Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Wait till I see Hillgarth,’ he snapped, glaring at Harry. ‘I was humiliated in there, humiliated! That was why he called me in, to throw that bloody mine in my face. Just my bloody luck you were the only translator available. These adventures have got to stop! I’ve been made to look a fool!’ Hoare was almost hissing, his thin features a mask of fury. Harry felt a drop of spittle land on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Maestre must have told Franco everything, after Hillgarth told him it was all a racket. Maestre’s made the Falange look stupid but he’s made us look a damn sight worse.’ Hoare took a deep breath. ‘Just as well you’re leaving soon. We must make sure the Generalísimo knows you’ve gone. Marrying some lower-class Spanish girl – I don’t know how you think that’ll help your future career, Brett. In fact, I should say that was pretty well finished,’ the ambassador added spitefully. He turned away and opened his briefcase with a snap, pulling out a file. Harry stared out of the window as the first suburbs of Madrid flashed by. This time tomorrow they would be almost in Cuenca and a few days after that they would be away from here. To hell with you, Harry thought, to hell with you all.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  THERE WAS STILL SNOW high in the Tierra Muerta, but below the quarry most of it had melted during the brief spell of warmer weather that had turned the camp yard into a sea of mud.

  Yesterday when they paused for their rest on the way to work, Agustín had sidled up to Bernie as he looked downhill towards Cuenca. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ he whispered.

  Bernie nodded.

  ‘Pick up a sharp stone tomorrow morning, put it in your pocket.’

  Bernie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

  Agustín took a deep breath. He looked afraid. ‘To hit me with. You should make a cut, draw blood, it will look more realistic.’ Bernie nodded and bit his lip.

  Lying his pallet in the hut that evening, Bernie massaged his shoulder, which was afire with pain after the day’s work. His leg was stiff too; he hoped it didn’t give way going down the mountain tomorrow. Down the mountain. It sounded incredible yet it was real. He looked at the bed opposite. Establo had died two nights before, in great pain, and the other prisoners had shared out his blankets. The Communists in the hut were sad, subdued.

  When morning came he felt groggy. He got up and looked out of the window. It felt colder than ever but there was still no snow. His heart began thudding. He would do it. Carefully he exercised his stiff leg.

  At breakfast he avoided the Communists’ eyes. He felt shame again at leaving the other prisoners. But there was nothing he could do for them. If he got away he wondered whether they would cheer him or condemn him. If he got to England he would tell the world about the conditions here, he would shout it from the rooftops.

  He lined up with the others in the muddy yard for roll-call. The undulating mud had frozen and was covered with white frost, like a frozen sea. Aranda took the roll. Sometimes since Bernie had refused to be an informer, Aranda’s eye lighted on him at roll-call: he would pause for a moment and smile, as though he had something nasty in store. One day he would pick him out for something, but today wasn’t the day; Aranda passed on to the next name. Bernie exhaled with relief. You’ve missed your chance, you bastard, he thought.

  Father Eduardo emerged from the church, looking tired and miserable as he usually did these days. It struck Bernie that his dark red hair was almost the same shade as Barbara’s. He had never noticed that before, but he had thought of her so much since he learned she was behind his escape plans. The priest went to the gate, raising his arm in response to the guard’s Fascist salute as he let him through. He must be going into Cuenca. Neither of the priests had come for Establo. Perhaps they hadn’t dared; Establo, unlike poor Vicente, had been a feared man.

  Roll-call over, the quarry detail gathered in front of the gate. Agustín didn’t look at Bernie. The gates opened and the crocodile made its way into the hills. At first the path climbed through brown grass, then fingers of snow appeared in the gullies and finally they rose above the snowline, the world white again. Agustín was walking some way ahead of Bernie; he wouldn’t want anyone to remember them being together before the escape.

  Bernie was put with a group breaking up large boulders. He had hoped to give himself an easy day to conserve his energy but it was so cold that if he stopped work he began shivering at once. Late in the morning he found a suitable stone to hit Agustín with; flat and round, with a jagged edge that would draw blood and make the blow look worse than it was. He slipped it in his pocket, pushing away a memory of Pablo on the cross.

