Winter in Madrid (54 page)

Enrique bowed his head, clasping his bony hands together on his knees. From somewhere outside Harry heard a faint howling sound. It grew louder, seeming to come from a dozen places at once.

‘What on earth is that?’ Barbara asked, her voice shaky.

Sofia looked up. ‘The dogs. The wild dogs. At this time of year they sometimes howl with cold. It is a sign winter is truly here.’

P
ART
T
HREE
DEEP COLD

T
HE SNOW HAD LAIN THICK
in the Tierra Muerta for nearly a month. It had come early and stayed; the guards said people in Cuenca were calling it the hardest winter for years. Clear icy days alternated with heavy snow, the wind always from the north-east. Sometimes at night the little deer from the hills, smelling food, came and stood at a little distance from the camp. If they came too close the guards in the watchtowers shot them and there was venison in their mess.

Now, early in December, there was a well-worn path through the drifts between the camp and the quarry. Each morning the work detail shuffled into the hills where the endless white vista was broken only by the thin bare branches of the mountain oaks.

Bernie was lonely. He missed Vicente and none of the Communists would speak to him now. In the evenings he lay on his pallet in silence. Even at Rookwood there had always been someone to talk to. He thought of Harry Brett; Vicente had reminded him of Harry sometimes, good-natured and principled, if hopelessly middle-class.

The prisoners were finding the hard weather difficult. Everyone had colds or coughs; already there had been deaths, more processions to the unmarked graveyard. Bernie found his old arm wound troubling him; by mid-afternoon wielding his pick in the quarry was agonizingly painful. His leg injury from the Jarama, which had healed quickly and never really troubled him again, had started to ache too.

He hadn’t managed to move huts as Establo had ordered. He had made a request weeks ago, but nothing had happened. Then one evening when he returned from the quarry, he was told Aranda wanted to see him.

Bernie stood before the
comandante
in his warm hut. Aranda sat in his leather chair, his riding crop propped against the side. To
Bernie’s surprise he smiled and invited him to sit. He picked up a folder and glanced through it.

‘I have Dr Lorenzo’s report,’ he said jovially. ‘He says you are an antisocial psychopath. For him, all educated leftists suffer from a form of inborn antisocial madness.’

‘Yes,
comandante
?’

‘Myself, I think it is bullshit. In the war your side fought for your interests and we fought for ours. We hold Spain now by right of conquest.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you say, eh?’

‘I agree with you,
comandante
.’

‘Good. We are
de acuerdo
.’ Aranda took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. ‘Would you like one of these?’ Bernie hesitated. Aranda waved the box at him. ‘Go on, take one. I order you.’

Bernie lifted out a cigarette and Aranda held up a gold lighter. The
comandante
leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking.

‘Now, what is this about your wishing a change of hut?’

‘Since my friend died last month I have found it hard to be there.’

‘Also I hear you have fallen out with your Communist friends. With Establo Cabo specifically. He is a strong man, I admire him in a way.’ He smiled. ‘Do not look so surprised, Piper. I have my ears among the prisoners.’

Bernie was silent. He knew there were informers in most huts. In his own they had been suspicious of a little Basque, a Catholic who attended the services. He had died from pneumonia two weeks before.

‘It is not easy to be a prisoner and unpopular with the men as well. Your Communist friends have abandoned you, why not have some revenge?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You could have as many cigarettes as you wanted, and other privileges. I could take you off the quarry detail. It must be cold up there, I feel frozen even going out in the yard these mornings. If you were to become one of my friends among the prisoners I would not ask for much, just some information now and again. Whether anyone is breaking any rules, that sort of thing. Having friends in the enemy camp makes life much easier.’

Bernie bit his lip. He guessed if he refused there would be trouble. He replied quietly, making his voice as respectful as possible.

‘It would not work,
comandante
. Establo already believes I am disloyal. He watches me.’

Aranda considered. ‘Yes, I can see that, but perhaps your trouble with the Communists would be a good excuse for you to seek other friends. You could find out things that way.’

