A queer problem: writing sapphic anarchism in Spanish Civil War fiction

ABSTRACT In this article, I offer an analysis of anarchist attitudes towards lesbianism in Spain in the 1930s and how these attitudes have informed my creative practice in writing a novel about the experiences of queer women in the Spanish Civil War. I propose that the anarchist lesbian is a paradox, being a figure that is simultaneously visible and invisible in the 1930s, and consider the importance of the butch stereotype in identifying lesbian women of the time, using Lucía Sánchez Saornil as a leading example of a masculine anarchist woman in the public eye and the individualist writings of Poch and Armand as examples of the generation of positive attitudes towards, and even encouraging, sapphic love. I locate my novel as a bridge between historiography and literature that seeks to rectify the lack of documentation about lesbian lives in this period. Finally, I offer a reading of Rosa Maria Arquimbau’s novel Quaranta anys perduts as an example of representation of coded lesbian anarchism in historical literature and explain how my work builds upon this genealogy of queer historical fiction about the Spanish Civil War.

This article does not intend offer a complete view of lesbianism in Spain during the 1930s, nor does it seek to add research to this field of study in the traditional manner.Rather, using an interdisciplinary methodology that builds upon principles that anchor my ongoing PhD research, it seeks to give an overview of anarchist attitudes towards Sapphic love in the 1930s and make a case for the existence and visibility of queer women in anarchist circles in 1930s Spain.Using this research as a foundation, I will then propose ways in which historical fiction may be used as a tool to frame historical research and also write a history that remains as yet unwritten despite its existence, using excerpts from Montserrat, the historical novel I am writing, to illustrate this and explore the intersection of the sexual and the political that is present in anarchist discourse.Finally, I will suggest that the protagonist in Rosa Maria Arquimbau's historical novel Quaranta anys perduts may be read as an example of a queer anarchist woman and use the historical research presented in this essay as a framework to analyse her presentation in the novel and explain how my own work expands upon these themes in order to bridge the gap between Iberian and Anglophone literatures.

(In)visibility: the improbable sapphic anarchist
On the right-hand side of a photograph of a Mujeres Libres meeting by Pérez de Rozas dated 17 October 1938 (Figure 1) sits a woman who is visibly different from her companions.While it is impossible to determine the woman's sexuality for certain, she is nevertheless marked out by her masculine attire and pose that speak to the stereotypes of lesbians of the time, as will be discussed later in this study.This anonymous butch on the edge of the photograph may be considered the visual embodiment of sapphics in Spanish anarchism in the 1930s in that she is quietly present -visible, yet invisible, and is therefore an ideal conduit towards our understanding of how lesbianism was perceived in anarchist circles.
The "few references to historical aspects of lesbianism in Spain" as already defined by Cleminson and Cleminson and García Francisco (2007, 20) may be reinforced by a lack of primary source material.As Angie Simonis identifies, lesbians do not usually leave documents about their lives that include details about their sexual practices or erotic desires (2009, 40-1) and so this poses a problem to the author of historical fiction that is trying to navigate anarchist perceptions of lesbianism at the time, but also recreate a historically accurate narrative through fiction.Despite this, there are some references in the discourse of the time that indicate what anarchist attitudes towards sapphic love were like, suggesting a duality that makes it very difficult to reach a true definition.When viewed superficially, the anarchist view of lesbianism appears to have more in common with communist discourse of the time in that it appears to be somewhat negative -something that is evident in Doña's testimony Desde la noche y la niebla in which she explained how "esos contados casos [de lesbianismo] fueron lapidados e hicieron historia; la expulsión, el desprecio y el aislamiento les siguió por donde pasaban [those few cases (of lesbianism) were stoned and made history; expulsion, contempt, and isolation followed wherever they went]" 1 (2019, 278-9). 2 While communists are shown to have rejected lesbianism on the basis of morality, anarchist discourse of the 1930s hinged on outdated medical reasoning and the perpetuation of the gender binary, both of which were not unique to Spanish anarchism. 3 By the 1930s, theories that deliberated the "causes" of homosexuality had gone through a considerable transition since interest piqued in the nineteenth century, and the term "inversion" had come to be favoured in that time. 4Gregorio Marañón's research into "inversion" resulted in an attempt to define homosexuality as an endocrinological problem; by this definition, homosexuality is therefore considered an illness rather than a conscious choice to be immoral and Cleminson and Vázquez García have highlighted Marañón's belief that homosexuality should not be "punished" and his encouragement of sex education to promote and disseminate the differences between the sexes (2007,105).This perpetuation of the gender binary is evident in the pseudo-medical discourse of the consultorio of La Revista Blanca in the 1930s.
In the issue dated 19 April 1935, a reader writing as Miguel Cervera asked: "Puede una mujer lesbiana amar a un hombre como las demás mujeres?Ser lesbiana, ¿es enfermedad o vicio?Y si tienen hijas, ¿pueden heredar la enfermedad de la madre?[Can a lesbian woman love a man like other women?Is being a lesbian an illness or a vice?And if they have daughters, can they inherit the mother's illness?]" (1935,380).This string of questions suggests engagement with the theories of sexology from the time, but also lends itself to questioning by the imagination of the historical novelist.Are these the questions of a man who has informed himself with theory and is curious to know more?Or is Miguel Cervera a pseudonym -reminiscent of Sánchez Saornil's Luciano de San-Saor, as discussed later in this study?Is this reader then a woman who has read the theory and may be questioning her own sexuality?This is perhaps one of the delights of research for the historical novelist, while simultaneously being one of the most frustrating elements.
