7. The Irresistible Rise of Adolfo Suárez 1976-77: “A normal Man”
In his play Twelfth Night Shakespeare wrote: “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them”. Into which category should we place Adolfo Suárez? Certainly not the first. There is nothing in his early biography that suggests anything remotely resembling greatness.
The most truthful and precise summation of the character of the man was made by Adolfo Suárez himself in a statement to the German paper Süddeutsche Zeitung in April 1977, on the eve of the first democratic elections: “My strong point, I believe, is to be a normal man. Completely normal. There is no place for geniuses in our current situation”. These words perfectly convey the reality of the situation.
Gregorio Morán has written several interesting books about the Transition, including very detailed biographies of two of the main protagonists: Adolfo Suárez and Santiago Carrillo. A former member of the Spanish Communist Party, he has at his disposal a mass of documentary material that he obtained when he was in charge of the Party’s archives, much of which has almost certainly since been destroyed, or in any case made unavailable to the public.
These books tell us a lot and make absorbing reading, but they have one glaring fault. From start to finish, everything is seen from the top down. Morán is fascinated by the manoeuvres and intrigues at the top, but he almost completely forgets the movements in society that constitute the real mainspring of the entire process. The result is an extremely one-sided picture. It is Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark.
This is the fundamental weakness of his biography of Suárez and all his other books: because they are all written from the top, there is little or no reference to the decisive events taking place at the base of Spanish society. This method resembles a man who thinks it is possible to understand oceanography by drawing up a list of the waves breaking on the surface without any understanding of the profound currents and forces that cause those very waves.
Nevertheless, if we make allowances for these limitations, his detailed studies of the life of Suárez and the history of the PCE provide much valuable information. In particular, I have used two of his books – Adolfo Suárez: Ambición y destino and Miseria, grandeza y agonía del Partido Comunista de España 1939-1985 – for background material here.
Adolfo Suárez was one of the greatest political chameleons of all time. His lack of principle suddenly appears as the art of political realism and flexibility raised to an art form. In every stage of his political career except the final and most decisive one, Adolfo Suárez appears as a person without interest, a minor official, a colourless bureaucrat who advances up the ladder of the Franco regime step-by-step without incurring much interest.
Born in Ávila, a provincial backwater, conservative, ultra-religious, steeped in the superstitious spirit of Santa Teresa, solidly pro-Franco, the very heart and soul of la España profunda. He began his slow climb on the slippery ladder that leads to power, beginning his political activity in Acción Católica (Catholic Action). In 1957, he left this stagnant provincial backwater for the more promising climes of Madrid, the centre of power, where he practiced as a lawyer. Under Franco, the sole legal party was the FET y de las JONS (Traditionalist Spanish Falange and of the Unions of the National-Syndicalist Offensive), the party formed by Franco during the Civil War, which became part of the Movimiento Nacional in 1943.
Adolfo succeeded, not as a result of his positive features, but thanks to his negative characteristics. He had few enemies (he took great care to avoid causing offence to anyone that had not stepped too heavily on his toes), but he had even fewer friends. He was a man of few words, and the words that he spoke were always carefully calculated not to give offence and whenever possible not to commit himself to any definite position. He caused no offence by the simple procedure of remaining silent on all controversial issues. Into a closed mouth no flies will enter, as they say. His silence was interpreted as a sign of great wisdom. He was regarded as a reliable fellow, an obedient conformist whose only interest was to serve his immediate superiors.
Those who came from the provinces to knock at the door of the National Movement in search of promotion or favours were met with the smiling face of an amiable young man so anxious to please that he invariably left the most agreeable impression. To his superiors he was obedient and diligent, fulfilling his orders punctually and in every detail. Always the same smiling face, always eager to please, always all things to all men – these are the most necessary weapons of an ambitious careerist intent on climbing the greasy pole that leads ever upwards and onwards. In short, he was the very image of a perfect bureaucrat.
By a combination of infinite patience and steely determination, he climbed the ladder of the fascist bureaucracy rung-by-rung, at each step gaining more experience, winning friends and influence, seeking out important protectors and eliminating rivals. This impeccable conduct was what enabled him to continue his upward climb on the bureaucratic ladder until one day, unexpected to everybody but himself, he arrived at the very top – as the head of the fascist National Movement, to whose basic principles he swore undying loyalty.
A skilful politician, he was mercifully devoid of any deep-seated convictions, principles or ideology of any sort. He was, however, perfectly equipped for the complicated task of manoeuvring that was imposed upon the regime by its own internal weakness. Like many others, who likewise were supposed to be undyingly loyal to the regime, he saw that the writing was on the wall. It was time to jump ship as quickly as possible. And Adolfo did not hesitate.
The Office Makes the Man
Kleider machen Leute (Clothes Make People) by Gottfried Keller is one of the most famous German short stories of the nineteenth century. And clothes can indeed effect a most remarkable change, not just in people’s physical appearance, but also in how they are perceived by other people. However, the holding of public office, especially (but by no means exclusively) an important office, confers a very special status on the office holder.
Overnight, as if by magic, the office-holder becomes transformed from a mere nobody to a person of great significance. In his perceptive biography of Suárez, Gregorio Morán points out: “Unlike almost all the political leaders in world history, Suárez began to exist politically after his appointment as president of the government.”1 In other words, it is not the greatness of the man that expresses itself through his office but the office itself that conveys an impression of greatness on the man who occupies it.
How do we explain this apparent contradiction? There are periods in history – one might call them heroic periods – that demand geniuses. But there are other periods – grey periods – in which the sharp contours of political life are blunted into an amorphous mass. In such periods, mediocrity ceases to be a disadvantage and turns into its opposite. In such periods the political chameleon comes into its own and mediocrity is king and ruler of all.
In Spain during the years of the Transition, a new breed of careerists, opportunists and toadies sprang up overnight like mushrooms after a thunderstorm. These were the advance guard of the new Spanish ‘democracy’. They were all hungrily seeking an office under the new regime, which would grant them power, income and prestige. And the Prophet of this new religion, Don Adolfo Suárez, was about to emerge from the wilderness.
To be fair to Suárez, and contrary to his own statement, he was not a normal man at all. He was, in fact, a kind of genius in the realm of political manoeuvring – an art which he had perfected as a result of a long experience of intrigue within the apparatus of Franco’s Movement. Original ideas, strategic vision and clear principles, he had none. His political horizons did not extend further than those of a provincial barrister. His main strength, however, consisted of having the good luck of being in the right place at the right time. And this was definitely the right time.
The King Goes to Washington
Every vegetable has its season. This observation holds good, not just for cabbages and potatoes but also for politicians and even kings. The time was not yet ripe for Juan Carlos de Borbón to spread his majestic wings. He had quietly acquiesced when Arias took over the reins of state. Painfully aware that his initial clash with the prime minister had exposed his own personal impotence, he quietly bided his time, confident that one day his moment would come.
