8. Seven Days in January: “A Superficial, Controlled Democracy”
The Financial Times, the journal of the British bankers and capitalists, commented on 9 June 1977:
Inevitably the rules have been affected by the entrenched members of the Franco regime seeking to ensure a superficial, controlled democracy weighed against the vociferous demands of the left.
The fraudulent nature of the reform immediately became evident. Behind a smokescreen of democracy, the old repressive institutions continued to function just as when Franco was alive. But even this was too much for the section of the ruling class and the state whose interests were closely bound up with the maintenance of the status quo. Subsequent events sharply exposed the splits at the top.
Fraga Iribarne created Alianza Popular, a formation that gathered together almost the entire Francoist right. This party represented the continuation of the old Franco gang under a different flag. Seven former Franco ministers participated in its founding. It subsequently morphed into the so-called Popular Party.
Extreme right-wing paramilitary groups, the Warriors of Christ the King (Guerrilleros de Cristo Rey) and the Apostolic Anti-Communist Alliance (the AAA) were attacking workers’ organisations. These shadowy organisations were in fact operating in collaboration with the state and the intelligence services. They were mainly made up of off-duty police. The last-named group was responsible for the Atocha murders in Madrid.
The ruling class utilised their services as an auxiliary arm of the state to terrorise the working class. They were useful to it in the same way as a vicious guard dog is useful to protect the dwellings of rich citizens who live a life of luxury behind the safety of high walls. But the owner is well aware that such animals may one day turn on their master and bite him and his family. They are therefore generally kept on a tight leash. Despite the spectacular nature of these violent actions, the fascist organisations had no real power. They were either manipulated or directly controlled by the secret services of the state.
It is a significant fact that each decisive turning point in the Transition was accompanied by a spectacular action by a mysterious terrorist organisation that called itself the GRAPO. On 11 December 1976, this previously unknown group emerged apparently from nowhere to carry out a daring kidnap. The victim was a member of one of the most powerful families in the Basque Country, Antonio María de Oriol y Urquijo, the right-wing president of the advisory Council of State. The kidnapping was carried out in broad daylight, and the timing was significant: just four days before the referendum intended to ratify the government’s programme of political reform. It had all the hallmarks of a deliberate act of provocation.
Other provocations followed in rapid succession. At the beginning of January 1977, a sector of the state apparatus, in complicity with fascist bands and organisations, the Fuerza Nueva and the Guerrilleros de Cristo Rey, launched an organised campaign of action, designed to create a climate of terror, in order to justify a military coup. On 23 January, the Argentinian fascist Jorge Cesarski shot and killed a student from Madrid, Arturo Ruiz, at a pro-amnesty rally in Madrid. Earlier that day, the same shadowy outfit kidnapped Lieutenant General Emilio Villaescusa. Fascist gangs roamed the streets of Madrid provoking and terrorising the people.
The murder of Arturo Ruiz sparked a wave of fury. There were virtually uninterrupted demonstrations and acts of protest on the streets of Madrid. The mood was especially strong in the universities, which were practically paralysed, with around 100,000 students on strike, and more than 30,000 participating in assemblies and rallies. Approximately 115,000 took part in the demonstrations that morning.
Vicente López Tofiño, then a leading activist in the telephone exchange, recalls that moment:
We workers were already on the streets, and then the students came out. I remember going to the universities to address mass meetings of students, and to explain the workers’ demands to them and appeal to them to join the fight, which they did. That struggle involved almost everyone, but the students played a very important part in that battle. I remember the Atocha demonstration, over there in Embajadores. I remember Aluche too, where they opened fire on us under the railway viaduct. Everywhere, the students were very active. There was a real explosion on all sides.
Taking their cue like trained actors, the forces of the state reacted with extreme brutality. At 11.30 in the morning the forces of public order carried out the forcible eviction of the law school of the Complutense University, throwing smoke bombs into the building. But the students would not be intimidated. They still poured onto the streets of the Moncloa and the surrounding districts. At the height of the agitation, armed plainclothes police appeared amongst the demonstrators, flailing with their truncheons. But no amount of repression could stop the demonstrations. Chased out of one part of Madrid, groups of people also tried to protest in other areas of the capital. Street protests erupted near the Plaza del Callao, La Estrella, the Bilbao roundabout and San Bernardo, where improvised barricades were thrown up, using benches and other objects.
The Murder of María Luz
It was in one of these protests that the student María Luz Nájera was brutally slain by the police. She was just twenty-one years of age. From a poor family, she lived in the working-class district of Alameda de Osuna in Madrid. She was a third-year student at the Complutense University in the Faculty of Political Science and Sociology. Ana Muñoz, who was studying in the same faculty, remembers her as a quiet, pretty young girl who was, like many others, beginning to awaken to political life.
Ana recalls the tragic events of that day:
The repression was at its worst in 1977, precisely when the regime was talking about ‘reform’. There was a student demonstration in the morning to protest against the murder of Arturo Ruiz. Mari Luz expressed a wish to participate on the demonstration, and asked me to accompany her, as it was the first time she had been on a protest. I agreed. Of course, I had no idea of what was going to happen that day – the same day they murdered the lawyers in Atocha.
We went to the demonstration and there were a lot of people. As usual, the police had received information about the demonstration and were waiting for us. They charged with batons, beating the students mercilessly to the ground and firing smoke bombs and tear gas. The demonstration broke up in disorder, with people fleeing from the police in all directions. In the confusion I was separated from Mari Luz. I had no idea what happened afterwards. But some hours later, listening to the radio, I learned that a young female student had been killed. To my horror I realised that this student was Mari Luz. She was killed when one of the police fired a smoke canister directly at her. She received the full impact of this murderous missile in her face, which was shattered.
She was rushed to the clinic of La Concepción, but it was too late. She died from her terrible injuries. I was completely devastated by the news. The policeman who carried out this vicious act knew perfectly well what he was doing. These heavy metal objects were supposed to be fired into the air. When aimed directly at people, they became deadly weapons. This was nothing less than an act of deliberate, cold-blooded murder.
The following day, classes were suspended at the Complutense University “as a sign of protest for the events that occurred and as a manifestation of mourning for the death of Miss María Luz Nájera” and at the Autonomous University as a testimony of condolence and solidarity. More than 3,000 people attended the funeral. The funeral procession, in which a group of students carried a black banner with white letters where you could read “Mari Luz, your faculty colleagues will not forget you”, walked the kilometre to the cemetery, singing the Internationale and their arrival was greeted with stormy applause.
Forty years later these wounds have not healed. Ana Muñoz remarked bitterly:
Even in those days this was an illegal action, since the smoke canisters should have been fired into the air, not directly at demonstrators. But such legal matters were of no concern to the regime or its police, and nobody was ever prosecuted for the murder of an innocent young girl on her first demonstration. Probably this murderer is still alive and enjoying a good pension.
The murder of Mari Luz was the most tragic case that morning. But there were many other victims. The balance of wounded during the demonstrations in Madrid, according to a note provided by the Civil Government, was as follows:
Francisco Galera, aged twenty-one, with head trauma, concussion and left temporal fracture. Severe prognosis. Those with lesser injuries included: Juan Domingo Sánchez, eighteen years old; Pedro Lastra, nineteen years old; Ángel Izarra, seventeen years old; Laureano Fernández, forty-eight years old; María Ester Moreno, nineteen years old, Víctor Huezzman, twenty years old; Luz García García, nineteen years old. All of them were treated in the San Bernardo sanitary centre.
