The Drouth 17
5/9/05
13:59
Page 34
Memoria Hist贸rica - Valdedi贸s
34
the drouth
The Drouth 17
5/9/05
13:59
Page 35
Words and Pictures by Simon Manfield For decades many families in Spain have been clinging to the hope that, one day, the communal grave containing their relative would be exhumed. This would allow them the opportunity to reclaim their family member!s remains and to give them the burial they rightly deserve. The problem has not been the location of the grave, as this is usually known. The problem has been that, for many in Spain since the end of the civil war (1936-39), it was, and often remains, easier to forget what actually occurred than to accept the truth. This denial of historical fact is not the product of ignorance, but the consequence of many decades of fear created by General Francisco Franco!s oppressive regime. Suspicion and the threat of reprisal still exist in Spain, and it is often thought better to look to the future than to accept the past. This way of thinking is slowly changing. The Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica (The Association for the Recovery of Historic Memory - ARMH), founded in 2000 by Emilio Silva Barrera and Santiago Macías Perez, has devoted itself to the recovery of "the disappeared!. By enlisting the help of volunteers, the association has organised the excavation of many communal graves throughout Spain. One such excavation was reported by the Guardian!s Giles Tremlett (8/3/03) in an article entitled "Spanish civil war comes back to life!. It described the exhumation of three women who had been murdered by Franco!s nationalist troops and the struggle with local authorities to gain permission to rebury them in the local cemetery. The piece was a revelation. It surprised me that even today the political divide between left and right, so prevalent during the civil war, was so tangible. The division that exists today is fundamental. Not only is it polemic but also demonstratively calculated and aggressive. It was only after a vigilant campaign and considerable press coverage that permission was granted for the reburial. One of the photographs that accompanied the article was of a shattered skull, still half buried, its jaw fixed open with the hands of an archaeologist gently sweeping away the surrounding soil. It was a dark and menacing image, but strangely alluring. At the article!s conclusion a call was made for volunteers to take part in further excavations in the summer of 2003. My reaction was immediate. I felt a profound need to become involved in some way. Spain has, for many years, held a huge fascination for me. I am drawn to the landscape for its diversity and admire the people for their unswerving pride and fortitude. I was willing to volunteer any skills that would be relevant. The most obvious skill I possessed was that of an illustrator. I submitted my proposal to the International Voluntary Services (IVS) in Leeds who then passed it onto the ARMH. If accepted, the project could offer me the opportunity to use illustration as a recording device much like artists and writers had done during the years of the civil war. Most importantly however, perhaps this would enable me to produce a powerful collection of drawings as a visual record of an important historical event. The ARMH accepted my proposal in June 2003. The excavation took place in Valdediós in the northern province of Asturias and commenced on the 15th July, running for approximately three weeks. The aim was to exhume a communal grave containing the bodies of twenty-nine employees of La Cadellada psychiatric hospital, victims of a murder perpetrated by the Navarrese nationalist regiment, IVth Arapiles Battalion no. 7, on the 25th October 1937. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
In January 1937, driven from Oviedo by Franco!s rebel attack, the personnel of La Cadellada fled the Asturian capital making their way to the abandoned monastery of San Salvador de Valdediós, a distance of some thirty kilometres. Under the administration of the republican health service a temporary hospital was to be established in the monastery to treat the shell-shocked and battle-fatigued from the front. Valdediós is not so much a village as a collection of small hamlets and was, at this point of the civil war, in the republican zone. Situated in a beautiful verdant valley, the landscape has changed very little since the war; farmlands of grazing milk cows, fields of maize and apple orchards for sidra (cider). Idyllic, and for the most part, in early 1937, a tranquil and safe setting in spite of the surrounding conflict. What actually occurred in the days immediately preceding the murder is confused. As there is very little hard evidence in the form of written documentation available we must look to contradictory testimonies, speculation and rumours as explanation.