On 11 April 1976, Informaciones wrote:
If the government announced in the next few days the date of a referendum on constitutional reform, opening the way to general elections by universal suffrage, the initiative would pass to its side. Such a referendum would permit a tacit accord with a large section of the opposition parties, including the Democratic Co-ordination.
On the same day, The New York Times carried an article that stated:
The [Spanish] Government is split between conservatives and reformists, and Prime Minister Carlos Arias Navarro, a holdover from the past, has steadily lost prestige. It has taken the difficult path of trying to move a programme through institutions that are inherently anti-reformist – Parliament, the Council of the Realm and the syndicate organisation.
The paper noted that: “Pressure is rising here for an immediate popular referendum to end the confusion and contradiction that now mark Spanish political life.” It was becoming clear that, in order to prevent a social explosion, Arias Navarro would have to be removed. This was without doubt the advice given to the king when he visited the United States about this time. The advice did not fall on deaf ears.
On 25 April, an article appeared in Newsweek signed by Arnaud de Borchgrave. It seems that he had spoken to the king ‘off-the-record’, and quoted Juan Carlos as saying that his Prime Minister was an “unmitigated disaster”. The article was very widely quoted. It represented the first ‘official’ sign that the days of the Arias government were numbered.
The crisis of the Arias government provided him with an opportunity to emerge finally from the shade. This was the necessary precondition to put his secret plans into operation. His first step was to boost his image and popularity at home. To this end, he embarked on a series of visits to the regions, accompanied by his Queen.
The first official visits by King Juan Carlos I and Queen Sofia were a most surprising choice. Catalonia and Andalusia were two of the regions where political and economic unrest was at its strongest. It was either a very astute move, or a very stupid one. It was a very risky gamble, but it paid off handsomely. The king and Queen received a surprisingly warm reception from the people of these regions, largely because they were completely unknown quantities.
The success of these visits served to boost the already-inflated ambitions of Juan Carlos. After decades of impotent tutelage, he began to feel that the monarchy, which had been resurrected from the tomb by the palsied hand of a dictator, could capitalise on its apparent popularity by coming out in favour of political change. Such a move would serve to strengthen its hand against those who wish to keep him in the old subservient role.
The time had come for the King of Spain to conquer the international stage. At the beginning of June 1976, he visited the United States and delivered a speech before an expectant Congress. The possibility of a visit had first been made by Henry Kissinger, the US Secretary of State, during a lightning visit to Madrid for the purpose of signing the Treaty of Friendship and Co-operation of both countries in January 1976. Kissinger took the opportunity to order his ambassador, Wells Stabler, to secretly provide support and reliable advice to the young king. This is recorded in official US documents. Before leaving, Kissinger gave Areilza some advice: “Carry out reforms and give democratic freedoms, but maintain the authority of the state and, above all, do not hurry.”
The preparations for the visit lasted five months, under the personal direction of the king himself. The only others involved in the preparations were his Foreign Minister, José María de Areilza, and the co-ordinator of the event, Juan José Rovira. All these preparations for the trip were kept a close secret. Juan Carlos held several talks with Ambassador Stabler during the following months. There were to be no loose ends. And the king did not make any attempt to hide his concerns and discontent with Arias Navarro. The message was loud and clear: “The man to rely upon here is not Arias, but me.” It was duly transmitted to the other side of the Atlantic.
Between 2 March and 24 April, the visit was finally confirmed during a stopover in Madrid by the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the Democrat Carl Albert. The king was to be given the chance to deliver a speech to the US Congress in joint session – a virtually unprecedented honour.
On arrival in the USA, the Spanish King was given the red-carpet treatment. The State Department was worried about the situation in Europe in general, and the Iberian Peninsula in particular. Events in Portugal were causing grave concern, and Spain was a key country for the future of NATO, although it was not yet a member.
The concerns of Washington were shown by the fact that the king and President Ford had a one-hour conversation in the oval office about the situation in Spain. Juan Carlos reported that no political party in Madrid stood for radical changes. The king complained that at difficult times the press was not helping, to which Ford commented ruefully: “It never does.” He was obviously thinking about the recent experience of the Watergate scandal.
On 2 June 1976, Juan Carlos stood at the rostrum of the US Congress to address an important audience. If he was worried about his reception, he need not have been. His speech was received with rapturous applause by the ladies and gentlemen of Congress. But he was also addressing his remarks to another audience, several thousands of miles away in Spain. Among other things, Juan Carlos said:
The Monarchy will make sure that Spain maintains social peace and political stability under the principles of democracy at the same time as assuring power to the different government alternatives, according to the freely expressed desires of the Spanish people.
Judging from the applause, Juan Carlos had good reason to be pleased with himself. But there was a problem. From start to finish, his Foreign Minister insisted on controlling every detail, examining every statement made by the king, and even daring to correct him. Areilza even permitted himself the luxury of interrupting the king to complete several answers that seemed unsatisfactory to him. Juan Carlos never forgot this impertinence, which cost Areilza dearly. Upon his return, the king promoted Suárez to the position that Areilza had longed for. The reason was never explained.
Juan Carlos had not bothered to reveal the content of this speech to Arias Navarro, who doubtless nearly choked over his chocolate and churros when he read it in the papers the next day. Arias had made TV statements where he had lambasted the democratic opposition, which shows that the two men clearly were not singing from the same hymn sheet. In fact, Arias’ relationship with the king had deteriorated to such an extent that he said to one of his closest collaborators: “I feel the same about him as I do about children; I can’t stand him for more than ten minutes.” The feeling was evidently mutual.
Editorials were by now appearing frequently in the Spanish press urging a speeding up of reform. The government was hopelessly split on both political means and ends. This deadlock at the top explains the rapid transformation of Juan Carlos from a colourless nonentity to the supreme arbiter of the fate of Spain. The liberal weekly Cambio 16 reported that, with the government in an impasse, the idea of a referendum was gaining ground among some ministers.
However, Arias did not take the hint. On the contrary, he appeared on television to announce his plans for reform, promising to hold a referendum in October and elections by the end of the year. Evidently, he intended to cling to office to the bitter end. But that end was already approaching fast.
Arias Reform Shipwrecked
The events in Vitoria marked a decisive change in the situation. Such were the repercussions that there was a real possibility of an all-Spanish general strike. The situation was becoming critical. Arias had become a serious threat to stability and he had to be got rid of. The bankers and capitalists, including even some of the most reactionary elements, saw that to persist with this policy of ambiguity and vacillation would increase the threat of a revolution, or as they would prefer to call it ‘anarchy and chaos’.
The Spanish economy was plunged into a deep crisis. The stock exchange fell to the lowest level since 1964. Investors were leaving in droves. Spain was facing uncontrollable flight of capital. In September, an article in Ya calculated that, in the first five months of 1976, 60 billion pesetas had left the country. The trade deficit reached 340 billion pesetas – the highest of any other country in the world. It was rising at the rate of 50 billion pesetas a month. The long-term deficit with the exterior amounted to $8,250 million. Spain was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. Something had to be done.
