On the frozen front lines near Teruel, a single order from his own commander, not enemy fire, nearly cost a young soldier his life. Alfons de Batlle, serving as a medic in the Republican army, watched as another conscript was sentenced to death for dropping his weapon during a bombardment. The execution was called off at the last minute and replaced with a public hanging. This was no isolated act of cruelty; it was a warning: weapons could not be left behind, even as bombs fell.
De Batlle described these moments in his postwar memoirs and in dozens of letters to his fiancée, Maria Tuèbols. Preserved by his daughter Josefina and studied by historian Xavier Martí i Ylla, these writings form the core of the book "Alfons de Batlle, Mestre empordanès" (Norfeu). Written in Catalan between August 1937 and November 1938, the letters avoid propaganda and heroics. Instead, they record the daily struggle to survive, sometimes by taking a prisoner’s shoes, sometimes by trading for tobacco made from potato leaves.
De Batlle’s story reaches beyond strategy and politics. He grew up in Llers, in a well-off farming family, and was mostly raised by his grandfather. After the war, he married Maria and took up teaching in Espolla in 1940. Despite the Franco regime’s suspicion of teachers, de Batlle returned to the classroom, likely thanks to his family’s local reputation. Shaped by Republican ideals, his teaching quietly contrasted with the new regime’s official doctrine.
His letters show a man more worried about his loved ones than about ideology. He feared for Maria’s safety during the bombings of Figueres and for his own in the freezing trenches of Aragón. Supplies were so scarce that he wore the same shirt for five months. In one strange episode, soldiers from both sides, separated by only a few meters, agreed to play football. De Batlle played barefoot, afraid that scoring might set off gunfire. The match ended without violence. Days later, the same men were fighting again.
De Batlle’s postwar writing bluntly criticizes military and political leaders. He describes commanders delivering patriotic speeches from armored cars and politicians making propaganda visits far from the wounded. Even Líster reviewed the troops from a fortified train car. The gap between those giving orders and those bearing the consequences runs through his account.
Family betrayal haunted de Batlle as much as the war. An inheritance dispute led an uncle to shoot at him, and a priest who was his legal guardian embezzled his assets. Despite this, de Batlle saved the lives of two priests during the conflict. Later, when he needed help, they refused him.
For de Batlle, writing was a way to endure. His letters to Maria, now the only surviving side of their exchange, show the need for human connection in chaos. They also challenge official histories by focusing on ordinary lives rather than leaders’ words. Because his family kept these documents, historians can now piece together a more detailed picture of the war’s effect on individuals.
The Spanish Civil War has been covered in countless official accounts, but for people like de Batlle, the reality was more complicated and personal. His story, told in his own words, shows the gap between propaganda and lived experience. The letters’ survival is impressive, given the regime’s efforts to control the story. As seen in other recent cases, such as the reported earlier judicial scrutiny of official actions, Spain’s history is often shaped as much by what is hidden as by what is declared. De Batlle’s legacy records suffering through private loss and the quiet endurance of those who refuse to forget.
