wealthiest in the world, prospering on stocks and investments while the poor perished around them.
‘The true evil that afflicts humanity stems from religion,’ Teresa said. ‘Have you noticed that in Barcelona a workman never greets a priest on the street? They never even exchange a glance. It’s because the convents and the monasteries are the ruin of us. They pay no rates so everyone else in the district has to make up the difference. They pay no taxes on their orphan labour so all the laundresses and embroiderers are put out of work.’
Our life continued along the humdrum routine of the flower market, the Casa del Pueblo, then home and bed, until one day in July when everything changed forever.
Papá and Anastasio did not return from the factory at their usual time. Teresa was due to lead a meeting of Damas Rojas in the communal room and had no choice but to take me and Ramón with her.
The women moved the wooden chairs into a circle when they saw Teresa arrive. I recognised a number of them as regulars at the Casa del Pueblo. There were a few intellectuals, teachers from the rationalist schools, but most of the women were semiliterate factory workers with furrowed brows and twisted, arthritic fingers. There was Juana, who worked at a chocolate factory and whose clothing always smelled of peanuts and cocoa; and Pilar, a fishmonger whose greasy hair and clothes reeked like the port when the tide was out. Núria from the slaughterhouse wasthere too, stinking like a graveyard, her fingernails and shoes stained with blood. Ramón and I always did our best to avoid sitting next to her in the reading classes. Although they couldn’t vote, the women of Damas Rojas were determined to see change. They were formidable in mob action, putting themselves in the frontline at strikes. They counted on the fact that the police were less likely to open fire on women who reminded them of their mothers. Usually they were right, but not always.
Teresa began the discussion. ‘We’ve been waiting for change for years. Maura’s reforms are deadlocked in the Cortes. Nothing has come of the promises for representative government. Nearly half the men and a third of the women in textile factories in Barcelona and the Ter Valley have been locked out. It’s time to take matters into our own hands.’
Her remark brought a profusion of voices, either murmuring agreement or crying out in protest. Although I couldn’t understand most of the discussion in the hot, crowded room, it was clear that there was tension in the air.
A woman with a baby in her arms rose to her feet. ‘There is nothing we can do! We are too poor. Spain can’t compete with the United States in the cotton market — that’s why they are closing the factories. How can people who can’t rub two céntimos together take matters into their own hands?’
Paquita, a willowy woman who worked as a teacher at La Escuela Moderna, responded. ‘On the contrary, Spain is a wealthy country — but the money is in the hands of a few. If the money was shared around equitably, instead of the majority of Spaniards living in poverty, then a domestic market might be created. If that were to be the case, what happens internationally wouldn’t affect Spain so drastically.’
‘That’s very noble,’ said Teresa, pacing the floor. ‘But it’s not realistic, Paquita. How are we going to convince the rich to share their wealth without force? The only way is to take that wealth for ourselves — in a revolution.’
‘Revolution is going too far,’ Carme, another teacher, replied. ‘We need to strike across the board in all industries and in all cities. If the textile-industry workers alone strike, the factory owners will simply bring in scab labour. But if the whole country unites and strikes, we will bring them to their knees.’
‘Easy for you to say, Carme,’ the woman with the baby scoffed. ‘You don’t have children. The workers can’t afford to strike. As it is,
‘The true evil that afflicts humanity stems from religion,’ Teresa said. ‘Have you noticed that in Barcelona a workman never greets a priest on the street? They never even exchange a glance. It’s because the convents and the monasteries are the ruin of us. They pay no rates so everyone else in the district has to make up the difference. They pay no taxes on their orphan labour so all the laundresses and embroiderers are put out of work.’
Our life continued along the humdrum routine of the flower market, the Casa del Pueblo, then home and bed, until one day in July when everything changed forever.
Papá and Anastasio did not return from the factory at their usual time. Teresa was due to lead a meeting of Damas Rojas in the communal room and had no choice but to take me and Ramón with her.
The women moved the wooden chairs into a circle when they saw Teresa arrive. I recognised a number of them as regulars at the Casa del Pueblo. There were a few intellectuals, teachers from the rationalist schools, but most of the women were semiliterate factory workers with furrowed brows and twisted, arthritic fingers. There was Juana, who worked at a chocolate factory and whose clothing always smelled of peanuts and cocoa; and Pilar, a fishmonger whose greasy hair and clothes reeked like the port when the tide was out. Núria from the slaughterhouse wasthere too, stinking like a graveyard, her fingernails and shoes stained with blood. Ramón and I always did our best to avoid sitting next to her in the reading classes. Although they couldn’t vote, the women of Damas Rojas were determined to see change. They were formidable in mob action, putting themselves in the frontline at strikes. They counted on the fact that the police were less likely to open fire on women who reminded them of their mothers. Usually they were right, but not always.
Teresa began the discussion. ‘We’ve been waiting for change for years. Maura’s reforms are deadlocked in the Cortes. Nothing has come of the promises for representative government. Nearly half the men and a third of the women in textile factories in Barcelona and the Ter Valley have been locked out. It’s time to take matters into our own hands.’
Her remark brought a profusion of voices, either murmuring agreement or crying out in protest. Although I couldn’t understand most of the discussion in the hot, crowded room, it was clear that there was tension in the air.
A woman with a baby in her arms rose to her feet. ‘There is nothing we can do! We are too poor. Spain can’t compete with the United States in the cotton market — that’s why they are closing the factories. How can people who can’t rub two céntimos together take matters into their own hands?’
Paquita, a willowy woman who worked as a teacher at La Escuela Moderna, responded. ‘On the contrary, Spain is a wealthy country — but the money is in the hands of a few. If the money was shared around equitably, instead of the majority of Spaniards living in poverty, then a domestic market might be created. If that were to be the case, what happens internationally wouldn’t affect Spain so drastically.’
‘That’s very noble,’ said Teresa, pacing the floor. ‘But it’s not realistic, Paquita. How are we going to convince the rich to share their wealth without force? The only way is to take that wealth for ourselves — in a revolution.’
‘Revolution is going too far,’ Carme, another teacher, replied. ‘We need to strike across the board in all industries and in all cities. If the textile-industry workers alone strike, the factory owners will simply bring in scab labour. But if the whole country unites and strikes, we will bring them to their knees.’
‘Easy for you to say, Carme,’ the woman with the baby scoffed. ‘You don’t have children. The workers can’t afford to strike. As it is,
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