Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘So many gone,’ he muttered. ‘So many.’

  Sofia leaned in to him. ‘Harry, do you know that man over there? He is looking at us.’

  Harry turned and drew in his breath sharply. General Maestre was standing by the porcelain stall with his wife and Milagros. He wore civilian clothes, a heavy coat and a trilby. Out of uniform his weatherbeaten features looked harsher, older. Señora Maestre was examining a silver candleholder but the general was frowning in Harry’s direction. Milagros was looking at him too, her eyes sad in her plump face. He met her eye and she blushed and lowered her head. Harry nodded at the general. He raised his eyebrows slightly before nodding briefly in return, a jerk of the head.

  ‘It’s a government minister, General Maestre,’ Harry whispered.

  ‘How do you know him?’ Sofia’s voice was suddenly sharp, her eyes wide.

  ‘I had to translate for him. It’s embarrassing, I went out with his daughter once, I was pushed into it. Come on, let’s go.’

  But the crowd round the pile of photographs was so thick they had to turn the other way, towards Maestre. The general stepped forward into Harry’s path and greeted him unsmilingly.

  ‘Señor Brett, good morning. Milagros was wondering if you had vanished from the earth.’

  ‘I’m sorry, general, I’ve been very busy, I—’

  He glanced at Sofia. She gave him a cold, angry look. ‘Milagros was hoping you would ring her,’ the general went on. ‘Though she has given up now.’ He glanced back at his family. ‘My wife likes to come here, try to find some of our looted family treasures. I tell her she will catch something, mixing with these whores from the slums.’ He raised his eyebrows at Sofia, running his eyes up and down her old black coat, then turned and walked back to his wife and Milagros, who was pretending to be absorbed with a Dresden shepherdess. Sofia stared after him, her hands clenched, breathing hard. Harry touched her shoulder.

  ‘Sofia, I’m so sorry—’

  She thrust his hand away and turned into the crowd. The press of people stopped her from walking faster than a shuffle and Harry quickly caught her up.

  ‘Sofia, Sofia, I’m sorry.’ Gently he turned her round to face him. ‘He’s a pig, a brute, insulting you like that.’

  To his surprise she laughed, harshly and bitterly. ‘Do you think people like me aren’t used to insults from people like him? Do you think I care what that old shit says?’

  ‘Then what?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, you don’t understand, we talk of these things but you don’t understand.’

  He fumbled for her hands, clutched at them. People were staring but he didn’t care. ‘I want to understand.’

  She took a deep breath. She pulled away from his grip. ‘We’d better walk on, we’re offending public morals.’

  ‘All right.’ He fell into step beside her. She looked up at him.

  ‘I have heard of that man. General Maestre. His was one of the names we feared during the Siege. They say in one village he ordered all the Socialist councillors’ wives brought into the town square and got the Moors to tie them up and cut off their breasts in front of their men. I know there was a lot of propaganda but I nursed a man from that village, he said it was true. And when they occupied Madrid last year, Maestre had a big part in rounding up subversives. Not just Communists; people who only ever wanted a secure peaceful life, a share of their country.’ Harry saw she was crying, tears running down her face. ‘The cleansing, they called it. Night after night you could hear the shots from the east cemetery. You still can sometimes. They took this city like an occupying army and that’s how they still hold it. And the Falange strutting and rampaging over our city—’

  They had reached a quieter area. Sofia came to a sudden halt. She took a deep breath and wiped her face with a handkerchief. Harry stood looking at her. There was nothing he could say. She touched his arm. ‘I know you try to understand,’ she said. ‘But then I see you talking to that creature. You have come to visit this – this hell – from another world, Harry. You will stay a while and then go back.’ She bent her head. ‘Take me back to your flat, Harry, let’s make love. At least we can make love. I don’t want to talk more now.’

