening. And already three more militiamen with rifles were emerging from the Abastos Committee and gathering nearby. The anarchist, after glancing at Pepe Mañas, finally nodded.
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