I was eight when I learned not to ask questions. It was 1948. My mother handed me a cartilla de racionamiento — the ration card — and whispered, “Don’t speak to anyone in line.” We queued before sunrise for stale bread and black-market beans. Franco’s regime had plunged Spain into what they called autarquía — economic self-sufficiency — but it was just another word for hunger.

My father had fought for the Republic. After the war, he disappeared. My mother said he was in prison; my uncle said he was “rehabilitated,” which was the word they used when people came back different or never came back at all. We couldn’t keep his picture out. Neighbors informed. Children repeated what they heard. One wrong word meant your name went on a list. Or your child’s.

School was catechism, rote memorization, and prayers for Generalísimo Franco. Every classroom had a crucifix and a portrait of the dictator. We learned the state version of history. The Civil War was “The Crusade.” The dead were “cleansed.” No one dared to remember the truth.

There was no freedom of the press. Radio, books, even songs were censored. A neighbor once told a joke about Franco and was arrested. We didn’t see him again for four years. When he returned, he had one eye and walked with a limp.

You think it can’t happen in America? That it’s different? But we were once a republic too — with elections, with unions, with a constitution. All it took was one man, and a silent majority who thought they were safe.

  • Image Credit: US National Archives, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons