3.  "NO NOS MOVERAN"

I had refused to sing in Spain under Franco. In 1977, one year after his death, I made my debut there. Now that they had won power, after forty years of struggle and many losses suffered during the civil  war and the Franco regime, there was much exultation and confusion among the Spanish liberals, socialists and communists.

I had been in Greece within weeks after the colonels fell, in 1974 and after a two-day spree of wild celebration the population had  gone nervously back into its shell. People could not adjust to freedom; they feared that as suddenly as it had come it would vanish and, like butterflies emerging on a spring day, they would be whisked into a political net where their terrors would resume.  The same appeared to be true in Spain; many people were disoriented and afraid. As they had needed each other's courage and bravado to survive Franco, they now needed it to reaffirm that he was finally dead.

Conservative Spaniards had always bought my records, especially Gracias a la Vida, although two songs associated with liberation struggles had been censored from the original.

In Madrid we stayed at the Ritz, where Andy and I had a suite. There was a sunken tub in the bathroom, and we sank into it on arrival, drinking the champagne we found in the room, alongside roses from the promoter, from the hotel, and from the Communist Party.

At Christmastime, I gave Fritz a huge book of drawings of our tour, cartoons I'd done lightning fast in fine-line ink. One of the pictures is of the Madrid press conference.

"Senora Baez, why do you come now to Spain?"

"Senora Baez, why you didn't come before to Spain?"

"Do you like Madrid?"

"Is Mr. Bob Dylan with you? If yes, why? And if no, why not?"

"I understand you don't care anymore the politics, only to make money."

"Why do you charge money for your concerts here? Don't you think they should be free?"

"Are you married?"

"Why your contract says that you must be driven in a Rolls Royce?"

"Senora Baez, why you are doing this commercial television show tomorrow? Do you know that it is the most commercial show in all of Spain?"

I had never heard so many rumors in my life. The most colorful fabrication was the Rolls Royce. Trying to be funny, I told them that I had asked for one Rolls Royce because the Spanish promoter couldn't get me two of them. When I saw everybody scribbling that on their pads, I quickly announced that I had made a joke, and neither rode in, nor ever requested, a Rolls Royce. But to this day, the myth of my white Rolls Royce lives on in Spain.

The next day was the TV show, and it was going to be strenuous. I had imagined it to be a combination of the Johnny Carson Show and a Vegas nightclub. It was. Fritz had gambled on this show be cause everyone said that "all of Spain" stopped in its tracks at five in the afternoon to watch it. The first act would go on to flashing disco lights and lip sync to canned music. Then would come Boney M., a well-known European rock group, and then a black curtain would be lowered in front of all the glitter to change the mood to one of somber dignity, and I would appear, and sing three songs, ending the show. There would be no interview, and no one following me to break the mood.

I had worked hard to put together the most appropriate and powerful set possible in three songs, two of which would be sung in Spanish. I memorized introductions in Spanish.

The studio was nerve-wracking. Andy stayed with me in the underground labyrinth which housed tiny, claustrophobic dressing rooms. I paced around, working on my Spanish and trying to anticipate the evening. The show would be broadcast live. Suddenly, I heard Fritz screaming. It was not rare to hear Fritz scream, but tonight his voice bordered on the manic.

"SHE ISS ZE SHTARR! WHO ZE FUCK ISS BONEY M.? NOBODY GOES ON AFTER MEIN SHTARR!" There were rapid translations, frantic footsteps, pleading voices, and then more screaming.

"SHE SINGS ONLY MITT ZE BLACK CURTAIN, AND SHE VILL FINISH ZE SHOW, EXACTLY HOW ISS PRINTED IN ZE CONTRACT, OR ZER VILL BE NO SHOW, MUY BIEN?"

He appeared in the doorway. "Zer iss nossing to vorry about, only zat zeez ash-holes must undershtand I viii kill zem mit mein own two hands ... Oh, yah, nonwiolently, of course."

We had our black curtain, and I closed the show. It was a small studio, and the more visible public up front was carefully chosen from the Spanish upper middle class. There were a few kids, also, I thought, of the rich.

I remember vividly the pearl necklace on the woman sitting nearest the stage. She ran her fine long fingers along and around it and, though dubious of my politics and image, prized her choice seat and would have much to tell her friends about over cocktails that evening. The faces around her were well tanned, the hair well groomed, and the healthy bodies elegantly dressed. It was not an easy audience to sing to. I had to remind myself that I was being broadcast live to millions of people outside of the studio, to a very different Spain from this select group. I understood the grumblings of the leftwing journalists at the press conference and went ahead with my planned program.

What happened next turned out to be one of those rare events which no one can ever really plan, and which are never forgotten. I spoke of the best-known heroine of the antifascist resistance: "I wish to dedicate a song to a very brave woman who is known for her courage in the resistance. I, too, am a soldier for justice, but I fight without guns, with nonviolence. But with much respect, I sing  this song for La Pasionaria."

