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Why were the years 1962/3 so significant in the history of the Franco dictatorship?

Spain, went the tourist-oriented slogan promoted by the Franco dictatorship which

had ruled the country since 1939, was ‘different’, a notion that contemporary historians have

striven to overturn by emphasising how the ‘… extraordinary, even exotic country of the

Civil War, the International Brigades, and the mysterious Franco regime’, as it was

stereotypically depicted by travellers, writers and anthropologists,1 was increasingly aligned

with pan-European social, political and cultural trends by the 1960s. This is undoubtedly true

to some extent, but it is the contention of this essay that the trajectory of Spanish history in

the 1960s was indeed unique, reflecting the idiosyncrasies and contradictions inherent in the

Franco regime’s formula for modernity – which divorced economic liberalisation from its

political counterpart – and can most fruitfully be studied through a forensic examination of

the events of the years 1962/3. The desarrollo (‘development’) phase of the dictatorship after

1959 has received considerably less scholarly attention than the post-war Spain of mass

executions, concentration camps, and famine,2 and in particular, no journal article or

substantive chapter in any edited volume has been devoted to exploring the significance of

the events of the years 1962/3, a historiographical deficiency this essay will seek to address.

The spark of the unrest which would convulse Spain on a scale not seen since the

Civil War, was lit on April 7 1962, when miners from Nicolasa declared a strike, demanding

immediate wage increases. The following day, miners from Baltasara also downed tools. By

the time the government declared a state of siege in the strike-wracked provinces on May 4,

almost 500,000 workers were in open revolt.3 Simple repression was unavailing, and on May

24, the government acceded to the workers’ demands; by the first week of June, with the

1 Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez, Franco: The Biography of the Myth (London: Routledge, 2013), 153. 2 Nigel Townson, ‘Introduction’, in Spain Transformed: The Late Franco Regime, 1959-1975, ed. Nigel Townson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 1-2. 3 Anthony Phalen, ‘Spanish coal miners challenge Franco’s dictatorship’, Global Nonviolent Action Database, December 2009 [http://nvdatabase.swarthmore.edu/content/spanish-coal-miners-challenge-franco-dictatorship-1962, accessed 12 January 2015].

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granting of wage increases, the strike action had dissipated. The significance of the industrial

dispute of the summer of 1962 was two-fold. Firstly, to have extracted concessions from a

regime which had, after 1939, decimated the cadres of the workers’ movement, abused

official rationing as an instrument of vengeance to further penalise the defeated, and

suppressed wages even as rampant inflation had savagely eroded living standards,

represented a considerable victory for the Asturian miners, the government’s relatively

temperate response itself a reflection of the scale of the challenge mounted, which, it was

recognised, could not be neutralised simply through whole-sale repression. Secondly, the

miners’ struggle was a vehicle for the resurgence of opposition which had been snuffed out in

the aftermath of the Civil War, when the mutually reinforcing spectres of terror and hunger

had stalked Spain, consolidating the Franco regime’s victory by inculcating political apathy

in a traumatised and exhausted population; in 1962, the strikes in Asturias not only inspired

copycat action in pits in León, Córdoba, Ciudad Real, and Vizcaya, but crucially, stimulated

solidarity with the miners across Spanish society. On May 7, students in Madrid

demonstrated in support of the miners, and on May 19, The Economist reported that even

liberal monarchists of the Unión Española had expressed sympathy for the strikers, and were

railing against government censorship.4 1962 thus laid the cornerstone of the broad coalition

of opposition to Francoism. As even Christian Democrats and monarchists drifted into semi-

open opposition to the dictatorship, and Spanish society in the 1960s and 70s coalesced

around ideals of democratisation, pluralism and citizenship, values anathematic to regressive

Francoism, its increasingly absurd assertion that the only source of discontent was Moscow,

international headquarters of the ‘anti-Spain’, was utterly invalidated, producing a growing

crisis of legitimacy for the regime.

4 The Economist (19 May, 1962).

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Significantly, the government’s handling of the labour unrest of 1962 was shaped by

external, as well as domestic, political considerations. Increasingly concerned in the early

1960s with furthering the international rehabilitation of Spain, the Franco regime was fixated

on the holy grail of European Economic Community (EEC) membership, a formal

application for which was lodged with the European Commission in February 1962.

