What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  I put out my hand and covered his. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  He grasped my fingers, squeezing them until the blood almost stopped flowing. His distress was such that I thought he might howl out loud and I slid an anxious look to the few other people who had come for an early breakfast, but they were reading newspapers or, in the case of a young couple, staring into each other’s eyes. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  Paul swallowed and, picking up a paper napkin, wiped his face. When he’d regained control, he continued, ‘The commander arrested me and threw me into a stinking prison. I was there until my comrades persuaded him to let me out but I was taken to the border and pushed across. They told me if I go back I will be shot. When I got back to Perpignan and told them what had happened, the editor refused to let me publish my account of the massacre. He, and the owner, were both fierce sympathisers of the Republicans and feared what this story would do for the cause.’

  It was a dreadful story, and I sat back for a moment to take it in. What I had planned to do in the next few hours, find my way, illegally, into Spain, frightened me. I could have gone across the border easily with my press pass, but I would be noticed, possibly followed, and that would bring Charlie into more danger. I looked back at Paul. He was leaning his chin on his hand, gazing into space. Poor boy, I thought, and then I remembered how the conversation had started.

  ‘But the man, the man who follows you. Who is he?’

  Paul squeezed the paper napkin into a tight ball. ‘I do not know, but I think he is a friend of Guisando. From Perpignan.’

  I looked at him, astonished. ‘Why would he be following you?’

  He started to speak, but a waitress came to ask if we wanted more coffee. I shook my head and pushed some francs on to the table. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘We’re leaving,’ and we got up and walked outside, still holding hands, and stood looking at the fast-moving river.

  ‘I haven’t told you all, yet,’ Paul sighed. ‘You see, after I’d been back in Perpignan for a few months, I had an assignment to cover the elections in our city. To find out about the different parties. I went one evening to a bar in the city, which I knew was popular with the Fascists, and, to my shock, Guisando was there with two of the men who had been in his command. He was there in France! In a Fascist bar! I knew then that he’d left Spain because he could see where the war was going and he didn’t want to be on the wrong side. He would be able to go back, claiming that he had seen the light.’ His voice echoed contempt when he spat, ‘The man was a murdering coward, a filthy disgusting coward! I wanted to go up to him and tell the others in the bar what he’d done, but, you see, Seffy, I am a coward too. I kept thinking about being neutral and reporting and not acting. It is very hard. Your Charlie can do it without losing his principles. But I can’t.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I waited until he came out. It was late, the street was empty. I went up to him. Oh, he knew who I was, he even gave me a sneer and looked behind him to remind his friends about me.’ Paul gave a sour laugh. ‘They were not there, because they were still in the bar, picking up girls, maybe. He was on his own; laughing at me. I thought of the people screaming and I knew that he could not be permitted to live. I picked up a piece of broken stone and hit him on the head. Even at the last, he was laughing, he could not believe that I would actually do anything. So he fell and died, but not immediately. It was justice. I do not regret it.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ There in that small street, with passers-by looking on curiously, I took him in my arms and held him close. He was a murderer, yes, but I didn’t care. I thought of Berlin and the wickedness I’d seen there. I knew that I would be capable of the same emotion, the same desire for justice.

  ‘Do you hate me, Seffy? Now that you know,’ he whispered the words into my neck.

  ‘No,’ I said, and looked up to the clouds hovering over the mountains I would soon have to cross. ‘Of course I don’t hate you. I understand.’

  He took a long, shuddering breath and after a moment stepped out of my arms. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I have wanted to tell someone for so long.’

  I smiled and then remembered something. ‘But the man? Why is he following you?’

  ‘I think he is a friend of Guisando. He must have said my name before he died. This man. He waits to get me on my own, but I am careful and then you were there. You stood between him and me.’

