Death of a Nationalist (6 page)

He nodded. “I went to see Manuela.”

“You—? Gonzalo! Please, you have to stay indoors. It’s not likely anyone will look for you, and when things die down. . . .”

“Where would I find someone with contacts on the black market?” he interrupted.

“You want to commit suicide,” his sister said flatly.

Gonzalo smiled, a little grimly. “Not just yet.”

Chapter 6

Tejada would have liked to have gone immediately to the Calle Tres Peces to search for Maria Alejandra. Unfortunately, he and Loredo were committed to heading north and east, directly away from the child’s home. It was a long walk, and the constant low-grade hostility began to grate on Tejada’s nerves. It seemed as if for every person who saluted or shouted,
“Viva la Guardia Civil!”
there were ten who dropped their eyes, turned their backs, or slid into doorways. The orders were to stop and search anyone acting suspiciously, but after four hours, nearly everyone looked suspicious, and the two guardias civiles were exhausted. Both Tejada and Loredo stopped looking for suspicious behavior and began covertly scanning the streets for bakeries or cafés. Awnings were not uncommon, but the windows beneath them were shuttered and lightless. Few shops even bothered with signs saying that they were closed.

By the time they returned to the barracks, a little after six, Tejada was too tired to consider going out again to Tres Peces. It would not have been possible anyway. “The lieutenant wants to see you, sergeant,” a guardia said as soon as he entered the building.

Tejada sighed, and made his way to Lieutenant Ramos’s office. The lieutenant was on the telephone when he entered. “Yes, Colonel . . . yes, Colonel, understood.” Ramos thrust a piece of paper at the sergeant, and indicated that he should read it. “Yes, Colonel, very good.” Tejada looked down at the paper. It was typewritten and addressed to Ramos, from someone named Captain Morales. “Yes, but that may be difficult, Colonel.” Ramos’s voice, a combination of deference and exasperation, hummed in the background, as Tejada read:

Regarding your memo of March 31, 1939, Corporal Francisco López Pérez was a member of this post. He went off duty at 10:00 on March 31, leaving the post shortly afterward. His partner, Sergeant Diego de Rota, reported him missing on Saturday, April 1 at 09:30. Thank you for your information concerning Corporal López, and for your men’s prompt action concerning his murderer. I have informed the López family. If it is your opinion that Corporal López should be a candidate for military honors I will initiate the process.

“At your command, Colonel.
Arriba España!”
Ramos hung up. “I thought you’d like to know that we’ve traced López.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tejada held out the memo to his commander.

“There’s another shipment of prisoners going out to Toledo tomorrow,” the lieutenant said, pleased. “I’ve assigned you to the convoy.”

“Lieutenant.” Tejada nodded, but did not seem overly pleased by the news.

Ramos made an exasperated noise. “I thought you’d be glad to go. You said that López’s family was in Toledo. Drop off the prisoners, and take a couple of hours to see his family. It’s better than just getting a telegram.”

Tejada blinked. “Thank you, sir.” There was nothing else to say. Three years had taught the sergeant that war was more apt to bring out men’s worst qualities than their finest, but it did occasionally strike little sparks of decency from unlikely flints. Lieutenant Ramos was doing his best.

“You’re welcome. You leave at nine A.M. tomorrow. Dismissed.”

As a matter of fact, the convoy did not leave until after eleven, partly because the recruits under Tejada’s command were late and partly because Ramos had willfully underestimated the number of trips it would take to get all of the prisoners to the train station. When the trucks arrived from their final trip, perilously overloaded, it was discovered that two of the prisoners had fainted on the journey. The truck driver, who had protested at the lack of space, was careful not to say “I told you so” but it was written on his face. Tejada bit back his annoyance. It would have been simplest to shoot the unconscious men, and thus make more room on the train, but he was unaware of what they were charged with, and it was possible that interrogators at the other end of the journey wanted to speak to them. “You have five minutes to get them vertical,” he said shortly, and turned to another guardia. “Start the roll call, as they get onto the train.” Naturally, the roll took rather longer than five minutes, partly because there was a crowd of civilians yelling to the prisoners, and since they were yelling back, they frequently missed their names. Tejada fired into the air, threatened to fire into the crowd, and mentally cursed his subordinates as incompetents. By the time the train crawled out of Madrid, he was more than half sorry he had ever expressed a desire to go to Toledo.

