They Made Her a Frivola

Radio Record, 22 July 1938, Page 13

They Made Her a Frivola

Tals is a story of women and war. The things it relates are seemingly as remote from New Zealand as the moon itself. But next time you listem on shortwave to the clipped accents of that Madrid announcer giving you HIS version of the Spanish war, remember that behind every bald statement of an ideal ave a hundred stories of human suffering as poignant and tragic as this story of the beautiful Pastora...

The Story of a Film Star Hostage in the Spanish Revolution Special to the "Record"

by

PHILIP

CROSS

PECTRES of death, revolution, assassination and reprisal, stalked through Spain in the spring of 1936. The people were uneasy. Lootings and murder made everyone fearful of his neighbour. Even the holy week of Easter-the Lemana Santa-was robbed of its glory. In Seville, flower-city of the south, where the processions and ceremonies are more beautiful and magnificent than any in the world, people were frightened and anxious, wondering if their churches would be the next ones to be burnt. The cathedral of Seville, built in 1401 on the site of an old Moorish mosque and of such dimensions that none other might equal it in the whole of Christendom, is the mecea of the devout, and at some time during Haster week everyone in Seville makes his or her devotions before its altars.

Depressed by business worries, I wandered to the Cathedral to spend a quiet hour in its peaceful sanctuary. I stood by the tomb of Christopher Columbus. My thoughts were of him and the glory he won for Spain. I thought of the "Tower of Gold,’ built on the banks of the Guadalquivir River, to house the gold and jewels he brought back from she Americas. I had done well in Spain, but now, when I was about to commence the third picture, "Sangre y Rosas," I could not find the actress I needed. For the first time in my life

i was 10 a position to piease myself, to produce and direct a story in my own way. My producer’s dreams were reality-except for the one thing. There was no girl to play opposite Maria Victoria, a wonderful Spanish actress, to be her perfect foil. Dolores del Rio could play the part, but I could not afford to pay her price. HE immensity of the Cathedral, the beauty, the softlylit, stained-glass windows, the glorious music of the Benediction sung by 100 boys left me hopeful of the future again. . I turned to go, but a solemn part of the service compelled me to stay kneeling with several others. While we were kneeling, the priest, accompanied by acolytes and

altar boys carrying candles, passed close to us. In the brilliant light of the procession, her face uplifted . to receive the blessing of the priest, I saw a girl. Her beauty amazed me-a true daughter of ancient Spain, the blood of old Castile evident in her olive skin, her brilliant lips uncarmined. Her eyes

were large and very dark. The kind of eyes that Greco loved to paint-lustrous and wonderful. There kneeling at her devotions I saw the girl I dreamt of, the only girl whose beauty was as great as Maria Victoria’s, but whose modesty and gentleness was. the perfect foil for the pasSionate, temperamental acCteress. Both of them were necessary for "Sangre y Rosas." The procession passed and again we were in the gloom, I saw only exquisite black lace mane tilla and high-jewelled comb. The girl’s head was bowed in

: prayer. I stared at her wone dering if I dared speak to her or find out who she was. In a little while she left, accompanied by her duenna. I, too, left the Cathedral and went out by the "Gualda" door. "THE night was softly cool, fresh with lately-fallen rain, dark and starry. I would climb the Giralda, I thought -the tower from which the Muezzin had called the faithful to prayer-only relic of the Moorish days. I wanted to watch the moon rise over the far hills and trace the Guadalquivir which ran like a ribbon of silver through the "tablada" flats. Funny, I thought, finding the girlonly to know that I could never, even if I was able totalk to her, ask her te play i: 3 "Sontinmed sm page 27.}.

They Made Her A Frivola

Sahel teetmeianteiane ail A HOSTAGE IN THE SPANISH REVOLUTION TEES (Continued fro m page 13).

my film. She was an aristocrat and " Spanish "aristos," no matter how poor, do not let their daughters become acrresses, J turned to enter the Gualda~ door, , "No passa, Senor," said the "portero" firmly, o "Proque?" (why?) I said. "Senor, no one alone-only twoalways two or more Senor!’. ‘the. portero replied, lisping his Spanish in the soft patois of the Andalusian, — "You see," he explained, "many suicides have jumped from the top-to a death, Senor, 300ft. below-on to the , stones." . } "Suppose two suicides go up there’ and jump together, what then?" I asked "Quien sabes, Senor?" And he dismissed the whole matter with one. elegant shrug. I turned to go, it would have been pleasant to climb the Gualda, I thought, but if alone I could not go, then no matter. I stepped back into the light of the portero’s door. "Buenas noches, Senor,’ he said . politely, as I started away. "Senor, por favor,’ a girl’s voice from the gloomy doorway to the Gualda called me. "Yes?" I asked. "You are the friend of Jacinto and Luis Castra?" "Yes, Iam. Why?’ "Senor, I wish to climb to the top of the tower, my aunt is too old. You, too, are alone. Then perhaps-" "Yes, but surely !-" "Senor," she replied, stepping out into the light, "I am Pastora, the sister of Jacinto and you are Felipe. Often we have spoken." ¢ COULD not reply, so amazed was I. Pastora was the girl of the Cathedral. I had never seen her, but had spoken to her in Madrid when ’phoning for Jacinto; but one does not meet Spanish girls of the family, not matter how friendly one is with the brothers, unless one is a suitor approved by her relations, I CLIMBED the tower accompanied by Pastora and there high above the city, we looked out over the land. Far to the south lay villages, their lights mingling with the stars, so that ‘(one could not see where the sky and earth met, ; We talked. I asked Pastora to play in the film-would she like to-would Jacinto and her family allow it? FTER Easter was over we started work, Pastora was wonderful, and'in spite of the threatening revolntion we progressed rapidly. Too soon, however, the storm broke, Maria Victoria fled to North Africa, Jacinto took Pastora and her aunt to Madrid, then he came south and joined ns in Franco’s army. The war occupied my thoughts for a long time. But when I had to leave the army and was safely back ‘again in England I thought of Pestora and wondered how she had fared in the troubles of Madrid. . Pastora-the sister of Jacinto _ my soldier friend, my superior in

