Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  She asked him straight out. ‘How much will it take?’

  Luis smiled sadly. ‘You are direct, señora. I think for three hundred pesetas Agustín could say whether this man was a prisoner at the camp or not.’

  Three hundred. Barbara swallowed, but allowed nothing to show on her face. ‘How long would it take? I need to know soon. If Spain comes into the war, I’ll have to leave.’

  He nodded, suddenly business-like. ‘Give me a week. I will visit Agustín next weekend. But I will need some money now, an advance.’ She raised her eyebrows and Luis reddened suddenly, looking embarrassed. ‘I have no money for the train.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘I will need fifty pesetas. No, don’t take your purse out here, give it to me outside.’

  Barbara glanced across to the bar. The crippled man and his friend were deep in conversation, the landlady serving a new customer, but she sensed that all of them were aware of her presence. She took a deep breath.

  ‘If Bernie is there, what then? You couldn’t get him out.’

  Luis shrugged. ‘That might be possible. But very difficult.’ He paused. ‘Very expensive.’

  So here it was. Barbara stared back at him, realizing he might know nothing, might have told Markby what he wanted to hear and be telling the same to this rich Englishwoman.

  ‘How much?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘One step at a time, señora. Let us try and see if it is him first.’

  She nodded. ‘It is about money for you, yes? We should know where we are.’

  Luis frowned a little. ‘You are not poor,’ he observed.

  ‘I can get money. Some.’

  ‘I am poor. Like everyone in Spain now. Do you know how old I was when I was conscripted? Eighteen. I lost my best years.’ He spoke with bitterness, then sighed and looked down at the table for a moment before meeting her gaze again. ‘I have had no work since I left the army in the spring, a bit of labour on the roads that pays nothing. My mother in Sevilla is ill and I can do nothing to help her. If I am to help you, señora, find information it is dangerous to find, then – ’ He set his lips hard, looked at her defiantly.

  ‘All right,’ she said quickly, her tone conciliatory. ‘If you can find what Agustín knows, I’ll give you what you ask. I’ll get it somehow.’ She could probably get three hundred easily, but it was better not to let him know that.

  Luis nodded. His eyes roved round the bar, through the window to the darkening street. He leaned forward again. ‘I will go to Cuenca this weekend. I will meet you here in a week’s time, at five.’ He got up, bowing slightly to her. Barbara saw his jacket had a big hole at the elbow.

  Outside he shook her hand again and she passed him fifty pesetas. Walking away, she fingered Bernie’s photo. But she mustn’t hope for too much, she must be careful. Her mind went round and round. For Bernie to have survived while thousands died and for Markby to have found a clue to him would be a big coincidence. Yet if Markby had ferreted out that all the foreigners went to Cuenca, and then looked for a guard from there … all that would need was money and contacts among the thousands of discharged soldiers in Madrid. She must contact Markby again, question him. And if Luis said Bernie was alive, she could go and make a stink at the embassy. Or could she? They said the embassy was desperate to keep Franco out of the war. She remembered what Luis had said about prisoners disappearing if there were unwelcome enquiries.

  She crossed the Plaza Mayor, walking quickly to reach the Centro before dark. Then she stopped dead. The Civil War had ended in April 1939. If Luis had left the army this spring, 1940, he could not possibly have passed two winters in the camp.

  Chapter Six

  IT HAD BEEN RAINING solidly for twenty-four hours, a heavy soaking rain that fell vertically from a windless sky, swishing and gurgling on the cobbles. It was colder, too; Harry had found a winter eiderdown at the flat and spread it out over the big double bed.

  That morning he was due to visit the Trade Ministry with Hillgarth, his first outing in his interpreter’s role. He was glad to be doing something at last.

  They had integrated him into embassy life. The head of the translation section, Weaver, had tested his Spanish in his office. He was very tall, thin, with a patrician air. ‘All righty,’ he said in languid tones after talking with Harry for half an hour. ‘You’ll do.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Harry said tonelessly. Weaver’s haughty effeteness annoyed him.

