Joaquín León Trejo

History of the three brothers of Francisco León Trejo:

Joaquín León Trejo, José León Trejo & Manuel León Trejo

asdfadfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdfasdf-- by Richard Barker _____________________________________________________________________

To all friends and family of Francisco and Carmen León Trejo,

This is the account of what I know of your relative or friends' relative, Joaquín León Trejo and his brothers José and Manuel.

I first encountered the name Joaquín León Trejo in the Civil Death Registry of the Municipal Archive of Castilleja del Campo. Joaquín's name was not recorded in the registry until many years after his death. Local authorities throughout Franco's Spain put many obstacles in the way of family members who wanted to register the death of loved ones who had been killed during the repression in nationalist territory. It was part of the attempt to conceal the extent of the nationalist repression. Meanwhile, the extent of the republican repression was greatly exaggerated. The deaths of only 7 of the 16 victims in Castilleja were ever recorded in the local Civil Death Registry. Franquist historians calculated 57,000 deaths in the nationalist repression and 70,000 deaths in the republican repression. These studies were based largely on Civil Death Registries. Recent studies employing a variety of evidence indicate between 150,000 and 200,000 deaths in the nationalist repression and fewer than 50,000 deaths in the republican repression. It is quite likely that the reason Joaquín's death was recorded in Castilleja, although he had lived there only a small part of his life, was that his widow could deal more easily with acquaintances in the city hall there than with strangers in Seville.
Under "Cause of death," the phrase "Aplicado el bando de guerra" appears on Joaquín's death registry. "Application of the war decree" was a euphemism for "executed without trial." The "war decree" declared by the rebellious generals (Franco, Mola, Queipo de Llano, etc.) stated that it was a capital crime to have belonged to a republican party, to have served in office during the Popular Front government, to be a leader or even a member of a labor union, to have voted for the Popular Front government, or to have resisted or criticized the military uprising. It meant, basically, that half the population of Spain was guilty of a crime punishable by death.

I then encountered Joaquín's name, along with those of his brothers José and Manuel in the book Sevilla '36, Juan Ortiz Villalba (Córdoba, 1997). José León Trejo, Joaquín's oldest brother was a professor of French at the University of Seville and, during the first years of the Republic, was the Civil Governor of the province of Guadalajara. Manuel León Trejo, Joaquín's other brother was a school teacher and, for a while during the Republic, a member of the Seville City Council. José, Joaquín and Manuel would all meet their death before nationalist firing squads. Ortiz Villalba's book also contains two photographs of José: a very handsome portrait and another of him with Cardinal Pedro Segura y Sáenz on the steps of the cathedral of Guadalajara during the latter's arrest. This second photograph depicts an incident which occurred on July 14, 1931 while José was the Civil Governor of the province of Guadalajara. Cardinal Segura had been involved in a series of financial and conspiratorial manoeuvres against the Republic and, on orders from the government in Madrid, José proceeded to arrest him. In spite of the fact that he was acting on orders from the government, that he dissolved a spontaneous demonstration hostile to the Cardinal, and that, in the words of the President of the Republic, Niceto Alcalá-Zamora, "he acted with discretion, tact, and exemplary zeal," Segura never forgave the governor and, during mass on the anniversaries of José's execution, October 17, he never failed to thank God for punishing his enemy (Ortiz Villalba, 245-246).

In the Municipal Archive of Castilleja del Campo, I found a house to house census conducted in 1935. The town's streets are listed in alphabetical order, then the houses in numerical order. Under each house is a list of those who lived there, their age, their profession, and their relationship to each other. Thus I knew that, when he was killed a year later, Joaquín would have been 43 years old and was survived by his wife Concepción García Baquero, 37 years old, and three children: José León García, 16 years old; Antonio León García, 14 years old; and Carmen León García, 5 years old. No one in Castilleja knew what had become of the family. I thought that the most logical thing would be to look for them in Seville. Unfortunately, there was almost an entire page of León Garcías in the Seville telephone directory where people are listed by their initials, rather than their first names. I had to send letters to 11 J., A., and C. León Garcías.

In the letter, I introduced myself, gave them my phone number, and explained my research. I told them how I had found their addresses and that I would be interested in talking to them and, if possible, copying a photograph of their father if they had one. I apologized for bothering them if they were not the children of Joaquín León Trejo and assured them that if they were his children but were unable or unwilling to talk to me, I understood . Weeks passed and I heard nothing. I had resigned myself to the fact that my efforts had been in vain when, one morning, my wife answered the phone, and handed it to me whispering excitedly, "It's Joaquín León Trejo's granddaughter." I had failed to take into account the fact that in Andalusia the post office, never very efficient, is even slower in the summer. A woman with a very pleasant, musical voice greeted me and then told me that her father would like to speak to me. The following day, I drove to Seville with my camera and tape recorder and, in the working class neighborhood of Amate, I met Antonio León García.