In this emergency situation, decisive action was needed. What was Carlos Arias Navarro supposed to do? If only Franco could continue to rule from beyond the grave, which was, in fact, the essential content of the Arias reform. He confessed to visiting the basilica in the Valley of the Fallen in order to commune with the defunct Caudillo, to receive instructions from his spirit and even to pray for his return to sort things out in Spain. Arias certainly had need of help from the Other Side, since he had precious little down here on Earth.
The Arias reform was finally shipwrecked on 11 June, when the Cortes rejected the modification of the part of the Penal Code that considered belonging to a political party a crime. In a blatant manoeuvre to prevent the legalisation of the Communist Party, the procurators of the Cortes moved an amendment that prohibited political organisations that were “subject to international discipline” and in favour of implanting a “totalitarian” regime. It is quite amusing to note that the very men who had fervently supported a totalitarian regime for four decades now voted for an amendment to prohibit totalitarianism. But it was plain to everybody but the clowns in the Cortes that any reform that attempted to exclude the Communist Party would be dead before it was born.
As if this stupidity was not sufficient, the wise men in the Cortes voted down Fraga’s project for reforming the fundamental laws of the Cortes and the Succession. In other words, the Arias-Fraga reform plan was too little to satisfy even the most moderate opposition, but far too much to be swallowed by the backwards men of the Cortes. By dragging their feet and sabotaging even this miserable caricature of reform, they were in effect stoking the fires of revolt. By refusing to accept minor changes to their privileged status, they were creating the conditions whereby the entire edifice of the dictatorship could be swept away in a revolutionary movement from below.
A Government Suspended in Mid-air
By this time Arias was a spent force. The only questions were when he would suffer defenestration and who exactly would take his place. Arias was a worried man, sensing the ground shake under his feet. On paper, Arias had all the power. In practice, he was a man suspended in mid-air. Swarming in his brain he had all the delusions that one finds in the mind of an autocratic ruler whose time has come. He ordered the secret services to spy on Suárez and listen to his telephone conversations. But Adolfo Suárez had his own supporters in the intelligence community, including in Arias’ office. The spies were spied upon in turn. These palace intrigues acquired a life of their own.
Actually, Arias was far more concerned about other potential rivals than Adolfo Suárez, who he considered as a second-rate parvenu. He was far more afraid of the ambitious, egocentric Fraga Iribarne and the clever, aristocratic José María de Areilza, Count of Motrico. While his attention was concentrated on those powerful rivals, he hardly noticed the stealthy assassin, who was silently approaching from the shadows. Fraga, with his unconquerable ego, was convinced that he would inevitably be the successor. But his name was linked indelibly to the Vitoria atrocity and other repressive actions, which disqualified him as a valid interlocutor for the left-wing opposition. To his surprise and disgust, he failed to even come close to being selected to succeed Arias.
Things were going to go very badly indeed. By the summer, Arias was in serious difficulties, unable to get the Cortes to approve the legalisation of political parties. Timid as it was, the reform was too much for the Franco establishment to swallow. The Arias government was unable to deliver the changes made necessary by the increasingly critical situation. Something had to be done, and done quickly.
The new Law of Meetings was passed by the Cortes on 5 May 1976. It established that “demonstrations in the streets should have government authorisation.” The meaning of this was all too clear, since Fraga proclaimed “The street belongs to me”. The problem was that the streets of Spain were increasingly less the property of the regime and more the property of the masses. It was this fact, and not the manoeuvres at the top, that finally led to the downfall of the Arias government.
The door was now open for the emergence of other players in the drama that was taking place behind closed doors in the dark recesses of the regime. In the course of the debate on the reform, there was one significant incident. The Law of Political Associations was proposed in the Cortes by a young minister by the name of Adolfo Suárez, who said that “if Spain was plural, the Cortes couldn’t allow itself the luxury of ignoring it.”
Adolfo Suárez had been little-known until then. A secondary figure in the government, he made a speech in the Cortes in defence of democratic principles, which clearly placed him in opposition to Fraga. In view of the fact that he had kept silent for most of the previous period, his statement raised a few eyebrows. “Who does he think he is?” That must have been the reaction of many when he made his speech. There was nothing in his past record to suggest greatness in any shape or form.
With one deft stroke, he had outmanoeuvred Fraga and prepared the ground for the king to make him the new president in place of Arias Navarro. With a keen sense of timing, Suárez was making a play for the leadership. He understood that the present government was fast running out of steam and the time was ripe for him to make a move. His judgement was not mistaken. Just one month later he was sitting in Arias Navarro’s place.
By coming out on the right side at the right time, Suárez showed himself to be adept at the gentle art of the parliamentary minuet. His speech, short as it was, not only impressed José María de Areilza, one of the senior ministers, who remarked “he says those things that Arias should have said months ago”, but also the king, who – as we have seen – took due note.
It cannot be denied that Suárez displayed a considerable degree of skill in deceiving everybody concerning his intentions at every stage in his career. Nor can it be denied that he showed great audacity in what was a crucial turning-point in the process. But Suárez’s success was due in great measure to the poor quality of his political rivals. Apart from Manuel Fraga, who sometimes displayed a glimmer of political nous and audacity, the others were third-rate personalities, colourless bureaucrats even more insignificant than Suárez himself. The fact that, at the moment of Franco’s death, his successors could find no more suitable representative than Arias Navarro sums up this fact most eloquently.
In the summer of 1976, although Suárez had already scaled the heights of the bureaucratic mountain, he was nevertheless seen by his colleagues as a second-rate political figure. His relative youth (he was forty-four years old) was another factor that caused his potential rivals to underestimate him as a serious opponent. They made a serious mistake in underestimating the steely determination and burning ambition that lay behind the sphinx-like mask.
The king told Areilza that “this can’t go on, there’s the risk of losing everything.” This little sentence sums up the whole position very well.
The Éminence Grise
When Juan Carlos became King, Fernández-Miranda was appointed president of the Cortes and president of the Consejo del Reino (Council of the Kingdom). A man with unimpeachable fascist credentials, he surprised many of his extremist supporters by becoming the man chiefly responsible for the changes after Franco’s death. But he merely wished to ensure that any restructuring of the system was kept to a safe minimum that signified a continuation of the basic elements of the old regime. According to Morán, it was Torcuato Fernández-Miranda who concluded that the most appropriate candidate for that role was none other than Adolfo Suárez. It was Torcuato who apparently first broached this possibility at a dinner attended by the two families at his house on 29 March 1976.
Morán, who interviewed Fernández-Miranda before he died, says that what surprised him most of all was the apparent equanimity of Adolfo Suárez when the question of a successor to Arias was raised in a private conversation. Torcuato said: “And why not you?” What was the reaction?
Adolfo kept on talking, as if he had not noticed the words of the president of the Cortes. […] He had already noted, from some obvious details, that he was beginning to consider himself as ‘the candidate,’ but this time Torcuato, without committing too much, had tempted him with the prospect of a presidential future.
In his notes Torcuato wrote:
His reaction impressed me, because he did not say, nor out of courtesy, “For goodness sake, no.” But he just fell silent, accepted it as possible and quickly embraced the idea. But what impressed me was the way he looked, as if the dream of ambition had suddenly taken hold of the very depths of his being… In politics, ambition is not such a bad thing, and my influence and power over him was unquestionable.2
But Torcuato was far too sharp a customer to place all his eggs in one basket.
Having already offered the post of president to Adolfo Suárez, who considered himself to be the loyal disciple and apprentice of his mentor, he then proceeded to offer it to another possible candidate. Torcuato was already sounding out Areilza about the possibilities of his replacing Arias Navarro and found him very receptive. A week later, Areilza wrote in his diary:
I saw Fernández-Miranda in his office. “Will you allow me to ask you some totally indiscreet questions?” he asked me. “Of course.” He immediately raised the issue of the president. “We cannot continue like this. We must change the person, leaving the government, or at least most of it, intact. Let the Privy Council approve whatever short list is necessary.”3
This highly enlightening conversation provides us with a most eloquent account of the psychology and intentions of the so-called reformist wing of the regime.
By now, all the ingredients were prepared for a palace coup at the top. But one obstacle still remained to be overcome. By this time, the majority of the Cortes was either composed of ‘reformers’ or else people who could have their arms twisted, or their palms greased to ensure they would vote the right way. However, there remained a stubborn residue of right-wing reactionaries, who had created a powerful obstacle to reform in the form of numerous parliamentary commissions that could hold up or sabotage any measures proposed in the plenum. This became known as the Bunker.
In order to defeat this opposition, the wily old Torcuato used his vast knowledge of the Byzantine world of parliamentary procedure to enable proposals to be put directly to the plenum, bypassing the minefield of reactionary commissions. Having accomplished this work of art of parliamentary intrigue, he could now feel relatively confident that his manoeuvres would succeed.
Why did Juan Carlos choose Adolfo Suárez instead of more experienced and better-known alternatives like Fraga or Areilza? In order to answer this question, it is necessary to consider the psychological make-up of the man who, after an interminably long period of waiting, now called himself the King of Spain. For all this time, Juan Carlos had been treated as a mere cipher, a dim figure in the background, whose presence was scarcely noted and whose opinions were not seriously taken into account by those who took the important decisions. As a child he had been dominated by his father. Later, he was kept firmly under the thumb of his protector, Franco, upon whose good graces his entire future depended.
Even when the dictator vanished from the scene, matters did not improve much for Juan Carlos. He was supposed to be Spain’s supreme ruler, but nobody would have thought so. The real power was in the hands of Arias Navarro, who treated him with scant respect, even with contempt.
Finally, the moment had come to get rid of the hated Arias. But who was to replace him? Fraga was out of the question. He was undoubtedly capable and a strong character, but he was too identified with the old regime and the right-wing bunker. His name was forever stained with the repressive actions that occurred during his period in office, especially the Vitoria massacre. And he would never be allowed to forget his infamous words: “The street is mine.” Moreover, the last thing Juan Carlos needed at his side was a capable man with a strong character.
Then there was Areilza. Unlike Fraga, he was definitely in the camp of the liberals in the regime. He was a cultured and intelligent man with impeccable good manners – somebody who could deliver an effective speech and write articles. He made a good impression on people when he talked to them. In short, he had everything that Juan Carlos lacked. To be seen in public alongside an intellectual! The very thought was a nightmare to a man who had been mainly educated by priests and army generals. To make things worse, Areilza was an independent thinker, a man who was not afraid to express his opinions, as he had regrettably shown during that trip to the United States. No, to work with such a man was unthinkable.
What Juan Carlos needed above all was someone pliable, a careerist who would forever be in his debt for granting him high office and therefore, absolutely loyal to his person. He needed someone who was hard working, efficient and obedient – not a smart intellectual, but a pragmatic, simple-minded practico, someone who got things done, who would obey him without question (after all, he was the king!) and not answer back or ask awkward questions, someone who was not always aiming to play centre-stage: a back-room boy, an obscure functionary from the provinces. In fact, someone like Adolfo Suárez.
Ever cautious and hesitant when he took decisions, Juan Carlos considered the pluses and minuses of appointing Suárez. There was one thing that bothered him in particular. In addition to his undoubted talent for intrigue and manoeuvring, Suárez was also adept at facing in several directions at the same time. The king asked Fernández-Miranda: “Do you think, Torcuato, that such a two-faced man (un hombre con tanta doblez) is our man?” The old fox gave an answer that was highly instructive: “For that very reason, your Majesty, for that very reason.”4
The Dismissal of Arias
On 1 July, Arias was summoned to the Palace for the last time. Following the well-worn routine, he was summoned the previous night, and he suspected nothing out of the ordinary. As usual, he was received by the king, dressed in the uniform of a Captain General. Nothing unusual, but the monarch seemed just a little pale.
When the king started to speak, Arias noticed that he seemed on edge. The words were coming out of his mouth, but his meaning could not clearly be understood. He said something about thanking Arias for his tremendous services to the Fatherland and the Crown. At last, the axe that had been hovering uncertainly over his head, fell. He heard the words: “New times demand new politicians…” It was a mortal blow.
Stony-faced, Arias Navarro finally grasped the reality of his situation as he listened impassively to this sentence, as a condemned man listens as he is sent to the hangman. Having entered the palace as ruler of Spain, he left it as a mere footnote on the page of history. The sudden resignation (which was really a dismissal) caught even ministers by surprise. What they did not know was that Arias’ offer of resignation had been lying in the king’s drawer for several months. It was mainly the result of tensions within the Cabinet over the proposals for change. Arias, of course, had no intention of resigning. The offer was one more theatrical move in a complicated game of chess. Surely, he thought, the offer would never be accepted. But accepted it was.
For the last time, Arias walked out of the palace, a broken and bitter man. While collecting his possessions from his office, Arias thanked Suárez for his loyalty, with tears in his eyes. In a sentence heavy with unconscious irony he said: “You were one of those that did not betray me.” These words were addressed to the very man who had just stabbed him in the back. If he had read Shakespeare, the unfortunate Arias Navarro might have meditated on the lines spoken by the Scottish King Duncan when he learned of the death of the traitor Cawdor:
There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.(William Shakespeare, Macbeth, act 1, scene 4.)
And there have been very few faces in history so difficult to read as that of Adolfo Suárez.
The “Man of the Moment”
Cometh the hour, cometh the Man.
One morning, in July 1976, Spaniards woke up to the surprising news that the king had decided to sack Prime Minister Arias Navarro. Even more surprising than the news of the fall of Arias was to learn that he would be replaced, not by Manuel Fraga but by a virtually unknown apparatchik of the old regime, whose profile had been such that he was virtually invisible to all but the limited layer who made up the ruling clique at that time.
