A Dangerous Place

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I wonder, do you know where I can find Rosanna?”

  The woman laughed, and her companions giggled like nervous schoolgirls. She shrugged. “Not here, not today.”

  Maisie smiled again, inclining her head as she held the woman’s gaze. “But you know where she is, don’t you?”

  The woman’s face hardened. She shook her head and shrugged again. “She is a girl. She is late today—it will show her she should be working.” The woman rubbed her finger and thumb together.

  Maisie laughed. “Oh, she’ll be sorry then.”

  The woman understood—and so did the others, their heads nodding in knowing accord.

  “And you don’t know where she’s gone?” asked Maisie again.

  The woman looked at her with the same stone-faced expression. “She is busy. That is all. She is busy.” And with that comment, she looked out to sea.

  Maisie followed her gaze and turned back to the woman, though this time she raised her chin, just a little, to show she understood. She thanked the women, who went on with their work and chatter, weaving their long, hooked needles in and out of the nets.

  Maisie left the beach and, after wandering through the village and purchasing several postcards of Catalan Bay, began to make her way back toward Main Street.

  So Rosanna Grillo was not among the women, had not been seen by them of late, and was—if that one glance across the sea could be taken as evidence—well away from home. But where was she? Could she have gone into hiding somewhere? Maisie had assumed she had remained after helping to load the boat in the dead of night—surely she would not have ventured into Spain.

  Maisie wanted to go to the cave again, but having looked at her watch, she realized it was time to return to Mr. Salazar’s café, and at a brisk clip, if she didn’t want to miss Professor Vallejo.

  The professor was waiting for her when she arrived, seated on the banquette underneath the mural depicting Gibraltar’s history.

  He stood as she approached. “Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie was taken aback. Vallejo’s eyelids were drooping with fatigue, and the fine skin above his cheekbones appeared dark and paper-thin. His lips barely moved as he spoke, as if he were trying to conserve whatever energy he had left.

  “Professor, but why—”

  “Sit down, Maisie.” He paused. “May I call you Maisie? I fear I may have taken a liberty.”

  “Of course that’s all right.” She slid into the banquette.

  “You need proper food.” She looked around for Mr. Salazar.

  “He’s in the kitchen, making me something special to eat.”

  “Are you ill?”

  Vallejo shook his head. “Just tired, Maisie. I have been busy.”

  “Across the border.” It was not a question.

  He nodded. “Yes. I was in Madrid, close to the front lines, in University City.”

  “You are helping the Republican Army?”

  “Inasmuch as I am able. Not all fighting goes on in the trenches, but sometimes it is necessary to go to the edge of the terror.”

  “Madrid is being bombed almost daily—I know that much,” said Maisie, looking back toward the kitchen again.

  “Yet life goes on, in the strangest of ways. Franco is determined to take Madrid—it is the jewel in the crown of this war.”

  “Will you go back?”

  Vallejo sighed. “In two days.”

  “Why, Professor? Why did you come here, anyway? Could you not have found rest in Spain, away from the fighting?”

  “Questions I cannot answer, Maisie. I am a professor, but suffice it to say—” Vallejo shook his head and signaled toward the kitchen. Salazar was now approaching bearing a plate filled with food that Maisie would have been hard pushed to identify.

  “Professor.” Salazar set the plate before Vallejo and stepped back. “A glass of wine, perhaps? Something stronger? Have what you want.”

  Vallejo nodded. “I’ll have a glass of rioja.” He nodded in Maisie’s direction.

  “And for you, Miss Dobbs? Perhaps a tortilla?” Salazar laughed, noticing Maisie’s expression. “Don’t be afraid—it’s just potato, sliced and cooked with eggs.”

  “Oh, sorry—of course, I’ve had it before. Yes, that would be lovely—and a glass of rioja for me too, please.” She waited for Salazar to be beyond earshot, and turned back to Vallejo. “So you leave in two days.”

  Vallejo nodded.

  “And you have no trouble going back and forth across the border?”

