The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (15 page)

Mendoza laughed. ‘Evidence? Due process? You forget,
Teniente
, I’ve seen how it works. You don’t want justice, you want to wipe out all those who opposed that whinnying little Galician.’

‘You will not speak of the
Caudillo
like that,’ Peralta shouted. ‘You fought on the side of Communism and the anti-Christ, you burned churches, allowed the rape of nuns…’

‘I made Molotov cocktails,’ Mendoza said quietly. ‘Wine bottle, petrol, rag in the top. That’s why they called me
el Profesor
, because of my specialist knowledge. Before the war I was a schoolteacher. Then I joined up to support a democratically elected government against the treachery of Franco’s military rebellion. Maybe it was a bad choice, but it was my choice and I was right to make it.’

‘Not from where I’m standing.’

‘No, I suppose not. And presumably until all of us who fought for the Republic are dead, this will continue. Endless punishment imposed upon those who opposed you – or even those who
might
oppose you.’

Outside the cell door there was the sound of a loud voice and boots clattering on the stone floor. The door flew open and Guzmán swaggered into the room, framed in the doorway by the pale lights of the corridor like some great ape.

He glared at Mendoza. ‘Ernesto Garcia Mendoza, you are charged under the 1939 Law of Responsibilities which is applied retrospectively to all activities from 1934 onwards. You’re charged with crimes against the Spanish State including supporting enemies of the State by subterfuge and force of arms. You were convicted in your absence by a military tribunal in Valladolid in May 1942 and sentenced to death. Do you have anything to say?’

‘Yes,’ Mendoza said quietly. ‘Where are my aunt and uncle?’

Guzmán scowled, ‘On their way to prison. Their apartment is confiscated and their pensions cancelled. And all because of …’ his face contorted angrily, ‘you.’

‘May I ask when you propose to execute me?’ Mendoza said. ‘Or are we going to have the torture first?’

‘There will be no torture,’ Peralta said, aware of how thin his voice sounded. ‘Your dignity will be protected until sentence is carried out.’

Guzmán looked as if he was about to attack Peralta. ‘There’ll be no fucking torture because he’s nothing of any importance to tell us. We learned all of that long ago.’

‘I’m sure,’ Mendoza nodded. ‘But, I do have one confession to make.’

‘Go ahead, just make it quick. We’ve a table booked for lunch,’ Guzmán snarled.

Mendoza nodded. ‘I hardly remember the war any more. Just vague detail. Names, faces, they don’t come to me any more.’ He paused. ‘Now, I’m just me and my circumstances,
Comandante
.’

‘That sounds like one for your headstone,’ Guzmán said. ‘Who said it first?’

‘It was Ortega y Gasset,’ Peralta said. ‘He—’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Guzmán shouted.

Mendoza sighed. ‘It was all a long time ago. Now it’s just history. And just as we grow old and die, so will the memory of your
Caudillo
.’

Peralta wished Mendoza would shut up and let Guzmán crow. And then wait quietly until it was time to go to the firing squad.

Guzmán snorted. ‘That’s where you’re wrong and that’s why you lost. You didn’t want to win enough and we did. Let me tell you, professor, I remember every man I fought with and many of those I killed. Never a day goes by but I see the war, hear the noises, smell the carnage, the burning and the flesh. Hear the shots rattling around our trenches. I don’t forget.’

‘You’re still in that war,
Comandante
Guzmán. Still fighting it. What will you do when all those who opposed you are dead. Retire on half pay and grow vegetables somewhere?’ Mendoza said.

Guzmán turned to Peralta. ‘We’re done here.’ Peralta moved towards the door.

Guzmán looked back at Mendoza. ‘It will never be finished.’ His voice was now more controlled and much more frightening. ‘But for you, it ends tonight. One less stain on Spanish history.’

The door slammed. Mendoza stared at the wall, watching slow rivulets of water worming down their ancient mossy tracks to the damp floor. Outside, he heard the
comandante
shouting, heard his footsteps diminishing down the corridor and then a distant door closed with a dull thud. After that, there was only silence.

Peralta sat in Guzmán’s office and waited while his boss raged. He raged about Mendoza, about Peralta and, after raging for a while about nothing in particular, he calmed down. It was lunchtime. The last thing Peralta wanted was to have lunch with Guzmán. In fact, the last thing he wanted was lunch. Mendoza’s calm resignation had affected him more than he cared to tell Guzmán; indeed, more than he dared tell him.

