November 10, 1936: Ramper’s Antics

So glad to see you, my dear Tárrega! Let me give you a hug! And that one with you? Pepe Mañas? I’d swear I know a Mañas. Delighted. Ramper. Any friend of Tárrega is a friend of mine. I’m happy to see you all. You see that the war even affects the clowns. The audience is thinner, all militiamen, and they demand political jokes, but I’m getting by. My dressing room is the same.

»Would you mind sitting down while I remove my makeup?… Not at all! Today it’s the turn of the regulars: “Who are the good ones? Us. Who are you? The Republicans. Who will lose the war? Them. And who are they? The bad ones! The Nationalists!” Well, no. The war won’t be won by the good or by the bad. It will be won by the regulars, who are at the gates of Madrid.

»Everyone laughed, but a fellow from the Defense Board has come to say that no defeatist jokes, as they demoralize the troops. Some things never change. In any case, I know the stages of the whole of Spain. I’ve climbed the wall where the cha-cha and the pasodoble reigned. I’ve become friends with the upright pianos of La Bombilla, which is real hard work, and not just four militiamen.

»If, when the king was still in the palace, I used to tell that Alfonso XIII’s favorite soap is Sales de España, and the police would show up. But do you know what irritates me the most? Not the bombs. The cowardice. It angers me to see more and more foreigners, the embassy staff, wearing armbands and the colors of their countries. It’s like saying: “Kill each other, that’s not my problem.”

»Selfishness flourishes. Of course the siege binds us with that animal solidarity that forms when danger approaches. Do you mind the noise? It’s the clatter from Ciudad Universitaria, right next door. Since yesterday, the men of Varela are attacking the bridges over the Manzanares. We must take it as if it were a marching band. Just like the planes.

»I stood near the river on Sunday when they strafed the bridges. Some planes flew so low that I could see their swastikas. I was in the Puerta del Sol while the first battle for the clouds unfolded. They hovered, circling amid bursts of light and gunfire. They traced circles so distant that from below they looked like mosquitoes. From time to time they dived with a roar of a thousand devils and disappeared with that tremendous whine of the propellers. Ours were Soviet fighters, two of them. People watched them without seeking shelter. The fighters brushed the wings of a fascist aircraft that had been isolated to force it to land.

»The good thing is that we are becoming more disciplined. They say last night Carrillo and La Pasionaria gave speeches at the Metro stations to lift the spirits of the refugees. The Nationalists want to terrify us. But you know? My hunch is that Madrid will endure. Perhaps because we are finally taking this seriously. Every time I find a party’s offices with a sign that reads “Closed because we’ve gone to the front,” I feel the joke is over, I assure you.