The first shots cracked out near the old textile yards off Carrer de Pau Claris. By dusk, they had spread like wildfire through the veins of the city.
Young men in loose linen shirts, red and black kerchiefs knotted at their throats, sprinted across the wide boulevards.
In their hands were French rifles; chassepots and Lebels smuggled down from Perpignan with the help of de Gaulle's new Republican militias.
They chanted in Catalan, rough words that mixed local pride with anarchist fury.
Banners daubed with snarling suns and clenched fists fluttered from balconies. Already, shopkeepers were hammering boards over their windows.
And above it all, painted hastily on the plaster walls of a closed café:
"Visca Catalunya lliure!" — Long live free Catalonia!
Near the Passeig de Gràcia, a trio of gunmen hunkered behind an overturned tram car. One of them a boy who could not have been more than seventeen.
