Tell Me Who I Am

by Julia Navarro

  Natalia did not know about Miguel, and he did not know about her. They were both controlled by Pierre, who was controlled in turn by the ambassador’s secretary.

  7

  Moscow seemed happy with Pierre Comte’s work. At least, this was what his controller told him. In little more than six months he had established two collaborators in strategic sites, and both promised to be mines of information.

  Amelia suspected nothing of Pierre’s affair with Natalia and kept up a friendly relationship with her. Natalia would often come to dinner at the couple’s house, or else would go with them to exhibitions at Gloria’s gallery, or on holidays take daytrips with them out of Buenos Aires.

  They became an inseparable trio, and Pierre was stimulated by the thought of walking out with his two lovers, one on either side of him.

  “I feel sorry for Amelia,” Natalia would say. “She’s so innocent. How come she cannot see that it is me whom you really love?”

  “It has to be like this, my darling, I am not strong enough to abandon her, at least not now; we have been in Buenos Aires for such a short time, and after bringing her all the way here... You must understand, I need time.”

  What Pierre really needed was Amelia. The young Spanish woman had a natural ability to be accepted wherever she went; she opened all kinds of doors for Pierre, and he could not forget that most of their new friends came to them via Carla Alessandrini. If the diva discovered that he had abandoned or betrayed Amelia, then it was a certain proposition that she would call on her friends in Buenos Aires to turn their backs on him. So Pierre had urged that Natalia be discreet and not to let on that they were lovers.

  Neither had Pierre given up on his friendship with Michelangelo Bagliodi and his wife, Paola. They were also an excellent source of information. Natalia would come and have lunch at the Italians’ house, and they were delighted to host a woman who worked so closely with the President of the Republic. Also, under Natalia’s guidance, Paola started to take care of her appearance, wearing elegant but attractive clothes, changing her hairstyle and plucking her eyebrows.

  At one of these lunch parties Bagliodi explained to Pierre the reasons why Hitler and Il Duce supported General Franco.

  “You have to understand that, notwithstanding their ideological affinities, Der Führer cannot allow there to be a pro-Soviet regime in place in Spain, quite apart from having the French Popular Front on his doorstep. That’s why Franco knew from the start that he could rely on having the Junkers-52s that Hitler sent to Tetuán, as well as the Condor Legion, and you can be certain that with the help of the German army victory is assured. There is no other army like the German army.”

  “Ah Pierre! I’ve got Divini Redemptoris here for you, Pius XI’s encyclical in which he condemns Communist atheism,” Paola interrupted, handing Pierre a file.

  “How are Azaña and the Popular Front Communists going to win the war if they don’t have God on their side!” Michelangelo Bagliodi exclaimed, to expressions of exasperation from Amelia and smiles from Natalia.

  “Do you think that God is on the side of the Fascists?” Amelia asked without being able to stop herself.

  “Of course, my dear! Do you really think that God would be on the side of people who spit on Him and burn churches? Paola told me a few days ago that the far-left militants are shooting priests and monks and burning churches.”

  “Not only that, dear, but there are groups of militiamen who turn up in villages simply to assassinate people with property, Catholics or militants or right-wing sympathizers.”

  “But Franco hasn’t taken Madrid,” Amelia blurted out, trying to control the anger she felt.

  “He will, my dear, he will, he just doesn’t want to fight useless battles. It’s true that they’ve stopped him at the Jarama, but for how long?”

  “General Miaja has a great reputation,” Amelia replied.

  “Ah! The man who thinks he’s the savior of Madrid,” said Bagliodi.

  “He’s in charge of the National Defense Council, and they say that he’s a skilled soldier,” Pierre said.

  “But the government is a barrelful of monkeys with Largo Caballero at the head of them, and then the Anarchists and the Communists... Do you think they’ll really be able to agree among themselves? He’s let Prieto take charge of the navy and the air force, but what does Prieto know about war?”

  These luncheons were a nightmare for Amelia, and she would later hurl recriminations at Pierre.

  “I don’t know how you can bear them, what they say about Communism is offensive, but you don’t say anything, as if I weren’t with you and we weren’t Communists. Have you forgotten that that’s what we are?”

  “And what do you want me to do? It would be useless to engage in dialogue with them, but they are a good source of information and we’re finding out through them what’s happening in Spain.”

  “The newspapers write it up as well.”

  “Yes, but Michelangelo and Paola have more information.”

  “And why do we need their information? The Soviet Union is helping the Republic, so they know very well what the situation is. There’s nothing we can tell our comrades that they don’t know already,” Amelia reasoned.

  One evening in April, Miguel López came to Amelia and Pierre’s house unexpectedly. She was taking dictation from Pierre. He was still giving her daily Russian lessons.

  Miguel was upset and keen to speak, but Pierre made a sign that he should not say a word until Amelia had left them.

  “Darling, why don’t you make us some supper? Miguel and I will have a drink and a chat. I’m tired of teaching for the day, so you are giving me just the opportunity I need to take a break, my friend.”

  Amelia went to the kitchen. She liked Miguel, so she did not object to his staying for supper.

