The Second Son

The other said, “And Moscardo? He makes half the country call him a hero.”

“Moscardo is a traitor,” said the captain, “and a coward. He hides himself away and lets his son pay for his cowardice. A true caballero would have offered his own life.”

“And we would have taken it?”

“For a boy of sixteen? Of course.” The large captain looked at Hoffner. “The son is alive, by the way. Unlike Moscardo, we don’t kill a boy for his father’s failings. But of course we can’t say it, otherwise Franco or Queipo de Llano would think we’re weak. They’d want to see if they can come and try and finish us. Or they might come to avenge the boy anyway, so however it goes, this business with Moscardo is bad for us. Nothing we can do about it now, though.”

Franco, as it turned out, had proved to be a fine swimmer. He was already moving up to Seville, according to the large captain, although the reports were still a bit vague. Meanwhile, Toledo’s fate was being tossed around like so many mouthfuls of venison boiled too long in a pot. Maybe Barcelona’s arrogance did extend this far. Maybe it had to.

The younger one was not done with Hoffner. “And Durruti,” he said. “He gave you these explosives so you could find your son? Why would he do that?”

Arrogance and mistrust-the only way to win a war. Hoffner said, “He wanted me to use them in Zaragoza.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“And if you had, you’d be dead.”

“More than likely, yes.”

“So he expected you to die.” This was where the young one had been leading them.

Hoffner said, “I imagine he did.”

“And the senora?”

“I imagine her, as well.”

Which left only one logical answer: “So the explosives weren’t really to help you find your son, were they?”

Hoffner said evenly, “Durruti told me my son was dead. I knew he was wrong. I chose to make fools of the requetes instead.”

The young one refused to back down. “Fools can still shoot rifles and drive tanks. Maybe better to have used the explosives.” He finished his glass and stood. “Good luck finding your German son who takes pictures. I’m sure it will be a tender reunion.” He pushed his chair back, nodded once to Mila, and headed off.

Watching him go, the large captain said, “He has a brother and two sisters in the Alcazar. Our hero Moscardo keeps hostages of his own. It makes it difficult. My lieutenant doesn’t have the same choices you have in how he tries to save his family.”

Hoffner refused to feel the guilt. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course not. But you bring explosives, so maybe we give Moscardo something to think about.”

By early afternoon there was still no word on Georg, although two of the soldiers had yet to report in. Talk of the explosives and the Alcazar continued. What better way to spend the time? With a few more glasses of wine, the large captain suggested it was time to drive up to the fortress and make good on the deposit.

“No, no, no-don’t worry,” he said. “It’s completely safe. They only shoot when they’re shot at. They need to save their ammunition.”

Naturally, Mila and Hoffner were given no choice but to join him. Nonetheless, the large captain decided they would all three ride up in an old Bilbao armored car just behind the Mercedes, its 7mm gun aimed backward. Why provoke anything?

Inside, the grind of the engine was deafening and the seats smelled of piss.

The large captain shouted, “We make a pass three times a day in this. They’ll look a little fu

Hoffner peered out through the slits and saw the mounting destruction as they climbed. Entire walls lay in rubble, while gnarled iron railings stretched across the stone and looked like claws trying to work their way through. Sandbag barricades remained planted in the middle of the streets, with bullet holes strafing across them and stray caps and canteens lying at odd angles. Evidently the retreat to the Alcazar had not been a quiet one.

Where the cobblestone had given way, the driver slowed and weaved his way around the newly formed ditches and mounds. All this had been on view in Barcelona, except total victory there had made the wreckage distant, an artifact of daring and pride, easy enough for a boy to stand atop and declare his absolute mastery. Here desolation and death still lived in the rock and waited on a final reckoning. It forced Hoffner to pull back even as the streets passed in empty silence.

The car lurched and heaved and finally pulled to a stop. The engine cut out, and the large captain, reaching for the handle, said, “You come too if you want. They won’t be able to see us down here.”

He pushed open the door and the sun streamed in, along with a spray of air that was breathable. Mila and Hoffner followed him.

They were perhaps thirty meters from the wall, safely behind the bombed remains of a house, an outpost of sorts, with enough of a view to see the spire of one of the fortress towers high above. Part of the fortress roof had been torn away-a few well-tossed grenades from an aeroplane-but for the time being, the Alcazar remained sufficiently intact. A man sat with a machine gun, while the driver of the Mercedes stood a few meters higher up the incline, pulling the explosives from the car and laying them on the grass. Another two remained behind the car, their rifles aimed up at the wall, the barrels moving slowly back and forth along the line of windows and ledges. For men who were convinced the rebels would be taking no notice, they were showing remarkable caution.

The man finished unloading the explosives and began to dart up to the base of the tower, keeping low, a brick in each hand. Five trips in, a man at the car shouted for him to stop. Something had caught his eye. Hoffner inched out and tried to see where he was looking.

Twenty meters above, a group of four women were being forced out onto a ledge, terror in their faces as they clutched at the stone. The barrel of a rifle appeared among them, followed by the shout of a man’s high-pitched voice: “These are your socialist whores! Move off or they join you down there!”

One of the women screamed and the large captain barked to his man to pull back to the car. The pile of explosives remained by the wall. The women pressed themselves into the siding and tried vainly to keep their dresses from billowing up in the wind.

The large captain said quietly to the man at the machine gun, “They’ve done this before?”

The man shook his head. “I didn’t think they knew we were here.”

“Then you were wrong.” The large captain stepped closer to the edge of the house and peered out. He shouted up to the wall, “My man is back.”

The voice shouted, “Don’t be smart. The explosives as well.”

The large captain shouted, “This is what you do, hide behind women? You’ll be dead in a week. Ask your God if this is what you want on your gravestones.”

“It won’t be me who’ll be rotting,” the voice shouted. “Take the bombs or you’ll be taking four more dead ones back with you.”

The large captain waited. He looked back at his men, then up to the ledge. “Is it easy to be such a coward?” he shouted.

“If these were women and not whores, I could tell you.”

It kept on like this, and Hoffner had no idea what the point was in staying. The explosives were barely enough to put a dent in the wall. It was empty posturing on both sides, until the crack of a bullet rang out and a single body fell from the ledge.

The silence was pure and instantaneous. Screams followed. The large captain yelled to his men not to fire, then shouts and threats echoed back and forth. It was unclear whether this had been intended or a mistake. Mila had suddenly begun moving to the edge of the house, to the dead woman, eyes blank, when Hoffner grabbed her and held her close. Mila’s body was rigid, her breathing short; it was all he could do to keep her with him.