The words had the effect of a stun gun. The lady in the pearls stopped fingering them, and some of the well-bred couples glanced at each other with expressions I could not decipher. I began the song  I had chosen to honor La Pasionaria, which was "No Nos Moveran,"  one of the anthems of the resistance, known and sung in English as "We Shall Not Be Moved." It was one of the songs censored from my Spanish album and had not been sung openly in Spain for forty years. I sang, "Unidos en la lucha, Unidos en la vida," and "Unidos en la muerta," -- Together in the struggle, together in life, together in death. It began slowly, rhythmically, a plaintive and emotional and simple statement. We shall not be moved. Just like a tree, standing by the water, we shall not be moved.

At the time I had no idea of the impact this simple song would have on so many people. I knew that the bejewelled women and their suntanned men had mixed reactions to it; I could see it in their downcast black lashes and tiny smiles, but at the end of the song even they, like the cameramen, brushed away tears and and rose to join in the chorus. There was strong applause and my contribution to Spanish commercial television was over.

There was a sudden crush of people on the backstage stairway. They swarmed in from nowhere, weeping, trying to embrace me. Fritz was puffing and shouting, and he, Jose, Jeanne, and Nancy were trying valiantly to block the hallway. I shut the dressing room door and shrugged at Andy. I don't remember most of what followed, but Jeanne told me recently she was afraid the crowd would go out of control in the tiny hallway. There was only a single exit in back of them and they had filled the corridor. Nor do I remember the trek to the car, with people pushing and shoving, yanking hairs from my head and trying to touch my face, shoulders, and hands. Somehow Fritz was next to me, calmly guiding me toward our car, punctuating the scene with his few words of Spanish delivered in an unmistakable German accent.

As we settled into the car a man in a Mercedes pulled up next to us and called out to me. I rolled down the window. I didn't like his face, but smiled and waved to him.

"You shouldn't get involved in the politics of Spain," he said.

I indicated my confusion by cupping my hand around my ear. He repeated his ominous warning, smiled stiffly, and glided off at the next green light.

"Was that a threat?" I asked, stunned.

"Fucking fascist," said Fritz. "Remember Franco iss not even one year dett."

The overwhelming response to the TV show overshadowed the incident and reduced the Mercedes driver to his proper status. I was told that hearing "No Nos Moveran" and La Pasionaria's name had broken a spell, or perhaps broken through a layer of protective silence that still surrounded the great, though entombed, Generalissimo Franco. There was wild celebration, hugging, kissing, weeping, and toasting in the living rooms and bars of Spain. Fresh strength was lent to, and derived from, the ghostly memories of the armies of the poor. The children in their rows of tiny coffins were  remembered again and through the tears were rocked again by their mothers and kissed on their foreheads by their fathers. I had brought healing and jubilation as my gift to Spain, and the left wing forgave me for appearing on the most commercial television show in Spain. The producer of the show was fired. He had known my choice of songs and his decision not to interfere cost him his job.

We left the relentless noise of the city, breathed mountain air, and visited cathedrals. I lost myself to a chapel filled with lighted candies, kneeling devotees, bloody hearts, stained glass windows, creches, crowns of thorns, a stilled pipe organ, brilliant ironwork, the musty smell of centuries-old stone, and whispered supplications. Ay, que terrible en las cinco de la tarde. I kneeled and prayed for the souls of the children of Guernica and for their mothers and fathers. Gracias a la vida. Thanks to life, which has given me so much; smiles and tears, my feet which are tired from so much marching ... I prayed for the fascist with the slicked-back shiny hair who had told me to stay out of Spanish politics, and gave thanks for my weapons in battle -- my voice and the desire to use it.

We didn't know that our driver had either taped our conversations or taken voluminous notes when we were out of the car, that a photographer, posing as a fanatic fan, was being paid by a newspaper to get some juicy photos, and that the room service waiters at  the Ritz must have been offered something worthwhile to spy on us. We found out a few days later, reading all about ourselves in a gossip column. It explained who was sleeping with whom (they had  Jose with me, and Andy with Jeanne, but never mind), about what we ate and drank, what we wore, and what we talked about. Any reality that wasn't interesting was spiced up and embellished.

When the article came out, we were already in Barcelona. And I already had new things to worry about.

I, poor idiot, hadn't understood that Barcelona was in Catalonia, and that naturally most of the people spoke (or preferred to speak) not Spanish, but Catalan, a language supposedly similar to southern provincial French, but utterly unclassifiable to my ears. I had pre- pared the concert with Spanish songs and introductions. When I strode out onstage I was greeted with wild cheering, but when I launched into my well-rehearsed phrases and expressions, they were met with less than enthusiastic applause. I sang in Spanish, to only lukewarm response. It is a terrible feeling to try every trick in the book, all the honest ones first, and still feel yourself slipping backward into mush.

