Fish will appear ..Andalucia, Franco .. you must have lived 'it' 25

Door San Daniel gepubliceerd in Geschiedenis


Joachin took a thoughtful sip of the glass in front of him. "Maria," he said was a beautiful woman, a very beautiful woman. " A smile played around his lips, 'in the old days all the boys were already running after her.' I myself had encountered a few of those girls at school who melted my heart, but I was shy and thought I would never have a chance. Later I would learn that such a thing was true love, courtly love.

"She left school without finishing it and married Pique," my neighbor continued, "she was still young, in those days you could marry without permission on your fifteenth."

"Pique was a farmer who was a bit older and had huge farmlands. He also owned 2 donkeys and nobody had that. He did the hard work and let her help, but only with light work. Of course she did the laundry by the river and she cooked, but he respected her. You could see it on market day when they came to the village, they loved each other truly and he cherished her, then they sat together on a terrace and Pique was proud of his beautiful wife and he saw the looks of desire that the men threw at her, but it did not bother him because she only had eyes for 'her' husband and Pique knew that.

Once a week Maria went to gather wood along the river bank and she loaded it on the donkey. That took hours, there was always driftwood that ended up in the bends of the river. That wood was not a luxury, she cooked on it and she fired the stone oven up with it to bake bread, as her mother had taught her. The rest was to make the cold evenings more bearable. " I nodded, I had a picture there, I had a farm myself where the oldest part was 300 years old. Everything was stone and cold and every room that was slightly larger had a primitive fireplace and I also had a semicircular stone oven in my kitchen.

"The Guardia knew everything about everyone, their movements and their habits," Joachin continued. "Friday was the day of confession and they saw the women go to church and they followed with hungry eyes on Monday the women who were going to do the laundry by the river side, but they always did that in groups. When they walked past it then it fell silent, because they, the guardia, were not from the village, they were only stationed. The women then looked at their laundry with care and only when the Guardia was at a distance did the singing, the talking and the humming of the noise commence again. '


"They also knew that Maria gathered wood and where she did so, because there was no freedom, all your movements were controlled. Two Guardias were sitting in the sun by the riverbank, they had two chickens next to them that they had confiscated and which would end up in the soup kitchen of the men. They had broken the legs so that the poor birds could not walk away. "

"They were like that," said one old farmer, 'sons of whores, we are not holy, but we do not deal with animals like that!" 'No respect for life,' added a second old boss, the arrogance of the 'dictadura'.

'In the distance they saw Maria gathering wood,' Joachin resumed, 'and bending over to pick branches up and then putting some wood on the donkey under a belt. When she got closer, they saw that the donkey was already carrying a quite a load of wood and they grinned. "We can cook tonight," said the first guardia. "Come here, woman," said the capo who was in charge of the two guardias, "your donkey, just crapped in public, we can not have that."

Maria kept her eyes averted, but walked towards the guardias, because you simply had to obey. 'You'll have to come along,' laughed the capo, then we will teach you how to deal with our village. 'Nice animal,' said the second man, and Maria understood that it was not about the donkey.

"You're married, if you know what I mean," and he looked up at Maria from her toes and for a long time let his gaze rest on her breasts and Maria blushed deeply. So the guardias walked with two chickens and a donkey and Mary to the headquarters. A grand-cousin of Pique worked in the stables and beckoned to a servant. "Go to Pique on wings of thunder and warn him that his wife has been arrested." The boy sprinted away and was happy to do so, as he had been mucking out stables..

When Pique appeared a little later, he saw that his donkey was tied at the stables with a load of wood next to it. He walked to the entrance and heard howling and sobbing. "The next gentleman please," said a deep voice, "we'll let you beam." He jumped forward and saw Maria leaning forward over a table and a man who was just pulling his pants up. Three other men were waiting. "So my little donkey," said one officer, "we'll stretch you up for a while."


That was the last thing he saw, a thunderous blow from behind struck him, and his head felt like it split in a sea of ​​stars.

Two new men had entered the barracks and began to kick the unconscious man where they could. "Stop, screamed Maria," leave him alone. " The officer snapped his fingers and the men stopped. "So let's see," he said, "a whore comes in and she offers herself to us and if that is not enough, an idiot barges in screaming that we have to stop." 'Enjoy yourself pretty one and do us pleasure, or we'll kick the daylights out of him.'

Maria shut herself off and when the last two men had been with her, the officer pointed to the still unconscious farmer. "Kick him and work him over," he ordered, "and throw him outside and throw the whore out as well. I am off for my morning coffee now, 'and he left the room.'

"Sons of whores, cursed whores," cried the old farmer who had also made himself heard earlier.

"Phew," I said, "those were bad times!" Joachin looked at me and I saw that he had tears in his eyes and they were not drunken man's tears. 'It is the impotence that `paralyzes a people,' he said hoarsely, 'you only understand it, if you've lived it!' He emptied his glass and barely audible he said, "the story is not finished yet."

I made a gesture to Kissy kissy and pointed with a finger at he glasses, I saw that she too had been listening.

"I already understand," I said, "it does not have to be finished." "You have to know now," my neighbor said, "so that you carry it with you forever and really understand it." Kissy kissy put the glasses down and I pushed my coffee away, "do me a wine as well," I said.

 "Salud," I said, and I lifted my glass a little. "That they may rot in hell," said my neighbor, taking a sip, "that they may rot in hell," repeated the other farmers. This went very deep, I realized, Franco had died in 1975, a village has a long memory and only the time that bridges generations can erase that memory.

"They kicked him rotten," my neighbor continued his story, "and when he was bleeding, he was thrown out of the door like a scabby dog. Maria behind him. Villagers came to her through the gate in silence and took her with him and others carried Pique to the doctor's practice and left him there on the treatment table. Women took care of the crying Mary and took her to the river and washed her and stroked her and comforted her as if she were the child, that she actually was.

"What a story," I said. "It is not finished," my neighbor said. "Pique never came by and died of internal bleeding." Good God, "I whispered," is there no end to the suffering, poor woman, poor Mary. " "You can say that, damned," said the neighbor, "you can say that, Christ almighty damned." She jumped off the railway bridge at the river and died instantly. There she was buried, because at that time those who had committed suicide were not allowed to be buried in sacred ground and the cemetery was sacred ground.

She is lonely beside the river where she once gathered wood for her husband. " I felt a deep emotion and I noticed that everyone had listened in. You could hear a pin drop.

"Sons of whores, they are, and were," I said, sending the words slowly articulating through the pub. "You know I write articles and books," I said, "I'm going to put this down in writing, and it'll find a place in my Andalusian book."

"The story is not finished yet," my neighbor spoke with a tomb voice. "God almighty," I exclaimed, "can it get worse?" "Yes," my neighbo simply said, "it can get worse."

"Maria's father became half mad and only talked about revenge and we assume he was the one that killed the officer. The officer was found with a cut throat just outside the barracks. The father of Mary was the first they went looking for, and they found him after a few days, the warmth and the smell of dissolution indicated the way, he had hung himself in the forest. ' That was it, "I asked, fearing the answer.    


"What do you think yourself," was Joachin's counter-question? "I hope this was the story," I said. 'No,' said my neighbor, 'you can not allow as a ruling force that an officer is killed in a backward farming village. Two trucks entered the village a few days later. Men jumped out and encircled the village square. Five random men were fished from the square and placed against the wall. An officer raised his dagger, and when he lowered it, a burst of shots darted through the deathly silence. The men are toppled over. The officer walked to the bodies and pulled his revolver and shot every man through the head. "

'Enough,' I said, 'please stop I'll never lose the images, I can not stand it anymore, I get it,' and I shoved my glass away, I wanted nothing. The accumulation of misery had done its job.

'When I see a ball,' said Joachin, 'then I think of my father and how he toiled in a foreign country as a guest worker and how from his poverty sent me a leather ball, and when I drive along the railway bridge I think of the grave that is there and when I see a donkey I know what happened and when I walk past the school I see my classmates for me and a few years above us that beautiful sweet Maria that I loved. '

"Forgive me," I said, I understand you. " I know, "he said, and he began to cry softly with his body shaking without sound." And I? I walked over to him and embraced him and rubbed his back and said 'It's gone and it's bad, let it go, we can't fix it, let it go.' And there I stood with that big farmer and others came around us, there are always men's friendships in my beautiful Andalusia, and my heart bled and cried on the waves of time that had been so cruel in our dear village.

"Sons of whores, they are?" I said with conviction from the bottom of my heart. "Asi es." "That's how it is," came the stifled answer. I went home to organize my thoughts and give direction to what I had heard and I felt empty as I sat down behind the keyboard. Only the imagines that swam by and I felt an utter sadness come over me.

also read part 26

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26/02/2019 19:05

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