Commenting on the strike action of the summer of that year, The Economist posited the likely

correlation between the Franco regime’s relatively moderate response, and the fact its

application for EEC membership was being processed at that time by the Commission,

observing that the Spanish government was ‘… most unlikely to do anything that would

injure its prospects’ in this regard.5 The very fact that the regime increasingly coveted the

approbation of its European neighbours, was in itself tacit acknowledgment of the bankruptcy

of the half enforced, half self-imposed isolationism of the 1940s, when the autarkic Francoist

project of purgative national reconstruction had been predicated on the extirpation of ‘alien’

political, social and cultural elements, even to the extent that foreign footballing terms had

been expunged from the Spanish language.6 Spain’s overtures to the EEC in early 1962 thus

marked a crucial moment in the development of the Franco regime. The quest for European

acceptance required the dictatorship to sacrifice ideological purity on the altar of long-term

survival, thereby demonstrating the remarkable flexibility of the regime. In 1962, this

necessitated somewhat tempering the ferocious state violence the regime had directed against

its own citizens in the 1940s, in order to allay European concerns over the dictatorship’s

human rights record. Even so, a certain amelioration of repression did not augur any

significant political reform; addressing assembled Nationalist war veterans at Cerro Garabitas

in Madrid on 26 May 1962, Franco attacked Catholic sympathisers with the striking miners,

rebutted speculation that he was contemplating relinquishing power, and stridently reaffirmed

5 The Economist (12 May, 1962).6 Sebastian Balfour, ‘Spain 1931 to the Present’, in Spain: A History, ed. Raymond Carr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 266.

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that his regime’s mandate was ultimately derived from victory over the ‘anti-Spain’ in 1939.7

In the events of the summer of 1962 therefore – judicious concessions by the regime

alongside continued refutation of any fundamental political reform, embodied by Franco

himself – we can discern both the key ingredients of the durability and longevity of the

dictatorship, and the seeds of political, social and economic crisis that would germinate in the

early 1970s.

As we have already alluded to, although the dictatorship did not bring to bear the full

panoply of state repression in the summer of 1962, it still viewed the opposition through the

prism of the ‘anti-Spain’ paradigm manufactured by the incipient Franco regime during the

Civil War. The government thus perceived seditious political intent lurking even behind

strike action that was indubitably motivated by economic factors – the miners could barely

feed their families as inflation continued to bound ahead of the depressed value of their

earnings – and the ringleaders arrested and deported in the summer of 1962 were branded

communist agents.8 The persistence of this Civil War mentality was paralleled by the

dictatorship’s inability, even as the international ostracism of the 1940s subsided, to entirely

wean itself off its own rhetoric decrying an international conspiracy to denigrate it, and by

extension, Spain, imbuing the regime’s foreign policy with a peculiarly schizophrenic

dimension. As we have seen, the dictatorship was, in early 1962, edging towards membership

of the EEC, but whenever it was subjected to international censure (of which there would be

a mounting crescendo throughout 1963, as the Julián Grimau affair unfolded, and a renewed

wave of strikes in Asturias was met with more brutal and extensive repression than in the

summer of 1962), the regime, stung, would automatically adopt the siege mentality of the

1940s, and retreat behind the ramparts of hyper-nationalism, darkly claiming that ‘stooges of

Moscow’ were sowing dissension and subversion inside Spain. At the height of the strike

7 Paul Preston, Franco (London: Fontana Press, 1995), 702.8The Economist (19 May, 1962).

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action in May 1962 for example, the regime-supporting journal Madrid accused Russia of

waging economic war against Spain.9

The most damaging broadside against the Franco regime in the summer of 1962

however, was launched not from Moscow, but from Munich, where the Fourth Annual

Congress of the European Movement convened from 5 to 8 June. Eighty representatives from

the ranks of the barely-tolerated opposition within Spain, consorting with thirty-eight exiles,

drafted a resolution – which was then submitted to and ratified by the Congress – outlining

the five non-negotiable preconditions for Spanish membership of the EEC: the establishment

of representative institutions; the abolition of press censorship and the extension of

guarantees of respect for civil liberties; recognition of the various national communities

within the Spanish state, whose indigenous laws, languages and customs had been abrogated

by the Franco dictatorship; protection of the right of workers to unionise and strike; and the

legalisation of political association and activity outside the orbit of the ‘National

