1 April 1939 - Eduardo de Guzmán
Extracts translated from Eduardo de Guzmán, La muerte de la esperanza (Madrid: G. del Toro, 1973), pp. 387-394. The CNT activist and journalist relates his tragic experiences at the harbour of Alicante, the last Republican-held port, at the end of the civil war. After the fall of Madrid, thousands of refugees fleeing the Francoist armies had arrived at the city in the hope of escaping by boat. Although the heroic Archibald Dickson, captain of the Stanbrook merchant ship, ran the fascist blockade with over 2,500 refugees on board, thousands more were left abandoned to air raids and advancing Italian troops, in what became known as the ‘rat trap’. Here, de Guzmán describes the final hours of the civil war, spent among comrades at the harbour, before the survivors were taken to the concentration camp at Albatera.
Content note: description of suicide.
The tranquillity of our last night at the harbour contrasts with the worry and anxiety of those that preceded it. It is not so much because the fifteen to twenty thousand people who were here twenty-four hours before has dwindled to less than a thousand. It is more because of a change in mood. We are no longer scanning the horizon for lights that might signal a ship coming to take us away from the threat of the enemy. We have stopped hoping, and, giving everything up as a lost cause, we have recovered the calm that escaped us yesterday.
Thanks to an unexpected gift from our adversary, we have a single night at our disposal. A night in which we can speak freely, put forward our thoughts and ideas without the least disguise, feel and act like free men. It does not matter that the rifles of those who guard the entrance to the harbour surround us, nor that the waters of the Mediterranean are patrolled by enemy vessels. Within the port, for a few brief hours, we can be what we have always been, and what we will no longer be once the sun comes up.
Someone asks: ‘How long will have to pass before, in some corner of Spain, other men like us – liberals, republicans, socialists, communists and anarchists, will be able to raise their voices without fear of the consequences?’
The question prompts much speculation, but no one feels confident enough to offer any certainties. Although the speakers disagree amongst themselves most agree that probably none of us will live long enough to see it.
‘It’s one thing to say that we might not see it but quite another that it can be postponed indefinitely’, declares one. ‘Fascism is not some panacea capable of solving all problems; sooner or later man’s love of freedom will destroy it.’
The hours spent talking pass quickly on this night that could be our last, and which certainly will be for those who have taken an irrevocable decision. Inevitably our conversation turns to the revolution and the war, the reasons for our defeat and the repercussions that it will have, not only for the Spanish people, but for the human desire for social transformation that has reached the end of an historic cycle. People offer different opinions because all tendencies are present in the conversation. Until yesterday we were at loggerheads over secondary questions, but now it seems that past quarrels are forgotten as we debate amicably the factors that led to our current situation. Our shared defeat lessens the importance of our disagreements, just as the fate of an individual lacks significance compared to the failure or triumph of long-held ideals.
[…]
In twenty different spots across the harbour, which seems almost empty compared to yesterday afternoon, debate and discussions are taking place. Around each fire a group of people are debating and at least twice as many listening, showing agreement or otherwise with gestures of their hands. As night fell, we were somewhat separated by political affiliation or personal friendship, but now all are mingled together. Everywhere one goes there are republicans, communists, libertarians and socialists; a professor sits next to a builder; a journalist sits among lawyers, metalworkers and railway workers; politicians and union secretaries are with peasants; professional soldiers with farmers from La Mancha and graphic designers from Madrid.
Perhaps the most frequent and controversial topic of conversation is the cause of our defeat. Everybody tries to broach the subject in such a way as to not upset their listeners, speaking in general terms, and not referring to specific episodes. For the majority, the defeat was caused by the betrayal and neglect of the democracies, whose most recent activity has caused us to suffer personally. For others, a more significant factor was the superior matériel provided to our enemies by Germany and Italy compared to the low quality of what we were sold. Still others cite our internal divisions which contrast with the unity of the opposing forces.
‘All these factors have undoubtedly contributed to our loss’, says [David] Antona, ‘but I think you are forgetting another fundamental and basic aspect: the fear of revolution’.
He speaks of those who, on 18 July 1936, refused to distribute arms to the people because they were more afraid of the workers than the reactionaries; that the same people then put more energy and enthusiasm into rolling back the revolution than winning the war.
‘And this was not because they were afraid of scaring off the democracies, as they claimed, but because they were the ones who were really afraid.’
There are many who disagree, and a long debate follows. If it does not produce a consensus, it at least helps to pass the time. Although no one has slept much for many nights, no one feels like bedding down.
‘There will plenty of time for sleep when we’re dead’.
The idea of death comes up again and again, like an obsession, in both our thought and words. We are not fearful, I don’t know whether because after years of war we have become desensitised or because when one feels death to be very close and considers it unavoidable, one stops fearing it.
[…]
At eight o clock in the morning the sun begins its trajectory across a cloudless sky. The night is over, but for us the darkness is just beginning.
The harbour is to be completely vacated. We can see that the soldiers, as on previous nights, have formed two parallel lines leaving a narrow passage through which we have to pass. Those nearest Joquín Dicenta Square begin to exit.
‘The time has come, comrades!’
We hear shots from behind the barracks and tremble, knowing what they mean. Four feet away from us, Mariano Viñuales and Máximo Franco, commissar of the 28th Division and commander of the 127th Brigade, hold each other’s left hand while their right holds their pistols to their heads. ‘This is our final protest against fascism…!’
The sound of the two shots rings in the air. For a moment they remain on their feet, then they fall flat as if their muscles and bones had suddenly stopped working.
For a moment we contemplate them in silence. Then we begin to walk slowly to the exit. I walk mechanically, without even noticing where I step. Ahead I can see the soldiers watching over us. I think of our faded hopes, and of the example set by the many who have fallen over the course of the struggle. Someone by my side murmurs: ‘Soon we will envy the dead.’ I nod wordlessly.
It is the first of April, 1939. The war is over.