Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  By this time, a boy of perhaps thirteen had appeared at the gate. He turned white at the sight of the guardia civil, but said only, “Did you ring the bell, gentlemen?”

  “Yes,” said Tejada. “We’d like to speak to the director.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” The bolts of the gates clattered as the boy drew them back, perhaps because his hands were shaking.

  One of the little girls in the gym class began to cry as they marched across the courtyard. Someone hastily shushed her. The sergeant glanced at the little knot of children. “Coeducational,” he remarked dryly. “Very modern.”

  Loredo grunted again, but this time it was a friendly grunt. “Can’t hardly tell the boys from the girls,” he agreed. “Unchristian.”

  Their guide whirled around, face burning. “We have separate classes after third grade! And you can tell!”

  Loredo and Tejada glanced at each other, and then stared at the boy, until his face went from red to white. “You salute when you’re speaking to an officer, son,” Loredo said quietly.

  Very slowly, as if it did not belong to him, the boy raised his right arm. His hand twitched a few times, and then seemed to clutch at the handle of an invisible teapot. Tejada reached out, gently pulled the boy’s elbow straight, and uncurled the twitching fingers. The boy’s eyes glittered, with rage or unshed tears. “You’re young,” the sergeant said. “You’ll learn. That’s why we’re here.”

  “And a good thing, too,” Loredo muttered. Tejada smiled, satisfied. If Corporal Loredo were convinced of the necessity of their visit, Tejada’s task would be that much easier.

  The boy said nothing more as he led them through an arched entrance and down a corridor, into the office of the director. The room contained a desk, a filing cabinet, and a chair. That was all. The director of the Leopoldo Alas School apparently did not favor unnecessary ornamentation.

  The director, Señor Herrera, was, if not exactly pleased to see the guardia, at least anxious to appear helpful. He provided the two men with the rolls of the senior classes, and was quite willing to allow Loredo to copy them. Leaving Loredo thus occupied, Tejada turned to Herrera. “One other thing, sir. Does a Señorita Fernández teach second grade here?”

  The day was cool but the director started to sweat. “Yes, Elena Fernández works here. Why do you ask, Officer?”

  “I wonder if I could speak to her for a moment,” Tejada said. “It’s nothing serious. I’d just like to ask her a few questions.”

  Señor Herrera had been pale before. At the last phrase he turned slightly yellowish. “Her room is just up the stairs and to your right,” he croaked. “Number 102. The children go home for lunch at one o’clock. But if you’d like to see her now. . . .”

  “Thank you.” Tejada turned to his colleague. “This is fortuitous, Loredo. I ran across Señorita Fernández’s name last week, in connection with an incident. I’d like to clear up a misunderstanding now, if you don’t mind. I’ll be upstairs when you finish.”

  “Very good, sir.” Loredo saluted, and returned to patiently copying the names and addresses of students onto the pages of a tablet that Señor Herrera had provided. Tejada turned to leave the office.

  “Er . . .” The director cleared his throat desperately. “Do you anticipate . . . I mean . . . should I call a substitute teacher for this afternoon?”

  In spite of the man’s pasty face, and in spite of the fact that he was almost certainly a Red, Tejada was suddenly reminded of Lieutenant Ramos. He laughed, which unnerved Señor Her-rera still more. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Oh, and a piece of friendly advice, Señor, if I may. You don’t seem to have a Spanish flag in your office. I’d recommend you find one. Very important to instill patriotism in the young by example.”

  “Of course, of course,” the director gabbled. “I had a flag, only, er . . . it was . . .”

  “Burned by the Reds?” Tejada suggested, the memory of his harassed commander still putting him in a compassionate mood. “I suspected as much.” His eyes scanned the bare walls of the office and noted several rectangular patches where the paint was noticeably brighter. “You seem to have lost several wall ornaments also. A photograph of General Franco, perhaps? And the lyrics to the national anthem?”

  Señor Herrera swallowed, uncertain how wide an escape route the guardia civil was leaving him. “Of course . . . I’ll replace them with that. . . . I mean, with the photo and . . . I mean, with another photo and . . . just as you suggest, Señor Guardia.”

