Original subtitles

SOLDIERS OF SALAMINA

What motivates a character?

What moves him?

What does he pursue?

Sometimes not even he knows.

Characters in novels

have something in common with normal people.

They're alive but don't know what makes them live.

Nobody knows what makes them live.

Bye.

- Let me help you. - No, that's okay.

It's no trouble.

Are you new?

Yes, I started this semester.

So did you, right?

It's your first year as a teacher.

Is it so obvious?

Well, in a good way...

- And that accent? - Mexican,

though my grandfather was Basque, from Alkiza.

- See you around. - Bye.

I just sent you the review of that book.

How did you rate it? People like blood.

Everybody seems to write better than I do.

Eating your leaves again?

Want some?

Healthy food doesn't agree with me. Hey,

we're doing a Civil War special. Send me something of yours...

- Something personal. - Not the Civil War again!

You women are all the same. No interest in the past.

You sound like my father. He suffers from senile dementia.

You must introduce us... A thousand words, okay?

The Civil War...

AN ESSENTIAL SECRET

He's worse at night. He thinks he's back in his village, walking.

We had to tie him to his bed last night. For his own safety.

Now let's do it properly.

Pick a card.

This is a really good one, connected to your health!

And with the gold, what a combination!

- My daughter. - Hello. We're just finishing.

- Carry on. - You don't need to pay me

now.

Excuse me, can you come outside a minute?

Yes, sure.

Who the hell are you?

I...

Get out. Who let you in here anyway?

- Well... - Go and find

someone less defenceless.

I'll be back later, okay?

I'm in a bit of a hurry right now.

Why don't you read me something?

Something of mine in today's paper?

Yes, yes.

"It is hard to imagine the years

prior to the Civil War. They say writers used to meet in cafés.

That right-wing writers mixed

with left-wing ones.

But all that changed with the war."

What war?

"Of all the wartime stories, that of the poet Antonio Machado

is one of the saddest. On the night

of 22nd January 1939,

four days before Franco took Barcelona,

Machado and his family set out for the French border in a convoy.

Five days later,

under pouring rain, they crossed

the border and left Spain

forever.

A month later, Machado died in Collioure.

His mother

outlived him by 3 days. In Antonio's

pocket, his brother José found some notes

with lines from what was

possibly the first verse of his last poem,

'These azure days and this childhood sun.'

His brother the poet Manuel learned of his death from the foreign press.

The two were more than brothers.

They were close friends.

The 18th July uprising surprised Manuel in Burgos. He stayed there,

a sympathizer of Franco.

As soon as he heard of Antonio's death, he obtained a safe-conduct

and crossing a war-torn Spain,

went to Collioure.

There he was told that his mother had also died. At the cemetery

he visited his mother's and Antonio's graves

and probably met up with José.

They talked.

Two days later he returned to Burgos.

At the same time, in the Collell church, in northern Catalonia,

another poet, Rafael Sánchez Matas, faced a firing squad.

A close friend ofJosé Antonio, and founder of the fascist Falange party.

Mazas'fortunes in the war are shrouded in mystery.130

He was arrested in Barcelona early in 1938,

but when Franco arrived there he was moved to the Collell,

near the French border.

There he faced a firing squad

in what was a mass and probably chaotic execution.

The war was near its end and the Republicans fled to the Pyrenees,

so they may not have known he was

one of the Falange's founders

and a friend of José Antonio Primo de Rivera.

In the confusion Sánchez Mazas ran off,

and managed to hide in a hollow in the forest.

It is said that a Republican soldier searching the area found him,

that the two looked at each other,

and then another Republican soldier called out,

'Is he there? '

Without taking his eyes off Sánchez Mazas, the man called back,

'There's no one here.'

Then he turned around and walked away.

We shall never know who it was that saved Sánchez Mazas' life

or what went through his mind at that moment.

Or what José and Manuel Machado said

in front of their mother's and brother's graves.

In both may lie some essential secret

of the Spanish Civil War."

"How dare you compare the great poet Machado with a fascist writer

like Sánchez Mazas?"

"Another article about 'national reconciliation'? Go to hell."

"Sánchez Mazas wasn't the only one to survive the firing squad

at the Collell.

A man named Pascual also escaped and later wrote a book about it.

It's out of print but I can get you a copy.

Miguel Aguirre."

Miguel Aguirre.

I hadn't thought how we'd

- recognise each other. - You're famous for your book.

I've read it.

Was it you?

Typical "coming-on-age" book.

The sex scenes were very graphic as I recall.

Have you written anything since?

I'm having

the rabbit. Some people wait for the other to order

- then ask for the same. - Just a salad.

- House red? - Fine.

I imagined a bored old guy who spends all his time writing to newspapers.

No, at the moment I'm only potentially that.

I liked your article. I thought this might interest you.

- "I was killed by the Reds"? - Fascist stuff,

but don't worry. It quotes José Antonio Primo de Rivera's,

"It has always been

a squad of soldiers that has saved civilization." Published

in September 1981. No coincidence.

Remember February that year.

Other soldiers tried to "save civilization."