A few days later, Torcuato Fernández-Miranda managed to get the Council of the Realm to include Adolfo Suárez, ‘the king’s candidate’, amongst the three candidates for president of the government. The Times reported, not without astonishment, that this nomination “came as a surprise after it had been widely believed that a more liberal man would be chosen” and his nomination was a “victory for the reformist wing of the right, willing to move towards the dismantling of the dictatorship, but maintaining strong ties with the past”. This reaction was quite understandable.
Adolfo Suárez was neither a profound thinker nor a political strategist with a long-term vision. He nevertheless possessed in abundance the kind of qualities that were required for the given situation. Years of experience in intriguing within the regime provided him with the necessary skills to manoeuvre in a complex environment, balancing between different factions and personalities, playing one off against the other in order to ensure his personal advancement. Subsequent events showed that he was not devoid of personal courage and was capable of taking audacious decisions when the occasion demanded it.
At this point, it will be necessary to trace the steps by which this remarkable transition was achieved. Now, at last, Adolfo Suárez could step out from the shadows and present himself as the man of the moment. But how was this miraculous transformation achieved? Paul Preston says he knew how to “use the system against itself”.5 I suppose there is some truth in that statement. But it certainly did not make Suárez a genuine democrat.
The Triumph of Mediocrity
Antonio Salieri: I will speak for you, Father. I speak for all mediocrities in the world. I am their champion. I am their patron saint.
Mediocrities everywhere… I absolve you… I absolve you… I absolve you… I absolve you… I absolve you all.6
In Peter Shaffer’s celebrated 1984 film Amadeus, there is a very striking scene where Salieri, in a state of final madness, acts as a kind of father confessor to all the mediocrities of this world. This scene could well be applied to Adolfo Suárez. His rapid rise to fame is positive proof that a political mediocrity can rise to power, defeating far more able rivals and rising to the highest summit of fame. It is even possible to have the airport of the capital city named after one – although admittedly after one has left the stage.
Looking backwards, the rise of Adolfo Suárez appears to be something irresistible and inevitable. At the time, however, it was nothing of the sort. The worker-activists deeply distrusted Suárez and the so-called reformers of the regime, whose fascist credentials were only too well known to them. But they were persuaded by their leaders to accept this policy, which they did with gritted teeth. The leaders, especially Carrillo, went to the most extraordinary lengths to paint up the supposed democratic credentials of Suárez in the most glowing colours.
A creature of the apparatus, Suárez had achieved success gradually, steadily ascending the steps of the bureaucratic ladder. The main ingredients of his success in the bureaucratic milieu were extreme tact and a desire to avoid conflict, self-effacing modesty and affability, behind which was concealed a steely will to advance at all costs. But behind the mask of bureaucratic anonymity that served to disarm potential enemies and rivals, there lay concealed an all-consuming ambition.
His speeches were invariably colourless, mechanical and consisting of a never-ending string of clichés and empty phrases. Reading them was a most unpleasant and unrewarding task, since it was difficult or impossible to discover any meaningful content in them. But it was precisely their incomprehensibility that was their strength. One was no more intended to grasp the meaning than to decipher the mysterious message on the face of the Sphinx.
His real sphere of activity was not that of oratory or literature. It was at all times the machine of power. Like an experienced mechanic, he was well acquainted with every nut and bolt of the state apparatus and he managed the life of the bureaucracy with consummate skill. He became an expert in the dark arts of bureaucratic intrigue and manoeuvre. These are not the kind of skills required by a leader of masses or a political genius, much less a Superman. Nevertheless, they are perfectly adapted to the requirements of certain situations. Such a situation was the crisis of a regime that had outlived its usefulness to history and was in the process of rapid and irreversible decline.
Suárez’s calculated ambiguity lay at the very centre of his political message. He was, by his very nature, a man of the ‘centre’ – that gigantic zero in which all extremes are cancelled out, leaving absolutely nothing behind. Adolfo Suárez was all things to all men. Half his time was spent balancing on the right, providing the hardliners with every assurance that he stood for the maintenance of the status quo.
The other half was spent balancing on the left, engaging in secret negotiations, not only with Felipe González, but also with Santiago Carrillo. Naturally, he told everyone what they wanted to hear. Consequently, they all began to look upon him as the saviour by whose wisdom they were destined to find a way out of the labyrinth of tangled contradictions that was Spanish politics at that historical juncture. And it was above all Santiago Carrillo who invented the myth of Suárez the apostle of Spanish democracy.
“What a Mistake, What a Terrible Mistake!”
The naming of Suárez caused confusion and disappointment amongst the democratic opposition and in diplomatic circles, as well as amongst journalists.
The liberals interpreted it as a step back. Their dismay was openly expressed in the pages of the newspapers as the ruling class sought a way out of the impasse. Press criticism of the government was becoming more frequent. On 5 July, the day when Suárez took office as president, Ricardo de la Cierva wrote in the newly-published El País, which was then considered to be a liberal newspaper: “What a mistake! What a terrible mistake!” (¡Qué error, qué inmenso error!) Ironically, the man who wrote those words would end up becoming a minister under Suárez.
The right wing could not conceal their glee at the news of the appointment. The extreme right-winger Mariano Sánchez Covisa was exultant: “I was very happy that the nomination did not go to Mr. Areilza, and I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that Adolfo Suárez was chosen”. The veteran Falangist Raimundo Fernández-Cuesta commented: “Given the characteristics of intelligence, youth and political activity possessed by Adolfo Suárez, I think his appointment is very good.”7
But far more important than the opinions of liberal journalists were those of the real rulers of Spain: the bankers and capitalists. On Friday 4 May 1976, a reception was held at the luxurious villa of the banker Ignacio Coca, in the Calle de Orfila, Madrid. Present at this select gathering were the elite of Spanish finance. This meeting was undoubtedly decisive in securing for Adolfo Suárez the support he urgently needed to take power into his hands.
This meeting is described in detail by Gregorio Morán in his book, Adolfo Suárez: Ambición y destino, which is my source for the following account.
Gathered around the table were:
- Ignacio Coca, president of Banco Coca;
- José Ángel Sánchez Asiain, president of the Bank of Bilbao;
- The Marqués de Viesca, advisor of the Banco Español de Crédito;
- Pablo Garnica, CEO of Banco Español de Crédito;
- Marqués de Aledo, president of Banco Herrero;
- Pedro Gamero del Castillo, CEO of Banco Hispano Americano;
- Alfonso Fierro Viña, president of the Banco Ibérico;
- Alejandro Fernández de Araoz, president of the Banco Internacional de Comercio;
- Jaime Castell Lastortras, president of the Bank of Madrid;
- Carlos March Delgado, president of Banca March;
- Arne Jessen Pastor, Earl of Fenosa, general director of Banco Pastor.
- Emilio Botín, Marquis of O’Shea, president of the Banco de Santander;
- Jaime Carvajal, Marquis of Isasi, managing director of Banco Urquijo;
- Enrique de Sendagorta Aramburu, CEO of Banco de Vizcaya;
- Carlos Mira, secretary of Osorio and member of the Board of the Queen;
- Iván Maura, friend of Ignacio Coca;
- Fernando Ybarra, adviser for the Bank of Vizcaya;
- Manuel Arburúa, president of the Banco Exterior;
- Luis Valls Taberner, president of Banco Popular.