Movement’.10 The significance of the motion crafted by the assembled delegates at Munich

lay in the fact that it had been authored by such a broad cross-section of the anti-Francoist

opposition, embracing liberal monarchists, Christian Democrats, and even disillusioned

Falangists (Spanish fascists), as well as republicans and socialists who had fled into exile

abroad in or since 1939. Munich also, however, laid bare the profound divisions which

continued to beset the opposition; the communists were not invited to participate, and the

anarchists rejected the five-point communiqué which emerged from the Congress

altogether.11 Munich thus highlighted that the opposition, whilst united in repudiating

Francoism, still lacked the cohesion to constitute a credible alternative government which

could enter Spain and assume power if the regime should fall; they could disseminate

9 Max Gallo, Spain under Franco (London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1973), 296. 10 Edouard de Blaye, Franco and the Politics of Spain (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1976), 210-211. 11 Gallo, Spain, 297-8.

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propaganda, produce policy statements, and mobilise world opinion against the dictatorship,

but they could not bring it down. Within Spain, the regime was still virtually unassailable,

buttressed by force of arms, an effective propaganda machine, and, crucially, the passivity of

the general population. 1962 thus revealed the limits of the opposition’s capacity to challenge

the regime; debate conducted abroad barely pierced the carapace of the dictatorship.

In fact, the significance of the Munich Congress was arguably amplified by the

dictatorship’s hysterical reaction to it, which in turn reflected its acute paranoia over the

democratic world affording the ‘anti-Spain’ a platform to attack the regime. Those who had

attended the Munich Congress were detained immediately upon their return to Spain, and

presented with a bleak ultimatum: exile abroad, or banishment to the remote island of

Fuerteventura.12 This draconian response provided Francoism’s critics abroad with renewed

ammunition, but in fact, the regime’s pursuit of EEC membership again – mirroring the

pacification of the striking miners – imposed a certain degree of restraint on the dictatorship.

To highlight just one case which illustrates this point, at the end of 1939, six members of the

Central Committee of the Communist Party, upon crossing the Spanish-Portuguese border,

had been immediately arrested and executed by the Francoist authorities with no semblance

of a judicial process13; that the regime could not, in 1962, simply seize and dispose of the

high-profile dissidents returning from Munich with the same impunity with which it had

eliminated political opposition in the 1940s, is testament to the fact that the dictatorship was

no longer impervious to world opinion. Through its membership of the United Nations (UN),

and its bilateral accords with the United States and the Vatican, Franco’s Spain was, by the

1960s, embedded in the fabric of the international community, and renovating the face the

regime presented to the democratic world was an increasingly significant factor in informing

12 David Gilmour, The Transformation of Spain: From Franco to the Constitutional Monarchy (London: Quartet Books, 1985), 101.13 Gallo, Spain, 87.

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the formulation and presentation of government policy.14 Indeed, even after the miscarriage

of the initial Spanish bid in early 1962, EEC membership remained the regime’s primary

foreign policy goal, and Franco’s ministers, particularly when addressing international

audiences, consistently hymned the significance which Spain attached to European

integration; for example, The Financial Times emphasised that this was the central theme of

technocrat supremo Laureano López Rodó’s major speech to the London Chamber of

Commerce in November 1963.15

Concerns that Spain’s international image had been tarnished by the Munich affair

undoubtedly contributed to the cabinet reshuffle unveiled by Franco in July 1962.16 Although

the dictator himself had been apoplectic with rage, pouring virulent bile on those he

denounced as the ‘conspirators’ and ‘traitors’ of Munich, it was the dour Minister of

Information and Tourism, Gabriel Arias-Salgado, who paid the price for the internationally

damaging fall-out from the regime’s heavy-handedness.17 The removal of Arias-Salgado was

symptomatic of the displacement of the Falangist old guard by a new generation of Opus Dei-

affiliated technocrats committed to partial modernisation of the regime. The revamped

political complexion of the government, however, did not translate into any coherent or

systematic liberalising agenda. For example, Manuel Fraga Iribarne, Arias-Salgado’s

successor as Minster of Information and Tourism, undertook to produce a new Press Law, but

the process of drafting the legislation (which was eventually promulgated in 1966) would

demonstrate the severely circumscribed scope of Francoist ‘liberalisation’. Fraga proposed to

abolish prior scrutiny by the authorities of newspaper content, and curtail the volume of

government missives with which editors were bombarded, but the National Press Council

established on 5 December 1962 was composed entirely of regime functionaries, and during