Everybody freeze!

But the book's good and describes the execution.

The guy was actually there.

The last days of the war.

The Collell church had been turned into a jail.

There must have been 1,000 prisoners there, all from

- cells in Barcelona. - Did the ones who shot him

- know who he was? - Yes.

They chose prominent fascists.

Infiltrators, lawyers, financiers, priests...

Who gave the order?

What?

To have them executed?

Pascual says a man named Monroy, who ran the prison.

Fire!

Maybe...

but other possibilities exist.

Such as?

Líster. Now he

led the 5th Corps

of the Ebro Army... or what was left of it.

They withdrew to the border

and considered a last stand in Catalonia.

Líster was obsessed with acting as if the war wasn't lost.

So he gave the order?

The one sure thing is that they knew they were executing Sánchez Mazas.

Surviving that and hiding in the forest.

It's like something out of a novel.

The war's full of such stories.

Do you know that forest?

It was full of people.

Escape groups, people who'd run away or deserted...

Not a bad place to hide or look for help.

And Sánchez Mazas found help.

The "Forest Friends."

- The "Forest Friends"? - That's what

he called the three Republican Army deserters who helped him.

I know the son of one.

- Really? - I do.

Jaume Figueras.

From Cornellá del Terri. He could tell you more.

That's for sure. Want his phone number?

Do you want it?

Jaume Figueras' number.

Call him.

- Thanks for everything. - Bye.

Return the umbrella some other time.

Thanks.

How will you use all this?

I don't know.

I thought you were writing a novel.

I don't write novels any more.

Rafael Sánchez Mazas!

Transfer!

Yes?

Expired eight years ago.

A WRITER TO FOLLOW

"Dear mother and father,

the lad on the left is Alonso. He died a week after this was taken.

I'm really looking forward to seeing you both. May 1938."

Give the clothes away.

All right. Leave them at reception.

And there's no hurry. Okay?

What's this I see? A man, and young too.

Dressed in white.

Could it be a doctor?

You never know.

- And this card means passion. - My word!

Wild passion!

I'm not in at the moment, but leave a message if you like.

Hello, Mr. Figueras? Miguel Aguirre gave me your number.

I wanted to talk to you about your father and the writer Sánchez Mazas.

I understand your father was a "Forest Friend."

I'd really like to talk to you.

My name's Lola Cercas.

I'll give you my home number and the one at the university.

Could you please call me?

This is all we've got.

Most are out of print but you may find some

if you're prepared to swallow dust in bookshops in Barcelona or Madrid.

Why the interest in writers like these?

Writers like these?

Yes, they turn my stomach a bit.

Hey...

- Yes? - Excuse me.

- "The Great Book of Chiromancy"? - It's there.

Up there. Right there.

- A bag? - No, no bag.

- So you'll take it like that? - Yes.

Fine.

- Thanks. - Bye.

RAFAEL FACED FIRING SQUAD IS MIRACULOUSLY ALIVE

Rafael Sánchez Mazas,

one of the Fascist movement's founders

speaks of the horror of his sentence.

On 30th January I faced a firing squad with 30 men.

Hello, I'm Lola. I rang you.

- How are you? - Fine. And you?

My father was held

with many others in a prison set up at the Collell church.

One day, they picked out 50 and took them

to a nearby forest. My father

stood third from the end in one of the lines.

So he had two people in front of him.

And he managed

to avoid the bullets and run off

in the confusion, what with people squirming on the ground

and other terrible things like that.

So...

he stood there, as I say,

and they started firing...

I think that's what my father said...

and he managed to run away.

And he fell into a hollow.

Then he crouched down as best he could

as he thought he'd seen

someone approaching who might have seen him...

He'd seen this figure, you see.

And then a voice called out,

"Anything over there?" And then,

"Nobody here."

And the man left.

So with all the material

you're gathering, what are you going to do?

I don't really know yet.

I don't really know...

Hello.

- Hello. - How are you?

- Back in Madrid? - No, I'm living in Gerona.

- I teach there. - Great. So how are you?

Still writing?

Sorry, Carlos, I'm in a hurry...

Of course... Bye.

Can I help or are you gonna hide again?

Thanks.

What's in here?

A body or something?

Something like that.

Cassandra.

"Conchi" doesn't sell much.

Conchi. I'm Lola.

I know. Your dad

used to ask me about your future.

That's terrible! What did you tell him?

What the cards said.

And what did they say?

They always tell the truth. It's knowing how to read them.

What did he want to know about me?

Whether you'd have kids...

If you'd write again, if you'd be happy...

So?

What do your cards tell you?

They're not my cards, they're the cards.

- Call me if you're interested. - No, thanks.

- You need to believe... - And you

don't. That's what you'd like to think.

I see you work 24 hours a day.

Cassandra doesn't rest.

Of course I do!

We could have

coffee

or dinner sometime.

I won't bring my crystal ball.

Besides...

a little while ago I was dumped.

I came to Madrid to get my ass kicked.

Didn't your cards warn you?

Typical intellectual disregard.

