Authors: Rebecca Pawel
It occurred to Elena that she had no idea whether the barman was telling the truth. But there was no alternative to trusting him. “I was told you could help me find a fisherman named Daniel,” she said.
“I don’t know any Daniel. Sorry.”
“I have a message from his cousin,” Elena said, a little desperately, wondering if there could possibly be two bars named Magdalene.
“Sorry,” the barman repeated.
“About Conchita,” Elena persisted.
The barman stooped below the counter, emerged with two shot glasses, and poured an infinitesimal amount of brandy into them. “Here you are, Miss,” he said, slightly more loudly than necessary.
Meyer took the drink gratefully, and downed it, apparently without ill effect, although a careful observer might have noticed that his eyes watered slightly. Elena sipped, choked, and hastily set the glass down again. “Thank you,” Elena said. “You’re sure you don’t—”
“Positive.” The barman’s tone was final.
“Oh. Well, then . . .” The interview had not gone as Elena expected. “How much do we owe you?”
“On the house, Miss. Good-bye.”
The farewell was too pointed to ignore. Elena escaped from the Magdalene uncertain whether to be relieved or despondent. “So, we’re leaving tonight?” Meyer said dryly.
“Look, I followed the directions,” Elena snapped, out of patience. She had passed a sleepless night, and eaten nothing in twenty-four hours, and the rain, which had changed to a light mist, was making her shiver.
Meyer shook his head. “Sorry. What do we do now?”
I don’t know!
Elena wanted to cry. I want to go home, and have done with you, and war, and always being responsible for everything! I’m scared and hungry and tired and you’re not helping! She clamped her lips firmly over this reply, but she was unable to repress a little shriek of alarm as someone lurched out of an alleyway and grabbed her elbow, dragging her backward. She whirled, breaking free as she did so, and found herself looking at a tall stooping man in a dirty overcoat. He looked vaguely familiar.
“The Gestapo picked up Daniel this morning,” the man said, without preamble. “If I were you, I’d tell his cousin to lie low. And don’t go near the bar again. The place is probably watched.”
He melted into the alley again. Beside her, Elena heard the professor mutter something in German. “What?” she asked, irritated.
“Pardon.” Meyer sounded weary.
“The Gestapo are the German police?” Elena asked.
The professor nodded. “Your Daniel was perhaps of the Left.”
Elena felt a slight chill. Meyer’s voice had the resignation of one who no longer fears the worst because it has already happened. She accepted his use of the past tense calmly, wondering briefly if she would ever be able to report back to the fishermen she had met in San Sebastián. Her memories of Madrid saved her from total lethargy. Three years earlier she had been in the midst of teaching her class a lesson when a bomb hit the neighboring building. When the planes had gone and the students had emerged from under their desks, she had been faced with fifteen frightened seven-year-olds who had looked to her for cues. She had astonished herself by saying calmly, “Carolina, get the broom out of the closet and sweep up that glass. Ramón, hold the dustpan for her and be careful not to cut your fingers. Antonio, pick up the reading from where Maribel left off, please.” It’s the same thing, Elena thought. Don’t worry about making plans. Just take care of whatever seems most urgent first, and you’ll get through the day. She considered what the most urgent thing might be. “I’m hungry,” she said aloud. “And it’s starting to rain harder. Let’s find a place to eat.”
Amazingly, the technique worked. “There’s a nice little restaurant near the station where I’ve eaten once or twice,” Meyer volunteered. “It’s not too expensive, and there’s a back door that looks like it might provide a good escape route, if we need one.”
Elena enthusiastically approved the suggestion, and the restaurant turned out to be as convenient as the professor had boasted. Elena ate a large lunch on the premise that it was useless to save money now. Meyer also ate as heartily as he could. They eked out the meatless cuisine with anecdotes of obscenely huge dinners they had eaten in the past, and did their best to rival each other in description of the succulent details.
