Chapter 179: The Divided Left
"Gentlemen."
President Zamora tapped the table lightly, trying to suppress the rising tension in the room.
"What we face now is an imminent threat. This concerns whether the right wing will make a comeback and reduce the small progress we have painstakingly accumulated over the past two years to nothing."
His gaze moved between the two factions seated before him.
"I invited you here not to argue, but to resolve the problem in front of us."
Unfortunately, political differences were not like coffee that could be blended smoothly. They were more like oil and water, forced into the same cup only to separate more violently.
His words were ignored.
Hearing Kalon's disdainful tone, Larivich became even more convinced that the man had betrayed his class and surrendered to the bourgeoisie and landlord forces.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
"Compromise? Have we not compromised enough over the past year?"
His voice grew sharper with every word.
"Which of those right wing officers is not still living comfortably because of your compromises? Which of those high ranking religious leaders who oppressed the people's faith has been thoroughly purged? Which of those clan forces has truly been uprooted?"
Larivich slammed his hand on the table.
"Bloodshed and sacrifice are not what we should fear. What we should fear is a betrayer like you."
The moment the word "betrayer" was spoken, Kalon's expression changed completely.
He could still tolerate political disagreement.
He could still tolerate accusations of weakness.
But to be branded a traitor by Larivich in front of everyone was more than he could bear.
His hand swept across the table.
The warm coffee cup fell to the floor and shattered. Brown liquid spread across the polished tiles, and ceramic fragments scattered everywhere.
"I am a traitor?"
Kalon's voice rose with fury.
"Do not forget, Larivich. If your Spanish Communist Party had not received the support of us republican 'traitors' back then, could you have held your position? Could you have overthrown feudal rule?"
He laughed coldly.
"What a joke. If I am a traitor, then what are you? A follower of Stalin?"
Larivich's face darkened.
Kalon did not stop.
"Look at Germany, you idiot. When the German Communist Party was purged, your pope in Moscow did not dare utter even a single word of protest."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Kalon leaned forward, every word filled with contempt.
"Stalin values Soviet Russia more than the comrades he speaks of. I will not agree to your proposal, nor will I send countless people to their deaths simply because you open your mouth and call it revolution."
The discussion had completely deviated from unity.
What remained was naked mutual accusation.
Seeing himself reduced to a follower, Larivich suppressed the urge to send Kalon to the guillotine then and there. He struck the table again with a resounding crash.
"Good. I did not come here to obtain your approval anyway."
With that, he turned and left.
Zamora could only watch his back disappear through the door.
The president's face was filled with helplessness.
Kalon remained standing, breathing heavily. After a moment, he turned to Zamora and spoke again, his tone still bitter.
"Mr. President, you have seen the unreasonable attitude of these social democrats yourself."
He pointed toward the door Larivich had just left through.
"In 1920, what support did Soviet Russia give the Spanish Communist Party? Back then, we had only a few hundred people. It was only after we developed into a major party with a real popular base that Soviet Russia suddenly began interfering."
His expression became colder.
"And because of the Trotsky case, many excellent comrades were implicated. They were transferred to Moscow, and now they have vanished without a trace."
Kalon spread his hands.
"I simply do not understand why we should place this level of trust in a Russian. He has given us no practical aid. The benefits we have received from Soviet Russia are not even as useful as Germany adjusting its agricultural import tariffs."
Zamora closed his eyes briefly.
At this point, persuasion had become meaningless.
He could only pray that the two factions would not lean toward the right wing.
But his wish was destined not to come true.
Kalon had just walked out of the president's office when a brown Imperial Eagle sedan stopped in front of him.
The window rolled down.
Inside sat a middle aged man with slicked back hair, wearing a suit and gold rimmed glasses. His refined bearing gave him the calm appearance of a lawyer who had never lost a case.
"Mr. Kalon, I presume?"
His Spanish was fluent, but slightly stiff.
"I am the private consultant to Mr. José, leader of the Spanish Forward Party. Do you have a moment?"
Kalon leaned down and pulled open the car door, but he did not get in.
Instead, he asked an unrelated question.
