The Second Son

It was a hard face, square and lined, and with a day’s growth to make the cheeks seem even more brittle. There might have been something oafish to it-the wide brow and high forehead-but the eyes were too focused and the color too deep a brown to hide the raw intelligence. This was a stare of perfect conviction. It held Hoffner’s gaze even as the cigarette smoke drifted past him.

“You’re the German,” the man said. It was a peasant voice, guttural and crackling.

“And you’re Buenaventura Durruti.”

Hoffner had seen too many of the posters across Barcelona, photographs in every newspaper from Moscow to London, not to know him at once. Strange to come face-to-face with the soured breath of an ideal.

Durruti looked over at Gabriel. “Sleep hasn’t improved you, Ruiz.”

Gabriel nodded. It was as much as he had brought to the conversation.

Durruti took a pull on the cigarette. “So. You have a son in Zaragoza, and you’d like to find him.”

Hoffner took a moment. “No,” he said.

Durruti was not one to show surprise. The eyes moved to Mila, then back to Hoffner. Smoke trailed from Durruti’s nose. “You have a son?”

“Yes.”

“But not in Zaragoza.”

“No.”

Durruti took another pull and nodded. “I must have misunderstood.”

“Yes.”

Durruti finished the cigarette and dropped it to the floor. “And yet you’re eager to make your way into a city garrisoned with more than a thousand rebel troops.” He crushed it out under his boot. “That would be reckless even by my standards.”

Hoffner said, “The doctor has a brother-”

“Yes,” Durruti said. “I know. The doctor and I are old friends.” He pulled back his shirtsleeve and showed the bandage; the bullet had hit him just below the elbow. “The fascists have good aim. They’re also smart with a target. I’ve been told they’re even better in daylight.” Stepping to the stove, he picked up the coffeepot; he kept his back to Hoffner as he poured. “So this son-the one not in Zaragoza-he knows something about guns. Tell me about these guns.”

Hoffner looked again at the big one; he was standing by the map, his arms crossed at his chest. He, too, was forcing himself to keep his eyes on the table. Hoffner said, “I’d take a cup of that coffee if you have it.”

Durruti handed him the one he had just poured and looked at Mila. “Doctor?” She shook her head, and Durruti went back for another. Again he kept his back to them.

“They’re German,” said Hoffner.

“Yes,” said Durruti, “I know.” He took hold of a can and dripped some thick milk into the coffee. “And they’re in Zaragoza?”

“I told you, my son isn’t in Zaragoza.”

“That’s right.” Even with something this simple, Durruti was taking no chances. He stirred the coffee. “But they do have guns in Zaragoza. German guns.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I would.” Durruti set the spoon down and turned. “That’s why I’m telling you-so when you take your doctor in to find her brother, you won’t be surprised when you get shot by one of your own.”

Hoffner watched as Durruti drank. Hoffner said, “You know where they’re coming from?”

“What, these German guns? My guess: Germany.”

Anywhere else, Hoffner would have resented the taunt; here it seemed justified.

He took a drink and then said, “Teruel. My son is in Teruel.”

“With guns?”

Hoffner said nothing.

“And you know this for certain?”

“No.”

Durruti nodded once for emphasis. “ ‘No,’ ” he repeated. The eyes sharpened as he stared across. “You’re very close to being helpful, then not. Why is that?”

“Tell me what it is you want to hear.”

An unexpected half smile creased the thick lips, and Durruti set the cup down. “Well-I might like to know that you’ll be bombing the munitions factory once you’re inside, or that you’ve a trainload of rifles up the road. Or that maybe you’re doing all this because you truly believe in the revolution and not because it’s something so meaningless as saving a boy’s life. But you can’t tell me any of that, can you?”

Hoffner gave Durruti the moment. “No, I can’t.”

The smile remained. “At least you’re honest.”

“I’ll take the explosives if you want.”

“Will you? That’s kind. I don’t have any, so I’ll save you the trouble.”

Durruti’s power lay not in his arrogance but in his utter lack of pretense. It was an honesty not meant to impress.

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. He offered them to Durruti and Durruti took one. Hoffner lit it, then lit his own.

“That’s good,” said Durruti. “At least you know the first rule.” Hoffner said nothing, and Durruti explained. “A stranger in Spain-you should always offer a man tobacco.”

“And the second?”

Durruti took a pull. He glanced at Mila, then back at Hoffner. “You’re not so good on that one.”

Hoffner held the pack out to Mila, even as he said to the big one by the table, “You know these rules too?”

The man looked up. It was clear now how much of a boy he still was. He glanced at Mila but said nothing.

Mila took a cigarette and said to Durruti, “He’s fine on both.” She let Hoffner light hers. She gave nothing away. “So, can you get me inside the city?”

Durruti had watched all this with mild disinterest. He took another pull and said, “They’ll shoot you, then him, and then where will his son and those guns be?”

Mila said firmly, “In Teruel. He won’t be coming with me. You’ll get your guns.”

“Ah,” said Durruti. “So now they’re my guns.” He nodded slowly. “There are no foreign guns in Spain. You know this, of course.” He seemed to take pleasure in showing his cynicism. “The French won’t come in-Blum’s already said it-not with the Rhineland slipping away. Why provoke more of that? And the English?” He took a pull and shook his head. “Not much money to be gained here either way. They’ll leave it alone. Which leaves us with the Russians.” Even the smoke seemed more aggressive through his nostrils. “They’ll be the ones to send us rifles and colonels, just to make sure we know how to be good Bolsheviks, but the guns will be shit. So will the colonels. They’ve all signed their pieces of paper, those promises to stay away. They’re doing it to keep the Germans and Italians out. Wouldn’t want it to break into a real war, now, would they? And we all know how good you Germans are with a promise.” Durruti took another pull.

Hoffner had expected another bandit anarchist-bullets and ideology ablaze-but Durruti showed a much subtler mind. He knew that his Spain, anarchist Spain, was on its own.

Durruti said, “So no, they won’t be my guns. The only hope I have is to end this war before all those German guns find their way through.”

Mila said, “He’s not coming with me.”

“But that’s not true,” Durruti said. He took a last pull and dropped his cigarette to the floor. “He’s the only way I get you inside Zaragoza.” Not waiting for a response, Durruti looked past Hoffner to Gabriel. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

Gabriel had been leaning quietly against a wall. He pushed himself up and said, “I was sure last night. Why should it be different now?”

Durruti nodded. He looked back at Hoffner. “You still have the German clothes you came in?”

It took Hoffner a moment to answer. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ll need to change.”

It made perfect sense. Hoffner was looking for fascist guns and he was looking for Germans. Why not be a German fascist and see where it took him? Mila was less convinced.

“And Gabriel?” she said.

Durruti was placing bricked explosives inside a hollow in the backseat of an old Mercedes sedan. He leaned farther in. “You’ll need someone to shoot the checkpoint guards if the passes fail,” he said. He was making sure each one had a fuse.

Mila stood outside the door. “I could do that.”

“No-you couldn’t.” Durruti brought the cushion down and bolted it by pulling a lever near the window; it looked like a hanging strap. “Neither could your German. It’s why you need Ruiz.”