FRANCO IS STILL ALIVE!
by Ric Polansky ©
For the first twenty years of his rule the slogan was plastered on every wall, bridge, over pass and public building. “Bread, water and Franco” were the life signs. It was what the people pleaded for and wouldn’t get without complete abeyance to his dictates. He was the savoir of Spain following the world’s most detestable, incredible blood soaked Civil war ever. And like all victors, history was rewritten and previous books burnt.
He was referred to as “el Caudillo” an innovative Spanish translation so he could hold a similar moniker as his friend Adolf Hitler: the Furher. Franco’s word went forth throughout the realm, church was to be religiously attended, no singing in the bars; toe the line or go to jail. Criticism happened only once, then the critic disappeared; cooled his heels in one of the many political houses of correction (read: dank dungeons); the plaintiffs whereabouts unknown and unrecorded.
No ordinary man, Francisco Franco was Europe’s second youngest general (only Napoleon was younger by a few months). And in true typical Spanish fashion he over threw the Monarchy, established his own civil order then raised the son of the King (our present King Juan Carlos) as a surrogate son reestablishing the throne. Franco built himself his own mausoleum, Valle de los Caiidos, just north of Madrid with as much physical man power and length of time as it took to do the great pyramid of Keops. Thousands of prisoners of war labored endlessly into the nights and perished, forgotten by church and state. Yet the tomb was made a Basilica by the Pope and still sports the largest cross in the world visible from twenty miles away.
IF you lived under Franco you remembered it. The Spanish world was totally different than today. The Spanish had a rougher time than did the foreigners as more of “margin was granted” them from speeding tickets to taxes. There simply wasn’t a system for non-national to pay taxes).
The man fascinated me. Every thing about his was an enigma. Yet he held and ruled longer than any other Spanish monarch. Spain was his and his law was backed by the Guardia Civil, the army and the Church. I lived well and everyone lived secure.
I remember a plane being hijacked, the perpetrators wanted to fly to Cuba where Spain had unusually friendly relations. Yet, the caudillo ordered tanks out on to the runway, shot the front wheel of the airplane out from underneath it and then stormed and executed the wanta-be cigar smoking criminals. It was Franco’s world. Years back in near-by Vera a band of gypsies knifed a Guardia Civil but his companion escaped. Later that night the encamped wagons were surrounded and no prisoners taken. All were buried deep. The incident never happened, officially, and was only recorded in verbal commentaries whispered late in the night.
If you lived in Spain during the late 60’s and early 70’s your life style was Pesetas, mother, God and of course, even bigger and more important—Franco.
Now, a personality of that gigantic ilk will never be forgotten. Franco’s statue was in every public building, his photograph in every shop and establishment open for public trade, his presence on TV to start the day and to end it. His head silhouette embossed the coin of the realm. And, as the San Isidro Toros fair falls at the same time of the year for his annual army parade through the streets I had seen him in real life every time I was there.
So, once again I am in Madrid for San Isidro. I frequent a litany of favorite haunts for either aficionados, good food, or celebrities from the Real Madrid football club. Every time I have eaten in La Toscana, just off of the famed calle Echegaray I meet someone unusual. Food is ultra simple, good salads, a bottle of house wine and a breaded veal cut suit me fine. As usual I have my cameras with me and spot an octogenarian having a kanoodle in the corner with a twenty year old—I take it out and sneek a few snaps. Will romance never grow old?
I swivel back to me seat, tuck into the salad and lift the chilled wine to my lips. Ah, er, ah, there right in front of me is FRANCO. I know it’s him. His countenance has been embellished on my brain forever. I take another quick sip of wine. I am afraid to photograph him…it’s Franco; the Caudillo, the emperor. So he’s not dead, I didn’t think he would die/ could die/ he was far to omnipotent for such a mundane act.
I wait, he’s glanced away, and I lift and shoot. I know I am getting shots of his back and neck but it’s truly good enough for me. It’s Franco. It’s God. Then, as if instructed by a second sense he spins around and stares at me; by reflex and through fear the camera clicks now on it’s own. He gets snaked eyed on me, glares, examines my total being. Damn, he’s walking over.
I have to own up and try to do so as quickly and reverentially as possible, “I am sorry if I have offended you señor”, I stutter, “you look... well, so much like the great man.”
“But of whom do you refer?” he queries as if somewhat astounded.
“General Franco, senor” I blurt.
“General Franco?” he asked bemused. “I am just an ordinary retired Pilot from Iberian Airlines.” He quips.
“Nevertheless senor you look like General Franco” I plead in my own self defense. Where upon he immediately asked “What would you know about General Franco? You are obviously a camera toting tourist here in Madrid, what would you know of his epoch? his rule?”
“Quite sincerely, I know he is a popular man to slag off these days and that every statue of him in this country has been taken down but one. Nevertheless as a Property Promoter I lived very well under his tutelage. The Guardia Civil always helped me and he was good for the country”. I knew I was over stating my true position, but then again who needed to face an inquisition-- from Franco.
“That is an interesting comment, you must have been here a long time.”
“Si senor, almost 40 years” We lived much more secure then, compared to these times.”
He leaves it and walks back to his position at the bar. Takes two hurried sips of his beer and initiates a conversation with his companion, a well dressed lady of his same age.
Others in the restaurant are examining me, as if I have committed a strategic error in their presence. They pretend to secretively nod and whisper to each other, but I can see them, shoulders are shrugged and other clandestine gestures nod- my way. I don’t get it. It’s an Iberian pilot, hell, they let passengers still smoke in the non-smoking.
Then he comes back, he’s obviously had second thoughts and feels as if he is on a roll: “Would you like to take another picture of me?” he snaps, somewhat from his drink and just a little cocky.
“Yeah, by all means, why not give me that great fascist salute?”
“Yes” he said “I would be happy to do that as long as you promise to never put this in any papers.”
“Of course” I said, and we both winked at each other and laughed.
He does and I unabashedly click away.
He retires back to the bar, knocks back his beer and orders another then takes a very long pull on the new drink.
I continued to sip my wine, enjoy my salad and read the bullfight commentaries. As I neared the end of my meal I put the camera back into my bag and prepared to leave. He came over one more time, stood in front of me and opened his wallet. He handed me his card.
I read it. My eyes started to water. I raised my head very sheepishly and slowly but, into his full frontal and piercing glare.
“My uncle” was all he retorted, the retired General of the Guardia Civil. We understood each other and shared a smile between intimate comrades.
Please don’t look at ANY of my pictures! You could get beheaded, or in the least …. sent to jail.