  Weaver sighed. ‘The ambassador doesn’t really like Hillgarth’s people getting involved with the regular work, but there we are.’ He looked at Harry as though he were some strange exotic animal.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Harry replied.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room. There are some press releases come in that you can start working on.’

  He had taken Harry to a little office. A battered desk took up most of the space, press releases in Spanish stacked on the blotter. They came in regularly and for the next three days Harry was busy. He saw nothing of Hillgarth, though Tolhurst dropped in occasionally to see how he was doing.

  He liked Tolhurst, his self-deprecation and his ironic comments, but he hadn’t taken to most of the embassy staff. They affected a contempt for the Spaniards; the bleak poverty Harry had seen had depressed him but it seemed to amuse some of the embassy people. Most food shops in Madrid had ‘No hay …’ signs outside. ‘We have no … potatoes, lettuce, apples …’ Yesterday in the canteen Harry had overheard two of the cultural attaché’s staff laughing about there still being no hay for the poor donkeys and had felt an unexpected anger. Under the callousness, though, Harry sensed the fear that Franco would join the war. Each day everyone scoured the papers. At the moment Himmler’s visit was the focus of everyone’s anxiety: was he coming just to discuss security issues, as the press said, or was it something more?

  Hillgarth picked him up from his flat at ten in a big American car, a Packard, driven by an English chauffeur, a thickset Cockney. Harry had put on his morning suit, the trousers carefully screwed into the press overnight; Hillgarth wore his captain’s uniform again.

  ‘We’re going to see the junior trade minister, General Maestre,’ Hillgarth said, squinting into the rain. ‘I’m confirming which oil ships the navy’s allowing in. And I want to ask him about Carceller, the new minister.’ He drummed his fingers on the armrest for a moment, looking thoughtful. The day before, a series of cabinet changes had been announced; Harry had translated the press releases. The changes favoured the Falange; Franco’s brother-in-law Serrano Suñer had been made Foreign Minister.

  ‘Maestre’s all right,’ Hillgarth continued. ‘One of the old school. Cousin of a duke.’

  Harry looked through the window. People walked by, hunched against the rain, workmen in their overalls and women in the ubiquitous black, shawls drawn over their heads. They did not hurry; they were soaked already. Umbrellas, Tolhurst had told him, were impossible to get even on the black market. As they passed a baker’s shop, Harry saw a crowd of black-shawled women standing in the rain. Many had thin children with them and Harry saw, here and there through the smears of rain, the bloated gas-filled stomachs of malnutrition. The women crowded round the door, banging and shouting at someone within.

  Hillgarth grunted. ‘There’ve been rumours of potatoes coming in. He’s probably got some, saving them for the black market. The supply agency’s offering the potato farmers so little they won’t sell. That’s so the Junta de Abastos can take their cut before they sell on.’

  ‘And Franco allows it?’

  ‘He can’t stop it. The junta’s a Falange organization. It’s a bloody disaster; it’s rotten with corruption. They’ll have a famine on their hands if they’re not careful. But that’s what happens with revolutions, the scum always rises to the top.’

  They passed the parliament building, shuttered and empty, and turned into the Trade Ministry courtyard. A civil waved them through the gate. ‘Is this a revolution?’ Harry asked. ‘It seems more like
– I don’t know – decay.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a revolution all right, for the Falangists anyway. They want a state like Hitler’s. You should see some of the people we have to deal with. Make your hair stand on end. Make the books I used to write seem tame.’

  IN A WOOD-PANELLED office under a huge portrait of Franco, a man in a general’s uniform, the creases immaculate, stood waiting for them. He was in his early fifties, tall and fit-looking. He had a tanned face from which clear brown eyes shone. Thinning black hair was brushed carefully across the crown of his head to hide his baldness. A younger man in morning dress stood beside him, his face expressionless.

  The officer smiled and shook Hillgarth’s hand warmly. He spoke to him in Spanish, in a clear rich voice. His younger colleague translated.

  ‘My dear captain, a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘And you, general. I think we can give you the certificates today.’ Hillgarth glanced at Harry, who repeated his words in Spanish.

