Authors: Rebecca Pawel
Tejada blinked. “That’s why you’re sure he wasn’t really insane?” he hazarded.
“I offered to treat him without pay.” Rivera’s voice was shaking. “And he refused. Every session, God help me, I told him he was cured. And he always just shook his head and laughed, and said he was nuts. It got to be a joke, the way he refused every week. ‘Nonsense, Rivera. I’m crazy.’ Every week.” The doctor stopped, choking.
“And I’m supposed to believe this?” Tejada asked, not at all sure whether he did believe it.
“I don’t expect you to believe it,” Rivera said despairingly. “But it’s the truth.”
“You could have saved yourself a lot of grief if you’d come forward with this earlier.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”
Tejada nodded, accepting the apology. “Let’s assume you’re telling the truth. Who knew that you were in contact with Arroyo?”
Rivera looked puzzled. “Well, he came to my house. So, my wife knew. I didn’t mention it to anyone else. I suppose he might have told his family.”
Hell, Tejada thought. And that brings us straight back to the Oteros. He decided a direct question might be helpful. “Who would dump his body in a warehouse with ties to your brother-in-law’s firm, where you would be likely to find it?”
Rivera shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Is there anyone who might think that your contact with Arroyo was more recent than ’36?” Tejada demanded. “Anyone who’s been out of touch with you for a few years, but who knew about your connection then?”
Rivera hesitated. Then he said quietly, “I don’t know. But Arroyo called me again, recently.”
Tejada’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“I never met with him,” the doctor said hastily. “I never saw him, after that last time in ’36. But he telephoned me about a month ago, and asked if he could come in again. Someone might have known about the phone call.”
“Why would he call you?” Tejada asked. “Do you think he thought you were in financial difficulties again?”
“I don’t know.” Rivera was puzzled, and glad of the opportunity to consider the question. “It was odd. He said he wanted advice from someone he trusted. And he made the joke about being crazy again, only he said someone else was as well. I wondered if maybe he wanted to talk to me about a friend who was having some sort of breakdown. I set up a meeting, but then he called back a few days later and canceled. I wondered at the time—”
“Wondered what?” Tejada prompted.
“If perhaps he was the one who needed my help after all.”
“You mean if he really was nuts?” Tejada asked.
Rivera looked briefly impatient. “I wouldn’t use that word, but well, yes. You see, when he was in analysis, he seemed quite sane to me. But that joke about being crazy, and the way he made it was always a little odd. And when he made it again . . .”
“What was the joke?” Tejada asked, interested.
“Well, that was the thing.” Rivera was perplexed. “It wasn’t really a joke, but he always seemed amused by it. He just always referred to his illness in German. I wondered a bit if it was a way of distancing himself. A defense mechanism, if you want the technical term.”
“Isn’t most psychoanalytic terminology in German?” Tejada suggested. “Maybe he was just being professional.”
Rivera shook his head. “This wasn’t jargon. It’s a very colloquial phrase, actually. Almost an insult:
Ich habe einen Vogel
.”
“
What
?” Tejada snapped, in a voice that made Jiménez as well as Rivera jump slightly.
“It doesn’t really translate,” Rivera said apologetically. “I mean, it means more or less, ‘I’m nuts’ but it doesn’t make any sense if you translate it literally.”
“The literal translation being?” Tejada prompted.
“Well, it’s something like ‘I have a . . . a bird,’” the doctor explained, embarrassed.
“The last time he called you,” Tejada said, in a slightly strangled tone of voice, “he said that someone else
hat einen
Vogel
? Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Rivera looked puzzled. “Exactly. And that he didn’t know quite what to do about it.”
“He didn’t mention who this might be?”
“No.”
Tejada thought for a moment. Then he said quietly, “Corporal?”
Jiménez straightened to attention. “Sir?”
“Put Dr. Rivera in one of the cells, and then send word to his wife that he’s being held in protective custody. Then tell Sergeant Hernández to meet me in my office.” He rose. “If you’re lying, Rivera,” he said quietly, “I will personally make you sorry that you were ever born. But for the moment I’ll take a chance that you’re not.”
T
he sound of a truck pulling up suddenly in front of her house had the same effect on María de Fernández as the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. Guillermo was reading to her on Wednesday evening, in an ineffectual attempt to take her mind off of her pain, when the unmistakable screech of brakes recalled her worst nightmares. “What’s that?” She interrupted him in the middle of a sentence, unable to pretend successfully that she had been paying attention. “It sounds like a car.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Guillermo raised his eyes from the book and scanned the room: the faded quilt; the half-open closet; the clock; the framed wedding photo on the wall. He memorized each detail hungrily, trying to fix it in his memory for future use, in the interval between the time the motor died and the inevitable knocking on the door.
The doorbell sounded downstairs. María reached for her husband’s hand. He squeezed it briefly, and then the sound of the door swinging open filtered up to them. A moment later someone was running up the steps. “Papa? Mama?”