His house, rather humble looking on the outside and located in a very humble neighborhood, was surprisingly large and very well taken care of on the inside. The first thing one encountered after entering was a large room full of bottled soda and canned food. "This looks like a store," I commented. "It is," was the reply. "I have been a storekeeper almost all my life." My interview was interrupted once by a neighbor coming to buy something. After that, Antonio hung a "closed" sign on the door. I conducted the interview in a sitting area next to the kitchen. Antonio's wife, a daughter and a grandson were present. It was during this interview that I first heard of Francisco León Trejo, the second oldest of the four brothers and the only one to survive the war. He was an aeronautical engineer and, during the war, a colonel in the republican Air Force. After the war he was an exile in the United States. "In Chicago," recalled Antonio, inaccurately as it turned out, "I think I have cousins in Chicago." I felt a bit sorry for Antonio. He was very tired because he had been up almost all night looking, without success, for an informal portrait of his father sitting in a chair, taken in 1935 in Castilleja shortly before his death. All he had was a police mugshot taken in 1930 when Joaquín was quite a bit younger. "My brother must have it," he explained. "Ah, so your brother is still alive too." "Yes, in Madrid, and my sister lives in England. Her husband is English. You must talk to my brother who was older and remembers more things than I do."

A few weeks later I went to Madrid and interviewed José León García. He did have the photograph Antonio had been looking for. José and his wife, both of whom had worked in the theater, lived in a pleasant apartment whose walls were covered with a collection of electric violins and numerous theatrical photographs, some from the days when he had become famous as a clown, and some from before that, when he had been a comic actor. There is a charming photograph of him, much younger, acting with his very pretty young wife. Their faces in this picture are very expressive, very professional. Both José, then 80, and Antonio, then 78, were in excellent health. This was the summer of 2000. They were also very gracious to me and I am extremely grateful for the information they gave me. The following account is based on my interviews with them as well as on various books on the Second Spanish Republic and the Spanish Civil War and interviews with many witnesses in Castilleja.

From what I know of Joaquín León Trejo, one could describe him as extremely competent, but a bit of a dreamer, athletic (just look at the shape he is in at 42 in the portrait of him in the chair), extremely loyal to family, friends and political allies, and possessing great physical courage, an attribute which must have served him well in the end.

His youth and young manhood are known by his sons, naturally, from hearsay and the chronology of his life in his late teens and twenties is rather vague in their memories. He seems to have needed to "sow some wild oats" before settling into his career as a teacher and marrying. At some point he had tried his hand in the ring as a "banderillero." This is the member of the bullfight team who induces the bull to charge, then runs unprotected past the horns planting the long darts, "banderillas," in the bull's back. Also, before marrying, he and a friend established a factory in Larache, Morocco, for the manufacture of "aquardiente," the strong Spanish anis liqueur. Manufacturing alcohol in Morocco? That is why I consider him something of a dreamer. José claims that Joaquín and his friend had many Muslim clients who would leave the factory with bottles of anis hidden under their burnooses. Apparently, many Moroccan men interpret the Koran's prohibition of alcohol rather liberally as, basically, an injunction against getting caught consuming alcohol.

Later, Joaquín grew bored with the manufacture of aguardiente, completed his studies (primarily science) in Seville, got married, and began teaching there. The two sons, José and Antonio, suffered from ill health as young boys and Joaquín felt that they would do better living in a small town rather than in the city. He applied for a transfer. The post he took at this time, most likely 1926 (José says they lived eight years there), was in Pruna, a town in the province of Seville. It was there that, in addition to teaching, he became active in politics, helping to establish a "Casa del Pueblo." These were common throughout Spain at the time. They were workingmen's casinos which contained a library of political books and journals, a place where men met to discuss politics or, sometimes, to hear speeches by visiting politicians. He joined the Pruna Revolutionary Committee along with one Juan López, head of the Pruna Republican Party, and Juan Gamero, head of the Pruna Socialist Party.

The three of them were arrested in December 1930 and imprisoned in Seville where the mugshot was taken. This arrest was a consequence of the Jaca uprising during which pro-republican officers at the Jaca garrison in Aragon had proclaimed a Republic. Two of them, Captain Fermín Galán and Lieutenant García Hernández, were executed, then an almost unheard of penalty for political activity, and a punishment that caused the already shaky monarchy to become even less popular. Joaquín's brother Francisco, the Air Force officer, knew the general in charge of the Seville prison where Joaquín was being held and interceded in his favor. The general offered to release Joaquín on parole, but Joaquín rejected the offer because it did not extend to his two companions. This display of loyalty to his political friends no doubt played a part in his subsequent election as mayor of Pruna. After two or three weeks they were all released.

