Back then, I had two ways of finding out what was going on in the world. One was through the ‘whispers’ of the neighbours, and especially what I overheard in my godfather Miguel’s shop. That was a bit like today’s ‘social media’.

The other was through the radio; television was still a few years away from becoming popular and accessible to the working class. On one occasion, whilst I was listening to the radio, my mother interrupted me; and the attention I was paying to it vanished. This was the last thing I heard:

“Since April of this year (1961), Anthony Mann’s film ‘El Cid’, starring Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren, has been in production in Spain…”.

A film based on the life of our hero Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (Burgos 1048 – Valencia, 1099), a Castilian military leader who, at the head of his own army, came to dominate the eastern part of the Iberian Peninsula.

During his life as a crusader, he served under various Muslim and Christian leaders. The work that has served as the main reference for our hero’s experiences, though not the only one; is the epic poem known as “Cantar de Mio Cid”. This is the first extensive narrative work in Spanish literature written in a Romance language. It consists of 3,735 anisosyllabic verses recounting heroic deeds, loosely inspired by the final years of the life of our protagonist, Don Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar…

“Come on, Antoñito, get a move on, you’re coming with me!”

“Bloody hell!” that was my muttered exclamation, a sign of my displeasure at her order. But it was nothing more than that, just a childish tantrum. And like an obedient little dog, I immediately stood up and waited for her instructions.

My mother was off to do one of her two jobs, giving an injection to one of her patients, and I was her ‘assistant’. And as such, I stuck close to her and followed her.

She did this on top of the tasks involved in looking after and bringing up four little ones of all ages, with all that that entailed. And the fifth offspring hadn’t even arrived yet.

Returning to her job as a ‘banderillera’, which was also what she was known by in the area, including several neighbourhoods—that is, giving injections. It worked… thanks to my mother’s special skill for administering the ‘banderillas’ painlessly. And I can vouch for that, because in fact, I saw her give them many, many times; first she’d give a few little taps with her hand on the bum and ‘zash’… needle in. Then she’d attach the syringe to the needle and squeeze it very slowly, letting the liquid medicine enter the body. Such was her reputation that not only did people from the local area come to our house, but patients from the city also came to visit her. And on one occasion, we were even abducted by aliens from ‘Ganymede’. Oops! I’ve got the wrong novel! Sorry…!

Hearing it described like that, it sounds as though she must have made a fortune, but nothing of the sort; clients paid what they could spare. That said, the minimum was usually about five pesetas, which, by my reckoning, was roughly the cost of a loaf of bread or a little more.

The downside of the ‘banderillera business’ was that, in certain cases of illness, she also made house calls; and that was when the earnings took a hit.

I accompanied him on more than one occasion, as I did on this one… Lacking transport, we walked to the houses. Come rain or shine, just like in the army, and this effort wasn’t always appreciated.

“Come on, for God’s sake, we’re running late!”

He used to say “for God’s sake” very often; it was like a sort of catchphrase.

“Mum, who’s El Cid?” I asked, referring to what I’d heard on the radio.

“How should I know!" It’s probably a brand of washing powder.” Oh dear! If ‘Don Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar’ were to hear you… The truth is, he knew, but he didn’t want to get into it, as we were running late, so he just went off on a tangent like that. Without delay, we set off for the first appointment. Her competition, if you can call it that, were the nuns from the ‘Seminario’; and other nuns from the same school my sister attended. But in reality, their fees were higher; these nuns didn’t charge whatever the client felt like giving, they had a set rate; nor did they handle things with the same delicacy as my mum.

My mother's TOOL

In this case, the patient didn’t live very far away:

"TOC, TOC!" After the knocks on the door, a voice from inside called out:

"It’s open!" My mother turned the door handle and we nurses went in. "Hello Antoñita, thank you for coming!"

“Not at all!” My mother was all charm with the ‘clients’, a real saleswoman!

Ambrosia (the patient) was diabetic, an elderly woman, about sixty years old; naturally, nowadays I wouldn’t consider her that way.

“Do you have the insulin to hand?”

“Yes, it’s there, on the sideboard!”

“Come on, Antoñito, bring it to me!” At last I’d earned my pay.