  They walked on without talking, back to Plaza de Cascorro where the market began. As they threaded their way through the square Harry thought, what if I could get her out, get her to England. But how? She’d never leave her mother and Enrique and Paco and how could I get them out too? She walked ahead of him, shoving her way through the crowds, strong and indomitable but so small, so vulnerable in this city ruled by the generals that Hoare and Hillgarth plied with the Knights of St George.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  IN THE TIERRA MUERTA the weather had turned bad. One morning the camp woke to find everything covered in snow, even the steep roofs of the watchtowers. The snow was thick on the mountain path to the quarry, soaking through the prisoners’ cracked old boots. Bernie remembered his mother, when he was a child, saying he must be sure never to get his feet wet in the winter, it was a sure way to catch a cold. He laughed aloud and Pablo turned and gave him an odd look.

  The men stopped for their brief rest at the fold in the hills from which, if conditions were right, Cuenca appeared in the distance. You couldn’t see anything today, only a glimpse of the brown cliff of the gorge between the white hills and the cold milky sky.

  ‘Come on, you lazy bastards!’ the guard called. The men stamped their feet to restore the circulation and got back into line.

  Vicente was dying. The authorities had seen enough deaths to know when someone was on the way out and had stopped trying to make him work. For the last two days he had lain on his pallet in the hut, drifting in and out of consciousness. Whenever he woke he begged for water, saying his head and throat were on fire.

  That night a strong wind came in from the west, bringing a heavy sleety rain that melted the snow. It was still raining heavily next morning, the wind driving it across the yard in vertical sheets. The men were told there would be no work parties that day: the guards don’t fancy a day out in this, Bernie thought. The storm continued; the men stayed in their huts and played cards or sewed or read the Catholic tracts and copies of Arriba that were all they were allowed.

  Bernie knew the Communist group had held a meeting to discuss him a couple of days before. Since then they had avoided him, even Pablo, but they didn’t say what they had decided. Bernie guessed they were waiting till Vicente died, giving him a short period of grace.

  The lawyer slept most of the morning but woke towards noon. He made a croaking sound. Bernie had been lying on his pallet but got up and leaned over him. Vicente was very thin now, his eyes sunk deep inside black circles. ‘Water,’ he croaked.

  ‘I’ll get some, wait a minute.’ Bernie put on his old patched army greatcoat and went out into the rain, wincing as pellets of sleet blew into his face. There was no water supply to the huts and he had carefully cleaned out his piss-bucket, leaving it out overnight to catch the rain. It was almost full. He carried it in, scooped some water into a tin cup, then gently lifted the lawyer’s head so he could drink. Establo, lying on the opposite bed, laughed throatily. ‘Ay, inglés, do you make the poor man drink your piss?’

  Vicente leaned back; even the effort of drinking exhausted him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘A lot of pain. I wish it was over. I think, no more quarry, no more Sunday services. I’m so tired. Ready for the endless silence.’ Bernie didn’t reply. Vicente smiled tiredly. ‘Just now I was dreaming about when we first came here. Do you remember, that lorry? How it jolted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After Bernie’s capture he had spent many months at the San Pedro de Cardena prison, where the first psychiatric tests had been done. By then most of the English prisoners had been repatriated through diplomatic channels, but not him. Then in late 1937 he had been transferred, along with a mixture of Spanish and foreign prisoners considered politically dangerous,
to the Tierra Muerta camp. Bernie wondered whether his party membership was the reason the embassy hadn’t petitioned for his release; surely his mother would have tried to get him out when she learned he was a prisoner.

  They were driven to the Tierra Muerta in old army lorries and Vicente was shackled next to him on the bench. He asked Bernie where he was from and soon they were engaged in an argument about communism. Bernie liked Vicente’s wry sense of humour, and he had always had that soft spot for bourgeois intellectuals.

  A few days after their arrival at the Tierra Muerta, Vicente sought him out. The lawyer had been delegated to help the administration with the mountain of forms involved in inducting prisoners into the new camp. Bernie was sitting on a bench in the yard. Vicente sat beside him and lowered his voice.

  ‘You remember you told me how the other English prisoners have gone home; you thought your embassy were not troubling themselves with you because you are a Communist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is not the reason. I had a look at your dossier today. The English think you are dead.’