  “What’s up?” Pierre wanted to know.

  “We got a communiqué from our Madrid embassy this afternoon: The Condor Legion has bombed Guernica; it’s been totally destroyed. It’s not yet official; I don’t think the papers will report it tomorrow.”

  “Guernica is the Basques’ spiritual home,” Pierre mused.

  “I know, I know, and it’s been flattened... ,” Miguel said.

  “Guernica will become a symbol, and that, my friend, will be a strong incentive for those who fight for the Republic.”

  “General Miaja has Soviet planes and troop transports and, according to our ambassador, the two brigades made up of International Brigade volunteers are fighting successfully.”

  “What’s happening with England and France?”

  “According to our Madrid embassy, they prefer not to intervene officially; they don’t want the conflict to become international, they don’t care that Italy and Germany have been supporting the insurrection from day one. Franco is getting diplomatic recognition as well.”

  “What is your embassy’s opinion on how the war is progressing?”

  “They say that Franco has the upper hand.”

  Miguel gave Pierre copies of certain dispatches that had been received from other embassies. They were valuable documents that would ensure that the Soviet rezidentura in Buenos Aires would receive congratulations from his superiors in Moscow.

  Amelia called them to supper in the kitchen, and they shared some leftover meat from lunch along with salad and a bottle of Mendoza. They spoke about this and that, and Amelia asked Miguel, as she always did, if he had any news from Spain; Miguel looked at Pierre before answering.

  “You know that they’ve been bombing the Basque Country since March 31; Vizcaya has suffered a great deal and... Well, it is not official, but the Condor Legion has destroyed Guernica.”

  Miguel could see the effect this news had on Amelia, who paled and pushed her plate away.

  “Amelia! It’s war, you know these things happen.” Pierre tried to calm her down, as she was trembling.

  “I am a Basque, and... you don’t know what Guernica means,” she said in a faint voice.

 
; “You are a Communist, and your country is the world; for all your Basque names, how important is this really? We want to build a world free of nations and nationalities, don’t you remember?”

  “No, I have not forgotten, but I don’t want to abandon who I am or where I come from. My father told me when I was a girl that being Basque was a feeling, an emotion...”

  In July it started to be very cold in Buenos Aires. It was a year ago that Pierre and Amelia had left Spain for the Argentinian capital. For Amelia this seemed like an eternity, but Pierre claimed to be satisfied and said he felt no nostalgia. The many trunks filled with books that they had brought with them formed the basis of his business, and he had built it up by buying editions of Argentinian books and those from other South American countries. His father sometimes also sent books from Paris. It wasn’t a large business, but it was enough for them to live comfortably and to maintain the cover that Pierre had designed for them.

  Amelia still suspected nothing of the relationship between Natalia and Pierre until one afternoon, when she was taking tea with Gloria Hertz in the Ideal cake shop, Gloria said something that gave her an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach without her being quite sure why.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit overwhelming, Natalia being around all the time? I’ve already told her that she should give you a bit of breathing space, she’s always between the two of you, like a third wheel. I don’t know, it might be a good idea to put a bit of distance between you and her, I like her a lot, but I couldn’t bear for her to be between me and my husband all the time.”

  Amelia didn’t know what to say, and clenched her fists.

  “Well, don’t worry about what I say,” Gloria said, trying to calm her down, “you know I’m a very jealous person, I’m too much in love with Martin.”

  From that moment on Amelia paid close attention to Natalia and especially to how Pierre behaved toward her. After a few weeks she concluded that she had nothing to worry about. Natalia was a woman who suffered from loneliness and who had found a refuge with them, and Pierre seemed none too impressed with Natalia, who was, although elegant, not particularly physically attractive.

  But Pierre and Natalia carried on their romance away from everyone and had become extremely skilled at lying.

  At the end of August Pierre received a communiqué from Moscow congratulating him for the work he had done and telling him that he would soon receive new instructions.

  One day, as he was leaving Natalia’s house, Pierre met Igor Krisov in the doorway.

  To begin with he did not know how to react, but the Russian’s ironic smile led him to give his friend a hug.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Krisov said.

  “But you are a ghost! Where have you come from? I put you a thousand miles from here, with an ocean between us.”

  “And I imagined you in love with dear Amelia,” the Russian replied, slapping him on the back.

  “Well, it’s not what you think... ,” Pierre tried to explain.

  “Yes, yes, it is what I think. You have another lover, her name is Natalia Alvear, she works at Government House and she’s one of your agents. You’re sacrificing yourself for the cause,” Krisov said, laughing.

  “Well, something like that; but tell me, what are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “A long story? What happened? I received congratulations from Moscow a little while back, they’re happy with the information I am gathering...”

  “Yes, that’s what they would have said. Where can we talk?”

  “Well... I don’t know... Let’s go home, we can talk at ease there and Amelia will be having tea with one of her friends at this hour.”

  “Does she still not know the truth?” Krisov asked.

  “The truth? Ah! No, of course she knows nothing. But she’s a gem, a real jewel, everyone opens their doors to her, and the most important people squabble to have her as a guest. I knew she was a sure thing.”

