The air around Gonzalo hummed with tension. He watched, detached, as lines formed and uniformed men began to move from passenger to passenger, inspecting papers and luggage. A number of the English passengers were arguing loudly in their mother tongue with the inspectors. The Americans were courteous to the British, and more impatient with the French, who saw no need to translate their displeasure. No one enjoyed going through customs, but Gonzalo noticed that the inspectors did seem to be allowing people to leave the boat.
He had become a keen observer in the last few months because he was forced to gain all of his information through observation. No one on the London–New York steamer spoke Spanish. Gonzalo, who had been severely seasick for much of the voyage, had spoken to no one since waving farewell to his well-wishers in London. He was still being treated like a brown paper parcel. Well wrapped up, and mailed from city to city, COD, he thought sadly, and then reproached himself for being ungrateful. He owed his life to the people who had treated him like a package. After a tense week hiding in the English embassy, he had been smuggled to France along with a packet of diplomatic mail. From there, he had taken a boat for London, where he had been met by a delegation of the Association of Friends of the Spanish Republic. They were the ones who had raised the money for his passage to New York. They had done it for the best. They could not have known how terrible it was to be seasick and alone, with no one even to understand your misery.
“Your papers, sir. Vos papiers, s’il vous plait.” The voice jerked Gonzalo back to the present. A man in a dark blue uniform was holding out his hand, looking impatient.
Gonzalo hastily handed over his visa. The man glanced at it and then frowned, looking more closely. “May I see your passport, sir?”
Gonzalo gathered that he was being asked for more information, but was unclear of what kind. “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” He had learned the English words during his brief stay in London, and had found them extremely useful.
“Your passport. Passeport. Look, do you speak French? Parlez-vous français?”
“No.” Gonzalo shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He had in fact understood the guard’s request but had no idea how he could explain that he did not actually have a passport, and why.
The American gave an incomprehensible exclamation of annoyance, and then gestured to Gonzalo, speaking loudly and slowly. “Look, wait here, please. Wait. Here.” He turned, still holding Gonzalo’s visa, and hurried across the deck to another uniformed man. The inspectors spoke rapidly together for a few moments. Then one of them called over a third. Gonzalo watched them, and felt himself starting to sweat.
The three men approached Gonzalo. “I don’t speak Spanish.” It was the third man, sounding annoyed.
“Come on, Tony, it’s the best we can do,” It was the more senior inspector.
“Ok, ok. Ummm . . . Voi siete di Ispagna?” To Gonzalo’s surprise the question was in Italian.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Ispagnole di repúbblica?”
Gonzalo sensed a crevasse opening before his feet. This was not a good question to answer in Italian. As he hesitated, he heard a commotion in English. A red-headed man in a rumpled brown suit was pushing his way up the gangplank, arguing loudly with customs officials. “Look, he doesn’t speak English. He’ll need me to . . . There he is! Hey, Gonzalo! Gon-zalo! Viva la República!” As Gonzalo watched, horrified, the young man thrust his fist into the air, practically under the nose of the hostile customs inspector. Helplessly, Gonzalo nodded, and raised one hand in reply, reflecting that the Italian guard’s question had just been answered.
Gonzalo’s interrogators turned to greet the newcomer. “And you are?” It was the French-speaking guard who had originally approached Gonzalo.
“Michael McCormick, sir.” The redhead held out his hand. “I’m sponsoring this gentleman for citizenship.”
The uniformed heads bent over Gonzalo’s visa again and conferred. Michael grinned over them and winked at Gonzalo.“Do you speak Spanish?” the senior guard asked.
“Yes, of course.¿ Oyes, Gonzalo? ¡Quieren saber si hablo español! ” Mike McCormick was still grinning like a bride. Gonzalo smiled back, more relieved than he could say to hear his native tongue, and grateful to Miguel for being kind enough to translate.
“Could you ask Mr. Lo-ren-te”—the official struggled valiantly with the foreign name—“who paid his passage?”
“Sure.” Mike rapidly translated the question, and Gonzalo’s slightly bewildered reply.
“And what he plans to do after entering the U.S.?”
Gonzalo blinked when Mike translated. The American, with his imperfect grip on Spanish idiom, had inadvertently used the future tense for the question, instead of the more common “going to do.” The phrase implied a long-term future that Gonzalo had barely been able to imagine. “Look for work, I guess,” he said. “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
“Buena respuesta.” Mike nodded approvingly and translated.