  At the short break for lunch he took as much of the chickpeas and rice as he could from the pot. In the afternoon as he worked he watched the sky. It remained cloudless. The sun began to set, casting a pink glow over the bare hillsides and the high white mountains to the east. Bernie’s heart began pounding with anticipation. One way or another, this was the last time he would see that view.

  At last he spotted Agustín, who had ensured he was guarding his section, moving closer. It was their signal that the time had arrived. Bernie took a deep breath and counted to three, preparing himself. Then he dropped his pick and clutched his stomach, crying out as though in pain. He bent double and cried out again, louder. The men he was working with stared at him. There were no other guards in sight. They were in luck.

  ‘What is it, Bernardo?’ Miguel asked.

  Agustín unslung his rifle and approached.

  ‘¿Que pasa aquí?’ he demanded roughly.

  ‘I’ve got diarrhoea. Agh, I can’t hold it.’

  ‘Don’t do it here. I’ll take you behind the bushes.’ Agustín raised his voice. ‘Dios mío, why are you men so much trouble. Stand still so I can chain you.’

  He can act, Bernie thought. Agustín put down his rifle and produced the shackles, a long thin chain with cuffs at the end, from the pouch at his belt. He secured Bernie’s legs.

  ‘Please, quickly!’ Bernie held his face in an agonized rictus.

  ‘Come on then!’ Agustín picked up his rifle and waved him to walk ahead. They went quickly up the little track that wound around the hill. In a minute they were out of sight, by the bushes. Bernie panted with relief.

  ‘We’ve done it,’ he breathed. Agustín bent quickly and unlocked the shackles with trembling fingers. He threw the key to the ground. Then he put down his rifle and knelt in the snow. He looked up at Bernie, his eyes full of terrified appeal now he was at his mercy.

  ‘You will not kill me, will you?’ He swallowed. ‘I have made no confession, I have sins on my conscience—’

  ‘No. Just a knock on the head.’ Bernie took the stone from his pocket and hefted it.

  ‘Do it now,’ Agustín said quickly. ‘Now! Just not too hard.’ He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. For a second Bernie was irresolute, it was difficult to judge how hard to strike. Then he hit Agustín on the temple with the stone. Without a sound the guard rolled over and lay still. Bernie looked at him in surprise, he hadn’t meant to knock him right out. A thin trickle of blood ran from a cut where the stone had struck. He knelt over the guard. He was still breathing.

  He stood up and looked back along the path, then down the hillside. He considered taking Agustín’s rifle but it would encumber him. He took a deep breath and began running downhill through the melting snow, terribly conscious of how his tattered brown coat and green boiler suit stood out. His back twitched, waiting for a bullet. It was like the Jarama, the same helpless fear.

  He passed below the snowline and paused, looking back at the line of footprints he had left above. He had veered to the right and now he ran to the left, hoping the change of direction might fool the guards. There were folds in the hills both ways. It was frightening to be alone, running through this bare wilderness; unexpectedly Bernie had a frantic longing for the enclosing walls of the hut. Then he slipped on a patch of frosty grass and found himself rolling over and over, gasping and gru
nting. He bumped his shoulder and had to stifle a cry of pain.

  He came to a stop at the bottom of the first fold in the hills and sat up, gasping for breath. He looked upwards. Nothing. Nobody. He smiled. He had got where he wanted much faster than he had intended. He got up and ran round the lee of the hill. As Agustín had said, a stand of the little holm oaks grew in a sheltered spot. He ran into the middle of the copse and lay down against a tree trunk, breathing in gasps. Well done, he thought. So far so good.

  He sat listening but there were no sounds, nothing, just a silence that seemed to hum in his ears. It unsettled him, he hadn’t experienced complete silence for over three years. He was tempted to run on, but Agustín was right, he should wait till dark before going any further. Molina would soon notice that Agustín and he were missing. He leaned back, wriggling his frozen toes. A little later he thought he heard a faint shout, far off, but it was not repeated.