- Alfonso Escámez, president of the Central Bank excused his absence, for being out of Madrid.8
This list reads like a ‘Who’s Who’ of the Spanish ruling class. These are the men who really ruled Spain. They were understandably concerned at the dangerous situation that had arisen and had lost all confidence in the existing government. These hard-headed men of business were quite prepared to support the fascist regime as long as it guaranteed them a suitable business environment – that is to say, a suitable means of extracting the maximum profits from the working people of Spain. But the party was over. They had to find a way out of the social and political impasse. The change of leadership was needed. But could they trust the men who were to implement it? They had come to listen to three young politicians: Miguel Primo de Rivera y Urquijo, Alfonso Osorio and Adolfo Suárez. The last name evidently caused a favourable impression.
Naturally, no minutes of this meeting were kept and it is not possible to know precisely what was said. But it is fairly easy to imagine what the main contents consisted of.
The first political intervention was given by Miguel Primo de Rivera, who explained the reform projects, with similes between democracy and beautiful ladies, which caused great success among the audience. Then, Alfonso Osorio expanded on the political situation, making counter-arguments to the bankers for their passivity.
And, finally, Adolfo Suárez explained something that was self-evident to his audience: that to set up a political party one requires a large amount of cash.
His reflections included the request of 500 million to create a group that responded to the needs of the Spanish right. As happens in these cases, at the end there was a colloquium of which it is worth noting, for its clarity of ideas, the intervention of Emilio Botín: “Let’s not play at the frontón (court in Basque ball sport) … we need a situation of continuity … that makes the action viable”, closing his words with the motto: “Money and organisation.”9
Adolfo Suárez must have been nervous, but outwardly he displayed no signs of his nervousness. He spoke with quiet confidence, every word calculated to soothe the anxieties of the banking fraternity, conscious of the vital importance of this meeting and the need to speak a language that the bankers could understand. He will have dispensed with his usual bland manner, the smiles and friendly gestures that served to impress the fascist bureaucrats of the National Movement. That particular mask had served its purpose and had to be put aside. Instead, a new mask was put on: the mask of an earnest and dedicated professional politician – strong man, a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it.
His tone would have been serious and business-like. On the one hand, he had to give due weight to the seriousness of the situation, while, on the other hand, impressing upon his audience the fact that he – and he alone – had the magical solution to all their problems. It was precisely the message that his attentive audience wished to hear.
The meeting lasted until after three o’clock in the morning, at which time the bankers, according to their own testimony, went back to their homes excited by the convincing manner of that Suárez fellow.10
The bankers were certainly convinced Adolfo Suárez was their man. The favourable comments of the bankers following this encounter were more than sufficient proof that he had succeeded in convincing the most important audience of all: not the millions of Spaniards who would cast their votes in the ballot box, not even the army generals who were still under the spell of the old regime that had served them well for almost four decades, not the Church with all its power and influence, not the mass media either.
The votes that counted most for Adolfo Suárez were those of a dozen or so wealthy bankers, who held in their hands the reins of power before Franco was ever heard of, throughout the grim years of fascist dictatorship, during the so-called democratic transition, and right up to the present day. He now had the bankers in his pocket. More correctly, they had him in theirs.
The Law of Political Reform
The time had come for drastic action from above to head off revolution from below. It was necessary to act, and to act quickly. Very soon, Suárez nailed his colours firmly to the mast. With the alacrity of a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he produced a Law of Political Reform. It called for the election of a two-chamber Cortes elected by universal suffrage: A Congress of Deputies elected on the basis of proportional representation. The king would be asked to grant an amnesty for political and opinion crimes; general elections would be held before 30 July 1977.
In addition, there would be dialogue with the opposition, even with political organisations that were still illegal; there was a vague reference to national reconciliation and recognition of the diversity of the peoples of Spain, a recognition that in the same breath insisted upon the indissoluble unity of the country. However, between issuing a statement of intent and carrying it into practice, there were a number of hurdles to be jumped over. According to the fundamental laws of the Franco regime that were still in place, any bill would first have to be approved by the existing Cortes. Since that body was packed with flunkies of the old regime, this was approximately like turkeys being asked to vote for Christmas.
At the plenary session of the Cortes held on 9 July 1976, Adolfo Suárez looked like a blindfolded man walking over a minefield. He spoke tremblingly at first, as always trying to be all things to all men – a hint to the right with a reverential reference to Generalissimo Franco; then hint to the left with an appeal for peace and reconciliation between all Spaniards.
On 16 July, the government programme was made public. Two days later, a shadowy terrorist organisation called the First of October Anti-fascist Resistance Groups (Grupos de Resistencia Antifascista Primero de Octubre, GRAPO) made its first public appearance, blowing up several artefacts and launching a campaign of violence that would last the entire Transition. GRAPO, because of its secretive underground structure, was easily infiltrated and manipulated by the intelligence services, with the aim of undermining the movement for democracy, or at least it was tolerated as its actions played into the hands of reaction.
The state apparatus had acquired a certain independence of action with respect to the bourgeoisie during the Franco period. This permitted the openly fascist elements to carry out actions, which did not always correspond to the needs and interests of the Spanish ruling class. Such bloody actions threatened to provoke the anger of the masses, and such a scenario could have given rise to a very dangerous situation. Terrorist actions organised by the extreme right and part of the state apparatus did not suit the interests of the ruling class at that time. The problem was that it could not do without this apparatus, which it carefully maintained and protected as an insurance policy for the future.
The struggle between reformers and counter-revolutionaries continued in parliament. Choking with rage, the extreme right wing continued their attempts to sabotage the reform. What became known in some circles as ‘the Battle of the Law of Political Reform’ took place in the month of November 1976. It lasted two-and-a-half days, and ended yet again, with the victory of the government. For the last time, Torcuato Fernández-Miranda was able to display his talent for intrigue. But Torcuato was always present, keeping the snarling dogs under control through his unparalleled domination of the art of political manoeuvring, while calming the jangling nerves of a worried Adolfo Suárez.
After an interminably long discussion, the report of the government was accepted. He got what he wanted: a large majority of 425 votes in favour, fifty-nine against and thirteen abstentions. Suárez was warmly congratulated by all sides – whether sincerely or not is another matter. At any rate, the vote was quite conclusive. Then they all went home. This was how the last Cortes of General Franco died – not with a bang but a whimper.
By pulling all the available strings, Suárez had succeeded in his immediate objective. The decisive nature of this vote gives us a very clear idea of the real balance of forces, not just in the Cortes but in Spanish society. The old guard was forced to surrender to the reformers, although kicking and screaming all the while. To consolidate his victory Suárez again moved swiftly to put his plan to a referendum the following month.