The ages of the victims speak for themselves. These were just young kids who were fighting for freedom and justice against an oppressive system. They were brutally beaten, hospitalised, arrested and in some cases, imprisoned. Manuel Miguel Avilés, twenty-three years old, and Jordi Bárquez, also twenty-three years old, were interned. But the murder of Mari Luz did not receive the publicity it deserved, because it was immediately overshadowed by another bloody atrocity.
The Atocha Massacre
Even while these events were taking place, the Armoured Division, commanded by General Milans del Bosch, were conducting exercises with armoured cars – a gentle reminder to the people and government of Spain that the forces of reaction were alive and well under the new democratic regime.
The mood was thick with tension, like the suffocating atmosphere before the storm. It broke on 24 January, when a group of armed men calmly walked into the offices of the labour lawyers of the Workers’ Commissions in Atocha No. 55 in Madrid. They riddled with bullets everyone they found there. The victims were the lawyers Luís Javier Benavides, Francisco Javier Sauquillo and Enrique Valdelvira, the student Serafín Holgado and the administrative worker Ángel Rodríguez Leal, who was the first to die.
A former telephone worker, Ángel was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I spoke to his brother, José Luís Rodríguez Leal, who explained the circumstances of this atrocious murder:
My brother, Ángel, worked at Telefónica as I did as well. He was one of those workers who were dismissed following the 1976 strike. They sacked workers who were ordinary workers, not union enlaces, as they did not have the same rights as the latter. A worker who was fired was automatically thrown out onto the street. Those of us who were union enlaces could not be fired without a court ruling to approve the dismissal. Ángel was one of the first people sacked. That was in May 1976 and I was dismissed in March 1977, after a trial.
A very significant fact of solidarity and organisation of the workers was the setting up of a resistance fund to pay the wages of those dismissed. When the workers got paid every month, we passed by the work centres and collected money to pay the wages of those that were dismissed. The resistance fund (Caja de resistencia) was organised in Atocha, where the labour law firm let us use a small office where those dismissed from Telefónica could meet every day, to keep up morale and activity and organise the resistance fund. Every month they would take out a sheet with the money that had been collected and see which people had been paid. The whole thing was transparent and well organised.
While this resistance fund was being organised in Atocha, an administrative worker left his job. My brother, who had many leadership skills and was known to the Atocha lawyers for his capable administration of the resistance fund was asked to help out: “Hey, Ángel, an admin vacancy has come up. Do you want to come and work with us?” My brother agreed straight away, because in this way, the resistance fund would no longer have to pay his salary, so my brother began to work in the office in September 1976.
Ángel was working in the office the night the attack occurred. An unfortunate accident cost him his life. My brother went down to the street to join some other colleagues from Telefónica who were having a beer, when he said: “Damn! I have forgotten the Mundo Obrero” (the PCE newspaper). Excusing himself, he rose from the table and went back into the office where he came face to face with the fascist gunmen. He went upstairs, and just at that moment, the gunmen came in. They shot him at point-blank range. He didn’t stand a chance. If he had gone up ten minutes later, it might have saved his life, but such are the paradoxes of history.
In addition to those who were shot dead, there were also a number of wounded people, all of them serious: Miguel Sarabia, Alejandro Ruíz Huerta, Luís Ramos and Dolores González Ruíz.
Mood of Anger
That morning I left my flat in the working-class district of Carabanchel Alto. In the patio I saw the porter in his blue overalls sweeping the floor with a broom. The man’s name was Felipe and he was from the province of Jaén in Andalusia. I had never had any conversation with him about politics, since I had no reason to assume that he was in any way left wing, or involved in politics of any kind.
I wished him good morning and asked him if he had seen the news. I will never forget the look of blazing anger on his face as he replied, brandishing his broom in the air as if it were a club: “If I could get hold of those sons of bitches, I would kill them,” he snarled. I had absolutely no doubt that he meant it.
This man was by no means a politically advanced worker. In fact, most of the porteros (caretakers) were regarded with suspicion by underground activists, since many acted as informants and spies for the police. If the Atocha murders had had this effect on him, it must have had an enormous impact on the great majority of working-class people in Madrid. This small incident, doubtless of small significance in itself, accurately conveyed the mood that existed in the working class at that moment.
Millions of people poured onto the streets, prepared to fight fascism. These brutal murders provoked a mood of fury in the working class. The government was stricken by panic at the prospect of the possible reaction of the masses. The situation was explosive and the possibility of a general strike or even an insurrection was on the order of the day. The temperature was white hot at that moment. The funeral of the lawyers turned into a huge demonstration that brought Madrid to a standstill.
I asked Tofiño how many people there were in that demonstration:
What can I say? Many figures have been given. A million? It could be. It is hard to know, but it was huge. What I do remember is that I brought people to the funeral who had never fought, they did not have a left conscience and yet in that moment they were profoundly impressed. I think that it was a turning point in the struggles going on in that moment and the fight against the dictatorship. Fear, there was always fear, always… But it had a big impact. I believe that it did help to raise awareness, a hatred against that regime and a determination to end it.
The indignation and anger threatened to erupt at any moment. But the PCE leaders did their utmost to defuse any protest whatsoever, and they mainly succeeded. The whole country would have responded to a call for a general strike. The workers were ready for anything. But the leaders of the PCE saw things quite differently. As always, they saw the mass movement not as a means of bringing about a fundamental change in society but merely as a highly convenient bargaining chip in the game that they were playing with the government.
More than 300,000 workers went on strike in Madrid on 26 January, the day of the burial of the victims. Major strikes and demonstrations also erupted in the Basque Country. All the conditions for a general strike were present. Mundo Obrero1 estimated that over 5 million took part in actions to celebrate May Day, despite repression. But Carrillo was determined to apply the brakes. El freno (the brake) was actually the name given to the PCE’s change of tactics in 1977, when it called a halt to strikes and street mobilisations to try to convince Suárez of their moderation and desire for co-operation.
Carrillo saw in this critical situation an opportunity, not to take power, but on the contrary to prove to the government that the communists, far from seeking to take power by revolutionary means, were in fact the most effective bulwark against chaos and anarchy. Carrillo would prove, not by words but by deeds, that the Communist Party was the only force in Spain that had the power to control the masses and lead the mass movement into peaceful and harmless channels. He told the press:
We must support the government. […]
The attacks that have seen victims in recent days of the young Arturo Ruiz, María Luz Nájera, labour lawyers, members of the PCE and armed police and civil guards, are all part of a plan aimed at destabilising the peaceful course of the dictatorship to democracy. Faced with this plan, the democratic forces have not hesitated to support the government, to carry out national reconciliation against the plotters and murderers, who even if they put on their leftist clothes, are clearly manipulated by the fascist right.2
The Party leaders decreed that no flags or slogans were permitted on the demonstration, which was to proceed in silence. The PCE deployed a formidable number of stewards consisting of several thousand militants to ensure that these orders were carried out. They quickly silenced any slogans or chants and prevented the display of any banners or placards, if necessary, by force. The workers were compelled to march in silence, choking on their rage.
Those who marched on that day had mixed feelings. On the one hand, the sight of innumerable workers marching silently through the streets of Madrid was an impressive display of the power of the working class. But for whom was this display intended? There can be no doubt that the leaders of the PCE were anxious to demonstrate to the bourgeoisie that they could be trusted to keep the masses in check.