  ‘Very good. The matter should be settled.’ Maestre gave Harry a courtly smile. ‘You have a new translator, I see. Señor Greene is not incapacitated, I hope.’

  ‘Had to go home. Family problems, compassionate leave.’

  General Maestre nodded. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear it. I hope his family have not been bombed.’

  ‘No. Private problems.’

  They took their places round the desk. Hillgarth opened his briefcase and produced the certificates that would allow specified oil tankers to be escorted in by the Royal Navy. Hillgarth and Maestre went through them, checking dates and routes and tonnage. Harry translated Hillgarth’s words into Spanish and the young Spaniard translated Maestre’s replies into English. Harry was unsure of one or two technical terms, but Maestre’s manner was friendly and polite. Maestre wasn’t what Harry had expected one of Franco’s ministers to be like.

  At length Maestre gathered the papers together, sighing theatrically.

  ‘Ah, captain. If you knew how angry it makes some of my colleagues, Spain having to ask permission from the Royal Navy to import necessities. It insults our pride, you know.’

  ‘England’s at war, sir; we have to be sure anything imported by a neutral is not sold on to Germany.’

  The general held the certificates out to his translator. ‘Fernando, have these taken across to the Navy Ministry.’ The young man seemed to hesitate a moment, but Maestre raised his eyebrows at him and he bowed and left the room. The general relaxed at once, producing a cigarette case and offering it round.

  ‘That’s got rid of him,’ he said in perfect English. Harry’s eyes widened. The general smiled. ‘Oh yes, Mr Brett, I speak English. I studied at Cambridge. That young man is there to see I don’t say anything I shouldn’t. One of Serrano Suñer’s men. The captain knows what I mean.’

  ‘All too well, Minister. Brett here studied at Cambridge too.’

  ‘Did you?’ Maestre looked at him with interest, then smiled reflectively. ‘During the Civil War, when we were fighting the Reds on the meseta, amidst the heat and flies I would often think of my days at Cambridge: the cool river, the magnificent gardens, everything so peaceful and stately. You need such things in war to keep you sane. What college were you at?’

  ‘King’s, sir.’

  Maestre nodded. ‘I had a year at Peterhouse. Wonderful, as I say.’ He pulled out a gold cigarette case. ‘Will you smoke?’

  ‘Thanks, I don’t.’

  ‘Any news?’ Hillgarth asked. ‘About the new minister?’

  Maestre leaned back and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Don’t worry about Carceller. He’s got a lot of Falangist notions – ’ he curled his lip disdainfully – ‘but he’s a realist at heart.’

  ‘Sir Sam will be pleased.’

  The general nodded slowly. Then he turned to Harry with an urbane smile.

  ‘Well, young man, how do you find Spain?’

  Harry hesitated. ‘Full of unexpected things.’

  ‘We passed a big queue of women outside a baker’s,’ Hillgarth said. ‘They’d heard he’d got potatoes.’

  Maestre shook his head sadly. ‘Those Falangists could cause a famine in the Garden of Eden. Have you heard the new joke, Alan? Hitler meets Franco and asks how he can starve Britain into surrender, the U-boats are not enough. Franco replies, “Mein führer, I will send them my Junta de Abastos. In three weeks they will be desperate to sign.” ’ Hillgarth and Maestre laughed, Harry joining in uncertainly. Maestre smiled at him, bowing his head a little.

  ‘Forgive me, señor, we Spaniards have a dark sense of humour, it is how we cope with our problems. But I should not joke about England’s troubles.’

  ‘Oh, we’re coping,’ Hillgarth said.

  ‘I hear when the Queen was asked if the royal children would leave London because of the bombing she said – what was it? – they won’t leave without me, I won’t leave without the King, and the King won’t go.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘What a fine woman.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘What style. She has duende.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And now the Italians are being beaten in Greece. The tide will turn. Juan March knows.’ The general raised his eyebrows at Hillgarth, then rose and turned again to Harry.

  ‘Mr Brett, I am giving a party in ten days, for my daughter who will be eighteen. My only child. There are so few suitable young men in Madrid these days, perhaps you would like to come? It would be good for Milagros to meet a young man from England.’ He smiled with sudden tenderness at the mention of his daughter’s name.

