The Courier of Zaragoza (Part 3)
A fatal connection.
Welcome Back! This is the third installment of my historical fiction series, The Courier of Zaragoza, set against the backdrop of the Spanish Civil War.1 For a recap, here’s Part 1 and Part 2
—Zaragoza Military District, Nationalist Head Quarters, Tuesday morning
Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight slicing through the heavy drapes. A distressed leather armchair, worn smooth by countless strategic decisions, sat opposite a massive oak desk piled high with maps and telegrams. A simple wooden chest, its brass clasps glinting faintly, stood sentinel in the corner, General Valderrama’s ceremonial sword, delivered only yesterday, lay inside.
Spain’s putative Head of State, Generalissimo Francisco Franco reached for the small tortoise shell veneered knife on his desk. The childhood gift from his great uncle came in handy for revealing the contents of thick envelopes marked TOP SECRET, like the one just now given him by his Aide-de-Camp, Major Juan Torres. The ever-present scowl on Franco’s face deepened as he reread the report clutched in his hand. Surprise, a rare guest in his chambers, flickered in his steely grey eyes. The report detailed an undeniable blood connection between himself and General Valderrama, the defeated Republican army leader of the International Brigades whom he had scheduled for execution by firing squad.
"This is madness!" he cried, his voice tight with disbelief as he slammed his fist on the table. The weight of what it meant settled in his gut, churning his anger into a cold dread.
Franco’s outburst washed over his Aide-de-Camp, met not with defiance but with a studied indifference. Major Torres, ever the loyal shadow, adhered to protocol—remaining ramrod straight two paces from Franco's desk. It wasn't bravery that kept him silent; it was a well-honed awareness that placating Franco's fury only fanned the flames.
Even so, the evidence sprawled undeniable on Franco's desk. A stark truth emerged from the summary report, in bold type, originating from the Registro Civil, corroborated by the Dirección General de Seguridad: General Valderrama wasn't who he claimed to be.
The International Brigades were so notorious for secrecy that when General Valderrama first appeared leading their forces against Franco's troops in Madrid, Franco wasn't sure if "Valderrama" was even the General's real name. He strongly suspected it was a nom de guerre, chosen to hide the General's true identity. I was right, thought Franco, but how could I have known he was FAMILY? As to the general’s purported first and middle names: the Registro Civil showed there were over 6,431 Emilio Francisco’s living in Spain.
Franco did have a vague memory of someone named Emilio, about the same age as his father, on his paternal side of the family, but couldn’t remember having met him.
His great uncle, who had once led the major firearm consortium Star Bonifacio Echeverría, had fallen on bad times; his business was punished by the prior government for supporting the wrong side of the last war. But never had Franco considered General Valderrama, his sworn enemy, to be...his second cousin.
Desperate thoughts of damage control raced about Franco’s mind. Of all his purported beliefs, one thing he knew: The most scandalous acts of war could not, would not, be suppressed forever. One way or another, sooner or later, the people of Spain would learn the Generalissimo had executed a member of his own family and then…what would they do?
The title Generalissimo – Spanish for Most General – gleamed on official documents, a recent coup of propaganda that underscored his absolute military dominance and bolstered his burgeoning dictatorship. But that very claim to power was precisely at stake, wasn’t it?
How could he, the self-proclaimed Defender of Spain, a role built on paternalistic authority and perceived noble sanctity, maintain even a pretense of legitimacy if he were directly linked to the ultimate barbarity—the killing of one's own relatives?
His senior officers, who were overwhelmingly Catholic, would surely desert him first. Then, without a cohesive command structure to impose martial law, his entire regime would collapse. And finally, when the new government needed a scapegoat, and they always did; well, who would they hunt but…him?
As storm clouds of an uncertain future loomed, a flicker of hope, improbable as it seemed, pierced Franco's darkening thoughts. The execution order – could it be his salvation?
Franco's head snapped up like a startled animal. Disorientation flickered across his face, as if doused in icy water. He glanced around the room, his voice cracking with raw emotion, "What day is it?"
"Tuesday, Generalissimo," Captain Torres replied promptly, his voice steady. The man had remained so perfectly still, a silent sentinel at the edge of Franco's brooding, that Franco seemed momentarily surprised by his presence. A frantic search tore through Franco's mind. Think. Think! The execution... when was it set for?…
Relief, sharp and unexpected, flooded him as he recalled the date. Thank God! He crossed himself, a gesture more of relief than piety. Two days until the execution. Thursday. Ample time to save General Valderrama’s life—and, perhaps, his own. "A telegraph to the Captain of the Guards at Castillo de Aínsa," he barked at the Aide-de-Camp, his voice laced with urgency. "This instant!"
Franco didn't need to see the response in Captain Torres’s eyes. Shock radiated from him like heat. "Generalissimo," he began, his voice tight, "I deeply regret to inform you that contacting the garrison...it's impossible. The Republicans have severed the communication lines." He swallowed hard, the sound raw in the tense silence. "And frankly, Sir, no message would reach the castle right now. We're engaged in a full skirmish with them as we speak and we fear our messages to be intercepted." He hesitated, then continued, a touch of caution in his tone, "I was just about to update you, Generalissimo, but the manila envelope seemed to have your attention..." He let the sentence hang, leaving the grim reality and Franco's next move heavy in the air.
Franco was not an imposing man, he was said to measure five feet and some few inches. His power, however, was complete and, in the fashion of most tyrants, did not perceive cold expedience as a cruelty nor even as a flaw, no one was safe from his wrath—not even Majors holding the honor of Aide-de-Camp.
"Major," Franco's voice was a low and cold, devoid of its usual bluster. "Listen carefully. Today, you will find a courier. He will deliver a message before noon on Thursday, a matter of gravest national concern, to the Captain of the Guard at Castillo de Aínsa. Anyone, and I mean anyone," he stressed, each word laced with venom, "who stands in the way of this order will be considered a traitor to Spain. Executed. Immediately."
Franco rose abruptly from his chair, the movement sharp and predatory. The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his unspoken threat. "Find this courier, Major. Now!"
Duty and dread clashed within the Aide-de-Camp, the profundity of the dilemma instantly reifying him, for his salute, which was impeccably crisp, could have belonged to a man a decade younger. As the door clicked shut behind him, Franco turned over the knife, still clasped in his hands, a fog of confusion and rage enveloping his mind. Then something struck. A dawning realization – the connection between the family heirloom and Valderrama – hit him like a lightening bolt to the chest.
An exasperated murmur escaped his lips, thick, not with regret but with the incredulous self-judgement of a master who has committed the fatal error of a dilletante: This knife…My Great-Uncle’s knife—General Valderrama’s father!.. he muttered to himself, the weight of his mistake settling on him. How could I have been so stupid as to sign a death warrant against my own blood?!
Suddenly, the carefully constructed facade crumbled. A tremor, almost imperceptible, ran through his hand. Then, with a surge of rage, a fury known to unleash destruction by those who knew him, the imperious Jefe del Estado—no longer the composed Generalissimo—flung the knife across the room. It met its mark with a sickening crack, fracturing the large glass covering of an enormous vitrine cabinet filled with tributes from regional potentates. The room reverberated with the cacophony of shattering glass, which made its way through the heavy oak doors, echoing down the vast hallway, a sound that sent a shiver of terror down the Aide-de-Camp’s spine even as he reached the stairs leading out of the building...
History:
An Introduction to the Spanish Civil War
The Spanish Civil War, Illustrated
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All images modified from Canva.