14 Jean Grugel and Tim Rees, Franco’s Spain (London: Arnold, 2002), 84. 15 The Financial Times (27 November, 1963). 16 Cazorla-Sánchez, Franco, 186.17 Preston, Franco, 703-5.

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the three month experimental period in which pre-censorship was suspended, journalists who

incurred official displeasure continued to feel the wrath of the dictatorship. One editor was

fined for publishing an article deemed to be offensive to military dignity, another for

criticising his city’s fire brigade, whilst one reporter was rather ominously warned that he

was ‘working against the government’ by covering the destructive flooding triggered by

torrential rainfall in Catalonia in September 1962.18 Furthermore, whilst the shackles around

the press were slightly loosened, state censorship of radio and television was unattenuated.

The regime shrewdly calculated that whereas it could afford to permit a mild relaxation of

press censorship in a country where newspaper circulation was so low, it was imperative to

maintain a firm grip on the levers of television and radio output, which was penetrating a

growing number of households as millions of newly affluent Spaniards acquired these

markers of the growing prosperity of the 1960s.19 Against this backdrop of rapid socio-

economic development, the template of Francoist ‘liberalisation’ was thus sketched in

1962/3. Some measure of reform would be enacted as government policy, allowing Franco to

boast, as he often did, that his regime, evolving ‘organically’, was continuing to ‘perfect’

itself,20 but as we have seen in the case of the Press Law, any such initiative was invariably so

heavily qualified by various restrictions, with stiff penalties for even minor transgressions, as

to utterly dilute it. The government reshuffle of 1962 thus inaugurated the debate over

‘liberalisation’ which would increasingly polorise the dictatorship from within, and had

produced, by the early 1970s, an open breach between reformist aperturistas and ultra-

reactionary immobilistas, accentuating the position of Franco as the central axis of the

regime, the ‘… only legitimate figurehead to all the groups within the authoritarian camp’.21

18 The Economist (22 December, 1962). 19 Robert Graham, Spain: Change of a Nation (London: Michael Joseph Ltd., 1984), 235-40.20 Raymond Carr and Juan Pablo Fusi, Spain: Dictatorship to Democracy (London: Routledge, 1993), 40.21 Grugel and Rees, Franco’s Spain, 72.

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After the cabinet reshuffle of July 1962, the denouement of a febrile summer,

something of a lull briefly descended on Spain; political life was prorogued as Franco

decamped to his holiday residence at Pazo de Meiras, at La Coruña, and minor strike action

in Asturias and Barcelona in August was wound up by limited concessions coupled with

surgical repression. In September, socio-political strife was defused by the state of national

mourning declared after the flooding in Catalonia which claimed 414 lives.22 On 7 November

1962, however, the arrest in Madrid of a balding, fifty-one year old member of the Central

Committee of the Communist Party of Spain, set in motion a chain of events that would

expose the superficiality of Francoist ‘liberalisation’. On 9 November, Spanish newspapers

reported that Julián Grimau had flung himself out of a second-storey window of the

headquarters of the General Security Directorate (DGS) on Madrid’s Puerto del Sol. Outside

Spain however, the official account of this bizarre incident was greeted with considerable

sceptisisim, and the international press soon seized upon the theory that Grimau had been

deliberately hurled from the window in a clumsy attempt to conceal evidence of police

torture.23 It was thus a physically – though not mentally – broken Grimau who was brought to

trial before a military court in Madrid for offences supposedly committed during the Civil

War, on 18 April 1963. Even before proceedings commenced however, the Francoist justice

system had been thoroughly impugned; almost farcically, the regime, in trying Grimau for

crimes allegedly committed between 1936-9, was infringing its own twenty-five year statute

of limitations, whilst indicting him for ‘continuous military rebellion’ (which carried the

possibility of the death sentence), rather than for his role in the illegal opposition since

covertly returning to Spain in 1961 (for which the maximum penalty the court could have

handed down would have been a lengthy period of imprisonment), evinced the vindictiveness

of the dictatorship. Incredibly, the actual trial was concluded in less than five hours, during