On April 12, 1931, municipal elections were held throughout Spain. King Alphonse XIII regarded these elections as a plebiscite on the monarchy. The Republicans soundly defeated the Monarchist candidates in all the large cities. Republican victories were more rare in the small towns where local landowners used their economic power to pressure their workers to vote with them, but Pruna, where Joaquín won, was one of those exceptions. So was Castilleja del Campo where the Republican candidate José Ramírez Rufino, known as "Joselito el barbero" because of his profession, was elected. It was the overwhelming victory of Republican candidates that led Alphonse XIII to go into exile on April 14, thus ushering in the Second Republic.

One of the most pressing problems addressed by the Republic in the first nineteen months of its existence was the plight of the landless campesinos. This problem was especially acute in rural Andalusia, land of the great estates of the nobility or, in some cases, large estates owned by wealthy landowners of common birth. The Republic passed minimum wage laws and a "law of municipal boundaries" which prohibited the landowners from hiring from outside their towns' boundaries unless all the able men within the boundaries were working. The landowners were also required to hire through the local union. These measures gave the campesinos a measure of control over the labor market they had never known before and stripped from the landowners the absolute political and judicial power which their economic power had previously given them. For an excellent study of this complex issue, see George A. Collier, Socialists of Rural Andalusia: Unacknowledged Revolutionaries of the Second Republic.

Many landowners reacted by allowing their lands to remain fallow. Their ability and willingness to do so reflect, first of all, the immense wealth they had accumulated at the expense of the landless day laborers and, secondly, the current economic crisis. The world depression had diminished the demand for Spanish agricultural products so the profits to be made by working the land were small at the time anyway. This lockout was, of course, a disaster for the poor campesinos. The government eventually passed a "law of social utility," declaring that any land that was not being cultivated was liable to be taken over by the local union for collective cultivation by the union's members. The person in charge of enforcing these measures at the local level was the mayor. Joaquín no doubt found himself putting in long and frustrating hours mediating disputes between the landowners of Pruna and the union. José says that the rich people of Pruna would not sow their land and it was a lot of hassle, "mucho jaleo," for his father.

His job became more difficult when, in November 1933, the right-wing coalition CEDA, Coalición Española de Derechas Autónomas, defeated Prime Minister Manuel Azaña's coalition of Left Republicans and Socialists. The new government virtually ignored the agrarian reform laws passed by Azaña's government and the landowners felt free to go back to the old system of hiring whomever they pleased, at whatever wages they could get away with, and using their ability to not hire certain workers as a way of punishing political or union activity. Dissatisfaction with the CEDA government by the left-wing political groups led to an attempted revolution in October 1934. The only place this October Revolution succeeded was in Asturias where the army, under a young General Franco, had to be called in to crush the Asturian miners' militia with a degree of brutality that was a foretaste of the civil war to come. The CEDA government used the attempted revolution as an excuse to remove from local office all who had served during the Azaña government. This happened to the mayor of Castilleja and no doubt happened as well to Joaquín.

Antonio thinks the family moved to Castilleja del Campo in 1932 because his father was "fed up with politics" and needed a change, a fresh start. José says they moved to Castilleja del Campo in 1934. The political history makes it more likely that José is right. I cannot imagine Joaquín giving up his office as mayor of Pruna voluntarily in 1932 during a fairly optimistic time for the Andalusian campesinos or after the elections of 1933 when his resignation would mean his being replaced by a CEDA mayor selected by the wealthy landowners of Pruna. His eleven months serving as mayor of Pruna during the CEDA government and his illegal removal from office would certainly have left Joaquín disillusioned with politics. Antonio's words were that his father was "...asqueado de la política." At any event, Joaquín ended up in Castilleja del Campo by mistake. He saw the town's name on a list of vacancies and thought he was applying for a position in Castilleja de Guzmán, a small town fairly close to Seville. Of course he won the position, because he was the only one who had applied to teach in Castilleja del Campo, a small town 30 kilometers from the city.

Joaquín seems to have kept a low profile, politically, while in Castilleja del Campo, dedicating himself primarily to his family and his teaching duties. As a secular schoolteacher, however, he would have earned the enmity of don Felipe Rodríguez Sánchez, the extremely conservative parish priest of Castilleja del Campo. Antonio says that when his father and don Felipe met on the street, they never exchanged greetings.

With the victory of the Popular Front over the CEDA on February 16, 1936, the so called "Black Biennium" came to an end, Manuel Azaña returned as Prime Minister and a Left Republican government, which owed its victory to the support of socialists, communists, and even anarchists, took power. Municipal officials, removed from office illegally by the CEDA in October 1934, were reinstated. Thus José Ramírez Rufino was once again the mayor of Castilleja del Campo. Presumably, Joaquín could have returned to Pruna to serve as mayor had he wished to do so. Certain elements of the army immediately began planning a coup while, in the streets of the large cities and even in the countryside, extremist elements on both sides began to clash. Falangist gunmen fired into the Casas del Pueblo, and Socialist or Communist Youth retaliated by firing into Falangist headquarters.

