My maternal grandmother was the first person I spoke to me about Victoria Kent. The name was whispered with caution and only in the domestic areas in Spain in the sixties. I was a kid growing up in a family of republican losers from Valencia who kept alive the memory of those leaders who scored the most fertile stage, in every sense of the twentieth century.

But we must be prudent, and both my grandparents and my parents insisted that it was more than dangerous to evoke in the street or in school names as Manuel Azaña, Francisco Largo Caballero, Dolores Ibarruri or own Victoria Kent. I did my part of the deal in exchange for them to tell me stories of the Second Republic and the war, I observed total silence outside my house. Until the University of Valencia to study Geography and History in the mid-seventies failed to unravel the reasons for the admiration of my family for those characters, a respect that had risen after decades of Franco's dictatorship. My grandmother Theodora spoke about Victoria Kent spoke of the reverence he feels about models to those public figures who are considered exemplary. One image stood out above the rest when he was recalled to the Director General of Prisons in 1931.

It was the story of the entry of Kent, accompanied by journalists in the filthy and dilapidated jails monarchy with starving prisoners in overcrowded, filthy barracks, while the warehouses full of food appeared in a very graphic definition of 10 I mean regime change.