The meal was a respite and they lingered over it as long as they could. Finally, when Elena’s stomach was as full as it had been any time in the last four years, she turned her attention to the next immediate problem. “Do you want to try an overland crossing?” she asked quietly.
Meyer nodded. “It seems the only way,” he sighed. “I am sorry that I brought you here. I imagined, when I wrote, that your father would come. I thought that perhaps it would be possible for him to purchase backpacks and a tent, perhaps even a mule. I cannot, because I have no valid papers, but I thought perhaps a Spaniard . . . And I used to be something of a hiker. A pair of men, with backpacks, might be mistaken for tourists. But I am afraid that you and I make an odd pair.”
Elena blinked. “You were planning to cross the Pyrenees on
foot
? Without even a guide?”
“My wife and I vacationed in Austria for many years.” Meyer added, a little apologetically, “In the Tyrol. And I have bought some maps.”
Elena held the basic Castilian opinion that any land fit for human habitation was flat. “I’m not dressed for hiking,” she pointed out.
The professor looked at her with some amusement. “No, you are not,” he agreed. “Which is why I am afraid that we will not be able to pose simply as tourists. It would perhaps be better to travel by night, at least until we reach less-inhabited country. Fortunately, the weather is good.”
“It’s raining!” Elena pointed out, again with the natural distaste of a desert dweller.
“But the weather is warm.” Meyer spoke reassuringly.
Elena opened her mouth, but the professor’s next statement effectively silenced her objections. “It will not be a pleasure journey,” he said quietly. “But it is preferable to staying here and finding out if the Gestapo are in fact watching the Magdalene.”
Elena closed her mouth. When she opened it again, she spoke very carefully. “Professor, I didn’t sleep at all last night. If we are going to start a lengthy journey tonight, I would like a rest.”
“Reasonable,” Meyer agreed, nodding. “But you cannot check into a hotel without papers. And even if you could, to stay for only an afternoon would arouse suspicion.”
Elena nodded. “I know.” Her days of enforced idleness in San Sebastián came to her aid. “But what about a hotel lounge? People sit in them for hours at a time, and no one seems to mind if they doze off.”
“It is a good idea,” the professor said, after some consideration. “Perhaps you will have just arrived in Biarritz, and be very weary?”
“There’ll be some mix-up with the luggage,” Elena suggested, inspired. “And I can’t check in until it’s settled . . . no, better, until my husband arrives. He’ll be detained at the train station, sorting out the search for our lost suitcases.”
“Good,” the professor approved. He smiled slightly. “But although you are very kind, Helenka, I think I am more convincing as your father.”
“Not when you talk,” Elena reminded him bluntly. She hesitated, and then advanced the suggestion she and her family had decided on in Salamanca. “Do you suppose you could be deaf?”
Professor Meyer was inclined to object to this proposal, but after some argument Elena was able to convince him. And so, a little before four o’clock that afternoon, a young Spanish lady and her invalid father entered the chandeliered lobby of the Hotel Miramar. When a porter intercepted the pair, the lady, who leaned heavily on her father’s arm, explained that she had missed a train connection, been delayed for several hours, and was now utterly exhausted. To cap off her misfortunes, her baggage had been mislaid, doubtless as a result of the missed connection. Her husband was at the station, dealing with the confusion, but he had thought it best for her to come ahead, as she was so tired. Would be possible for her to wait for him here?
The porter was certain that it would be possible. He bowed the young lady to one of the large and comfortable armchairs in a secluded corner of the lounge, and assured her that she was unlikely to be disturbed. She sank into it with obvious relief, and asked hesitantly if it would be possible for her father to look at a Spanish paper. He disliked speaking, because of his disability. The porter bowed again, and reappeared shortly with a paper for the gentleman, who grunted his thanks, and immediately seemed to become absorbed in the news. The young lady leaned back and closed her eyes.
