Authors: Rebecca Pawel
“Oh.” The professor took the proffered hand, looking a little nonplussed. No guardia civil had ever offered to shake hands with him before, and it was unusual for a guardia to explain his actions so freely as well. “How do you do?” He became aware that Elena was still clinging to his arm, and added, since the lieutenant was so unusually well mannered, “This is my daughter.”
Tejada looked hastily at Elena, waiting for some cue. She held out one hand mutely. He took it, wondering wildly if he should say something of their former acquaintance. They shook hands in mutually miserable silence.
Do something,
Tejada wanted to shout at the old man.
Say something. Offer her a chair, damn
you. Can’t you see she’s upset?
The lieutenant had given a good deal of thought to what he wanted to say to Guillermo Fernández, and had carefully planned out an interrogation, touching on the professor’s relationship to Arroyo, to the other petitioners, and to his absent son, but he found himself tongue-tied. It was difficult to cross-examine someone properly when you had the nagging feeling that he might cross-examine you about your intentions at any moment.
I wonder if he knows my name?
Tejada thought.
No, probably
not, or he’d have guessed why Elena was upset. But what did she
tell them about Madrid? She must have said something. Perhaps she
only mentioned the little girl, her pupil, but not me.
He took a deep breath. “Your . . . your political beliefs, Professor. I would appreciate it if you would state them for me.” Even as he spoke he remembered Elena’s voice, shaking with barely controlled hysteria, incriminating herself: “
I’m a Socialist, Sergeant!”
He stared at Professor Fernández to avoid her eyes.
Guillermo shuddered slightly and stared at the ground. The question was a familiar one, and somehow the strange lieutenant, who politely used the formal “you” and shook hands before interrogating, was far more menacing than the blustery, openly insulting Captain Rodríguez. “I’m a professor of humanities, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “Politics aren’t my business.”
“They were your business in ’36, though.” Tejada looked down at the desk, remembering Elena’s voice, as relaxed as he had ever heard it: “
My father is a very devoted admirer of the classics
.”
“No.” Guillermo was aware of the quaver in his voice and hated it. No violence
,
he thought, remembering the blue-shirted youths who had dragged him to prison. Please, God, no violence. Not in front of Elena. “No, I was a friend of Don Miguel’s. I acted only as his friend.”
“And your son? Is he also apolitical?” (I never knew she had a brother. Of course, she wouldn’t have told me.)
“I haven’t seen my son since ’36.” (And is that an excuse for me to cling to my daughter? Why did I let her come with me?)
“What about your fellow petitioners?” Tejada asked abruptly, his mind only half on the question. (“
I haven’t seen my parents
since the beginning of the war
,” she told me. God, and I wondered why she feared me.) “When was the last time you saw Arturo Velázquez?”
“I don’t know. A while ago.” Guillermo frowned. (Why does he want to know this?)
“Tomás Rivera?” Tejada felt the awkwardness of the question. (Stupid way to go about this! But since you’ve started, you might as well continue.)
“I can’t remember. We were never close.” The professor felt himself sliding into the familiar pattern of interrogation. He stared fixedly at the stack of manila folders on the desk, knowing that he probably would not have the courage to ask the strange lieutenant for permission to travel. (I’ve already mailed the letter to Meyer. It’s too late. Why do they want to know now? I shouldn’t have written. I shouldn’t have let Elena know about this . . . I can ask next week. Next week I won’t let her come with me.)
“Manuel Arroyo Díaz?” Tejada risked a glance at Elena. She was staring at him, very straight-backed and white-faced. (Vouch for him, Tejada silently willed her. Tell me if he’s telling the truth.)
“I don’t know. Five or six months ago, maybe.”
“Are you aware that Professor Arroyo is suspected of subversive activity?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Tejada managed to jerk out a few more unrelated questions, and then closed the interview with relief. He sent for Hernández automatically.
“Well?” the sergeant asked, interested in his superior’s impressions of Professor Fernández. “Do you think he knows anything about Arroyo?”
