The Second Son

Vollman had talked a great deal; he had said almost nothing. It was clear he recognized the names in the wire: Langenheim and Bernhardt. Hisma might have been something new to him-or maybe Hoffner just wanted to think that-but at least things were now on the table. This was about guns and the way the Nazis would get them into Spain. And Georg had been sent to expose that. In a world gone mad on truths and malice, ideologies and sacrifice, this was nothing more than a boy’s playground game. Smack the bully and make him cry. That tens of thousands of Spaniards might have to die in the process hardly seemed to matter.

It was a sobering thought as Hoffner came to the Ritz, its ten stories of palatial stone and glass filling the entire block. The curved rise of the facade and the blackened windows did little to soften the appearance; even the row of balconies above seemed to sneer down at the plaza through gritted teeth. Hoffner imagined this to have been the breeding ground for Barcelona’s elite, with chandeliers and di

It would have been enough to smell the hair tonic and toilet water if not for the riddling of pockmarks along the stone from recent machine-gun fire. Likewise, the ragtag group of trucks parked outside-men hauling carcasses of beef and pork through the front door-cast out any lingering sophistication. Most glaring, though, was the awning where the words HOTEL GASTRONOMICO NO. 1 severed all links to the past. The Ritz was now a UGT/CNT canteen: so nice to see the socialists and anarchists working hand in hand to feed the people.

Hoffner crossed the plaza and joined the line heading in. The man in front of him was reading the latest issue of the Solidaridad Obrera, most of the newspaper’s front page a description of the fighting in Aragon: a pilot by the name of Gayoso-anarchist or socialist was still unclear-had coasted down to 150 meters and dropped a bomb on Our Lady of the Pillar in Zaragoza. The “purring of the engines,” so the article read, had been unfamiliar to those in the streets, but both church and city had escaped any real damage when the bomb failed to explode.

The man in front snorted and shook his head.

“They think Jesus saved their little church,” he said. “You get us some bombs that work, and General Mola will be wishing he never left Navarre.”

Hoffner was expecting more of the history lesson, but the line began to move. Four minutes later he stood in one of the grand ballrooms, now teeming with diners. It was humanity at its chewing best, a long narrow table at the side ru

If there was an empty chair to be found Hoffner couldn’t see it-mothers with children bent over bowls of soup and bread, waiters in white coats or shirtsleeves darting in between, and above it all the hum of eager silverware and untamed conversation. These might have been the recently dispossessed, but Hoffner suspected the room brought its own brand of self-satisfaction to those inside. Even eating was a kind of triumph in the new Barcelona.

A man approached through the maze of chairs. “You’re alone, friend?”

It was a single motion to call Hoffner over and send him off toward the long table where the next chair in line stood empty. Hoffner thought to explain, but there was too much movement behind him-in front of him, to the side of him-to stand in the way of progress. He sidestepped his way through and took his seat.

The man next to him was shoveling the last bits of rice onto a fork. He had yet to look up. “Salud, friend,” he said. “He’ll be by in a minute. Best to have your voucher out.”

This was the sticking point. Hoffner realized his time at the Ritz might be short-lived. He turned to have a look around and was nearly flattened by a waiter carrying a large silver tray.

“Watch yourself, friend,” the man said as he buzzed by, and Hoffner pulled back. When he looked out again, Hoffner saw Mila a few meters off, standing directly across from him.

She was in a different pair of trousers, slightly lighter blouse, but the belt, hair, and eyes were exactly the same. She was smiling at him.

She walked over. “You always do what you’re told?”

The shock of seeing her left Hoffner momentarily at a loss.

“We’re down here,” she said, “but you’re welcome to stay with your new friend if you like.”

Piera, Leos, and a third man-with oddly drooping eyes and a scar across his left cheek-were working through several bowls of beans and chicken when Mila and Hoffner drew up.

Hoffner said, “Pawn to-”

“Yes.” Leos cut him off as he continued to eat. “He likes all that. You wouldn’t be standing here if he wasn’t tucked away.”

Mila sat, and Hoffner took the chair next to her. He said, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“And I didn’t expect to find my father being held hostage.” She was smiling.

Leos had his glass to his lips. “That’s unfair,” he said.

“You would have killed him, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So what else would you call it?”

Leos thought a moment, shrugged, and drank.

Hoffner said, “You just happened to stop by the Ritz?”

She poured them both some wine. “Workers’ Canteen Number One,” she corrected. “And no. When my father goes to the club, I bring him lunch. When he gets kidnapped, I tend to follow along.”

Leos said, “So now it’s kidnapping.” He chewed through a bone. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me I actually killed him.”

Hoffner was struck by how easily they tossed this all about. Leos would have shot Piera without a thought. He was just as likely to share a bowl of chicken with him. Evidently instinct worked minute to minute these days.

Piera pushed his bowl forward and sucked something in his teeth. “Did you find your son?” he said, with no real interest.

There was a commotion by the door, and they all turned to see the head man shaking his head. One or two others in line were doing the same. Finally the head man threw up his hands, stepped back, and little Aurelio-shirt and ginger hair matted in sweat-moved past him. The man with the droopy eyes was instantly on his feet.

Aurelio drew up and stared, his breathing heavy.

The standing man began to shake his head, as if to say, Well?

It took Aurelio another moment to focus. When he did, his voice was quiet.

“Patrullas,” he said. He seemed almost confused by it. “No papers. Nothing.” He looked at Hoffner, then Mila, then Hoffner again. “They took him. On the street.” It was as if he were watching it play out in front of him. “The butt of a rifle to the head and gone. There won’t even be enough of him left to bury.”

4

In the early spring of 1919, while Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner recovered from his investigations into the murder of Rosa Luxemburg, General Severiano Martinez Anido arrived in Barcelona to quell the more dangerous elements within the anarchist Sindicato Unico. The Sindicato was the most powerful union in the country and had recently begun to encourage some of its members to explore alternative measures when dealing with work stoppages, lockouts, and industrialists in general. It seemed that bold words and tossed rocks were getting them only so far. The leadership wanted something more permanent. Thereafter, bullet and garroting-wire sales rose dramatically throughout the city.