Husband and wife relaxed, and Guillermo laughed, two weights removed from his mind. “In here, Elenita!” he called, heading to the doorway.
“Elena!” María’s voice clearly showed how much she wished to get up to meet her daughter.
Elena, who had deposited her bags in the front hallway in a mad rush for the familiar, enthusiastically hugged her father, and then bent over María’s bed to embrace her mother.
“Thank God you’re safe!” María did not let go of her daughter’s hand.
Guillermo kept one hand on his daughter’s shoulder and asked a little anxiously, “Are you alone?”
“No.” Elena shook her head. “Or, well, yes, at the moment. But Theoklymenos is at the station.”
“He made it across the border!” María smiled, pleased for her husband, for the refugee, and for the kind fate that had safely returned her child.
Elena looked suddenly grim. “Yes, we crossed last night.” To forestall further questions she said hastily, “It was his idea. He thought, since you’re under surveillance, that it wouldn’t be a good idea to be seen arriving at your house.”
“Given that I’m under surveillance, how is he supposed to avoid that?” Guillermo asked, appreciative of his colleague’s logic, but annoyed that he could see no way to solve the problem.
“He said that if
you
were the one under surveillance, all you would have to do was go out. That way, whoever’s following you won’t be watching the house.” Elena was careful to keep her voice expressionless. Professor Meyer’s exact words had been, “
Your guardias seem very efficient. Let us hope your lieutenant gives
them orders to follow only your father.
” “I gave him directions, and he can make it from the station alone,” she added.
Guillermo nodded and stood. “We’re out of aspirin,” he said simply. “I’ll go and see if there’s any at the pharmacy.” He turned to his wife. “You’ll be all right?”
“Yes.” María smiled at him, at peace with the world in spite of her pain.
Professor Fernández hurried out, anxious to draw attention away from his home, and wildly relieved that his daughter had returned, her mission apparently accomplished. After the door had closed behind him, María said to her daughter, “Have you eaten? There’s bread still, from the morning.”
“Sounds great.” Elena hurried to the kitchen, eager to avoid further questions from her mother.
She was still downstairs when someone rang the front doorbell. Meyer was standing on the threshold, looking nervous. He relaxed considerably when Elena opened the door and smiled at her. “Your directions were admirable. And I did not see any policemen.”
“Papa went out about twenty minutes ago,” Elena explained.
“And your mother still cannot leave her room, no?” the professor asked gently. “You will please give her my thanks. And my apologies, for intruding on her house.”
Elena nodded and hastily went back to her mother to report the professor’s safe arrival. María thanked her daughter, and then added, “I thought he could have Hipólito’s old room while he’s here. It’s not aired out, but I wouldn’t open the windows anyway. We don’t want to announce that he’s here. Can you make up the bed?”
“Of course.” Elena nodded and returned to their guest.
The professor humbly accepted the news that he was to sleep in a shuttered and airless room where the temperature probably was well over eighty degrees. “I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable,” he lied politely.
Elena’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Better than last night, anyway.”
Professor Meyer was unable to ignore her tone. He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Helena,” he said comfortingly. “He’s a good man. And a clever man.”
To Elena’s relief, the sound of the front door put an end to the discussion. Guillermo Fernández found them in the kitchen. “
Wilkömmen, Herr Professor
.” He held out his hand to his colleague.
Meyer rose to take it. “
Merci
.” To Elena’s surprise, the words were in French. “There is no need to speak German.”
Guillermo was mildly surprised also, but he contented himself with saying, “As you wish. You’ve eaten already?”
“Yes,” the refugee replied, although he had in fact eaten very little. The lieutenant’s comment about ration cards had reminded him of what he already knew; the Fernández family risked hunger as well as prison to shelter him. With that thought still uppermost in his mind he added, “I must thank you Professor Fernández. I did not think past getting out of France. But Helena tells me that you have made plans already?”
Guillermo nodded and sat down. “Yes, my son sent a wire yesterday.”
“Saying what?” Elena interjected with interest.
Her father frowned slightly. “He sent us eight hundred pesetas, and said ‘See letter for explanation.’”
“What letter?” Elena demanded.
“It hasn’t arrived yet.” Guillermo looked a little grim. “I assume it’s something to do with Professor Meyer’s passage. But I don’t know when it was sent. And given the post office . . .”
“What a stupid thing to do,” Elena snapped.
“Telegrams are neither cheap nor discreet,” her father reminded her. He turned back to their guest. “For now, I’m afraid the best thing to do is to lie low. If you don’t leave the house . . .”
“Understood.” Meyer pushed himself to his feet. “For now, I think that I will go to bed. The last few days have been tiring.” He smiled. “And no doubt you wish to speak with Helena.”
Elena shot to her feet as well. “The bed needs to be made. I’ll go and you can follow me. We never use that part of the house, so it would be suspicious to have a light there, and I know my way in the dark.”
