Authors: Brian Caswell
25
ÃVILA
The boy sits in the comer of the room playing something slow and relaxing on the guitar. The notes flow outward from the instrument like ripples, then hang gently on the air-conditioned silence. The old man drifts.
“Recuerdos de la Alhambra”,
that is the name of the piece. The fountains of Alhambra ⦠The music recalls the water falling gently like rain.
He opens his eyes and watches his grandson. The boy has his eyes closed, as if his fingers have a life of their own and he takes no part in their performance, except to appreciate what they can achieve without his intervention. So much like Ardillo.
Before it all went wrong â¦
2 June 1937
Mingorria
17:30
Ten kilometres to the north of the town of Ãvila a band of
gitanos
sits with its donkeys in a makeshift camp within sight of the main north-south rail-link
â
the railway which runs between the Nationalist strongholds of Salamanca and Ãvila and the frontline of the northern offensive.
Two young women tend the evening meal over an open fire, while two young men and a couple of boys of around fifteen lie in the shade of a clump of small trees.
No one in the group is over twenty-five, a fact to which a casual observer might pay little attention, but an unusual fact just the same. For among the
gitanos
the family is all-important, and it is not unusual for four generations of a clan to travel and camp together. But then, war rings changes beyond the alteration of borders and the deaths of soldiers.
A closer examination might reveal some other unusual things about these
“gitanos”.
The fact that one of the boys, when he speaks, does so with the unmistakeable accent of the Basques, or that the donkeys look too well-fed to belong to a group of such impoverished wanderers. Or perhaps that under the false bottoms of three of the panniers which now lie beneath the trees sit enough explosives to tear up a good section of rail-line and derail a large supply train, putting the line out of action for maybe a week.
Two hundred kilometres to the north, the Republican forces are doing what they know best. Defending a hopelessly extended front against the superior numbers and weaponry of Franco's Nationalist army, with its crack divisions of Italian and German “allies”.
And along the main northern line, day and night at regular intervals, the supply trains rumble.
Through half-closed lids, Ardillo studies the distant track. The sun is sinking towards the nearby peaks of the Sierra de Ãvila, and the crescent moon is already rising. The day has been hot, even for late Spring, and he notices how the sweat is beginning to affect the dye on his skin. As he rubs at it, absently, he notes the lighter toning beneath the stain, which could spell death if noticed by the wrong people.
In little more than an hour it will be dark enough to begin work. The last action of a complicated mission. Hidden in the baskets, amongst the clothes and the rags, are pages of information on troop movements and supplies, gathered from agents throughout the area.
By tomorrow, their work in enemy territory will be over for a time. But tonight, the final, explosive chapter.
Beside him, Manuel lies sleeping, and Francisco talks in whispers with Ramon.
In the five weeks since the tragedy of Guernica, the boy has been quiet and sullen, his normally carefree nature transformed into a mask of angry silence. Francisco does most of the talking, while the young Basque answers in monosyllables.
Give him time,
Conchita says.
He is young.
She who is so old!
Across by the fire, he catches her watching the sleeping form of his brother, and smiles. To be with Manuel she would walk through fire, or dive from the cliffs of Málaga.
Or risk death at the hands of the Nationalists
â¦
He remembers the argument in the stone kitchen of Conchita's home.
“This is not just a man's war! Not when women bleed and die at the barricades for the Republic. Just because it was men who started it ⦔
Poor Manuel. Outgunned from the beginning. And when Juana weighed in in support, there could no arguing against them.
“Besides,” Juana put in, “if you are going to use the
gitano
disguise, you should have your women with you. They travel everywhere together. I'm amazed they didn't question you more thoroughly in Segovia. You were lucky to come across such idiots
⦔
The argument went on long into the night, but its final result had never been in question.
And now, it is almost over. Until next time.
18:45
At sunset, the fire is doused and the donkeys are readied. The vital papers are removed from their hiding place, and hidden in coat-linings and secret pockets.
When the explosion erupts, they must be as far from the site as possible. Ardillo and Francisco are to travel with the women to the safe-house in Ãvila, while Manuel and Ramon will remain to detonate the explosives. It will be easier for the two of them to sneak through the inevitable security blanket, under cover of the dark, than it would be for the whole group.
The donkeys, they release. They are trained to return to a deserted farm near VillacastÃn. So, if anyone remembers seeing a group of
gitanos
and their animals in the area, the trail will lead far from Ãvila.
Perhaps that will occupy the searchers and make escape easier.
A few days at the safe-house in Ãvila, and when the search is scaled down, they can make their way at night out of the town, and cross the Sierras through the pass near Cebreros. From there it is a safe day's journey to Madrid and the delivery to Mendez. Then home to Consuegra.
Conchita kisses them both before she leaves, and Manuel touches her cheek for a long moment. He notices a tenseness in her as she turns to go, but she walks without looking back.
Until the last moment.
Just as the four reach the curve where the rough track bends around a wooded outcrop, she turns and looks at him briefly. It is too far away to see her features; she is little more than a silhouette against the last traces of day. But he pictures her face, and waves.
Then she is gone, and it is time to go to work.
22:50
Manuel waits, hands sweating on the handle of the detonator, until the locomotive is well clear of the explosives. That way, the driver and the stoker will have an even chance of survival.
Mendez would scoff at such weakness, for Mendez thinks in absolutes. “Them and us”, “friend or foe”. But in such a war as this there are no easy distinctions.