  “I have the papers. I am welcome in both places, though there is another border within Spain to be negotiated.”

  “You must be a valuable person, Professor.”

  “To too many people, at times.” He turned to his food again, slowing down only after three more mouthfuls.

  Salazar approached with two glasses of rioja. He placed one each in front of Vallejo and Maisie. Vallejo, mouth full, nodded his thanks and reached for the glass.

  “So, you leave in two days, perhaps three,” repeated Maisie.

  “As soon as I can, and as soon as I have had some—let us say, conversations with certain people.”

  Maisie nodded, then took a sip of the rich Spanish wine.

  “I want to come with you.”

  Vallejo looked up, leaned back, and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. There might be your British fact-finding politicos over there, the well-meaning with socialist sympathies, but you don’t know what it’s like.”

  “I think I do, Professor. I do know what it’s like. I would like to come with you.”

  “But you will need papers, and—”

  “I do not envisage a problem, but perhaps you can help me.” She paused, reaching into her knapsack for her passport, and placed it on the table in front of Salazar. “I have more than one legal name, and one carries more weight than the other at times like this. I read in the newspaper that the Duchess of Rathbone was visiting Madrid, along with other British women. If a duchess can be given leave to enter Spain, so can a lady.”

  Salazar approached the table with Maisie’s freshly cooked tortilla and a basket of warm bread. They thanked the café owner, who left them to converse.

  “You should eat up, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie met Vallejo’s eyes, as if willing him to continue.

  “You’ll need your strength for Madrid.” He took up her passport and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  She smiled and raised her glass. Vallejo in turn lifted his glass and touched hers with an audible clink that caught the attention of other patrons. Vallejo sipped and set down his glass, pointing to her food with his fork.

  “Eat, Miss Dobbs. An army always marches on its stomach.”

  Maisie cut into the tortilla and lifted a forkful, inhaling the the aroma of warm herbs and the promise of nourishment provided by the simple dish. In truth, she did not feel like eating, for her insides were turning with anticipation. She was choosing to walk into a war, onto a battlefield. Perhaps it was, after all, the only way to face down the dragon of memory. She had felt it rise up within her again at the very second she witnessed a small aeroplane tumble from the sky above an escarpment in Canada.

  Twenty-four hours later, at the end of the working day, Maisie went to Mr. Salazar’s café, where the proprietor handed her a small brown-paper-wrapped package. It contained her passport and the necessary paperwork. Facilitated by Vallejo’s contacts, she had been given leave to depart for Spain at her earliest opportunity. She did not want MacFarlane to learn of her plans; with time, she knew someone, somewhere, would tell him. Vallejo had given Maisie exact instructions regarding where they should meet his driver, close to the border before sunrise the following morning. His note informed her that their journey would be circuitous. He would never take the same route to Madrid twice in a row, and care had to be taken to avoid Nationalist soldiers.

  Maisie avoided crossing paths with MacFarlane, though she had received another message via Mrs. Bishop that he w
anted to see her. And she had drawn back from further approaches to Miriam Babayoff and Mr. Solomon. As Billy would have said, she was laying low.

  Following the meeting with Vallejo, Maisie had remained in the café stirring the dregs of her post-lunch coffee and staring into the grounds. Now, on the morning of her departure, in the darkness, she reflected upon a conversation she’d had with Mr. Salazar.

  “There are those who can read the coffee grounds,” said the café proprietor, standing alongside her with his coffeepot and jug of hot milk. “The future is not only written in English tea leaves, you know.”

  Maisie looked up into his eyes and saw there an understanding, as if he had intuited what had come to pass between two of his customers.

  “Oh, I don’t think I want to know, Mr. Salazar. The present is quite enough to deal with at times, without having to worry about what is coming around the corner. I’ve done my best not to be too afraid of the corners in life.”

  The proprietor nodded. “Yes, it is best to remain in this moment—you never know what might happen.” He paused. “More coffee?”

  Maisie looked at her watch. “I have much to do this evening, Mr. Salazar, so I had better get on. How much do I owe you?”