Tejada shrugged. “Probably not. But have someone follow him home, and keep an eye on his movements for the next couple of days, until we know what’s going on.”
“Yes, sir.” Hernández, Tejada noted approvingly, carefully wrote the order on a small pad. “Just Fernández, sir, or the wife and daughter also?”
“Just Fernández,” the lieutenant said hastily, and then recollected that it would have been wiser to ask if Hernández had a reason for wanting surveillance of the rest of the family. He swallowed. “Unless you think El . . . the girl knows something.”
The sergeant shook his head. “No, it’s not worth wasting a man on. Just checking, sir.”
“Fine.” Tejada heaved a sigh of relief. “Is the next parolee here yet?”
Hernández glanced at the list. “Ernesto Cárdenas? Yes, sir. I’ll send him in.”
“Thanks.” Tejada pulled Cárdenas’s file from the stack, returning to familiar routine with infinite relief. He devoutly hoped that he would not meet any more parolees’ relatives he knew in the course of the afternoon. One was quite enough.
E
lena walked home through the slanting afternoon sunlight blind to the buildings around her, and very nearly deaf to her father’s voice. “I suppose I should have asked about traveling,” Guillermo was saying, a little anxiously. “But overall, I don’t think that went too badly. Of course, the lieutenant asked a lot of questions, but that’s probably just because he’s new, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Elena had no idea what she was agreeing to.
“I was nervous there for a bit.” In fact, Guillermo was calm enough to realize that his daughter was upset, and he spoke now in an effort to draw her out. “But I think it will be all right. What did you think of the lieutenant? He struck me as a bright man, for a guardia.”
Elena nodded slowly. “Yes, he is bright.” Now, she knew, was the time to tell him, before her silence became guilty. Logically, it should not have been difficult. Her father would not think of blaming her if she said casually, “
Actually, I was too startled to
mention it earlier, but we’ve met before, right after the war ended. He was
investigating a murder in Madrid that involved one of my students.
He asked me for some information.
” She tried to imagine the turn the conversation would take next. “
No, no, I wasn’t a suspect. Nothing like
that. He was very kind. He’s not bad as the guardia go
.” That was all that was necessary to say. Surely her father would not press her for more details. He would be concerned, but not overly curious.
Elena knew that she was lying to herself. Her parents would certainly be worried enough to ask other questions about her encounter with the Guardia Civil in Madrid. In fact, she would be able to set their minds at rest regarding her brush with a murder investigation. She might have to admit that Tejada had been very kind to her—he had fed her when she was starving—but even that would not be so terrible. The awful part would be explaining her last encounter with him. She had rehearsed the words a thousand times: “
I had dinner with Sergeant Tejada and then I went home.
A couple of soldiers tried to get fresh. They were drunk, and, well, you can
imagine the sort of thing. It could have been unpleasant if Sergeant
Tejada hadn’t been there. He followed me because he was worried about
me. Very gallant—and very helpful as it turned out.
” She could practically hear her own lighthearted laugh, and see the casual shrug that would (of course) allay her parents’ fears. “
I would have told
you earlier, but I didn’t want to worry you. No harm done, after all.
”
“So you thought so, too?” her father asked, after a sidelong glance to make sure that she was not going to say anything further.
Elena took a deep breath. “Yes. Actually, I . . .” her voice was a croak, and for a moment she felt again the rage and terror of that darkened street in Madrid. “Actually, I thought it was a bit funny, the way he tipped over the chair.”
The professor laughed. “It’s a treat to see them trip up once in a while, isn’t it?” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I only wish it happened more often.”
Notwithstanding his white hair and distinguished appearance, the professor spoke with the undisguised glee of a schoolboy. Elena bit her lip. The worst part of telling her father that she knew the lieutenant would be reliving her brief encounter with the Falangist soldiers. But it would not be easy to admit that she had sobbed out her fear and confusion in Tejada’s arms either.