Yet, regardless of who may or may not have posed the question, the response provided by the well-known consultant Doctor Klug is just as revealing: "Pueden amar las mujeres lesbianas cuando esta enfermedad no es de nacimiento, es decir cuando no es enfermedad, sino vicio, y entonces olvidan este vicio cuando se enamoran de un hombre [Lesbian women can love when this illness is not from birth, that is to say when it is not an illness, but a vice, and in that case they forget this vice when they fall in love with a man]" (1935,380).Not only is this response dismissive, avoiding the reader's last question about whether the supposed "illness" is hereditary, but it is also insufficient.Refusing to define lesbianism as either illness or vice, Doctor Klug accepted that it can be both conditions and offers no alternative, thereby suggesting that lesbianism is not a valid sexuality.Consequently, women who love women are denied their existence because their sexuality is dictated by illness or vice that can be forgotten once they fall in love with a man.This reasoning is dependent on the gender binary and the predetermination of gender roles.
Nevertheless, despite the perpetuation of the gender binary and the generation of a discourse that erases lesbianism, it is important to acknowledge that the fact that the topic is discussed in print at all lends itself to the progressive attitude of Spanish anarchism.It also suggests that lesbians were visible and by association active in anarchist circles in the 1930s, something that is evident in Lucía Sánchez Saornil's public image and in other women's perceptions of her.
For a time, Saornil, co-founder of Mujeres Libres along with Mercedes Composada and Amparo Poch y Gascón presented herself in such a way that aligns with how we might perceive an out butch lesbian in the present day, much as we might be inclined to describe the aforementioned anonymous butch in Pérez de Rozas' photograph.This is evident in two photographs of Saornil from 1938 that clearly show her mannish appearance; in the first, the well-known photograph in which she is seen with Emma Goldman, she is wearing a suit that sets her apart from Goldman and the woman they are walking with.In the second, she is seen speaking at the Mujeres Libres exhibition at La Pinacoteca art gallery in Barcelona (Figure 2), which also speaks to the admiration she received from her peers.
In a 1997 interview collected by Lorusso, anarchist Pepita Carpena said of Saornil: I saw something different and I didn't realise what it was!I was young and noticed that she was open about it.And I appreciated her even more, because she was so strong to assert it in spite of everything and everyone.There were prejudices at that time in Spain.She asserted it and was ready to fight.(2020, This positive reaction to Saornil's visible difference suggests that it is possible that her physical appearance would have been considered one of the things to be wary of according to the discourse of the time.In his 1932 work Sodoma y lesbos modernos San de Velilla described lesbians as "estos viragos, provistos de clítoris monstruosos, son varoniles en todo -en los ademanes, en los gustos, en la voz -y buscan a las mujeres como los hombres normales, a los que odian como molestos rivales [those viragoes, monstrous ones supplied with clitorises, are manly in every respect -in their manners, in their tastes, in their voice -and they look for women like normal men, those they hate like annoying rivals]" (1932,216).Additionally, he described how "no hace mucho presenciamos en España el lamentable espectáculo de ver llenas de mujeres -francamente pervertidas u obscenamente curiosas -la sala de los teatros en que se representó muchas noches una comedia en la que se hacía una impúdica defensa de unos amores lesbianos [not long ago we witnessed in Spain the regrettable show of frankly perverted or obscenely curious women filling theatre auditoriums where for many nights a comedy making an impudent defense of lesbian love was playing]" (1932,222).Here it is clear to see how the figure of the lesbian was perceived as monstrous because of her masculinityand was therefore, perhaps, a figure to be feared -and that such figures were indeed present in the public sphere and in the media.5  Despite this apparent visibility, Carpena also noted that she "had never seen Lucía Sánchez Saornil argue the case for lesbianism.She was just open about it," (2020, 44) and when asked whether there would have been any risk had Saornil publicly declared her sexuality, Carpena stated: "no, I don't think so.There was much tolerance especially among women, who were more forward-looking with respect to these issues" (2020,44).Nonetheless, Carpena's interview also reinforces Ackelsberg's observation that "everyone ought to be able to love whomever she or he wanted, [Mujeres Libres] argued, but one's sexuality was hardly a 'political' issue, one on which the movement should feel called to take a stand" (1991,172).Carpena related a discussion she had with an Englishman during a conference on sexuality: He was trying to embarrass me but I replied, "I have my own personal sexuality and I don't think that a trade union is the forum to discuss such issues.This is a place for social struggle.Sexuality is a private matter.If someone is discriminated against because of his or her homosexuality I think that we should give them our support.But we don't need to claim homosexuality."(2020,44) It is also telling that Saornil wrote about her sexual preferences in poetry and under the pseudonym of Luciano de San-Saor.This very thinly-veiled effort to conceal her identity appears to reflect her outward masculine presentation and also hints at a sense of pride, both in her work and her sexual identity; that she used a name that is very similar to her own -and, in some cases, credited alongside her own -to write about her love for women cannot be understated.Nonetheless, it is also clear that the concerns that are prevalent in anarchist discourse -arguably a result of heteronormative societal expectations in Spain coupled with a lack of understanding (or possibly interest) -result in the fear of vilification if a public figure were to be what we might now term "outed," which may also explain why Saornil felt the need to adopt a male "persona" -the dual name could be read as a way of writing in character.Several academics have also undertaken work to ascertain Saornil's motive and Soriano Jiménez offers an overview of the discourse (2022, 57) that suggests that there is no one true motive and, for the moment, we can only speculate what this might have been.The speculation I have offered here is supported by Soriano Jiménez's observations that she did not use the pseudonym consistently, that her peers knew who she was, and that there are instances where her work is credited to both her own name and pseudonym (2022, 57).One such example can be seen here (Figure 3) as published in Saornil Lucía (1920).