This violence even reached Castilleja del Campo, a town of only 744 people according to the census of 1935. At the end of May 1936, there was a meeting in Huelva to negotiate the unification of the Communist Youth, "Juventudes Comunistas," and the Socialist Youth, "Juventudes Socialistas," to form the United Socialist Youth, "Juventudes Socialistas Unificadas." A contingent of young communists from Seville traveled to Huelva in an open truck, passing by Castilleja del Campo, which was on the Seville-Huelva highway, in the morning. When they returned that evening, four young falangists from Castilleja stood in the highway on the Seville side of town and gave the falangist salute as the truck emerged from the town. An altercation followed and the youngest of the falangists, Manuel Rodríguez Mantero, was shot. The other young falangists fled. Luvigildo Monge, a leftist campesino and neighbor to the young boy, was returning from working in the fields. He had seen the altercation and came to Manuel's assistance, carrying the boy into town to the house of relatives. The young boy died of the wound three days later in the Central Hospital in Seville. Luvigildo's actions that day probably saved his own life. "Manolín" Rodríguez Mantero was the nephew of two of the most important local figures in the repression, don Felipe Rodríguez Sánchez, the town priest, and his brother, José Rodríguez Sánchez, head of the local falange party. This event was to have great repercussions for the town, since it made these two men, as well as their right-wing associates, fiercely anti-leftist. The dimensions of the repression in Castilleja del Campo, a small town where everyone seems to be a cousin to everyone else, can only be explained as vengefulness. It is more than likely that a denunciation written by don Felipe played a role in Joaquín's death as it did in the death of other local victims of the repression.

The volatility of the time was enough to lead moderate republicans like Joaquín to despair. José León García remembers once singing a republican song with his brother Antonio about this time. Their father said to them, "Sing now because in a little while, who know?" The violence came to a head in the wee hours of the morning of Monday, July 13, when José Calvo Sotelo, a monarchist deputy to the cortes in Madrid, was assassinated in revenge for the assassination the previous day of the socialist Lieutenant José Castillo of the republican Assault Guards. José remembers his father's reaction to the news. "This is a catastrophe," said Joaquín. And he was absolutely right. The event forced the hand of the conspiring Generals. They knew that if they did not act immediately, they would lose supporters. They therefore moved up the date of the coup to Saturday, July 18. Since they were not entirely ready, the coup was successful in only half the cities of Spain, leaving the country divided geographically, and making a civil war inevitable.

According to José, Joaquín spoke by telephone to his brother Francisco, then the commander of the Cuatro Caminos aerodrome near Madrid, some time during the week between Calvo Sotelo's assassination and the military uprising. Francisco suggested to Joaquín that he go to Seville where he could join in the resistance if a coup were attempted in that city. Being summer, Joaquín did not have classes to teach and there was little that he could have done in a small town like Castilleja which, in the event of war, would simply be at the mercy of whatever forces happened to gain control of the region. The real drama would unfold in the cities and at the military bases. Joaquín traveled to Seville on his bicycle and was there when the war began.

Seville, in fact, seemed relatively safe. The base was commanded by General José Fernández de Villa-Abrille, fiercely loyal to the Republic. The conspirators had written the city off as a lost cause, given the long tradition of working class organization there, a tradition which had earned it the nickname "Sevilla la roja" and "El Moscú Sevillano" among right-wingers. There was, however, a small, but well-organized Falange movement.

The big surprise came from the treacherous activity of General Gonzalo Queipo de Llano y Serra. Apparently pro-republican, he had been promoted by the Republic and assigned inspector of customs posts. He was bitter at not receiving higher rewards and secretly joined the conspiracy against the government. As inspector of customs posts he was able to travel freely, recruiting for the conspiracy. He arrived in Seville on July 17, sized up the situation and then went to Huelva to avoid arousing suspicions. He returned early the next day. On these trips he must have passed Castilleja del Campo twice in his big Hispano-Suiza motorcar, once traveling west toward Huelva on the evening of the 17th and then again traveling east toward Seville on the morning of the 18th.
Once in Seville, Queipo de Llano arrested General Villa-Abrille and his staff, and ordered the troops to attack the City Hall. By eight o'clock in the evening of July 18, the Seville downtown area had been taken over by the rebel troops, aided by falangists. On July 19, a column of miners from the Río Tinto Mines in the province of Huelva came to the aid of the Republic. Armed with dynamite, and with hunting guns confiscated in the towns along the highway, including Castilleja del Campo, they got as far as La Pañoleta, a town just across the Guadalquivir River from Seville. There, they were ambushed by a detachment of Civil Guards, whose machine gun fire ignited the dynamite, killing many miners in the explosions. Many others were taken prisoner and the rest fled. Meanwhile, inside the city, fierce fighting continued until July 22, as poorly armed workers, members of the republican Assault Guards, and other supporters of the Republic built and defended barricades in the working class neighborhoods of Triana, la Macarena, San Julián, San Marcos and el Pumarejo. Among these defenders was Joaquín León Trejo, who was a personal friend of Captain Justo Pérez Fernández of the Assault Guards. His son José says that, according to friends, Joaquín participated in the defense of the neighborhood of San Marcos, where the fighting was particularly fierce.

