by C. J. Sansom
Pablo had taken Vicente’s bunk but was under orders to ignore Bernie. He turned his head away as Bernie came in from seeing Aranda and flopped down on his pallet. Establo had been talking with the other Communists at the bottom of the hut but now he approached Bernie out of the candlelit gloom, his stick tapping on the wooden floor. He stood at the foot of the bed.
‘What did Aranda want with you? His voice was a throaty wheeze. Bernie looked up at the yellow scabbed face.
‘It was about my request to move huts. He said no.’
Establo looked at him suspiciously. ‘He treats you very lightly. As he does all informers.’ He spoke loudly and some of the other men turned to stare at them.
Bernie raised his voice. ‘He asked me to inform, Establo. He said he would move me if I did. Did you guess he might do that, now you’ve got me isolated? I told him a Communist does not inform.’
‘You are no Communist,’ Establo wheezed. ‘Be careful, Piper, we are watching you.’ He limped off to his bed.
NEXT DAY Bernie was working with a group clearing the area where the cave had stood. A huge charge of dynamite had been detonated inside, completely demolishing it and leaving a gigantic pile of rubble. The group was ordered to sort them into chunks of different sizes, breaking up those that were too big to handle. A lorry would be coming that evening to take them away: to Franco’s monument, it was still rumoured.
Pablo was working next to Bernie. Suddenly he put his pick aside and picked something up. ‘Ay, look here!’ he exclaimed.
Bernie turned, wondering what could have made Pablo break the prohibition on speaking to him. Glancing at the nearest guard to make sure he was unobserved, he bent to where Pablo held a flat piece of stone in his chapped hands. Its surface was dark red; the head of a black mammoth was painted on it, confronted by two of the stick-like men who held spears poised to strike.
‘See,’ Pablo whispered. ‘Something has survived.’
Bernie ran his finger lightly over the surface. It felt just like ordinary stone, the paint baked hard thousands of years before. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispered.
Pablo nodded. He slipped the stone into the pocket of the old oilskin poncho he wore. ‘I shall keep it hidden. One day I will show people what they destroyed here.’
‘Be careful,’ Bernie whispered. ‘They’ll be angry if they find out.’ Prison life, Bernie knew, was made more bearable by tiny victories against their captors, but such victories could be costly.
AT LEAST in winter the days at the quarry were short. The whistle blew at half past four, as dusk began to fall. It had been another clear cold day. A big red sun that gave no heat was sinking to the horizon, casting a pink glow over the distant mountains. The pile of rubble was almost gone, leaving a jagged gap in the hillside. As the lorry sent to fetch the load of stone lurched away down a mountain road, the men handed in their tools and began the weary trudge back to camp.
You couldn’t see Cuenca today; there was too much haze. They had been able to see it most mornings recently. Bernie wondered if the guards stopped the column to rest there deliberately, to torment the men with a glimpse of freedom. Sometimes he thought about the hanging houses. What must it be like to live in one of them, have a view across the gorge from your window? Did it give you a sense of vertigo? With so few people to talk to his mind seemed to turn more and more to fantasy these days. Even the non-Communists were avoiding him; Bernie guessed Establo had told them he was an informer.
In the yard the men stepped wearily into line for roll-call. The sun was almost touching the horizon, casting a red glow over the yard, the huts and watchtowers. Aranda stepped on to the dais and began calling names.
Halfway through Bernie heard a sudden ‘chink’ from the row in front of him, as something hit the ground. He saw Pablo clap a hand to his trousers and look down. The piece of stone had worked through the frayed old material and lay on the earth. One of the guards walked swiftly over to him. Aranda, on his dais, looked up sharply.
‘What’s happening there?’
The guard bent and picked up the stone. He looked at it, stared at Pablo, then marched up to the dais. He and Aranda bent their heads over the stone. Pablo watched them, his face white.
At a nod from Aranda the guard jumped down. He and another guard pulled Pablo out of line, jerking his arms behind his back. Aranda held up the stone.
‘We have a souvenir collector amongst us!’ he shouted. ‘This man has found a fragment from those blasphemous paintings at the quarry and brought it back. Has anyone else brought any nice little paintings for their hut?’ He looked out across the silent rows of prisoners. ‘No?’ Well, you will all be searched tonight, as will the huts.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Why will you not learn to do as we tell you? I shall have to make an example of this man. Put him in solitary confinement for tonight. You’ll all see him again tomorrow.’
The guards frogmarched Pablo away. ‘That means the cross,’ someone muttered.
Aranda went back to the roll, calling out the names in his clear harsh voice.
THAT EVENING in the hut, after the search, Establo came up to Bernie’s bed. He was flanked by four of the other Communists. He sat on Pablo’s empty pallet. Establo crossed his hands on the top of his cane. You could see the tendons working over the bones beneath the dry skin.
‘I’m told you were talking to Pablo at the quarry today. Did you tell the guards he had that piece of stone? ¿Eh, hombre?’
Bernie sat up, looked Establo in the eye. ‘You know I didn’t, Establo. Everyone saw what happened – it fell out of his pocket.’
‘What were you saying to him? He is forbidden to talk to you.’
‘He showed me the piece of stone he’d found. I told him to be careful. Ask him yourself.’
‘I think you informed on him.’
‘It fell from his pocket,’ Miguel the old tramworker said. ‘Come, compadre, we all saw.’
Establo gave Miguel an evil look. Bernie laughed. ‘See, people are coming to see you for what you are, hijo de puta. A man who would make capital out of what is to be done to Pablo.’
‘Leave him, Establo,’ Miguel said. The old man turned and walked away. Hesitantly, the other three followed. Bernie smiled at Establo.
‘As your body withers, Establo, your heart shows through.’
Establo rose painfully to his feet, clutching his stick. ‘I will finish you, cabrón,’ he whispered.
‘If you don’t die first,’ Bernie called after him as he limped away.
NEXT MORNING after roll-call the prisoners were ordered to remain standing in their rows. Bernie noticed Agustín was back on duty. He looked cold standing there – this would be a change after Sevilla. The man met his eyes for a moment and looked away; he seemed to be studying him. Bernie wondered again if he was after his arse, if that was why he had helped him, that morning on the hill. ‘Better times,’ Agustín had said. Bernie almost laughed aloud.
Two guards brought Pablo from the solitary hut and manhandled him over to the cross that stood beside the mess hut. Bernie saw Agustín sigh, as though with weariness. They stood Pablo beside the thing, their breath making a fog in the air. Aranda marched towards them, tapping his riding crop against his thigh. Father Jaime and Father Eduardo were with him, huddled inside their heavy black cloaks. They had stood with Aranda on the dais during roll-call: Father Jaime cold and grim, Father Eduardo with bowed head. They stopped in front of Pablo. Aranda turned and addressed the prisoners.
‘Your comrade Pablo Jimenez is to have a day on the cross as punishment for his piece of smuggling. First, though, you should see this.’ The comandante took the piece of painted stone from his pocket and laid it on the ground. Father Jaime stepped forward. He took a little hammer from his pocket, bent down and smashed it on the piece of stone. It shattered, chips flying in all directions. Father Jaime nodded to Father Eduardo and he picked up the pieces. Father Jaime pocketed the hammer and looked over the men, satisfaction on his grim face.
‘This is how the Church Militant has dealt with paganism since its earliest days,’ he called out. ‘With hammer blows! Remember that – if anything can penetrate your thick irreligious skulls.’ He marched off, Father Eduardo following with the pieces of stone cupped in his hands.
The guards took Pablo’s arms and tied them to the crosspiece with ropes. They tied him so only the tips of his feet touched the ground, then stepped back. Pablo sagged for a second then lifted himself up by his toes. The torture of the cross depended on a man’s inability to breathe with his arms stretched out above him unless he could lift himself up. After a few hours in that position every movement was an agony, but it was the only way to breathe: pulling agonizingly up and down, up and down.
Aranda studied Pablo’s position and nodded with satisfaction. He smiled grimly at the prisoners, then called ‘Dismiss’ and marched back to his hut. The guards ordered the men into their labour gangs. Agustín was on Bernie’s detail. As they marched through the gate he stepped close.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he whispered. ‘It is important. Leave your hut tonight after supper, as though you were going to piss. I will be waiting at the back.’