Now Adolfo was feeling supremely confident – so confident that he felt able to dispense with the services of his old mentor, Torcuato Fernández-Miranda, who found himself politically isolated and increasingly irrelevant. Having given Suárez a helping hand to climb the slippery ladder to the top, Torcuato now found himself superfluous to requirements. Instead of appearing as a protagonist of the new democratic order, he now seemed to be a useless relic of the old regime, who was cast aside without a second thought by his erstwhile disciple.
Not long before, when he was trying to persuade the king that Suárez was the right man for the job in hand, he had said that Suárez was “our man” precisely because he was two-faced. Now Fernández-Miranda had occasion to meditate on that phrase. He himself was the victim of that same two-faced man that he had so zealously promoted. On 3 May 1977, he offered his resignation to the king. He soon disappeared into the mists of political obscurity. The only question that remains to be answered is: did he fall, or was he pushed out of the window?
On one occasion it is said that Suárez exclaimed: “How could I not be grateful to Torcuato!? If I were not grateful, I should be extremely ill-bred!” But experience shows that in politics there is no gratitude. Once Torcuato Fernández-Miranda had served his purpose, Suárez saw no need to keep him by his side. He had climbed to the top of the ladder, and did not hesitate to kick it away and watch his former mentor fall to the ground.
The news of the resignation of the once-powerful Don Torcuato Fernández-Miranda would be made public on 1 July 1977, a couple of weeks after the electoral victory of President Suárez. It aroused no special interest other than among specialists in the minutiae of political intrigue. He spent the rest of his life in a semi-vegetative existence, old, embittered and utterly powerless – one of the spent cartridges lying on the field of a forgotten battle.
Unrest Among the Generals
Suárez had the backing of the decisive section of the Spanish ruling class, but still had to tread very carefully to avoid provoking an untimely reaction on the part of the Spanish generals and the die-hards of the old regime, who were watching his every step with growing alarm and distrust. Soon after the announcement of Suárez’s reform, there came the inevitable rumours of unrest among the generals. Suárez began to take action to purge the tops of the army. As a man hitherto trusted by the Right, he was the perfect candidate for this task. But this brought him into conflict with Juan Carlos, who strongly opposed such actions.
But Suárez, buoyed up by his recent successes, pressed on. He knew better than most that, while the generals made a lot of noise, they were not in a position to act. Suárez attempted to purge the tops of the army by retiring the most recalcitrant generals to the reserve. However, when it came to General Fernando de Santiago y Díaz de Mendívil, things became complicated.
De Santiago maintained friendly relations with the Chilean Military Junta who had overthrown the elected government of Salvador Allende. He was also known to be conspiring with fascist elements like Gonzalo Fernández de la Mora and other prominent figures of the Franco dictatorship. He clashed with Adolfo Suárez in violent rows that degenerated into personal insults. According to Morán, in one of these confrontations the general even threatened to bring out the tanks, to which the president pointed out that the death penalty still existed in Spain.11
In such a situation it was very clear that Fernando de Santiago y Díaz de Mendívil would have to be removed from his post. But this was problematic. Not only was he the first vice-president of the government and carried a lot of weight in military circles, he was also close to Juan Carlos, who opposed his removal. In the end, the threats of the reactionaries came to nothing. The dismissal of General de Santiago was followed by the appointment of General Gutiérrez Mellado, a ‘reformist’ officer. The generals muttered, complained and cursed, but did nothing. The tanks stayed where they were, Juan Carlos sulked in a corner of his palace, and the process of reform continued its lumbering journey onwards.
Morán writes:
The king was indignant about the decision that was taken despite the fact that he had advised against it. It also meant a direct collision of the president with Alfonso Armada, the king’s personal confidante; this was the first thread in a complicated web that finally resulted in the coup d’état of 23 February 1981.12
Commenting on the dismissal of De Santiago, El País published an article written by its main political commentator, Ricardo de la Cierva, entitled ‘This Was Not a Dismissal’, in which he expressed his dismay at the sacking of this reactionary general. The servile tone of the article adequately conveys the nervousness of the liberals who were always cowering before the military:
“If political commentators can render any important service to the community today, it will be to recognise just how much Spain owes to men like Fernando de Santiago y Díaz de Mendívil”.13
It is impossible to read these lines today without a profound sense of indignation. What services did these fascist generals ever render to Spain, other than to massacre its people and tread their rights underfoot for decades?
In point of fact, the alleged threat of fascist reaction was greatly exaggerated. The actual fascist forces at this time were a negligible quantity in Spanish politics. They were tiny, although virulent, sects whose speciality was to sow terror on the streets and committing kidnapping and murder. But in the elections, they scarcely even registered.
By this time, the movement towards reform had become unstoppable. The reality of the situation was that the old regime was in a state of prostration. The impotence of the forces of reaction was finally exposed by the collapse of its resistance in the final debates in the National Council of the National Movement – the last bunker of the old regime – and in the Cortes. The first took place on 8 October: the last meeting of Franco’s Upper Chamber, where Torcuato Fernández-Miranda had to explain to the last remnants of the Franco regime that their time was finally up.
The final battle over Suárez’s Reform took place in the Cortes in November 1976, when after two-and-a-half days of intense wrangling, arm-twisting, bribery and intrigues, as we have seen, Torcuato and Suárez won a crushing majority. They had cleared the first hurdle. The stage was now set for the second and most decisive stage.
Suárez and the opposition
So far, Suárez had succeeded in overcoming the resistance of the bunker. But the latter had already been severely weakened. That weakness was clearly exposed in the result of the vote in the Cortes. But Suárez knew that his reform proposals could only succeed if he managed to get the support of the people who had authority with the mass movement.
From 26 March 1976, the opposition was grouped under the name of Democratic Co-ordination. This was a fusion of two groups: The Democratic Junta and the Democratic Convergence Platform, dominated respectively by the PCE and PSOE. The formation of the new coalition did not remove the contradictions between the Socialist Party and the Communist Party but, if anything, intensified them. There was a fierce rivalry between them; both were constantly striving to gain an advantage.
It is said that there are many ways to kill a cat, and one of them is to choke it with cream. By involving them in this enticing minuet, Suárez got the socialists and communists to finally dance to his tune. Suárez’s tactic was obvious: to destroy the fragile unity of this unstable bloc, negotiating separately with each of the forces and playing one against the other. One by one, he would draw the leaders of the left opposition into a complicated game, combining concessions with the threat of repression, cajoling, flattering, granting a little, and promising a lot to each of them in turn.
He would turn on his charm – the same charming smiles that had so beguiled his masters in the old days of his rise to power in the National Movement. Enchanted by his easy manner, his willingness to listen, his flexibility and good sense, they would drop their guard and become putty in his hands.
His first and easiest target was Felipe González, the general secretary of the PSOE. This was easy because, even under Arias, the PSOE was more or less tolerated, in part as a result of the intrigues of the German government and its stooges in the SPD (which we will deal with in a subsequent chapter). Felipe González was well aware that the PSOE was in no position to compete with the PCE, which enjoyed a crushing superiority in numbers and organisation.