Franco's Army of North Africa, legionnaires and Moorish mercenaries, began arriving at the aerodrome at Tablada, Seville on the night of the 19th during the first military airlift in history. The poorly armed defenders of the working class neighborhoods of Seville were no match for this professional army of veterans of the Moroccan campaigns. By the night of the 22nd, the resistors were either under arrest or in hiding. Joaquín's friend Justo Pérez had been arrested and would be shot on July 23 along with other officers of the Assault guards. Joaquín was hiding in the house of a friend. I asked José how his father was eventually captured. The following is a transcription of his reply followed by a translation:

Entrevista con José León García (25 VII 00) excerpta:

RB ¿Cómo capturaron a tu padre en Sevilla?

JL Ja. De una manera muy tonta. En un café. Había estado escondido, quitado de en medio. A él le gustaba enterarse de todo y eso. Había estado.. con... en la calle Puente y Peón de Sevilla. Allí tenía él un amigo que tenía una tienda de juguetes, Paco Jiménez. Que le llamaban Paco Pelotas por eso de la... como era una tienda de juguetes. Era un matrimonio mayor. Y a él se le dijo: «Joaquín, no andes mucho por allí.» Claro, empezaban a coger... Iban los niños estos vestidos de falangistas por la calle con un fusil. Dos. Parejas. Dos niños con un fusil. Cada uno con un fusil. Chicos de dieciocho, veinte años.

(Interrupción)

Paseó y... Fue en San Pedro ¿sabes en Sevilla donde está San Pedro y Santa Catalina? Allí hay... ya no existe... En una casa que hay de esquina en la calle Regina había... Las Llaves de San Pedro se llamaba el café. Un café que se llamaba Las Llaves de San Pedro y había estos... estas ventanas balconcitos así que dan a la calle y así estaba mi padre en una mesita tomando un café y pasan dos niños. Uno que había sido alumno de él. Dice «Ea, a este señor hay que detenerlo. Este es muy republicano. Este es don Joaquín León Trejo.» ¿Sí? Y lo detuvieron. «Venga, venga usted con nosotros.» Y lo llevaron a un sitio donde los llevaban de primera que era un cine que había allí. Cine Jáuregui. No sé si se llama todavía. En Santa Catalina. Pero mi padre sabía, mi padre sabía el nombre, el nombre del niño que lo detuvo. Creo que se llamaba Aguado, Aguado. Que vivían en Heliópolis cerca de mi tío, don José. Los Aguado esos.

Interview with José León García (July 25, 2000) excerpt:

RB How did they capture your father in Seville?

JL Ha! In a very silly way. In a cafe. He had been hidden, out of sight. He liked to know everything that was going on around. He had been... with... on Puente y Peón Street in Seville. There he had a friend who had a toy store, Paco Jiménez. They used to call him Paco Balls because of the... since it was a toy store. They were an older couple. They told him, "Joaquín, don't go walking around out there too much." Naturally, they had begun to catch... These kids dressed like falangists used to patrol the streets with a rifle. Two. In pairs. Two kids with a rifle. Each one of them with a rifle. Kids eighteen, twenty years old.

(Interruption)

He took a walk and... It was in San Pedro. Do you know in Seville where San Pedro and Santa Catalina are? There was... it's not there any more... In a house there on the corner of Regina Street there was... Saint Peter's Keys was the name of the cafe. A cafe that was named Saint Peter's Keys and there were these balcony windows that look out onto the street and there was my father at a little table having coffee and two kids go by. One that had been a student of his. He says, "Hey, we have to arrest that gentleman. He's very republican. That's don Joaquín León Trejo." Yes? And they arrested him. "Come on, come along with us." And they took him to a place where they used to hold them at first that was a movie theater that was there. Cine Jáuregui. I don't know if it still has the same name. In Santa Catalina. But my father knew, my father knew the name, the name of the kid who arrested him. I think the last name was Aguado, Aguado. They lived in Heliópolis near my uncle, don José. The Aguado family.

I heard another version of Joaquín's capture from an old man in Castilleja del Campo who said that Joaquín had gone to Seville by bus after July 18 but someone in Castilleja had called ahead and two falangists were waiting at the bus station to arrest him. I think José's version is most likely. José León García and a cousin of his, whose name also was Joaquín, son of José León Trejo, took turns taking a basket with food and clean clothes to their fathers while they were in various jails in Seville. José could either communicate with his father directly or could receive letters from him when the guards returned the basket. Besides being close to the events, José León García includes many details that lend an air of realism to his account: the name and humorous nickname of the man who sheltered Joaquín; the names of streets and neighborhoods; even the surname of the student who denounced him and the neighborhood where the young falangist's family lived. There is dark humor in the name of the cafe, St. Peter's Keys, where Joaquín was arrested. Needless to say, as a teacher, I am horrified at the idea that Joaquín's arrest and violent death were the result of a chance encounter with a former student.

