Watcher in the Pine (11 page)

“It’s perfectly understandable.” Father Bernardo’s voice was professionally soothing now, the voice of a priest discussing a matter of conscience with a parishioner. “I was happy as a seminarian. We all look back on times when we were young with fondness or regret. But we can’t let this sort of nostalgia make us avoid our responsibilities.”

“No, Father.”

The priest judged her sufficiently subdued. “You will ask the lieutenant if you can chair this committee?” he urged. “I would be most grateful for your help.”

“Yes, Father.” Elena raised her head. “I don’t think Carlos will object. He has always believed in—” she smiled sardonically, “working for the good of the community.” Father Bernardo saw her smile but read it as pride in her husband’s good qualities, and honored her for her loyalty.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll speak to the mayor, then. And I have a few colleagues at Santo Toribio who might also be interested.”

Elena nodded. It was not the same as actually teaching. But it was something to do. The priest had drawn out a pad, and was jotting notes with enthusiasm. She felt superfluity creeping up on her again, and said quickly, “Also, there was one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Simón Álvarez,” Elena said. “The carpenter’s son. He mentioned that you know him—that is, he mentioned that you were his teacher, and his parents were the ones who suggested I speak to you.”

“Oh, yes.” Father Bernardo spoke warmly, his attention caught. “A fine boy. With some real gift for mathematics. He was one of my brightest students.”

“You don’t think he might like to study more?” Elena suggested.

“He’s nearly twelve.” Father Bernardo was thoughtful. “And he already knows more than is taught in most primary schools. I thought for a little while that he might have a vocation but that seems not to be the case. A shame, in a way. He seems to enjoy studying.”

“I understand he’s his father’s apprentice,” Elena said.

“Yes, that’s correct. And Quico has always said that the boy has a feel for carpentry, and is quick to learn. So perhaps it’s for the best that he follows his father and helps the family.”

“Señor Álvarez has never been opposed to his schooling, though?” Elena asked experimentally.

“Oh, no. Quico wanted Simón to start working with him nearly two years ago, but I’d just gotten classes organized then— it was right after the war—and the boy begged to be allowed to stay on. The Álvarezes have always been indulgent parents,” Father Bernardo added, with mild disapproval.

“He could study for the baccalaureate?” Elena knew the answer to the question as she spoke. Simón was perfectly capable. But there was no way he could leave his home to study.

Father Bernardo was already shaking his head. “If he felt a calling for the priesthood it might be different. But there’s no question of that. If I had time, I might try to give him some extra tutoring, and then arrange to have him sit for exams when he’s a little older. But I’m afraid I can’t devote the necessary time and effort to it. And neither will he be able to, as Quico starts to depend on him more.”

Elena mentally reviewed the necessary preparation for baccalaureate exams. She was fairly sure that she knew the material, although teaching it—especially without textbooks—would be a challenge. She considered asking if one of the monks at Santo Toribio who had taken an interest in the school might be persuaded to tutor Simón. Then she decided that further consultation with Simón and his parents would be necessary first. If Simón could convince a few of his friends to study for the baccalaureate, Potes’s hypothetical school might be able to offer more advanced classes as well. She nodded, and rose to leave. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

“Thank you for coming.” The priest stood as well. “I suppose . . . if you and your husband have a few hours free sometime I would be happy to take you up to Santo Toribio. Some of my colleagues there are also interested in starting a school, and I think you should meet them.”

“My husband has been busy lately,” Elena said honestly. “Although I’m sure he’d be interested in seeing the monastery. But I can come whenever is convenient. And I understand the monastery has considerable architectural interest.”

“Yes.” Father Bernardo nodded. “Although it was heavily damaged during the war. It should be very beautiful when it’s restored. I thought the lieutenant might be able to arrange transportation so that you would be more comfortable.”

“Transportation?” Elena was startled. “How far away is the monastery?”