"Your accent does not sound very Spanish. Your face does not look very Spanish either."
The middle aged man chuckled politely.
"I am Moroccan. I was raised in Germany from childhood."
Kalon leaned closer to the man's ear.
His voice dropped into a threat.
"You do not look Moroccan at all. You look like a thorough German."
The man remained smiling.
Kalon's eyes sharpened.
"What do you want from me? Republican votes?"
His voice turned colder.
"Do you think I am some coward who betrays his comrades? I do not agree with Larivich's methods, but that does not mean I will cooperate with the right wing, especially not with the executioners who massacred the German Communist Party."
He straightened slightly, his gaze full of disgust.
"Get out of Spain, you damned black vulture. You had better pray the Spanish Forward Party wins this election. Otherwise, I will drive every last one of you out of Spain."
With that, Kalon turned and entered the old car that had come to pick him up.
The middle aged man showed no dissatisfaction.
He simply rolled up the window, took out a list, and calmly crossed off one of the names marked as a potential collaborator.
Then he instructed the driver, "Go to Mr. Kachur's residence. I hear he is better suited to represent the interests of the middle class."
The next day, the first round of voting began in Seville.
Although the Spanish Forward Party secured a large number of votes, the Spanish Communist Party, relying on its long term governance in the region, still won the major city and temporarily led the Spanish Forward Party there.
Voting in other cities also began one after another.
Inside parliament, the left and right wings gathered under a tense atmosphere. The ballot box stood in the middle of the chamber, separating the two sides like a silent wall.
Red ballots representing the Spanish Communist Party were cast into the ballot box one after another.
The statistician reported the numbers in an unhurried voice.
"In the Salamanca region, the Spanish Communist Party has cumulatively received..."
He turned a page.
"In the Ronda region, the Spanish Forward Party has cumulatively received..."
More papers were brought forward.
"Currently, the Spanish Forward Party has received a total of 4.51 million votes. The Spanish Communist Party has received a cumulative total of 3.91 million votes."
A gap of 600,000 votes.
Larivich did not panic.
Several cities controlled by the Spanish Communist Party had yet to be counted. Once those votes arrived, they could easily overtake the right wing.
Time passed minute by minute.
The statistician received results from various regions. His face, which had remained calm throughout the process, gradually revealed a rare look of disbelief.
The entire parliament noticed it.
Whispers faded.
The room became so quiet that even the turning of paper seemed harsh.
Finally, the statistician raised his head.
"Gentlemen, before I continue, I must confirm something with Mr. Kachur."
Every eye turned.
"You are the leader of the Social Moderate Party, correct?"
The already silent parliament seemed to sink into deathly stillness.
One after another, members of the left wing turned their gazes toward Kachur.
They stared at the second in command of the republican faction.
Kachur was a short man with a full beard. Faced with the sudden attention of the entire chamber, he showed no fear, no guilt, and no hesitation.
He stood and walked toward the central seats.
As he moved, a large group of republican members of parliament rose and followed behind him, silently declaring their position.
Kachur stopped in the center of the chamber.
"Yes," he said calmly. "I submitted the party application yesterday and received approval."
He looked at the statistician.
"Please continue."
The statistician nodded.
Then he read the final result.
"The remaining regions cast a total of 1.1 million votes. All of them were won by the Social Moderate Party."
A tremor passed through the chamber.
The statistician swallowed, then spoke the sentence that decided Spain's political future.
"That means... the Spanish Forward Party has won this year's general election."
The words fell like thunder.
Larivich and Kalon froze in place.
They could not believe that in only two years, they had lost their status as the ruling party.
It was not only them.
President Zamora also stared at the result in disbelief.
He had expected a narrow margin. He had even prepared himself for a difficult coalition and a divided parliament.
But he had never expected the election to end with a right wing victory.
Across from them, the right wing had already erupted into jubilation.
José stood amid the cheers, raised both arms, and shouted, "This is the most memorable day in Spain's history. The people have chosen us. They have chosen a more stable and better future."
Then he straightened.
Imitating Jörg's posture, he raised his hand.
"Forward, Spain!"
.....
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