José's recollection is not entirely clear as to how long his father was in hiding or how long he was at the Cine Jáuregui. Joaquín was later taken from the Jáuregui to the Soria Barracks in Seville and was shot on August 22, so the entire period of his imprisonment was less than a month. Nevertheless, it is worth examining what life was like in these "prisons." The movie theater, Cine Jáuregui, has become infamous, an example of the horrible conditions that existed in the many improvised holding places for the thousands of prisoners whose sheer numbers far outstripped the resources of Spain's pre-war penal system. At approximately the same time as Joaquín, there was another prisoner at the Cine Jáuregui who would survive to describe it. José María Varela Rendueles was the last republican Civil Governor of the province of Seville. Condemned to death, his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment due to the intercession of a jesuit priest and a noblewoman, both of whom he had helped while he was Civil Governor. He spent many years in prison, but managed to outlive Franco. After Franco's death he published a memoir Mi rebelión en Sevilla. Memorias de su gobernador rebelde, Sevilla, Ayuntamiento, 1982. The title is ironic. Like so many others, Varela Rendueles had been condemned to death for the crime of military rebellion because he had rebelled against the rebels, a curious reverse logic more appropriate to a hall of mirrors than to the halls of justice. What follows is a translation, the first I believe, of José María Varela Rendueles' horrible but poetic description of the place where Joaquín spent some of his last days:

"Next to the police station was the cine Jáuregui, a large hall with unadorned walls and a bare floor, that was easily transformed from a place for the soul's amusement into a scenario for the soul's torment. It was only necessary to remove the rows of seats, the white screen and the projector, and to fill it, not with spectators but with actors playing a role in their own authentic drama. Hundreds and hundreds of protagonists of their own movie to be contemplated and lived by themselves alone, a movie without titles, almost without words. In the midst of so many actors, so many anonymous protagonists, there stood, cut from cardboard and painted in living colors, the figures of the comic duo of grotesque and double contrast, both physical and spiritual, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. Those two figures, placed there in the middle of the hall, as if they were two additional prisoners, would have signified the cruelest of jokes if they had not been placed there as a sinister symbol that turned humor to bitterness, like two scarecrows whose purpose was to ward off not just laughter, but even the memory that, watching these two figures, we might once have been capable of laughter.

When they turned me over to the sergeant of the guards, the boss of that hall which had been converted into a prison, there appeared before my eyes a scene complete with hundreds of bodies stretched out or curled up on the floor, forming a compact mass, compressed and uniform. A suffocating heat, dense and pestilent, filled the air. The stench of sweaty humanity, of cigarette buttes and latrines, a repugnant mixture, wounded the sense of smell and nauseated the stomach.
The sergeant had at his command several Security Guards and Assault Guards. At the entrance to the hall, to the left, next to a telephone booth, a chair and a table constituted his office. He greeted me with respect and apologized for not being able to offer me more than his own small corner that would allow me to stretch out and rest under his table which, in this way, came to be a canopy for my cement bed. There I would be safe from being stepped on, and would be far from the toilets and the comings and goings of those whose necessities forced them to wander in the night and, best of all, I was near the vestibule from which came, not a breeze, for there were none that August, but at least more breathable air.
And there I lay like the others on the, I won't call it holy, but rather the impure ground, resting my head on my arm and with my nose next to the feet of my former subordinate, the sergeant. And I began my stay with the obligation to thank him for the caution he exercised in not kicking me in the face with his boots. Needless to say I did not sleep that first night, or to be exact, that first early morning I spent in Jáuregui.

We began the morning by taking our places in lines, first for the urinals and toilets, and then for the wash basins, since there were only two of each to serve the hundreds of men.

From the earliest hours until nightfall, the days were devoted to the delivery and collection of the baskets in which family members sent food to the prisoners. This activity gave rise to a continuous calling out of names and more names during almost the entire day, resonant and unrelenting shouts broadcasting hundreds and hundreds of names and surnames, hammering our ears to the point of perforating our brains and preventing all thought. Without living through it, one can never understand what torture this was. Delivering and retrieving the basket, day after day, was the method employed by parents, wives, siblings and children to assure themselves that their family member was still there at the Jáuregui theater, still alive, still existing.

Sometimes two, three, four men entered the hall dressed in overalls and military caps, their chests covered with pious medals and holster straps, pistols and daggers in their belts, rifles at their shoulders, and billyclubs or garrotes in their hands. Like hawkers at a fair, they would wade into the prisoners, searching everywhere until they found the one they wanted and, without further ado, they would carry him off on a one way journey. These were exceptional events, carried out for the benefit of visitors with great influence but with little patience in their desire to bring their own, very personal, quarrels to a conclusion.