Guzmán shuffled a pile of papers as he dialled the number of Military Headquarters.

‘Thirty-six arrests. Let’s see how many we can get rid of.’ He winked at Peralta.

Peralta felt an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. No matter how he tried, there was no way he could think of to extricate himself from what was to follow.

Guzmán began speaking to someone, his tone respectful and measured. He gave a reference number to confirm who he was. Arranging the lists of names of those arrested on his desk, Guzmán began to place a mark against certain names. Finally it was finished.

‘
Gracias, mi Coronel. Hasta luego
.’ He replaced the phone in its cradle.

Peralta saw the list of names on Guzmán’s desk. ‘How many,
Comandante
?’

Guzmán looked up at Peralta, his heavy lidded eyes flashing with anger.

‘Twelve. Can you believe it? Franco’s spared most of them.’ Guzmán sounded disappointed. ‘It took weeks to get the information so we could get them all at once. We had dozens of plain-clothes lads following them around. We beat our informers senseless to make sure we could be certain. And then what?’ He gestured at the paper on his desk. ‘A few years in prison.’

‘Perhaps the
Caudillo
decided that a few years in prison will be enough to straighten them out? You said yourself Mendoza had nothing worthwhile to tell us.’

Guzmán looked hard at Peralta. ‘Mendoza dies.’

‘How long do you think the others will get?’

Guzmán sighed. ‘Nothing. Twenty-five, thirty years. For Christ’s sake some of them could be out by 1976.’ He sighed again. ‘Fuck it. We do what we’re told. It’s not our fault if they get a slap on the wrist. Let’s get some lunch.’

Peralta took his thin shabby overcoat from the coat stand. Guzmán rose ponderously and pulled on his own thick wool coat. The phone rang, metallic and shrill in the gloomy office. Guzmán picked up the receiver.

‘
Buenos dias, mi Coronel
. Yes, I spoke to your colleague a few minutes ago,’ Guzmán said, his face brightening. ‘I have it here,
Coronel
. Go ahead, I’m ready.’ Guzmán began to place marks against the names of some of the men on the list. ‘I have all that,
Coronel
. Many thanks.’ Guzmán hung up. He bounced up out of his chair. ‘Well, that’s better.’ He began to wrap his scarf around his neck. ‘Three more cases have been reviewed by Franco.’

‘And?’ Peralta asked.

‘They die too,’ Guzmán said happily. ‘Probably the
Caudillo
received a plea for mercy from someone in the government or the church. It often happens. A cousin or some distant relative – Oh please,
Generalísimo
, spare my Juanito, he only killed a few priests. That kind of shit. So to show they have his ear, Franco spares them. Well, that’s what he tells them. But then there’s an administrative blunder at this end and the paperwork arrives too late to commute the original sentence. They die, but technically Franco has done their relatives a favour by ordering them to be spared.’

Peralta looked blankly at him. ‘So they were never really going to be spared?’

Guzmán pulled his hat onto his head firmly. ‘They were spared, Acting
Teniente
. Technically. Their deaths are just an administrative error.’

He stepped out into the stone flagged corridor and waited for Peralta to follow him before locking the office door. At the reception desk the
sargento
was stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm.

‘Off for lunch, Sarge,’ Guzmán said. ‘Need to keep our strength up for tonight.’

The
sargento
grinned. ‘It’s all on, then?’

‘Naturally.’ Guzmán nodded as he made for the door to the street. ‘A bit of overtime for you and the boys.’

The
sargento
waited until they had gone through the two great doors into the frozen street before raising his right hand with the glowing cigarette cupped in it and taking a deep drag.

The freezing air was sharp and relentless as they walked the hundred metres to Guzmán’s chosen café. As the door opened and Peralta followed him into the crowded room, the air was suddenly warm and thick with the smell of cooking. In spite of himself, Peralta felt his mouth water. The door closed behind him, momentarily framing in its painted glass the dark figure watching them from a doorway across the street.

BADAJOZ 1936

They struggled through the trees with the panic of men trapped in quicksand: an overwhelming desire to escape shadowed by an increasing suspicion that escape might not ultimately be possible. The Moors pursued them, their voices foreign and hard as they came, firing through the trees in the hope of a random hit. Now and then they were successful.

