Child soldier
The farthest recall I have from my childhood was the scared I was when I was two years old only. I was standing with my parents on a sidewalk by night in the village and I moved to the road. It turned out that a car with lights on was getting right to the spot I was standing at. Before the car stopped my father had taken me and put me safe back on the sidewalk again. He then made the car’s driver stop with a gesture of his hand.
I thought to myself that one could run a risk, but I would always have my parents close to me.
Being only a little child two years old I can’t remember what my father said to me when we went to a place not far from the village where there was a steamroller and a donkey. I am sure he told me to pay attention to what he was going to do. My father showed to me the body of a new born baby, placed the little body under the steamroller, got on the machine, started the engine and tamped down the new born baby that had been taken to the place I didn’t know how.
The donkey began to laugh scandalously. He moved his head from above to the ground like approving the happening. He nearly dies from joy, he was suffocated, tears and snot fell.
Later my father and I went to a lounge where there were two individuals seated at a table where my father and I sat down. My father facing me. The two individuals seemed to be nervous. Another man came to the table and said that he had seen a new born baby dead, smashed by the steamroller. How that could have been possible?, asked one of the two. I don’t know how it happened. When I got there there were only the steamroller, the new born baby and the donkey, the man said. I was so grateful to the man that I wanted to stand up and embrace him, but my father sent an order to me and I understood. Then my father said to the man: Don’t say to me no more, the donkey is the only witness.
Not far in time, I would be two years old still, I was seated at the kitchen’s table and my father put in my hands two tiny pistols and we shot immediately an individual at the other side of the table. The individual had collapsed dead. My mother was in the kitchen too. She began to shout histerically: What have you done, Luis! What have you done, Luis!
Later by night I was in my little bedroom. I came out of my bedroom to see if there was a light in my parents room. I saw the light reflected on the glass screen of the terrace where I used to play with my brothers. I was in the corridor still but my parents should have heard my steps. My father called me when I was in the corridor yet: Poldo, come in into the room.
I entered my parents room. They were lying on their bed. My mother smiled to me like an accomplice, as though what had happened in the kitchen was something among the three us. Is it here where you live in?, I asked my parents. I asked becasuse I hadn’t so far seen the house entire. Well, Poldo, said my father, you live here too. Yes, but my room is too small, I said. Well, Poldo, said my father, turn around and open up the wardrobe. What’s a wardrobe?, I asked him. What you have behind your back. I turned around and saw a wardrobe. Open up the wardrobe, Poldo. How?, I asked him. Sliding the sheet to the right, he said. I pushed the sheet of the wardrobe to the right and I saw four individuals in uniform floating in the air inside the wardrobe that were clearly suffering. Who are they?, I asked. Army officers, Poldo, fascists.
My parents were smiling. Please, Poldo, said my father, pay attention now to what I will do now. Look at the fascists. I was looking at the four hunged up and suddenly they breathed a sigh and were executed with a horizontal wound at their hearts level, that made the four of them bleed and die. My father asked me: Did you see how I did it? No, dad, I did not. From the bed, said my father. Did you hear? Yes, dad. And did you understand? Yes, dad, I did.
A day when I was four years old my mother said to Alfonso Romero and me we were going to kill a man that had abused her. She took us to a parked truck and we three got on the truck’s cabin. My mother said to the man at the steering wheel she was going to give us a gun so that we could play with. She took out a gun from her bag and handed it to me so periciously that I only had to shoot. I blew his face off.
It happened when we lived in Ourense. I saw my relative Irene Laso Losada hitting up once and again a black new born baby she had caught up by the feet, and shouting at every new strike: King Franco! King Franco! King Franco!
When I was seven years old I frightened dictator Franco and some hundred officers and soldiers that flew away from the Plaza de Cristo Rey in Madrid when they watched me running towards them and shouting: You have killed my father, sons of a bitch! We have killed yours! Everyone out, get out of here! Long Live Christ the King!
I did it encouraged by my father, that made me run against them, that were celebrating the execution of Julián Besteiro in the morning. Well then, I was carrying on me a corporal camera and now I can issue the images of how the escapade was. We shall watch the ones I tell you leaving their asses behind.
In 18 July 1968 during Franco’s speech at Plaza de Oriente, Pablo and I went there with two Luger 44. Pablo started to shoot at Arenal Street and he had killed from 6 to 8 people. At Plaza de Oriente we killed from 10 to 12 attendants.
What could it had been had they arrested us! Imagine the general commotion around the world. Two boys ten and eleven have been arrested after killing 20 fascists during Franco’s speech at Plaza de Oriente and Arenal Street. Next day the newspaper Pueblo spoke of two people dead and five injured. The action was vindicated by Antifascist and Patriot Revolutionary Front (FRAP).
We laughed much. Franco fleeing away terrified from Plaza de Cristo Rey and babbling during his speech in hearing the shots and seeing how the multitude moved in fear.
I have always had a certain reluctancy to speak about the new born baby smashed by my father with the steamroller. I haven’t mentioned it ever to anyone. With the years I had been considering it an action charged of Communist symbolism and I have finally admitted in a good mood the news: The newborn baby was dictator Franco’s granddaughter’s son. My father had filmed the process when she gave birth. When by telepathy I asked my father about the black new born baby Irene called king Franco he told me that the black baby was Franco’s granddaughter’s son too and that he had filmed her again when she gave birth. I knew that my father is a great type and that he could only give me satisfaction.
The individual in the kitchen and the other inside the truck left stories to make us laugh heartily. I may say I killed both in the village. It will be something for me of a crucial general comprehension. When two years old helped by my father. When four years old helped by my mother. It is very important to rely on your parents.
A big mass of people of the world makes the world be an organized life accomplishing its necessities. Yesterday. Today. In the future.
