The Second Son: A Novel (26 page)

Hoffner was sitting back against the car’s bonnet. He was almost halfway through a pack of cigarettes and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. At some point in Barcelona, Mila had washed his shirt. It smelled of lavender. The rest of him wasn’t quite so floral.

She stepped over and sat next to him. They had said nothing to each other since the shack. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and let the sun fill her face. She said, “He’s wrong, you know.”

Hoffner tossed his cigarette to the ground and stared over at a group of men who were in line for something—food, toilet, maybe both. They each had a rifle slung over a shoulder or a pistol strapped to a belt. There were berets, metal helmets, an airman’s cap that had frayed at the back, but nothing to say they belonged together. They didn’t stand like soldiers. They didn’t smoke like soldiers. But they talked like soldiers—that hushed, half-joking pose of false hope and unexamined fear. It was good to be brave, thought Hoffner, good to believe in this beyond all else. He looked again at Mila. It was good to believe in something.

Durruti closed the door and stepped over. He took a cigarette from Hoffner’s pack and leaned in for a light.

Hoffner said, “And you really don’t care where we set them off?”

Durruti pulled a piece of tobacco from his tongue and flicked it to the ground. “You won’t have enough to do any real damage. You do it to make them know we can. The real destruction will come from the aeroplanes.”

“If the bombs ever manage to go off.”

“That was bad luck.”

Mila still had her eyes closed. “For whom?” she said.

Durruti forced a tired smile. “Don’t make me think twice about this.”

“I’m glad you’ve thought about it at all.”

Hoffner shook out another cigarette; what else was there to do? He lit up. “You really want to bring it all down to rubble, don’t you?”

Durruti was now looking over at the men. There was nothing in the eyes to show the pain or pride he felt. “I want a free Spain,” he said. “I want collectives—purpose. I want all of what was to be gone. This socialist government won’t give me that. They might even kill me once I get rid of the fascists for them. So it all has to go.”

“And then?”

“We rebuild.” This was something Durruti had thought long on. “We destroy because we’re capable of building. We were the ones who built the palaces and the cities. We’ll build them again, this time better. We’re not afraid of ruins. We have a new world—inside—in our hearts.”

A man emerged from a nearby building and spoke as he made his way over. “It’s Colonel Villalba,” he said. “He’s on the telephone.”

Hoffner said to Durruti, “They have a telephone here?”

Durruti said under his breath, “It’s why we picked the town.” He looked at the man. “Do I need to take a drive?”

“He wants to come here.”

For the first time, Hoffner saw genuine surprise in Durruti’s face. Mila opened her eyes.

“And why is that?” said Durruti.

The man did his best to hide his disgust. “He wants to see what the enemy looks like up close.”

“You’re joking.”

“It was my fault,” the man said. “He asked what we were up against.”

“And?”

“I said the rebels.”

“And?”

The man shrugged. “He wanted to know who exactly, what forces, how many cannons and machine guns, do they have cavalry?”

They all waited until Durruti said, “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him that they’re the enemy because they don’t report their troops or forces. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be the enemy.”

Hoffner couldn’t help a quiet laugh, and Durruti said, “I thought you were a baker, not a comedian.”

The man said, “I’m a soldier.”

“Bravo. A soldier keeps his mouth shut. Tell him I’ll come to the telephone. Don’t let him hang up.”

The man headed off, and Hoffner said, “He has a point.”

Durruti tossed his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. It was his only moment of frustration, but it was enough. “I should be in Zaragoza by now,” he said. “Villalba knows it. All this waiting.” He looked around. “Where the hell is Ruiz?”

Gabriel had insisted on burying the Germans. He had taken three men with him almost an hour ago.

Hoffner said, “It takes time to put a man in the ground the right way.”

“It takes time,” Durruti said sharply, “because he’ll want the same for himself. Gabriel might not believe in a God but he believes in a balance to things.”

Up to this moment Hoffner hadn’t known what to call it with Gabriel, but this made perfect sense. He said, “And he thinks he’ll be with the fascists when he needs burying?”

“He knows it.” Durruti had no reluctance for the truth. “He’s dead if he goes back to Barcelona. The
patrullas
or your German friends will finish him—or track him here. There’s not much good in that. So he’ll take you to Zaragoza, get you in, and while you and the doctor find what you need, he’ll plant the fuses. And when you get yourselves out, he’ll set them off. If he tries it earlier, he knows none of you make it out. Now you know why he takes his time.”

Durruti spat a piece of tobacco to the ground, and Mila—realizing what Durruti had meant—said, “He’s heading home. To fight in Gijón.”

“Yes. But first he fights here.”

“You mean first he dies here.”

Durruti took his time before answering. “He’ll set off the fuses. He’ll get out. And then he’ll fight in Gijón.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

“No?” said Durruti. “I’ll tell him when he gets back. I’m sure that’ll make a great deal of difference to him.”

Hoffner said, “There’s no reason for that.”

“There’s no reason for any of it,” said Durruti, “but none of us have that luxury.”

As if to save them all, Gabriel appeared from around one of the houses across the square. Three other men were with him, and Gabriel raised his hand in a single wave.

Durruti started out toward him, but the sudden
ping
of bullets forced him instantly to the ground, two shots, then a third. Hoffner grabbed hold of Mila and pulled her down behind the car as Durruti began to crawl his way back. The square was filled with shouting. Half the line of men were diving through doorways and windows. The other half stood frozen. Another two shots, and then silence. Durruti drew up next to them and leaned his head against the car.

“Our sniper’s getting bold,” Durruti said. “Broad daylight.” There was a hint of respect in the voice. He shouted over to the men who had yet to move. “Get down!”