A man drives a train. It is all he knows how to do. Before the
pronunciamiento,
he drove it for the government. Then the war begins, and Salamanca falls. But the train is needed by the army. Does he refuse to drive?
Of course,
says Mendez.
They are the enemy.
And if he does refuse? They shoot him, and his family, and someone else drives the train. And he is dead.
He plays out the silent debate in his thoughts as he waits, then shakes his head.
If a train-driver is the enemy, then perhaps we are a lot closer to Franco than we claim to be â¦
He lets another truck pass over the dark bundle under the tracks, then, almost gently, he depresses the handle.
Perhaps half a second before the sound of the explosion reaches his ears, a bright flash lights up the darkness, and the train is illuminated as it arches its broken back. For a brief moment it seems to attain a precarious balance, as two of the cars form a huge, inverted “V”, but then they begin to fall, and the whole train commences to tear itself apart, twisting and crumbling under the momentum of the following trucks.
The last thing he sees, in the eerie light of the explosions that follow, is the sight he is hoping for. The locomotive, its rear dragged from the buckling track by the weight of its doomed train, begins a slow-motion roll down the steep embankment, and as it does, he catches a brief glimpse of two tiny figures leaping to safety.
When he turns to follow Ramon into the darkness, Manuel Moreno is smiling.
“What are you smiling at Abuelito?”
The boy has stopped playing, and leans over his guitar, staring at the old man.
“Oh, nothing, boy. Nothing ⦠Why did you stop?”
“I thought you were asleep.”
Manuel Moreno smiles at his grandson with the muscles in his face that still obey him.
“Old men don' sleep, Chico. They jus' ⦠res' their eye.”
As if to demonstrate, his eyelids slide shut.
“You haven't called me that since I was ten.”
The eyes open again.
“What?”
“Chico.
I'm almost nineteen,
viejo.”
“An' I'm almos' eighty. If I wan' call you
Chico,
or
Chiquitito, or ⦠Pequinito,
I think I can do i', no?”
The boy smiles, and nods silently. Then he starts to play again, while the old man studies the ceiling of his comfortable cell and remembers â¦
4 June 1937
Ãvila
23:50
Conchita lies with her head in his lap. Her legs, resting on the high arm of the old sofa, are bare to the thigh, where her skirt has slipped down. He touches the soft skin of her neck, and she stirs slightly in her sleep, whispering his name. He bends and kisses her hair gently.
Outside it is dark. The dark of an almost moonless night. And the candles have burned down almost to extinction. Soon he will relieve Francisco of the watch, and the boy can get some sleep.
Ardillo and Juana lie together in the next room. The door is open, and he can see his brother with an arm draped possessively across her shoulder, as she lies with her back to him, their bodies moulding into a gentle “S”. There is a sense of peace inside the safe-house. As if the war is a million miles away
â¦
But barely has the thought registered than an icy premonition lances through his chest.
His acute hearing has picked up the sound of a movement outside in the courtyard and a whispered command. Slight, almost nothing ⦠But there. He tries to ease himself out from beneath Conchita, but she wakes.
“Qué pasa, mi corazón?”
She looks towards him sleepily.
“Shh!”
He is moving quietly towards the window, but before he can make it halfway across the floor, Francisco's voice rings out.
“Guardia! Run!”
The shout is accompanied by a single shot. Francisco's old Remington. Then a volley of shots
â
rifles and a machine-gun â in reply. There is a strangled cry that is cut off by another volley.
By now Conchita is screaming, and everyone is panicking into action.
Ardillo stands beside the window looking out.
“Francisco?”
It is Ramon's voice, and there is an hysterical edge to the single word.
Ardillo shakes his head slowly, his face a mask of horror, and the meaning of the action is clear. But the boy has moved beyond reason.
“Nooo!” It is an animal noise. The anguished cry of a child who has already lost too much. “We can't leave him!”
Grabbing his small pistol, he rushes at the door, pulling it open before anyone can move to stop him, and rolling into the darkness.
More shots, then silence.
It is a small patrol, only eight men, and the boy's warning shout and his shot have caught them unprepared and sent them to ground, momentarily preventing them from establishing a perimeter around the house.
Moving to the back door, Ardillo risks a look outside.
“Quickly, before they surround us.”
“But
â”
Conchita looks towards the front door. She is about to object, but he is suddenly strong. The leader.
“We can't help them now, âchita. From the window, I saw Francisco's ⦠He is dead. And Ramón is ⦠It would be suicide to go after him. Come. Now!”
And they are moving. Manuel opens the door, gun raised, but no shots ring out, and he turns to the others.
“Let's go!”
One by one they head for the door.
Another volley of shots slams into the front of the house, ricocheting from the ancient stone, and shattering the front windows.
Standing in the doorway, Conchita stiffens suddenly. A look of surprise registers briefly, and then her eyes roll and she slumps lifeless to the ground. Ardillo, who is closest, moves to lift her up, but what he sees sends him reeling backwards.
He catches his brother before he can come closer.
“Go,” he shouts. “I'll bring her. You can't carry her with your knee. Look after Juana.”
Manuel hesitates, but does as he is ordered. He is in shock. He takes Juana's hand and they begin to run.
Ardillo turns back to the fallen girl, just as the grenades explode inside the house. Instinctively he raises his arm in front of his face. The force of the blast drives him to his knees. A searing pain burns through his shoulder and arm, but only for an instant; then it is numb, and hanging by his side. He struggles to his feet and stumbles away.
The house is burning, and the roof has collapsed into the open doorway.