How long have you been trying to quit?

Mr. Figueras, I'm sorry

but I'd only take an hour of your time.

What you know could be a great help.

Please call me.

Yes?

Yes, that's me.

Of course, I understand.

Tomorrow would be fine.

At the "Nuria"?

I'll be there.

Goodbye.

The best kind of date is when a guy stands you up. Take it from me.

A toast. There are a lot of things to celebrate.

You got stood up and I've got a job on T.V.

A job on T.V.?

I've got something here.

Inscribe it for me.

It doesn't seem like you...

You don't seem so open...

So full of energy.

Perhaps I was when I wrote it.

Are you writing another?

Is your job on T.V. As a book reviewer or what?

No.

And don't put the typical author stuff, patronising

the reader.

These are on

a rather weird guy who just left.

I won't become

a superstar.

It's only a local T.V. Station,

but it's a start, and people get to see you

and invite you to Madrid...

My feet are always firmly on the ground.

"This dismal obsession to live. This hidden dwelling of life.

It has dragged you in,

don't deny it."

What have you got against T.V.?

You have it turned on all the time so as not to feel Ionely.

Isn't that right?

How long since you replaced men with T.V.?

18 months, more or less.

Aren't you tired of the programs?

That's just it.

I lived with an uninteresting person for a long time.

The people on T.V. Aren't much better.

All riffraff.

What's wrong with them?

They think people care about their problems.

Baring their souls in front of others!

There's nothing wrong with baring yourself to others.

I love doing it.

Can I? Or do you prefer it to me?

I'm going to love being on T.V.

And being seen.

Why not let others see you as you are?

Let them get to know you.

Do we have something to hide?

Let's see...

Please don't answer.

I'm not going to answer.

Hello. This is Jaume Figueras.

I'm sorry I didn't come.

Hello this is me.

No, it's not late. Thank you for calling. Just a minute.

Wait.

Tomorrow would be fine.

Same time, same place.

Fine, I'll be there.

Are you really going to write a book about my father

and Sánchez Mazas in the forest?

I don't know yet.

Did your father often tell you

- about Sánchez Mazas? - Sometimes. But the thing is

I didn't use to pay much attention. I regret that now.

Now he's gone.

Towards the end of the war he was wounded

and when he was discharged from the hospital,

he came home to Cornellá del Terri.

Since the Nationalists had taken Barcelona and were coming this way,

he decided not to go back to the front and stayed at home.

It was at that time that Quim and Daniel Angelats came back too

and they went to the forest to wait for the war to end.

That was where they came across Sánchez Mazas.

- Anything else? - You could

talk to my Uncle Quim.

Your uncle?

My father's brother. One of the "Forest Friends."

He's still alive?

Yes, he lives in Medinyá. He'd know about Daniel Angelats.

They served together in the war.

If he's still alive he'll be in Banyoles.

And did they ever write or see each other again?

They never wrote

to each other again, but my father died 15 years ago

and among his papers I found a notebook you might find useful.

It was Sánchez Mazas'.

He gave it to them.

It was the diary he wrote during the days he spent in the forest.

"I, the undersigned,

Rafael Sánchez Mazas, Founder of Fascist group, former

president of the Political Junta,

and therefore the first Falangist in Spain,

declare that on 30th January 1939 I faced a firing squad

and miraculously managed to survive.

Several shots were fired, after which I hid in the forest.

After walking for three days, I arrived

at night in a place called the Palol de Revardit,

where I fell and lost my glasses,

which left me half-blind."

Pedro Figueras Bahí,

Joaquim Figueras Bahí,

Daniel Angelats.

Look, there's my Uncle Quim.

Joaquim Figueras.

Quim... Lola.

- How do you do. - How do you do.

- Do you recognise this book? - I certainly do.

There's a page missing. Do you know why?

After the war,

people had mixed fortunes.

It went all right for people over there,

but not so well for those of us here.

They put everybody in jail,

my brother Pere among them.

So my father,

who had this book,

went to Burgos.

He packed a case and went to Burgos,

where he asked to see

the Minister... Mr. Sánchez Mazas.

And it seems that

he remembered the name and said,

"A man named Figueras? Send him in."

My father gave him the page and Sánchez Mazas said,

"Mr. Figueras,

don't worry. When you get home, your son will be there."

And that's what happened.

"Pere Figueras,

from San Andreu del Terri, farmer, single, 25 years of age,

imprisoned on 27th April 1939 with 8 others from Cornellá del Terri."

Here's the release order.

"Release those prisoners named here and confirm said release.

May God preserve you. Gerona, 19th June, Year of Victory."

Vicente Vila...

Pedro Figueras, here it is.

Released 2 months later. No explanation why.

An order no one dared to disobey.

From someone important, that's for sure.

Your novel, waiting for you to write it.

The Ministers will now take the oath.

Do you swear loyally to serve Spain,

the traditionalist Spanish Falange of the JONS,

to serve me faithfully

and also the fundamental principles of the State

and of the Spanish Revolution?

I so swear!

Hello?

- Mr. Angelats? - Hello there.

