Archives work so quietly and discreetly that sometimes it seems like they’re not there. But their mission is vital to preserve the memory and history of the country. And at the most unexpected moment, their task can change a person’s life.
Even though it was 27 November, that midday in Barcelona was not too cold. The train was still some time from departure, but Estació de França was already a hive of activity. A premature sense of sadness and longing shadowed the eyes of the men and their families, who would be apart for a long time. They were the first 600 fortunate individuals hired by the Third Reich to work in Germany.
That train from Barcelona would take them to Irún, and from there they would switch to another train at Hendaye to cross France, eventually reaching Ulm. From Ulm, they would be distributed to the various cities to which they were assigned. According to what he had been told, Carles Segarra – a mechanic at Maquinista Terrestre i Marítima – was destined for Leipzig. But walking along the platform, carrying little Montserrat in his arms, he wasn’t thinking about any of that. He had even forgotten the pain from his poorly healed shrapnel wounds. The only thing on his mind was how much he would miss his daughter, who had just turned one.
Clinging to her father’s neck, the child watched the bustling activity around her, fascinated by all the movement. Suddenly, a man in uniform ordered the workers to assemble. Montserrat had to be passed to her mother. Kisses, hugs, tears, and a promise: as soon as I arrive, I will write to you.
The locomotive began to puff smoke. The men started to find their places in the carriages. They sat in groups on the austere wooden benches. Carles couldn’t quite decide where to sit and kept walking along, eyes fixed outside. Halfway down the carriage, he finally found an empty seat. Immediately, he leaned out the window.
It took the woman a moment to realise that her husband was signalling to her. Without letting go of the child for a single moment, she made her way as close as she could, weaving through the crowd. Carles stretched out his arms, and she handed Montserrat to him for one last kiss. His soul ached more than the scars left by the war. Before returning her to her mother, he lingered to look at her one more time. Who knows when I might see those playful little eyes again. What neither Carles nor his daughter knew was that, at that exact moment, the photographer Josep Brangulí pressed the shutter of his camera. A fleeting instant of life captured forever in black and white.
For the mechanic Segarra, the journey to Germany proved too taxing for his fragile health, and he was forced to return after a few months. He died in 1943, when Montserrat was around three years old. Over time, her father became a distant memory, gradually fading.
The girl grew up with the regret of having no photograph of her father. She could never have imagined the surprise that awaited her in 2011. At the CCCB, there was an exhibition featuring photographs from the Brangulí collection preserved at the National Archive of Catalonia.
In those days, things weren’t like they are now, people didn’t photograph everything, waving their phones about at every moment, and so the black-and-white images appear to us as extraordinary witnesses to the country’s history. Brangulí had been everywhere. Scenes from the years of the Republic, the Civil War, the postwar period... Montserrat loved looking at them; it felt like travelling through time. Then, suddenly, one photograph caught her attention. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She moved closer. A shiver ran down her spine. She read the caption describing the picture. She looked again. Then reread the caption. The profile of that man... the nose, the chin... She was certain of it, that man was her father, and the little girl lifted into the air was her.
The next day, the National Archive of Catalonia received an inquiry. A woman named Montserrat explained that she was the child in the photograph and requested a copy, she had none showing her with her father. Seventy years later, she would finally have a keepsake from her postwar childhood, preserved forever thanks to the work of archivists and the power of digitisation.