the army, my business associate in civil life, is dead. The horror of her death is less a horror than the life she led before she died. They made her @ frivola~-a naked dancer. and singer of lewd songs, ‘The girl of-18, sheltered all her life until now, had to dance in: what were once the finest restaurants and ecabarets in Spain, naked before the soldiery of Government Spain. Dance or die-or worse. Her parents, her aunt, all of them were old. Pastora wag the hostage to prevent- the old people supporting Franco, She was a film artist; all film artists, dancers and singers had to perform in the restaurants frequented hy the soldiery who paid for their fun and drink in Government credit slips. AFTER the abdication of the King from Spain in 1931, the Repub_lie allowed vices, which had before then existed in back alleys in Barce-: _lona, to spread and flourish openly. in all the towns of the..country. . In mid-European cities nude women have always danced in cafes frequented by the underworld, but it was trst in Barcelona that the "frivola," as she was called, was called on to dance in open cafes. In a few months all the cities of Spain had their Qursaal or Featro Variedades in which the big percentage of artists were "frivolas," In 1936 every cafe, except a few isolated ones in Madrid itself, had its "frivolas." They had almost pushed from the theatre the "baile tipica" or national Spanish dancer. ARIA VICTORIA’S brother was killed and Roberto and I were wounded in the same offensive. After leaving hospital I left Spain and returned to England. In London I went back to film production, but every spare moment I had I spent working for the general Relief Fund for Distressed Women and Children in Spain. With Maria Victoria, who, with her mother, I had brought from Spanish Morocco, I played again on the stage the parts that she and I had made 4 guecess of in musical films in Spain and Paris. We collected all we could for the fund. Inecen Ena and the Infanta Beatriz saw us one night dancing a South American tango at a charity ball at Grosvenor House. Aithough both were in mourning, they were so grateful for our efforts that they determined to come incognito to see if our stage work was as good as the film work we had done together. As a resuit of the visit from the Incen, I determined to find all the Spanish film artists I knew who could dance and sing. I produced a Spanish concert. We opened it at Portsmouth by Spanish Royal Command, amd played to an overflowing house. From there the show was booked at a high salary for the Mayfair Hotel, where it ran for gix months, I was sent with Guilleromo Ros by the relief fund to Barcelona to make a film of the work of the fund--a film showing the horror of war, the hospital in

‘Barcelona supported and run by the funds--the hungry children and women lined up for soup at the free kitehens. ' One night late I was walking with Rog past the Cabaret Internacional, TI stopped to listen to the music, faintly audible on the street. It wag a song'I. had heard in South America, q Chilean. song, "Una Clarella," "The Carnation," seldom would one hear it in Spain. The. only girl that I had heard sing it had been Pastora. We elbowed our way through the Catalanos who stood in a group by the inside door. The room was long and narrow, a balcony with boxes ran round the walls from the balcony. under which we stood. The floor was filled with tables, and at them ruf-. fians of every Duropean nationality. The atmosphere was dense with smoke, At the far end, on a small black velvetdraped stage lit by two powerful spots, was the singer-a "frivola’-naked, but unbelievably and shockingly beautiful. A red earnation was her only garment. Her smooth, beautiful body Lit by "spots," she moved slowly up and down the stage, her head -high, her eyes fixed on something high up at the back of the room, I was paralysed-numb-dazed by what I saw. It was Pastora-her face a beautiful, ghastly mask-her voice still the same husky, sweet voice that I always remembered, Leave it at that... © LL my good-byeg were over. Guilleromo Ros and I were walking up and down the platform waiting for the train to take me to the boat at last. "Adios nino y buena suerto," he said. "Good-bye and good luck." He handed me a letter as he embraced me in Spanish style. He, too, was leaving in a few days to go back to fight again. "Read the letter on the boat," he said. I pocketed it and forgot it. A couple of weeks later I sat looking at the phosphorus turned up at the wake of the ship, in my pocket I felt an envelope. The letter was Ros’s. I opened it, turning to read it in the light, I thought how bright the stars were and the moon rising, almost I could read by it. It. was short, Pastora shot herself, Her father had been killed in Madrid. He no longer needed a hostage for his life; it had gone, Pastora, the friyola, the hostage, had gone too. Pastora--flawless flower of old Spain, a thousand deaths she had died till the merciful bullet released her" from her sorrow. A hostage of the revolution... So many of Spnin’s womanhood had given all they had, even themselyes ... In Spain men fought the revolution, But, as it has been since wars -hegan, women are the ones who suffer and lose everything,