Elena’s exhaustion had begun to tell on her, and the large lunch helped to play its part. After a short while, she fell into an uneasy doze, frequently starting awake and shifting position, but studiously keeping her eyes closed. Finally, the sound of a newspaper rattling as if it were hastily and clumsily being folded brought her awake again. She shifted position, aware that her back hurt. “Helena!” Meyer’s voice hissed in her ear. “Wake up! No one from Spain could know you are here?”
Elena raised her head with relief, and put one hand to the back of her neck, blinking slightly. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because there’s a man in a uniform I don’t recognize,” Meyer began, and broke off suddenly, as a deferential voice became audible saying, “
Alors, Monsieur. Elle est là
.”
Foolishly, Elena leaned foward out of the protection of the armchair’s wings and found herself looking up at Lieutenant Tejada.
T
he road from San Sebastián to the French border followed the railroad tracks, sandwiched between the river and the green mountains that blocked it from the sea. It twisted through pine forests, and over and under innumerable streams and waterfalls. Many would have found it idyllic. Tejada had driven along it blind to its beauties, with near-suicidal disregard for its many hairpin turns, and for the sheep who frequently ambled across it in search of greener pastures.
He had been hardly aware of the small, canvas-roofed truck’s lurching progress. His mind had been devoted to a problem which became more depressing on every review of it: what was he going to do if he found Elena Fernández? He still could see no logical link between Elena and Arroyo. But Elena’s trip to San Sebastián, and her subsequent disappearance, was too strange a coincidence to ignore. She was certainly up to something, and it was almost certainly illegal. Logically, that meant arresting her if he found her. (A cow stepped into the road, and Tejada leaned on the horn, barely lifting his foot from the accelerator.) But the time to arrest Elena had come and gone a year ago in Madrid, when she had first identified herself to him as a Socialist. He was the only one of the Guardia who knew, perhaps the only one who cared. He had known for a year, and done nothing.
The rain that had threatened for several hours finally began, and Tejada was glad of the tarpaulin Guardia López had thoughtfully provided. He flicked on the windshield wipers and rolled up the side window as the rain hit his face, reflecting miserably that it would have been easier if Elena had at least tried to seduce him. He would have felt less guilty about his vivid memory of the taste of her tears if she had used feminine wiles. He also would have felt less haunted by an opportunity missed, although he never would have admitted it. Arresting her now would be a betrayal of the night in Madrid when he had held her, and reassured her, and promised that no guardia would ever harm her.
Of course, if he didn’t find her in Biarritz, then it would be impossible to apprehend her. The problem was that if she was
not
in Biarritz, and had
not
disappeared for some illicit reason, then she was in trouble. And if she’s been hurt, or kidnapped, or something, then no one will know if I don’t look for her, Tejada thought. Her parents can’t make inquiries, and Alfanador thinks she’s staying with friends. And if she needs help—
The truck skidded on the wet road, nearly ending up in a ditch, and Tejada forced himself to concentrate on driving for a moment. He would have to look for Elena, to make sure that she was not in any kind of trouble. That was his job: to protect innocent citizens. And if she was not an innocent citizen, he would have to do his job anyway. Regardless of the fact that she was brave and generous, and that her hair was long enough for a lover to tangle his hands in it and . . . Tejada was grateful to see a roadblock up ahead, flanked by guardhouses on either side.
As he approached the barrier, two men emerged from the guardhouse. Both wore raincoats and carried electric lanterns, but Tejada was surprised to see that only one of the men wore the blue uniform of the French gendarmes. The other was dressed in the dark khaki of the Germans. “Your papers?” The question was in French, but it was the German who spoke, and Tejada again felt a flicker of surprise. They’re not just guests here, he reminded himself. France is occupied. But for the French just to tag along at their heels! Petain is a military man, after all. So much for the
Zone libre.
“Here.” Tejada handed over his identity card.
The rain had made darkness come early and the German trained his lamp on the document to read it. “Passport?”
Tejada had carefully thought out the necessary phrase while the man read. “I’m chasing someone we think crossed the border. In a hurry. My captain called already.”
The border guard blinked. “You speak German?”