Carrillo was obsessed with the idea of arriving at a consensus with Suárez. The whole idea was to facilitate the possibility of moving towards a broad, inter-party government, the so-called gobierno de concentración. Mass revolutionary mobilisations had no place whatsoever in this strategy. Indeed, they were in complete contradiction to it.
Carrillo and the other PCE leaders were only interested in pursuing their intrigues and manoeuvres at the top. To that extent, they succeeded. The conduct of the PCE leaders at the funeral of the Atocha victims and their acceptance of the flag of the monarchy finally convinced even the most apprehensive bourgeois of the need to legalise the PCE, despite the protests of the military caste, so that they might control the workers’ movement ‘from a position of legality’.
Operation Gladio: the Italian Connection
The events which I now relate may seem very strange, improbable, even impossible, to many people today. In retrospect, they would appear to resemble a James Bond movie, rather than reality. But they were real enough. They tell a tale of sinister intrigue, corruption, murder, and a tangled web of conspiracy that links fascist organisations and criminal gangs to the shadowy world of the secret services, the CIA and NATO, the Vatican and leading politicians in important European countries.
These connections are now very well documented. Anybody can check them simply by going on the internet. Daniele Ganser, a Senior Researcher at the Centre for Security Studies at the Federal Institute of Technology (ETH) in Zurich, Switzerland, has made an extensive study of right-wing terrorism in this period. His studies, and many others, show the extent to which the state is linked to crime and terrorism, and the lengths to which it will go to combat any move to change society, to defend the interests of the bankers and capitalists who really rule society. They also show the extent to which all these activities have been deliberately covered up, and how the perpetrators of mass murder have been protected from prosecution by the higher echelons of the state.
The gunmen who carried out the Atocha murders were members of a far-right group with connections to the army, the police and the information services. Behind this bloody deed was the hand, not only of the extreme right, but of elements of the state security services. The presence of foreign fascists in this conspiracy pointed to an even wider European connection. In the 1970s, that conspiracy had a name: Operation Gladio. The word Gladio is Latin for ‘sword’, and the sword that the state wielded against the working class was fascist terror. It is important to remember that Europe at the time was in the grip of a revolutionary ferment, which in turn was met by a wave of right-wing terrorism, organised by a mysterious counter-revolutionary organisation with links to state intelligence services and NATO.
The basis for the organisation known as Gladio was laid during the Second World War. After the War ended, the CIA (then known as the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS) forged an alliance with the Vatican, the Mafia and ex-Nazis to fight the Cold War against the former Soviet Union and the perceived threat of communism in Europe and the rest of the world. To this end, it set up a clandestine international network in NATO countries, including Belgium, Denmark, France, Germany, Greece, Italy, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Portugal and Turkey, as well as the neutral European countries of Austria, Finland, Sweden, Switzerland and Spain.
The most infamous branch of this international right-wing conspiracy was the Masonic Lodge known as P2, (Propaganda Due in Italian). This was an influential secret network that included in its ranks politicians, judges, bankers and senior military figures. Its tentacles extended throughout the upper echelons of the Italian establishment and state. Although the terrorist nature of this outfit was clearly established, and the identity of many of its leading members known, it was well protected by the state. In 1994, its influence in the judiciary and the police served to frustrate an attempt to have its members jailed for political conspiracy and attempting to destabilise the state.
The leader of this criminal gang was the notorious fascist Licio Gelli, who first became involved in politics as part of Benito Mussolini’s fascist movement. Later, he volunteered to fight with Franco’s forces during the Spanish Civil War. At the end of World War II, he participated in the fight against the anti-Nazi partisans in Italy. He later joined the neo-fascist MSI party. According to the Italian media, Gelli worked for the CIA during the war, at a time when the US secret services were also working with the Mafia in an effort to counter the influence of one of Europe’s biggest communist parties. In 1970, Gelli founded the P2 masonic lodge.
Gelli also spent part of the 1970s in exile in Argentina, where he forged close links with the bloody military dictatorship that took power in 1976. He was the Grandmaster of the P2 Lodge when it was finally outlawed. When P2 was under police surveillance, Gelli’s villa was raided and the police found a list of 962 members of the shadowy group. The list included top military officers in the Italian and Argentinian intelligence and security set up as well as important politicians, judges, media personalities and other prominent people. Among them was Silvio Berlusconi, the media tycoon who was to go on to become prime minister of Italy.
Paul L. Williams’ book, Operation Gladio: The Untold Story of the Unholy Alliance Between the Vatican, the CIA, and the Mafia, provides a wealth of well-researched details in a book with some 1,100 endnotes and footnotes. It sheds light on how the conspiracy unfolded, especially after Richard Nixon entered the White House in 1969. Under the new National Adviser, Henry Kissinger, the strategy of tension gained more impetus. He gave Licio Gelli the green light to carry out terror attacks and coup attempts. The United States and the Vatican channelled millions of dollars into these operations, most of it raised in dubious ways.
Williams shows how the Catholic Church was heavily involved in this sinister business. The Vatican collaborated with the CIA to set up Operation Condor in the early 1970s when the Opus Dei obtained the support from Chilean bishops for the overthrow of the democratically elected government of Salvador Allende on 11 September 1973. Williams shows that the pope backed the purging of the left-wing priests, preparing the way for Pinochet’s coup.3
The Opus Dei was closely collaborating with the CIA-funded organisations such as the fascist Fatherland and Liberty, which later formed the basic nucleus of Pinochet’s secret police, guilty of appalling mass murders and tortures. Under Pinochet, more than 4,000 Chileans died at the hands of his brutal regime. Thousands more disappeared, and more than 50,000 Chileans were tortured. Yet General Pinochet and all the other leaders of the Military Junta were all devout Catholics, who carried on this dirty business in the name of God and the Holy Catholic Church. And the Vatican remained loyal to them right to the end.
Even when General Pinochet was arrested in Britain for the murder of thousands of Chileans, the Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Angelo Sodano, wrote to the British government on behalf of the pope to demand his release. The same dirty war was being inflicted by the CIA on many Latin American countries – all with the blessing of the Vatican.
Right-Wing Terror in Italy
In Europe, Italy was the country worst affected by the actions of Gladio, which had its main European base there. That was no accident. The Italian Communist Party was the biggest in Europe outside the Soviet bloc. Just like Santiago Carrillo in Spain, its leaders were attempting to forge what they described as a historic compromise (Compromesso storico), in the hope of entering a coalition government with the Christian Democrats. Italy was also possibly the country in Europe where the class struggle had reached its greatest level of intensity, with mass strikes and demonstrations, and growing political radicalisation to the left of the Communist Party.
It was an Italian judge, Felice Casson, who first uncovered the evidence for state-sponsored terrorism, while browsing the archives of the Italian military secret service. In a BBC documentary on Operation Gladio, Casson described the operation as an attempt “to create tension within the country to promote conservative, reactionary social and political tendencies. While this strategy was being implemented, it was necessary to protect those behind it because evidence implicating them was being discovered. Witnesses withheld information to cover right-wing extremists.”