Additionally, men's homosexuality in the 1930s was clearly visible and subjected to the law in a way that lesbianism is not.In the código penal of 1928, sexual acts between men were defined as a punishable crime as follows: "El que, habitualmente o con escándalo, cometiere actos contrarios al pudor con personas del mismo sexo será castigado con multa de 1.000 a 10.000 pesetas e inhibición especial para cargos públicos de seis a doce años [he that habitually or scandalously commits immodest acts with people of the same sex will be punished with a fine of 1000 to 10,000 pesetas and special inhibition for public charges of six to twelve years]" (art.616, código penal de 1928).That the language used in the legislation excludes women suggests that female homosexuality was not and did not continue to be considered a criminal activity, 6 and consequently sapphic love is rendered invisible and trivial, and the lesbian identity is not considered a reality by law.The matter is therefore political and negates the notion in anarchist circles that a woman's sexual preference is a private matter.Additionally, we might argue that the growing presence of the lesbian figure in the literature and theatre in the 1920s and 1930s, as feared by de San de Velilla (1932, 222) and praised retrospectively by Simonis (2009, 90-6), demonstrates a visibility that is at once resistant to and undergoing a process of politicization.That lesbian figures are being presented to the general public about speaks to their presence in reality, and San de Velilla even described how "[. ..] es completamente moderna la tolerancia que ahora se advierte [the tolerance that is warned now is completely modern]" and that "muchas madres de familia celebraron con complacencia muy sospechosa los alegatos absurdos a favor de amores lesbianos, que hace el descocado autor de la comedia safista [many mothers celebrated the absurd allegations made by the shameless author of the Sapphist comedy, in favor of lesbian love with suspicious complacency]" (222); the latter feeds into the aforementioned attitude of acceptance of lesbianism amongst women compared to the male population.This, as well as the other evidence we have seen, suggests that attitudes towards lesbianism in Spanish anarchism were marked by gender.We might be led to define the attitudes of anarchist women towards sapphic love as progressive and accepting, while the attitudes of their male counterparts might be defined as negative, condemnatory, and even fearful; the latter is especially poignant if we consider the fragile state of Spanish masculinity at the time, as Cleminson and Vázquez García have indicated. 7

Pleasuring anarchist bodies: the individual and sapphic love
Two individualist texts stand out from the anarchist literature of the 1930s: Amparo Poch's La vida sexual de la mujer and Émile Armand's Sexualismo revolucionario.Both texts encouraged experimentation with one's sexuality and valued bodily autonomy and the principles of the individual over what may or may not constitute their sexual pleasure.
Published in 1932 as part of the Cuadernos de cultura series directed by anarchist Marín Civera Martínez, Poch's La vida sexual de la mujer is fundamental in understanding sapphic love from an anarchist perspective.While the terminology is not used explicitly -not once did she reference homosexuality or bisexuality by name -this work may nonetheless be considered an invitation for women to experiment with their sexuality.This is the direct result of the importance that Poch places on the individual in one's relationships.Of the "new woman," she wrote: Su independencia económica, el concepto de su personalidad, el valor de su "yo" la colocan en un plano donde se aprecian para la unión amorosa, Únicamente el respeto a las manifestaciones que emanan de una personalidad bien formada, la extrema delicadeza para con el alma hermana que se desenvuelve sin tropezar dolorosamente con exigencias humillantes y absurdas; la hermosa amistad que permite fraternizar sin sexo a los que, a su vez, saben gozar intensamente las humanas delicias del amor.(1932, [Her economic independence, the concept of her personality, the value of "herself" place her on a plane where they are appreciated for the loving union, only the respect towards the manifestations that emanate from a well-formed personality, the extreme delicacy towards the sister soul that develops without stumbling painfully with humiliating and absurd demands; the beautiful friendship that allows fraternizing without sex to those who, in turn, know how to intensely enjoy the human delights of love.]This direct criticism of the heterosexual status quo may be considered as an invitation for readers to infer meaning from the subtext.The sister soul and the beautiful friendship the new woman may have with her arguably allude to sexual love between women, compounded by the damning implication of absurd and humiliating demands as a defining characteristic of a heterosexual relationship.Consequently, love between women is championed as a gentler alternative that is a real possibility and is also presented as something tempting.In this, there is a clear opposition to the negative discourse present in anarchist media that would have been more widely consumed, such as La Revista Blanca, and again reinforces the idea that anarchist women were more accepting of sapphic love than their male counterparts.This is also present in Poch's implied sympathy towards the "new woman" who cannot love according to heteronormative expectations of the time: El horizonte de sus aspiraciones encuadra una sola figura: hombre.Y a éste se unirán con un amor falso hecho mitad de placer y costumbre, mitad de necesidad constante de una guía.El verdadero amor, lumbre lejana de la Humanidad -lumbre lejana aún-, trébol milagroso, no puede existir para esas mujeres incapaces de la honda compenetración con el compañero de la armonía moral y física.Instrumento mudo, su alma no puede estar en consonancia con ninguna.(1932,8) [The horizon of their aspirations frames one single figure: man.And to this they will attach themselves with a false love, made half of pleasure and custom, and half of the constant necessity of a guide.True love, distant light of Humanity -still distant light -miraculous clover, cannot exist for those women who are incapable of the deep rapport with the companion of moral and physical harmony.Dumb instrument, her soul cannot be in tune with any.]This poetic passage is significant, not only because of Poch's damning implication that, for some women, love for a man is false and constructed by external factors rather than how a woman may feel, but also because of her lament for these women.For Poch, women who cannot comply with societal expectations are denied true love, here represented as an essential and natural element of humanity.When viewed in conjunction with the previous passage, this might suggest that, for Poch, sapphic love is completely natural and something to be explored on an individual level.Her work is also remarkable for her presentation of pleasure as a right to which every woman is entitled, which clashes with San de Velilla's presentation of pleasure as a privilege; of the lesbian lifestyle, he described: "[. ..] estas parejas que declaran sin recato pertenecer a un supuesto tercer sexo dotado al privilegio de gozar contra natura, sin correr jamás el riesgo de soportar dignamente los daños y los afanes de la maternidad sacrosanta [those couples who shamelessly declare that they belong to a supposed third sex endowed with the privilege of enjoying against nature, without ever running the risk of bearing the damage and concerns of sacrosanct motherhood with dignity]" (1932,220).