Bernie hesitated. ‘
Comandante
, you spoke of the battle between our two sides earlier—’

‘You are going to tell me you cannot change your loyalties,’ Aranda said. He was still smiling but his eyes narrowed.

Bernie was silent.

‘I thought you might say that, Piper. You ideologues, you do make trouble for yourselves.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, you can go, I am busy now.’

Bernie got up. He was surprised to get off so lightly. But sometimes Aranda waited and got you later. His cigarette had burned down and he leaned across to stub it out in the ashtray. He half expected the
comandante
to lift his riding crop and slash it across his face, but he didn’t move. He smiled cynically, enjoying Bernie’s fear, then raised his arm in the Fascist salute.
‘¡Arriba España!’

‘¡Grieve España!’
Bernie left the hut and closed the door. His legs were shaking.

E
STABLO WAS ILL
. His scabies was worse than ever and now he had developed a stomach illness; he had diarrhoea most days. He was wasting away, he was skin and bone now and had to walk with a stick, yet the weaker his body grew the more brutally authoritarian he became.

Pablo had taken Vicente’s bunk but was under orders to ignore Bernie. He turned his head away as Bernie came in from seeing Aranda and flopped down on his pallet. Establo had been talking with the other Communists at the bottom of the hut but now he approached Bernie out of the candlelit gloom, his stick tapping on the wooden floor. He stood at the foot of the bed.

‘What did Aranda want with you? His voice was a throaty wheeze. Bernie looked up at the yellow scabbed face.

‘It was about my request to move huts. He said no.’

Establo looked at him suspiciously. ‘He treats you very lightly. As he does all informers.’ He spoke loudly and some of the other men turned to stare at them.

Bernie raised his voice. ‘He asked me to inform, Establo. He said he would move me if I did. Did you guess he might do that, now you’ve got me isolated? I told him a Communist does not inform.’

‘You are no Communist,’ Establo wheezed. ‘Be careful, Piper, we are watching you.’ He limped off to his bed.

N
EXT DAY
Bernie was working with a group clearing the area where the cave had stood. A huge charge of dynamite had been detonated inside, completely demolishing it and leaving a gigantic pile of rubble. The group was ordered to sort them into chunks of different sizes, breaking up those that were too big to handle. A lorry would be coming that evening to take them away: to Franco’s monument, it was still rumoured.

Pablo was working next to Bernie. Suddenly he put his pick aside and picked something up. ‘
Ay
, look here!’ he exclaimed.

Bernie turned, wondering what could have made Pablo break the prohibition on speaking to him. Glancing at the nearest guard to make sure he was unobserved, he bent to where Pablo held a flat piece of stone in his chapped hands. Its surface was dark red; the head of a black mammoth was painted on it, confronted by two of the stick-like men who held spears poised to strike.

‘See,’ Pablo whispered. ‘Something has survived.’

Bernie ran his finger lightly over the surface. It felt just like ordinary stone, the paint baked hard thousands of years before. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispered.

Pablo nodded. He slipped the stone into the pocket of the old oilskin poncho he wore. ‘I shall keep it hidden. One day I will show people what they destroyed here.’

‘Be careful,’ Bernie whispered. ‘They’ll be angry if they find out.’ Prison life, Bernie knew, was made more bearable by tiny victories against their captors, but such victories could be costly.

A
T LEAST
in winter the days at the quarry were short. The whistle blew at half past four, as dusk began to fall. It had been another clear cold day. A big red sun that gave no heat was sinking to the horizon, casting a pink glow over the distant mountains. The pile of rubble was almost gone, leaving a jagged gap in the hillside. As the lorry
sent to fetch the load of stone lurched away down a mountain road, the men handed in their tools and began the weary trudge back to camp.