The customs officials nodded approvingly also. The next few questions were rapid and uninterested. Then Mike was hoisting Gonzalo’s duffel onto one shoulder and guiding him toward the gangplank, speaking in rapid-fire, oddly accented bursts of Spanish. “Damn, I’m glad to see you, Gonzalo. I almost died with surprise when I got your letter from London. Watch your step.” Gonzalo had stumbled slightly when he reached the pier, unable to reaccustom himself to solid ground after so many days at sea.
“I’m so sorry about Pedro,” Mike continued. “He wrote me when I was in Barcelona, you know. I still have the letter. I can show it to you. No, we don’t want a cab. We can walk to the station, your bag’s light. Come on.”
Gonzalo followed the American out of the echoing hangar that enclosed the pier, and into a chaos of automobiles. “Are there always this many cars?” he asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. This is Twelfth Avenue and Twenty-third Street, by the way. We’re going to Eighth and Thirty-fourth.”
“Streets don’t have names?”
“No, not in Manhattan. Well, not—shit, I don’t know the word—not uptown. Not in the north.”
Mike saw Gonzalo’s look of distress, and clapped him on the back with his free hand. “I know, comrade. It’s not the Calle Tres Peces. But it’s not so bad, really. And pretty soon it won’t even be confusing.”
Gonzalo nodded, and fell into step. As they walked eastward, Mike lowered his voice and said, “Listen, after I got your letter I tried to find out about Carmen.”
“Oh?” Gonzalo tried not to be hopeful.
“It’s kind of a long shot,” Mike said apologetically. “But the State Department says there’s a Maria Carmen Llorente de Palomino in Granada.”
“In Granada?” Gonzalo repeated, and shook his head. “It must be a different woman then.”
“That’s what I thought,” the American agreed. “But I have a friend who works for the Red Cross, and he knows people in Switzerland who know people in Spain, and . . . well, it’s a long story, but it looks like there’s an Aleja Palomino in Granada, too. And I’d call that a long shot, because my friend says that this kid is in a convent school, and that doesn’t seem too likely, but if Carmen’s there . . .” He trailed off.
“Jesus Christ,” Gonzalo said softly.
“It was the best I could do,” Mike explained anxiously. “This Carmen Llorente in Granada, the profession given was domestic. She’s working for a rich family, it seems. I don’t know the name. Can you think of anyone, Gonzalo? Who were the people she worked for in Madrid?”
“Del Valle,” Gonzalo said automatically. “But this is someone different.”
“You think you know who, then?”
Gonzalo took a deep breath. “I have an idea,” he said slowly. “But I don’t even know the name. It’s a long story.”
They had reached the corner of Eighth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Mike, peering at his guest, saw that Gonzalo looked gray. “Why don’t we stop and grab
a coffee,” he said. “We can take the subway uptown and still catch our train.”
Gonzalo nodded, still looking abstracted, and allowed Mike to shepherd him into the deli on the corner. “See, the Metro— the subway—is right there,” Mike explained, pointing to a staircase surmounted by a greenish globule, which looked singularly ugly to Gonzalo. “It takes us right to the train station. A beautiful station, Gonzalo. As beautiful as Atocha. You’ll like it.”
Mike realized that he was talking too much, but the faraway expression in Gonzalo’s eyes unnerved him. Exchanging a few words in English with the man behind the counter was a relief. Remembering the Spanish habit of large midday meals, the American ordered coffee and gargantuan sandwiches for both himself and his guest. Seated comfortably in a booth, surrounded by shining blue and white linoleum, Mike inspected Gonzalo. To his relief, the Spanish veteran was looking more lively. “It must have been a tough trip,” he commented.
“Yes.” Gonzalo appreciated Mike’s kindness. But he felt too overwhelmed to respond at the moment. “I’ll tell you all about it later, in private, if you like.”
“Sure,” Mike agreed. He smiled, prepared to joke with Gon-zalo. “I’ve been scared stiff the last few days that your ship would go down.”
Gonzalo smiled back. “Now that was one part I didn’t worry about!”
“Ahh, you’re too used to wartime. I bet everyone else on the boat was worried.”
Gonzalo saw that Mike was only half-joking. “Why?” he said simply. “Who would sink the ship?”
The American’s jaw dropped, revealing a considerable amount of BLT. “You don’t know? Jesus, Gonzalo, you might as well have been at the bottom of the sea! Didn’t you get any news on board?”
“It was a London–New York passage,” Gonzalo explained apologetically. “All of the news was in English. And I didn’t know anyone.”
“Jesus, Gonzalo, I thought . . . I . . . Jesus! Hitler invaded Poland four days ago. Germany and England are at war. And France and Italy, too, because of their alliances.”