  A half moon rose and stars appeared. Bernie was surprised to see the stars really did come out one by one. When the sky was quite black, Bernie lifted himself up. Time to go. Then he froze. He had heard a rustling sound, a few yards away at the entrance to the clump of trees. Oh God, he thought, oh God. It came again, from the same spot. Gently, his teeth gritted, he parted the branches of a bush and peered out. A little deer stood cropping the coarse grass, a few feet away. It was very young; perhaps its mother had been shot by the guards. Now the snow had gone the deer would be climbing the mountain again to forage. Bernie felt suddenly moved; tears welled up in his eyes and he reached up to brush them away. The deer heard him; it jerked up its head, turned and shot away, crashing down the hill. Bernie held his breath, listening. If they were hunting him and were anywhere nearby, that sound would draw them. But the silence remained unbroken. He crept out of the bushes again. A cold wind was blowing. He crouched down, feeling terribly exposed again. Then he forced himself up and began loping down the hill once more. Seven kilometres to go. Four miles.

  He was surprised how much he could see in the moonlight once his eyes became accustomed to it. He kept to the shadows, following the little trackways the shepherds had made, moving steadily downhill. He guessed it was nearly two hours since he had left Agustín but he had no way of telling. Down and down, pausing every so often to catch his breath and listen behind one of the little oaks that grew more frequently now. His shoulder hurt and his feet began to ache. It felt as though he had been running downhill forever, but his weak leg held out.

  Then, cresting a little rise, he saw the lights of Cuenca straight ahead of him, startlingly close: yellow points from lit windows. One little group of lights was lower than the others: the hanging houses set into the cliff itself. He took a deep breath. He had been lucky to come out right opposite the town.

  He moved more slowly now, hugging every piece of shadow. Clouds had appeared, scudding across the face of the moon, and he was grateful for the minutes of extra darkness they gave. He could make out the gorge now and the black struts of the iron bridge across it. It looked surprisingly fragile, the wooden walkway barely wide enough to take three people walking abreast. He saw there were actually only a few houses built into the cliff on the other side. They were much smaller than he had imagined.

  The road that ran parallel to the gorge was visible a hundred yards below him. Bernie ducked behind a bush. No sign of anyone. The camp would already have phoned the civiles; perhaps they would be sending someone to guard the bridge. But it wasn’t the only bridge, he remembered Agustín telling him, there were others further along, other ways into the town. If the main bridge was guarded Barbara would wait for him in the cathedral.

  He heard voices and froze. Female voices. A group of four shawled, black-clad women appeared, accompanied by two donkeys laden with firewood. He watched as they passed beneath him; he couldn’t make out their faces but the harsh voices sounded old. He hadn’t seen a woman in three years. He remembered Barbara lying in his bed waiting for him and his heart pounded and warm saliva rose in his mouth. He swallowed it and took a deep breath.

  The women and their donkeys passed on. They crossed the bridge and disappeared. Bernie left his shelter and looked down the road. Some way past the bridge he saw a large clump of trees beside the road. That must be the place. There was little cover; he would have to walk along the exposed hillside now, facing the town across the gorge. He left his shelter and began edging his way along, stopping at each little oak.

  As he came out from behind a tree he heard a sound somewhere above him, like the chink of metal. He threw himself down, waiting for a shot. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes: there was only the bare hillside. A little way above him he made out another, larger oak, standing on its own. He thought the sound had come from there, but if it were a civil or a guard surely there would have been a shot by now. He went on, glancing constantly back at the tree, but heard nothing more. Perhaps it had been another deer or a goat.

  He reached the trees and plunged in among them. There were thick bushes here too, stiff branches whipped at his legs.

