Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  “Oh.” Gonzalo turned. He hesitated a moment and then said, “Will you be all right if I go out now?”

  The knot in his sister’s chest loosened almost imperceptibly. It was not all right, and he would go anyway, but at least he was asking. “I’ll be all right if you come back,” she said, trying to smile.

  He nodded. “I’ll have to say I forgot my identity card, if they ask,” he said.

  She nodded. They both knew that he would not survive a meeting with soldiers without papers. But at least he was trying. Gonzalo took a cap that had belonged to his brother-in-law and tried to make sure that it shadowed his face as much as possible. It was not much of a disguise. He set out for the Plaza de la Cebada, hoping that he would meet no one he knew. As far as he could tell, his luck held. It was a fine evening, and people were beginning to come out again. There was enough traffic in the streets to make him inconspicuous, but he saw no one he recognized.

  The Plaza de la Cebada was not far away, and Gonzalo was disturbed by how much the walk tired him. Carmen had given him a hot drink in the morning, which, against all sensory evidence, she had insisted was coffee. He had eaten the night before. It hardly counted as fasting. He crossed the Calle de Toledo with his head down, and then jumped as a streetcar clanged its bell. It was bearing down on him, and the driver was cursing and gesticulating. Gonzalo managed a shuffling run to get out of the way. He leaned against a building on the other side of the street, to recover from the surprise, he told himself, although narrowly avoiding a streetcar should not have been enough to make his temples pound as if he were about to faint.

  The plaza was crowded with people. They stood in pairs and groups of three, muttering and glancing over their shoulders. Everyone tried to look casual. No one succeeded. Many people here seemed to be heavily dressed, although the weather was not cold. Occasionally, someone suddenly became thinner as something slid out from under a jacket or shirt. Gonzalo caught a glimpse of a tortilla and found himself salivating. He hesitated, uncertain what to do. A woman, apparently heavily pregnant, was propped against one of the buildings. He wandered over to her.

  She met his eyes, and then raised her eyebrows. “You looking for something?”

  “I might be.” Gonzalo kept his hands in his pockets.

  “I only take Franco’s bills. None of the Republic’s stuff.” She was brisk.

  Gonzalo stared. “How do you know I’m not a guardia?”

  “You?” the woman laughed. “Hombre, the guardia eat. It’s easy to see you don’t.” She tapped her swollen belly. “I’ve got potatoes here, fresh, and some lentils.”

  “What about meat?” Gonzalo asked, thinking of what Manuela had told him.

  She shook her head. “No. The potatoes are a better value, though.”

  Gonzalo’s hand closed on the scrap of silver foil in his pocket. “I’m looking for someone who sells meat,” he said firmly. “And, better than that, chocolate.”

  “Chocolate!” She laughed again. “You don’t want much, hombre. How about a private yacht, while you’re at it?”

  “There must be someone here who sells it,” Gonzalo persisted.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You want the chocolate, or you want to find the person who’s selling it?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  She clasped her hands below the bulge on her stomach, and the bundle shifted in a most un-fetuslike fashion. “You want chocolate, you have to deal with the soldiers.”

  Gonzalo felt his pulse beginning to pound in his temples. Count to five, he reminded himself. “Soldiers?” he asked, keeping his voice as nonchalant as possible.

  It was no use. The smuggler turned away from him to a woman with a leather purse and a shawl over her head. “You looking for something, Señora?”

  “How much would a kilo of potatoes be?” Like Gonzalo, the woman tried to sound nonchalant, but the pleading in her voice was painful to hear.

  Gonzalo drifted away, cursing himself for a fool. Information wasn’t free. And he had nothing with which to pay for it. He wandered along the edge of the plaza, wondering if he would dare approach a soldier. None seemed to be in evidence. Did that mean the Plaza de la Cebada was not the place for chocolates?

  “For the love of God, it’s my engagement ring!” The voice flashed suddenly out of an archway—angry, desperate, and louder than it was intended to be. “The diamond alone is worth thousands of pesetas!”