- I'm Lola. - Pleased to meet you.

From when I was 18 till I was 22...

My youth spent serving in the war.

But anyway, what about those who didn't come back

from the war?

Those who were killed, those who were taken prisoner.

Yes, we were lucky.

And even luckier to come across Sánchez Mazas.

This'll help.

He was very reserved, spoke no more than necessary.

Did he tell you about the firing squad?

Yes, he told us about the execution.

And how he'd hidden in the forest and how the Republican soldier

had realised there were two missing

and went looking for them.

And one of them found Sánchez Mazas

hiding behind some bushes,

scared out of his wits.

As he looked at him,

they shouted,

"Is there anybody there?" And he said, "No."

And he pointed his gun at him but spared his life and then left.

Do you know if Sánchez Mazas

wrote a book? He said

he was going to write a book called "The Forest Friends."

- I didn't know that. - He said that we'd be in it

and we were excited about that.

If I find out it exists, I'll bring you a copy, okay?

Thank you very much.

Thank you.

Have a good trip back.

"The first time I heard about Mazas and the firing squad,

all I knew about him was that he was a writer who,

on his return from Mussolini's Italy, founded the Spanish Falange,

a Fascist party.

He helped create its symbols and became

counsellor to the party leader, José Antonio Primo de Rivera."

Spain has lost its status

due to the division caused by local separatism,

division between its political parties,

and the division caused by the class struggle.

When Spain finds a common purpose

stronger than these differences,

it will be great once more.

"After the victory

of the Left

in the elections

of 1936,

Left and Right became radicalized. In an atmosphere

of street violence, the Falange

was banned and its leaders imprisoned.

A military coup

was just a question of time."

My father was in prison

but when my brother Máximo was born,

on 31st March 1936,

they let him go

to see his son. So he ran away.

But of course

he couldn't leave Madrid. He was forced

to hide out in various places.

"For the first year of the war, Sánchez Mazas was in Madrid,

a refugee at the Chilean embassy.

At the beginning of 1938, he was arrested in Barcelona."

... in modern society showing our feelings

is frowned upon,

as is telling others our thoughts and dreams.

Now for Geminis,

I have some very interesting predictions for February.

I'd like a reading.

Lola.

Lola Sánchez.

Yes, I'll hold on.

... l'm Gemini too and it's a sign that fascinates me.

Now here the cards...

Right.

Let's pause a moment. Somebody has finally called in.

Lola. What do you want

to ask about? Love, work, family...?

A friend.

- Is she angry with me? - Did you steal her boyfriend?

No.

She's the type who doesn't mind baring herself

in front of others.

She's sincere, a good person.

She may think I look down on her.

Maybe

she's the type who after a couple of drinks

acts silly and makes a fool of herself.

The other way round.

I made her feel silly.

Well...

I think your friend's a bit of a pain

so it won't be so easy to get rid of her. The card of chance

will bring you together again.

And maybe she won't be so dumb.

And another thing. About that novel you've

started writing. If you want to finish it,

then listen to your friend

and learn to bare yourself before others.

And now...

forgive me but

I have to attend to another of the thousands of calls we're getting.

Bye, Lola.

Yes?

Hello?

Only "Eclair Journal"has gained access to the prison ship "Uruguay,"

where political prisoners are transferred

from the city jail.

The bridge overlooks the citadel of Montjuic, where

those condemned are shot.

The prisoners, heavily guarded,

spend the day on the deck.

The condemned men's special cell...

The courthouse door...

Rafael Sánchez Mazas!

Transfer!

Come on.

HEADING FOR THE FRENCH BORDER, WE SAW A DEPRESSING SIGHT.

MEN, WOMEN, CHILDREN, FLEEING TERRIFIED...

What's going on?

Take the children with you! Let them on, you bastards!

Take the children!

"FAVOURITISM!" THEY CRIED.

There are our planes!

Planes! Planes!

The Nationalist troops reached Barcelona. It's a question of hours.

They're going to trade us for Communist prisoners.

I don't think so.

Quiet! Go on, drive on!

It's silly. I'm trying

to trace my grandfather. He was 4 during the war.

His mother put him on a boat to Mexico.

They never met again.

He wouldn't come back to Spain.

Could be today, couldn't it?

The same people always lose.

Lola.

Keep the car till Friday.

I only need it tomorrow.

A shepherd gave it to me

when we went to cut wood for charcoal.

You're an important man.

You're in no danger.

I think him being here means we're to be traded.

They'd have traded me already.

I've been held over a year.

Would you ever have believed a cigarette

would be a luxury for you?

Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread

and forgive us our trespasses

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Everybody down. Form a line on the steps.

Where are we going?

To build an airfield in Banyoles.

Excuse me.

- Are you from around here? - Yes.

I'm a bit lost. I've come from Collell and I was told there's

- an old execution site around here. - It's nearby.

- Do you know where? - Yes.

- Which way is it? - Down there.

Just there.

Down that path?

Halt!

Left turn!

TO THOSE WHO FELL FOR GOD AND COUNTRY. 30TH JANUARY 1939.