  Bernie was astonished. ‘What?’

  ‘When you were captured on the Jarama, what happened exactly?’

  Bernie frowned. ‘I was unconscious for a while. Then I was taken by a Fascist patrol.’

  ‘They asked you the usual things? Name, nationality, political affiliation?’

  ‘Yes, the sergeant who captured me took some notes. He was a bastard. He was going to shoot me but his corporal persuaded him not to, he said there could be trouble since I was a foreigner.’

  Vicente nodded slowly. ‘I think he was more of a bastard than you realized. Embassies of foreign prisoners of war should always be informed of their capture. But according to your dossier, you were put down as a Spaniard. You were given a twenty-five-year sentence by a military court under that Spanish name, with a batch of others. The authorities didn’t find out the error till later; they decided to leave things as they were.’

  Bernie stared into the distance. ‘Then my parents think I’m dead?’

  ‘You would have been reported as missing believed killed by your own side. I would guess the sergeant who captured you gave false details precisely so your embassy wouldn’t be told you had been captured. Out of malice.’

  ‘Why was it never put right?’

  Vicente spread his hands. ‘Probably just bureaucratic inertia. The longer it was left before they were notified, the more fuss your embassy might make. I suspect you became a nuisance, an anomaly. So they have buried you away here.’

  ‘What if I said something now?’

  Vicente shook his head. ‘It would do no good.’ He looked at him seriously. ‘They might shoot you to get rid of the anomaly. We have no rights here, we are nothing.’

  VICENTE SLEPT for the rest of the day, occasionally waking and asking for water. Then, that evening, Father Eduardo came. Bernie saw him crossing the yard through the wind and rain, clutching his heavy black cloak around him. He entered the hut, dripping water on to the bare boards.

  Father Jaime would have crossed straight to the bed of the sick man, ignoring the others, but Father Eduardo always sought to make contact with the prisoners. He looked round the hut with a nervous smile. ‘Ay, what a storm,’ he said. Some men stared at him coldly, others went back to their reading or sewing. Then the priest walked towards Vicente’s pallet. Bernie got up and stood barring his way.

  ‘He does not want to see you, father,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I have to talk to him. It is my duty.’ The priest leaned closer. ‘Listen, Piper. Father Jaime wanted to come but I said I felt this man was my responsibility. Would you rather I fetched him? I do not want to but if you bar my way I must report it, he is the senior priest.’

  Wordlessly Bernie stepped aside. He wondered if it might be better to have Father Jaime here, that brutal man might be easier for Vicente to resist.

  The noise had woken the lawyer. He stared up as the priest leaned over him. Drops of water fell from the priest’s cloak on to the sackcloth sheet.

  ‘Is that the holy water, father?’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not dead yet. Bernardo, amigo, will you give me more water?’

  Bernie dipped the cup in the pail and passed it to Vicente. He drank greedily. The priest glanced at the piss-pail with distaste. ‘Señor, you are very ill,’ he said. ‘You should make confession.’

  There was complete silence in the hut. All the prisoners were watching and listening, their faces dim white circles in the weak candlelight. Everyone knew Vicente hated the priests, had known this moment was coming.

  ‘No.’ Vicente managed to raise himself a little. The light glinted on the grey stubble on his cheeks and his weary, angry eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘If you die unconfessed, your soul will go to Hell.’ Father Eduardo was uneasy, twisting a button on his sotana. His spectacles reflected the candlelight, turning his sad eyes into two little fires.

  Vicente ran his tongue over dry lips. ‘No hell,’ he gasped. ‘Only – silence.’ He coughed, then began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. He lay back, exhausted. Father Eduardo sighed and turned away. He whispered to Bernie, bending close. He gave off a faint smell of incense and oil.

  ‘I think this man has only a day or two. I will again come tomorrow. But listen, is that piss-pail all you have to give him water?’

  ‘I cleaned it out.’

  ‘All the same, to have to use that. And where did you get the water?’

