Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  “Idiot,” Jiménez said scornfully. “He knows the alcázar. He doesn’t need to get reacquainted. I bet he could find his way around it in the dark with his eyes closed.”

  “Is it true that General Franco gave him a medal for heroism in a special ceremony in ’37?” Durán asked, wide-eyed.

  “Of course. You know Corporal Torres? He’s seen Tejada in dress uniform and he says there’s a decoration.”

  Vásquez looked around him and shook his head. “Three months in here, with the Reds bombarding it,” he said. “I heard they were eating rats when Varela lifted the siege.”

  “I can’t picture the sergeant eating rats,” said Durán thoughtfully.

  “Sergeant Tejada could eat anything.” Jiménez was stoutly loyal.

  In fact, Sergeant Tejada was just tasting an excellent cup of coffee while this conversation was taking place. He had headed across the square from the alcázar and down one of the broader streets, stopping in front of a large building with a nineteenth-century facade. There had been elaborate stone carvings over the door, but some vandal had smashed them, and now there was only a suggestion of human forms carved into the yellow stone. The smashed statues, and a few panes of broken glass, were the only hints that war had come anywhere near this building. Its owners had thus far been fortunate. Tejada took off his hat, straightened his crumpled uniform as best he could, and rang the bell.

  A man dressed in black opened it. “Can I help you, Señor Guardia?”

  “Is Señora Pérez in?” Tejada asked.

  “The señora is not receiving anyone today.” The man’s voice was uncompromising in the extreme.

  Tejada had by this time taken in the man’s black coat and gloves. The telegram had been delivered already then. “I know this is a house of mourning,” he said. “I’m here as a friend of Corporal López’s, to present my condolences.”

  The doorkeeper scanned Tejada, and the sergeant wished that he had been able to wear a dress uniform. “Whom shall I announce to the señora?” he asked.

  “Sergeant Carlos Tejada Alonso y León.” The sergeant matched the doorkeeper’s stare.

  He was led into an arched hallway dominated by a staircase, undoubtedly once carpeted and now bare wood. A large portrait hung on the opposite wall. It showed a gray-haired gentleman wearing the dress uniform of a colonel from the War of 1898. One hand rested lightly on his sword. With the other, he beckoned to someone just outside the canvas. Tejada looked at the portrait for a long moment, trying to trace a resemblance to his friend Paco. The servant reappeared. “The señora will see you,” he announced and turned toward the stairs.

  The parlor at the top of the stairs was a handsome room. Sunlight slanted through windows that looked out on a flower garden. In one corner, a piano was open, with a few sheets of music lying on it. The mantelpiece held a cluster of porcelain figures, shoved awkwardly but not carelessly to one side, to make room for two photographs. The first was a photographer’s vision of the portrait in the hallway, set in a heavy silver frame. The second photograph, also silver-framed, was set in the exact center of the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Paco in a cadet’s uniform, looking very young, and very pleased with himself. Someone had placed vases of lilies around it.

  Paco’s mother had risen from the sofa to greet her guest. She was dressed in black and a black lace veil covered steel gray hair. “Sergeant Carlos Tejada Alonso y León, Señora,” the doorkeeper announced, standing to one side.

  As Tejada crossed the sunlit room, he felt a strange sense of familiarity. The room, the lady, his own actions—all of them were governed by a set of rules that he had learned a long time ago and that he had imagined he had forgotten. So it was not knowledge of the rules of etiquette but a sort of muscular memory, similar to that necessary for riding a bicycle, that made him bow over his hostess’s hand and kiss it. “Your servant, Doña Clara.” He kissed one cheek and then the other, still acting from some half-remembered script. “My deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you.” She gestured him to a seat, and then resumed her own. “It was good of you to come, Carlos. Forgive me—I should say Sergeant Tejada.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You have the right, Doña Clara.”

  She turned to the black-clad servant. “Bring us coffee please, José.”

  There was a pause. The script was deserting him at the crucial moment, leaving only ugly truths to be spoken. “I hoped to arrive earlier, to tell you in person.”