María was waiting for them when they returned home. She immediately demanded news of Guillermo’s interview with the Guardia Civil, and the brief meeting was dissected minutely. Elena sat without listening and let her parents’ voices wash over her. I have to tell them, she thought. He’ll see papa again next week. And if he says anything . . . For the first time, Elena wondered what the lieutenant had thought of the meeting. She was sure he had recognized her. Perhaps he had already known that she might be there. Her father’s file must include the names of his family. It was even possible that the Guardia Civil had started a file on her in Madrid, although going to so much trouble over a mere schoolteacher with left-wing sympathies seemed unlikely. Maybe he won’t say anything, if he didn’t today. Elena was too nervous to judge whether this was a reasonable hope. It did not occur to her that Lieutenant Tejada might have been as embarrassed as she was, albeit for slightly different reasons.
“. . . can’t think of a better idea,” her father was saying.
“What do you think, Elenita?” her mother asked.
Elena blinked. “Sorry, what?”
Her mother looked at her with concern. “I was saying that if we do manage to make this trip to San Sebastián, we’ll have to figure out a way to house our Theoklymenos. Your father thought maybe Hipólito could help.”
Elena considered for a moment. “I’m sure he
would
,” she said at last. “But I don’t see how he can, exactly.”
Guillermo frowned. “It depends on Meyer’s passport, of course. If he can book a passage, then I thought Hipólito could meet him at the other side. If someone could arrange his entry into Mexico. . . .”
“What about money for the passage?” Elena asked.
“That was what I said.” María’s triumph was muted by worry over her daughter’s apparent inattention.
“I don’t know how much he’ll be able to afford,” the professor admitted, troubled. “And even if he has money, it’s illegal to send it out of the country.”
“And then there’s the question of other expenses,” Elena added dryly.
Her mother smiled at her. “We can feed him, Elenita.”
Elena felt a flash of annoyance at her parents’ naiveté. “I meant false papers,” she said baldly. “And bribes, if necessary. You don’t know the state of his passport, and unless you’d like to walk into the sergeant’s . . . the
lieutenant’s
office and ask about visas, I suggest you double the amount necessary for a legal emigration.”
Guillermo winced and Elena’s spark of irritation was snuffed out by guilt. It was cruel to play on her father’s fear of the Guardia. Her mother moved on to another problem. “It’s all very well to speak of a passage to Mexico, but even if money weren’t a problem, where could he sail from? Even if the Guardia approve a trip to San Sebastián, they’ll be suspicious of a request to travel to a port immediately afterward.”
“He doesn’t require a chaperone, María.” The professor spoke with a certain grim amusement.
“Does he speak Spanish?” his wife countered.
Guillermo, whose conversations with Joseph Meyer had been essentially in classical Greek punctuated by French or German when necessary, blinked sheepishly. “He knows French and Latin quite well,” he offered.
“Very helpful if he wants to communicate with monks!” his wife retorted.
Elena shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the memory of Tejada’s voice saying with amused incredulity, “
Surely you
don’t actually know Latin
?” Her parents saw the movement, and turned to her expecting a comment. “Can’t he stay here?” she asked. “One border crossing is complicated enough.”
“Without a ration card?” her father asked.
“Mama said we could feed him.”
“For the short term,” the professor amended, looking at the sharply drawn planes in Elena’s face, wondering if a generous impulse to a colleague was about to take food from his only daughter’s mouth. “And it would be impossible to keep him in hiding indefinitely.”
“I don’t see how you plan to get rid of him though.” María’s voice was taut with strain.
Guillermo, who had the increasing conviction that he should never have replied to the fugitive’s letter, did his best to speak reassuringly. “Maybe we won’t have to. It’s too early to tell yet. We’ll have to see what happens in France.”
“You’d send him back?” María asked sarcastically, knowing the answer as she spoke.