“Oh, only a few kilometers. Forty-five minutes’ walk if there’s no snow. But given the weather, and your . . . your condition.” Father Bernardo went pink again. “I thought a cart might be advisable.”

Elena laughed although she was more than a little annoyed. “I’ve never felt better in my life, Father. I’m sure I could manage the walk. And if I wait for my husband to be free to do it, I may never get there.”

“Well . . . if you’re sure . . .” The priest appeared to be pondering a decision. “I was planning to walk up to Santo Toribio tomorrow morning. Would you like to come?”

“What time?” Elena asked promptly.

“Ten o’clock?”

“I’ll meet you here,” Elena said with satisfaction. She thanked Father Bernardo again, and went home, still hammering out plans for a primary school, and for Simón Álvarez’s further education in her head.

Chapter 9

E
lena had expected that Carlos would be pleased that she had made a new friend in Potes, and with such a respectable person as a priest. That evening she recounted her interview with Father Bernardo and announced her engagement with him for the following day with considerable pride. To her surprise, Tejada scowled. “Honestly, Elena, what’s the matter with you? It’s bad enough to go wandering off on your own, but to hike all the way up to Santo Toribio with some stranger? What will people say?”

The unexpected attack left Elena speechless. “You mean . . . you don’t want me to go?” she faltered.

She looked so hurt that the lieutenant regretted his words. “No,” he said, more gently. “No, it’s fine if you go. I just worry about you.”

“Father Bernardo’s as bad as you are,” Elena reassured him. “He didn’t think I should walk because of the baby.”

Tejada nodded, and his frown returned. He could not think of any reason why his wife should not spend a few hours unchaperoned in the company of a parish priest of (as far as he knew) unblemished reputation, but he was not happy. Elena questioned him about his day with every appearance of cheerful sympathy. She exclaimed over the inconvenience of Torres’s illness, and added Father Bernardo’s comments on his cousin’s intractability when Tejada mentioned another interview with the mayor. She was politely interested in the news that the Guardia was receiving new weapons from Santander, and she laughed when Tejada told a funny story about a farmer who had come to complain to the Guardia about a stolen sheep. Tejada would have thought the evening perfect had it not been for the shadow that Márquez’s last words had cast. There was, Tejada thought, no point in asking Elena about the mysterious Herrera. The simplest thing would be to simply wait until Márquez was not present, and read through Elena’s file. Although it was unlikely the file would contain anything of interest. Doubtless, Herrera had been an acquaintance of Elena’s during the war. Perhaps even a friend. Certainly nothing more. It would be an insult to ask her exactly what their relationship had been. Furthermore, his Elena was a brave, generous soul, who did not forget her friends, and if she learned that some probably totally forgotten casual acquaintance was doing penance in a work camp somewhere, she would undoubtedly waste sympathy on him.

Tejada woke early the next morning by an effort of will. He slipped out of bed and dressed without shaving, to go and get Elena’s milk. It was amazing, he thought as he left her sleeping, the discomforts that a man would endure for a woman he loved. The morning was clear and bright, although clouds were massed above the peaks. As he climbed toward the village of Rases he saw the work crews moving out along the highway toward Espinama to clear the ground for a new highway, and looked at the gaunt figures with dislike. Somewhere in Valencia the unknown Herrera was probably starting his work as well. Tejada wondered if the Red ever thought about Elena Fernández during his imprisonment. Herrera would have no way of knowing that she was married, of course. Perhaps he cherished hopes of finding her again when he was released. Unless he was serving a life sentence. Tejada was momentarily cheered by this thought, and then reflected that if this were the case Herrera might never suffer the disillusionment of learning of Elena’s marriage.