The clatter of crockery suddenly faded into background noise for Gonzalo. “Spain?” he asked urgently.
“Neutral.” Mike shook his head. “So far. But this is it, Gon-zalo. If Germany and Italy are at war, then it’s only a matter of time before Franco’s pulled in. And then, once the English and French have to fight him. . . .” He grinned and clenched one fist in front of his plate. “Viva la República.”
“You’re an optimist.” The words were dampening, but a smile was pulling at the corners of Gonzalo’s mouth.
“It’s a funny kind of optimist who hopes for war.” For a moment Michael McCormick spoke seriously, as a veteran. Then his puppylike eagerness reappeared, and he grinned. “But you have to admit it’s a wonderful opportunity!”
“It’s a bit sudden,” Ramos said self-consciously. “But it’s a wonderful opportunity.”
“You deserve it, sir,” Tejada replied, with every appearance of sincerity.
Ramos fidgeted with the cuffs of his new uniform. “I feel a bit guilty about it,” he confessed. “As if it were taking advantage of someone else’s misfortune.”
“Not at all, sir,” Tejada said reassuringly. “You weren’t responsible for the accident.”
“No,” his commander admitted. “I suppose if anyone is, it’s the damn fool who was the buildings inspector when the Reds were in power.”
“It’s no one’s fault, really,” Tejada said soothingly, and with complete disregard for the truth. In fact, it had taken him nearly three months to figure out a way to engineer the late Captain Morales’s fatal accident.
The idea had come to him during a stretch patrolling with Corporal Torres. The corporal’s unremitting interest in the rooftops had finally led Tejada to wonder how stable the chunks of crumbling stone that adorned the tops of Madrid’s houses really were. Surely, after years of bombardment, one or two sizable pieces must have been shaken loose, ready to fall onto unwary pedestrians. Another month of careful observation of the captain’s patterns of movement and the buildings under which he passed had given the sergeant the further information he needed. One sweltering August afternoon, the inhabitants of an old apartment building in one of the less salubrious neighborhoods had been pulled from their siestas by the crash of falling masonry and had discovered a guardia civil lying dead beneath it. The brothel up the street had discreetly closed during the investigation. And the neighbors had all been unable to recollect seeing Captain Morales before. The civil authorities had condemned the building as unsafe, and Madrid’s Guardia Civil posts had lowered their flags to half-mast and held a memorial service for an exemplary officer.
A few weeks later, Lieutenant Ramos received notification that he had been promoted to captain and was going to be transferred to command of the Alcalá post. Now, standing in his office at Manzanares, surrounded by piles of boxes, and with his desk unnaturally bare, he looked slightly sheepish. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Captain.” Tejada enjoyed watching the way Ramos’s lips tugged upward at their corners whenever he heard his new title.
“Oh, and Tejada.” Ramos leaned absentmindedly on the desk, and it rocked.
“Captain?”
“When this came through I recommended you for a promotion, too. It won’t go through this time, I’m afraid. But I wanted you to know.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Tejada said, touched. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all,” Ramos said, coming around the desk and holding out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you. And honestly, I think the only reason the higher-ups didn’t go for it was because of that business with Llorente.”
“Yes, sir.” Tejada kept his face carefully blank.
“I understand perfectly, you know,” Ramos went on, confidentially. “And I told them that there were mitigating cir- cumstances. Off the record, of course. So I don’t think it should hurt your prospects permanently.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well.” Ramos smiled. “We’re all human. We make mistakes. They shouldn’t have to be fatal.”
“No, sir,” Tejada agreed sadly, following the captain out of the room. “They shouldn’t have to be fatal.”
Acknowledgments
This book would never have been written without many people, but a few outstanding contributions should be mentioned.
First and foremost, my eternal gratitude to Persephone Bra-ham, for giving me the idea, and encouraging me to actually write the book, and to Chalcey Wilding for giving me chapter-by-chapter critique and encouragement.
Then to my parents, for putting up with my obsession with postwar Madrid, and to everyone at Columbia’s Administrative Information Services for giving me time to indulge it.
Finally, my thanks to Aurelio Mena, and the other creators of the magnificent Web site, “La guerra de nuestros abuelos” (http://platea.pntic.mec.es/~anilo/abuelos/primera.htm) for making available so many oral histories of the Spanish Civil War and the postwar period, and to the Madrid Metro’s official site (http://www.metromadrid.es) for the history of the Metro during the war.
Death of a Nationalist Page 24