The kid had ditched most of his equipment. Even his water bottle had been thrown down in order to lighten his burden. All he carried now was his rifle which he clung to with desperate attachment, as if his life depended on the fierce grip he maintained on the weapon. The muscles of his forearms spasmed with the exertion of carrying the rifle and his back ached from the crouching lope he was obliged to maintain in order to avoid the sibilant bullets whining through the trees around them. The wood began to thin out, giving way to steep stony ground that rose into a sheer stone cliff. Above that was a copse of fir trees offering new opportunities for cover. If they could make it that far.

The men ran across the scrubland. One man called out, a note of hope in his voice. Above them, curving up through the sheer rock face, was a path, rough stone steps carved into a steep narrow ravine rising through the vertical stone. The men looked back briefly. Shouts in Arabic and the crack of rifles from the trees sent them scurrying towards the path, boots rattling on the roughly hewn stone as they began their ascent. As the kid entered the shelter of the ravine and began to climb, the man behind him cried out. Turning, the kid saw the man sink to his knees, a rose of blood blossoming in the centre of his chest. There was no more looking back. Behind them was death and with every stumbling step, it was getting nearer.

MADRID 2009, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, DEPARTAMENTO DE HISTORIA CONTEMPORÁNEA

Galindez parked her car in the faculty parking lot and made her way across the campus to the Modern History building. The university grounds were tanned and dappled in the morning heat, the endless cascade of the fountain a stream of diamonds and ice fire in the thick warmth of the day. Students littered the campus, sprawling with practised informality amid the detritus of campus life: books, newspapers, fashion magazines, sandwich wrappers. A radio played rap, the bass reverberating around the campus buildings. Galindez followed signs that led her down a long corridor towards the department of Interpretative History. Galindez heard Luisa talking on the phone as she opened the office door. Luisa waved Galindez to a small couch by the window and finished her call.

‘Hello, you.’ Luisa sat next to her on the couch. ‘Did you talk to your boss?’

‘I did. He’s keen for us to be involved in the project. Not only that, I can access the Military Intelligence Archive.’

‘Fantastic,’ Luisa said. ‘You’ll bring a new perspective to our work.’

‘Good. I’m really looking forward to it. You’re still sure you don’t mind – now we’re not seeing each other, I mean? I don’t want there to be any friction between us.’

‘I’m fine, Ana. We’re both grown-ups. I must admit I was sorry when you said you wanted to break up, but that’s life. And we can still be friends, can’t we?’

‘Of course we can,’ Galindez said.

Luisa nodded. ‘I’ll introduce you to the team in a few minutes. It’s not a big team, but that may change as the project develops. Let’s go, shall we?’

Galindez followed Luisa to a door at the end of the corridor. A sign above the door told her this was Seminar Room B. A piece of paper was taped on the door:
Civil War Atrocities Project Team: Members only
. Luisa unlocked the door. ‘This is our meeting room. We keep our photo library here as well. Have a look at our collection if you like while I get the others.’ She strolled away down the corridor and Galindez entered Seminar Room B. And then the day changed as she stepped into a world over seventy years old.

The walls were covered with images of the Civil War. Sepia and black and white photographs everywhere, pinned to boards, mounted sequences of pictures with carefully annotated detail, others just propped against the wall. Photographs of men and women, worn faces turned to the camera, forever frozen in a variety of grins, salutes and scowls. Clenched fists raised by men in ragged uniforms crowded on a lorry, their bulging packs and long rifles held awkwardly as the truck wended its way along some unknown dirt track. Dark unshaven faces, flat caps, cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

Leaving her bag on a table, Galindez moved slowly along the array of photographs. The tone of the content began to darken. She saw huddled corpses, perhaps the aftermath of a battle. But she was wrong: here was the same scene but this time the corpses were still alive, standing cowed, their hands tied, unwillingly facing the camera, while a metre away a group of men aimed rifles at the prisoners. Did they really have to stand so close in order to shoot them, she wondered. And then she realised. The men were standing that close in order to get into the photograph. And, while they held their weapons aimed at the group of prisoners, each man in the firing squad was looking at the camera. Smiling.