They all hated each other with a passion, as groups sure their brand of socialism was the route to some political utopia, and each tried to poach members from the other, which did nothing for inter-union rivalry. The Trotskyists of the POUM saw themselves as the true heirs to Karl Marx and loathed the Stalinists and Moscow lackeys of the communist PCE. Both laughed at the far-left trade union outfit called the UGT, big in Madrid and at one time part of the government, who stood as the main rival to the equally union-based anarcho-syndicalists of the CNT.
The Federacion Anarquista Iberica, to which Florencia belonged through the women’s organisation the Mujeres Libres, preached pure, unadulterated anarchism as voiced by Mikhail Bakunin: no money, no government, no police, no judges and no prisons, each person responsible for and contributing to the greater good. The POUM believed in a Spanish form of communism that had nothing to learn from Leninism or the Communist International, which gave instructions to their rivals, orders that came straight from the Kremlin.
The social democrats believed in liberal capitalism, and in amongst that and just to complicate matters, many, of whatever hue, were, in Barcelona, Catalan Nationalists seeking regional autonomy from Madrid. Yet faced with a fascist revolt, all their differences would be put aside to face what they knew to be a common enemy.
Florencia led Cal and Vince to the main meeting place of the members of both the Confederacion Nacional de Trabajo and the Federacion Anarquista Iberica. Nothing could have been more inappropriately named that day than the Cafe de Tranquilidad. It wasn’t tranquil now, it was like a very busy and disturbed hive, crowded, noisy and bordering on mayhem, with bees arriving to yell bits of news, or departing to carry instructions to some part of the city where their leaders expected they would need to act, and all the while, to add to the air of unreality, waiters swanned through bearing platters of food or trays of beer or coffee.
Florencia was nothing if not determined and nor, Cal later found out, was she shy in exaggeration when she got a hearing from the faction leaders. He thought he had not told her much about his past, but over two weeks of being constantly in each other’s company, walking, dining and pillow talk, it amounted to more than he could recall.
She blew up what he had imparted about his military experience out of all relation to the truth, so that far from being a peripheral figure seeking information as to how he and the Olympiad athletes could help, he was soon surrounded by eager faces and, named by Florencia as a famous military genius, bombarded with questions about what these inexperienced fighters should do.
Language was a real problem, not aided by the fact that no one who posed a question was prepared to wait for an answer, and nor were their comrades, who either had contrary opinions or a query of their own. It was an uncoordinated babble of indeterminate noise in which he tried to do more listening than talking, that not easy either, as his fiery mistress was wont to interrupt any interpretation with a mouthful of Catalan abuse aimed at anyone who proposed a suggestion she disagreed with.
It was during one of these tirades that Cal tried to bring a confused and less-than-impressed Vince Castellano up to date. ‘They need guns and the government won’t give them any.’
‘I got that much, but I’m not sure I would either, guv. This lot look like they’re not sure who to shoot, an’ the way they’re carrying on it could be each other.’
‘Did you get that a revolt started in Morocco yesterday?’ Vince nodded. ‘It was a bit of a mess, but the officers have risen up all over Spain and are trying to seize the main population centres.’
‘Here is important to us, guv,’ Vince said, as behind them a furious, passionate and utterly incomprehensible argument became, if possible, even more vicious.
‘If I’ve got it right, so far the soldiers are still in their barracks, and it seems the Catalan government are trying a bit of negotiation.’
‘A bullet in the brain works wonders,’ Vince joked.
‘This lot,’ Cal replied, jerking his thumb, ‘are sure they will fail, so the army will march out either today or tomorrow to take over the city and they have machine guns and artillery. There’s a general called Goded flying in from Majorca to take command. The real question is what the armed police will do, the Civil and Assault Guards, and right now that is an unknown quantity.’
Vince was confused and he was not alone; the Civil Guard they both knew as the everyday near-military coppers, with their funny black hats, green uniforms and miserable expressions — they acted as if smiling was a punishable offence. Neither were certain about the latter group called the Assault Guards, which had been set up fairly recently to police the towns and cities, the places most likely to explode into organised revolt. But, in truth, names made no difference; both were fully armed and trained, while the workers who might have to oppose them were not.
‘So weapons are the priority.’
‘Guv, if the government knows what’s coming, then they should know how to put the mockers on it.’
‘They probably do, but they are not talking to the people who can stop it physically, the various far-left organisations like this lot. They are just as frightened of them as they are of the generals.’
Just then a messenger rushed in, spouted some news, and set off another loud and incomprehensible argument, full of waving fists and triumphant cries, which at least indicated the proffered information was positive.
‘Good news,’ Florencia explained, having detached herself from the ballyhoo. ‘The Assault Guard are handing out weapons to the workers and we have certain armouries we are sure we can capture with their guns. News has come from the dock workers’ union as well. There is a ship in the harbour carrying explosives and I have volunteered us to help capture it.’
‘With what?’ Cal demanded, making the sign of a pistol.
That got another flash of those dark eyes, attached to a look of determination. ‘If we have weapons, good; if not, we will take the ship with our bare hands.’
Grabbing her shoulders Cal looked right into those lovely liquid pools. ‘Go back into that mob and tell them, from me: no weapons, no help.’
‘I have told them how brave you are!’
‘Tell them how stupid I’m not and also tell them all Vince and I have is a bunch of untrained amateurs, some of whom might be able to swim, others who can box, many who can run a mile in not much over four minutes and none who know how to use a gun, which they must have, just as we must show them how to employ them before they go anywhere near a fight.’
There was a crestfallen air about Florencia as he spoke those words, as if he had gone down miles in her estimation, the rate marked by the spirit of her deflation.
‘Look, we are willing, but we must have weapons.’
‘I cannot deal with this,’ she cried, with a toss of her blonde curls. ‘I will get Juan Luis Laporta. He speaks French and so do you.’
‘And who is he?’
Florencia managed to give Cal Jardine the kind of look that implied he must have spent the last ten years on the moon. ‘Juan Luis is a senior military commander of the CNT-FAI and a true and experienced revolutionary. Surely you have read about him?’
Then she was gone.
‘Fancy you not knowin’ that, guv, eh?’ said Vince, dryly.
CHAPTER THREE
Dragging her man away from the heated discussions took time; it was clear he was important, a person whose views counted in the mass of conflicting arguments. In order that they could talk in relative peace, Cal and Vince moved to a corner window that looked out onto the wide and crowded pavement to wait. Coming towards them, edging past people in the bustling cafe, exchanging words with some and looks with others, allowed Cal to examine Laporta more closely.