It was eleven in the morning, and the hundred kilometers to Toledo had been dry. They required a drink, something with a bit more bite than wine. This was brandy from the south, Jerez, the last bottles Toledo would be seeing for quite some time. It felt good to have this kind of burning at the back of the throat. Hoffner told the man to refill his glass. He then joined Mila outside. She was on a bench, staring up through the tiled roofs along the narrow street. She took her glass and drank, and Hoffner peered up.
There was no escaping the gaze of the massive fortress on the hill, stone and towers and windows in perfect line. The Alcázar had watched over Toledo for nearly five hundred years. Now it was Toledo that stared up and wondered how soon the stones would fall.
The talk in the bar had been of the fascist rebels inside. There were a thousand of them: cadets, Guardia, their wives and children, and all those fat ones who had scampered up to the gate, pounded on the doors, and begged to be let in the moment it had all turned sour for them. The Republican forces had taken the city, and the fascists were now holed up with no hope of surviving. The Alcázar had become a little city unto itself, with thick walls and iron gates to keep the fascists safe inside, while outside the Republican militias plotted and tossed grenades and waited for the end.
And how had this all come to pass? Because the man keeping the fascists calm inside was a colonel by the name of José Moscardó. Moscardó hadn’t been part of the July 18 conspiracy; he hadn’t known of Franco and Mola and Queipo de Llano. But he did know which Spain was his. And so, seizing the moment, he dispatched the entire contents of the Toledo arms factory up the hill and into the fortress before the Republican militias could stop him. It was an unexpected coup.
Save for one small point. While Moscardó might have shown remarkable savvy in ferreting away men and soldiers and guns and children, he was less astute at protecting his own. Somehow, in all the mayhem, he forgot his sixteen-year-old son Luis outside the fortress walls. Within hours, the boy was taken hostage by the militias, who promised to shoot him if his father refused to surrender. It was a brief conversation on the telephone, at which point Moscardó asked to speak to his son.
“They have me, Father,” said Luis. “What shall I do?”
Moscardó thought a moment. “If this is true, commend your soul to God, shout ‘¡Viva España!’ and die like a hero.”
“That,” said the boy, “I can do.”
It was an act of uncommon bravery. Word of it had spread to the south and the far north, where Moscardó and the Alcázar were already things of legend for the rebel fascist soldiers: the new Abraham, they called him, although this time God had failed to reach out to save his Isaac. This time, faith had truly been tested.
The fascist soldiers chanted their names, and the great fortress became the bastion of all that was good and true in Spain.
Hoffner said, “The barman said we’d do best with a group headquartered near the cathedral.” He tossed back the last of his drink. “Republican army. Slightly more organized than the Communists.”
“That’s no great surprise,” said Mila.
“The man said ‘slightly.’ I don’t think this is going to be files in triplicate.”
“Is he sending someone to take us?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Toledo. He could draw us a map and we’d never find it.” She finished her glass and stood. “And I’m all out of bread crumbs.”
* * *
Mila was right. It would have been impossible to maneuver through the city without a guide. The boy was no more than ten years old, his canvas rope-soled shoes worn through with a few toes sticking out, but he moved them along at a nice clip. The streets were narrow and dark and slipped from one to the next, turning, then rising up a hill, before seeming to double back on themselves. Hoffner expected the bar to reappear each time they turned a corner—a sheepish look from the boy, a recalculation—but the streets poured on in endless variation: smooth stone against jagged rock, box windows of iron or wood. And always the balconies—barely enough room for a man to stand, rails only tall enough to a keep a child from falling.
The trio arrived at a large building on one of the more sunlit squares—crucifixes and shields emblazoned in the stone—and the boy motioned to the door. He offered a quick nod, shouted the requisite “¡Viva la Libertad!” and raced back to the bar. Three weeks ago he would have been beaten or paid for his services, depending on the client. This seemed better all around. Hoffner led Mila in.
There was a strange similarity to Zaragoza in the look of the large receiving hall and stairs along the walls to the upper floors, but the smells and sounds here were completely different. Barked conversations, along with the crackle of a radio, swirled above, while men sat in half-back wooden chairs, leaning against whitewashed walls and playing at games of cards or pennies. Some were in uniform, most not. Hoffner could almost taste the oregano in the air and something sweet, like the oil of pressed almonds. Odder still was the sound of laughter in the distance, husky laughs with tobacco and age grinding on the throat. Things were getting done. What that might be, though, was anyone’s guess.
A uniformed soldier walked over. He wore the brown-on-brown of the Republican army, with a thick black belt and buckle at the waist, both in need of repair. The belt holstered a pistol and a small leather satchel behind. He was at most thirty, and his hair hung loose to the brow.
“Salud, friends,” he said. “What is it you need here?”
Before Hoffner could reach for the papers, Mila said, “We have a car filled with explosives. We bring them from Buenaventura Durruti. Viva la República.”
* * *
Bombs were more persuasive than papers. They gave any and all questions about Georg the army’s full attention. The car was brought around, lieutenants sent off to uncover the whereabouts of a German and his movie camera, and Hoffner and Mila were invited to eat. The stories of Captain Doval and Major Sanz made for lively conversation.