  Tejada made his way up to room 102, fairly certain that Señor Herrera would present no further problems. As he turned out of the stairwell, he saw an open door on his right, and heard a female voice spilling out of it, saying, “. . . The Count Lucanor heartily approved of Patronio’s advice . . .” He stopped, just before the doorway, and allowed the voice to come to the end of the story. Then he stepped forward.

  The square classroom that met his eyes contained perhaps fifteen children seated in the rows of battle-scarred school desks, in a promiscuous confusion of boys and girls. The walls had once been tan, but paint was peeling from them to reveal the white plaster beneath. Unlike Señor Herrera, however, Señorita Fernández obviously believed in decorating them. Childish drawings were stuck up all around the room, most with carefully lettered captions: “This is my house.” “My older sister has brown eyes and looks like me.” “The Germans bomb Madrid.” One wall was devoted to a chalkboard, which was completely blank.

  Señorita Fernández stood at the front of the room holding the book she had just finished reading. Tejada, whose impression of the school had led him to expect another militant like the woman by Paco’s body, was favorably surprised. The teacher was unobjectionably dressed, in a long garment of so dark a blue it was almost black. Her hair was pinned to the back of her head in a dark, glossy coil, and looked as if it would be unfashionably long. As she turned toward Tejada he saw that she was about his own age. Her eyes widened as she took in his uniform, and the rifle over his shoulder, but her voice was steadier than Señor Herrera’s had been as she said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  The class, Tejada noted, had gone dead silent. He scanned their faces, trying to guess which one might be Maria Alejan-dra. It was hard to tell. Too many of them looked like they had been recently orphaned. “Elena Fernández?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I have some questions for you.”

  “Of course.” She turned toward the class. “Please read the next fable in the Conde Lucanor silently,” she said. “It begins on page 53. I’ll be right back.”

  Tejada gestured toward the hallway with one hand. “Should I get my coat?” she asked in a low voice designed to pass over the heads of the children.

  The sergeant felt a moment of unwilling admiration for Señorita Fernández. She was cooler than many of the men he had arrested. She was either very courageous, or else she had a very clear conscience—and if she had stuck it out in Madrid as a Nationalist then she should probably get an award for courage in any case. “There’s no need,” he answered in the same undertone.

  She let out an almost imperceptible sigh and stepped into the hallway.

  He followed her, and then shut the classroom door. “I wanted to know if you recognized this?” He reached into one of the pouches on his belt, and pulled out the stained and crumpled notebook.

  Her gasp was audible this time and he wondered if he had underestimated her fear. On the other hand, it was an unexpected question for him to ask.

  “I don’t know,” she said after a moment.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know if you recognize it?”

  She looked up at him, and her mouth twisted. “Guardia, as you probably are aware, all of the students at this school have notebooks like that one. I won’t say that I recognize this specific one, because I don’t, but I won’t be entrapped into saying that I have no idea whose it is when I might very well know the owner.”

  Tejada smiled. “Very wise.�
�� He held out the book. “Open it. See if the inside looks familiar.”

  She opened the book to the inside cover right away, he noted, and looked for the owner’s name there. “Alejandra,” she said in a flat voice. “Yes, she’s one of my students. Where did you find this?”

  “Are you surprised?” The sergeant avoided her question.

  “That you’d be interested in a child’s notebook, yes.” She flipped to the final entry on its pages and smiled, a little sadly.“She hasn’t done Friday’s homework, I see. Will I be arrested for asking if she’s still able to?”

  “I imagine it would be difficult to do without the problems,” Tejada answered. “Other than that, I don’t know. I’ve never laid eyes on her.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Who are these notebooks valuable to?”

  “Valuable?” The teacher stared at him. “Aside from the students and their families, no one.”

  “Their families?” Tejada repeated.

  Señorita Fernández made an impatient gesture. “Paper’s rationed, you know. Each child gets one notebook per semester. They have to make it last as long as possible.”

