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Barcelona

HE = shoeshine ‘boy’

L must have been in his
early fifties. His blue
beret drawn down on one
side of his head and the
heavy shoe box he carried

gave him a lopsided appear-.

ance. He
American

looked at my new
shoes with the

_ shrewdness of an artist sizing

up a subject. He followed me
to the Rambla de los Estudios.

I was sitting in front of a
cafe when he finally caught up

with me and he _ approached
solemnly, pointing at my shoes.
“Yes,” said.

For a while neither of us
spoke. I watched the river of
people flowing down the ram-
blas (large sidewalks in the mid-
dle of the streets), meeting other

streams that trickled from the

narrow cluttered alleys leading
from Barriochino.

There was little laughter. Peo-
ple spoke with their heads bent.
One reason was apparent. Every
20 feet two carabinieri, fully
equipped with tommy guns, pa-
trolled the sidewalk.

The military was much in evi-
dence, Sleek and sullen, they
all wore thin black mustaches

and highly polished boots. Wind-

ing around them cautiously were
beggars and beggar children,
old women carrying great bas-
kets of yellow flowers on their
backs, young idlers. ae

“Do men shine shoes in the
streets in your country?” asked
the shoeshiner. :

“Yes,” I told him.

“But are they black or white?”

He was amazed when I ex-
plained that both Negroes and
whites shined shoes.

He glanced up quickly. There
was no one near us.

“I. suppose you think it’s
strange—a man of my age—
doing such work,” he began rap-
idly, “well for seven years I
have done this. I am fortunate.
Do you know what this gypsy
Franco has done here?

A> man in a white raincoat
strolled by, stopped, leaned
against a parked car.

“We are very contented here,”
the bootblack almost shouted.
“I myself happen to make a
large amount of money. I live
very well.”

The man moved on. The bot-
black spat suddenly where he
had stood.

“Half of us spy on the other
half. You can always tell the
Secret police. They wear those
coats. Let me tell you that we
don’t live at all. Do you know
good shoes cost 190 pesetas? A
man makes 14 pesetas a day if
he is highly skilled. I want
to leave here. I would like to
go to North America. But I
can only go to Argentina. That’s
the only place they will alow
us to go.”

Two civil guards paused to
light their cigarettes.

“You must go to Granada, it’s
very pretty there, and very fine
for tourists,” the bootblack said
loudly.

He had finished my shoes.

“They say only the Commun-
ists are against this,’ he said.
“Well, I am no ‘rojo’ but I am
against it.”

&
T EVENING I walked
through the alleys that con-
nected the slums and the ‘upper-
class’“section of the city. A hot,
restless multitude jostled in and
out of little cafes.

They were dreadfully thin and
sickly. A kind of anger dis-
played itself in suddent flare-
ups between them, only to die
ignominiously at the approach
of the police. All around store
windows displayed the fat of the
land—candies, pastries, meat,
fruit of every description.

The next morning was Sun- -

day and I went to church. Peo-
FRIDAY, MAY 80, 1947

ERNEST
CAPP

In Barcelona “people spoke with their heads bent.

fully equipped with tommy guns, patrolled the sidewalk. The military was much in
evidence, .. .”

A tale of two cities

Every 20 feet two carabinieri,

ple unable to enter because of
the crowds within stood on side-
walks, Carefully creased, pin-
striped business suits made a
solid wall around the entrance.
I caught a glimpse of a black
mantilla falling on mink-covered
shoulders. Some of the men held
their hands behind them and
their rings caught in the sun.

I was unable to hear the mass
but a greater one was held out
on the sidewalks. Here, reclining,
leaning, yawning were a line of
beggars. Gypsy women from the
south of Spain held dark, silent
babies in their arms. Men and
women cripples moved their
stumps apathetically as people
passed. Canvas - covered feet
moved restlessly and blind men
turned their sightless faces to-
ward the warming sun.

When mass’ was over, the beg-
gars drew to attention. A wail-
ing and moaning filled the air.
Stumps were jiggled wildly.

“Por Dios!” they cried, “For
God!”

But the virtuous congregation
was unmoved. One old fellow
in a torn, filthy shirt shouted
suddenly:

“You hypocrites, you devils.”

A husky laughter arose from
the other beggars. They began
to hobble away from the church.
I watched them until they dis-
appeared down the Calle de
Gracia. Z

eo.
FTER that day I asked a
cab driver what he thought
of the filled churches.

“Tll tell you why all those
people go to church. It is merely
to irritate the Republic. It is
only to irritate us, There is no
religion in Spain today.”

Barcelona had shown me that
people were not afraid to speak.
Even without encouragement, all

through Spain, the people were

not only willing but pitifully
eager to talk to some one from
the outside world.

Before I left for Madrid I
went into a store to buy a
postcard. A thin strip of paper
beneath the picture explained
that it was the ‘Plaza del Cau-
dillo.. I removed the strip. Be-
neath it on the original card was
printed, ‘Plaza de la Republica.’