  “I am surprised you came so soon,” she replied reassuringly. “How did you know? Did Paco contact you in Madrid before . . . the end?”

  “No.” Tejada found himself wishing that he was already on his way back to Madrid. “No. Actually, I identified him.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Tejada hesitated. Doña Clara twisted a handkerchief in her lap. “Please, Carlos. The official notice gave no details. And I want to know. I can bear it better if I know.”

  She had been a soldier’s wife, Tejada reminded himself, and she was a soldier’s widow. She had borne the siege along with her husband and son. Slowly, he began to sketch the scene for Paco’s mother. It seemed to take a long time although there was actually very little to tell. There was too much that he did not know, and too much of what he did know was too sordid to discuss. There was no need to mention the way Paco’s limbs had stiffened before the stretcher arrived. No need to mention that his eyes had not been closed. Tejada found himself suppressing the episode of María Alejandra’s notebook as well. Too many unanswered questions surrounded it. He mentioned the miliciana who had presumably killed Paco, but only briefly. Doña Clara closed her eyes. “A woman! Their women, too! May God have mercy, Carlos. They aren’t human!”

  “No,” he said quietly.

  The door opened and José reappeared, bearing a tray. He poured the coffee, and Tejada, judging that more discussion of the details of Paco’s murder would be tasteless, cast around for a change of subject. “I wish I had known Paco was in Madrid,” he said. “When was he transferred, do you know?”

  “He was in the north until after we won Gerona.” Doña Clara tacitly agreed to the conversation’s new direction. “I believe he was a border guard for a while.”

  “In Cataluña?”

  “Yes, he was sent there just before my husband passed away. Francisco”—Doña Clara crossed herself, in memory of the departed—“was very relieved that he was leaving Basque country. He used to say that the Catalans would go to hell, but that the Basques would go home to hell.”

  Tejada smiled. “I had a few letters from Paco now and then, and I think he agreed about the Basques. But he would have hated anywhere that wasn’t Toledo, I think. I’ve never met anyone who loved Castile so much.”

  Doña Clara smiled, too. “Yes, he was like his father. ‘La mía Castilla,’ they always said. As if the land were their sweetheart. It was a shame he had to leave. Even his father sometimes thought it hadn’t been a good idea, but you know after that business . . . ;” she trailed off.

  “A lot of people were transferred after the siege,” Tejada agreed. He was starting to remember why he had chosen the Guardia Civil, and not the civilian life his parents had urged on him. It was difficult referring to sieges and battles as “that business.”

  “What? Oh, the siege, yes, of course. After that.” Doña Clara looked vaguely discomfited.

  The sergeant felt a flicker of surprise. He had assumed that Paco’s transfer had been random: the fortunes of war. But Paco’s mother seemed to think otherwise. “Was there some other reason?” he asked, and then kicked himself for cross-examining a grieving woman on what was supposed to be a condolence visit.

  “Oh.” Doña Clara was blushing faintly. “I assumed you knew . . . it was nothing serious really. Just . . . well, it’s not a woman’s place to judge these things.”

  “I’m sure Paco was always the soul of honor,” Tejada said, fighting against a disloyal and discourteous desire to pursue the su
bject. He tried to recall some clue to Doña Clara’s embarrassment.

  “Of course.” Doña Clara smiled at him warmly. “That was what I said. Francisco—may he rest in peace—was . . . well, a good husband, of course, but perhaps more . . . susceptible himself. But I knew that my son would never get entangled with that painted hussy.”

  Tejada choked on his coffee. Hussy? Jesus, Paco, you could have told me! He struggled with an unreasonable sense of betrayal. He was just hurt enough to commit a further breach of good manners. “I assume he . . . er . . . didn’t give his father any more cause for concern?”

  “Not the slightest,” Doña Clara agreed complacently. She bit her lip, perhaps aware that she had expressed herself rather strongly. “Would you like more coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Tejada, awash in surprising disclosures, felt his feet strike solid ground. “It’s delicious,” he added truthfully.

  Doña Clara smiled, but her eyes were tear-filled. “It was my last gift from Paco. He knew how hard rationing was for civilians, so he always tried to send me supplies. The coffee came last month, with a pound of sugar as well. He must have starved himself to be so generous.”