‘What do you want?’ Bernie whispered fiercely. From the anxious expression on his face it didn’t look like the man wanted to fuck him.
‘Later. I have something to tell you.’ Agustín stepped away.
IN THE LATE afternoon it began to snow heavily and the guards ordered the men to stop work early. On the walk back Agustín stayed at the other end of the crocodile, avoiding Bernie’s eye. Back at the camp Pablo was still tied to the cross, snow whirling round his head. ‘Mierda,’ the man next to Bernie muttered. ‘He’s still there.’ Pablo was pale and still and for a moment Bernie thought he was dead but then he lifted himself up, his toes pressing into the ground. He took a deep breath and expelled it with a long rattling moan. The guards locked the gates and walked away, leaving the prisoners to make their way to their huts. Bernie and some of the others went over to Pablo.
‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Water, please.’
The men bent and started gathering handfuls of snow, holding it up to him to drink. It was a slow process. Then the door of Aranda’s hut opened, yellow light stabbing through the thick snowflakes. The men tensed, expecting the comandante to come and order them away, but it was Father Eduardo who emerged. He saw the crowd round the cross, hesitated a moment, then walked towards them. The prisoners stood aside to let him pass. ‘I thought it was the Romans who crucified innocents,’ someone said loudly. Father Eduardo paused for a second, then moved on and lifted his head to Pablo.
‘I have spoken to the comandante,’ he said. ‘You will be taken down soon.’ Pablo’s only answer was another rattling breath as he heaved himself agonizingly up once more. The priest bit his lip and turned away.
Bernie stepped into his path. Father Eduardo looked at him, blinking, his glasses covered with a film of melting snow.
‘Is this what you mean, cura, by Christians sharing Christ’s sufferings on the Cross?’
Father Eduardo turned and walked slowly away, head bowed. As he struggled through the snow that swirled round him, someone called out, ‘¡Hijo de puta!’
A slap on the back made Bernie jump. He turned to see Miguel.
‘Well done, Bernardo,’ he said. ‘I think you shamed the bastard.’ But as he watched Father Eduardo’s retreating back, Bernie felt shame too. He would never have dared to insult Father Jaime like that, none of them would. He had picked on their weakest representative, the one he could hurt most easily, and where was the courage in that?
BERNIE LEFT the hut after supper, saying he needed to piss and his bucket was full. They were allowed to do that until lights out. Agustín made him uneasy but he needed to know what he wanted. He left Pablo lying on the next pallet, covered in a thick pile of blankets donated by the other men, for he was frozen, his shoulders an agony. Bernie had laid his blanket on the pile. Pablo’s face was white. Miguel whispered to Bernie, ‘He is young and strong, with luck he will come through.’ Evidently he had chosen to ignore Establo’s orders to snub him; perhaps others would follow.
Outside the snow had stopped. Bernie went round to the back of the hut, where the moonlight cast a long shadow. Within the shadow Bernie saw the red glow of a cigarette butt. He walked up to Agustín. The guard trampled his cigarette underfoot.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Bernie asked bluntly. ‘You’ve been giving me shifty looks for ages.’
Agustín stared back at him. ‘I have a brother in Madrid, who was a guard, do you remember? A tall thin man like me, Luis?’
Bernie frowned. ‘He left months ago, didn’t he? What’s he got to do with me?’
‘He went to Madrid to seek work; there is none in Sevilla. There he met an English journalist who knows a friend of yours.’ Agustín hesitated, looking at Bernie, then went on. ‘They have been planning an escape for you.’
‘What?’ Bernie stared at him. ‘Who is this friend?’
‘An Englishwoman. Senõra Forsyth.’
Bernie shook his head. ‘Who? I don’t know a Senõra Forsyth. I knew a boy at school called Forsyth, but he wasn’t a friend.’
Agustín raised his hand. ‘Quietly, senõr, for the love of God. This woman has married the man from your school. You knew her in Madrid during the war. Her name then was Barbara Clare.’