  He shook his head. “On the house, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Oh, but Mr. Salazar—”

  “Today you are my guest. I may not see you for a few days, eh, señora?”

  Their eyes met.

  “Perhaps not for a few days. But soon.”

  He sighed, nodding again. “Be careful, Miss Dobbs.”

  “I will. I am in safe hands,” said Maisie as she moved along the banquette and stepped out from behind the table.

  “There are places where not even God has safe hands, Miss Dobbs.” Salazar’s ready smile seemed forced as he stepped back for Maisie to leave. “Take care, won’t you, señora?”

  She began walking along Main Street in the direction of Mrs. Bishop’s guest house, but stopped and retraced her steps. The inside of St. Andrew’s Church was cool as she entered. Though there was no one else there, she felt as if she could touch the prayers that had gone before, as if they were written on small squares of gossamer-thin tissue paper that lingered in the air above her, floating up into the rafters to be seen more clearly in heaven. She sat down and closed her eyes. She had rarely come to prayer in a house of worship, though she was no stranger to matters of the spirit. But in that moment she brought her hands together and whispered, “Be with me. Please. Be with me.”

  After packing a change of clothing into her carpet bag, along with a notebook and toiletries, Maisie went to bed. Anticipating her departure, she slept for only three or four hours before waking. Instead of tossing and turning, waiting for the hour when she would rise, she slipped from the bed, pulled a pillow onto the floorboards, and sat down with her legs crossed, her eyes almost closed, and her hands resting on her knees, thumb and forefinger just the width of one grain of rice apart.

  In the hours of wakefulness, Maisie did not go back and question her motives. She accepted her decision: this journey was one she felt compelled to make. Then the hour came. She rose, and washed at the sink in the corner, then dressed in khaki linen trousers, a dark cotton blouse, and a linen jacket. She picked up her walking shoes, carpetbag, and satchel, and crept downstairs in her bare feet. Tiptoeing across the courtyard, she reached the door, which she unlatched with barely a sound. After stepping out onto the street, she closed it behind her and took a few paces before slipping on her socks and shoes and walking to the prearranged meeting place. A black motor car was idling in the gray light of early morning. Vallejo stepped out as she approached and held the door open for her. She slipped into the back seat, and Vallejo climbed in beside her.

  “This is Raoul, the best driver on both sides of the border—eh, Raoul?” Vallejo tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  Raoul turned to Maisie and smiled. His smile was broad but swift, as he turned and gave one nod of the head in greeting, then looked back at the road before him. He turned up the headlamps, and the motor car moved off. It was only a matter of yards to the border.

  Maisie held her breath as the guard checked her passport and papers, shining a light on her face and then back onto the documents. A stamp came down with a thud. He seemed to know Vallejo, giving him back his papers and waving the car through. The sun was a mere red pinprick of light on the horizon as Raoul drove on.

  At first Maisie was awake, taking account of the land around her. Sometimes it was arid, with low trees, and at other times it seemed as if they were driving through a primeval forest. Then the motor car slowed, moving at a crawl through a small village of rough stone houses, where a lone dog barked as they passed, and chickens crossed in front of the vehicle, hindering their progress. Then she slept, waking only when she heard Vallejo and Raoul in low conversation, discussing the route. Maisie was surprised—they must have stopped at some point, as Vallejo was now sitting alongside the driver. She had slept through the break in the journey. Having turned and noticed she was now awake, Vallejo gave her a brief smile.

  “You slept for some time—it’s good, for the route is longer than it might normally take. Raoul said he has made it from Gibraltar to Madrid in six and a half hours before, but for us, well, there are places we have to avoid. The Nationalists are concentrating their attention on the Madrid–Valencia road, but still, we had to weave well away from Malaga early on, and we must be careful to avoid pockets of fighting. Are you hungry? Do you need to stop?”

  Maisie nodded. “I’m thirsty more than anything. And I’d certainly like to stretch my legs.”

  Vallejo smiled. He understood. “Raoul can pull over here if you need to go into the woods. There is nothing to fear in there—and it’s private.”