  How strange, I thought. He has been using me so why am I not angry? I looked at him, at his pale face and troubled eyes. He was my age and had covered terrible events in a terrible war and yet I felt older than him. Like a sister who needed to give a young brother protection. I should stay and help him. Then sense kicked in and I remembered what I’d promised my editor. ‘Yes, I am here, standing between you and him, but Paul . . .’ I gave him a direct look. ‘Not for much longer. I have to get into Spain. One way or another. And today, if possible. I don’t think Charlie can wait.’

  He nodded and was quiet as he climbed into his car. I waited on the pavement, wondering if he might leave me there and go on west, or even return to Perpignan. Wherever it was that he felt safest.

  ‘Just take me as far as you can,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll try and make my own way across the border.’

  He started the engine. ‘No. I take you, Seffy. Get in the car. We go into Spain together, but first we have to go to a shop I know.’

  ‘To a shop?’ I was astonished.

  ‘Look,’ he said, all trace of tears gone. ‘We do not walk in a park. The mountains can be very dangerous. We need supplies.’

  We headed south and the road rose higher and higher and narrowed until, by ten a.m., it was a single track and we were driving on scrubby grass and rocks, and eventually even that petered out into a footpath. It was not the sheer drop from the road which I’d feared, but the ground was wickedly uneven and we were bumped and rocked about. When Paul finally turned the steering wheel and drove on to a patch of flat ground beside a shepherd’s stone hut, I was more than ready to get out. Ahead of us the trail filtered through rocks, a passage for sheep most likely, and looking up I could see them, white dots on the hillside moving from one patch of thin vegetation to another. My eyes scanned higher to the granite crags. Beyond them was Spain and Charlie.

  ‘We leave the car here,’ Paul said. ‘Now we walk.’

  At the shop I’d bought a pair of soft suede boots, which, although new, were totally comfortable. Those, with a padded jacket and a rucksack, had been my purchases, but Paul had also bought a pistol and some ammunition. I was surprised.

  ‘There are bears and wild boars in the mountains,’ he said. ‘We must be prepared.’

  ‘All right.’ I didn’t look at him as I transferred clothes out of my bag into the new rucksack, along with a tin box containing sausage and biscuits and a canteen of clean water. He had much the same and then, when we were kitted up, he locked my canvas bag in the back of his car.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and put the car keys in my hand. ‘Keep them safe and then, when you bring your Charlie out, you can drive back to Cerbère.’

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘You’ll need it.’

  He grimaced. ‘I think I come out of Spain a different way. It is of no matter.’ He looked at the sheep track ahead of us and hoisted his rucksack on to his shoulders. ‘Come, we must go.’

  It took us nearly two days to cross the mountains, the worst two days of my life, up until then. At another time, in different circumstances, I would have enjoyed the trek, for the scenery was beautiful and dramatic. Hawks mewed in the clear sky and I watched them flying in ever upward circles on the thermal currents. I envied them. How easy it would be to fly across the mountains and get to Charlie within an hour. But we walked and scrambled and inched carefully along terrifyingly narrow paths, clinging to the rocks as the ground fell away on the other side.

  After a couple of hours, we stopped for a breather. ‘Do we have to go higher?’ I asked, looking
at the craggy barriers ahead of us, my eyes searching for a route.

  ‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Now we go down. Do you see?’ He pointed to a thin gushing waterfall, which leapt and sparkled down a hundred feet, until it reached a pool far below and then ran into a swift winding stream. ‘That becomes a river. A river which will go through a valley and take us across the border. That is our way.’ And he pointed to one side where the track curved out and down a steep hillside.

  Oh God, it was hard getting to that pool. The track disappeared in places and we had to get down the hillside as best we could. My feet slipped constantly and, to keep my balance, I had to keep grabbing at tufts of grass and tore my palms on the jagged rocks. Eventually, I gave up trying to remain upright and resorted to inching down on my bottom, before, trembling with the effort, I reached the pool at last and was able to stand up once again. Paul wasn’t so lucky. Three-quarters of the way down he fell, tumbling over and over, flailing hopelessly with his hands to try and gain purchase and not finding any until he came to rest, with a thud, winded, eyes closed, against a huge boulder.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, breathlessly, when I eventually reached him. He had a smear of blood on his forehead and was clasping his right wrist.

