“I killed that boy.”
“This damned war killed him.”
But that wasn’t true. Elías was the one responsible, as he was for each of the deaths at his hands in Barcelona, as he was for Irina’s. There was an excuse for every one of them: the need to survive, the war, his obligation to maintain order and discipline. But the only truth that mattered was that each of those deaths had been his personal decision.
It was a dark night, but slowly the wind pushed the clouds aside and there appeared a pale moon that gave shape to the jumbled shadows. A group of women crouched together furtively, defecating by the sea; they had aged and withered at the camps, robbed of their lives and their dignity. Why? What for? For tomorrow, people said, unshakable in their belief that everything they’d been through meant something. A better future for their children and grandchildren. Maybe so. Maybe he was just one drop in a million, a single drop in the dark sea that hemmed them in; maybe there were millions more all over the world, right now. But at that precise moment, the night was a wretched today and there was no tomorrow.
Two months later, a group of men found a black hand floating in the jetsam. The following day they found a black leg several miles away, in the women’s camp, and for the next several days, body parts appeared all over, including at the town church. But no one found the head. Until one morning, when dawn broke blue and luminous with the promise of a beautiful day, and the head appeared on a stake in front of the Senegalese barracks, a sign on his forehead: ALLEZ, ALLEZ, SALOPE!
Like dust settling after a footstep, life and death became routine. With the help of aid organizations in Perpignan, they were able to establish regular—to a point—delivery of basic necessities: food, clothing, toiletries and, what was equally essential to many, mail from Spain and other parts of France. Some received money orders, and they set up a table where Republican money could be exchanged, at exorbitant rates, for French francs. For the first time, the prisoners stopped feeling isolated; they got news of the vehement discussions about their plight, taking place in both the press and public opinion, and this forced the camp authorities to make certain improvements. In several places they opened reception centers, which were run by the Swiss Red Cross, one of which had a maternity ward where women were allowed to remain with their newborns until they were deemed strong enough to return to their regular camp. They installed woefully basic lighting, sturdier barracks, and plumbing and latrines, and although none of it was sufficient for the ninety thousand people living there, all of it made life more bearable.
Little by little, resilience and the ability to adapt to anything replaced the despondency of the first few months. And part of that resilience was silence—a strategy against the evidence of the inevitable. Women walked around deranged, dead babies in their arms, and people looked away; a truck arrived to take the critically ill to the old barracks in Perpignan being used as a hospital, and no one wanted to go, knowing that this was nothing more than a morgue, a place people went to die. What happened to all of those anonymous bodies? They would never know. Some were buried close to their loved ones, others tossed into the sea with weights around their necks, many were put on Port-Vendres hospital boats. The majority, however, simply disappeared, like the clouds of dust that blew over their bonfires.
At the same time, though, babies were being born and thriving; couples were reunited after months of separation, their misfortune forging a stronger bond between them; people fell in love; friendships that would last a lifetime were made. The writers, actors, and musicians did what they could to put on recitals, plays, and concerts, keeping the maddening monotony at bay for hours. And all of it was happening at the same time, mixing together like the sand and sea.
Paradoxically, the better the camp’s infrastructure became, the more their hopes of a temporary stay were dashed.
“They’re starting to transfer people to other camps. The prefect is an open Fascist and has ordered forced repatriation, especially for women and children, and there are some who are willing to return, accepting Franco’s offer of clemency.”
“Who can blame them?”
Pierre shrugged. They were each on opposite sides of the fence, being watched by an Algerian guard on horseback who had been bribed with a few francs. Pierre passed Elías a few cigarettes, which he had no place to hide. In late August the heat was insufferable, and men walked around shirtless, in their shorts or underwear.
“I heard they’re sending a new one, a police officer coming from Madrid expressly to return half a dozen men to Spain. Your name is on the list,” Pierre told him.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know, but he seems more efficient than those they’ve sent before. You should lie low for a few days.”
Elías smiled. Sure, he could hide at the bottom of the sea for a couple of days.
“I’m glad you’re taking this so well, but it’s not a joke. If you get deported, you know what will await you: a very summary trial and the firing squad. There are people here who would do anything they could to let that Fascist hunt you down. They haven’t forgotten about the Senegalese guard.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
On August 23, the world awoke to staggering news, so unsettling it shook the very foundations of Europe. Germany and the Soviet Union had signed a nonaggression pact. A few days later, Germany invaded Poland from the west and the Soviet army from the east. This could mean only one thing: On September 3, France and Great Britain declared war on Germany.
In the camps, the news triggered a large-scale manhunt, an attempt to root out Communist elements and those considered extremists. The French Communist Party was declared illegal. Spanish Communists, tired of fighting the Fascist troops in Spain, were disconcerted by Stalin’s signing an alliance with their greatest enemy. Despondent, resigned, they tried to find some sort of logic to what other Republican factions saw only as an act of treason. Elías too was confused but saw Stalin’s move as logical. After all, the European powers weren’t going to come to the Soviet Union’s aid in case of Nazi aggression, so the vozhd was simply buying time in order to prepare the country for war, simultaneously creating a buffer zone between the USSR and Germany at the expense of the Poles. Right or wrong, this put no one’s soul at rest, not even his comrades’.