Poch's individualistic stance is foreshadowed somewhat by Émile Armand.Originally published in French in 1925, Armand's text was translated and advertised in Poch's contribution to Cuadernos de cultura, rendering it accessible to the Spanish anarchist market.Published as Sexualismo revolucionario in 1932, it foreshadowed Poch's stance on the value of the individual in its assessment of homosexuality, bodily autonomy, and free love.Here, Armand suggested that sexuality should not be an issue, explaining that the important thing is that the individual's freedom of choice and their personal pleasure, regardless of how that pleasure is created.This is evident in his rejection of the medical discourse surrounding "inverts" at the time and in his favouring of bodily autonomy and the choices of the individual over vice, explaining that "lo esencial para nosotros es que, una vez experimentado el goce, una vez el placer percibido, el individuo se encuentre en la total posesión de su individualidad.Poco importa entonces cómo se ha introducido o creado el placer [the essential thing for us is that once enjoyment is experienced, once pleasure is perceived, the individual finds themselves in total possession of their individuality.It matters little, then, how that pleasure has been introduced or made]" (1932,97).Additionally, he explains that "la revolución en materia sexual es poder entretenerse de cuanto afecta al sexualismo, de todo cuanto interesar pueda a finalidades del amor: trátase de hablar, de escribir, de realizar, de experimentar, sin sentirse por eso desdorado en sus adentros [the revolution in sexual terms is being able to be entertained by whatever affects sexualism, by everything that may be of interest to love's purpose: it is about speaking, writing, performing, experiencing, without feeling degilded by that inside]" (1932,17).Here, in contrast to much of the other discourse we have explored, Armand hinted at the synthesis of the sexual and the political which echoes the figure of the Sapphic anarchist.She is both visible and invisible, at once a reality and a fantasy that is reinforced by the discourse of the time.That she is present and spoken about, and that there is an absence of material from her own mouth or pen, suggests that she is a political figure, in contrast to much of the discourse we have seen.

Historical fiction as historical research: Montserrat and Quaranta anys perduts
So far, we have established a clear intersection between the sexual and the political throughout the anarchist discourse of lesbianism in the 1930s and it has been my intention to carry this intersection through into my creative writing.De Groot has identified how "gay and lesbian historical fiction deploys the archive in order to challenge heteronormative models of historiography, therefore articulating a sense of identity created against the mainstream archive, without that archive and constructed despite that archive" (2010, 151).While Montserrat, the historical novel that I am working on, adheres to this definition, it also expands upon the mainstream archive -using the anarchist discourse that is present, as has already been shown in this study, in order to generate a new, (in)visible narrative that was present, but has not been fully documented.Quite simply, this work of historical fiction, Montserrat, seeks to bridge the gaps in the historiography of lesbianism in 1930s Spain, as well as serving as a (fictional) documentary source that atones for the absence of such material in the archive by using metafictional techniques.
Harking back to Cleminson's and San de Velilla's 8 arguments that the history of lesbianism has not been as widely studied or documented, the historical literature of lesbianism has suffered similarly.Medd affirms that "the historiography of same-sex desire is diacritically marked by gender," stating that "greater historical documentation, awareness and representation of men in general provide more widely archived and recognized traditions of male same-sex practices" (2011, 174) and that the history of female sexuality is "a history 'we can never really recover'" (2011,177).Nonetheless, a recovery attempt may be made in the writing of historical fiction and framing such texts as the culmination and presentation of historical research.
Freccero suggests that to write queer historical fiction "reads history for the pleasures of identification and desire rather than for the more sober and serious answers to questions such as 'what really happened,' which are themselves signs of desire, but a desire that is ideological insofar as it disguises itself as truth-seeking" and that "to queer history is also [. . .] to take the risk of not knowing in advance" (2015,20).However, as we have seen, a lesbian narrative existed in 1930s Spain, but it is one that has not been documented clearly.In this case, the historical novelist must make educated guesswork using what is present in the (mostly heteronormative) archive and fill in the gaps with a new narrative, writing that which was present, but has remained invisible.
Here is where the creative practice of the historical novelist comes into play, and it may be useful to provide an overview of the novel in progress here in order to better demonstrate the ideas present.A literary historical novel, Montserrat is set in 1939 after the fall of Barcelona and tells the story of the eponymous narrator-protagonist who is engaged to an anarchist factory worker called Josep, who has gone missing in action.She joins a resistance group comprised of anarchists and communists who are working to locate and free their imprisoned comrades in the hope of finding him.However, as she gets drawn into their dangerous activities, she falls in love with an ex-miliciana called Andrea and comes to question her ideologies and her identity as a (hitherto closeted) lesbian.The novel is written in the first person, from Montserrat's perspective, and makes use of metafictional techniques to suggest that it is documentary evidence left by a lesbian about her life.This is achieved through the use of letters throughout the novel, as well as using a non-linear narrative that is framed by a "present" section set in 1975, when Montserrat is meant to be writing, to reflect the boom in Spanish women's writing about their experiences of the Civil War and under Francoism.
In order to present a true history that remains unwritten -in this case, through the portrayal of the characters and their experiences -my methodology as an author must demonstrate engagement with the discourse.As we have seen, while there is no clear definition of the anarchist attitude towards lesbianism, visual cues and behaviours play a part in its perception and, in order to maintain historical accuracy, the work must demonstrate engagement with both sides of the discourse.This will also help in representing Montserrat's psychology accurately; as a closeted lesbian, she is still not entirely comfortable with her sexuality, and this is hampered further by a sense of duty to her fiancé Josep which is informed by the (heteronormative) social conventions of the time.
One means of addressing this in creative writing is to consider models of queerness from the time and whether they should be reflected or subverted when writing historical fiction.In order to do this, defining what those stereotypes were is crucial, and we have already seen that the stereotype of the masculine woman or butch was a key indicator.Experimenting with the physical appearance and behaviours of the characters is one way of engaging with this discourse and also offers distinct models that the reader can recognize and engage with.Writing on the lesbian historical novels of Sarah Waters, Cavalié has explained how in The Night Watch specifically, "the focus on personal details at the expense of a broader sense of history may indeed seem to artificially bridge the gap between the 'then' and the 'now,' and to create a deceitful proximity with fictional historical characters" (2014, 87).Here, she cites the "trick" of "[providing] the contemporary reader with some expected stereotypes about the period" (97).It could also be argued that in using a similar trick, Montserrat not only traces and expands on the genealogy of the Spanish lesbian anarchist, but also that of lesbian historical fiction in English and consequently bridges the gap between cultures and disciplines.This is further implied by Medd's explanation of how Waters' first novels "engage with literary genres specific to their Victorian settings" (2011, 176); as Waters does this, so too does Montserrat toy with genre, emulating the boom of Spanish women's life writing in the 1970s.