The first major attack in Europe took place on 12 December 1969 when a bomb went off in the lobby of Banca Nazionale Dell’Agricoltura in Milan, Italy. Seventeen people died in the explosion. Within an hour, three bombs exploded in Rome. The killers were found to be Carlo Maria Maggi, a doctor and a leading member of the neo-fascist New Order organisation, his associate Delfo Zorzi and another neo-fascist leader, Giancarlo Rognoni. However, the court acquitted a fourth defendant, Carlo Digilio, who claimed to have acted as an informant for the CIA.
The bombing inaugurated what became known as the ‘strategy of tension’, a terrorist plan intended to halt the country’s slide to the left. The bombing, following the usual pattern, was blamed on the left. It took eight trials to finally attribute it to the fascists, who were well connected. The court was told that the bombers enjoyed the aid and protection of Italian and US intelligence services, who were concerned that Italy might be slipping out of the Western sphere of influence.
The official figures show in the period between 1 January 1969 and 31 December 1987, Italy experienced 14,591 acts of violence with a political motivation, which resulted in 491 dead and 1,181 injured and maimed. Nearly 2,000 people would die from political murder or acts of terrorism over this period of time. Behind most, if not all, of these atrocities was Operation Gladio. Years later, a right-wing terrorist named Vincenzo Vinciguerra, stated from his prison, “I say that every single outrage that followed from 1969 fitted into a single organised matrix.”4
A large number of terror attacks also took place in other European countries from 1965 to 1981. In 1990, when the reactionary Italian ex-Prime Minister Andreotti was finally obliged to testify, he revealed that arms and equipment were provided by the CIA and placed in 139 underground caches across Italy. General Giandelio Maletti, a former head of Italian counter-intelligence, in March 2001, confirmed the CIA involvement. He stated that after the Piazza Fontana bombing in 1969, pieces of a bomb were planted in a leftist editor’s villa in order to blame the communists. He stated:
The CIA, following the directives of its government, wanted to create an Italian nationalism capable of halting what it saw as a slide to the left, and, for this purpose, it may have made use of right-wing terrorism.5
By far the worst atrocity was the bombing of Bologna Centrale railway station on the first Saturday of August 1980. It was a warm summer’s weekend, and the waiting room had air conditioning, so it was full of people sheltering from the heat. At 10.25 am a bomb left in a suitcase exploded. Seventy-six people died in the attack and a further 200 were wounded, including some whose injuries were so serious that they later died, bringing the total death toll to eighty-five. A large part of the train station was destroyed.
This bloody massacre of innocent men, women and children was attributed to the neo-fascist terrorist organisation Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (Armed Revolutionary Nuclei, NAR) and several members were convicted over the attack. But the investigation also uncovered murky links to organised crime groups and pointed to ties to the Italian secret service. The trial lasted decades, with appeals, acquittals, and multiple diversions – a new appeal trial began in 1993, largely due to lobbying from the Association of the Relatives of the Victims. Finally, several members of NAR, were sentenced for the bombing. However, it is likely that key individuals involved in planning the attack will never be brought to justice.
A common feature of all the urban terrorist groups that arose in Europe was that they were full of double agents planted by the secret intelligence services to provoke terrorist acts on demand. That was the case with GRAPO in Spain. There is no doubt that the Atocha assassins were also a product of state-sponsored terrorism, designed to prevent the legalisation of the Communist Party, break the negotiations of the government with the opposition, provoke a military coup and halt the movement towards democracy. The Atocha massacre was a classic case of this.
In 1980, Carlos García Juliá, who belonged to an ultra-right organisation, was sentenced to 193 years in prison by a Spanish court for his part in the Atocha murders. But in 1991, a judge gave him temporary parole. What should any self-respecting judge do when a man who has been sentenced to almost 200 years for a horrific multiple murder informs him that he has just received the offer of a job interview in Paraguay? The answer is self-evident: allow him to travel to Paraguay, on the strict condition that he returns to a Spanish jail as soon as possible.
The tender-hearted leniency shown to a fascist murderer who was supposed to be locked up for 193 years contrasts with the extreme severity of the punishments that are routinely inflicted by Spanish judges on people for even the mildest criticisms of the police, the monarchy or even God. It tells us everything we need to know about the state that the people of Spain have inherited from the regime of 1978. Unsurprisingly, the prisoner disappeared after the decision to release him was revoked shortly afterwards and Spain requested his immediate return so that he could serve out the remainder of his prison term. He never returned.
Nothing more was heard of him after that. Then, in December 2018, Spanish diplomatic sources confirmed that Carlos García Juliá, now sixty-five years old, was in the custody of Brazil’s Federal Police in the state of São Paulo. García Juliá is believed to have lived in Argentina, Venezuela and Bolivia before arriving in Brazil. In the mid-90s he was located in a prison in La Paz, Bolivia, for a drug trafficking affair to finance fascist groups. He then vanished again. At the time of his arrest in Brazil, the fugitive was pretending to be a Venezuelan citizen.
In July 2018, international co-operation and constant exchange of information between the police forces allowed the Federal Police of Brazil to detect García Juliá. After communicating it to the Spanish National Police, the request for his extradition was initiated. When carrying out the appropriate checks and checking the fingerprints, it was determined that he was the correct person, so that the documentary procedures to execute his detention and extradition to Spain were initiated. We are still awaiting the outcome.
The experience of Gladio now seems like something that happened a long time ago, something with no reference to the world of today. But such a conclusion would be profoundly erroneous and also dangerous. This experience proves that the ruling class, when faced with the possibility of overthrow, will stop at nothing to preserve its power and privileges. There have been many subsequent examples that prove this, although the shadowy world of the security services remains just as opaque and impenetrable now as it was then. The fig leaf of democracy and the comforting fiction of parliamentary control serves to conceal the harsh reality of a secret state within a state that continues to use methods that include torture and murder to suit its own ends.
These methods are hidden from the public view with great expertise, and only emerge, albeit partially, when there is some scandal or other. At the present time, in most advanced capitalist countries, the ruling class does not feel it necessary to resort to the kind of blatant terrorism that they used in the 1970s. But in the future, when the class struggle acquires a greater intensity, it is not at all ruled out that they will do so again. In fact, it is inevitable that they will do so. To blind oneself to these facts would be the greatest irresponsibility.
The intention of the Atocha murderers was not only to strike a blow against the Communist Party, but to destabilise the Transition, preparing the way for a right-wing backlash and restoration of the old regime. This was strictly in line with the aims of the Gladio conspiracy. But the gunmen achieved precisely the opposite results to what they had in mind.
There was indeed a massive backlash, but it drove Spain, not to the right, but in the opposite direction. The main beneficiaries of the massacre were the communists, who were widely seen as victims and heroic fighters against fascism. Some years later Martin Villa, who at that time was Minister of the Interior, said: “In that overwhelming manifestation of political serenity and maturity the Communist Party won its legalisation”.
The return of Carrillo
On 7 February 1976, a man secretly crossed the frontier in a Mercedes car wearing a wig and carrying forged papers. The suspicions of the police were aroused, or perhaps they had received a tip-off concerning the presence of an unwelcome guest. The man in the wig was none other than Santiago Carrillo, the leader of the outlawed Communist Party of Spain.
Santiago Carrillo could hardly conceal his irritation at this unexpected contretemps. The leaders of other political parties were working more or less openly, even if they were formally banned. For some time, Felipe González had been travelling back and forth across the frontier and was never questioned, even though he did not have a passport. But not Carrillo! The injustice of it all! Had he not given sufficient proof of his moderation, his political maturity and statesmanship?
