C. Sansom - Winter in Madrid

Oh God, Harry thought, he knows. Hoare told Maestre and Maestre’s told him.

Hoare gave the Generalísimo a startled look.

‘I do hope everything can proceed smoothly,’ Franco went on. ‘Otherwise – ’ he shrugged again – ‘we would not want to look on England as an enemy, but it is always a question of how a power acts in its relations with us. In its open dealings and its secret ones.’ He raised his eyebrows at Hoare. The ambassador reddened. Harry wondered what Franco would have said if he had known about the Knights of St George. He gripped a table behind him for support.

IN THE CAR going back to Madrid, Hoare was furious. The meeting had gone on for another half hour. Hoare had discussed trade agreements and the rumours of lorry-loads of food being sent to France for the German army, but he had lost the initiative. Franco’s manner had been that of an injured party dealing with an importunate negotiator.

‘Wait till I see Hillgarth,’ he snapped, glaring at Harry. ‘I was humiliated in there, humiliated! That was why he called me in, to throw that bloody mine in my face. Just my bloody luck you were the only translator available. These adventures have got to stop! I’ve been made to look a fool!’ Hoare was almost hissing, his thin features a mask of fury. Harry felt a drop of spittle land on his face.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Maestre must have told Franco everything, after Hillgarth told him it was all a racket. Maestre’s made the Falange look stupid but he’s made us look a damn sight worse.’ Hoare took a deep breath. ‘Just as well you’re leaving soon. We must make sure the Generalísimo knows you’ve gone. Marrying some lower-class Spanish girl – I don’t know how you think that’ll help your future career, Brett. In fact, I should say that was pretty well finished,’ the ambassador added spitefully. He turned away and opened his briefcase with a snap, pulling out a file. Harry stared out of the window as the first suburbs of Madrid flashed by. This time tomorrow they would be almost in Cuenca and a few days after that they would be away from here. To hell with you, Harry thought, to hell with you all.

THERE WAS STILL SNOW high in the Tierra Muerta, but below the quarry most of it had melted during the brief spell of warmer weather that had turned the camp yard into a sea of mud.

Yesterday when they paused for their rest on the way to work, Agustín had sidled up to Bernie as he looked downhill towards Cuenca. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ he whispered.

Bernie nodded.

‘Pick up a sharp stone tomorrow morning, put it in your pocket.’

Bernie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

Agustín took a deep breath. He looked afraid. ‘To hit me with. You should make a cut, draw blood, it will look more realistic.’ Bernie nodded and bit his lip.

Lying his pallet in the hut that evening, Bernie massaged his shoulder, which was afire with pain after the day’s work. His leg was stiff too; he hoped it didn’t give way going down the mountain tomorrow. Down the mountain. It sounded incredible yet it was real. He looked at the bed opposite. Establo had died two nights before, in great pain, and the other prisoners had shared out his blankets. The Communists in the hut were sad, subdued.

When morning came he felt groggy. He got up and looked out of the window. It felt colder than ever but there was still no snow. His heart began thudding. He would do it. Carefully he exercised his stiff leg.

At breakfast he avoided the Communists’ eyes. He felt shame again at leaving the other prisoners. But there was nothing he could do for them. If he got away he wondered whether they would cheer him or condemn him. If he got to England he would tell the world about the conditions here, he would shout it from the rooftops.

He lined up with the others in the muddy yard for roll-call. The undulating mud had frozen and was covered with white frost, like a frozen sea. Aranda took the roll. Sometimes since Bernie had refused to be an informer, Aranda’s eye lighted on him at roll-call: he would pause for a moment and smile, as though he had something nasty in store. One day he would pick him out for something, but today wasn’t the day; Aranda passed on to the next name. Bernie exhaled with relief. You’ve missed your chance, you bastard, he thought.

Father Eduardo emerged from the church, looking tired and miserable as he usually did these days. It struck Bernie that his dark red hair was almost the same shade as Barbara’s. He had never noticed that before, but he had thought of her so much since he learned she was behind his escape plans. The priest went to the gate, raising his arm in response to the guard’s Fascist salute as he let him through. He must be going into Cuenca. Neither of the priests had come for Establo. Perhaps they hadn’t dared; Establo, unlike poor Vicente, had been a feared man.

Roll-call over, the quarry detail gathered in front of the gate. Agustín didn’t look at Bernie. The gates opened and the crocodile made its way into the hills. At first the path climbed through brown grass, then fingers of snow appeared in the gullies and finally they rose above the snowline, the world white again. Agustín was walking some way ahead of Bernie; he wouldn’t want anyone to remember them being together before the escape.

Bernie was put with a group breaking up large boulders. He had hoped to give himself an easy day to conserve his energy but it was so cold that if he stopped work he began shivering at once. Late in the morning he found a suitable stone to hit Agustín with; flat and round, with a jagged edge that would draw blood and make the blow look worse than it was. He slipped it in his pocket, pushing away a memory of Pablo on the cross.

At the short break for lunch he took as much of the chickpeas and rice as he could from the pot. In the afternoon as he worked he watched the sky. It remained cloudless. The sun began to set, casting a pink glow over the bare hillsides and the high white mountains to the east. Bernie’s heart began pounding with anticipation. One way or another, this was the last time he would see that view.

At last he spotted Agustín, who had ensured he was guarding his section, moving closer. It was their signal that the time had arrived. Bernie took a deep breath and counted to three, preparing himself. Then he dropped his pick and clutched his stomach, crying out as though in pain. He bent double and cried out again, louder. The men he was working with stared at him. There were no other guards in sight. They were in luck.

‘What is it, Bernardo?’ Miguel asked.

Agustín unslung his rifle and approached.

‘ ¿Que pasa aquí? ’ he demanded roughly.

‘I’ve got diarrhoea. Agh, I can’t hold it.’

‘Don’t do it here. I’ll take you behind the bushes.’ Agustín raised his voice. ‘ Dios mío , why are you men so much trouble. Stand still so I can chain you.’

He can act, Bernie thought. Agustín put down his rifle and produced the shackles, a long thin chain with cuffs at the end, from the pouch at his belt. He secured Bernie’s legs.

‘Please, quickly!’ Bernie held his face in an agonized rictus.

‘Come on then!’ Agustín picked up his rifle and waved him to walk ahead. They went quickly up the little track that wound around the hill. In a minute they were out of sight, by the bushes. Bernie panted with relief.

‘We’ve done it,’ he breathed. Agustín bent quickly and unlocked the shackles with trembling fingers. He threw the key to the ground. Then he put down his rifle and knelt in the snow. He looked up at Bernie, his eyes full of terrified appeal now he was at his mercy.

‘You will not kill me, will you?’ He swallowed. ‘I have made no confession, I have sins on my conscience—’