That evening my life was saved by Joan Manuel Serrat, a Catalian singer-songwriter whose music I knew, and who had a beautiful face, a beautiful voice, and an understanding heart. Before the second concert Manuel came tumbling into my dressing room with his entourage and an enormous bouquet of flowers, hunkered down by my chair and explained that I had to say just one or two things in Catalan, and the evening would magically come together. I told him that I had memorized his own song, "Rossinyol," and he said that it. would be perfect. Then he gave me the words to "No Nos Moveran," which I wrote out phonetically. I did the same with "good evening," "thank you," "you're welcome," etc. Then Manuel had a real stroke of genius. He told me that when Franco came to power the president of the government of Catalonia, Josep Farradellas, was exiled to France. He did not see his beloved homeland again until after Franco's death, at which time he had a triumphant homecoming and was reappointed president. Apparently, when he appeared in front of his people, he said, "Bon anite, amigas y amiks! fa estoc aqui! (Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I am here!)" And they went wild with happiness.

All I had to do, said Manuel, was walk out on stage and say, "Bon anite, amigas y amiks! fa estoc aqui!" and everything would be fine.

I was excited and moved by the story, and frantically scribbled phonetic Catalan phrases for everything I wanted to say. Manuel embraced me and wished me well, and I went out for another con cert. When I reached the microphone and opened as he had suggested, the house came down. These people's pride in being recognized verged on hysteria. I said my few phrases, and after that it didn't really matter what I chose to sing. At one point during "Poor Wayfaring Stranger," I heard the plaintive notes of a harmonica straining up from the crowd. Eight thousand people catcalled and shushed to silence the intruder, but I said, "Oh, no. It's okay! Let him play!" and for one long and exquisite verse, a Catalonian musician poured out his soul, and there was not a sound except for a guitar, a voice, and a weeping harmonica.

Toward the end of the evening, I sang "Rossinyol," and the hall turned into day with the lighting of thousands of candles. The Catalonians were hearing not just a song in their own language, but one which, to my delight, they all knew by heart, and they sang every verse, standing up under the bouncing light of their own candles. Childlike glee and jubilation followed, and I began "No Sarem Mugoots" ("No Nos Moveran") over the happy din. This was now almost too much. There were tears as the candles were relit, and flowers were thrown onto the stage. A senator who had openly denied Franco during all his years in office came up onstage at my invitation. Joan Manuel came out, too, and we all sang "We Shall Overcome," and Catalonians who were long since dust rose up clean and held hands and swayed and sang out as well, and, their earthly struggle over, became the smiles between our tears. And Franco's car, driven by the fascist with the slicked-back hair, and loaded with white bones, leaving only a small spot for the General to sit, was lost somewhere in the valley of death.

***

Madrid.

The concert.

Too much press. Too many photographers. Andy was there to comfort me, and I had a better list of songs. I wore a heavy brown leather skirt and brown boots, and a nappy little sweater and a Saint Laurent scarf of rose, beige, and dark green draped around my neck, and out I strode to sing to ten thousand more Spaniards in a stadium.

The photographers fired flashguns at me like a trained militia. I ignored them for two songs, and then asked, please, if they could, por favor, just work for one more song and then stop. Their anger and readiness to fight shocked me, but at the end of the next song I tried again, this time in broken Spanish. Please, siente te, usted, por favor, es mucho ruido para mi, los fotografos. My endearing little smile got me nowhere and was beginning to tremble at the corners. The cameras clicked on over a sea of maniacs pushing, shoving and shouting, "Aqui! Mira, Joan, aqui!" Over here, Joan, look over here! The crowd shouted at them to sit down and they shouted back, and I felt my composure dissolving. In the chaos I sang another song and hated it and hated them and felt desperate and small and frustrated. The security guards began to move in on both sides. Christ, I thought, now what, as they began doing the only thing they knew how to do -- forcibly shove the swarm of photographers away from the orchestra pit. The public understood my plight, and were them selves fed up with the chaos which was wrecking the concert, but each of them also carried, in his or her own memory, images of repression and brutality and a sense of powerlessness in the face of the police. The scene was becoming complicated beyond my experience and capabilities to put it right. The cameramen were now shouting in fury, and the guards were pushing more and more violently.  Just as they were almost cleared out, one little obnoxious bastard ducked under the arm of a tall guard and prepared to snap one last flash. In a spontaneous gesture of fury, I axed my left  with my right hand at the elbow, bending it into a fist, a gesture the Spanish refer to as the butifarra, expressing what I thought was a forceful "Screw you." The flash went off, the crowd roared with laughter, the photographer looked as if he'd been shot, I felt momentarily relieved, and the show went on and was a fine success, ending with the lit candles and great choruses. I had nearly forgotten the ugliness of the early incidents. But the real show had not yet begun.