The normal procedure, carried out daily, was the nocturnal visitors with their lists which were read out between one and three o'clock in the morning. Only on Sunday, the day of the Lord, out of respect for some of, though not all, His commandments, did they dispense with what came to be a ritual the rest of the week.
Until this event was concluded, no one was able to sleep. Between one and three, as many as half a dozen armed men arrived and the sergeant would call for silence, an unnecessary order because as soon as the door opened to admit the visitors, a profounder silence than I had ever known took possession of the hall. Men barely breathed. Hearts almost stopped beating. There was no movement, only a tense, expectant silence, as we waited for one of the visitors to begin, with strong, sonorous voice, the reading of the list that was like the proclamation of an unappealable sentence to an unnamed punishment that was known by all.

The name and surnames were not pronounced all at once, but piecemeal, separated by long, interminable pauses.
"Juan..."

Pause. All the men named Juan felt singled out and waited with growing anxiety for the pronouncement of a surname that seemed never to arrive... At last, the pronouncement.

"García."

Another pause, even longer. Still greater anguish for the many men in the hall named Juan García, some already preparing to get up and take the definitive step. Finally the second surname was allowed to be heard, bringing an end to both the sentence and the victim.

"Romero. Juan García Romero!"

In most cases, the one called would go at once, with calm determination, to turn himself over to the platoon that was standing in formation by the open door to the vestibule. But there were occasions when the one called did not turn himself in, trying to avoid death by hiding in the silence. On these occasions there were always prisoners tortured by the idea, present in the minds of all except Juan García Romero, that the next name on the list might be theirs and who, impatient to resolve their doubts, would goad Juan García Romero out of his hiding place.
"It's you... You're the one they're calling. Didn't you hear? Juan García Romero."
"It's you... You have to go."
And there was nothing left for Juan García Romero to do but stand and go to those calling him, unless he wanted to be stalked by one of the ferrets from among the group of nocturnal hunters at the door.
At last, after fifteen or twenty names had been read, the list was finished and those named left Jáuregui to never return again.

The following day, when the mother, the wife, the daughter, the sister came to the door with the basket or package, they would hear from the lips of the guard on duty a laconic:

"He's not here."

"Where is he? Where did they take him?"

"He's not here. All I know is he's not here."

"For God's sake! Tell me where he is. Where do I have to look for him?

"Not here. That is all I know."

Thus one woman and then another would come with the anguished question. And one day and then another would go by until it became customary, familiar, a normal every day event.

Alone, permanent, immobile, without lying down at night, nor having to get up between one and three in the morning, safe from being called, those two cardboard men, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy."

This description of the Cine Jáuregui gives us an incredible picture of a hellish place where unintentional horrors such as the overcrowding, noise, poor ventilation and lack of bedding and sanitation are compounded by such examples of sadism as the cardboard representations of Laurel and Hardy, intentionally left there when the theater was converted to a prison as if to mock the prisoners' suffering, or the slow reading of the names to prolong the victims' agony as they wait to hear their fate. It must have been horrible for the relatives to know that a loved one was in a situation like that.

After Joaquín's arrest, his family moved from Castilleja del Campo to Seville where they stayed in Heliópolis at uncle José's house, number 3 Amazonas Street, right across the street from the Civil Guard barracks. Then uncle José was arrested. They came for him in the afternoon as he was taking a nap. "He was unconcerned," says his nephew Antonio, "because he had a clear conscience." However, he had probably underestimated the vengefulness of his nemesis, Cardinal Segura. José León García recalls going with his cousin Joaquín to the barracks to see his uncle. He was still wearing his pajamas.

As I mentioned previously, José León García (son of Joaquín León Trejo) and his cousin Joaquín (one of José León Trejo's nine children) used to take turns carrying the basket of food to their fathers in prison. It was Joaquín's misfortune to take the basket both when his uncle Joaquín had "disappeared" on August 22 and when his own father José had "disappeared" on October 17. When I interviewed Joaquín's sons, Antonio and José, neither of them described the day that they learned of their father's death but they each related the story of their uncle José's death. They were still living at the house in Heliópolis with uncle José's wife, aunt Rosario.
According to Antonio, on October 17 Joaquín arrived with the food basket at the San Román barracks where his father was being held and the sentinel on duty told him to wait there because the colonel wanted to talk to him. The colonel came out and asked Joaquín if he had an older brother Manuel who was in artillery. When Joaquín told him that he did, the colonel asked where he was. "At home," Joaquín replied, and the colonel then called to summon Manuel.

Antonio remembers that it was about noon when the phone rang and his cousin Manuel answered it. Antonio could tell from the look on Manuel's face that something was wrong, but Manuel did his best to hide his feelings so his mother Rosario would not be upset. Before going to speak with the colonel, Manuel changed into his dress uniform. As he left, he told his mother he was going to the barracks because they had something to tell him. When he arrived there the colonel told Manuel that they were going to judge his father that night and gave him a letter from his father and also his father's checkbook.