“What! Are you teaching him the ropes?”

The nurse didn’t hesitate to reply, but she had the knack of making me look good and compared me to a qualified doctor.

“Yes, when he grows up he wants to be a doctor, like ‘Doctor Vaquer’.”

The aforementioned Doctor was the local GP, but I was surprised she made that remark, when she knew full well that what I wanted to be when I grew up was a fireman; but I didn’t want to correct her…

"And Ambrosia, why don’t you learn to put them on yourself? I can teach you."

"No, no, not a chance! Just thinking about it gives me the shivers! If you don’t mind, I’d rather you did it; besides… you put them on me so lovingly!"

"You don’t need to suck up to me! Come on, pull your trousers down and show me your artist’s bum!” the patient did so, and within seconds a ‘needle’ was stuck into her buttock; I watched her closely and thought: «What a huge bum that woman has!», and it probably wasn’t any bigger than usual; I was just a boy and hadn’t yet come to appreciate this feminine feature.

After a while, the insulin was in her body, the job done, a few swabs with cotton wool soaked in alcohol and…:

"There you go, you can pull your trousers up now!"

"I didn’t feel a thing, you’re a saint!"

"Yes, ‘Saint Rita’, the one who says, ‘What’s given can’t be taken back!’

And with the job done, we set off for the next visit, but Ambrosia reminded my mother of something.

"Wait, I haven’t paid you!"

"This one’s on the house; you can pay me next time!"

"Thank you so much, Antoñita, see how you’re a saint!"

Whenever she could, my mother would lend a hand to those in need, Saint Antoñita!

On the way to our next visit, she took it upon herself to tell me a new story from her life, something she would do occasionally during these journeys; but only when she felt inspired. Her mind recalled things, without stopping her from walking:

"I remember when I’d just turned eleven; tired of seeing the bombs fall, and the destruction and deaths they caused, my mother (Asunción) decided to follow in the footsteps of the ‘Government of the Republic’ and set off for Valencia, which was where its members and entourage had fled. Those who still thought it was just a passing phase stayed behind in Madrid."

"And who was in charge? was one of my frequent interruptions.

"Everyone! It was a whorehouse!"

I didn’t ask her what a “brothel” was, as I already knew something about it; I was more concerned to know when and how they had left Madrid. I asked her and she replied:

“Well, son, just as I’ve told you! The politicians had already left earlier, when they saw that Franco was approaching and that nothing good awaited them. And as they weren’t fools! The man in charge, a certain ‘Largo Caballero’, and his whole entourage; they decided to grab everything they could and ‘take to their heels’ towards Valencia…"

Madrid, 1936. General Miaja presiding over the Madrid Defence Council. © National Library of Spain.

As for how this exodus from Madrid came about, I found out years later that General Franco’s rebel forces were already closing in on the city. On 6 November 1936, the ‘President of the Council of Ministers of the Government of the Republic’, ‘Largo Caballero’, summoned Generals ‘Miaja’ and ‘Pozas’ and handed them an official letter in a sealed envelope, bearing the heading: ‘To be opened at six o’clock on the 7th’. This aroused the generals’ suspicions; without waiting, they opened the envelope and, to their surprise, discovered the government’s planned evacuation:

«The Government has resolved, in order to continue fulfilling its primary duty of defending the Republican cause, to relocate outside Madrid, and entrusts you with the defence of the capital at all costs. In order to assist you in this momentous task…/. a ‘Madrid Defence Council’ is hereby established…/.».

The generals decided to disregard these instructions and not even consider retreating. They chose to fight the battle to the bitter end. It was a courageous decision, and they succeeded in winning it, but from that day onwards, Madrid was fully drawn into the war…

…Having clarified this matter, I return to the moment when my mother was bringing me up to date on what she had experienced years earlier, and she continued to speak:

"A little later, my mother, your grandmother, also decided to go there. We also had family in Valencia."

This is indeed what happened, from the day after her escape, that is, 7 November, until 31 October 1937, when the newly formed ‘Negrín’ government decided to move it again, this time to Barcelona. Valencia became the capital of the Second Republic, with all that entailed. The government officials and civil servants from the various ministries also moved to this city. Trade unionists representing the various organisations, such as the ‘UGT’, ‘CNT’, etc. And all those who supported the Republic and were able to flee. In short, Valencia became the new home of this motley diaspora.