Elena made her way to her brother’s old room by running one finger along the wall and found her brother’s bed by hitting her shins against it. She shook out fresh sheets, reflecting as she did so that she was placing them over a mattress undusted for years. She left Professor Meyer in the stifling darkness, and made her way back to her own room by feel. She opened her own windows, and undressed without bothering to put on a light. She was already in bed when a glow under the door announced that someone had turned on the hallway light, and there was a gentle tap on the door. “Yes?” She did her best to yawn as she spoke.
“Elena?” The door opened, and her father appeared, silhouetted against the hallway light. “Are you going to bed now also?”
“Yes. I’m tired and it’s been an exhausting few days.” Elena hoped that she sounded too tired to continue the conversation.
“All right,” Guillermo was hesitant. “I suppose we can talk tomorrow. I’m glad you’re back safe, Elenita.”
Elena fought back tears. “Thanks, Papa. Me, too.”
“Good night,
niña
. I love you.”
“I love you too.” Guillermo shut the door, and Elena buried her face in her pillow.
Niña!
she thought despairingly. Oh, my God! I can’t tell them. Papa will be disappointed in me. And Mama will feel sorry for me, which is worse. And I have to tell them something about how we managed to cross the border, and they don’t know anything about Carlos, so they won’t understand how I could have thought . . . but he won’t say anything. Well, he can’t, because of how he’s involved, but he wouldn’t anyway. At least, I don’t think he would. Although she was tired, she tossed and turned for a long time, telling herself firmly that she did
not
miss the comforting presence of a lying, sneaking, hypocritical guardia civil.
Her insomnia was unexpectedly helpful. She woke late and when she finally made her way to the living room she found her father and Meyer with their heads together over a letter. “Oh, good, you’re up.” Guillermo greeted her. “Come and see what you think of this.”
Elena took the piece of paper he held out to her. It was an aerogram, plastered with Mexican stamps, with the words
por
avión
printed in one corner. She frowned at her brother’s miniscule handwriting. The letter was rambling and affectionate, full of commonplaces about Hipólito’s job and apartment, and many things that he had already related. Elena read through an enthusiastic praise of the Mexican climate and temperament with increasing impatience, and then her eyes narrowed. “
I’ve told you
before, and I’ll tell you again
,” her brother had written. “
I wish you’d
join me here. There’s no rationing, no war, and professors are respected
here. The Mexican authorities welcome refugees, and honestly it’s not so
hard to book a passage. Take the SS
Rosas,
for example. She’s an
Argentine vessel, and she must make twenty transatlantic trips a year.
This month alone she left Buenos Aires on the 2nd, stopped at Río
de Janeiro on the 4th, Veracruz on the 7th, and Havana on the 9th.
Then she headed for the Azores. She’ll dock at La Coruña on the 17th,
head down to Lisbon, and then reverse her stops. (La Coruña again on
the 22nd, then the Azores, Cuba, Mexico, etc.) I happen to know her
schedule because a friend of mine (João, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned
him) was talking about heading back to Lisbon. There must be a hundred
ships like the
Rosas,
and any one of them could bring you, if you
could get permission to come. I think Mama and Elena would like it here,
too, and the money shouldn’t be a problem now.
” The letter trailed off into commonplaces again and Elena looked up. “The SS
Rosas,
” she said.
Her father nodded. “At La Coruña, on Wednesday,” he agreed.
“And the wire was money for the passage?” Elena hazarded.
Meyer looked troubled. “But there is still the question of papers. I cannot pass customs.”
“Hipólito seems to think that entering Mexico won’t be a problem.” Guillermo’s voice was reassuring. His expression was neither as anxious as Meyer’s nor as haggard as his daughter’s. It was the expression of a man facing an interesting challenge. “At least, I assume that’s what ‘the authorities welcome refugees’ means. So it’s just a question of leaving Spain.”
“
Just
a question of leaving Spain?” Elena repeated with some sarcasm.
“With due respect, Dr. Fernández, your son may not be aware that Jewish refugees are frequently regarded in a special category,” Meyer said hesitantly at the same moment.
Guillermo shrugged aside the objections. “Hipólito knows who he’s dealing with. And as to leaving Spain, do you think they’ll care if you entered legally, as long as you’re leaving? You entered in a large group, there was a lot of confusion, your passport never got stamped.”
Joseph Meyer regarded his colleague with incredulity. “My passport never got stamped?” he repeated. “You think I should give them my passport? You must be joking.”
“I don’t see why not,” Guillermo argued. “False papers are dangerous. And expensive. And I don’t know where to get them.”
“They’ll want to know that the Mexicans will take him though,” Elena commented. “They might turn a blind eye to his lack of an exit visa, but he’ll need guaranteed entry.”
“These came with the letter.” Guillermo held up a series of folded papers, looking a little grim.
Elena took one and unfolded it. It was heavy card stock, unlike the thin paper of Hipólito’s letter, and the stationery had an embossed seal. In a few formal phrases, the letter conveyed the Mexican government’s willingness to accept Elena as a permanent refugee. She frowned. “I don’t understand.”