FOR 68 desperate days in the summer of 1936, around 1,500 people found themselves trapped inside Toledo’s ancient fortress, the Alcazar. How they held out until 27 September without surrendering remains one of the most stirring heroic tales in Spanish history – whichever side you are on.
In the Spanish army, an officer finishing his watch salutes his relief with the words ‘Sin novedad‘ – ‘No news. Nothing to report. All is well’. It’s a phrase that would take on deep symbolic meaning in Toledo that year.
Toledo, a beautiful small city about 70 km south of Madrid, stands alone on the great Castilian plain. In July 1936 it was something of a quiet backwater. The Alcazar, its imposing castle, had been turned into a cavalry officers’ school under the command of Colonel Jose Moscardo – a career administrator nearing retirement, more accustomed to paperwork than to combat.
Then came the shock. A group of army officers serving in Spanish Morocco rose in rebellion. Their leader, General Francisco Franco, airlifted his troops across the Strait of Gibraltar to Andalucia, seizing Sevilla within days.
Imagine Moscardo’s dilemma: loyal to the government in Madrid, yet bound by honour to the army. As Franco’s uprising spread, Madrid braced for war. The capital’s working-class population fiercely opposed the rebellion, and if Moscardo declared for Franco, isolated Toledo would surely come under attack.
He made his choice. On July 21, Moscardo ordered all those in Toledo sympathetic to Franco — soldiers, civilians, women and children — to take refuge inside the Alcazar. The great gates were closed. The siege had begun.
Franco’s plan at first was to sweep north from Sevilla toward Badajoz, along the Portuguese border — a rapid advance through thinly populated countryside that would display his army’s strength. From there, he intended to pivot east and seize Madrid.
But Toledo changed everything.
Thousands of leftist militiamen poured down from Madrid, bringing artillery. Soon, shells rained onto the castle. Inside, 1,500 people faced a medieval-style siege with 20th-century firepower.
Then came the most chilling episode of all. The phone rang in Moscardo’s office. On the line was the enemy commander. “Moscardo,” he said, “we have your son. Surrender the Alcazar, or he dies.” The Colonel demanded to speak to the boy. When his son came to the phone, Moscardo said calmly, “You know me. I will never surrender to blackmail. Die for Spain, my son.” Moments later, the young man was executed.
News of the exchange spread fast. Franco, hearing it while still advancing north, instantly understood the power of Toledo’s defiance. He gathered his officers. Madrid could wait, he told them. The priority was now the relief of the Alcazar. Some commanders protested — the capital was within reach. Franco was firm. “True,” he said, “but Toledo gives us something we have lacked. It’s mid-August, and we are only rebels. If by the end of September we rescue those in the Alcazar, we will no longer be rebels — we will be a cause.”
Meanwhile, inside the fortress, life grew desperate. Food dwindled. Horse feed was ground by hand into rough flour and baked over open fires. The prized cavalry horses were slaughtered for meat. Families lived in the tunnels beneath the castle as constant shelling turned the upper walls to rubble.
One morning, a plane appeared overhead and dropped a crate. Inside were sweets for the children and a letter from Franco: “Hold on – we’re coming.”
Finally, on September 27, the lead units of Franco’s army reached Toledo. The besieging artillery hastily withdrew toward Madrid. From the shattered ruins of the Alcazar, gaunt defenders emerged blinking into daylight.
Colonel Moscardo greeted the rescuers, saluted smartly, and uttered the words of a lifetime’s discipline and defiance:
“Sin novedad.“
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