  There was a low murmur in reply. Gonzalo turned. The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman. She wore a hat and a coat that, although ancient and tattered, was undeniably fur. He loitered closer. The woman’s voice had dropped again, but he heard her protesting and heard someone else steadily denying her pleas. After a few minutes, she passed by him, clutching something under her coat. He wondered for a moment if the smell of meat was only a phantom born of his own desires, and then marched through the archway. Two men lounged there, with a pair of well-worn suitcases in front of them.

  “Where would I find chocolate?” Gonzalo asked quickly, before the men could take in his appearance.

  “In Switzerland,” one replied promptly.

  Gonzalo gritted his teeth. “How many times have you told that joke today?”

  The other man laughed. “Only once today. Not many people bother to ask anymore.” He inspected Gonzalo. “Why are you asking anyway? It looks like you need more than that.”

  “Someone told me I should ask the soldiers,” Gonzalo fenced.

  The first man spat between his teeth. “Someone shoots off his mouth a lot.”

  “Taking cheap shots?” Gonzalo tried to keep his voice light.

  “Any shot at the army’s expensive, buddy,” the smuggler replied.

  Gonzalo had kept his hands in his pockets. He fingered the silver foil for a moment. Then he drew it out. “Suppose I was looking for something like this?”

  One of the men leaned forward and looked at the wrapper. Then he said, “You’d pay?”

  “Sure,” Gonzalo lied. “I can’t until I know who to pay, though.”

  The two men exchanged glances. Then one of them said, “You know the Guardia Civil station up along the Calle Alcalá?”

  “Sure.” Gonzalo was afraid of uttering more than the monosyllable. It was an effort to hide his excitement even then.

  “You know the entrance to the park, a little ways from it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me there tomorrow, at around five. I’m not making promises. But I might be able to help you.”

  Gonzalo considered how to explain that he was really more interested in information than in chocolate. No good idea occurred to him. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and turned to go.

  “One thing.” The man’s voice stopped him.

  “Yes?”

  The two men exchanged glances again, and then one of them said, “Bring an identity card. Our supplier has been a little touchy lately.”

  “Got it.” Gonzalo left, wondering how he would justify not bringing an identity card, and whether it would be worth his effort to bring a gun.

  Chapter 8

  Although his visit to Toledo, with its various ghosts, should have left him brooding and wakeful, Tejada slept the sleep of the just when he returned to Madrid that evening. That was as well. He was scheduled for the morning shift the following day, and he was barely dressed when Lieutenant Ramos sent for him.

  “We’ve got a problem,” the lieutenant said, looking, in Tejada’s opinion, disgustingly alert and enthusiastic given the hour. “And solving it may take some discretion. At ease,” he added. “And pull up a chair, Tejada.”

  Tejada, who had no objection to standing at attention but would have dearly loved five minutes to finish shaving, sat without comment. “I wanted you here because I’m expecting a phone call from Captain Morales at any minute,” Ramos continued. “And I think it would be a good idea for you to hear part of it.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “He was supposed to call five minutes ago.”

/>   “It’s not eight-thirty yet, sir,” Tejada pointed out, struggling for a moment to place Captain Morales. Then he remembered: the commander of Paco’s post.

  “I know,” said the lieutenant, with the sublime incomprehension of a naturally early riser. “He said he’d call at eight-fifteen. The thing is”— he lowered his voice—“we’re losing rations. Someone in the quartermaster’s office is on the take.”

  In Tejada’s considered opinion, this was one of those statements like “Anarchists burn churches” that were not worth the breath expended in saying them. “Surely that’s not unusual, sir,” he suggested.

  Ramos shook his head. “If you mean that they always skim a little, of course. This is more than that. And it’s affecting all the posts in our company. And you know the saying ‘An army travels on its stomach.’ A general who understands that will never be defeated.”

  “Napoleon said that, sir,” said Tejada, feeling that his commander deserved something for interrupting his shave. “And he didn’t do so well in Spain.”