  Tejada nodded. “That’s like him. I remember, during the siege, it must have been the middle of August, I thought I’d go insane. He handed me half his morning’s rations and said, ‘Here, eat, Carlito. You need it.’ And God help me, I ate it. I don’t think I even thanked him.”

  Doña Clara wiped her eyes. “You didn’t have to, Carlos. You know, before each of the girls were born, he kept saying to me, ‘Remember, Mama, I want a little brother this time.’ And afterward, oh, he was so angry he wouldn’t speak to me. He found a brother in you.”

  “I’m honored,” Tejada said softly.

  He would have liked to linger over the coffee, talking more of the siege, of Paco, and Paco’s father, and the early days of the war, when he had believed that victory would be quick and painless. But the chiming of the little clock over the piano was insistent. “I must go,” he said, at five-thirty. “I’m supposed to be on duty. And my men and I have to return to Madrid tonight.”

  Doña Clara rose, and gave him her hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  He kissed her on both cheeks again, before leaving. Another phrase from a past life came unbidden to his lips. “I am always at home to you.”

  José showed him out.

  A few minutes after six, Tejada and his men rolled out of Toledo. Jiménez and a few of the others would have dearly liked to question the sergeant about the deployment of troops during the siege and about several prominent pockmarks in the walls of the alcázar. But Tejada was in an abstracted mood, and none of them dared to raise the subject. Finally, Durán said hesitantly, “Did you have a good afternoon, Sergeant?”

  “Hmm?” Tejada had been staring out at the dry yellow fields. “Yes, thanks. I visited . . . an old acquaintance.”

  The guardias civiles were forced to be content with that.

  Chapter 7

  Carmen Llorente had not been among the crowd at the railroad station who had seen the Guardia Civil transporting prisoners to Toledo. She heard an account of it from her employer that afternoon though, and came home white-faced. Her brother was pacing the floor when she arrived.

  “I have an idea,” he announced, as soon as she came in. “Those people you work for . . . they’re rich enough to buy things on the black market. Where do they go, can you find out?”

  Carmen had taken off her coat. It took some effort for her to hang it up as she said shakily, “No.”

  “Damn it, Carmen. Are you sure?” Gonzalo had spent all day indoors. The little piece of silver foil that had seemed like such a good lead yesterday now seemed to mock his hopes. He had started at every creak in the boards, and gone so far as to hide himself in the closet a few times. This contact with the black market had been his only idea all day. It had seemed sure-fire.

  Carmen stepped forward and slapped him as hard as she could. “You self-centered bastard.” Her voice was shaking with the effort of keeping it low, when she wanted to scream. “Don’t ask what happened today. Don’t ask how the hell I’m supposed to feed us now that I’m out of a job. Don’t ask what happens to women like me who are stupid enough to try to hide carbineros. Just look at that damn chocolate wrapper, and try to find out about the black market!”

  “You lost your job?” Gonzalo rubbed his jaw, irritated. There was, he thought, no way he could have known that Carmen would be in a bad mood. It wasn’t his fault. “I didn’t know. Why?”

  “Why should you care?” Carmen turned her back to him and leaned on the table. “It doesn’t concern you. You don’t care about anything except getting some stupid vengeance for Viviana.”

  “I care if we eat,” Gonzalo retorted.

  “We! You mean Aleja and me, too? Big of you!”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Gonzalo whispered, uncomfortably aware that his sister’s voice had gotten steadily louder. “I’m sorry, I just . . . why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Carmen sank into a chair and rubbed her forehead. “Señor del Valle was arrested yesterday evening. They found some articles he’d written before the war. The señora thinks that it would be better for me not to come anymore. Safer.”

  “So we’re safe and starving?” Gonzalo transferred his irritation to the absent Señora del Valle. “Brilliant!”

  Carmen shook her head and made a conscious effort to hold on to her temper. “It would have happened sooner or later. I overheard them a couple of days ago. They were talking about going to France.”

  “Sounds a bit late for that,” Gonzalo remarked.