Bernie’s mouth fell open. ‘Barbara’s still in Spain? She’s married Sandy Forsyth?’
‘Sí. He is a businessman in Madrid. He knows nothing, she has kept it from him. She is paying us. Senõr, my own term is nearly up, I do not want to have to sign up again. I hate this place. The cold and the isolation.’
‘Christ.’ Bernie stared at Agustín. ‘How long have you been planning this?’
‘For many weeks. It has not been easy. Senõr, I have been watching you since I returned. You should take care, you have been making enemies. Winter is not a good time in the camp, everyone is cold and stuck indoors and their minds turn to mischief.’
Bernie ran his hand over his scrappy beard. ‘Barbara. Oh God, Barbara.’ He felt suddenly faint, he leaned against the wall of the hut. ‘Barbara.’ He spoke the name softly. His eyes were wet with tears. Then he took a deep breath and stepped close to Agustín, who flinched slightly away. ‘Is this true? Is this really true?’
‘It is.’
‘She married Forsyth?’ He laughed unbelievingly. ‘Does he know about this?’
‘No, only her.’
He took a deep breath. ‘How is it to be done? What’s the plan?’
Agustín leaned closer. ‘I will tell you.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
SINCE EARLY DECEMBER it had been bitterly cold in Madrid, and on the sixth Harry woke to find the city covered in a thick mantle of snow. It was strange seeing snow here. It buried some of the ugliness and the scars of war but as he walked to the embassy, watching the pinched red faces of the passers-by, he wondered how the half-starved populace would cope if this went on.
The snowfall had been so heavy the trams weren’t running; Harry walked through a strangely quiet city, every sound muffled, under a slate-grey sky that promised more snow. Crossing the Castellana he saw a gasogene stuck in the middle of the road, belching out clouds of thick smoke as the driver tried frantically to get it going. An old man walked slowly past, leading a donkey laden with cans of olive oil. The old man’s cracked ancient boots were soaking.
‘Hace mal tiempo,’ Harry said.
‘Sí, muy mal.’
He was due to see Hillgarth at ten; he hadn’t been looking forward to the meeting and now he was going to be late. During the fortnight since the dinner party had been interrupted by Sofia’s call, Harry had continued with his ‘watching brief’ on Sandy, met him twice in the cafe and been round to the house again for dinner, but he had learned nothing more. Sandy hadn’t mentioned the gold mine again and when Harry asked him how things were going there he said ‘d
ifficult’ and changed the subject. He seemed preoccupied, keeping up his customary bonhomie only with an effort. At their most recent meeting in the cafe he had asked Harry how things were in England, how big the black market was and what sort of money the spivs were making. Harry had asked him if he was thinking of coming home after all, but he only shrugged. Harry wished it were all over, he was sick of the deception and lies. The thought that Gomez had probably been murdered was never far from his thoughts.
Barbara still seemed troubled too, and distant with him. But as she showed him out after his visit earlier that week she had asked how Sofia was. Sofia had said she would like to see Barbara again and Harry had suggested that the three of them meet for lunch. Barbara had seemed to hesitate, but then agreed.
THE SPIES had not been pleased to learn about Sofia. Tolhurst had quizzed him about her telephone call to the embassy; Harry guessed any calls concerning him were reported to Tolhurst automatically.
‘You should have told us if you’ve found a Spanish floozy,’ he said. ‘How did you meet?’
Harry told him the tale of rescuing her brother from the dogs, missing out who Enrique was.
‘She could be a spy,’ Tolhurst said. ‘You can’t be too careful with women here. You said you weren’t being followed any more. Still, if you met by chance—’
‘Completely by chance. And Sofia hates the regime.’
‘Yes, Carabanchel was a Red district. But they’re no friends of ours down there. Be careful, Harry, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘I’ve told her I’m a translator. She doesn’t ask about my work.’
‘Is she pretty? Got her between the sheets yet?’
‘Oh bloody hell, Tolly, she’s not one of your tarts,’ Harry said with sudden exasperation.
A hurt offended look came over Tolhurst’s face. He brushed a lick of hair back from his face and adjusted his Eton tie. ‘Steady on, old man.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t get too involved.’