  Perhaps fortunately, the telephone rang at this point. The lieutenant picked it up. “Guardia Civil, Ramos. . . . Good morning, Captain. . . . Yes . . . yes, the man I mentioned is here. Yes, Tejada Alonso y León.” He gestured to Tejada, with one hand over the mouthpiece. “Listen,” he mouthed.

  Tejada rose and walked around the desk so that he could lean over the phone as well. Ramos held out the receiver, and then spoke into it. “Yes, Captain, go ahead.”

  “I’ve spoken with the colonel,” Morales’s voice echoed oddly from the phone, but it was perfectly understandable.“He says that the company’s rations are inspected and that they leave as they should.” Ramos made an eloquent face at Tejada. “I’ve also questioned a number of guardias, and their estimates of their meat rations agree with yours.”

  Ramos pulled the receiver away from Tejada for a moment. “That’s fine then.” He glared at the sergeant, and gestured his skepticism again. “At your orders, Captain.”

  “Nothing further about the rations then,” Morales said. “But you might send Sergeant Tejada to me about that other matter.”

  “Other matter?” Ramos blinked. “Oh, yes, of course. Right away, Captain.”

  Tejada spared a moment to hope that “right away” was a flexible concept that included breakfast.

  “Yes, Captain. Arriba España.” Ramos put down the phone. “Morales is worried too.”

  “I gathered,” Tejada resumed his position on the other side of the desk. “What are your estimates of the meat rations that leave the quartermaster as they should, sir?”

  “Two hundred and fifty grams per man,” said the lieutenant.

  Tejada raised his eyebrows. “Exactly two hundred and fifty grams?” he asked.

  Ramos snorted. “It’s very regular,” he said grimly. “A number of the men told me not to worry, because they were sure it was the correct amount. It’s a round number, and it’s nearly twice civilian rations, you know.”

  “Someone’s being clever then,” Tejada commented. “Have you found any evidence of hoarding?”

  “Jesus, Tejada, you know what this place is like. Do you think someone’s hoarding?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “I suppose you want me to find out what’s going on at Alcalá?”

  “Yes,” Ramos sighed. “Ten to one you don’t find hoarding there either. My guess is that it’s going straight to the black market.”

  Tejada nodded, thinking of the shuttered stores and the crowds surrounding the post begging for food. “When are civilian provisions supposed to arrive for the city, sir?”

  “Officially? Yesterday. Tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”

  Tejada winced. “So it looks like the Reds will be fasting on Good Friday, like it or not.”

  The lieutenant snorted briefly. “Good for their souls, but bad for us. When this is settled, we’ll try to shut down the black market once and for all. But for now, I don’t want our provisions going to them. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll wish me to report to Captain Morales, sir?”

  Ramos nodded. “Yes. The problem has affected the whole company, but it’s been worst at the Alcalá station. Morales will give you the details there. And Tejada—”

  “Sir?”

  “Be discreet.”

  When Tejada presented himself at the Alcalá station, a little over an hour later, he announced only that he had come to collect the personal effects of the late Corporal López. He stated, with an assurance that cowed the corporal on duty, that of course Captain Morales would need to see him and approve the transfer. Captain Morales, who initially looked slightly puzzled when the corporal announced Tejada, was suddenly enlightened when the sergeant said meaningfully, “Lieutenant Ramos sent me, sir. He thought that since I was a personal friend of Corporal López’s I might be able to tell if anything was missing. I believe he spoke to you by telephone, early this morning.”

  “Oh, yes.” Morales signaled to the corporal. “Thank you, dismissed.” Then, when the door had closed, he said quietly, “At ease, Sergeant. Congratulations on your excuse, by the way. Would you like to tell me the real reason you’re here?”

  “Thank you, Captain. I believe you wished to communicate something about rations to Lieutenant Ramos that was too delicate for the telephone?” Tejada observed the man in front of him as he spoke. Morales was a burly man of perhaps forty. Unlike Ramos, he did not look like a paper-pusher, although his job involved as much desk work as that of Tejada’s own superior. His desk, Tejada noted, was a real desk as well, and it was possible to see the surface. An organized man, Tejada thought, wondering who had first noted the disappearance of rations.