Look...

I don't like it here very much. I'm going home.

Thank you.

Bye. Thanks again.

Fire!

Is there anybody there?

There's nobody here!

Don't shoot!

Don't shoot!

Santa María del Collell...

Palol de Revardit...

"For 9 days with their cold winter nights,

Sánchez Mazas wandered

the Banyoles region,

trying to cross the Republican lines...

the Republican lines...

... and reach the Nationalist zone.

Many times he thought he would not survive

as he was unable

to find his way in that unfamiliar, wild place..."

Unfamiliar, wild place...

Unfamiliar, wild place... No, no...

Not unfamiliar, wild place...

Unable to find his way in that unfamiliar, wild place.

Unfamiliar, wild place... yes.

"He slept by day

and walked by night..." Slept by day and walked by night...

...by night... ...walked by night...

in that unfamiliar...

A novel about the Civil War. What for?

It isn't about the Civil War.

No, it's about a fascist.

If at least it was about... García Lorca.

But about a fascist. They bring bad luck.

If you say so.

Look at those two.

Half an hour checking us out.

Checking you out.

I don't know how you can like men.

Their dicks turn them into robots.

Fucking bells!

Reminding me every quarter hour that I'm

15 minutes older.

I like them.

Sounds like the heart of the city.

I like it when you get poetic, like in your novel.

It's nice.

Launched on Christmas Eve, the offensive

of Franco's armies in Catalonia has been confirmed by

General State broadcasts.

Franco's occupation of the Catalan Front

has been carried out according to a day-by-day plan

that has proved extremely effective.

By the ninth day of the offensive

30 villages had been liberated,

1,150 square kilometres won back,

13,000 prisoners taken,

and 100 aircraft shot down.

One day, while we were resting,

20 metres from here,

we heard a noise.

Those were dangerous times so we took our guns out

and waited to see what was going on.

We saw a man stumbling forward.

He couldn't see properly and we shouted to him to stop.

I've got money, whatever you want. I'll reward you later.

Don't do it.

He put his hands up

and for half an hour we asked him who he was

and he asked us who we were.

Finally he got tired, put his hands down, and told us who he was.

My name's Rafael Sánchez Mazas.

I'm one of the oldest Falange leaders of Spain.

The Nationalists are in Gerona.

My older brother, Pere, said,

"This is our safe-conduct. We'll help him till Franco's men come

and then he'll help us."

It's a deal.

You stand there and can't move.

Then you think, "This is the end of my life."

He was panting.

He was scarcely 20 years old.

He raised his rifle

and aimed at me.

Then I remembered his face.

You knew him?

Only by sight. From the yard at the monastery.

He wasn't police or an intelligence agent,

but a simple soldier.

We never spoke to each other.

But I saw him one afternoon.

He was at one of the sentry posts

and we were crowded inside a cell

overlooking the yard.

Suddenly

he started singing.

Woe is me...

mortal sadness...

Why did Spain take me away from you?

Why did it tear me away from my rosetree?

Do you know that song?

"Sighs for Spain."

I wish...

again to be...

the light of that ray of sunshine

made woman by the will of God...

You. Back to your post.

Keep watch.

Then an officer affectionately cursed him and the spell was broken.

But he'd made us all laugh.

Some for the first time

in a long while.

What was his name?

I never heard it mentioned.

I still wonder why he let me get away.

He looked at me strangely.

It was a... happy look.

"It was a happy look."

Happy...

Happy.

Gerona,

which has resisted

foreign invaders in other ages

did not last a single hour.

For the "foreigners"were those who possessed it and those who came

were the troops of immortal Spain.

In this, the last Catalan city to be liberated,

streets and squares once again ring to the name of Spain.

General Camilo Alonso, who led the 4th

Navarra division, took the city,

and hours later, inspected his troops.

Right, now it's your turn.

How long did he stay there?

Two nights. I think it was two nights he slept here.

I'll never forget you. We'll meet again.

And from that day,

we never saw him again.

They say he won the war,

but he lost the history of literature."

The dedication in a book by one of our most interesting heretics

reads...

"To a disillusioned Spanish gentleman."

Such a deeply Spanish word...

"Disillusionment."

Tell me of your thoughts when death was so close.

It's incredible what one learns in the few seconds of an execution.

It is then when one recognizes all that is vain and fanciful

and sees all that is worth living for.

SANCHEZ MAZAS IS DEAD

STREET IN BILBAO NAMED AFTER SANCHEZ MAZAS

"A street in Bilbao

bears his name."

Good.

Good?

Very good.

Very good?

I mean...

You don't like it.

Let me talk.

I liked it, it's very well written, but it didn't...

move me.

I wonder what would move you.

I like to feel a book's been written from the gut.

But I don't see you, I don't know what you think or why you wrote it.

If you were to get involved...

To take part in the story...

It takes place in 1939.

For your information I wasn't born then.

That doesn't matter.

You wrote it for a reason...

If only you'd come out of

that shell you hide behind all the time.

You're starting to look like a schoolmistress.

Going to bed with books instead of flesh and blood.