“Christ, I like hearing that.”
A large captain sat at the end of an oak table and laughed through a mouthful of stew. It was potatoes and leeks and something with the taste of cinnamon, although there was too much heat on the tongue for that. Hoffner watched as the large captain dipped a fat wedge of seeded bread into the broth, waited for the crust to turn a nice oily orange, and then shoved it in. The man laughed again, and a chunk of venison popped from his mouth and back into his bowl. He apologized even as he continued to laugh.
“Gentlemen soldiers,” he said. “All idiots. You say he put gasoline in the car?” Hoffner chewed and nodded, and the large captain laughed again. “And with the explosives right under his nose? That’s marvelous.”
Four others sat with them—younger, trimmer—but it was clear they deferred to the large one. He had the thickest mustache, the fattest cheeks, and a jaw that reached out beyond the ears before turning in for the chin. It was a massive face, with warm, thoughtful eyes. He shoveled another spoonful of meat and carrots into his mouth.
One of the others, quiet to this point, said, “And you do all this just to find your son?”
Hoffner took a taste of the wine and again nodded.
The large captain said, “Just to find?” His face was more serious despite the chewing. “Is there anything more heroic? This is what a father does if he’s a man.” He scooped up another spoonful.
The other said, “And Moscardó? He makes half the country call him a hero.”
“Moscardó is a traitor,” said the captain, “and a coward. He hides himself away and lets his son pay for his cowardice. A true caballero would have offered his own life.”
“And we would have taken it?”
“For a boy of sixteen? Of course.” The large captain looked at Hoffner. “The son is alive, by the way. Unlike Moscardó, we don’t kill a boy for his father’s failings. But of course we can’t say it, otherwise Franco or Queipo de Llano would think we’re weak. They’d want to see if they can come
and try and finish us. Or they might come to avenge the boy anyway, so however it goes, this business with Moscardó is bad for us. Nothing we can do about it now, though.”
Franco, as it turned out, had proved to be a fine swimmer. He was already moving up to Seville, according to the large captain, although the reports were still a bit vague. Meanwhile, Toledo’s fate was being tossed around like so many mouthfuls of venison boiled too long in a pot. Maybe Barcelona’s arrogance did extend this far. Maybe it had to.
The younger one was not done with Hoffner. “And Durruti,” he said. “He gave you these explosives so you could find your son? Why would he do that?”
Arrogance and mistrust—the only way to win a war. Hoffner said, “He wanted me to use them in Zaragoza.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“And if you had, you’d be dead.”
“More than likely, yes.”
“So he expected you to die.” This was where the young one had been leading them.
Hoffner said, “I imagine he did.”
“And the señora?”
“I imagine her, as well.”
Which left only one logical answer: “So the explosives weren’t really to help you find your son, were they?”
Hoffner said evenly, “Durruti told me my son was dead. I knew he was wrong. I chose to make fools of the requetés instead.”
The young one refused to back down. “Fools can still shoot rifles and drive tanks. Maybe better to have used the explosives.” He finished his glass and stood. “Good luck finding your German son who takes pictures. I’m sure it will be a tender reunion.” He pushed his chair back, nodded once to Mila, and headed off.
Watching him go, the large captain said, “He has a brother and two sisters in the Alcázar. Our hero Moscardó keeps hostages of his own. It makes it difficult. My lieutenant doesn’t have the same choices you have in how he tries to save his family.”
Hoffner refused to feel the guilt. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course not. But you bring explosives, so maybe we give Moscardó something to think about.”
* * *
By early afternoon there was still no word on Georg, although two of the soldiers had yet to report in. Talk of the explosives and the Alcázar continued. What better way to spend the time? With a few more glasses of wine, the large captain suggested it was time to drive up to the fortress and make good on the deposit.
“No, no, no—don’t worry,” he said. “It’s completely safe. They only shoot when they’re shot at. They need to save their ammunition.”
Naturally, Mila and Hoffner were given no choice but to join him. Nonetheless, the large captain decided they would all three ride up in an old Bilbao armored car just behind the Mercedes, its 7mm gun aimed backward. Why provoke anything?
Inside, the grind of the engine was deafening and the seats smelled of piss.
The large captain shouted, “We make a pass three times a day in this. They’ll look a little funny at the Mercedes, but they won’t do anything.”
Hoffner peered out through the slits and saw the mounting destruction as they climbed. Entire walls lay in rubble, while gnarled iron railings stretched across the stone and looked like claws trying to work their way through. Sandbag barricades remained planted in the middle of the streets, with bullet holes strafing across them and stray caps and canteens lying at odd angles. Evidently the retreat to the Alcázar had not been a quiet one.
Where the cobblestone had given way, the driver slowed and weaved his way around the newly formed ditches and mounds. All this had been on view in Barcelona, except total victory there had made the wreckage distant, an artifact of daring and pride, easy enough for a boy to stand atop and declare his absolute mastery. Here desolation and death still lived in the rock and waited on a final reckoning. It forced Hoffner to pull back even as the streets passed in empty silence.