To return to physical appearance as a recognizable means of identification of sexuality, it was my intention to present the stereotypes that are present in the discourse we have seen already, pushing them further without turning them into caricatures and, in some cases, subverting those stereotypes to reflect a diverse reality.As we have already seen in San de Velilla's writing, the lesbian figure was considered to be masculine, monstrous, and something to be feared.This is arguably perpetuated by the media of the time; a clear example of this is present in the satirical Catalan magazine L'Esquella de la Torratxa, in which the figure of the lesbian and other queer identities are parodied.In issue 2832 dated 13 October 1933, a cartoon (Figure 4) showed two figures of indiscriminate gender deciding whether they should vote as men or as women ("Com votarem, nosaltres?Com a homes?Com a dones?[How should we vote?As men?As women?]").Dressed in suits and typically feminine make-up, it is deliberately ambiguous and unclear whether they are supposed to be butch women, effeminate men, both, or neither, yet its intention is obvious: othering the communities it parodies through mockery.
Additionally, communist Manola Rodríguez explained how "when I was young, there were some 'strange' women with short hair and very little feminine behaviour" (2020, 59) in her interview with Isabella Lorusso, reinforcing the idea that queer women were identifiable during the 1930s because of their appearance -a physical othering.Along with Saornil's presentation, perceptions of lesbianism, and the appearance of the anonymous butch identified at the beginning of this study, it is clear that a more masculine appearance served as an identifier for queer women during the 1930s.Consequently, it was imperative that this was present in the novel in order to maintain historical accuracy.I have attempted to portray this via several characters' appearance and their behaviours, which exhibit different forms of defeminisation.
The concept of the "monstrous" lesbian is one that I had not encountered in my research of 1930s discourse when I first began developing Montserrat's love interest, Andrea, and yet it was my intention to subject her to an extreme process of defeminisation as a result of her actions during the Civil War in order to reflect the devastating reality of history.It is extreme in that -unlike means of expressing gender -it is permanent in the form of scarring on her "broken" face and body (Byrne 2023, n.p.).When Montserrat first meets Andrea, she describes how: The woman had a broken face.A deep, puckered scar spread from the left corner of her mouth up to her ear, so it looked like she was wearing a macabre half-smile all of the time.The skin still looked raw, like something from a nightmare.There was another scar under her eye that seemed to follow the track of a tear that had never dried up.A further scar cut into her hairline at the temple, which I only saw when she took off her beret.Her chin-length hair fell around that upsetting face, barely softening it [. ..]Something unspeakable must have happened to this woman.(Byrne 2023, n.p.) Later, Montserrat describes how she "knew instinctively that before the unspeakable thing happened, she would have been quite handsome" (2023, n.p.) and, eventually, comes to love her deformity.This was a deliberate creative decision on my part that is not only relevant to the narrative, but also subverts perceptions of lesbianism.Conversely, the group's leader, Ester, is described in a way that would suggest she is a stereotypical lesbian of the day -Montserrat mistakes her for a man when she meets her because she dresses mannishly, keeps her hair cut short, and smokes profusely -and yet she subverts this expectation when it is revealed that she was married to Enric and is unable to move on from his death and that of their child by the hand of Francoist forces and that her defeminisation was not her choice, but a consequence of what happened to her.Her role as the strategic leader of the splinter group also plays with San de Velilla's notion that intelligent women are more likely to engage in lesbian love. 9 Andrea's role as an ex-miliciana cannot be understated and it is important to recognise the way in which female masculinity changed with the outbreak and during the first year of the Civil War.Born out of necessity and, to some extent, a timely extension of the new woman who had flourished under the Second Republic, the figure of the miliciana with which we are familiar transforms the masculine woman from a figure to be feared to one to aspire to via the iconography and media of the time.Additionally, Martín Moruno has highlighted how the "association of war to virile context has been reinforced throughout the iconography created for imaging war, in which the protagonist has been the heroic soldier fighting on the front.On the contrary, women have been usually represented as victims" (2010, 7).It is important to note that much Republican war iconography subverts this and uses the figure of the woman as the personification of the nation and, usually, as an inspirational figure that encourages the viewer to take up arms against the rebels. 10 In her analysis of a photograph "The Heroine of the Republican People's Army," Martín Moruno has suggested that the mixture of feminine traits with the military costume "associated with a masculine culture" give "an impression of breaking with the established gender roles" (2010,(8)(9) and goes on to explain that the "blue overall allowed militawomen to move freely, in contrast to female dresses, which represented their role as slaves" (2010, 9).To push this notion of the freedom of movement further, we might argue that the necessity from which the miliciana was born permits masculine dress to become acceptable and even encouraged, and that consequently butch-presenting women would have been able to move about inconspicuously.Nevertheless, it is interesting to note that that the renowned photographs of milicianas on the Huesca front, which graced the covers of the publications Crónica (Figure 5) and Mundo gráfico (Figure 6) in October 1936 and continue to be employed as emblematic of women's roles in the Spanish Civil War, have continued to be doctored to remove the objectively more "butch-presenting" character of the trio.