22 Gallo, Spain, 304.23 de Blaye, Franco, 216.

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which time Grimau was repeatedly cut short whilst furnishing his testimony – as reported in

The Guardian, he was immediately silenced by the judge when he referred to his fall from the

window of the DGS24 - and his defence lawyer’s pleas were disregarded altogether. The

disgraceful conduct of the trial vividly demonstrated that, whilst the dictatorship was no

longer sending thousands of people before firing squads, as in the 1940s, ‘justice’ was still a

sham in Franco’s Spain. Entirely predictably, the military court found Grimau guilty, and

sentenced him to death; Franco was unswayed by the international backlash manifested in

massive demonstrations across North America and Western Europe, and the entreaties of

world leaders including Pope John XXIII, Nikita Khrushchev, and Queen Elizabeth II, to

exercise the prerogative of mercy, and the verdict was confirmed in cabinet the following

day. In a stark illustration of the ruthless efficiency of the apparatus of state repression in

Franco’s Spain, the death sentence pronounced on the 18th and upheld on the 19th, was carried

out in the early hours of the 20th, when Grimau was shot at a rifle-range near Madrid’s

infamous Carabanchel Prison.

Such a lengthy examination of the case of Julián Grimau is entirely justifiable,

because of how revealing it is of the nature of the Franco regime in the early 1960s, by which

time, its apologists maintained, it had largely eschewed state violence and was advancing

down the path of reform. In fact, the very act of trying Grimau, in 1963, for his Civil War

record, reflected Francoism’s rootedness in the past; even as the ‘legitimacy of achievement’

was increasingly emphasised by the dictatorship,25 foreshadowing the tone of the 1964

‘Twenty-Five Years of Peace’ celebrations, the regime never ceased to invoke its origins.

Thus, Franco, in his 1963 end-of-year address to the nation, wrapped himself in the mantle of

the victor of the Civil War, referring pointedly to wartime atrocities in the ‘Red Zone’, and

24 The Guardian (19 April, 1963). 25 Mark Williams, The Story of Spain: The Dramatic History of Europe's Most Fascinating Country (Mijas: Santana Books, 2009), 239-40.

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exalting the martyrdom of the Nationalist dead who had fallen for ‘God and Spain’ in the

struggle against communism.26 The regime’s official monopoly on the past perpetuated the

archetype of the ‘anti-Spain’ which still, in the 1960s, framed the parameters of what was

defined as permissible political activity; no association, trade union or even recreational club

which did not subscribe to the ‘communion’ of the ‘National Movement’, could legally exist

in Franco’s Spain.27 Grimau was thus committing a crime simply by being a member of a

proscribed political party. But his execution was more resonant than that; it was a potent

reaffirmation of the power still wielded by the victors of 1939, and a demonstration of the

state’s willingness to put its opponents to death, as well a signal to the world that the

dictatorship would never simply bow to international outrage over its human rights’ record,

thereby dispelling any perception of impotence engendered by the fact that the government

had negotiated with, rather than quelling outright, the striking miners in 1962. It was as if the

regime, bruised by the events of the summer of 1962, was anxious to assert its strength by

defiantly beating the drum of nationalistic indifference to the international disgust at the trial

and execution of Grimau in 1963. If any further evidence was required of the extent to which

the Franco regime was still steeped in violence, four months after Grimau’s execution, two

anarchists, Francisco Grandado Cata and Joaquín Delgado Martínez, were garrotted in

Carabanchel. The Observer headline, ‘Moderates win ground in Spain’,28 - alluding to the

May 1963 decision of the cabinet to overhaul the justice system and bring political ‘crimes’

under civilian, rather than military, jurisdiction – was a questionable assessment of the

Spanish political landscape even before the execution of the two anarchists in August; after

they had been condemned by the same court which had sent Grimau to his death, and

dispatched by the medieval method of the garrote vil, any suggestion that the Franco regime

was charting a ‘liberalising’ course seemed fallacious.