When the train arrived, the initial headaches of unloading prisoners prevented any time for reflection. One man made an ill-advised attempt to escape, and three of the newest and most enthusiastic guardias sprayed the street with several rounds of bullets before managing to hit him. Tejada, whose memories of Toledo involved rationing nearly everything, including bullets, winced at the waste of ammunition. The attempted escape meant another roll call, this time with angry and demoralized prisoners, and then a lengthy report to the prison authorities.

It was not until the midafternoon that Tejada had the leisure to stop and think. He stood in the courtyard of the alcázar, looking down over the town. Too many buildings still stood roofless, but at least there were no explosions, and no gunfire now. Behind him, the ruined towers of the fortress loomed, impressive even in the midst of rubble. He remembered staring down at the town at an earlier time, with the pleasant sense of an impossible task achieved. There were footsteps behind him. He turned, half expecting to see Paco coming toward him, grinning. “Hey, Carlos! Colonel Moscardó wants to see you. Looks like you’re getting stripes.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant. Lieutenant Adriano says there’s a car here for us.” It was Guardia Vásquez, looking and sounding a little nervous.

Tejada glanced at his watch automatically. It was almost four. “With a driver?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask him if he can wait,” Tejada said. “We’re due for a break.”

Vásquez gaped. Sergeant Tejada had not been in a forgiving mood today. And it was unlike him to suggest breaks. “Yes, sir,” he managed.

After some discussion, it was settled that the guardias civiles from Madrid would return at six o’clock. Sergeant Tejada, after threatening dire punishments for anyone who was not present and prepared at the appointed hour, disappeared into the town. The other men stayed near the fort. “You’d think he’d want to hang around here,” Vásquez commented. “I mean, get reacquainted with the alcázar.”

“Idiot,” Jiménez said scornfully. “He
knows
the alcázar. He doesn’t need to get reacquainted. I bet he could find his way around it in the dark with his eyes closed.”

“Is it true that General Franco gave him a medal for heroism in a special ceremony in ’37?” Durán asked, wide-eyed.

“Of course. You know Corporal Torres? He’s seen Tejada in dress uniform and he says there’s a decoration.”

Vásquez looked around him and shook his head. “Three months in here, with the Reds bombarding it,” he said. “I heard they were eating rats when Varela lifted the siege.”

“I can’t picture the sergeant eating rats,” said Durán thoughtfully.

“Sergeant Tejada could eat anything.” Jiménez was stoutly loyal.

In fact, Sergeant Tejada was just tasting an excellent cup of coffee while this conversation was taking place. He had headed across the square from the alcázar and down one of the broader streets, stopping in front of a large building with a nineteenth-century facade. There had been elaborate stone carvings over the door, but some vandal had smashed them, and now there was only a suggestion of human forms carved into the yellow stone. The smashed statues, and a few panes of broken glass, were the only hints that war had come anywhere near this building. Its owners had thus far been fortunate. Tejada took off his hat, straightened his crumpled uniform as best he could, and rang the bell.

A man dressed in black opened it. “Can I help you, Señor Guardia?”

“Is Señora Pérez in?” Tejada asked.

“The señora is not receiving anyone today.” The man’s voice was uncompromising in the extreme.

Tejada had by this time taken in the man’s black coat and gloves. The telegram had been delivered already then. “I know this is a house of mourning,” he said. “I’m here as a friend of Corporal López’s, to present my condolences.”

The doorkeeper scanned Tejada, and the sergeant wished that he had been able to wear a dress uniform. “Whom shall I announce to the señora?” he asked.

“Sergeant Carlos Tejada Alonso y León.” The sergeant matched the doorkeeper’s stare.

He was led into an arched hallway dominated by a staircase, undoubtedly once carpeted and now bare wood. A large portrait hung on the opposite wall. It showed a gray-haired gentleman wearing the dress uniform of a colonel from the War of 1898. One hand rested lightly on his sword. With the other, he beckoned to someone just outside the canvas. Tejada looked at the portrait for a long moment, trying to trace a resemblance to his friend Paco. The servant reappeared. “The señora will see you,” he announced and turned toward the stairs.