  The sergeant took the book back, and looked at the last entry. There were still nearly fifty clean pages left. A suspicion presented itself, but it did not wholly make sense. “So if a book was lost?” he suggested. “Or stolen?”

  Señorita Fernández lifted her chin. “We don’t steal from each other,” she said.

  Tejada ignored the implicit challenge. “Lost, then.”

  The teacher’s moment of defiance passed. “It would be a disaster. Especially for a student from a poor family.”

  “And Maria Alejandra’s family?” Tejada asked. “Are they poor?”

  “All of the students are from poor families now.” She looked down.

  Tejada’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the best one I can give.”

  “Would you suspect the Palomino family of political activity?” He changed course abruptly. “Any reason why her parents might wish to lie low now?”

  There was a certain bitter triumph in Señorita Fernández’s voice as she answered. “I don’t think you need to worry about her parents. Alejandra’s father died two years ago.”

  “Was he a soldier?” Tejada asked.

  The teacher shrugged. Tejada considered pressing the question, but decided that there was probably an easier way to answer it. “Could you call Alejandra out here, please,” he said. “I’d like to speak to her.”

  “No,” Señorita Fernández spoke with satisfaction. “Alejan-dra has been absent for the past two days.”

  “You don’t find that suspicious?”

  Señorita Fernández had lost either her fear or her patience. “A third of my class is out today. On any given day I have three or four students absent. Runny noses, fevers, a death in the family. Anything could keep them at home. So no, I don’t find it suspicious.”

  Tejada reflected that Maria Alejandra’s mother had almost certainly died four days ago, but he saw no need to offer Señorita Fernández a possible explanation for her pupil’s absence. “Would Señor Herrera’s office downstairs have Maria Alejandra’s address?”

  “Very probably.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Tejada bowed slightly and put his hand on the handle of the classroom door.

  The teacher gasped again. “That’s all?”

  “Yes.” It was Tejada’s turn to look surprised. “Your students should have finished their assigned reading by now.”

  “Well . . . yes.” Señorita Fernández was smiling broadly. “Yes, you’re right. I . . . thank you, Guardia.”

  Her relief was palpable and so strong that the sergeant wondered how frightened she had been. He returned her smile. Whatever else she was, she wasn’t a coward. “Sergeant, actually,” he corrected. “My name is Carlos Tejada. And I would have let you get your coat, you know.” He opened the door for her.

  “That’s very gallant of you.” The words were sarcastic but her voice was almost friendly. “Good-bye, Sergeant Tejada.”

  As he headed down the stairs he heard her say in a loud, clear voice, quite unlike the one she had used during their interview, “All right, those who have finished, raise your hands, please.”

  He found Corporal Loredo halfway through the final class list with Señor Herrera hovering anxiously nearby. The director was only too happy to let him look at the second-grade class rolls as well. They were admirably organized, and Tejada easily found the information he was looking for:

  PALOMINO LLORENTE, M. ALEJANDRA

  Contact: Señora M. Carmen Llorente

  25 Calle Tres Peces

  “Do you know where Calle Tres Peces is, Señor Herrera?” Tejada asked as he copied the address.

  “Only in a general way, sir.” The director gulped as he realized that this could be construed as being obstructive. “It’s down near Calle Atocha, sir. South of it, I think. A bit of a walk for the smaller children but they were sent here because we remained open through the war.”

  Something clicked in Tejada’s mind, with the unpleasant snap of a safety catch being released. Near Atocha. Near the Calle Amor de Dios, which ran south into Atocha, perhaps? A child with “a bit of a walk” would probably take the quickest way home from school. And if something—or someone—startled her, she might well drop her notebook. Something like a murder? Tejada thought. But why go to the trouble to retrieve it? The simplest thing would have been to let the notebook lie where it was. I wouldn’t even have noticed it if I’d just found Paco’s body. No one would connect the two. So what if Paco found the notebook? He’d have found Maria Alejandra as easily as I did. What if he thought he knew something about what she’d seen and wanted to ask her more about it? Something that was worth killing him to make sure that he wouldn’t report it? The sergeant felt the beginnings of satisfaction. If Corporal López had been killed because he was on the verge of discovering a subversive conspiracy, there was an excellent reason to pursue the investigation into his death.