“I knew German troops during the war,” Tejada replied diplomatically, suppressing several years of university instruction focusing on foreign jurisprudence.
The German laughed. “So did this one.” He gestured to his French colleague with some contempt. “And he doesn’t know a word.” As if to illustrate his point, he switched to clumsy, schoolboy French. “He says his captain calls the border. You go and see if it’s true.”
The Frenchman cast a look of dislike at both men, and then crossed the road to the opposite guardhouse, pounded on the door, and disappeared inside. He returned a few minutes later, and delivered a confirmation of Captain Alfanador’s call as rapidly and idiomatically as possible, to avenge himself. He had the satisfaction of seeing both of his counterparts look utterly bewildered. Finally, the Spaniard apologetically asked for a clarification.
“J’ai dit que c’est vrai.”
The Frenchman rolled his eyes as if this was exactly what he had said the first time, and he could not understand why he had to deal with such idiots.
“All right, then.” The German returned Tejada’s identity card, just as the lieutenant swung himself out of the truck, regardless of the rain.
“I’d like to report to my own men,” he explained, retrieving his papers and then hurrying across the road.
A bored pair of guardias occupied the other guardhouse. Judging from the half-empty bottle of wine and the pack of cards on the table, they had decided that few people would attempt to cross into Spain this evening. They straightened at the sight of Tejada, and saluted in a manner that managed to be both respectful and sociable. “Lieutenant Tejada?” the more senior spoke.
“Yes. You received a call from Captain Alfanador?”
“Yes, sir. And that Frog across the way just came in and said something about a Spaniard crossing.”
“Fine.” Tejada allowed himself to relax slightly among his countrymen. “I just wanted to identify myself. I’ll be crossing back within a few days at the outer limit and I don’t want to have to put in another call to Alfanador then.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” The guardia spoke with gratifying promptness. “I’ll tell Alberto, when he comes on duty. At your orders.”
“Thanks.” Tejada hesitated. It was pleasant in the guardhouse— dry and comfortable, and familiar feeling. It was pleasant to speak his own language to men whom he knew would obey him. Guard duty wasn’t so bad, he thought.
His subordinate sensed his hesitation. “Anything we can do for you, Lieutenant? Glass of wine?”
Tejada sighed, and turned toward the door, putting on his hat and hoping that the rain would not come down any harder. “No, thanks. I’m in a hurry. As you were, Guardia. See you soon.”
“Good hunting,” the German called, as he raised the barrier.
“Thanks,” Tejada said absently in his native language. The friendly wish had returned him to his doubts about whether he really wanted to find his quarry.
Tejada forced himself to drive more carefully on the French side of the border, and scrupulously follow the road signs to Biarritz, although in fact the road simply continued along the coast. It was past eight o’clock when he reached the outskirts of the town. He slowed the truck further, and considered what to do next. Officially, I’m here to find Arroyo, he reminded himself. So, start with Arroyo. That address: 18 Avenue de l’Impératrice. Alain Yves.
Finding the address presented a reasonable challenge for the evening. Tejada began to look for the Avenue de l’Impératrice, carefully avoiding the fact that the address was probably at least four years old, and that even if he found it he was unlikely to find the man Arroyo had listed as Yves. He drove slowly through wet, empty streets, searching for the center of the town, preferably for a police station where he could ask for directions.
Tejada had not been north of the Pyrenees since his adolescence, and had forgotten that French towns could not be relied on to have a central plaza where government and commerce were centered. He drove at a crawl past nineteenth-century mansions and modern shops, all with their shutters tightly closed against the night rain. The road he had been following seemed to be a central artery, but it did not lead to any recognizable public space, and he began to be frustrated. Even Madrid had more logically placed plazas than Biarritz. He wondered how the French found the authorities in an emergency and where politicians made speeches. Perhaps even priests had to give directions to their cathedrals. How was anything ever organized if the town randomly spilled all over the landscape like this? It occurred to him that he did not yet have a place to spend the night, and that finding one would probably be difficult.