Had he not given a press conference in Paris to Spanish journalists, in which he spoke of the need to forget the past, to ensure there were no acts of revenge, and that all progressive people should work towards national unity for the good of the country? Moreover, had he not insisted that the army must play an important role in the political future of Spain? Yes! He had done all this, and more. Why, in order to observe the strict letter of the law, he had even applied to the fascist Spanish Consular Authorities in Paris for a Spanish passport. For some reason, he did not get it. That is why he had to spend good money on the purchase of an uncomfortable wig, which frankly did not suit him at all.
And here he was, arrested. But what could be done? The PCE remained outlawed; hence Carrillo’s return to Spain was a clandestine one. The need to resolve this unsatisfactory state of affairs became priority number one for the PCE leader, as he stood quietly fuming while curious policemen looked at their prisoner as if he was a man from another planet – which, in effect, he was. The situation was most annoying for the PCE general secretary, because he felt that things were slipping out of his control. The plan had not worked out. But his arrest did not last long. A few phone calls from the president’s office, and he was freed by the end of the month. He had finally returned!
However, the PCE remained illegal and the PSOE, benefiting from the generous financial support of the German Social Democratic Party (SPD), as we shall show, was beginning to build an organisation capable of running an impressive campaign in parliamentary elections. The legalisation of the PCE was to become one of the most important components of the Transition. It was a move that was full of risks. But Santiago Carrillo was a gambler by nature, and was not averse to making a risky bet, providing the winnings were attractive enough.
For such a drastic step, it was necessary to prepare the ground thoroughly, and Carrillo set about this task immediately. Carrillo intensified his efforts to project a reasonable image, preaching harmony, peace and moderation, recognising the alleged democratic role of the monarchy, and so on. Overnight, the communists were no longer the bogeymen, but His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, anxious to maintain order and sign up to the joys of the transition towards democracy.
Above all, the PCE leader distinguished himself by his outspoken defence of the Suárez government. Carrillo later said: “My only criticism of Adolfo Suárez is that he is not a member of the Communist Party.” Whether the recipient of this flattering offer was pleased or embarrassed is not recorded. Despite all his efforts, however, the majority of the ruling class, including most of the ‘reformers’, still regarded the Communist Party with the deepest mistrust.
The Francoist Bunker remained implacably opposed to the legalisation of the PCE, and it had influential supporters in the king’s most immediate entourage. Fernández-Miranda agreed to the legalisation but with certain conditions, mainly that it should be held outside Spain, in part to convince the generals that the leader of the PCE was still an alien émigré in France, but in fact in order to ensure that he, and not Suárez, should be the one to conduct the negotiations.
The president himself must have regarded the idea of a personal meeting with the general secretary of the PCE with some degree of trepidation, though he knew it would be necessary at some stage. Suárez was afraid of the reaction of a section of the generals and the fascist ultras to these contacts with a man who had been regarded as the Devil incarnate for decades.
For his part, Suárez did not believe in the Devil. It is not even clear whether he believed in God, for that matter. But he believed in himself, his ability to charm people, to convince them, to manipulate men and bend them to his will. And Carrillo was a man, after all. Maybe they could do business…
It is highly likely that similar mental processes were maturing in Carrillo’s fertile brain. “I will have to deal with a lifelong fascist. So what? If necessary, one must be able to talk with the Devil himself. Of course, I will have to make concessions. That is all part of the game. But he will have to give me something in exchange – legalise the Party, to start with…”
That was all very reasonable. On the other hand, it was hardly in Carrillo’s interest that the rank-and-file militants, who were risking their lives in the underground struggle, should be aware of the content of the kind of discussions that he was conducting with the very same regime that was brutally repressing the workers’ movement. Well, if they don’t like it, that is just too bad. They will just have to accept…
To tell the truth, there was a remarkable similarity between the two men and a definite symmetry in their way of thinking. The psychology and methods of the bureaucracy in both cases have striking similarities. Both fascism and stalinism are totalitarian regimes, in which society is dominated by a cast of officials pursuing their own interests. In such regimes, free thinking is not encouraged. Discipline, order, routine, and above all obedience to one’s superiors are the fundamental principles.
Suárez spent his entire life in just such a machine, carefully climbing the ladder of promotion, one step at a time. Such a career would be entirely familiar to the average Soviet bureaucrat or Party apparatchik. It was also entirely familiar to Santiago Carrillo, who spent some years in the Soviet Union, patiently climbing the ladder to reach his coveted destination as general secretary of the Communist Party of Spain.
For such men, political principles count for very little, personal morality for even less. Everything is subordinated to personal advancement and ambition, which acts as the guiding principle for all else. If, in order to advance, or even to survive, it is necessary to abandon ideas, theories and principles that have been held all one’s life, that must be done without a second thought. If it is necessary to betray a colleague or a friend, so be it. In this way, unnecessary principles and moral scruples can be brushed aside like so many other obstacles in the path of personal advancement.
Thus, although they came from entirely different backgrounds, the two men had been educated in precisely the same bureaucratic spirit. They had the same psychology, shared the same aims and spoke the same language as one another. The manoeuvres and intrigues of the Byzantine Movimiento mirrored those of the Stalinist bureaucracy in Moscow with which Carrillo was perfectly acquainted. It is no wonder that they understood each other so well.
The chief purpose of this initial interview with Santiago Carrillo was to sound out his opinions and see how far he was prepared to collaborate with the government’s plans. As a sop to smooth the way, four imprisoned leaders (Luis Lucio Lobato, Francisco Romero Marín, Simón Sánchez Montero and Santiago Álvarez) were released. This is what fishermen call throwing a sprat to catch a mackerel.
“Come Into my Parlour, Said the Spider to the Fly”
Following the Eurocommunist line adopted by Berlinguer in Italy, Carrillo advocated a ‘historic compromise’ between conservatives and communists. He opposed the PSOE, not from the left but from the right, seeing its left rhetoric, as a danger to the ‘transition towards democracy’. But this ‘compromise’ benefited Adolfo Suárez and the UCD and not the PCE.
The general secretary of the Communist Party had for some time been indicating his willingness to enter into dialogue with elements in the regime. So, it was really a very simple matter for the latter to enter into contact with him. In fact, Suárez only had to lift his little finger for the leader of the PCE to come running. Adolfo Suárez and Santiago Carrillo maintained regular contact secretly through the mediation of the president of Europa Press, José Mario Armero. But while secret negotiations were taking place at the top, the violence of the regime was being unleashed mercilessly to repress the opposition on the streets.
These contacts had been established even before Carrillo returned to Madrid. On Sunday, 22 August 1976, government vice-president Alfonso Osorio made the first moves to establish contacts between the PCE and the government. Suárez and Osorio made use of the services of José Mario Armero, who travelled to Cannes to meet the exiled leader of the PCE.
There were no witnesses to the conversation between the two men, but it was typed out on several sheets and sent to Suárez for his consideration. All three representatives of the government (Suárez, Osorio and Armero) were struck (one might say, thunderstruck) by the moderation and realism shown by the leader of the PCE. The only thing he asked for was that they should explain to the generals that their opinions about the Communist Party were based on a misunderstanding.6
On 26 February 1977, José Mario Armero informed Jaime Ballesteros that President Suárez agreed to meet the PCE leader the following day.