The Socialist Party leaders were continuously looking over their shoulder, nervously wondering whether their collaboration with Suárez would compromise them in the eyes of the masses and their own members. If they left the Communist Party out in the cold, would this not be held against them? They need not have worried. From September 1976 Adolfo Suárez and Santiago Carrillo were in regular, though secret, contact. The PCE leader had already jumped into bed with Suárez and was hardly in a position to criticise Felipe González from the left.
The leaders of the Socialist Party desperately needed a few months in which to gain an advantage over the communists after years of stagnation in the underground. Adolfo Suárez was only too willing to provide them with assistance. On 10 August, one month after his appointment, the new president held his first interview with Felipe González. This enabled the PSOE to hold its first party congress inside Spain since the Civil War, immediately following the referendum.
In December 1976, one week before the Referendum for Political Reform, the government of Adolfo Suárez allowed the celebration of the Twenty-Seventh Congress of the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party in Madrid. Felipe González seized the opportunity with both hands. He was quite willing to sell out the PCE in order to gain a head start in the race that led to the December Referendum. The Party’s legalisation followed swiftly in February 1977. The advantage given to Felipe González by Suárez caused friction inside the parties of the opposition, which was another part of Suárez’s plan.
The meetings of Adolfo Suárez with the political leaders of the opposition formed part of a carefully worked out plan. Certain concessions, of course, would have to be made. But it was to be understood that none of these changes would affect the vital interests of the regime itself. Herein lies the essence of the so-called democratic transition in Spain. He aimed to break the common front of opposition parties (which was already sufficiently frayed by mutual rivalry and the scramble to obtain maximum advantage), and above all to marginalise the Communist Party. Part of the plan was to promise the most seductive advantages if they agreed to participate in this cynical manoeuvre. The plan worked.
The December Referendum
An entirely artificial spirit of optimism was manufactured for public consumption, which promoted the idea of democracy in much the same way as TV advertisements promote soap powder and toothpaste. This was reflected in some of the appallingly bad pop music of the period. They had even devised sugary little songs containing soothingly democratic hints with which to accompany their soothing speeches. I remember one particularly horrid example, the words of which were something like:
Freedom, freedom
For we want freedom without anger,
Forget your fear and anger.
Because there is freedom without anger
And if there is no freedom now,
There surely will be.
(Libertad, libertad
Sin ira libertad,
Guárdate tu miedo y tu ira,
Porque hay libertad,
Sin ira libertad,
Y si no la hay sin duda la habrá.)
Of course, it was all a gigantic fraud from start to finish. The most important words in this song was not liberty but “sin ira” – “without anger”. After forty years of savage repression, the Spanish people had every right to be angry, and to demand justice and the settling of accounts. But this was to be denied to them. The liberties so loudly proclaimed and oft-repeated were still of an imaginary character: a juicy carrot dangled before the noses of a hungry population. And the political centre that promised so much finally turned out to be a gigantic zero.
While pop singers were singing beautiful melodies about freedom without anger, and the leaders of the PCE and PSOE were constantly repeating the need for reconciliation, the regime, far from forgetting its anger, was lashing out like a wounded beast, beating, torturing and murdering without any hesitation or restraint. While Suárez’s attention was concentrated on manoeuvres and intrigues at the top, the mood at the bottom was seething. The announcement of reform created a new mood of militancy and confidence in the masses, while the fascists and reactionaries intensified their provocations.
On May Day in Madrid the Guardia Civil tore into peaceful demonstrators with horse-whips and fired tear-gas grenades into metro stations where workers had taken refuge. Later that month, the Basque Country was rocked with a general strike in support of the demand for the release of all remaining political prisoners. In response to the violence of the police, which led to several deaths, the workers were building barricades.
Just over five months later, on 18 November 1976, the Political Reform Act was passed. The reform included abolition of the National Movement, the legalisation of political parties and trade unions and the right to strike and the establishment of a two-tier legislative chamber. On Wednesday 15 December, the Reform was put to the vote in a referendum, which paved the way for the country’s first real election in forty-one years on 15 June 1977.
However, this did not mean that the rulers of Spain had suddenly been converted to the charms of democracy, or that they would voluntarily hand power to the people they had oppressed for forty years. Throughout history, no ruling class has ever surrendered its power and privileges without a struggle. No devil has ever cut off his own claws. If the Spanish ruling elite had changed its tactics, that was not for any sentimental reasons, but only because it was forced upon them by the massive movement of the Spanish working class over the previous ten years. They were left with two alternatives: either make some concessions from above, or face the total overthrow of the regime by a movement from below. Despite this, they continued to put obstacles in the path of genuine democracy.
To begin with, the opposition parties were excluded from participation in the referendum campaign. They advocated abstention. But when, given the possibility, however limited, of striking a blow against the dictatorship, the people turned out to vote massively. With a participation of more than seventy-seven per cent, the favourable votes were ninety-four per cent, while just 2.5 per cent voted against. Spoilt votes amounted to only three per cent. Faced with even the slightest chance of putting an end to the dictatorship by voting, the masses had no hesitation in approving a reform, on the basis that something is always better than nothing. It was a setback to the opposition and an important boost for Suárez, to whom they had given every assistance.
The result surprised the government. Although the official data at that time cannot be regarded as reliable, they clearly indicated a victory as emphatic as that of the Cortes. The triumph in the referendum metamorphosis seemed to have gone to Adolfo’s head. Dizzy with success, he acquired an exaggerated sense of his own importance. He no longer considered it necessary to consult the king over major decisions. He did not even bother to inform him about serious matters. During these days Suárez permitted himself the luxury of turning up late to his appointments in the Zarzuela Palace.
His hand having been greatly strengthened by the results of the referendum, Suárez used his success to open formal talks with the opposition ‘Committee of Nine’. As a matter of fact, the exclusion of the opposition was only relatively true. All this time, talks had been conducted in secret between Suárez and González. In the same month as the referendum, the Socialist Party (PSOE) held its first congress in forty years inside Spain. But there was a price to be paid for this. González accepted that the party would abandon its long-held republican beliefs and recognise the monarchy. He soon got his reward. In February the PSOE was legalised.
[1] Gregorio Morán, Adolfo Suárez: Ambición y destino, p. 21.
[2] Quoted in Gregorio Morán, Adolfo Suárez: Ambición y destino, p. 75.
[3] Ibid., p. 77. My emphasis, AW.
[4] Ibid., p. 91.
[5] Paul Preston, The Triumph of Democracy in Spain, Taylor & Francis, 1986, p. 92.
[6] From the film Amadeus.
[7] Quoted in Gregorio Morán, Adolfo Suárez: Ambición y destino, p. 103.
[8] Ibid., p. 81.
[9] Ibid., p. 81.
[10] Ibid., p. 81.
[11] Ibid., p. 115.
[12] Ibid., pp. 114-5.
[13] Quoted in ibid., p. 115.