  Maisie thanked Vallejo, who instructed Raoul to stop the car when it was convenient. The driver nodded, and a minute later maneuvered onto a dirt shoulder next to an area of dense woodland opposite a row of simple dwellings. There was no sign of human activity.

  “No one can see you once you step in among the trees, and we have to study the map in any case.”

  Maisie stepped into the silent woodland, moving in for some yards to assure her privacy. It was as she was on her way out that she gasped and came to a sudden halt. She stepped behind a tree. The motor car was surrounded by three men in uniform, their rifles trained on Raoul in the driver’s seat; another directed his weapon toward Vallejo, who was in conversation with a fifth soldier as he looked over their papers. She watched and waited, feeling her stomach muscles clench. Vallejo seemed calm, one hand in his pocket, one hand gesticulating, as if to underscore a point. He turned back to the motor car, leaned in through the window, and came out with the map in his hand. The soldier nodded. Maisie continued to watch, hardly allowing herself to breathe. Vallejo was talking them out of danger—she could see that in the way he had drawn the men into conversation. But who were the soldiers? Republican, or Franco’s Nationalists? Were they Italians, brought in to support Franco’s forces? Or German? Or perhaps members of the International Brigades?

  The soldier speaking to Vallejo signaled his men to lower their rifles, and as Maisie watched, they gathered to one side. Raoul leaned from his window to offer cigarettes, which they took with gratitude, sharing a joke with the driver. Vallejo and the soldier had laid the map across the motor car bonnet, and she could see them marking out a route. Then it seemed as if everyone was more at ease. Vallejo rolled up the map and shook hands with the soldier, who touched his peaked cap and waved to his men to join him. They moved off, back along an alleyway between two rough sandstone buildings.

  Vallejo watched them until they were out of sight, then turned and looked back into the woodland. He signaled. She stepped from her hiding place and ran to the motor car, where Vallejo was holding open the door ready for her. He closed the door, then moved to the front passenger seat.

  “Get down, Maisie, just for a while. I’ll tell you when you can sit up again.�
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  From her cramped position, she saw both Raoul and Vallejo raise their hands, smile and wave at the soldiers, who had turned back to watch them depart. The motor car sped up.

  “You can sit up now,” said Vallejo, when some moments had passed.

  “Who were they?”

  “Russians—on our side, or at least, we think they are.”

  “What did they want with us?” asked Maisie.

  “Just to find out who we were, and where we were going. The fact that I speak Russian helped,” said Vallejo.

  “Am I a liability on this journey?” She leaned forward to better be heard over the roar of the engine.

  Vallejo shook his head. “When you get to Madrid, you will be surprised how many women have come into the city—women journalists, a photographer or two, a couple of your British politicians. There’s that woman—Red Ellen. Red for Communist?”

  “Ellen Wilkinson, in Madrid? She’s called Red Ellen for the color of her hair, and she’s a much-loved fighter for workers’ rights in Britain.”

  “You approve of her?”

  “I admire her—so yes, I approve, for what it’s worth.”

  Vallejo nodded. “Anyway, no, you’re not a liability—but you never know with Russians, which way they are going to go. They might not have been in proximity to a woman in a while, so it was best to be safe.”

  “Thank you.” Maisie sat back, and then leaned forward again. “What is it like, in Madrid?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. Surprisingly normal, for a city being bombed almost every day. The Nationalists are trying very hard to take Madrid. Their plan is to encircle the city, so they have fought us in Jarama, where the International Brigades suffered terrible losses, and also in University City, where I was employed. It is now—more or less—the front, and they have been fighting within the buildings, with Italians taking one floor and the Republic another. We are holding the line, though, much to Franco’s shock. He thought he could just walk in with his Nationalist soldiers, with his Moors from Africa and with the fascist Germans and Italians, but we are holding the line.” He turned back to face the road again. “There are anti-Fascist Germans fighting for us, and the Garibaldi Battalion of sympathizing Italians. God bless them all. It is crazy.”