The meeting of Suárez and Carrillo was duly held on 27 February and lasted approximately eight hours. In order to disguise his intentions, Suárez announced publicly that he was making a visit to Valencia. However, the president secretly returned to Madrid to meet with Santiago Carrillo in the mansion of José Mario Armero.
The two men met and exchanged pleasantries. Both were chain smokers, so the room was filled with clouds of smoke, as they tried to get an idea of what the other man was thinking. The way in which Suárez and Carrillo appeared to strike up a relationship that was not merely polite but warm and friendly has been frequently commented on, not without some surprise. But from the standpoint of human psychology it was not surprising at all. Morán writes:
The president was humble, following his customary style when dealing with proud people. Carrillo was safe until he began to expound upon some of his arbitrary economic measures such as the reintroduction in Madrid of the trams for the transportation of coal from Asturias.7
As they smoked and chatted with each other they quickly became aware that they were two of a kind. Face-to-face across the table, they gradually began to recognise each other for what they were: not just opportunists, but opportunists who had raised opportunism to the status of high art. Neither of the two were encumbered with any semblance of principle that might cloud their judgement. Both were quite prepared to change their politics with the same ease that a gentleman changes his shirt every morning. It was a case of: “Very well, if you don’t like my principles, I’ll change them.”
Maybe this discovery came as an agreeable surprise. Or maybe not… In any event, each of them was undoubtedly congratulating himself on being the smartest politician in Spain: masters of tactics and the art of compromise, great statesmen, men of destiny who history had appointed to lead and direct the Transition. Both men were playing a game of poker, and neither wanted to show his hand.
Suárez was pleasantly surprised by the conversation, but also somewhat shocked. The blatant cynicism of the leader of the PCE unsettled even the hard-bitten former leader of the National Movement. He was particularly taken aback by Carrillo’s frequent reference to God, such as “God willing”, “God help us…”, expressions that were profoundly shocking for a man accustomed to the idea of communists as revolutionaries and militant atheists. He did not understand that this particular communist would have been prepared to jump straight into the baptismal font and recite the entire Bible from Genesis to the Apocalypse – if only he could get a deal.
The two men were now haggling like merchants in an oriental bazaar. The haggling, however, did not last long, since both men understood each other perfectly. They both knew precisely the price of every item of merchandise. Like two professional wrestlers who start by circling and eyeing one another, they were both probing, looking for a weak point in the other’s defences. In politics as in any market, one gets nothing for nothing.
Finally, they got to grips. Carrillo pointed out that the bottom line for an agreement was the legalisation of the PCE. Suárez answered that such a step would be very risky for him personally. It would provoke the fury of the generals, to whom he had sworn a solemn oath that he would never, repeat, never, legalise the Communists. The price for the legalisation of the PCE was the acceptance of the monarchy and the flag – the same flag that had flown over the Franco dictatorship for decades, the blood-soaked flag of reaction, the flag of the triumphant legions of fascism. It was a very big price to ask, but the other side proved to be surprisingly malleable. The conversation is described by Morán:
Suárez offered legalisation before the 15 June elections, facing up to the difficulties that would be caused by breaking his promise to the military. Santiago was committed in the first place to a strict, rigorous and public acceptance of the Monarchy, the flag and the unity of Spain, while guaranteeing that the Party would rigorously endeavour to avoid any kind of social conflict by acting in some cases as mediator and in others as a fire extinguisher.
When the president expressed some doubts as to whether the PCE would give wholehearted and unanimous support to its secretary general, Carrillo smiled in such a way that he overcame any insistence. Finally, Suárez achieved something of considerable value: a formal commitment to reach a long-term agreement after the June elections!
The president in his heart thought that the electoral strength of the PCE would eclipse the one of the PSOE, at least during the first part of the Transition. In the meeting of 27 February, some of the master lines were designed and later confirmed with the so-called Moncloa Pacts.8
Suárez was frankly astounded at how easily the PCE leader conceded the issue of the monarchy and the flag. Suárez asked Carrillo if he could guarantee to convince his comrades would swallow the bitter pill. It was essential that there should be no exceptions or dissent, and that the party must prohibit the display of the Republican flag in its public events. The PCE leader brushed aside these questions with a wave of the hand: “Just leave it to me. I will sort it all out.” The president need not have worried. Carrillo knew his Party. He was going to fix everything.
Suárez must have rubbed his eyes in disbelief. It seemed he was knocking at an open door! Incredible! Here was the dreaded leader of the Spanish Communists, not only accepting the monarchy and the national flag, but even condemning Basque and Catalan nationalism, assuring the government that “the workers feel themselves Spanish, whether they live in Bilbao or in Brussels.”9 And his only desire was that the generals should have a better opinion of the Communists!
There must have been a moment when doubt crept into his mind. Could it be true? Or was it just an act? One had to be careful when dealing with Communists, who were well known to be very slippery customers. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced. Yes, it was true! While publicly maintaining the line that the PCE still defended the idea of a “negotiated democratic rupture” (ruptura democrática pactada), behind the scenes Carrillo was privately indicating its abandonment.
The president’s most-feared adversary was waving the white flag even before entering the battle! From this moment on, regular contacts between the government and the PCE were established. Similar personal contacts were maintained between Felipe González and Adolfo Suárez, but in the latter case without any intermediaries.
Suárez Drags His Feet
Santiago Carrillo left this meeting like a man walking on air. The PCE general secretary was firmly convinced that he had won a great victory. Purely by force of personality and the iron dialectics of his arguments, he had saved Spain from a bloody civil war, saved the Democratic Transition from shipwreck, saved his new-found friend Adolfo Suárez from political ruin, and guaranteed the future of his Party, his country and – last but not least – himself.
The two men certainly did not love each other, but Santiago Carrillo and Adolfo Suárez appear to have developed a degree of mutual respect that is highly unusual between political antagonists. The two men flattered one another. And each of them was faithful to the commitments made to the other. And they were faithful to the end.
The sky was now the limit. What could the great Spanish Communist Party not achieve now that it was to be admitted to the coveted status of legality? Carrillo had visions of the party winning elections, a coalition government in which it would hold all the key ministries, and – who knows? – Santiago Carrillo as president and ruler of Spain. Why not? The Communist Party was superior to every other political formation in Spain in its apparatus, its discipline and the number and quality of its working-class membership. Why should it not now rise from strength to strength?
All these tantalising possibilities must have occurred to the febrile mind of the general secretary. Indeed, on the face of it, they had a certain logic. But the logic of politics is not the same as the abstract formal logic taught in the universities. It is a dynamic that is determined by a complex play of forces, and these forces, in the last analysis, are based upon classes, and segments of classes. By his conduct, the leader of the PCE began to undermine the very basis of his power, which was the active support of the working class in general and the communist militants in particular.
But there was still one little snag. The Communist Party had not yet been legalised! Carrillo was expecting his reward for services rendered, and his rank and file was becoming impatient with the delay. On 11 February 1977, they presented a formal request to the appropriate authorities, faithfully adhering to the existing legal norms, that the party be granted legal status.