The parlor at the top of the stairs was a handsome room. Sunlight slanted through windows that looked out on a flower garden. In one corner, a piano was open, with a few sheets of music lying on it. The mantelpiece held a cluster of porcelain figures, shoved awkwardly but not carelessly to one side, to make room for two photographs. The first was a photographer’s vision of the portrait in the hallway, set in a heavy silver frame. The second photograph, also silver-framed, was set in the exact center of the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Paco in a cadet’s uniform, looking very young, and very pleased with himself. Someone had placed vases of lilies around it.

Paco’s mother had risen from the sofa to greet her guest. She was dressed in black and a black lace veil covered steel gray hair. “Sergeant Carlos Tejada Alonso y León, Señora,” the doorkeeper announced, standing to one side.

As Tejada crossed the sunlit room, he felt a strange sense of familiarity. The room, the lady, his own actions—all of them were governed by a set of rules that he had learned a long time ago and that he had imagined he had forgotten. So it was not knowledge of the rules of etiquette but a sort of muscular memory, similar to that necessary for riding a bicycle, that made him bow over his hostess’s hand and kiss it. “Your servant, Doña Clara.” He kissed one cheek and then the other, still acting from some half-remembered script. “My deepest sympathies.”

“Thank you.” She gestured him to a seat, and then resumed her own. “It was good of you to come, Carlos. Forgive me—I should say Sergeant Tejada.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You have the right, Doña Clara.”

She turned to the black-clad servant. “Bring us coffee please, José.”

There was a pause. The script was deserting him at the crucial moment, leaving only ugly truths to be spoken. “I hoped to arrive earlier, to tell you in person.”

“I am surprised you came so soon,” she replied reassuringly. “How did you know? Did Paco contact you in Madrid before . . . the end?”

“No.” Tejada found himself wishing that he was already on his way back to Madrid. “No. Actually, I identified him.”

“What happened?” she asked.

Tejada hesitated. Doña Clara twisted a handkerchief in her lap. “Please, Carlos. The official notice gave no details. And I want to know. I can bear it better if I know.”

She had been a soldier’s wife, Tejada reminded himself, and she was a soldier’s widow. She had borne the siege along with her husband and son. Slowly, he began to sketch the scene for Paco’s mother. It seemed to take a long time although there was actually very little to tell. There was too much that he did not know, and too much of what he did know was too sordid to discuss. There was no need to mention the way Paco’s limbs had stiffened before the stretcher arrived. No need to mention that his eyes had not been closed. Tejada found himself suppressing the episode of María Alejandra’s notebook as well. Too many unanswered questions surrounded it. He mentioned the miliciana who had presumably killed Paco, but only briefly. Doña Clara closed her eyes. “A woman! Their women, too! May God have mercy, Carlos. They aren’t human!”

“No,” he said quietly.

The door opened and José reappeared, bearing a tray. He poured the coffee, and Tejada, judging that more discussion of the details of Paco’s murder would be tasteless, cast around for a change of subject. “I wish I had known Paco was in Madrid,” he said. “When was he transferred, do you know?”

“He was in the north until after we won Gerona.” Doña Clara tacitly agreed to the conversation’s new direction. “I believe he was a border guard for a while.”

“In Cataluña?”

“Yes, he was sent there just before my husband passed away. Francisco”—Doña Clara crossed herself, in memory of the departed—“was very relieved that he was leaving Basque country. He used to say that the Catalans would go to hell, but that the Basques would go
home
to hell.”

Tejada smiled. “I had a few letters from Paco now and then, and I think he agreed about the Basques. But he would have hated anywhere that wasn’t Toledo, I think. I’ve never met anyone who loved Castile so much.”

Doña Clara smiled, too. “Yes, he was like his father.
‘La mía
Castilla,’
they always said. As if the land were their sweetheart. It was a shame he had to leave. Even his father sometimes thought it hadn’t been a good idea, but you know after that business . . . ;” she trailed off.

“A lot of people were transferred after the siege,” Tejada agreed. He was starting to remember why he had chosen the Guardia Civil, and not the civilian life his parents had urged on him. It was difficult referring to sieges and battles as “that business.”

“What? Oh, the siege, yes, of course. After that.” Doña Clara looked vaguely discomfited.

The sergeant felt a flicker of surprise. He had assumed that Paco’s transfer had been random: the fortunes of war. But Paco’s mother seemed to think otherwise. “Was there some other reason?” he asked, and then kicked himself for cross-examining a grieving woman on what was supposed to be a condolence visit.