  They got home and Pierre was surprised to find Amelia there.

  “Goodness, I thought you’d be with your friends!” he said reproachfully.

  “I was going to go out, but you had forgotten that there were some clients coming today about that eighteenth-century edition of Don Quixote.”

  “It’s true, I had forgotten!” Pierre said.

  “I think I know you,” Amelia said to Krisov, smiling and holding out a hand.

  “It’s true, Señorita Garayoa, we met in Paris.”

  “Yes, one day before we left France...”

  “You sound regretful.”

  “Yes, I miss everything we left behind. Buenos Aires is a splendid city, very European, it’s not hard to feel comfortable, but...”

  “But you miss Spain and your family, that’s only natural,” Krisov said.

  “If you don’t mind, Amelia, I’ve got some business to discuss with Señor Krisov...”

  “I’ll try not to get in your way, but I’d prefer to stay, I don’t feel like going out anymore.”

  Pierre was annoyed at Amelia’s decision but said nothing, and Igor Krisov seemed pleased at her presence.

  The two men remained alone in the room that served as the bookshop.

  “Well, what’s happened?” Pierre wanted to know.

  “I have deserted.” Krisov’s face screwed up in pain as he admitted this.

  Pierre was upset by the news. He didn’t know what to do or what to say.

  “Are you really surprised?” Krisov asked.

  “Yes, really. I thought you were a committed Communist,” Pierre said at length.

  “I am, I am a Communist and I will die a Communist. No one will ever be able to convince me that there is a better idea for making this world a better place than that we should all be equal and that our destiny should not depend on chance. There is no cause more just than Communism, I am sure of it.”

  Igor’s announcement surprised Pierre even more.

  “In that case... I don’t understand.”

  “They called me to Moscow two months ago. We have a new chief, Comrade Nikolai Ivanovich Yezhov. He’s the man who has taken over from Genrikh Grigorievich Yagoda as the head of the NKVD. They are two men who are difficult to choose between when it comes to cruelty.”

  “Comrade Yagoda was always efficient, but I think he went a bit off the rails recently... ,” Pierre dared to say.

  “Look, I haven’t been to Russia in eight years and I found out that Yagoda, Genrikh Grigorievich Yagoda, has been much worse than they had told me.”

  “Comrade Yagoda, head of the NKVD, had the complete trust of Comrade Stalin... ,” Pierre scarcely dared to reply.

  “It’s not strange that Yagoda should rise so high, receiving as he did direct orders from Stalin and turning himself into his strong right hand, but in the end he was the victim of his own medicine. He could not escape from the terror that he himself instigated. He has been arrested, and I am sure he’ll end up confessing what Stalin wants him to confess.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That he’s in prison undergoing the same type of interrogation that he personally ordered for enemies of the revolution and people whom Stalin found awkward. After the crimes he has committed, I will not mourn his fate.”

  “Criminals need to be brought to justice, and people who betray the revolution are the worst,” Pierre replied.

  “Come on, Pierre, don’t play the innocent with me, you know as well as I do that there are purges being carried out in the Soviet Union against all those whom Stalin declares to be counterrevolutionaries, but the real question is, who are those who are truly betraying the revolution? The answer, my friend, is that the biggest traitor of them all is Stalin himself.”

  “But what are you saying?”

  “Are you shocked? Stalin has ordered lots of his former comrades assassinated, people who were in the front lines with him fighting for the revolution. Suddenly, previously untouchable people have turned
into nuisances for Stalin, who doesn’t want anyone to threaten his absolute power. Any criticism or even contrary opinion is punished by death. You’ve heard about the trials of supposed counterrevolutionaries...”

  “Yes, trials of people who have betrayed the revolution, who felt nostalgia for the past, bourgeois who didn’t adapt to the new situation, who couldn’t face losing their privileges.”

  “I thought you were smarter than that, Pierre, too smart to swallow all this propaganda. I must say that I saw it like that as well to begin with, but it has become impossible for me to accept that this brave new world which we were going to build was going to end up doing anything other than transforming Russia into a ferocious dictatorship, where life was worth even less than under the czars.”

  “Say it isn’t so!”

  “First of all I found out about friends of mine who had disappeared, good Bolsheviks who were arrested at dawn by the NKVD in their houses, accused of being counterrevolutionaries. Comrade Yagoda carried out the job of commissioner for Internal Affairs with especial brilliance. Everyone Stalin wanted to get rid of was visited by Yagoda’s goons.”

  “Lots of the people who were arrested confessed to plotting against the Soviet Union.”

  “I don’t know what you would end up confessing to if you’d been tortured to a pulp for days on end.”

  “But what are you trying to say? I would never be a traitor.”

  “Neither would I, I would never betray my ideals, everything I have been fighting for. I am much older than you, Pierre, I could almost be your father, and I was devoted to the cause as a young man, when I fought in the revolution. I killed and I risked my own life, because I thought that we were building a better world. It is Stalin who has betrayed everything we were fighting for.”