  He couldn’t see the road from here but he must stay concealed. He would hear Barbara coming. She would know he was here. Barbara. He shivered, conscious of how cold he was now that he had stopped moving. And tired, his arms and legs were trembling. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He would have to put up with it. There was nothing to do now but wait; wait until Barbara came to save him.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  HARRY HAD WOKEN early that morning. The old humming was back in his ears for the first time in weeks, but as he lay there it faded away. Opening the curtains he saw the street was white and his heart sank for a moment. Damn, he thought, more snow. Then he realized it was only frost, thick white hoar frost on the pavements and roads. He blew out his cheeks with relief.

  Sofia arrived at nine as arranged. He made breakfast for her. They were both subdued now the moment was here.

  ‘Sleep well?’ she asked.

  ‘Not very. I’ve got the car, one of the old Fords. It’s outside. You?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Did you get away all right?’

  ‘Enrique is cross at having to stay home with Paco. I told him we were having a day out and he wanted to bring him.’ She shook her head. ‘I hate lying to them.’

  He took her hand. ‘No more lies after today. Come on, we should eat.’ He carried plates of scrambled egg through to the salón.

  ‘How is Barbara?’ Sofia asked as they ate.

  ‘All right.’ The previous evening, after collecting the car from the embassy, Harry had driven round to Barbara’s house. He had told her the news of the fake gold mine had reached Franco himself; it was likely the authorities would be hunting Sandy now.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. They both tensed. ‘I think it’s her,’ Harry said.

  Barbara was carrying a large rucksack and her face was strained and pale.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Some people came at six, I was still in bed. A couple of civiles and someone from the government. I was terrified they’d found out about this. They wanted to know all about Sandy. I played the little woman, said I didn’t know anything.’ She sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘Told them he’d walked out a couple of days ago. It was easy to take them in. They don’t think women are capable of anything. They took everything away from his study, even his fossil collection. I almost felt sorry for him.’

  Harry took a deep breath. ‘He brought it all on himself, Barbara.’ He found he felt nothing for Sandy any longer. He was just a blank.

  ‘Yes.’ Barbara nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘We should go now if we have everything,’ Sofia said. She went to her coat and pulled out a heavy German pistol, a Mauser. She held it out to Harry. ‘You take it.’

  ‘OK.’ He checked it. It had been cleaned and oiled and the chambers were full. He slipped it in his pocket. Barbara shuddered slightly and looked at Sofia, who met her gaze evenly. Harry stood up. ‘A
ll right,’ he said. ‘Let’s check over everything, then go.’

  OUTSIDE IT WAS so cold it hurt to breathe at first. They had to scrape frost from the windscreen of the Ford. Harry worried the engine wouldn’t start but it leapt into life at once; the British embassy maintained their cars well. Barbara and Sofia got in the back and they set off along the Valencia road. They were quiet; the issue of the gun seemed still to be a barrier between them. After a while Sofia spoke.

  ‘I have been thinking about what we should say if anyone asks why we have come to a remote town like Cuenca. We could tell them you are bringing me to find out about my uncle. That would be a reason for going to the cathedral too, to look at the list of priests killed during the war.’

  ‘Do you think your uncle’s name might be there?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘Yes, if he was killed.’ Sofia turned her head away and in the mirror Harry saw her blink back tears. Yet she was still willing to use her family’s tragedy to help them. He felt a choking sensation of love and admiration.

  They drove all morning. In many places the road was in poor condition, slowing their progress. There was very little traffic and few towns; this was the dry heart of Castile. In the early afternoon the ground began to rise, steep hills breaking up the brown landscape. Frozen streams ran down the sides, thin slashes of white against the brown landscape. Key-cold, Harry thought, key-cold.

  Towards three they saw a line of low mountains with rounded summits on the horizon. The countryside began to change; there were more cultivated areas, patches of bright green where the land was irrigated. A large town came into view in the distance, a jumble of grey-white buildings climbing a hillside so steep they seemed to be built one on top of another, up and up to the sky. They came to a sign telling them they were about to enter Cuenca and Barbara leaned over and touched Harry’s arm. She pointed to a track leading from the road into an uncultivated field, winding behind a clump of trees that would screen the car from the road.