Martín Moruno also explains: In the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, the Republican women were twofold losers, because they suffered not only the sexist prejudices of their male Republican comrades during the war, but also the further repression of Franco's dictatorship , which forced them to return to the domestic sphere, suppressing their identity as active workers in society."(2010,(4)(5) Further ensuring that the text is faithful to the historical reality, both in the experience of sexist prejudice and her "masculine" behaviour, Andrea relates an incident of such sexist prejudice during her time in the militia to Montserrat: We were ordered to Zaragoza, and I fought alongside the men-well, perhaps fought is too strong a word.Just outside Caspe, I killed only three men before my rifle was torn from my hands by one of our men who claimed he needed it.He called me a whore and spat at me, so I punched him.But I let him have it-well, of course, it was no good fighting amongst ourselves.He was blown up later, and the rifle was of no use to anyone after that.(Byrne 2023, n.p.) That Montserrat and her comrades are shown to resist this repression during the war and in its immediate aftermath when the novel is set demonstrates their reluctance to conform to what is expected.This also highlights Montserrat's growth from a woman who is resigned to societal expectations of her -"This role that my mother fulfilled, and had prepared me for, and that even now I was fulfilling as I helped her at home seemed useless when there were men dying every day [. ..] yet this was my lot" (Byrne 2023, n.p.)to one who knows her worth and actively resists the role that is imposed upon her -"Would I have to leave?No.I was a part of this group, and I was valuable, for they kept me and involved me in everything.And I couldn't leave Andrea, not then and not ever" (2023, n.p.).This latter part also hints at the synthesis of the sexual and the political -Montserrat cannot separate the resistance work, fueled by ideology, from Andrea who has been her mentor and her lover.
In addition, Montserrat's exploration of her sexuality engages with the confusion that queer women would have experienced, and did experience. 11This makes the metafictional element of the work more believable, particularly when we consider that Montserrat also dips her toes in some forms of defeminisation, correlating with the stereotypes we have already seen -she ventures into masculine work that she is not used to and also cuts her hair in an act of symbolism, both with Andrea's guidancebut it was my decision to keep her relatively feminine to act as a contrast against her comrades.Using Montserrat as a femme model allows her to act as a point of contrast against her comrades while simultaneously engaging with anarchism's ideal notions of femininity 12 and also reflecting real life in that there is no one true version of lesbianism in contrast to that which the discourse of the 1930s might have one believe.
From a personal perspective as a historical novelist, the most important element of this creative process is in maintaining a sense of historical accuracy in order to ensure that the metafictional element works to "trick" the reader into believing that this could be a piece of documentary evidence.Like the duality present in the figure of the anarchist lesbian, this technique arguably plays into Ochoa's argument that "historical accuracy is an illusion" (2010, 97) while simultaneously striving to negate it.In order to do this, I describe how Montserrat adheres to compulsory heterosexuality at the beginning of her story because that is what would have been expected socially and is also prevalent in the discourse we have seen.However, there are also instances in which Montserrat explores her sexuality, fuelled by her reading of Armand, which is included in the novel as an intertextual reference. 13This offers a way for the general reader to engage with the discourse, even if they are not familiar with the works of the time, and also makes Montserrat's exploration of her sexual identity more believable.She asks her friend Aina whether she has thought about kissing another girl and describes how "she looked at me as though I were speaking to her in a foreign language" (Byrne 2023, n.p.) and, eventually, they kiss after Montserrat's insistence to see what it is like.Here, there is a deliberate attempt to subvert the notion of the intimacy between female friends that is devoid of sexual desire -as San de Velilla was keen to indicate, "estamos acostumbrados a la familiaridad que existe entre las mujeres, mucho más íntima que la usual entre hombres, y estamos, por tanto, menos propicios a sospechar la presencia de una pasión anormal [we are used to the familiarity that exists between women, much more intimate than that between men, and we are therefore less likely to suspect the presence of an abnormal passion]" which makes it difficult to "detect" lesbian tendencies (1932,228) -because, while the act means nothing to Aina, it is a formative experience for Montserrat and allows her to be more open to exprimenting with her sexuality, compounded by her readings of anarchist text.We may also consider this a harking back to Poch's arguably self-aware notion of the sister soul (1932,25).
A further metafictional device is present in Andrea's relation of her own history to Montserrat, which is included as a subtle nod to the fact that there is little documentary evidence about lesbians' lives as asserted by Simonis (2009, 40-1).Of one of her experiences in the militia, Andrea describes how "I've never told anyone that before, xiqueta, so do forgive me if I sound callous" (Byrne 2023, n.p.).This disclaimer of sorts becomes more poignant during a later episode of Andrea's storytelling in which she reveals to Montserrat that her "friend" Eulàlia was really her lover and that she betrayed her and her anarchist comrades, resulting in Josep's incarceration (2023, n.p.).It is my intention that such nods to the recovery of queer stories and the perpetuation of documentary evidence will be grouped together in Montserrat's explanation of her writing process in 1975-the act of writing, as a response to the lack of material, becomes an act of documenting memory and, in telling one lesbian story, she encourages the exploration of all such stories and further research.
The creative techniques shown here, as well as the engagement with real documentary sources, serve to create a story that accurately conveys the experiences of women who love(d) women in 1930s Spain as well as serving as an introduction to the discourse for a general readership that may be unaware of the ideological nuances present in the literature of the time.Yet while there is little evidence of this present in existing literature of the Spanish Civil War in English, this has already been hinted at in the writing of Rosa Maria Arquimbau and consequently I do not feel that I can write about the portrayal of queer anarchist women in historical fiction about the Spanish Civil War without offering some analysis of Rosa Maria Arquimbau's writing.Here, I have chosen Quaranta anys perduts as an example of portraying a queer anarchist woman within the specific context of historical metafiction as defined by Waugh.Writing with reference to Fowles's work, Waugh has explained that: We tend to read fiction as if it were history.By actually appearing to treat the fiction as a historical document, Fowles employs the convention against itself.The effect of this, instead of reinforcing our sense of a continuous reality, is to split it open, to expose the levels of illusion.We are forced to recall that our "real" world can never be the "real" world of the novel.(2001,33) Nonetheless, the author must undertake work to build such an illusion by ensuring the historical accuracy and believability of their narrative, as I have done and as Arquimbau did in her novel, which might also be considered a piece of autofiction inspired by her own experiences.The conventions of genre and metafiction thus become further complicated in Quaranta anys perduts, which follows protagonist Laura Vidal throughout her life, from the establishment of the Second Republic, through the Civil War and exile, eventually coming full circle back to Barcelona under the dictatorship.Originally published in 1971, it is prophetic of the boom in women's writing about their experiences of the war and the dictatorship and I would argue that it is progressive not only in its condemnation of the dictatorship during its latter years, but also in its presentation of Laura as a coded queer anarchist.