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted. But I could see that he wasn’t. He looked dazed, his eyes wandering, and I unhooked my canteen. Unscrewing the cap, I put the canteen to his mouth.

  ‘We’ll wait a moment,’ I said, taking over. ‘Until you feel better.’ I was scared. Was he concussed, and if he was, what was the best course of action?

  ‘We go on,’ he said, groaning as he got to his feet. ‘We get as far as we can while there is light.’ We forced our way through rocks and scrubby vegetation, sometimes even walking through the dancing shallow waters of the stream as it slowly broadened out into a small river.

  When it got dark, we stopped. Paul, indicating a cave in the rock face, said, ‘We go there.’ I hated the prospect of a dank cave, but, trying to be resolute, followed him in.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked. He looked a bit better, his eyes focusing and the blood dried into a crust in his black curls.

  ‘My head is all right,’ he answered. ‘But, this is bad.’ He held out his wrist. It was swollen and mottled.

  ‘My God,’ I breathed. ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘No. I think not. Twisted. Is that the right word?’ He gave a slight gasp as he used his other hand to lift the swollen arm on to his lap.

  I stared at it, wondering what I could do. It needed binding up, I was sure of that. But what to use? Then I remembered, I had a pair of stockings in my rucksack. Why I’d put them there I had no idea. I hadn’t worn stockings since coming to France, but they were mixed up with my underwear and I had transferred them from my case without thinking. ‘Wait,’ I said, and opening the drawstring neck of the rucksack, delved about inside until my hand fell upon the rolled-up silk stockings.

  With Paul watching me nervously, I took one stocking and wound it tightly about his wrist, and then used the other as a sort of sling. ‘There, that’s the best I can do.’

  ‘It feels better,’ he said, and grinned at me.

  I nodded, leant back against the rock wall of the cave and closed my eyes. I was exhausted. ‘Where d’you think we are?’ I asked.

  ‘I am not sure,’ he said. ‘I think we have crossed the border. We will see a village tomorrow, a Spanish village. And I do not believe that there will be soldiers there.’

  God, I hope not, I thought, but didn’t say it.

  ‘We should make a fire,’ Paul said. ‘It will get very cold.’

  I collected dry twigs and bits of moss and then, because he couldn’t do it with his left hand, I flicked the lighter to set them on fire. I added larger twigs as it caught and then more wood, until we had a decent blaze which both warmed and lit the bare cave.

  ‘Now, we eat,’ said Paul. I helped him get out his tin of food and opened the lid for him. He ate a biscuit and then stopped and had another drink of water. ‘I have no hunger tonight,’ he said. ‘I will sleep.’

  I opened my box and ate a piece of sausage and a couple of biscuits. They tasted like cardboard and even after all the walking, I wasn’t hungry either, too exhausted, I think, but I persevered. I knew that I had to keep up my energy levels, because tomorrow would not be any easier than today had been. My arms and legs ached, and I could feel them stiffening up. After eating I went outside and breathed in the cold mountain air. It was dark and the night-time creatures were coming out to feed and play. The scrubby bushes on the track rustled and glints of curious eyes flashed, then disappeared. I remembered that Paul had said that bears and wild boars roamed these mountains and I went back inside the cave.

  He was asleep. In the gloom I could make out the mound of his body and hear his deep rhythmic breathing, and I lay down beside him on the bare rocky floor. I thought I would never sleep because the ground was so hard and unyielding, but my eyes drooped shut. Once, in the night, he cried out, shouting ‘No, no!’ and I knew what terrible dreams he was having. Still half sleeping, I moved closer to him and put my arms around his shaking body, holding him closely. He calmed down then, and even though he remained asleep, he pulled me to him until we were wrapped in a strange but necessary embrace.