You couldn’t see Cuenca today; there was too much haze. They had been able to see it most mornings recently. Bernie wondered if the guards stopped the column to rest there deliberately, to torment the men with a glimpse of freedom. Sometimes he thought about the hanging houses. What must it be like to live in one of them, have a view across the gorge from your window? Did it give you a sense of vertigo? With so few people to talk to his mind seemed to turn more and more to fantasy these days. Even the non-Communists were avoiding him; Bernie guessed Establo had told them he was an informer.

In the yard the men stepped wearily into line for roll-call. The sun was almost touching the horizon, casting a red glow over the yard, the huts and watchtowers. Aranda stepped on to the dais and began calling names.

Halfway through Bernie heard a sudden ‘chink’ from the row in front of him, as something hit the ground. He saw Pablo clap a hand to his trousers and look down. The piece of stone had worked through the frayed old material and lay on the earth. One of the guards walked swiftly over to him. Aranda, on his dais, looked up sharply.

‘What’s happening there?’

The guard bent and picked up the stone. He looked at it, stared at Pablo, then marched up to the dais. He and Aranda bent their heads over the stone. Pablo watched them, his face white.

At a nod from Aranda the guard jumped down. He and another guard pulled Pablo out of line, jerking his arms behind his back. Aranda held up the stone.

‘We have a souvenir collector amongst us!’ he shouted. ‘This man has found a fragment from those blasphemous paintings at the quarry and brought it back. Has anyone else brought any nice little paintings for their hut?’ He looked out across the silent rows of prisoners. ‘No?’ Well, you will all be searched tonight, as will the huts.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Why will you not learn to do as we tell you? I shall have to make an example of this man. Put him in solitary confinement for tonight. You’ll all see him again tomorrow.’

The guards frogmarched Pablo away. ‘That means the cross,’ someone muttered.

Aranda went back to the roll, calling out the names in his clear harsh voice.

T
HAT EVENING
in the hut, after the search, Establo came up to Bernie’s bed. He was flanked by four of the other Communists. He sat on Pablo’s empty pallet. Establo crossed his hands on the top of his cane. You could see the tendons working over the bones beneath the dry skin.

‘I’m told you were talking to Pablo at the quarry today. Did you tell the guards he had that piece of stone?
¿Eh, hombre?
’

Bernie sat up, looked Establo in the eye. ‘You know I didn’t, Establo. Everyone saw what happened – it fell out of his pocket.’

‘What were you saying to him? He is forbidden to talk to you.’

‘He showed me the piece of stone he’d found. I told him to be careful. Ask him yourself.’

‘I think you informed on him.’

‘It fell from his pocket,’ Miguel the old tramworker said. ‘Come,
compadre
, we all saw.’

Establo gave Miguel an evil look. Bernie laughed. ‘See, people are coming to see you for what you are,
hijo de puta
. A man who would make capital out of what is to be done to Pablo.’

‘Leave him, Establo,’ Miguel said. The old man turned and walked away. Hesitantly, the other three followed. Bernie smiled at Establo.

‘As your body withers, Establo, your heart shows through.’

Establo rose painfully to his feet, clutching his stick. ‘I will finish you,
cabrón
,’ he whispered.

‘If you don’t die first,’ Bernie called after him as he limped away.

N
EXT MORNING
after roll-call the prisoners were ordered to remain standing in their rows. Bernie noticed Agustín was back on duty. He looked cold standing there – this would be a change after Sevilla. The man met his eyes for a moment and looked away; he seemed to be studying him. Bernie wondered again if he was after his arse, if that was why he had helped him, that morning on the hill. ‘Better times,’ Agustín had said. Bernie almost laughed aloud.

Two guards brought Pablo from the solitary hut and manhandled him over to the cross that stood beside the mess hut. Bernie saw Agustín sigh, as though with weariness. They stood Pablo beside the thing, their breath making a fog in the air. Aranda marched towards them, tapping his riding crop against his thigh. Father Jaime and Father Eduardo were with him, huddled inside their heavy black cloaks. They had stood with Aranda on the dais during roll-call: Father Jaime cold and grim, Father Eduardo with bowed head. They stopped in front of Pablo. Aranda turned and addressed the prisoners.