He reached the farm perhaps half an hour after sunrise. The girl milking the cows had been told to expect him, and she handed over the milk without comment, although she managed a timid smile when he paid her. They exchanged a few words about the weather and roads, and the lieutenant was momentarily distracted. He cradled the milk in one arm on the way back, fondly remembering Elena’s reaction the previous day. What did Márquez’s snide malice matter? She loved
him
, and he was quite sure that she had never been in love with this Herrera. Of course, Herrera might have been in love with
her
. That was perfectly understandable, and even acceptable, provided that he never thought about her anymore. Although
that
didn’t seem too likely. Tejada suffered a flash of rage, imagining some pathetically filthy, skeletal Red prisoner (probably crawling with lice) having lustful fantasies about
his
Elena. He told himself sternly that he was being silly. Herrera was probably dead, or close to it. Márquez was an ass. And to prove that the sergeant was an ass, he would check the files when he reached the post, and find out exactly how trifling Elena’s acquaintance with Herrera had been.

Somewhat cheered by these reflections, he quickened as he reached the end of one switchback and turned around a hairpin bend, squinting into the glittering dawn. The blinding light irresistibly suggested the Falange’s anthem, and he began to sing. “Onward, with faces turned toward sunrise—”

Bang
. Tejada recognized the report of a shotgun, and doubled over, cursing himself for going out unarmed.
Bang. Bang
. There was a spray of dirt on the road a few yards ahead of him, and a stone skimmed across the path like shrapnel. He ran for the relative cover of the ditch by the side of the road and dropped into it, the milk sloshing out of its tin. He counted three more shots, calculating furiously whether it would be more or less risky to take to the woods. When he starts shooting again, the lieutenant thought, I’ll try to guess where it’s coming from, and head away from there the next time he reloads. Unless there’s more than one of them. He waited for more gunfire, pulse thudding. There was nothing.

Finally, after five minutes that felt like twenty, Tejada remembered Ortíz’s insistence that the maquis frequently shot merely to get the attention of the guardias, without actually trying to kill. Feeling somewhat like a mouse that a well-fed house cat has forgotten in the pursuit of some other amusement, the lieutenant cautiously pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his clothing as best he could. He retrieved the milk tin, and started back to Potes as quickly as possible, feeling considerably less like singing.

Elena was already awake and dressed when he reached home, and she greeted him with a smile. “Oh, Carlos. Milk again? You’re sweet.”

“I’m afraid some of it got spilled,” he said, apologetic. “I . . . fell. That’s why I’m all muddy.”

“You poor thing!” She kissed him, instantly sympathetic. “Careful,” she added a bit breathlessly, as he gave her a hug.

“You’ll crush the baby.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Tejada drew back and gave her stomach a proprietary pat. “Give the kid a drink.”

They breakfasted quickly. Tejada had reluctantly decided to go on a foot patrol through the town on his own, if Torres was still not mobile, and Elena did not want to be late for her appointment with Father Bernardo. He walked her as far as the parish house, where he met Father Bernardo and exchanged a few courtesies, then he headed on to the post alone.

Corporal Battista met him at the door with the news that Torres was still in bed. Tejada thanked him, told him to take Guardia Ortíz and begin a patrol toward Tama, and then went to see the sick guardia. Torres was huddled in quilts. An empty mug and several dirty handkerchiefs were strewn around his bed. He groaned slightly as the door opened. “Good morning, Torres.” Tejada surveyed his subordinate with distaste.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Torres sketched a salute with one hand, and then drew it under the quilt again. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yes, sir.” Torres obligingly struggled to a sitting position, his back propped against the wall. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his face was flushed dark red, but he shivered uncontrollably. “I think I’ll be fine by this afternoon, Lieutenant,” Torres added optimistically, drawing his knees to his chest and leaning on them for support. “I just have a bit of a headache.”

The words banished Tejada’s faint hope that the guardia was malingering. Torn between annoyance at the scheduling problems caused by Torres’s unexpected illness and real pity for his discomfort, Tejada said simply, “I’m going out on patrol this afternoon. Do you think you’ll be well enough to do desk duty then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get some sleep.”