  When I woke he wasn’t there, and I lay for a few minutes, adjusting my eyes to the half-light of a new day and remembering the previous one.

  ‘Good morning.’ Paul stood at the entrance to the cave, his body black against the daylight, and I sat up and looked at my watch. It read just after six. ‘I think we must get going,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Give me five minutes to have a pee and to clean my teeth in the stream.’

  ‘You can have longer than five minutes,’ he laughed. ‘You must eat, too. Have you food, still?’

  I nodded. I could see that he felt better today. His grin had returned. He was still wearing the silk stocking sling, though.

  By seven o’clock we were walking downhill, beside the fast-running river. It had broadened out yet again, after leaving the narrow pass where we’d camped overnight. Now, I could see sheep on the hillside, although the mountains beyond were as high and craggy as before. It was cloudy this morning and colder. After the heat of the Mediterranean I shivered and the sharp air cut into my throat and chest, making me cough as I scrambled over rocks and scree and through scrub.

  We had been going for three or four hours, walking silently in single file, when Paul stopped and said, ‘Look,’ and jerked his head to the right.

  I turned my head and searched the bare hillside, until my eyes fixed on a boy, sitting on a rock, watching us.

  ‘He is a shepherd,’ said Paul. ‘We must be close to a village.’

  ‘Will he go and tell on us?’ I asked, scared.

  ‘Probably. These villages are so small that we will be noticed. Anyway, they will guess what we are. People have been getting in and out through these mountain passes for centuries.’

  The boy suddenly stood up and waved his arms. He was too far away for me to see his face clearly, so I didn’t know whether he was pleased or angry to see us, but I waved back. Once, after we’d continued walking, I looked back over my shoulder. He was still on the rock.

  In the distance I could hear a bell and, for several minutes, I thought I was imagining it, but then Paul turned and grinned. ‘A church bell, do you hear it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was excited and scared at the same time. Then, as we breasted a small hill, I saw below us a church in the centre of a tiny village of stone houses, nestling in the valley basin. ‘Are we in Spain?’

  Paul nodded. He was looking at his map. ‘Now, we must be careful.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  MANY CURIOUS EYES watched us as we walked into the village, and I was conscious of what a peculiar sight we must be. Paul, with his arm in a sling, and me in muddy trousers with my wild and uncombed hair hanging over my shoulders.

  Paul spoke in Spanish to an old man who w
as sitting on a wooden chair outside one of the houses.

  ‘What is the name of this village, señor?’ he asked.

  For a few moments there was no answer as the old man sucked on his pipe and gazed at the mountains. And then, when he finally spoke, it was in a different language. I was bewildered.

  ‘He’s speaking in Catalan,’ Paul said. ‘It’s local to the area.’

  ‘Do you understand it?’

  Paul nodded. ‘It is spoken on both sides of the border.’

  He repeated his question and the old man replied. ‘Ribera de Cardós.’

  Paul looked at me. ‘Did you get that?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was relieved and mentally scanned the map that Paul had shown me at the hotel. ‘That’s where we’re supposed to be, isn’t it? Ask him how far it is to Llavorsí and if there are any soldiers about.’ I smiled at the old man and, politely, he struggled to his feet and swept off his black beret. We shook hands and he gave me a gap-toothed grin.

  ‘There are strangers at Llavorsí. My son told me. Do you go to join them?’

  When Paul translated this I wondered what to do. Should we shake our heads and pretend that we were on our own?

  ‘I think we say yes,’ said Paul.

  So I nodded and said, ‘Tell him we work for a newspaper. That we want to show the world what is happening.’

  ‘We had soldiers here last month.’ The old man spat on the dusty ground. ‘Fascists! We, this village, are loyal to the King and the Church.’

  ‘And now? The soldiers?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gone, I think. And our fighters have given up. We are left in peace.’ He said something else and I waited for Paul to translate it. Although my French was good and I had some Spanish, I understood nothing of Catalan. Paul was smiling.