Don't get me wrong.

I like

men, all right?

Don't be so pigheaded.

You want me to tell you it's a great novel.

Who told you I wanted to write a great novel?

Or that I could write a great novel?

No, sweetie.

Look, this is a great novel.

And this.

And this.

These are writers.

And brilliant.

Not me.

I just try and write. I know I'm not brilliant.

I don't need to be told that

by some esoteric book reader.

I may not know how to write but I know how to read.

And worst of all,

you're right.

How can you keep all that pent-up rage just for yourself?

Let it go,

get it all out, express yourself.

I'll stay anyway because you need somebody to take it all out on.

It was 9 o'clock on a night like any other in Madrid.

Two young men whose motorbike had broken down

were returning home when they saw an apartment building in flames

on downtown Carranza Street.

People milled around, listening to the cries

as those trapped inside anxiously awaited the arrival of firefighters.

One of the young men, Alvaro Iglesias,

ran through the flame-engulfed doorway hoping to help those inside.

First he brought out one resident, then another, then another.

He knew people were still inside

and went back in despite the flames

and smoke that had turned the stairs into a raging inferno.

He did not come out of the building alive. He was burned to death.

Some days later the authorities

awarded him the Medal of Civil Merit but nothing

can truly reward his bravery.

I'm not crying.

Heroes are only rewarded by the memory of others,

of those who admire their courage,

their instinct to act at decisive times.

What is a hero to you?

Someone who never makes mistakes?

Or someone with courage and the instinct of virtue?

Someone who doesn't make a mistake at the one time

when a mistake cannot be made.

Is the hero a superman?

Or just a normal person?

Or maybe someone who blindly takes a risk.

Or, as John Le Carré says,

maybe you need a hero's courage just to be a decent person.

I want you to write about that.

Whatever comes into your minds.

I don't know what a hero is but

I know I met one once.

Not long ago... a couple of years,

I got my first job at a trailer park.

I needed the money and it was the perfect summer job.

That was where I met Miralles.

At the Estrella de Mar.

He was a regular.

He turned up every year in early August in his motor home.

The day he arrived he'd put on shorts and sandals

and keep them on until the day he had to leave.

His body was a map of scars.

At night he'd get drunk in the bar

and I'd take him back.

One day he told me the story of his life through his scars.

The first was on his hand.

He'd got it working with his father,

who, he said,

was very special. When Franco led the coup,

his father went straight out to enlist but they said he was too old.

Seeing how upset he was,

his son, who knew nothing about politics, enlisted

in secret.

Then he dropped his shorts and showed me

his backside.

Anti-tank shrapnel, he told me.

He spent a month

arse-up in the hospital, and lost his virginity

to an English girl, who finally left him to go back to

her English husband.

"I can't show you that scar,"he said.

Then he joined

the 1st Mixed Brigade under Enrique Líster. A good place,

he said, to think yourself

a hero. Next came the scars won

at different battles...

Belchite,

Teruel,

Tarragona.

The front fell

and he withdrew to Catalonia, still under Líster.

The men said they'd resist, but they

ran away, the Fascists close on their heels.

After a few days in Catalonia, in February 1939

they crossed the border into France

together with hundreds of thousands of Spaniards.

Then they were put in a concentration camp on the beach.

It was hell.

Not really a concentration camp,

but a death camp.

The French didn't know what to do with them.

One day, some French Foreign Legion recruiters went by and he enlisted.

Just to get out of there.

The outbreak of World War II

found him under Leclerc

in the Maghreb.

Jacques Philippe Leclerc... Quite a guy!

He rebelled

against Vichy, formed a resistance in Africa,

and crossed miles and miles of desert till they reached Tripoli.

They landed

on Utah Beach, Normandy, 1st August 1944.

They were the first contingent

to enter Paris.

By the Porte de Gentilly, on 24th August.

15 days later, they were sent out against the Siegfried Line.

By then Miralles had been

at war for 7 years.

A German mine saved him.

Thanks to it he became a French citizen with a pension for life.

I may not know what a hero is, but I do know

I've met one.

It's him!

Antonio... Antoni. His name was Antoni Miralles.

But everybody called him Miralles.

Did he ever talk about Collell?

No.

Or a writer called Sánchez Mazas?

No, I never heard of him.

Should I have?

The Estrella de Mar.

A tracking shot.

I did it.

Pretty good, eh?

One of the advantages...

Barbara!

That's him.

That's him?

Miralles...

That's Luz.

A prostitute who worked the campsite.

He had the hots for her.

I remember that perfectly.

The end of August. The last day.

His wine, his portable record-player...

I'm not in.

Hello?

I said I'm not in. What is it?

Are you Luz?

- You from the city hall? - No, I'm looking for a man

who used to come here. You may know him.

Miralles, Antonio Miralles. He's very old.

Very old? He's a fucking mummy!

Nice old guy.

- Has he died? - I'm looking for him.

Perhaps you can help me.

He lived in France but I don't know his address.

This gets full of people in summer. I try to forget.

Here.

Save your charity for the poor, dearie.

