Jonathan Rabb - The Second Son

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.”

Hoffner said, “I’m not a journalist, Senor. I wouldn’t know. How many Germans exactly?”

Alfassi took the last of the ham on his fork. “You’re both so interested in numbers.” He sniffed and ate.

“Yes,” said Hoffner.

“I have a son,” said Alfassi. “Not much younger than yours.” The faint echo of compassion returned. “I suppose I would ask the same questions, follow the same course.”

“I suppose you would.”

“And when you find your son, Senor, you’ll take him out of Spain? Immediately?”

Hoffner was trying to understand the last few moments. This was more than compassion, and while he had no idea how much Alfassi knew, or wanted to know, it was clear that the man was struggling with this. Whatever the reason, Hoffner nodded.

“Good.” Alfassi also nodded. “There were two Germans. One four days ago, the other yesterday-an unusual German, that one. And now you.”

“And you told them-”

“Neither was his father. I told them nothing.” Alfassi’s eyes grew more focused; when he spoke again, he made clear why every Guardia and every visitor to Teruel knew exactly where to find him. “We won’t win this war without the Germans. We know it. That doesn’t mean we become like them.” Again he picked up his glass. “You ask about bodies, Doctor. How many more do you think we’d have if we’d listened to these Germans? Not that any of us needs encouragement these days, anywhere in Spain. We can kill each other quite well on our own. But we know why we do it, and why it will stop, one way or the other.” He drank and set the glass down. “These Germans see it differently. For them it’s terror, not truth; power, not faith. And while I’d be foolish to say that terror and power don’t serve other ends, they can’t be the only reasons we do this. At least not in my Spain.” He looked again at Hoffner. “I don’t believe this is your war, Senor, nor the senora’s-at least not here. More important, I don’t believe I want your son getting in the way of it. We understand each other?”

Alfassi knew exactly who they were and why they had come. He was also a man of conscience, limited as it might be. That he was choosing to find his penance in Georg was all that stood between Hoffner, Mila, and the rifle two tables down.

Alfassi said, “He was looking for a Major Sanz, a new man. I don’t know him. He’s at the Guardia Station. I’m sure you can find him there.”

There had been no mention of a Sanz in the contact list from Captain Doval’s wires. In fact there had been no one to contact in Teruel. Maybe, thought Hoffner, that was because Teruel was already fully under fascist control.

Hoffner nodded and said, “Thank you.”

Alfassi picked up his newspaper. “Get out of Spain, Senor. Quickly.” He was already reading, and Hoffner pushed back his chair and followed Mila to the door.

She pulled her arm from his hand the instant they were outside. He knew to keep his eyes ahead of him as they walked.

“You treated him with such respect,” she said, the disdain stifled but raw. “The great man who finds killing impetuous. You have no idea what this war is about, do you?”

“He knew who we were.”

“He knew nothing.”

They walked along a cobblestone ramp, smooth and yellow like an old man’s teeth. Above, iron flakes peeled like dead skin from the rusting balconies, while washing hung loose in the courtyard below. It laced the air with the taste of vinegar. Somewhere, the muffled pitch of a mass was being sung.

“It was my mistake,” Hoffner said. “A woman doctor. He knew that could mean only one thing.”

“You think he did this out of compassion? One father to another? Are you really that blind?”

Hoffner stopped and took her arm. He held her there, afraid to see the hatred-or, worse, the betrayal-and all he could think to say was, “Yes. I am. What would you have me do? He’s letting me find my son. If that doesn’t earn him a little something-” Hoffner hadn’t thought this through. Her eyes were growing unbearably distant. How long had it been since he had felt this need? “Don’t do this,” he said. It was the ache in his own pleading that took the breath from his voice. “Don’t make me defend what I do to find him.”

Hoffner stared into her eyes, not knowing if in this infinite moment he had condemned himself to a life he already despaired of. To have it this close-