“The Germans only reached Paris last week,” Guillermo replied in what he hoped was a placating tone. “And in the north the French relied too much on the Maginot Line. It may be different in the south. The Provençals are Catalans, really. Good fighters.”
To the professor’s relief, his wife and daughter seemed willing to let this shaky comfort stand. The Fernández family continued to worry intermittently about this topic throughout the evening, but little progress was made. Guillermo, whose courage was always at its peak on Friday evenings, when his next interview with the Guardia Civil was furthest away, promised to ask for permission to take “a family vacation” in San Sebastián the following week. Elena wondered uneasily if he was relying on her presence at the Guardia post the following week, and then, with a little spurt of alarm, remembered that she would have to invent an excuse to avoid Lieutenant Tejada in the future. María watched her husband’s return to equanimity with pleasure, but was slightly worried by her daughter’s withdrawal.
Professor Fernández’s tenuous optimism was destroyed the following afternoon. The family was assembled in the living room after a depressingly frugal lunch. María was writing to Hipólito. Elena was rereading, somewhat listlessly, a novel that had been a childhood favorite. Guillermo was reviewing his monthly bank statement, a task made more interesting by the Guardia Civil’s propensity for temporarily freezing his account without warning. The professor punctuated his calculations with occasional whistles between his teeth when perturbed. This had been an uneventful month though, and the task was finished relatively quickly, and with fewer whistles than usual. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked, closing his accounts with a satisfied air, and pushing himself to his feet.
“Hmmm? No, it’s fine.” María glanced up, and returned to her letter. “Do you want to add anything to my letter?”
“Of course. When you are finished.” The professor crossed the room to the radio, and paused with his hand on the knob. “Any requests, Elena?”
His daughter shook her head. “No, oh, music, I suppose.”
“News is always bad,” María agreed with a smile.
Guillermo flicked the switch and static filled the air, followed in rapid succession by the high singsong tones of General Franco, a combination of horns and strings that sounded vaguely jazzlike, static again, and the clipped English of the BBC. “Let me know when to stop,” the professor said, still spinning the dial slowly, as a woman’s voice crooned the last strains of a love song, and a warm bass said, “
You’re listening to Radio Española.
”
“Something less sentimental,” María requested.
There was another burst of static, and then the precise tones of a newscaster: “Once again, the surrender of Maréchal Petain’s government to the German forces has been confirmed. In a statement made earlier today, the Maréchal said, quote . . .”
There was a thud as Elena’s book slid out of her lap unheeded. Guillermo Fernández stood, one hand poised over the radio, as if frozen by some latter-day Medusa. María’s pen slid in her shaking hands, blotting half a line. Their preference for music forgotten, the Fernández family listened intently to the news. Only when the announcer began detailing the casualties resulting from a bridge collapsing over the Ebro did Elena say, “It’s mostly lies, probably.” Her voice trembled only slightly. “Radio Burgos broadcast lies about Madrid all through the war. Remember, I told you.”
“They managed to get the date of the surrender right though,” Guillermo muttered.
María shook her head. “It doesn’t seem possible that they’ve conquered France. I mean . . .
France
. . . it’s . . . it’s not a
small
country.”
Her husband looked grim. “Give me that letter,” he ordered. “I think it’s a good idea to write to Hipólito about all this.”
María handed over the paper, but with a pleading look. “You’ll be discreet?”
“Of course.” The professor smiled briefly, paternal pride glowing through current worry. “The boy knows enough Greek to read a simple message.”
“But—”
“I’ll use quotes, María. Hipólito knows his Homer. And even a literate censor will have trouble following if I slip something extra into a citation.”
The professor spent the better part of an hour writing to his son. By the time he finished the letter, it was too late to go to the post office. He accepted the delay with unexpected calm, and proposed to his wife a stroll around the plaza. She accepted, and Elena, feeling that her presence was unnecessary, stayed home, ostensibly to read but actually to brood. Guillermo’s calm was unimpaired that evening, even though his wife had noted that they were being discreetly tailed by a guardia civil.