  “Much too late,” his sister agreed. “The señora told me that Señor del Valle was taken out of Madrid today. There was a whole convoy leaving by train. She said she called to him but there were so many people he didn’t hear. And guardias civiles were holding off the crowd.”

  “Did the train come back?” Gonzalo asked.

  “She stayed until this evening, hoping to see.” Carmen shuddered. “There’s a rumor it went to Toledo. They say it’s a bad sign if it comes back empty too quickly.”

  “Shit,” said Gonzalo.

  “I know. Señor del Valle was a good man.”

  “Shit.” It was the atheist’s equivalent of “May he rest in peace.”

  Carmen stood up, and went back to her bag. “Señora del Valle paid me through the end of the week.”

  Gonzalo rubbed his eyes. “With what?”

  “Bread. Almost a whole loaf. And there’s an orange for Aleja.”

  “She’s been saying she’s hungry.”

  “At least she’s saying something,” Carmen sighed. “Where is she?”

  Gonzalo pointed without speaking.

  “Oh. Damn.”

  There was still a blanket draped over a string in the living room screening off the bed he had shared with Viviana. Gonzalo had made the bed again after her burial, turning back the sheets and placing the two pillows in an awkward L shape, because it was too narrow for them to fit properly. (“You’d think we’d be very uncomfortable,” Viviana had said, laughing, the first time she made the bed.) Then he had continued sleeping on the couch. Carmen walked over to the blanket and then pushed it to one side. Aleja was curled up on the bed, hugging her knees.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” Carmen sat down and put one arm around her daughter. There was no reply. “You’re so quiet, I didn’t even know you were there. Are you angry because I snapped at Tío Gonzalo? I didn’t mean it.” Carmen was stroking the little girl’s hair now, her voice coaxing. “Would you like a piece of bread?”

  “All right.” Aleja’s voice could not be called enthusiastic but it was a voice.

  Relief flooded through Carmen. “You’ll feel better after you eat, precious. And then maybe tomorrow you’ll go to school.”

  Aleja tensed and shook her head. “I can’t go to school.”

  “But, sweetheart, you’ve missed thr
ee days.”

  “Tío Gonzalo doesn’t have to go out,” the little girl pointed out.

  “Shh-shh,” Carmen said automatically. “Remember, I explained. Tío Gonzalo isn’t going out because he’s hiding. We have to be very careful to say that it’s just us two here. But you have to go back to school, Aleja.”

  Aleja burrowed her head against her mother’s stomach. “I don’t have my notebook.” Her voice was the whine of a much younger child.

  Carmen looked toward her brother for support. But he was standing with his back to them, and the set of his shoulders told her that he did not feel like intervening. “But you can’t miss school forever,” she wheedled. “Think how Señorita Fer-nández would feel if you went away and never said good-bye to her. Maybe she’ll be able to help you get a new notebook.”

  “Tía Viviana promised me my notebook.” The end of Aleja’s sentence was drowned in tears.

  Carmen closed her eyes and rocked her daughter back and forth, murmuring soothing nonsense. I am going to go mad very soon, she thought. Gonzalo had said nothing to reproach his niece since his return home but he had not helped to comfort her either. For all Carmen knew, the two of them passed their days in total silence. Gonzalo either brooded or took insane risks. And now even the tenuous normality of life in the del Valle household was gone. Tomorrow her daily routine would be gone. Tomorrow, she thought, Aleja has to go to school. I’ll take her myself. Get Aleja out of the house first. Then I can see about work. She shuddered. There was no work. There were the women in front of the soldiers’ barracks, who put up with the jeers. Puta roja. Red whore. But they ate. She wasn’t that hungry yet. But if Aleja began complaining. . . . Carmen turned abruptly to her brother, determined to shut out the thought. “I’ve heard you can buy things in the Plaza de la Cebada.”

  Gonzalo, who had been ignoring his sister and niece, was unaware that she was talking to him for a moment. “Cheaper, you mean?” he asked stupidly, when she repeated her comment.

  “No.” Carmen’s voice was dry. “More expensive things. What you were asking about.”