It must be noted that Arquimbau never uses explicit terminology to describe her character, nor has my research brought to light any evidence to suggest that this was Arquimbau's intention.Nonetheless, throughout the novel, Laura demonstrates behaviours that, when read in light of the stereotypes of lesbian women that we have seen perpetuated by discourse of the time, would suggest that she is a woman who loves women.In the first instance, her main concern is for her own independence -even at the end of the novel, when she considers marrying the man she had once refused, as will be discussed later, her niece reminds her: "¿I la teva independencia, tieta?¿Què en faràs de la teva independencia?¿Te la jugaràs de cop i a una sola carta?¿I si perds?[What about your independence, auntie?What will you do with your precious independence?Gamble it on a single card, just like that?What if you lose?]" 14 (Arquimbau 2016, 189). 15This correlates with the individualist anarchist view demonstrated by Poch and Armand, as we have already seen, suggesting a familiarity with their ideology.Consequently, the notion of encouraging experimentation with one's sexuality would not be a foreign concept to her.
Throughout the novel, Laura's relationship with her sexuality is explicit and -somewhat realistically -fluid.Her interactions with men are superficial and arguably the result of societal expectations; at the start of the novel, she explains how "m'agradava anar [a ballar sardanes] perquè sempre hi havia molts xicots i els xicots començaven a interessarme [I liked to go because there were always a lot of boys, and boys were beginning to interest me]" 16 (2016, 19) and that "a mi el germà de l'Hermínia m'agradava.No era ni maco ni lleig i no sé per què m'agradava, però resulta que m'agradava.Ell, però, ni em mirava [I liked Hermínia's brother.He wasn't what you would call handsome or ugly and I don't know why I liked him, but I did.He, however, never gave me so much as a glance]" 17  (2016, 28).This arguably demonstrates her engagement with what is expected and her open attitude towards sex is reminiscent of the anarchist ideologies we have already seen.This is especially poignant when Laura loses her virginity to Tomás and demonstrates disinterest and even dislike towards it.She explains: Passat els primers moments, que per a mi foren més aviat desagradables, vaig pensar que donava massa importància a una cosa que en tenia molt poca i que potser ni tan sols valia la pena.Ara ja no podria dir-me a mi mateixa que era una pobra noia inexperimentada, ara ja ho sabia tot o gairebé tot.Ara ja era una dona.Però resultava una dona més aviat decebuda.(2016,69) [After the first few, quite unpleasant moments, I decided it was overrated, and not worth the fuss.I no longer saw myself as a poor, inexperienced lass; I now knew the lot, practically.I was a woman.Albeit a disenchanted one.](Arquimbau 2021, 51) Here it is clear that Laura favours her individualism and freedom of choice over what is expected, despite sex being considered something of a rite of passage in becoming a woman.In not meeting her expectations, she then adopts a masculine role in her analysis of the act, becoming at once nonchalant and boastful: -¿Què hi fa? -li vaig respondre cínicament-.Un o altre ha de ser el primer, no és així?-Després m'hi vaig repensar i li vaig mentir per mortificar-lo-: No, no has estat pas el primer, no t'ho creguis.(2016,69) ["So what?"I replied cynically."Someone's got to be first in, right?"Then I had second thoughts and lied to take him down a peg or two: "You weren't the first, not by a long shot."]( Arquimbau [trans. Bush] 2021, 51) Here Laura speaks in a way better suited to how we might expect a man to speak and this, combined with her outspoken nature and career-mindedness, would encourage her to be read as one of the masculine stereotypes through which lesbians were identified. 18It is interesting to note that her outspoken nature goes hand in hand with her pride in her working-class background and this synthesis is especially evident when she responds to a man on the bus (who, in his language and condemnation of her use of make-up, demonstrates the sexist prejudice that we have already seen): -Tú, ésta que vas tan elegante y tan pintada, toda esta mierda que llevas en la cara y lo que te ha costado lo llevas puesto más valdría que lo hubieras dado para los del Komsomol.
Jo, que era la filla d'uns porters i em sentia més proletària que ningú, vaig etzibar-li sense esverar-me: -Ep, marrà, que jo no m'he ficat amb tu per res ni t'he preguntat si aquest guix que portes a la pota te l'has posat tu per emboscar-te a Arquimbau (2016, 87-8) ["Hey you, you elegant, face-painted hussy, you should have given the Komsomols what you spent on that shit on your face.I was the daughter of porters and felt more proletarian than anyone, so I lambasted him: "You swine, I've not bothered you, or asked you if you'd put that plaster on your leg so you could skive off in Barcelona."](Arquimbau [trans.Bush] 2021, 65-6) That the other passengers laugh at her mockery of the man demonstrate their support of her position and serves to reinforce the control that she has over the situation, subverting societal expectations and empowering her.Laura's empowerment is consistent throughout the novel, and it is especially evident in her interactions with "el minyó de les patrulles" ["patrol gang lad"].It is significant that Laura never names him, even when they reconnect years later, which reinforces the power dynamic.In contrast to her female friends Engràcia and Hermínia, who are described in great detail and whose relationships are shown to be more meaningful, this suggests that he is not worth naming.Additionally, her response to being asked to marry him -"Noi, no ens compliquem la vida [let's keep things simple, kid]" (2016, 88 [2021, 66]) -only serves to reinforce the dynamic in which she is in control; this is carried further when she decides to marry him years later on her terms and for convenience's sake rather than love.That her family mock her decision and that the reader never learns the outcome indicate that the heteronormative lifestyle is not meant for her.Laura's experiences with men are shown to be negative, and her (arguably quite intimate) relationships with Hermínia and Engràcia change once they start dating and marry men, hinting at a form of jealousy that is recognizable; Laura describes how "L'Hermínia també festejava i em vaig trobar desemparada sense ella [Now Hermínia was courting too and I felt at a loss without her]" (2016, 53 [2021, 40]).While Arquimbau's novel is progressive while at once being historically accurate, and while all of these "hints" allow for a queer reading of Laura and give the sense that she is hiding in plain sight, that she remains hidden behind the heteronormative standards of the time result in rendering this anarchist "lesbian" invisible.What Montserrat does to push the visibility of lesbian lives further than Arquimbau is to offer an unapologetic narrative that does not seek to "hide" the protagonists' sexualities, "coded" as Arquimbau's Laura's may be, but instead presents them faithfully in order to draw attention to the work that still needs to be done while also bridging the gap in the sources that are available to us.Nonetheless, it is important to draw parallels between both texts in order to begin to establish a genealogy of lesbian literature of the Spanish Civil War and a bridge between cultures and so that the work to recover the experiences of lesbian lives may continue.
