The last night of the Thirteen Roses before they were shot: "They dressed with the help of the others, our hands trembled"

On the night before their execution, thirteen women known as Las Trece Rosas, the Thirteen Roses, prepared themselves with trembling hands and quiet resolve inside the women's prison of Ventas in Madrid. Around midnight, a prison official entered their cell block and called out the names of three of them: Martina Barroso, Victoria Muñoz, and Ana López Gallego. These women knew exactly what this meant, they were to be taken at dawn and executed at the eastern cemetery wall alongside 43 men and ten other women. Their group would later become known in history as Las Trece Rosas, a symbol of resistance during Spain’s early years under Francisco Franco’s dictatorship. The events surrounding their final hours have been preserved through the accounts of fellow prisoners and witnesses who carried the memory forward despite the silence imposed by the regime. These stories, passed down over decades, offer a rare glimpse into the intimate moments of that last night. One such account comes from Carmen Machado, a communist prisoner present at the time. She recalled how Ana López Gallego, known as Anita, quickly realized the officials had come for her and her companions. Standing up, she told them, “Don’t call the others, I’ll wake them myself.” Among those she woke was Victoria Muñoz, whose brother had recently been killed. According to Machado, Victoria’s only reaction was, “Poor thing, my mother.” Another witness, Josefina Amalia Villa, a member of the Communist Party and nurse during the Spanish Civil War, confirmed the scene. She described how the three women dressed each other, their hands shaking more than those of their captors. After finishing, Anita asked her companions in a calm but low voice, “Do I have the right socks on?” They assured her they did, though none looked closely. The moment was marked by a mix of shouts and silence, a haunting stillness that seemed to envelop everything. Tomasa Cuevas, another former inmate of Ventas, recorded these memories in the 1980s. She described Martina as a young woman with beautiful curly hair and pale skin. On the night of August 5, while the rest of the cellblock settled down for sleep, Anita continued sewing beside some of her companions. She decided to stay awake because she didn’t want to be found sleeping when the guards came for her. Earlier in the week, the executions had occurred before 11 p.m., so she believed she could safely fall asleep around midnight. Moments before the official arrived, she said, “I think tonight I can go to bed.” These detailed accounts have survived thanks to the efforts of anti-Franco activists who documented the experiences of women imprisoned under the dictatorship during Spain’s transition to democracy. Historian Fernando Hernández Holgado refers to this collective memory as a “subterranean memory,” one that was transmitted among witnesses and survivors for many years. He explains that this oral tradition began forming within the prison itself, where political prisoners created a shared narrative amid hostile conditions. It wasn’t until 1978 that these stories started being written down, preserving the voices of those who lived through the trauma. Holgado’s research, published in the journal Pasado y Presente, traces the origins of this underground memory, which he describes as internal and female in nature. He argues that it was within the walls of Ventas that the first collective story of the community of political prisoners began to take shape. This oral history, shaped by multiple perspectives and refined over time, became a crucial part of Spain’s historical record, ensuring that the sacrifices of Las Trece Rosas would not be forgotten. The legacy of these women continues to resonate today, with their story inspiring books, films, and theatrical productions. Yet, it is the firsthand accounts from those who witnessed their final hours that provide the most profound insight into their courage and humanity. These narratives, once confined to whispered conversations in darkened cells, now stand as enduring testaments to resilience against oppression.