the drouth
35
The Drouth 17
5/9/05
13:59
Page 36
The Drouth 17
5/9/05
13:59
Page 37
The following is assumed to be the most likely version of events that led to the murder of the personnel in Valdediós. On the 20th October 1937, the IVth Arapiles Battalion no. 7 entered the grounds of the hospital. They immediately singled out five individuals on account of their trade union affiliations, and took them for trial to Gijón. It was later disclosed that two of the individuals were executed. Five days later, on the evening of the 25th October, the nurses were forced to prepare a celebration with food and dancing for the battalion. According to different testimonies, the soldiers, fuelled by alcohol, raped a number of the female personnel. Later, perhaps to cover up the violation, the soldiers decided to eliminate the victims and any who had witnessed the crime. Alerted by the din of shouts and screams coming from the hospital enclosure, a military chaplain appeared. The chaplain!s arrival would undoubtedly have appeared to the terrified personnel as salvation but this was not the case. He absolved the soldiers of their actions and has been alleged to comment “do what you must do”. The personnel were then taken from the hospital grounds and marched 200 metres along an adjacent track to what was then a chestnut wood, now known locally as the Prado de Don Jaime (Meadow of Don Jaime). After being ordered to dig their own graves, the personnel were executed. It has been claimed that the killings were carried out as an act of retribution. On the morning of the second day of the exhumation a large piece of card, tied to the gate at the entrance of the site, bore an anonymous handwritten message. It read: “Cuando terminéis aquí buscáis las tumbas de las víctimas de estos asesinos” (When you have finished here, look for the tombs of the victims of these assassins). At the bottom right hand corner, a drawing of a syringe. It is said that the nurses had been gradually killing the patients, who, it has been argued, were not psychiatric patients but wealthy landowners and members of the clergy, with injections of aguarrás (turpentine). Of course the theorising that surrounds the Valdediós killings is not peculiar to that event. The thousands of mass assassinations carried out during the civil war were perpetrated without trial and those who took part in or witnessed them kept quiet, mostly from fear of reprisal. It is clear that, without official or historical investigation, there will be no definitive explanation for the murders, and now, after sixty-eight years, it is unlikely that one will come to light. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
I arrived in Valdediós in the afternoon of the 14th July in the middle of a heavy summer downpour. The monastery of San Salvador de Valdediós looks across a wide sweep of farmland and is surrounded by hills of towering eucalyptus. In 1992 it became a working Cistercian monastery. Through two iron gates a footpath passes across an expansive cobbled quadrangle, leading to the volunteers! dormitory. Initially I was to be one of eight volunteers present at the excavation. As time passed more arrived. National and international volunteers, then archaeologists, photographers and documentary film crews. It wasn!t until the twenty-eighth volunteer appeared that I realised the importance of this project. We commenced work on the following day. An area of approximately thirty square metres was staked out in the meadow of Don Jaime. The digging began at the bottom of a steep slope. First cuts into the turf revealed a heavy red clay which, with the summer heat, made the labour arduous. As the day progressed and the temperature rose, a seemingly endless stream of visitors approached the site. Each offered advice as to the whereabouts of the grave. Some shared their recollections of Valdediós at the time of the murders and many attacked the clay with a pick or shovel. It appeared to me that, after nearly seven difficult decades, the spirit in these people had resurfaced as they broke into the upper crust of the earth. For the first few days I worked on site sketching from life. I made quick sketches in ink or graphite pencil. The shapes and gestures created by figures bending, digging or resting were striking. I was aware however, of missing opportunities elsewhere on site. The speed with which people worked made drawing from life cumbersome. All manner of reactions and movements occurred at once. Frustratingly, I was physically unable to capture them on paper. I began to use my camera, using rolls and rolls of film. At the beginning of the second week, with no sign of the grave and tempers flaring, the exhumation was temporarily halted. Clandestine meetings were held. Irritation and anger was clearly visible on the faces of the organisers. It all came to a head one evening in the local bar, when it was disclosed that political differences within the local branch of the ARMH threatened to end the exhumation. The volunteers! opposition to this was
the drouth
37
The Drouth 17
5/9/05
13:59
Page 38
The Drouth 17
5/9/05
13:59
Page 39
passionate. The following morning six international volunteers and two of the team leaders departed. Later that day Emilio Silva, president of the ARMH, arrived to find a way to continue the work. Forensic archaeologist Paco Etxebarr铆a from the University of Pais Vasco was appointed as leader. Etxebarr铆a arrived like a whirlwind. With the addition of a mechanical digger, the first of the remains were located on the 24th July. As the bodies appeared I witnessed scenes of extraordinary emotion. At the end of the second week the extent of the carnage was exposed in the form of a shallow L-shaped grave. The most shocking aspect was not the elongated form of the grave itself, nor the victims! tangled remains lying as they had fallen, but the emergence of personal effects by their sides. These gave the unrecognisable bodies identity. Everyone worked or watched in a manner that was focused and respectful. I was surprised by my feelings of impassivity. I did however, feel a great sadness for the relatives who witnessed the exhumation. One such relative, Antonio Piedrafita, was called by one of the archaeologists. The shattered skull of his father displayed what would identify him - a row of gold teeth. Seventeen of a possible twenty-nine bodies were recovered and taken away for DNA tests at the beginning of August. The Memoria Hist贸rica drawings have been greeted with interest and enthusiasm. I have been fortunate to receive funding from both the British Council and Arts Council, England and in December 2004, twenty of the drawings were exhibited at Imperial War Museum North in Manchester as part of their Reactions programme. Two exhibitions in Asturias followed in early 2005, both a short distance from Valdedi贸s. I am presently preparing an expanded show for the ArtsMill in Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire (17 August - 4 September 2005). On a personal level I have difficulty expressing how my involvement in this project has affected me. My participation has enabled me to produce a series of drawings of which I am immensely proud. However, that pride is shallow compared with the emotional effects of a nation coming to terms with a debilitating past. Spain has changed. Decades of latent grief are now unfurling. Beneath the grief lies a new determination.
Simon Manfield is a freelance illustrator.
the drouth
39