26 Cazorla-Sánchez, Franco, 186-7.27 Raymond Carr, Modern Spain, 1875-1980 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 166.28 The Observer (5 May, 1963).

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Sandwiched between the political executions of April and August 1963, the regime

was confronted by renewed strike action in the bastion of labour militancy, Asturias. By the

beginning of August, some 10,000 workers were on strike, just two percent of the nearly

500,000 mobilised in the summer of 1962, yet conversely, the repression unleashed by the

regime was considerably harsher; on 3 September at Sama de Langreo, for example, a miner

was castrated, and his wife’s head was shorn, and such savagery was not untypical.29 So

extreme was the violence applied by the Civil Guard to breaking the strike action, that 102

intellectuals penned a letter to Fraga cataloguing the litany of police brutality, and calling for

an independent investigation; the Minister of Information and Tourism’s response to this

powerful epistle encapsulated the duality of government policy in the 1960s. Two weeks after

the letter had landed on his desk, Fraga circulated it, and his official response, in the press, in

a demonstration of transparency that did betoken a certain degree of ‘liberalisation’, yet the

essence of his reply was unmitigated scorn; the intellectuals in question were smeared as

‘pawns of Moscow’, and their call for an investigation was rubbished. Then, just over a week

later, the police swooped on the signatories of the letter, who were charged with propagating

‘false or tendentious news’.30 Once again, the regime had answered a challenge by proffering

a modicum of ‘liberalisation’ with one hand – sanctioning somewhat more open reporting,

and even a timid degree of public discussion, of, the strikes of 1963 – whilst bringing down

the clenched fist of Francoism – police action and recourse to the arsenal of repressive laws

that were still very much in force – with the other.

The postulation of this essay has been that dissecting the events of 1962/3, which

have not formed the basis of any comprehensive study, is a particularly instructive exercise

for students of late Francoism, the essence of which was encoded in this transitional period

from autarky and mass terror, to consumerism and the revival of opposition. Whilst the

29 Gallo, Spain, 312. 30 Ibid., 312-13.

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economic miracle of the 1960s enabled the regime to trumpet that ‘Franco’s Peace’ had

yielded unprecedented prosperity and material wellbeing, the contradictions generated by the

jarring dissonance between Francoism’s (belated) conversion to economic liberalism, and its

continued denial of any measure of reform more substantive than cosmetic refurbishment of

the political super-structure, were increasingly difficult to master. The regime was thus

impelled, with increasing frequency, to shed the flimsy mask of ‘liberalisation’, and lash out,

often brutally, fuelling a cyclical spiral of conflict, as repression directed against one sector of

society evoked cross-oppositional solidarity – evidenced by the students who took to the

streets of Madrid in May 1962 in support of the striking miners – which was in itself a highly

significant phenomenon, reflecting the overcoming of the fragmentation and atomisation of

the hungry, exhausted and cowed society of the 1940s. As well as setting the pattern of social

and political conflict in late Francoist Spain, the years 1962/3 also highlighted the

impossibility of the dictatorship slipping comfortably into the fold of democratic Western

European association; EEC membership, in fact, would ultimately elude Spain until 1986,

more than a decade after the dictator’s death. At a time when Spain was seeking EEC

membership, indeed, international rehabilitation more generally, the political executions of

1963, particularly the emblematic case of Julián Grimau, exposed the true face of Francoism.

The regime was something of a captive to its own aggressive brand of nationalism, producing

periodic outbursts of naked contempt for liberal-democratic sensibilities which flagrantly

offended international opinion – exemplified by Franco’s refusal to commute Grimau’s death

sentence – but which were harnessed by the dictatorship to animate the faithful and proclaim

its untrammelled strength to the world. The Franco dictatorship was thus treading a tightrope

in 1962/3, as it flirted with a degree of ‘liberalisation’ whilst not recoiling from deploying

extreme violence against the opposition, and veered between courting, and repelling,

international opinion. The regime wobbled occasionally, but held its course, and never

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appeared vulnerable; by the 1970s however, this balancing act would be increasingly difficult

to sustain, precipitating the final, protracted crisis of Francoism, the genesis of which can be

clearly traced back to the events of 1962/3.

Word Count: 4,386.

Bibliography:

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The Economist

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The Financial Times

The Guardian

The Observer

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