Madrid

HE Guadarama moun-
| tains roll themselves
down to a great pla-
teau. On it lies Madrid,
seeming to have grown from
the plateau itself. When the
sun shines on the city it
brings to it a sense of space
that is hard to find in all of
Europe. Its wide’ streets, its
columns and the shining. build-
ings that line the avenidas en-
dow it with great dignity.
But now it is a city of
frightened people. No doors open
quickly; it might be the police.

People walk with their heads.

down and everywhere are sol-
diers. All kinds. Moors, Cata-
lans, Galicians dressed in rag-
ged uniforms copied after the
Hitler police.

I stopped in at the American
press building. I asked the so-
called ‘top’ journalist there what

‘he thought of Spain today. This

was. his answer:

“You know I'd like to figure
out whether the Republic was
better than this. I often think
of the question. But I haven't
managed to come to any con-
clusion on it. You know the
Spanish mentality? They always
grumble.”

Another reporter came in. As
a contrast’ to the Spaniards I
had. seen, his arrogant good
health was obnoxious.

“How are things?” I asked
him. —

“Look at me,” he laughed, I‘m
starving, huh?”

I asked the other one what
he thought would be a good
government for Spain.

“Well,” he said, “What is fair?
After all everyone has _ their
side. We mustn’t be too emo-
tional about it. I think a good
provisional government would be
one composed of representatives
‘of the military, the church, cap-
ital and perhaps a socialist. Of

course the Spanish people don’t .

know what they want. It’s typi-

cal of the race.” ,
Thus spoke the most impor-

tant source of news from Spain

for the United States and Can-
ada—the Madrid correspondents.
®

SPOKE to many people in

Madrid. One was a woman
whose husband had _ recently
been released after five years
in prison. She sat with me in
ker small room where no sun-
light entered — “the lights must
be kept off all day’—and told
me what happened to her. Her
hair was quite white and when
she smiled nothing changed the
awful sadness in her eyes.

“My husband is so ill,” she
said, “he was in jail for five

years. The first two they put.

him in a house outside of

Madrid that had been a disin--

fecting station for beggars. They
had room for 500 people. They
were over 5,000 there when he
went. Then they took him’ to
Vigo. Beatings? Oh yes, but the
worst beating was moral. Sixty
percent of the men who came
out of Vigo have tuberculosis.
Almost all have painful ear dis-
eases' from sleeping on the
floors.” ‘

Her pain was evident in her
hands and face. The words came
out of her like knives, sharpen-
ed in deep bitterness,

“Three times a week I took
food to my husband. When I
did, we did not eat at home.
And do you ‘know how they told
us when the men were killed?
I saw it happen month after
month. A woman would come
with her package of food to
the gates. The guard would say,
“The food is no longer neces-
sary.’ This is how the wives
knew their men were dead.
That’s all.” a

I had brought her chocolate
and she began to eat it hurried-
ly, cutting every square in half
to save for her husband.

She sighed deeply, “When
something happens to change the
government, I’m going to leave
this country; go anywhere. Peo-
ple like me between 25 and
35—our lives have been wrecked
by this. We are all so old now.”

e
I asked her about the degree
of hatred towards Franco —
how unified it was. _

“They are unified by the most

primitive need of all: hunger.

All other considerations are
pushed aside. We can’t last an-
other winter. We had no meat
last year. We must have help.

“Everybody hates Franco —
even sections of the military-
Even the shopowners who are
richer now than ever would
want him to go. For instance:
They must buy black market
products and sell them at still
higher prices. But if they’re
caught—and they atways are—
they must pay protection money
to the police. Otherwise they
are taken to concentration
camps within eight to 10 days.
Thousands of Franco’s men live
on what they get from such
robbery.”

“What about the peasants?” I
asked. —

“By and large they are against
Franco too. Although they are
sometimes better off because
they have their own food. But
they can only sell to the black
market the produce they have
managed to hide from the Fa-
lange. And what they. sell to
the Falange brings them almost
nothing. They are constantly
terrorized on the basis that they
are helping ‘reds’ escape from
jail and that they help the
guerrillas.” —

She said some friends of hers
were at that moment employed
in working on plans for a new
Argentine Embassy.

“They're trying to build oF
find an embassy ‘worthy’ of the
Argentines—putting 40 million
pesetas in it. They pretend it is
to show the rest of the world
they they can also have a shm-
ing diplomatic structure. But it
is really to be a scréening sta-
tion for their Falange agents to
be sent to South America.”

A. knock sounded at the door.
She didn’t move for a minute.
Another knock. Then she got up
very ‘slowly, walked over to the
door and listened. There was no
sound in, the room except her
breathing.

“Who is it?” she asked.

A. child’s voice answered and
then she opened the door. It
was her daughter. “But you can
never be sure,” she said.

PACIFIO TRIBUNE—PAGE 10