“And how did Grandma get you there?” I pressed, as she still hadn’t answered me.

“We were lucky that she had a ‘special friend’ who helped us.”

Sorry! But I need to pause for a moment; I’m sensing vibrations and signals coming from my 'Subconscious'...

"I can see where you’re going with this, you’re such a prude!"

«Why do you say that?»-

"You know full well! I bet you’re thinking that Grandma Asunción was cheating on her husband, Grandad Lázaro."

«Well, that’s what it looks like, isn’t it?».

Well, you’ve slipped up once again, 'Subconscious'. Grandad had passed away a few years earlier, leaving Grandma a widow with four girls to look after.

«I’m sorry! I apologise.».

“I accept your apology! Now let me carry on…”

I didn’t know what “taking to her heels” meant, but I didn’t dare interrupt my mother; however, this business of a “special friend” was too much for my curiosity:

“And why was Grandma’s friend ‘special’?”

“Bloody hell, what a question! He was her lover! Grandad had died and someone had to help the family out a bit…” 'Get to the point, no beating about the bush!' she clarified. I kept probing and wanted to know what the “friend” did for a living, to which she replied:

“He was a captain in the FAI; to put it simply, an anarchist bigwig (F.A.I. – International Anarchist Federation) who’d seized a big car that had previously belonged to a banker who’d fled. And yes,! we travelled to Valencia in it! The anarchist militiaman never returned to Madrid; he remained in command of one of the ‘Checas’ in Valencia.

One of the detention centres for citizens, known as CHECA, in the city of Valencia

Years later, as an adult, I found out what on earth ‘the Checas’ actually were, and no, it doesn’t refer to women from the ‘Czech Republic’ (formerly part of Czechoslovakia). “Las Checas” was the name they adopted, imitating their Soviet counterparts created years earlier by Lenin; the motley collection of facilities where people of religious faith or those considered “right-wing” were interrogated and tortured. They occupied everything from former, abandoned convents to government buildings. During the “Civil War”, the Republic used them in the rear and throughout the territory of Spain under its control. Initially, they were under the control of the “Special Department of State Information” (DEDIDE); and later, in August 1937, they came under the authority of the “Military Information Service” (S.I.M.), created by “Indalecio Prieto”, a minister in the Republican government.

It was from these centres and from prisons that the dreaded ‘sacas’ took place, in which militiamen would extract and lead the detained prisoners to open fields or makeshift ‘execution walls’ outside the prison grounds, where they were killed. This practice was also carried out during the “Civil War” and in the early years of “Francoism” by the Nationalist side, known as “paseíllos”.

…But back then, unaware of all this, I didn’t pay much attention to the story about my grandmother’s ‘special’ friend’s new job, in charge of a ‘Checa’; I didn’t understand a single thing about what it was. But what I did understand was that there was hardly any room for so many passengers and their suitcases in the FAI anarchist’s car:

"And did you all “fit” in that car?"

"Well, yes, we all squeezed in! My three sisters! You know, your aunts, your grandmother Asunción and me, your mother!"

“And the ‘special friend’?” I asked; truth be told, he was a bit of a ‘tocaeggs’:

“You’re such a twisted one! He was the one driving. And that’s enough for today!... Let’s get on with the next one, for God’s sake! Don Juan, ‘Cogito’, is waiting for us; he’ll think we’re not coming.”

Don Juan was a very pleasant man with the patience of a saint; he lived opposite our house, a few metres further down the street. And that’s where we headed, but now it was time to sing one of those ‘old-fashioned’ songs my mother loved; on this particular day it was ‘Échale guindas al pavo’.

A song my mother had heard from “Imperio Argentina” when she saw their latest film in Madrid. And that was before we set off for Valencia and a few months before the Civil War began; I later found out that the title of the film was “Morena Clara”.

Film poster

Ruins in Corbera de Ebro, in the “Poble Vell” (Old Town). The town suffered severely from artillery and air strikes during the course of the battle