To conclude, it is imperative to note that there is no one true anarchist vision of lesbianism in 1930s Spain.Rather, I would argue that there are two present in anarchist discourse of the 1930s.In the first instance, there is a negative view that is perpetuated by men in the movement, outdated medical discourse, and stereotypes that are presented and exaggerated to encourage mockery.The second vision is as radical as anarchism presents itself to be.It is a positive vision that celebrates love between women and presents it as a real potential lifestyle, and one to be encouraged in the context of the "new woman" that had emerged.However, this second vision has arguably been lost in scholarship of queer anarchist studies in favour of the discourse surrounding love between men.It is not clear whether this is the result of history or simply because there is more surviving documentary evidence by queer men than there is by women.However, I have shown that it is possible to fill this gap in the narrative with fiction that is informed by a different kind of documentary evidence -using what is and is not present to inform my writing of a reality that once was present.Montserrat aims to finish what Arquimbau started by presenting the discourse within a fictional narrative that is historically accurate and serves to replace the lack of documentary evidence left by anarchist lesbians about their lives, but it is clear that there is still much work to be done in scholarship of queer women in 1930s Spanish anarchism.Yet, by writing fiction, we may at least bring them back into focus.

Notes
1.All translations are my own unless stated otherwise.2. This contrasts lesbianism described in other prison narratives by non-communist women.Of two lovers in prison, socialist Carlota O'Neill wrote: "Este amor levantó escarnios y pudores entre las honestas madres de familia [This love provoked jeers and modesty among the honest mothers with families]" (2003,.It is worth noting that she presented their case quite without judgement, perhaps even hinting at sympathy when she observed how "las otras jóvenes las miraban con miradas reprobadoras y curiosas; quizá envidiosas [the other young women looked at them with reproving and curious looks; perhaps envious ones]" and that "en la antigua Grecia, Safo les habría dedicado sus mejores versos [in ancient Greece, Sappho would have dedicated her best verses to them]" (2003,69).
3. For further details on Spanish anarchists "borrowing" medical studies from other countries and non-anarchist sexologists instead of generating their own, see Cleminson and Cleminson and García Francisco (2007) and Turbutt (2022,5).4. See Cleminson and Cleminson and García Francisco (2007), 16. 5.For an extended analysis of the suggestive illustrated image of the lesbian of the early twentieth century, see Sentamans (2015, 56-66).6.As in 1928, the Ley de vagos y maleantes that was passed in 1933 was later reappropriated under the dictatorship in 1954 to include homosexual activity and continued to exclude women.7. Cleminson and Vázquez García have highlighted how there had been a shift in gender signifiers by the end of the 1920s and how the presentation of masculinity hardened as a result of women encroaching on what were traditionally considered more masculine areas, such as in work and in winning the vote in 1931, but also through the growth of feminism and changes to fashions and behaviours (2007,256).8. San de Velilla drew attention to how, even in 1932, the study of lesbianism is not as great as that of male homosexuality.He described how "Ellis atribuye este aparente desdén a la falta de datos [Ellis attributes this apparent disdain to a lack of data]" (1932,228).It is interesting to note that this has still not been addressed in any great detail over ninety years later and consequently I believe that my creative work can be considered both timely and necessary, as indicated in this article.9. San de Velilla described how "entre las [mujeres de elevada inteligencia] son muy frecuentes los casos de inversión [cases of inversion are very frequent among women of high intelligence]" (1932,236).10.For examples of such posters, see the Museo Reina Sofía's online exhibition La imagen de la mujer republicana (https://www.museoreinasofia.es/coleccion/proyectos-investigacion/mujeres-guerracivil-espanola/mujer-carteles-republicanos).11.Turbutt has shown that women with concerns about their sexuality wrote into anarchist publications such as La Revista Blanca (2022, 16).12.For more on the anarchist ideal of femininity as highlighted by La Revista Blanca and pushed by Federica Monseny, see Turbutt (2022), 10. 13.In one of the flashbacks, Josep lends Montserrat a copy of Sexualismo revolucionario to read and she explains: "That was a usual part of my education.He would turn up at the apartment with some political text in his pocket that he'd expect us to discuss the next time I saw him.It felt a lot like schoolwork, but I took pride in reading everything he gave me and trying to please him.In any case, Papà encouraged it and Mamà did not argue with him when he reasoned that Josep would appreciate my reading far more than my sewing" (Byrne 2023, n.p.).14.Translation by Peter Bush, 2021, 137.15.While opening interrogation marks are generally not used in modern Catalan, I have included them here to preserve Arquimbau's original text.16.Translation by Peter Bush (2021), 16. 17.Translation by Peter Bush (2021), 23.18.Throughout Quaranta anys perduts Arquimbau demonstrates a fondness for playing with notions with gender, as in Hermínia's observation of the translation of the given name "Paz" in Catalan as "Pau" and not "Paula" and Laura's response, "I el dia que es casi, ¿el seu marit com li dirà?[What will her husband call her on her wedding day?]" (2016, 31 [2021, 25]), and in Laura's observation of a young man with long her in her later years (2016,170).