Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  “But Viviana?” Gonzalo persisted.

  “That must have been a few hours later. I was making dinner when I heard the second shot.” Manuela had finished clearing the table, and was scrubbing at it with a rag.

  “Did you look out?” Gonzalo asked.

  She turned to him and shook her head. “No. If there was a dead guardia, that meant there was a sniper somewhere along the street. I didn’t think looking out would be healthy.” She winced. “I didn’t know it was Viviana until the next morning. I would have gone out if I’d known, Gonzalo. I swear to you. I would have tried to do something.”

  Gonzalo closed his eyes, remembering the wound to Vivi-ana’s head. “I don’t think it would have helped.”

  Manuela put down her dishrag and laid one hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Gonzalo. She was a wonderful girl.”

  He was silent, unable to trust his voice. Manuela’s hostility was almost easier to bear than her sympathy. “Such a quixotic little thing,” Manuela said gently. He nodded. “Ready to take on all of Franco’s army with an old rifle.” Manuela smiled a little. “I wonder how long she was holed up there, waiting for her shot. And how they caught her.”

  Gonzalo was about to explain the mistake to Manuela when he reflected that there was no real reason to do so. But that must have been what the guardia civil had thought as well. Why search for a phantom sniper when there was a flesh-and-blood Republican available for execution? Now that he thought about it, though, there was something odd about the timing. “You said more than an hour?” he said.

  Manuela looked surprised at this change in sentiment. “Yes,” she agreed. “It must have been well after eight o’clock when I heard the second shot.”

  “Why do you suppose they didn’t search for a sniper right away?” Gonzalo spoke more to himself than to Manuela, but she offered a suggestion anyway.

  “Maybe the one left alone was frightened,” she snickered. “They’re great ones for strength in numbers, you know.”

  “And ran for it?” Gonzalo smiled slightly.

  “Could be. Or maybe the dead one was on his own.”

  “They always patrol in pairs,” Gonzalo objected.

  “They’ve got to go off duty sometime,” Manuela pointed out sensibly. “And Javier says. . .,” she faltered. “Javier says,” she continued more strongly, “that some of what they do is best done alone.”

  Gonzalo, despite himself, was interested. “Oh, yes?” he asked.

  “Javier collected . . . collects, around the barracks,” Manuela explained. “He says some of their garbage is stuff that could only come off the black market. Foreign cigarette packages and such things.”

  “Couldn’t they get those from the Italians?” Gonzalo asked, wondering with one part of his mind if the office of garbage collector was more political than he had previously thought.

  “Steak bones?” Manuela asked bitterly. “English chocolates?”

  Gonzalo whistled. “They threw this stuff out?”

  “Just the leavings.” Manuela spoke sadly. “Javier told us about it at dinner. He told the kids maybe there’d be chocolate in the city in a few weeks.”

  The human mind, or rather the human stomach, is resolutely egotistical. For a moment, Gonzalo grieved for steak and chocolate almost as much as for Viviana. “Fat bastards.” He would have liked to end the topic with that. But a certain voyeuristic curiosity made him add, “Do you suppose their officers turn a blind eye?”

  “I think most of their officers are in cahoots with the black marketeers.” Manuela too seemed fascinated by the subject. “They shoot them, if they catch them, and then they take their goods and hoard them. Or else barter them, if they can.”

  “How do you know this?” Gonzalo asked, surprised.

  Manuela flushed. “Just guesses. From what Javier’s seen.”

  He nodded, but his mind was elsewhere already. “You don’t know anything about who might have fired the second shot— the one around eight-thirty—do you?”

  “Look, I told you. I was making dinner. We were all safe at home. I didn’t look out.” Manuela sounded exasperated.

  “Carmen said you did look out and saw guardias civiles,” he persisted.

  “Not then,” Manuela sighed. “Later. Javier wanted to go out for a stroll. He looked out from the balcony and saw a bunch of guardias.”

  “A bunch?”

  “Four.” Manuela was shifting from foot to foot with impatience. “I went and looked too, because I was surprised. There were two of them, lifting a body onto a stretcher. And a couple of others, standing around.”

  “I thought they’d left Viviana . . . where you found her?” Gonzalo forced himself to ask.

  “Not Viviana, idiot. The dead guardia,” Manuela explained. “He was gone in the morning.”

  “How much later was this?”

  “Jesus, Gonzalo, I don’t know! Why do you care?”

  “Before or after dinner?” Gonzalo was not sure how useful this was going to be. But he had no other ideas for establishing the identity of Viviana’s killers, and he was desperate to keep Manuela talking.

  “Before,” Manuela said positively. The squall of an infant interrupted her. “Listen, Pepe’s up. I’ve got to see to him.”

  “Javier wanted to go for a stroll before dinner?” Gonzalo said, puzzled.

  “Yes! He took . . . he takes strange notions sometimes,” Manuela was shepherding him toward the door, and turning her head to listen to the sound of the baby.

  “Around eight-thirty? It was still light out?” Gonzalo stood his ground.

