had his death sentence commuted to one of life imprisonment.
“In that way he had, he had made himself the prison first-aider, so to speak,” Herbal told Maria da Visitação. “He was like one of those healers who cure warts from a distance simply by reciting a couple of verses. Even when he had one foot in the grave and was waiting to be executed, he carried on boosting everyone else’s spirits.”
The political prisoners functioned as a kind of commune. People who would not talk to each other in the street, who really hated each other, such as Anarchists and Communists, helped each other out inside jail. They even edited an underground newsletter together, which was called
Bungalow
.
The old Republicans, some of them veteran Galicianists from the Celtic Cavern and Brotherhoods of the Language, with the air of old knights of the Round Table, who even received Communionduring Mass, acted at times as a council of elders to resolve conflicts and disputes between inmates. There were no more outings without trial. The escorts continued to do their dirty work outside, but the military had decided that a certain discipline should also prevail in the cauldrons of hell. The executions by firing squad did not stop, but the briefest of courts martial would be held first.
With this parallel administration, the prisoners did what they could to improve their situation in jail. They took the initiative on measures of hygiene and the distribution of food. Superimposed on the official timetable was an unwritten calendar, and it was this that effectively governed their daily routines. Tasks were shared out with such organization and efficiency that many ordinary prisoners came to them to ask for help. Behind bars, there was a shadow government, exactly that, a parliament and assembly, and justices of the peace. There was also a school of humanities, a tobacconist’s, a joint fund acting as a mutual savings bank, and a hospital.
The prisoners’ hospital was Doctor Da Barca.
“There were other staff in the infirmary,” Herbal told Maria da Visitação, “but he was the one who carried the burden of responsibility. Even the official doctor, Doctor Soláns, would heed his instructions when visiting, as if he were no more than a chance auxiliary. This Soláns fellow would hardly open his mouth. We all knew he was injecting himself with some drug. You could tell he was sickened by the jail, even though he lived on the outside. He never seemed quite there, stunned by wherever in the world he had come to land in a white coat.Doctor Da Barca, however, knew all the prisoners by name and medical history, whether they were political or not, without the need for keeping records. I don’t know how he did it. His head was quicker than an almanac.
“One day an official from the military health inspectorate appeared in the infirmary. He ordered a patient to be examined in his presence. Doctor Soláns was nervous, as if he felt he was being scrutinized. Doctor Da Barca meanwhile stood back, deliberately asking him for advice and handing him the initiative. Suddenly, as he bent to sit down, the official made a strange gesture and a pistol fell out of his shoulder holster. We were there to keep an eye on a prisoner considered dangerous, Genghis Khan. He had been a boxer and a wrestler, and was a bit mad and would suddenly flip. He had been jailed for unintentionally killing a man during a display of freestyle wrestling. He had meant to give him a fright, that was all. From the start of the fight between Genghis Khan and a wrestler called the Lalín Bull, this little man, who was sitting in the front row, had been shouting it was fixed. ‘It’s a fix! It’s a fix!’ Genghis Khan had blood pouring from his nostrils, he could do that, but still this repulsive little man was not satisfied, as if the spectacle of the wound confirmed his suspicions that the fight was fixed. So then Genghis Khan went berserk. He lifted the Lalín Bull, all twenty
“In that way he had, he had made himself the prison first-aider, so to speak,” Herbal told Maria da Visitação. “He was like one of those healers who cure warts from a distance simply by reciting a couple of verses. Even when he had one foot in the grave and was waiting to be executed, he carried on boosting everyone else’s spirits.”
The political prisoners functioned as a kind of commune. People who would not talk to each other in the street, who really hated each other, such as Anarchists and Communists, helped each other out inside jail. They even edited an underground newsletter together, which was called
Bungalow
.
The old Republicans, some of them veteran Galicianists from the Celtic Cavern and Brotherhoods of the Language, with the air of old knights of the Round Table, who even received Communionduring Mass, acted at times as a council of elders to resolve conflicts and disputes between inmates. There were no more outings without trial. The escorts continued to do their dirty work outside, but the military had decided that a certain discipline should also prevail in the cauldrons of hell. The executions by firing squad did not stop, but the briefest of courts martial would be held first.
With this parallel administration, the prisoners did what they could to improve their situation in jail. They took the initiative on measures of hygiene and the distribution of food. Superimposed on the official timetable was an unwritten calendar, and it was this that effectively governed their daily routines. Tasks were shared out with such organization and efficiency that many ordinary prisoners came to them to ask for help. Behind bars, there was a shadow government, exactly that, a parliament and assembly, and justices of the peace. There was also a school of humanities, a tobacconist’s, a joint fund acting as a mutual savings bank, and a hospital.
The prisoners’ hospital was Doctor Da Barca.
“There were other staff in the infirmary,” Herbal told Maria da Visitação, “but he was the one who carried the burden of responsibility. Even the official doctor, Doctor Soláns, would heed his instructions when visiting, as if he were no more than a chance auxiliary. This Soláns fellow would hardly open his mouth. We all knew he was injecting himself with some drug. You could tell he was sickened by the jail, even though he lived on the outside. He never seemed quite there, stunned by wherever in the world he had come to land in a white coat.Doctor Da Barca, however, knew all the prisoners by name and medical history, whether they were political or not, without the need for keeping records. I don’t know how he did it. His head was quicker than an almanac.
“One day an official from the military health inspectorate appeared in the infirmary. He ordered a patient to be examined in his presence. Doctor Soláns was nervous, as if he felt he was being scrutinized. Doctor Da Barca meanwhile stood back, deliberately asking him for advice and handing him the initiative. Suddenly, as he bent to sit down, the official made a strange gesture and a pistol fell out of his shoulder holster. We were there to keep an eye on a prisoner considered dangerous, Genghis Khan. He had been a boxer and a wrestler, and was a bit mad and would suddenly flip. He had been jailed for unintentionally killing a man during a display of freestyle wrestling. He had meant to give him a fright, that was all. From the start of the fight between Genghis Khan and a wrestler called the Lalín Bull, this little man, who was sitting in the front row, had been shouting it was fixed. ‘It’s a fix! It’s a fix!’ Genghis Khan had blood pouring from his nostrils, he could do that, but still this repulsive little man was not satisfied, as if the spectacle of the wound confirmed his suspicions that the fight was fixed. So then Genghis Khan went berserk. He lifted the Lalín Bull, all twenty
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