Tejada left, reflecting that, with his voice in its current state, Torres would be useless answering the telephone, but that it was unlikely anyone would call anyway. He settled into his office, did some nonessential paperwork to satisfy his conscience, and then moved almost stealthily toward the filing cabinets. There was no need for caution. He was the only able-bodied man at the post, and he had a perfect right to look at the files in any case. Still, he pulled open the drawer labeled PERSONNEL with a furtive feeling.

His own record was in an accordion file at the back of the drawer. He flipped through it hastily, until he found the slim manila folder labeled FERNÁNDEZ RÍOS DE TEJADA, ELENA (WIFE). He opened the folder and looked down at a poor carbon copy of the standard information form, undoubtedly forwarded by the Guardia in Salamanca. There was a small rectangle in the upper right-hand corner of the form, with Elena’s identity number printed below it, where the original had a copy of Elena’s photo. Tejada hastily skimmed his wife’s personal data, marveling how little information was conveyed by so much detail.

DOB: 12 March 1913 Place of Birth: Salamanca (Salamanca) Hair: Black Eyes: Black Height: 155 cm Weight: 52 kilos

The physical description was foolish, Tejada thought. The file could have been describing any tall, slender young woman. It made no mention of the way her hair tangled into curls when she fell asleep with it unbraided, or the way her eyes could become lightless, depthless pools, like water in a deep well, when she was thoughtful or troubled.

Married: Carlos Tejada Alonso y León (Lt. Ga Civil file #854-948-213) 28 July 1940

Father: Guillermo Fernández Ochoa (see file #293-394-098 Salamanca)

Mother: María Pilar Ríos de Fernández

Siblings: Hipólito Fernández Ríos (exiled)

Children: None

There was no mention of the baby, Tejada thought, and then reflected comfortably that he would probably be the one to update the file to include his offspring. He continued reading:

Education: Graduated Madrid Complutense 1934, degree in education

Colegio Santa Rosa (Salamanca) 1930, baccalaureate

Occupation: None (1939–present) Primary School Teacher (Madrid) 1934–1939

Tejada frowned, and began to pay more attention, knowing that the date and place of Elena’s former occupation would have attracted Márquez’s attention, and fairly sure that the information he was looking for would come in the next few lines. He was not disappointed. Membership in the Women’s Auxiliary of the Falange and the National Movement’s Association of Teachers was conspicuously absent from the lines marked “affiliations.” In their place was the curt but damning notation: Syndicate of Primary Schoolteachers (PSOE) 1934–1939 Membership #2493. A handwritten asterisk followed the typed entry, leading to a note at the bottom of the page in nearly illegible script: Records seized 17/4/39 show E. Fernández recruited by J. Herrera (arrested 16/4/39, currently doing penance in Ronda (Málaga)).

Tejada sat back, relieved. Of course Elena had belonged to a teachers’ union in Madrid. Given the aggressively socialist climate of the capital during and before the war, she would have had no choice. Herrera was simply the man who had recruited her. There was no reason to think that there had been any personal connection. Tejada shook his head at his own stupidity, and then uncomfortably remembered Márquez saying, “
I assumed your wife had told you about her connection with him
.” Elena liked talking about teaching. She had frequently told him stories of her days as a teacher before the war. But she had never mentioned Herrera. That was odd.
Probably she never spoke about him because they were barely more than casual acquaintances
, Tejada told himself.
She probably lost touch with him before the war ever started
. Although he was a little relieved by this logical explanation, he put his file back in the filing cabinet with a vague feeling of unease. He worked steadily and conscientiously through the pile of papers on his desk to avoid thinking any more about his wife or the mysterious Herrera.

Shortly before noon a call came through from Colonel Súarez in Santander. “Just a heads-up, Lieutenant,” the colonel said, once he had identified himself. “The Policía Armada is sending a force of fifty men to the Liébana, to combat banditry. They’ll be under their own command, and you’re not responsible for them. But you’re expected to cooperate fully with them if they ask.”

“
We’re
expected to cooperate with
them
?” Tejada said pointedly.