  ‘Thank you, sir. If – er – embassy commitments allow—’

  ‘Excellent! I am sure Sir Sam can spare you for one evening. I will have an invitation sent. And, captain, the Knights of St George, we shall discuss that later.’

  Hillgarth glanced quickly at Harry, then gave Maestre a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘Yes. Later.’

  The general hesitated, then nodded sharply. He shook Harry’s hand. ‘I must leave you now, I am afraid. It was a great pleasure to meet you. There is a ceremony at the palace, the Italian ambassador is pinning a new medal on the chest of the Generalísimo.’ He laughed. ‘So many honours, Il Duce weighs him down with them.’

  THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. Walking through the car park Hillgarth looked thoughtful. ‘That name Maestre mentioned in there. Juan March. Know it?’

  ‘He’s a Spanish businessman, isn’t he? Helped finance Franco during the Civil War. A crook, I heard.’

  ‘Well, forget you heard his name, all right? And the Knights of St George, forget that too. Something private the embassy’s engaged on. Maestre thought you knew more than you do since you were with me. All right?’

  ‘I won’t say anything, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ Hillgarth’s tone lightened. ‘You should go to that party. Relax a bit. Chance to meet some señoritas. God knows there’s little enough social life in Madrid. The Maestres are a good family. Connected to the Astors.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I might.’ Harry wondered what the party would be like.

  The chauffeur was waiting in the car, reading a week-old Daily Mail. As they got in, Harry glanced at the cover. The German raids were moving out of London now, Birmingham had been badly hit. Barbara’s home city. Harry remembered the woman he had seen a few nights ago. It couldn’t possibly have been her. She must be back home now; he hoped she was safe.

  ‘Maestre’s daughter’s quite attractive,’ Hillgarth continued as they drove back to the embassy. ‘Real little Spanish pomegranate— Jesus Christ!’ They both fell back against their seats as the car braked sharply. They were turning into Calle Fernando del Santo, where the embassy was. The normally quiet street was filled with people, a roaring, shouting mob. The driver was startled out of his calm.

  ‘What the hell?’

  They were Falangists, young men mostly in bright blue shirts and red berets. There were about a hundred of them. They stood facing the embassy, shouting, their arms stretched
out in the Fascist salute. They waved banners reading, ‘¡Gibraltar español!’ The usual civiles in front of the embassy were absent.

  ‘¡Abajo Inglaterra!’ the crowd yelled. ‘¡Viva Hitler, viva Mussolini, viva Franco!’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Hillgarth said wearily. ‘Not another demonstration.’

  Someone in the crowd pointed at the car and the nearest Falangists turned and yelled their slogans at them, shouting, faces distorted, arms stretching in and out like metronomes. A stone bounced off the bonnet.

  ‘Drive on, Potter,’ Hillgarth said steadily.

  ‘Are you sure, sir? They look nasty.’

  ‘It’s all show. Get on, man.’

  The chauffeur proceeded at a snail’s pace, forcing a passage between the demonstrators and the embassy wall. Half of them were teenagers, their Falange Youth uniform a copy of the Hitler Youth with blue shirts instead of brown, the girls in wide skirts and the boys in shorts. One boy had a drum and began banging it dramatically. It seemed to inflame the crowd and some of the boys reached out and began rocking the big car. Others followed and Harry and Hillgarth bounced around inside as the car inched slowly on. Harry felt disgust; they were scarcely more than children.

  ‘Give them a hoot,’ Hillgarth said. The horn sounded and an older Falangist elbowed his way out of the crowd, motioning the youngsters away from the car.

  ‘See,’ Hillgarth said, ‘they were just getting carried away.’

  A tall, broadly built youth of around seventeen, worked up into a paroxysm of rage, pushed through the crowd and walked alongside the car, screaming insults in English through the window. ‘Death to King George! Death to the fat Jew pig Churchill!’ Hillgarth laughed, but Harry flinched away, the ridiculousness of the catcalls somehow making them even nastier.