Wait...

Some are thoughtful.

This came last year, I think.

He was a great old guy.

Dijon.

I'm looking for someone who lives in the Dijon area.

The surname's Miralles. I think the first name's Antonio or Antoni.

- In Dijon? - Dijon, yes.

- With a J? - With a J.

- That's the 21st region. - The 21st region? I see.

- Will you hold? - Yes, I'll hold.

No, not under Antonio.

No Antonio? What about Miralles with another first name?

- Miralles... there are five. - Five?

- Yes, five. - Well give me all five.

- I can't. - What?

- I can only give you one per call. - Only one per call?

One per call, madame.

Then I'll have to call 5 times, dammit!

- It's up to you. - No, no, give me the first one.

- In what order? - In alphabetical order.

Do you happen to know any other Miralles?

- There's no one else. - Someone with that name.

- As I said, there's no one. - Well, thank you.

- Goodbye. - Sorry to have bothered you.

Any luck?

My list of Miralles in France.

What if it wasn't Miralles?

Maybe he's not the character you need for your novel.

Why not make one up?

Reality always disappoints.

What you're looking for is here.

Maybe.

Let's leave it there.

You may be right.

Reality is disappointing, right?

It's open.

Are you crazy leaving the door open?

Anybody could get in and rape you.

The only person who's tried to rape me

lately is you.

Only joking.

I'm not like you. I've got a sense of humour.

Smells delicious.

So our Miralles didn't appear?

I see why you stopped writing.

- You've got no imagination. - You too?

I will not make him up!

Now let's see...

Where do you look for a man of 80 who vacations alone

and has more holes than a Camembert?

Gruyére.

Where?

Nothing.

What's that?

All the retirement homes in the Dijon area,

in alphabetical order. 87 of them. Places for old folk only.

Courtesy of something called the Internet.

We're going to write a great book!

Yes, an old man who fought in Spain in the war.

80 years old, yes.

Antonio, but I'm not completely sure.

He may have another name.

Miralles. M- l-R-A-L-L-E-S.

Nothing? Are you sure? It's very important to me...

- Nimpheas home. - Hello.

- I'd like to speak to Mr. Miralles. - Putting you through.

Hello?

Yes? Hello?

Hello, Mr. Miralles, please.

Miralles speaking. Who's calling?

Are you Antonio Miralles?

Antoni, Antonio... What does it matter?

Everybody calls me Miralles.

You don't know me but I've been looking for you.

A boy named Gaston told me about you.

Gaston?

He worked at the Estrella de Mar.

Of course, the guard. What became of him?

- He's a student of mine. - Really?

What sort of student is he? He seemed smart.

He's a smart boy.

I rang you because I'm writing for a local paper

about an episode in the Civil War.

The execution of some Nationalists at the Santuario del Collell.

You were there, right?

The boy told you that?

He told me you withdrew to France with Líster.

- You're a journalist? - Yes.

And you really think anybody

will be interested in something from 60 years ago?

I just wanted to talk to you. It's not a matter of justifying actions.

Look, young lady, nobody ever thanked me

for wasting my youth fighting for their country.

Nobody.

Never a gesture, never a letter.

Nothing.

And now you come with your shitty newspaper

and ask me if I took part in an execution.

Why don't you come out and accuse me of murder?

I'm afraid you've misunderstood me, Mr. Miralles.

Don't call me Mr.

Miralles. Miralles plain and simple.

I'm an old man, you know that? I'm 86 years old.

I haven't got much time left,

and all I ask is to be left alone.

Years ago a few people decided

it was best to forget the war, to start anew.

That's damn fine by me!

Now don't be offended but I'm going to hang up.

So what's wrong? We found him. That's what matters.

Don't you see? He won't talk to me.

He doesn't want to remember!

Idiot!

You must talk to him.

We can't stop after getting this far.

So tomorrow we take the car and we go straight to Dijon.

- Where is it? - Yeah, right.

You can tell him about his future while I ask him about his past.

Is that your plan? What'll you do?

Read his coffee dregs, then his palms, then his feet?

How much will you charge or do you have discounts for old people?

Get out of my car.

Get out of my car right now.

Come on, out.

Look...

I don't know why I always feel inferior to you.

You don't need anybody, do you? Especially a fool like me.

What?

Sorry.

Room 22, though at this time

he'll be in the garden or the T.V. Room.

Thanks.

You've come very late.

Late?

It's almost lunchtime.

Do you like T.V.?

I don't see much.

I watch it a lot.

Look how happy they are.

People are much happier now than in my day.

Those who put down

the future do it because they know they won't see it.

Like those intellectuals.

Every time I hear them trashing T.V.,

I know they're just fools.

Do you smoke?

Not here.

Off. Off. If I need your help I'll ask for it.

Ah, Miralles, they said you had a visitor...

This is the big boss.

- Lola's come to interview me. - An interview? What about?

Nothing important. A murder.

From 1,000 years ago.

About time you confessed your crimes.

Piss off.

Lovely, isn't she? I never know

whether to pinch her bottom or not.