  ‘It’s rainwater.’

  ‘The rain won’t go on for ever. Listen, I have a tap in the church, and a bucket. Come tomorrow and I’ll give you some water.’

  ‘You won’t worm your way into his confidence that way.’

  ‘I do not want to see him suffer more than he should!’ Father Eduardo said with sudden anger. ‘Come or not as you please, but there is water if you want it.’ He turned on his heel and marched out of the hut, back into the storm. Bernie turned back to Vicente.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  The lawyer smiled bitterly. ‘I was strong, Bernardo, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, yes you were. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.’

  ‘You helped distract him. I know there is only nothingness ahead. I embrace it.’ Vicente took a gasping breath. ‘I was trying to work up enough phlegm to spit at him. If he comes again I shall.’

  THAT NIGHT the wind veered round to the east and it snowed again. The following morning was bitterly cold. The wind had dropped; the snow lay thick and noises in the camp were muffled, the men’s feet making a creaking sound as they lined up for roll-call. Aranda didn’t like the cold weather; he went round muffled in a balaclava helmet that looked odd with his immaculate uniform.

  It was Sunday and there was no labour detail. After roll-call some of the prisoners were set clearing the snow from the yard, sweeping it into great piles against the huts. Vicente had woken with a raging thirst. Bernie had set the pail outside before going to bed and it was full of snow. He looked at it. It would take ages to melt in the cold hut and even then it would only be a quarter full. He stood a moment, shivering in the icy morning, the old wounds in his shoulder and thigh aching. He looked across to the hut housing the church, a cross painted on its side. He hesitated, then walked towards it.

  Aranda stood in the doorway of his hut, watching the snow-clearing detail. He stared at Bernie as he passed. Bernie walked through the church and knocked at the office door. Inside a large stove was burning, the warm air was like a balm. Father Jaime stood beside it warming his hands while Father Eduardo worked at the desk. The older priest looked at Bernie suspiciously.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘This man and I are having some discussions,’ Father Eduardo said. Father Jaime raised his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘This one? He’s a Communist. Has he taken confession?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Father Jaime wrinkled his nose with distaste. ‘I left my missal in my
room. I must fetch it. The air in here is not what it was.’ He rustled past, closing the door with a snap. Bernie looked at Father Eduardo with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Telling a lie to your superior, isn’t that a venial sin or something?’

  ‘It was not a lie. We have talked, haven’t we?’ Father Eduardo sighed. ‘You’re quite implacable, Piper, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve come for the water.’

  ‘Over there.’ The priest nodded to a tap in the corner. A clean steel bucket lay underneath. Bernie filled it, then turned back to Father Eduardo.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past you to have put a drop of holy water in the bottom of the bucket this morning and then blessed it.’

  Father Eduardo shook his head. ‘You know so little of what we believe. You know how to fashion shafts that bite, but one does not need to see deeply to do that.’

  ‘At least I don’t plague people’s last hours, father. Adíos.’ Bernie turned and left.

  The yard was almost clear of snow now; the men were piling their shovels against the wall of the comandante’s hut. Halfway across Bernie heard a shout.

  ‘You there! ¡Inglés!’

  Aranda descended the steps of his hut and walked towards him. Bernie put down the bucket and stood to attention. The comandante halted in front of him, frowning angrily.

  ‘What is in that bucket?’

  ‘Water, señor comandante. There is a man ill in my hut. Father Eduardo said I could take some water from the church tap.’

  ‘That stupid pansy. The sooner the abogado dies the better.’

  Bernie sensed Aranda was bored and trying to provoke a reaction. He looked at the ground.

  ‘I do not believe in softness.’ Aranda kicked the bucket over with his booted foot, the water splashing out over the earth. He smiled. ‘I say, ¡Viva la Muerte! Take that pail back to the pansy priest. I will have a word with Father Jaime about this. Go on!’

  Bernie picked up the bucket and walked slowly back to the hut. He felt anger but also relief. He had got off lightly. Aranda was in a mood to persecute someone.