Two days after a general mobilization was announced in France, a cadre of gendarmes turned up at Elías’s hutch and arrested him. He and several other Communists were taken, heavily escorted, to the camp commander.
Elías was made to wait in the vestibule. Every five minutes the commander’s door opened and a gendarme shouted someone else’s name. Minutes later, the man in question would emerge, hands cuffed behind his back, face livid. No one said a word. They had orders to remain silent and under no circumstances betray their comrades. Elías, like most of his comrades with military or political responsibilities, was using a false identity, thanks to Pierre. When he heard them call the name Aurelio Gallart, born in Getafe, he looked up in resignation.
The commander was a hardened officer utterly unlike the humdrum captain who had greeted them upon arrival in February. To the right of his table was a stack of files, each with names and fingerprints. They were in Spanish and had been compiled by Franco’s police. An officer checked them against those of the gendarmerie, which were less sophisticated.
“Name and date of birth.”
“Aurelio Gallart, born in Getafe to Manuela and Ricardo, November 6, 1911.”
The commander picked up one of the files on his right.
“According to the Spanish police, your name is Elías Gil Villa, born in Mieres, to Martín and Rocío, May 12, 1912.”
The commander scrutinized the photo and compared it to Elías’s expressionless face. He had changed—a lot—since the picture was taken, but he had no idea how the Spanish police had gotten it. The photo was from long ago, when he was an engineering stud
ent at the university in Madrid, in 1930 or thereabouts.
“Your rank was lieutenant with the MIS, overseeing operations in Barcelona in 1937.”
“I have no idea what the MIS is. I’m a mining engineer, and that’s what I did until I was forced to cross the border.”
The commander dropped the file onto his desk and interlaced his pudgy fingers. “We shall see about that.”
He jerked his chin at a gendarme, who took Elías to an adjoining office. There he was greeted by dim light and the smell of mildewed papers and files slowly decomposing.
A man in civilian clothes sat behind a table writing something. The first thing Elías saw was the hat, well made, by his right elbow. The man looked up, eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and exchanged glances with the French commander. Then he took in Elías’s rigid features. They stared at each other for a minute.
Elías Gil felt his strength give way. The Francoist officer before him was Ramón Alcázar Suñer.
He, too, had changed a lot since that night in Sant Celoni. There was no longer any fear in his expression; it had been replaced by the cold calculation and grace of a man who has survived and become powerful. He sported a pencil mustache, very popular at the time, and wore an elegant gold pin in his silk tie. He’d gained weight, too, and despite looking older and more tired, he also looked more robust.
Ramón leaned back in his chair and ran a hand along his carefully slicked-back hair, revealing a large broad forehead. Elías saw that he’d recognized him right away and knew that images of his time at the clandestine prison in Barcelona—and his terror thinking he was going to be shot that night in 1938—were flashing though his mind. Ramón turned his index finger into a gun aimed it at Elías. He gave the hint of a delicate smile, which neither the gendarme escorting Elías nor the commander in the other room could see. A smile just for his childhood friend. Then he stood and strode past Elías without looking at him.
For a few minutes he spoke in hushed tones to the commander. Elías didn’t turn, but he could hear the commander’s words of shock and surprise, his dissent, and his fist banging on the table. Ramón Alcázar Suñer did not lose his cool.
“I repeat, Commander, that this man is not Elías Gil. I’m sure his identity is as false as that of the others, but he is not the man I came for. What you decide to do with him is of no concern to the government of Spain.”
Elías’s knees trembled. A knot of tangled emotions rose in his throat, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. Ramón Alcázar returned to his office and shot Elías a quick look of disdain. He took his place behind the desk and began concentrating on what he’d been writing.
“Get this trash out of here,” he said, not looking up.
Although disconcerted by the Spanish officer’s attitude, the commander refused to cave. He ordered the transfer of Elías to the castle at Colliure, now being used as a jail. While waiting to board the bus, Pierre approached. He’d finagled his way into being the only one allowed to serve bread to the guards, which meant he could come and go without raising suspicions.
Pierre passed Elías, pretending that he was going to talk to one of the guards escorting him.
From the window of the bus, Elías looked out for the last time over the triple fence of Argelès and felt a stab of anguish, thinking of Esperanza. Would she know that he’d been arrested and was being taken to Colliure? Esperanza had agreed to join a women’s company of volunteers sent to work in factories and fields to make up for the workforce displaced by the draft. For the past two weeks she had been working at a factory in Le Boulou, under strict surveillance. Would they see each other again? he wondered. How, when, where?
The bus started slowly down a road filled with potholes that a brigade of exiles was covering with gravel. As the bus passed, many stopped working to raise a fist in solidarity. An Algerian mounted guard flashed a cruel smile, revealing his lack of teeth, and drew a finger across his neck, as though slitting a throat. Cold had returned to Argelès, and the north winds buffeted the camp, violently whipping the clothes hanging between refugees’ barracks. Children dressed in rags scrabbled in the sand, digging for old cigarette butts. The sea, now off-limits to prisoners, was calm as a funeral shroud.