She might think I was just being an old perv.

At my age women don't take you seriously in those things.

- Have you got any family? - Not any more.

I had a wife and a daughter but I haven't now.

So you want to talk about Collell?

- So you were there? - Of course I was there.

A week, maybe two...

At the end ofJanuary 1939.

I remember because I crossed the border on the 31st.

I'll never forget that date.

Look, there they are.

Punctual as ever.

- You got any kids? - No.

Don't you like them?

I like them but I haven't got any.

I could have had some once...

Look at

that rascal in the cap.

When you look at them you realise

that the only thing that matters is being alive.

And that's enough.

If you hear some funny noises,

don't worry.

That's my catheter.

I carry my own urinal around with me nowadays.

About the Collell...

Let's have that cigarette.

Will you light it?

Why were you there?

- Guarding prisoners? - More or less.

If they told you to guard them, then you did.

Did you know that one of them was Sánchez Mazas?

Have you read him?

Was he a good writer?

Depends who you compare him to.

I like Balzac. As good as him?

No.

I was at the Collell when they brought him in.

The execution was 30th January.

You said you crossed the border on the 31st.

It was a mass execution. Two escaped.

The other survivor wrote a book, "I was killed by the Reds."

What a title.

The bad thing about war is nobody knows how to win them with dignity.

Look at Franco.

He grew too fond of signing death warrants after the war.

Did you see that execution in the forest?

You'll agree with me that a few less Falangists around

might have saved us a war. Don't you think so?

I don't think anybody deserves to be executed.

Ah, you're a pacifist.

You should have said so.

Lunchtime.

Let's go to lunch, shall we?

Can I ask one last question?

Only one?

The journalist here wants to ask me another question.

Why don't you come back later?

Yes, come back later. I know a good place where you can eat.

A little bar behind the Place de la Liberation.

No comparison with here.

Do you notice that smell

of boiled vegetables,

medicines...

sick old people?

The smell of death, Lola, the damned smell of death.

Thanks.

Are you Spanish?

Miralles sent me here.

How is the old man?

Fine.

Come here, I'll show you something.

Come on.

Miralles.

There he is with my father.

Look at the name of the tank.

"Guadalajara."

Don't be dumb. What do you want?

To get me shot?

Months ago I had

a stroke. It paralysed my left side.

I don't know if that means anything ideologically speaking.

The left always disappoints.

The right doesn't. You always know where you stand with the right.

But our people...

Have some of this.

It's better this way.

Sánchez Mazas survived the execution thanks to one man.

A soldier.

He found him hiding in the undergrowth

but he let him get away.

You're very pretty.

I expect you're fed up of being told that.

Tell me something.

You don't really care about Sánchez Mazas and all that, do you?

I don't get you.

Writers.

You're just sentimentalists.

What you're looking for is a hero.

And I'm that hero, aren't I?

It's the heroes who don't survive.

When I left for the front a lot of other lads went along too,

all from Tarrasa, like me.

Though I didn't know most of them.

The García Sugués boys,

Miquel Cardós,

Gabi Baldrich,

Pipo Canal,

Fatty Odena,

Santi Brugada,

Jordi Gudayol.

All dead.

They were all so young.

Not a day passes without me thinking of them.

Not one got to know the good things in life.

Not one had a wife

or a son to get into bed with him on a Sunday morning.

Sometimes I dream of them.

I see them as they were then...

Young. Time doesn't pass for them.

Nobody remembers them.

And never... not one miserable street

of one miserable village

in one shitty country will be named after them.

Lela and Joan,

Gabi,

Miquel,

Gudayol,

Pipo,

Fatty Odena...

Why do you want to find the soldier who saved Sánchez Mazas' life?

To ask him what went through his mind.

Why he didn't kill him.

And why should he kill him?

Because in wars people kill each other.

But he didn't do that.

What time's your train?

Bus. In an hour's time.

We'd better call you a taxi from downstairs.

Say goodbye to the nurse for me.

Aren't you coming back?

If you want me to...

I didn't say I didn't want you to.

But bring me something.

- As well as cigarettes? - As well as them.

Do you like music?

I used to like it.

I saw a home movie. Of you dancing at the campsite.

A paso doble.

- How was I? - It was "Sighs for Spain."

What do you think he thought?

Who, the solider?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Look... here comes

your taxi.

Can I ask you a favor?

Of course.

I haven't hugged anybody in years.

Something I didn't mention was

that Sánchez Mazas recognised the soldier.

He saw him dance a paso doble in the yard at the Collell.

Alone.

The paso doble was "Sighs for Spain."

It was you, wasn't it?

No.

So long, mister.

I'll come and see you.

I'll come with my friends, don't worry.

I'll bring Gaston and Conchi and Aguirre.

You'll really like them.

We'll spend all day

together like one big family.

I'll come and read to you.

You'll see.

We'll see each other again, of course we will.

I won't forget you.

I won't forget you. I won't forget you.

I won't let them forget you.

"The first time I heard of Sánchez Mazas and the firing squad,

I was just

Eng subs ripped by -=McLane=-