  The captain quickly summarized his findings. As Ramos had predicted, they tallied exactly with the information Tejada already had. He took notes, although it was difficult to see how the notes would be helpful. When the captain had finished, Tejada said carefully, “Do you have any suspicions about any of the men here or at our post, Captain?”

  “No,” Morales said curtly. “I wish I did. Or rather”—he smiled briefly—“I don’t really want to find out that one of my own men is behind this. You’d know Ramos’s post better than I would.”

  The sergeant noted that Morales had quickly taken advantage of the slim opportunity offered to shift the blame. Ramos, Tejada reflected, had said that the Alcalá post was worse affected. But that might be an attempt to shift blame as well. No commander liked thinking ill of his own men. None of these thoughts showed in his voice as he said, “Lieutenant Ramos has asked me to try to find out who’s responsible. If I find something, how should I contact you?”

  Morales hesitated. Then he said, “By phone. Alcalá-2136.”

  “Is that secure, sir?”

  The captain nodded. “Admirable discretion, Sergeant. But if you find out anything, I’d like to know as soon as possible. And this is a private line. Ask to speak to me personally and say simply that you have information.”

  “Very good, sir. Alcalá-2136.” Tejada saluted. “At your orders, Captain.”

  “Question the guardias,” Morales said. “I’ve already spoken to my officers but I don’t have time to talk to all of the men.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tejada hesitated for a moment. He had once met a lieutenant experienced in prisoner interrogation who had insisted that questioning was an art form. He added doubtfully, “But you must realize, Captain, I’m not trained as an interrogator.”

  “Your commander speaks very highly of you, and I have every confidence in your ability,” Morales said. “And frankly, there is no one else available.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was, Tejada felt, nothing else to say in the face of such a flattering analysis. He doubted that he would find anything useful, but Lieutenant Ramos clearly expected him to do something, though he had no good idea where to start. Captain Morales escorted him to the door and handed him into the care of the guardia on duty. “Take the sergeant to the dormitories,” he ordered.
r />   The Alcalá post had been a barracks before the war and was arranged with considerably more convenience than the one Tejada was accustomed to since the quarters for the guardias had actually been built for that purpose. Tejada spent the rest of the morning interviewing guardias. Some were confiding, some were openly hostile, and most were cautiously reserved. None of them, so far as the sergeant could tell, revealed anything important. If they were guilty, this was to be expected. If they were innocent, they might have nothing to reveal. Or they might know that revealing information is dangerous, he thought, and filed the idea away. He waited until lunchtime when a new set of men came off patrol duty and interviewed them, without success. It was well into the afternoon when he reported again to Captain Morales’s office. The captain heard him out, and then shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck at your own post.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was nothing in Tejada’s expression to show that he resented the slur. He played his last card. “Permission to collect Corporal López’s things now, sir?”

  Captain Morales looked dubious. “You mean you’re really interested in doing that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tejada chose his words carefully. “I was a friend of López’s, sir, and I would like to send his effects to his mother. But . . . no doubt you’ve already thought of the implications, sir.”

  “Implications?” Morales looked blank.

  “You don’t think that Corporal López’s death might have something to do with the disappearance of provisions, Captain?” Tejada asked. “After all, it’s a surprising coincidence.”

  “No, of course not.” Morales sounded surprised. “I thought López was killed by a Red.” He laughed. “I could be wrong, but I believe that’s based on the report that you filed, Sergeant.”

  “Yes,” Tejada said slowly. “But of course you’ve considered that if the black market is involved, there’s probably someone outside the guardia civil who knows about it.” Something Paco found out, he thought, as two mental notes neatly combined themselves into one entry. Perhaps something based on what that little girl saw—a guardia civil selling something to a Red, maybe? I have to find that child this afternoon, if only to rule it out.