Elías felt in his jacket pocket for the familiar touch of his locket, the soothing presence of Irina and Anna. And then he felt a tiny piece of paper, folded in half.
It was blue.
22
BARCELONA, OCTOBER 8, 2002
“Why won’t you say anything?”
Gonzalo gazed at Javier through the window. His fingers, pressed to the glass, longed to touch his son but couldn’t. Nor could he hear his voice. Javier might never wake up. That was what the doctors who operated on him for six long hours had said. Never. The word fell heavy as a tombstone.
“Gonzalo, please, say something, anything. Shout at me, insult me, but don’t shut me out.”
He could see Lola’s hand on his arm but felt nothing—not rage, not pity, not sorrow, not love. Nothing. Never. It was all too definitive. A few hours earlier he’d been sitting before Anna Akhmatova, listening to the old woman’s voice in the gloom of the bookstore, a strange voice and a face he couldn’t see, leaving him in the dark as to what emotions accompanied them.
“I don’t want you seeing my daughter again.”
And then a heavy silence, her intentions made clear.
“Excuse me for asking, but why should I listen to you?”
The old woman gestured casually, as though brushing something away as she rose from her chair and came toward the light with an innocent smile.
“Oh, I can think of lots of reasons, though I’m sure some of yours are more convincing. We’ve all suffered enough already, Gonzalo. No need to break the camel’s back, don’t you agree?”
She spoke with a forced offhandedness that betrayed a secret hidden in her words, something she apparently thought did not need to be named, something Gonzalo had once known but had chosen to forget.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. You understand perfectly.”
The easy smile was still there, she looked friendly, and yet when her daughter walked in, Anna’s determination hardened. Tania had heard them talking and come downstairs in bare feet, wearing only a shirt that barely covered her. She approached Gonzalo so silently that he didn’t realize she was there until Anna looked up and fell silent. Tania stroked the back of his neck in passing, a gesture intended to make her presence known and reassure him.
“It’s getting light, you should go.”
Gonzalo picked up on the silent battle being waged between mother and daughter, each challenging the other to a fight, measuring the other’s strength, uncertain who would win. He knew that he was the cause of this tension but didn’t understand why. Yet it was clear that he was somehow infringing, violating something private that belonged to them alone, and so he left, with an awkward goodbye, unsure how to behave.
He was walking down the street, just passing by the lowered shutters of Flight, when his phone rang. It was Lola, her number flashing on the screen like an accusation. Gonzalo felt slightly dirty, and slightly petty, and slightly vile. Enough that he let the phone ring without picking up.
He should have picked up. Maybe he could have done something. It was a pathetic, illusory thought, but it later struck him. The desperate message Lola had left on the machine at his apartment left no room for deliberation. She was in the emergency room at Valle de Hebrón hospital. Javier had shot himself in the chest.
The details came out in the hours that followed, as his son was being operated on. It was life and death. His son. Suddenly that was the one certainty in his life: Javier was his son. He realized this as Lola confessed the truth, before the police arrived. Gonzalo listened without a sound, without moving a muscle on his stony face, but inside he felt he was being hacksawed to pieces, musc
les torn from bone. As Lola’s tears fell onto the hospital cafeteria table, he contemplated her painted fingernails, her hand still wearing the wedding ring, her fine gold bracelets, her pale knobby knuckles, and all he could think was that she was responsible for this, that it was her hands that had held the gun and pulled the trigger, firing at his son’s heart. The bullet had been unpredictable, chosen not to find the way to its target, or perhaps Javier had wavered at the last second and that momentary hesitation had caused the bullet to lodge slightly to the right of his heart, leaving a minuscule chance for survival that the surgeons were now fighting for.
Patricia was the one who clued him in on the rest. Gonzalo told her that Javier had had an accident but that he’d get better. He clung to that belief so hard, willing it to be true, but Patricia sensed something. She’d always been too clever for her age, so much so that it scared people. Her eyes shot wide open, as wide as her mouth, it was as though she was screaming silently. When Gonzalo tried to hold her, she scrambled away and ran upstairs. Five minutes later, she came down with some photos. She wasn’t crying, but her whole body shook.
“This is why, isn’t it?”
Gonzalo glanced through the pictures of his naked son, kissing Lola’s young lover and smiling. Naïve, reckless, he’d agreed to a painfully explicit photo session. Patricia told her father she’d known about the pictures for months, that she’d seen Javier look at them and “do that thing,” and then cry inconsolably afterward. Lola refused to look at them; she was hysterical, in a complete frenzy. Some of the photos had been torn up and then taped back together, testimony to the conflicting emotions Javier had been wrestling with in silence all that time. Gonzalo remembered being in the hospital after Atxaga’s attack, what his son had said, and it all made sense. The way his sentences trailed off, his expression, his general mistrust—they were all cries for help, silent voices begging for some understanding. And Gonzalo had not heard them.
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