A roadblock stopped his uncertain progress. Once again, electric flashlights bobbed, illuminating dark khaki raincoats. Tejada came to a halt with relief. “Your papers?” Once again, the question was asked in badly accented French. “Officer,” the German added, taking in the military vehicle and the uniform.
Tejada handed over his papers and rapidly explained his difficulty. The soldier was apologetic. He knew nothing of Biarritz. But, he regretted, the lieutenant’s vehicle could not proceed further. This area of the town was cordoned off. Mustering his long disused German, Tejada asked if perhaps the soldier could ask his companions about the whereabouts of Avenue de l’Impératrice. There was a rapid discussion that Tejada was unable to follow and then a gendarme spoke up. The Avenue de l’Impératrice was over toward the waterfront where all the fashionable hotels were. The most direct route was along the barricaded street, but the lieutenant could go three streets over and continue straight until the square and then turn right.
Tejada offered his thanks and was already letting out the clutch when one of the Germans spoke up again. “
Herr Offizier!
There is a roadblock past the plaza too.” To Tejada’s surprise, the words were in halting Spanish. “You will have to walk.”
“Thank you.” The friendly advice gave him the heart to ask, “You were in Spain?”
“
Sí, mi teniente
.” The German saluted.
“Then I owe you a double thanks.” Tejada smiled, and backed up the truck, feeling happier than he had since crossing the border.
He managed to find a boulevard wide enough to allow him to park the vehicle without obstructing traffic. After a moment’s thought, he lifted the tarp that covered his kit, and dug out the regulation rain cloak that he had, for a wonder, remembered to bring. Naturally, it was impossible to hold the tarp over his kit while searching for the cloak, and naturally the cloak was at the bottom of his pack, so his belongings were nicely damp by the time he was finished. He hurried toward the Avenue de l’Impératrice, head bent against the rain, and began to climb up its long slope. The soldiers had told the truth when they said the elegant hotels were here. Slanting streams of rain were visible in pools of light spreading out from broad windows and the sidewalk was frequently broken by wide driveways between wrought-iron gates. The road had apparently only been blocked from the south, and he saw taxis sitting outside the hotels, waiting hopefully for customers. A few automobiles passed him, spraying water from the gutters, and thoroughly drenching him anew.
After his second soaking, Tejada lost patience. He stepped into one of the hotels and marched up to the reception desk. The clerk was mysteriously blind to him, until he allowed his cloak to fall open, revealing his uniform. Under normal circumstances, the clerk would have continued to ignore him. But it was wartime, even in Biarritz, and even the most exclusive hotels had learned that it was wise to extend courtesy to men carrying side arms. “May I help you, Monsieur?” The question was frosty.
“I am looking for number eighteen, Avenue de l’Impératrice.” Tejada’s accent was far from perfect, but his tone was at least equally frosty.
“A moment.” The clerk consulted a directory, relieved that the dripping military gentleman did not require a room. “That is the Hotel Miramar, Monsieur. About two blocks from here.”
“Thank you. I would also like to borrow an umbrella.”
The clerk’s nostrils flared, but he agreed to send one of the porters to accompany the officer with an umbrella. Tejada’s entrance to the Hotel Miramar was therefore somewhat more dignified. He was glad of this. The chandeliers in the lobby were lit, and the sound of a piano tinkling came from within the hotel’s restaurant. The lobby was crowded. People were already coming down for dinner, a fair number of them in evening dress. Tejada slung his cloak over his arm, took off his tricorn, and approached the main desk. He was met not by a mere clerk this time but by a slightly more senior personage. “Good evening, Monsieur.” (The Hotel Miramar had also learned the value of courtesy toward uniforms. Moreover, Spaniards were frequent guests there, and the uniform of the Guardia was recognized.) “How may I help you?”
Tejada was too tired to overtax his French. He decided on the simplest phrase possible. “I am looking for a man named Alain Yves.”