The car lurched and heaved and finally pulled to a stop. The engine cut out, and the large captain, reaching for the handle, said, “You come too if you want. They won’t be able to see us down here.”
He pushed open the door and the sun streamed in, along with a spray of air that was breathable. Mila and Hoffner followed him.
They were perhaps thirty meters from the wall, safely behind the bombed remains of a house, an outpost of sorts, with enough of a view to see the spire of one of the fortress towers high above. Part of the fortress roof had been torn away—a few well-tossed grenades from an aeroplane—but for the time being, the Alcázar remained sufficiently intact. A man sat with a machine gun, while the driver of the Mercedes stood a few meters higher up the incline, pulling the explosives from the car and laying them on the grass. Another two remained behind the car, their rifles aimed up at the wall, the barrels moving slowly back and forth along the line of windows and ledges. For men who were convinced the rebels would be taking no notice, they were showing remarkable caution.
The man finished unloading the explosives and began to dart up to the base of the tower, keeping low, a brick in each hand. Five trips in, a man at the car shouted for him to stop. Something had caught his eye. Hoffner inched out and tried to see where he was looking.
Twenty meters above, a group of four women were being forced out onto a ledge, terror in their faces as they clutched at the stone. The barrel of a rifle appeared among them, followed by the shout of a man’s high-pitched voice: “These are your socialist whores! Move off or they join you down there!”
One of the women screamed and the large captain barked to his man to pull back to the car. The pile of explosives remained by the wall. The women pressed themselves into the siding and tried vainly to keep their dresses from billowing up in the wind.
The large captain said quietly to the man at the machine gun, “They’ve done this before?”
The man shook his head. “I didn’t think they knew we were here.”
“Then you were wrong.” The large captain stepped closer to the edge of the house and peered out. He shouted up to the wall, “My man is back.”
The voice shouted, “Don’t be smart. The explosives as well.”
The large captain shouted, “This is what you do, hide behind women? You’ll be dead in a week. Ask your God if this is what you want on your gravestones.”
“It won’t be me who’ll be rotting,” the voice shouted. “Take the bombs or you’ll be taking four more dead ones back with you.”
The large captain waited. He looked back at his men, then up to the ledge. “Is it easy to be such a coward?” he shouted.
“If these were women and not whores, I could tell you.”
It kept on like this, and Hoffner had no idea what the point was in staying. The explosives were barely enough to put a dent in the wall. It was empty posturing on both sides, until the crack of a bullet rang out and a single body fell from the ledge.
The silence was pure and instantaneous. Screams followed. The large captain yelled to his men not to fire, then shouts and threats echoed back and forth. It was unclear whether this had been intended or a mistake. Mila had suddenly begun moving to the edge of the house, to the dead woman, eyes blank, when Hoffner grabbed her and held her close. Mila’s body was rigid, her breathing short; it was all he could do to keep her with him.
Two more rifles appeared in the window, more threats, more screams, when a voice by the Mercedes shouted, “I will remove the explosives!” Everything fell silent.
Hoffner looked out and saw a soldier standing upright, his arms raised high. He held his rifle in the air and tossed it to the ground in front of him. He was staring up at the window.
“I will remove them,” he shouted again. “Take the women inside.”
A low wind moved across the grass. The soldier stood firm, his legs like thick stalks planted on the rise.
Slowly the rifles pulled back, and the voice said, “Get the explosives.”
The soldier made his way up. He raised the first of the bricks above his head
and moved back to the car. He turned and repeated, “Take the women inside.”
This time the women were permitted to climb through. The soldier placed the explosive in the car and began to make his way up again.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Hoffner sat with Mila and the large captain and the smell of piss as the cars made their way down the hill. No one had said a word. Her eyes remained empty, her face unmoving. Her breathing was quieter, but it was a stillness without calm. Hoffner had taken her hand—she had let him—but there was nothing in her grip.
A ditch in the road jolted them high off their seats, and Mila said, “You have a traitor in Toledo.” The sound of her voice jarred, even as her eyes remained empty. “A man who hides guns for the fascists. In crates. Thick crates.” The captain started to speak, and she said, “His name is Rivas. I have the address. You must find him and shoot him.”
* * *
They found Rivas. They found the wires from Bernhardt and the papers from Hisma. And they shot Rivas and his wife and his son, all three against a wall outside the house. There was no talk of the women at the Alcázar, nothing of explosives, only silence, as the large captain beat Rivas with such savagery that he was forced to prop the man beside his wife before stepping back and shooting them. There was blood on the captain’s trousers when he returned.
Mila and Hoffner saw the blood. They said nothing.
Georg was no longer in the city. A guard at one of the barricades had remembered the large camera and the German papers. He remembered because Georg had put him on film. It was two days ago. Georg was heading west.
The large captain told them that the Mercedes would stay in Toledo. The town of Coria lay within Nationalist Spain; there was no point in taking the car. Not with CNT-FAI scrawled across its doors. They found an old Ford for them, two seats, with a cracked windscreen and no paint on the side.
It was nine hours to the first of the Nationalist outposts. The large captain wished them good fortune and went to clean his trousers.
The Second Son: A Novel Page 26