José León García remembers that it was about four in the afternoon when his cousin Manuel returned home. José was in his room upstairs polishing some shoes when he heard the screaming of the women from downstairs. Antonio remembers them screaming, "Otra canallada! Otra canallada!," "Another rotten thing they've done!," in reference to the fact that this was the second León Trejo brother to be shot. Some neighbors came to comfort the family and later a mass was said in the university chapel for both José León Trejo and Joaquín León Trejo. Many people from the university attended as well as many people from outside the university but not their brother Manuel León Trejo, who was in hiding.

In addition to dealing with their grief, Joaquín's widow, Concepción, and her children were faced with the loss of Joaquín's income. Concepción García Baquero, like her husband, was a teacher although she had not worked in a while. She applied for a temporary position and was assigned to teach in Arrecife, an isolated village within the municipal boundaries of La Carlota, a town in the province of Córdoba. She had a very bad time of it there. There was no road to Arrecife. She had to travel there by burro with her five year old daughter Carmen. The two sons remained in Seville with their aunt Rosario. At first she could not find anyone who would rent her a house because she was a republican widow. Then, when she did have a place to stay, she was always frightened. In addition to the hostility of the villagers, she had to deal with the fact that there was no electricity in the village and, at night, she was alone in the dark with her daughter. In the distance could be heard the artillery from the Córdoba front. Learning of the situation of her sister-in-law, Rosario sent for Concepción, who returned to Seville and the house on Amazonas Street. Eventually she got a teaching position in the Seville neighborhood of Triana, substituting for a teacher who was suffering from dementia. Antonio remembers his mother sometimes saying, half in jest, "Please, don't let the crazy woman die on me!" Her pleading worked. The position would last fourteen years.

The boys too worked. José, then 16, learned to be a draftsman, a profession he would practice until well after the war when, having had some success in amateur theatrics, he decided to dedicate himself completely to the theater, eventually becoming a famous clown. When he gave up his job as a draftsman, José's boss asked him why he would embark on such an insecure profession as the theater. His reply was that, in the office, at the end of a day's work, nobody applauded. Antonio, then 14, worked for a while in a militarized factory near Seville where old men, women and children assembled hand grenades for Franco's army. The work was obviously dangerous and Antonio was afraid. After a while he quit this job. A week later the factory blew up, killing everyone in it.

Joaquín and José's brother, Manuel León Trejo, the school teacher who had served on the Seville City Council, spent some time hiding at the house of a friend of his, another school teacher named Antonio Cordero, who also had been a friend of Joaquín León Trejo. Later Antonio Cordero was among those teachers who were purged from the profession. In addition to losing his job, he lost the house that went with it and, consequently, Manuel lost his hiding place. Manuel then went to his own house on the Ronda de Capuchinos where his family had prepared a hiding place for him behind a wardrobe. Whenever someone came to the door, he would hide there. His family pretended, meanwhile, that they were in mourning. They were lucky too to have falangist neighbors who were sympathetic and gave them advance notice whenever there were to be roundups.

Antonio remembers visiting his uncle Manuel once with his mother Concepción. Manuel gave him a haircut and told him not to tell anyone who his barber had been, especially not aunt Angelita, who was a falangist. Manuel's downfall came when his health began to suffer. One can imagine the stress he was under. He developed a bleeding ulcer. Manuel's son went for help to José's family in Heliopolis and they found a doctor, Manuel Palomo, who performed the surgery in Manuel's house. Meanwhile, the government was sending out notices that exchanges of prisoners were going to be made with the republicans. At first, Manuel did not believe it and he was right. It was a trap to lure those in hiding out into the open. Later there were some authentic exchanges arranged through the Red Cross and Manuel, desperate to go where he could get adequate treatment, turned himself in on May 13, 1938. They took him by truck toward Portugal where the exchange was supposed to take place. Also in the truck was the former Civil Governor of the province of Cádiz, Gabriel González Talltabut, as well as many acquaintances of Manuel, all of whom had come out of hiding in hope of being part of an exchange of prisoners. During the ride, Manuel's friends expressed their condolences for the deaths of his two brothers, according to Manuel's sixteen year old daughter who accompanied him on the journey to take care of him. The truck never got to Portugal. Instead, its passengers were taken to a prison in Sanlúcar la Mayor, west of Seville. Manuel's daughter remained with him at the prison in Sanlúcar until July 9, 1938. On that date, as his daughter watched, he was shot on the stretcher where he lay. He had been too weak to get up for his execution. His daughter returned alone to Seville.

Concepción García Baquero had a neighbor who told her what he knew of her husband's whereabouts. In August 1936 the neighbor was a soldier stationed in the town of Castilblanco de los Arroyos. He was with some of his friends in a casino at three in the morning when some of the townspeople came in and said that three men had been brought to the town to be shot and that one of them was Joaquín León Trejo. In 1962, José León García was in Castilblanco. He was performing there as a clown. He visited the place where the execution had taken place and where his father was buried.

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(-- greatest thanks to Richard Barker for this extraordinary account - we look forward to his book on Castilleja del Campo)