A press conference had been scheduled at a hotel. I was excited, ready to expound on any subject, and anxious to get started. I trotted off leading my entourage.

"Don't go in there," said a woman, suddenly appearing alongside us.

I stopped short.

"Why not? It's my press conference," I said, annoyed at her intervention.

My Spanish promoter looked sheepish.

"They are angry," she continued.

"Who is angry?" I demanded, myself furious. "Whatever it is, I'll handle it."

What no one could bring himself to tell me was that my charming gesture to the photographer had meant something more serious than "Screw you," something rather more to do with all of their mothers, and an only recently liberated Spanish press corps found itself reacting from its roots of Catholic puritanism. Insulted by my unladylike gesture, and further aggravated by the guards, the press had formed a sindicato against me, and were on strike. Well, not completely on strike, because they were there, a hundred or more strong.

Not understanding all this, I strode impetuously up to the micro phone, like a spoiled child at her own birthday party, and, thinking I could charm them out of their silly snit, smiled and asked if they would like me to pose for pictures before or after the questions.

My million-dollar smile was met with expressions ranging from amusement to rage, and I tried to remember what the lady in the hall had been trying to tell me.

"Would someone like to tell me what the problem is?" I asked finally, and a man burst from his seat and began to read from a typed page, punctuating the text with his own feelings, urged on by nodding heads and grunts from his cohorts. I invited him to the microphone. He stomped up and read the long list of complaints, which in brief, were that they had been insulted, by a woman and a foreigner.

Did they think I had called the guards? They knew I had not. Was it really the gesture alone, here in newly liberated Spain? He ranted on. I peeked around at Fritz. He looked terrified. So did my Spanish promoter. I was not afraid; I was confused and impatient. A translation was made. The final point of the two scribbled pages of gripes was to demand an apology.

"Of course, I will apologize to you," I said instantly. "I had no idea that my gesture, made in a moment of anger, anger which I feel was justified, carried such a serious meaning here in Spain. I apologize that I have been rude, and that I have insulted you."

Silence.

Nothing was more unexpected or deflating than an apology. They obviously wanted a fight. A man stood up and waved his fist at me and shouted in Spanish. "What do you mean you didn't know the meaning of that gesture? Of course you did. You travel and have been around. I cannot accept that you are ignorant of such an obvious fact."

Grunts of approval issued from the crowd.

"I am sorry, but you are wrong. Why would I have wanted to alienate the press, whom I need, and expose myself to such an attack as this if I had understood the implications of an offhand gesture? And yes, I have traveled extensively, and, in fact, this is not the first time I have lost my temper and done similar things, and they were always forgotten in five minutes. Again, I apologize for my ignorance."

Silence.

"It is not enough that you apologize to us! You must apologize to the public. Why didn't you apologize to the public?"

"Sir. As we have discussed, number one, I didn't know the true nature of my insult. Two, the audience laughed. I thought they were amused. It was only you who were upset, not the crowd."

They grumbled some more to themselves and each other.

"However," I ventured, "I will certainly say to any and every Spaniard who was hurt or insulted by me that I humbly apologize for both my insult and my ignorance."

Still more grumbling.

"And now, if you'd like to have a press conference, I'm more than willing."

Many more questions were asked, but no photos taken. I was shaken, and I'm sure there was hurt written on my face, but I'd be damned if I would show more than what sneaked through. Had I really done something wrong? How tough I was in front of a crowd! And tonight I would cry when everyone had gone to bed. Andy would understand, and he would hold me.

The next morning was worse than ever. We walked out onto the Paseo to buy some newspapers, and saw, hanging from every newsstand wall holder and clip, a most uncomplimentary photograph of La Senora Baez, in a pretty outfit and ugly humor, her nasty expression barely legible in the fuzzy newsprint, and the famous fist. "Butifarra con la guitarra," one of the funnier titles read. I was devastated. I had worked so hard and sung so well and thought that everybody in the whole world, or at least in all of Spain, loved me, and here they printed this horrible picture, making my whole trip to Spain seem like one giant faux pas.

My poor face grew longer and longer as I walked the rows of newsstands with my "femily."

Fritz was trying to tell me that the articles themselves were wonderful, that I was a huge success in Spain and had Madrid in the palm of my hand. The picture, he said, would only ensure the sales of thousands of copies ... But I heard nothing, cried my eyes out, and left Spain in a miserable little black cloud. Boarding the plane, I bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune, and found staring up at me the same nightmare photo with a short caption under it saying that La Baez had lost control of a crowd in Spain and called for the police.

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