In the rank and file of the PCE there was opposition to the turn. A majority of CCOO leaders considered the change to be an error. They saw it as a brake on any union mobilisations. This was undoubtedly the case. Carrillo had agreed to keep the workers under control. In his informative biography of Suárez, Morán is very clear on this point:
The commitment of the general secretary of the PCE was strict: he would be in charge of stopping the movements that agitated the life of the country, as a counterpart to the legalisation.10
Alas! There is no gratitude in this sinful world. As so often happens in politics, so-called realism turns out to be its opposite. If Santiago Carrillo imagined that his statesmanlike gesturing would earn him instant gratification in the form of the legalisation of the Communist Party, he was to be sadly disappointed. Having gained all he that wanted, Adolfo Suárez was not in any hurry to grant the general secretary’s wish. The issue of the legalisation of the PCE was delayed for quite some time, being referred first to one bureaucratic institution, then another, while Santiago Carrillo was left standing out in the cold.
While the PSOE and other parties threw themselves into feverish preparation for the forthcoming elections, the Communist Party was compelled to restrict itself to whatever openings were possible in the obscure semi-legal penumbra to which it remained relegated. Adolfo Suárez told the PCE leader not to worry, that everything was proceeding according to plan. However, he was in no hurry to oblige them. Since he had already given his word to the generals that he would never legalise the Communist Party, Adolfo Suárez was looking for a convenient way of doing just that, without personally accepting responsibility. But when the High Court called his bluff, he had no alternative but to swallow hard and carry out the distasteful measure himself.
The intrigues and deals of Adolfo Suárez were not limited to his manoeuvres with the leader of the Communist Party. Far more important from his point of view – and that of the Spanish and European bourgeoisie – was to ensure a clear advantage for Felipe González and the PSOE. Finally, exploiting the fact that most people were out of Madrid for Easter, Suárez took the plunge. He submitted the documentation to the Supreme Court (Tribunal Supremo) for its approval. In a quite surreal game of musical chairs, on 2 April that reactionary body returned the documentation to the government, declaring that it was not competent to decide the matter.
Legal, at Last!
Five weeks after the meeting with Suárez, on 9 April 1977, the Communist Party of Spain was legalised. The majority of the government learned about the news on the radio and the press. The legalisation coincided with Easter Week. Twenty-four hours before, on Good Friday, the president ordered the removal of the huge Falangist symbol, the Yoke and Arrows, from the façade of the headquarters of the National Movement in Alcalá Street No. 44.
The PCE leaders finally obtained what they were anxiously looking for. Eventually, Carrillo’s repeated complaints had the desired result. In reality, that decision was a foregone conclusion. The legalisation of the PCE was not achieved by manoeuvres and intrigues at the top, far less from the allegedly courageous actions of Suárez and the king. It was imposed upon the regime by the actions of millions of workers and youth who destabilised the regime and made it impossible to continue as before. It was made necessary by the fact that it was the most important force in the working class at that time. Neither more nor less. It was out of the question that any kind of stabilisation could be reached as long as the PCE remained illegal. That fact was perfectly clear to anyone with a gram of common sense, and Adolfo Suárez possessed more common sense than most people.
To have excluded the Communist Party, which everybody knew to be the main moving force of the opposition and the undisputed leader of the working class, would have completely invalidated any claim on Suárez’s part to stand for democracy. In addition, to leave the PCE in opposition would have placed Felipe González in a very difficult position. That is why they had to agree to its legalisation.
The blindest of the blind could see that the legalisation of the Communist Party was now unavoidable, but in order to prevent a backlash, Suárez would have to re-assemble the military high command to convince the generals of the need to take such a painful step, explaining in simple language, which even a general could understand, that the legalisation of the PCE would be conditional on its acceptance of the monarchy and the flag.
Nevertheless, the Francoist bunker remained implacably opposed, and it had influential supporters in the king’s most immediate entourage. Later, the story was put in circulation that it was Juan Carlos who convinced Suárez to legalise the PCE. This is one of the many legends of the Transition.
On this, as in all other questions, the position of Juan Carlos was one of constant vacillations, cowardly evasions and calculating ambiguities. At every step his overriding concern was to make sure that his hands were always clean, and that other people took public responsibility for controversial decisions and actions. The king agreed to the meeting with Carrillo – but in his own way. Every word and action was designed to cover his tracks. In effect he was saying to Suárez: “You go ahead and speak to the communists, but it is your responsibility.”
In this way, if things turned out badly, he could blame it all on Suárez. If, on the other hand, it was a success, the king could claim part, if not all, of the credit for himself. Juan Carlos was following faithfully in the sly ways that had always been one of the chief characteristics of the Bourbons. We were to see exactly the same sly method during the 23 February 1981 coup.
Fury of the Generals
The legalisation of the PCE predictably sent shockwaves through the military leadership. Suárez had sworn an oath that he would never do such a thing. The generals felt betrayed and angry. Jaime Milans del Bosch, who was later to play a leading role in the attempted coup, carried out manoeuvres with his Armoured Division. Taking its cue from the generals, the right-wing press breathed fire and brimstone. The editorials of ABC and the Catholic Ya raged against the decision.
The Superior Council of the Army met on 12 April in the afternoon, with the presence of the chiefs of staff of the three armies, the eleven serving captains general, the director of the Civil Guard and a very special guest – Alfonso Armada Comyn. As Head of the Royal Household, Armada enjoyed a privileged political and religious relationship with Juan Carlos, both as an army general and a prominent supporter of the Opus Dei.
The king and the clique of reactionary army chiefs with whom he was intimately related had already been enraged by the appointment of Gutiérrez Mellado as Minister of the Army, following the dismissal of General De Santiago. Gutiérrez Mellado was distrusted by the army generals who longed for a return to the Franco regime. General Armada lost no time in informing the king and his friend, Alfonso Osorio, Vice President of the government, of the contents of the generals’ statement. It was a brutal repudiation, not just of the legalisation of the PCE, but of the entire policy of the government:
“All (sic) the Superior Council of the Army does not welcome the legalisation of the Communist Party and therefore expresses certain (sic) rejection of said legalisation” – and from these lines we can already discern in general outlines what would conclude three years later on 23 February. In the opinion of all those gathered, President Suárez had deceived them when he promised them, on the eve of the Law of Political Reform, that the limit of democracy lay in the legalisation of the PCE. Adolfo Suárez had lied to them; therefore, Suárez was a traitor.11
It was bad enough having to accept changes that tended to undermine the power of the old regime. But the interference of Adolfo Suárez in the army itself was the last straw. “Who does this fellow Suárez think he is?” The relationship bears a striking resemblance to the one between Tsar Nicolas and his prime minister Rodzianko on the eve of the Russian Revolution. Morán describes a very interesting conversation between Suárez and Juan Carlos at about this time, which casts light on the relations between the two men:
At the end of that month of January, with the country still in a state of shock at the recent events, King Juan Carlos asked him [Suárez] a question that resounded like a pistol shot in Adolfo’s attentive ears: “If you are killed, who do I put in as president?” Stunned, Suárez does not even respond, and barely manages to stammer: “Why do you say that?” These words are loaded with suspicion. In vain does Juan Carlos attempt to explain it away by saying that the head of government can request bulletproof cars and safe palaces, such as the Moncloa, to where he has just moved, but a King must always think of a substitute.12
The threat was very obvious. The generals hated Adolfo Suárez. They saw him as their bitterest enemy: the man who had lied to them and betrayed his country, the man who had surrendered to communism. He was the anti-Spain, if not the anti-Christ himself. Yet it was Suárez who had outwitted Carrillo, and it was Carrillo who had betrayed the Spanish working class. It was Suárez who, by his actions, saved Spain – that is, the Spain of Franco and his generals – and it was Carrillo who saved Suárez.
