The Second Son

Hoffner followed Mila through. There were the expected stares, none more than a few seconds, before they arrived at the table. The woman was instantly silent, and the man looked up. Not wanting to offend, and not sure how the Guardia divvied up their ranks, Hoffner stole a page from the sergeant at the gate.

“Colonel Alfassi?” he said.

The man continued to stare. Hoffner thought he might have overreached-did the Guardia even have colonels? — when a voice a few tables back said, “Did you say Alfassi, Senor?”

Hoffner turned and saw a small spectacled face, tan summer suit, gold cuff links, and a thin red tie sitting over a bowl of soup. The man was perfectly bald, save for the neatly cropped strip of hair just above the ears. After a week of anarchists and soldiers, Hoffner found it almost jarring to see a man of wealth, especially in these surroundings. No surprise, then, that he was sitting alone. He held a newspaper which, from the look of the weathered edges, was at best a week old.

Hoffner said, “Yes, Senor,” and the woman went back to her harangue.

Hoffner and Mila stepped over, and the man introduced himself as Rolando Alfassi, a timber merchant whose time was now spent as chief member of the recently established Committee of Three for Public Honor. It was why the sergeant had sent them to him. Hoffner suspected that the honor in question might have more to do with the purging of Teruel’s remaining leftists, but why argue semantics with a man who had just ordered them a plate of jamon and two more glasses of lemon water? The pulp was thick enough to chew when the glasses arrived.

“From Zaragoza?” Alfassi said, as he cut slowly through a thin slice of the ham. He ate with great precision. “You know, we lost all telephone contact with Zaragoza last night.” He sniffed at the meat and ate it.

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “The sergeant at the gate mentioned it once or twice.”

Alfassi smiled. It was a simple straightforward smile. “And you’ve heard nothing about the south?”

The telephones were clearly not a concern for Alfassi. He was reading a week-old newspaper: Whatever information was meant to find him would find him.

“No, Senor,” said Hoffner. “We’ve been only in the north.”

Alfassi nodded as he worked through a second piece of the ham. “Then you’ve seen the atrocities, the nuns and the desecration. They say it was terrible before the soldiers stepped in.” He ate.

It was an odd place to begin a conversation: the quality of the road, the weather, the number of burned carcasses strewn across the church steps. Hoffner could have told Alfassi that, only yesterday, he had refused a tour of Zaragoza’s bodies still awaiting burial-the slaughtered workers with their union cards pi

“No,” said Hoffner. “I was traveling with the senora.”

“Of course.” Alfassi seemed genuinely remorseful. “Forgive me, Senora.”

Mila said blankly, “Have you buried your own?”

Alfassi stared for a moment, and it was only then that Hoffner realized Zaragoza had been very different for her. She had thought only of her brother: the truth of the war had been set aside for an afternoon. Here, she had no such luxury. He was inclined to remind her of the washing she had promised to do, but instead he said, “The senora is a doctor. She’s been attending to the wounded. She worries about disease.”

“A doctor finds all killing horrific,” said Alfassi. It was surprising to hear the compassion in his voice. “It must be difficult.”

“Yes,” she said, “it is.”

Alfassi leaned in and said quietly, “I find it all quite horrible myself.” It was as if he knew he wasn’t meant to admit it. “We have many, many bodies. Soon we’ll have more. It’s a terrible time.” He sat back and took another piece of the ham on his fork. “It’s never really a question of knowing God’s will, is it? But at least He’s there. To say He isn’t, or never has been, or shouldn’t be-” He slipped the fork into his mouth and shook his head. “Some choose to act impetuously, I know-every war has its excesses-but surely God has a right to protect Himself. What is Spain without God? What is God without Spain?” Alfassi swallowed and said, “Have they buried the bodies in Zaragoza?”

To call wholesale murder impetuous was unforgivable. Even so, it was clear that Alfassi’s fight was not about control or power. It was about fear-the simple fear of losing his God. And, as with all men who live through fear, he was looking for guidance. Holy vengeance was something new, at least in this century. Cleaning up after it was still open to debate.

Hoffner said, “I wouldn’t know.”

Alfassi nodded and cut another piece. “It’s a good point-disease. There’s enough to think about without that.”

“And these bodies,” Mila said. “How many exactly?”

Hoffner tipped over his glass-an accident-and water spilled to the lip of the table. Instinctively Mila pulled back, and Hoffner quickly apologized. He tried to stop it with his napkin.

“You’re all right?” he said. She said nothing and Hoffner looked at Alfassi. “It’s very good. The lemons are fresh.”

“Yes,” said Alfassi. “Don’t worry. Someone will clean it.”

A man appeared with a rag and quickly mopped up what remained. He poured Hoffner another glass and moved off.

Hoffner said, “I’m not a Spaniard, Senor.”

“Yes, I know. A thousand years ago, neither was I. The name: it means ‘from Fez.’ ” He enjoyed this little nugget. “You’re a German.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve had quite a few of you through here in the last week.”

“None causing any trouble, I hope.”

There was a roll on his plate. Alfassi took it and ripped it open. “Am I to be expecting more of you?”

“I’m interested in just one, Senor, a journalist with the Pathe Gazette Company. He would have been carrying a moving film camera. He was sent to bring back newsreels.”

Alfassi buttered the roll and took a bite. He nodded. “Also called Hoffner. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, is it?”

Hoffner tried not to show a reaction.

Alfassi had known all along, and he had taken his time. It was now unclear whether this had all been for show-a bit of pious propaganda for a visitor-or something more sinister. Hoffner wondered if the Guardia with the rifle was always just a few tables down.

Hoffner said, “No coincidence, Senor. You met him?”

Alfassi continued to chew. “Briefly. I don’t trust foreign journalists. It’s always so easy to pass judgment from a distance.” He swallowed. “At least with our own, we know if they’re right or wrong before we read them.”

“My son isn’t the kind to judge.”

Alfassi reached for his glass. “That would depend on what he chooses to film, wouldn’t it?” He drank, and Hoffner waited for the conversation to take its unpleasant turn. Instead, Alfassi added, “I don’t think he was in Teruel long enough to have made many choices. Three or four hours. He didn’t eat the ham.”

Hoffner had the strangest sensation, an image of Georg sitting across from Alfassi, probably at this very table. That Georg was already gone was only a momentary disappointment. The boy was alive. That was enough for now. Georg would be heading west, along the route outlined in Doval’s wires. Hoffner was less clear on where Alfassi might be leading them.

“His loss,” said Hoffner.

“Tell me, Senor.” There was something caught in Alfassi’s tooth. He ran his thumbnail through it. “Why is it that all these Germans are interested in your journalist son, and why do they all come to Teruel to find him? Surely Zaragoza, Barcelona, or Madrid are far more interesting these days.”

Alfassi’s tone was almost impenetrable. The words seemed to threaten, then not. Hoffner couldn’t decide if this was charm or guile or simply the residue of an unflappable faith. What he did know was that the SS was tracking Georg-“all these Germans.”