The men quickly ran for cover, but there was no point. Ten seconds was as much mayhem as the sniper could muster. Nonetheless, Durruti edged his way up to the bonnet and began to fire out into the trees. He was joined by several others along the houses until he shouted, “Enough. Save your bullets.”

The echoes faded, and Durruti listened for another half minute. He continued to look out beyond the village.

“He’s running,” he said. “That’s what I’d be doing.” He stood upright and stepped out from behind the car. Slowly, others began to make their way out.

“It’s done!” he shouted. “We need a patrol.”

Durruti waited for more of the men to move into the square before he turned and extended a hand to Hoffner.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just be glad he didn’t hit the explosives.”

Hoffner took the hand, then helped Mila to her feet. She seemed completely unruffled.

She said, “You’re all right?”

Hoffner nodded. He was about to say something when he saw a single figure lying unmoving in the square. The body had fallen forward, the shot clean to the back of the skull. A line of blood had curled down to the mustache.

Even a blind pig.

Hoffner stared at Gabriel’s body and knew that Mila, too, was staring out with him.

AN ACT OF FAITH

“No,” said Hoffner. The force in his tone surprised even him. “We still go.”

“Then you take my man,” said Durruti.

“No.”

They were in the shack. The bearded twenty-year-old stood silently at the door. Mila was sitting by the stove.

Durruti said, “Then you don’t find your son.”

Hoffner looked over at Mila. She was refusing to help him. She was agreeing with Durruti.

Hoffner said, “Gabriel was willing to kill himself for this. Fine. Your man isn’t. It would be for show—you said it yourself. The explosives stay here.”

“And I give you a car and gasoline and bullets because I’m feeling generous? No. You take the explosives—with or without my man—and you plant them. What you do after that is no concern of mine.”

“My son—”

“You think your boy is more capable than Gardenyes or Ruiz?” Durruti let this take root. “They took Gardenyes. They had Ruiz. They nearly killed him. These guns from the Germans will find their way into my country no matter what you or your boy do. We’re done.” He looked at his man. “When the others return, send them out to find the shooter. They buried Ruiz. They’ll want his killer.”

The man nodded and headed out. Durruti turned to the table and, with as much focus as he could, began to study the map.

Hoffner said, “So either I let you sacrifice your man, or I sacrifice myself and the doctor. That’s quite a way to win a war.”

Durruti refused to turn. “It’s the way we win this war.”

“I’ve heard. Men charging at cannons, refusing to dig trenches.” And with perhaps too much bitterness, “Better to be shot full in the chest, in plain view, than to survive like a coward.”

Durruti stood unmoving. When he turned, his face was empty, the heat gone from him.

“These men,” Durruti said. “My men.” It was a rare admission. “For every fifty, I have one who knows how to fight. The rest have passion, daring—what they take for quality. Arrogant men because they fight with ideals, not guns. And it’s these ideals that tell them not to think, not to question, not to die. Sit them down in a trench—where they can learn to flatten themselves against a wall at the first sound of an aeroplane engine or feel the terror of hours trapped in a mudhole with guns and fear staring back at them—and they become nothing. Then they
are
nothing but sacrifice. And if that’s what they are, this war is already lost.”

Hoffner had misjudged Durruti. The venom wasn’t pride; it was a need to shut out the inevitable. “Then turn them into soldiers.”

Durruti snorted dismissively. “A German speaks. We haven’t time for that. We have numbers—now—and somewhere we have guns: Spanish, Russian. The rebels inside Zaragoza—those troops with all their years of training and killing in Asturias and Morocco—they’re happy to wait. Happy because while they wait my bricklayers and bakers and peasants come to understand what they themselves truly are. So I sacrifice one, and he sacrifices himself, and the passion and daring go on.”

Hoffner stood with no answer. There was no answer for any of this, and Mila asked, “Did you know Gabriel well?”

It took Durruti a moment to remember she was in the room. He looked at her. “Yes.”

“And Gardenyes?”

Durruti hesitated. “Why do you ask this?”

“Because I didn’t,” she said, “and I feel the pain.” She stood. “We do it ourselves, and you keep your man. Show us on the map.”

She stepped passed him. There was a moment between Hoffner and Durruti before they both stepped over. Durruti picked up a wax pencil and began to mark.

*   *   *

She had changed into a silk dress, flower print, sleeves long to the wrist. And her hair was pulled up in a bun.

Durruti had shown them how to get north of the city. It would have made no sense to soldiers at an outpost to have a car coming from the east: How would a German fascist and his lady friend have made it through? Durruti had promised two hours, maybe three, of dirt that passed for tracks and roads, but at least they were avoiding the river.

It was a puzzling terrain, flat and open, at times barren and then wild with green. There were rises here and there, little houses, but more often than not it was the sudden looming of a castle in the distance—ancient and decayed—that traced the path Durruti had given them. Twice they heard gunfire; twice they maneuvered around wagons pulled by mules. Hoffner noticed no neckerchiefs. These were peasants, smart enough to keep their loyalties to themselves. If Durruti pushed through, so be it. Until then, they would wave and nod to anyone passing by.

It was nearly half past one, and the heat in the car was making quick work of the little air coming through the windows. Mila had brought a lipstick. She gave her lips a brown-red coating and looked at herself in a small mirror. As if anticipating his question, she said, “They’ll expect it. Anarchists have bland lips. Fascists have red ones. Not too red. It’s a fine line for God.”

Hoffner nodded but said nothing. He had said very little since the shack. She put the lipstick in her purse and stared out. She, too, had said almost nothing.

The road was suddenly bounded on both sides by fields of sunflowers, each turned up to the midday sun. The smell was strong, the heat stronger.