An American President once remarked that his generals were not capable of marching in step and chewing gum at the same time. Although the obtuse reactionaries in the general staff failed to realise it, Carrillo and the PCE played the key role in defending their system. That was well understood by the strategists of international capital. On 13 December 1978, the Financial Times wrote the following:
The support of the PCE, both for the first as the second administration of Suárez has been open and sincere. Mr. Carrillo was the first leader to give his support to the Moncloa agreement and inevitably the PCE has backed the government in parliament. (…)
But being the party that controls the majority trade union confederation CCOO and the best organised political party in Spain, its help has been crucial in some of the tensest moments of the Transition. The active moderation showed by the communists before and after the massacre of workers in Vitoria in March 1976, [after] the shooting down of five communist lawyers in January 1977 and during the Basque general strike of May 1977 – just to name three examples – was decisive in order to avoid that Spain fall into an abysm of civil conflict and to allow the continuation of reforms.
At a moment when power was rapidly slipping out of the palsied hands of a degenerate and thoroughly rotted dictatorship and passing onto the streets, the leader of the Communist Party calmly picked it up and handed it back politely to the people he considered as the only ones entitled to possess it – the bankers and capitalists. The opposition parties had always rejected the idea that change could come from above, or that existing institutions could be changed. They demanded a clear break with the past, a general political amnesty, the legalisation of the opposition parties, including the Communists, and a popularly elected assembly that would work out a new constitution.
It was Carrillo and the leaders of the Communist Party who dropped that idea and threw all their weight behind Suárez’s shaky regime. They had tamed the rebellious spirit of the rank and file and taken the idea of a general strike off the agenda. They abandoned mass struggle in favour of pacts and consensus. They would get what they wanted through negotiation. But they were not even good at that.
It is significant that Suárez pointedly refused to accept the demands of the opposition for the recognition of regional identities within the Spanish state. Here we have a clear indication of the intention to abandon, not just the democratic demand for a republic but also the democratic demand of the recognition of the right of self-determination for all the peoples of the Spanish state, in particular the Basques and Catalans. This was to have very serious consequences in years to come. We are still paying the price for it today.
As a bare minimum to satisfy the most elementary democratic norms, the Spanish people should have been consulted by a referendum on whether they wished to live under a republic or a monarchy. But such choice was never put before the people. The fundamentally undemocratic institution of monarchy was foisted upon them, together with many other undemocratic forms and institutions. To sing the praises of such a ‘democracy’ is an act of supreme cynicism that is unworthy of any democrat, let alone a communist.
Even from the standpoint of consistent democracy, the position taken by the PCE was entirely fraudulent. How is it possible to make democracy compatible with an unelected head of state, whose only claim to legitimacy was that he was appointed by the dictator Franco? Is it democratic that the head of state is never elected, but is merely installed as the head of the nation by an accident of birth?
Who Was the Winner?
Politics in some respects resembles a winter landscape: once you enter on a slippery downward slope, there is no question of halting the rapid descent to the bottom. Having made one concession, the next act of surrender proved to be far easier than the last, and so on and so forth. The acceptance of the monarchy, the reactionary flag of Francoism and the national anthem were all part of this bottomless descent into the swamp of political opportunism.
While the leaders continued this interminable game of cat and mouse with Suárez, on the ground, nothing had changed. The brutality of the police was evidenced once more in the Basque Country. In the month of May, a week of action demanding full amnesty was called, which left six people dead. The leaders of the PSOE and the PCE, far from demanding the dissolution of the forces of repression, called for the people to trust in the police and refrain from carrying out any mobilisations. However, the Basque workers once again demonstrated their combative nature by holding mass assemblies and declaring a general strike, which received solid support.
Suárez attempted to frighten the leaders of the PCE with the spectre of a military coup. While the ruling class was frightened by the revolutionary movement of the masses, the PCE leaders were frightened of the army, the threat of a backlash from the fascists and the danger that the workers would ‘go too far’. In short, they were frightened of everything, even the sound of their own voices. In the end Suárez and Carrillo were united in a common fear, which in essence was the fear of the revolutionary mass movement that could at any time bring their secret manoeuvres to nought. They frightened each other sufficiently to agree to a compromise.
Thus, without firing a shot or spending a single peseta, Suárez had succeeded in undermining the most potent force in opposition to the regime. Here was a victory against which Napoleon’s victories at Marengo and Austerlitz seem like a children’s game. And Santiago Carrillo – that supreme strategist, political realist and brilliant negotiator – what exactly did he achieve? Subsequent history provides the answer. The Communists paid all the bills and the conservatives ate the dinner.
However, from the standpoint of the Party, the immediate effects of legalisation were positive. The membership grew rapidly. In a matter of weeks after the legalisation, PCE had over 200,000 card-holding members. But in a very short time, it all turned sour. Although the legalisation of the Communist Party appears to represent the highest point of its achievement, it actually marks the precise point where everything goes into a steep and irreversible decline, a decline that ends in the complete extinction of the Communist Party of Spain and the total eclipse of its former leader.
It was the threat from the streets and factories and not the intrigues of Adolfo Suárez and the king that forced the regime to make hasty concessions from above in order to prevent a revolutionary explosion from below. Charles Powell writes:
Spain’s relatively brief transition to democracy (1975-1978) was launched ‘from above’, but it accelerated in response to mounting pressure ‘from below’.13
This is the understatement of the century!
The Party leaders were looking up to Suárez, regarding the movement from below as a means of putting pressure on the regime to give concessions. It did not suit the manoeuvres of the leadership for the workers’ movement to ‘go too far’, in other words to escape its control. That is why the Communist Party played no role in the general strike in Vitoria and did everything in their power to prevent it becoming generalised and spreading to other parts of Spain – something that was entirely possible.
The leaders of the socialist and communist parties, having no confidence whatsoever in the ability of the masses to change society, were imbued with a superstitious reverence for state power and those who wielded it. For them the institution of monarchy held a particular fascination. This was even truer of Carrillo than it was for Felipe González. The wily old communist who had long since ceased to believe in communism had an exaggerated opinion of his personal ability to convince, cajole and persuade. For him, it was all a matter of intrigue and negotiation at the top, whereas in fact the only strength lay in the movement of the masses below.
The actors were now all in place. The stage was set. The plot had already been written. Now it will be necessary to examine in more detail the motivations that guided the principal actors and impelled them to the next inevitable stage.
Everything was ready for the great betrayal.
[1] 9-15 May 1977.
[2] Cuadernos para el Diálogo, issue 197, my emphasis, AW.
[3] Paul L. Williams, Operation Gladio: The Unholy Alliance between the Vatican, the CIA and the Mafia, Prometheus Books, February 2015.
[4] See Daniele Ganser, NATO’s Secret Armies: Operation Gladio and Terrorism in Western Europe, p. 8.
[5] Daniele Ganser, Whitehead Journal of Diplomacy and International Relations, p. 73.
[6] See Gregorio Morán, Miseria y grandeza del Partido Comunista de España – 1939-1985, p. 530.
[7] Ibid., p. 546.
[8] Ibid., p. 547, my emphasis, AW.
[9] Ibid., p. 531.
[10] Morán, Ambición y destino, p. 141.
[11] Ibid., p. 141.
[12] Ibid., p. 136.
[13] Charles Powell, Revisiting Spain’s Transition to Democracy, p. 45.