  “Sunset, yes. Look, I can’t talk now.”

  “Would anyone else have seen anything, do you think?”

  “Interview the whole building if you like!” Manuela abandoned her attempt to get rid of her unwelcome visitor, and headed for the bedroom, where the sounds of a baby’s crying had become more intense. To her dismay, Gonzalo followed her. “Go around and knock on doors! Wear your uniform if you like, so you’re nice and easy to identify! But if you’re going to commit suicide, don’t involve me!”

  “I’m going to find out who killed Viviana.”

  “What for?” Manuela demanded harshly. After a glance at Gonzalo’s face she added quickly, “Never mind. You’re insane. I don’t want to know.” She picked up her youngest son with a gentle efficiency that contrasted oddly with her voice as she added, “Please, Gonzalo. I’m sorry, but I’ve told you all I know.”

  “You were Viviana’s friend.” Anyone else would have given up. But Gonzalo was accustomed to hopeless causes. “You don’t have any ideas?”

  The baby was still crying. Manuela turned away without speaking, and began to unbutton her blouse. After a moment, the cries subsided, and peaceful sucking sounds replaced them. Gonzalo was about to give up when she said quietly, “The nearest post is in the Ciudad Universitaria. The guardias who took away the body probably were from there.”

  Gonzalo opened his mouth to thank her, remembering the words of a drill sergeant who had trained the militias several lifetimes ago: If your gun jams, put your head down and count to five. Sometimes it’s just nervousness. He held his breath, and counted to five. “There were two pairs of guardias civiles,” Manuela said, just as he reached “four.” “So probably the dead man was from another post. They’d have called his partner otherwise.”

  “Thank you,” Gonzalo said to her back. She did not reply. “I’ll let myself out,” he added. “And I will try to make sure no one sees me.”

  She bent her head slightly but still said nothing.

  “I hope Javier gets out soon,” he said.

  There was a more definite nod this time. “Thank you.”

  He glanced through the peephole of the front door before opening it. There was no one on the landing. Hastily, he opened the door and then shut it again and hurried to the next landing. With any luck, no one would see him leave. Once he was on the main stairway he breathed more easily. At least there was no longer a conci
erge to avoid. Before the war, there had been one, but the rich tenants on the first and second floors had left in ’36, and the concierge was killed in ’38, and no one had taken over the position. The tenants locked their doors at night from habit, but the front door of the building stood open. There was nothing left to steal.

  At the entrance to the street, he paused in the doorway. He had a good view of the intersection of Amor de Dios and Fray Luis de León. A few men hurried by, perhaps late for work, or early for the siesta. There were no soldiers or guardias civiles in sight. Gonzalo stepped out of the shadow of the building and into the street, doing his best to avoid the overflowing gutters. Not much of a surprise, if they’ve arrested all the garbage men as Communists, he thought with some disgust. Damn, poor Javier. City employee? Whoops, you must be a Red. His heel skidded on a piece of paper, and he stopped a moment to steady himself. When he took another step forward, something squished under his sole. With an exclamation of disgust, he lifted his left foot and inspected it.

  A square of crumpled silver foil, perhaps an inch across, was stuck to the sole of his left shoe. Surprised, he picked at it with his fingernail. It came away almost in one piece, leaving a dark brown stain on the shoe. It was, he saw, only silver-coated on one side. The other side was white, but with dark brown stuff sticking to it, and stained with something rust-colored, which had formed a darkish red sediment around the outside of the stain. Gingerly, aware that he was doing something foolish in the extreme, he sniffed at the brown gunk, prepared to recoil from the stench of excrement. But it smelled of chocolate. Manuela’s voice echoed in his mind. “Their officers are in cahoots with the black marketeers.” Gonzalo would have liked very much to stay and inspect the rest of the gutter. But a man of military age loitering for too long was bound to attract unwanted attention. He straightened, crumpled the wrapper, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he headed toward home, trying to look purposeful and inconspicuous.

  A guardia civil on his own was an unusual thing. A possibly bloodstained piece of silver foil with chocolate clinging to it was also an unusual thing. Two unconnected unusual things in the same vicinity seemed highly unlikely. For the first time, Gonzalo wondered about the motivations of a guardia civil. It cost him some effort to place himself in the position of Viviana’s killers, but he had to admit, however reluctantly, that they would have been fools not to search for a sniper if they suspected that their fellow had been killed simply because of his uniform. They might be fools, of course. But they might also have been aware that the dead man had been killed for a different reason. If he were a black marketeer, for instance, or if he had stolen goods from one. “They shoot them . . . and then they take their goods and hoard them. Or else barter them . . .” How convenient to say, “What a tragedy. Poor so-and-so, fallen for his country, a martyr to the dirty Reds. At least we got his killer” while enjoying the milk chocolate that so-and-so had been killed for.

  When Carmen Llorente came home for lunch she discovered her brother seated at the kitchen table, staring intently at a piece of silver foil. “Did you have a good morning?” she asked, a little anxiously.

  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 unloa
ding 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.”