A Pagan Christian

A note on Carabanchel:

Carabanchel was a prison in Spain that was built by and for political prisoners in Franco's Spain after WWII. The prison was used for political prisoners until  Franco's death in 1975. The Franco regime censored news and denied there were political prisoners after the war: Basque Separatists and progressive politicians were labeled common criminals. Thus, Carabanchel housed only "common criminals" until 1998 before it was closed.

   The abandoned buildings provided graffiti artists a remarkable canvas transcending political scribblings into a public art piece that stood by its own merits. It was finally bull-dozed in 2008, replaced with apartment buildings and "green" space, but not without a public outcry.

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     A guard opened the food tray slot in the iron door and ordered, “Strip off your filthy rags.” Then the door opened as two guards entered. One stood by the door while the other blasted with a hose; cold water on his naked body. The water pricked his skin like piercing needles but he didn’t shy away from it because he too was weary of the stink of several weeks on hold in these cells. This might be the only hygiene he might enjoy. 

   His mind went back to cold mountain streams where he stood naked under the falls after a two day hike from the Val d’Aran… he imagined the cool air on his flesh and had to snap his attention back to the commands of the guards as a jump suit of sorts was thrown in front of him onto the concrete floor. The door clanged shut.

   Alesander was able to count the days by the changing of the guards. A single bulb above in the middle of the cell was on all day and night so that it was impossible to tell one day from another.

   It must have been a couple of weeks when Alesander was taken back to the interrogation room. The inquisitor reappeared and dropped a tablet and pencil on the table.

   “My name is Martin, Alesander.” He spoke softly, “You know and I know that you are beyond help… but I might be able to make your stay here more comfortable.”

   “Gracias Martin… but why?” he asked, knowing full well that any kindly gesture had a price... was this a clue his life would be spared?

   “Are you a Christian, Alesander?” Martin waited for an answer and then continued, “Or, are you a Basque pagan?”

   Alesander almost laughed at this repeated question but held back. This man could never become an ally. Alesander knew that it was more important to make friends rather than enemies. He would see where this man stood… where Martin was going with this line of interrogation, “I suppose that I am…”

   His mind drifted back to his religious studies before he left for Madrid in ’36 at sixteen. The poetry of San Juan de la Cruz spoke directly to his soul and he longed for something of a mystical union with God. He would not feel anything like it until he met with death’s face at the barricades of Madrid or the unrestrained horrors and violence of ambushes in the Pyrenees. Once again his thoughts returned to the fields; of pausing in the shade of an ancient megalithic stone bull in the fields of Mingorria where he’d felt a union with the past, but his mystical experiences were of the martial variety, that razor’s edge where life and death sliced through the moment of truth… not at all scholarly or so refined as in the cloisters of the Church.

  “What, a pagan or a Christian?” Martin insisted.

   His thoughts then went to Avila where he’d arranged to meet with the Bird Dog for an alliance with the American to transport him out of Spain.  It was a welcome rest in a crypt of the Cathedral at Avila among the long dead saints. Then the door crashed open and several guidari flooded into the room before he could reach for his pistol. He had been beaten and dragged to the plaza in front of the Cathedral between the lions by a militia of the Civil Guard. He didn’t respond to his guard’s question but his silence was interpreted as an answer.

   The voice of his the inquisitor broke through the cloud of his mind, “Spain is old and her Saints are old too. I am a Christian and I am bound by Christ to show mercy.”

   “And you expect mercy in return?” Alesander remarked in a low voice but the tables had turned and he was now, for a brief second, the inquisitor.

   Martin’s composure was quickly regained as he spit out the words. “I would prefer cooperation.”

   “From me… or from Christ?” Alesander didn’t care any longer. If the tortures were to begin it … he was ready to bite the capsule.

   Martin’s face became confident as he set the familiar cyanide capsule on the table, “We found this in your cell. When the electrodes are attached to your cojones, you won’t have this at your disposal.”

   Alesander watched it roll to the side of the speckled Formica top to stop at the chromed strip in front of his hands, “Are you saying I should take it now?”


   “No, senor, I am a Christian and I would prefer that you confess your sins. Suicide, according to the teachings of the Church,opens only the gates of Hell for you,” he said as he tucked the capsule into his vest pocket.


"So,are you here to save me from Hell," Alesander was nearly glib,"or to save my body from torture?"
He no longer cared either way.