  “Finished, Sergeant.” Loredo broke in on his musings.

  Señor Herrera, who had been unnerved by the sergeant’s pensive silence, cleared his throat. “If there’s any other way I can be of assistance, gentlemen? Would you like a list of the staff as well? And their addresses? To the best of my knowledge none of them have any political affiliations, of course, but it’s been difficult to screen staff during the war.”

  Tejada had a sudden unpleasant vision of himself knocking on Elena Fernández’s door and asking her to get her coat. She would, he was sure, be calmer than her employer under the same circumstances. He looked at Señor Herrera with dislike. “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” he said. “We trust your judgment.”

  Chapter 5

  Gonzalo! What are you doing here? Are you out of your mind? Don’t you know they’ve been shooting people in “ the streets!” Manuela Arcé tried to slam the door. It was no use. Gonzalo’s foot was firmly wedged in the crack.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.” The former soldier had braced both hands on the doorjamb. He glanced down the dusty apartment stairwell. “The street is deserted at the moment, Manuela. And I wasn’t followed.”

  “Jesus, Gonzalo, if Carmen’s been arrested I’m sorry. Really sorry. But you can’t stay here. Forgive me, Gonzalo, but I have children. I can’t risk it.” Manuela tried to look over Gonzalo’s shoulder to see if anyone was coming up the stairs, a difficult endeavor since she was several inches shorter than he.

  “Carmen’s fine.” Gonzalo’s voice was grim. “But I need to ask some questions. And the sooner you let me in, the sooner I’ll leave.”

  “Gonzalo, I can’t . . .”

  “I’ll ask them on the doorstep if I have to.” He glanced down the stairs again. “Of course, someone might come up at any time. But if you won’t let me in . . .”

  “Oh, all right!” Manuela fumbled with the chain, and the door swung open. “Come i
nside, quickly. And stay away from the window.”

  Gonzalo slid inside. His sister’s friend slammed the door behind him. He found his way out of the foyer and into a living room whose only furnishing was a table still dotted with coffee mugs, and a much-stained sofa. Above the sofa was a bare wall. Manuela had not offered him a seat, but he sank onto the sofa anyway.

  “You’ve gotten rid of the flag?” he asked sardonically.

  “Gonzalo!” she begged. “Don’t be foolish.”

  She remained standing, obviously hoping that he would go quickly. A devilish impulse to be as leisurely as possible made him say, “So, how’re the kids? And Javier?”

  She put one hand to her cheek as if she had been struck. “You bastard!” It was almost a sob.

  He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Hope he isn’t out of a job now.”

  “He was arrested on Saturday.” Manuela started to cry in earnest.

  Gonzalo blinked, and then stood up rapidly. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Manuela. I didn’t know. I thought . . . I mean it’s not as if garbage collection’s political. Hell, I’m sorry, Manuela. I’ll ask my questions quickly and get out of here.”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble.” Her voice was bitter.

  “Carmen told me you found Viviana.” Gonzalo had to fight to say the name. Manuela nodded. She had turned away from him and was starting to clear the cups from the table. “She said you heard . . . whatever there was to hear Friday night,” he persisted.

  “I heard shooting.” Manuela no longer sounded angry or grieved. Just exhausted. “But Javier was here, and the kids, and it wasn’t any of my business.”

  Gonzalo sighed. She wasn’t trying to be unhelpful. “At around what time?” he asked, without much hope.

  “The first time? Right after Juana and César got home from school. Maybe five-thirty or six o’clock.”

  Gonzalo blinked in surprise. “The first time?” he repeated. “Was there a volley of shots then? Returned fire?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Just the one shot. César went to the balcony, and he said there was a guardia civil dead in the street. So I told him to let him lie. The guardia don’t travel alone.”