The Second Son: A Novel (21 page)

“Your friend Leos seems to be going to great lengths to get you there.”

“He does, doesn’t he? Did you take a few cracks at him yourself? He’s been very good at letting people thrash him on my behalf.”

“It’s very kind of you to let him.”

Vollman’s gaze turned to a smile. It was an odd reaction, odder still to see genuine warmth in it. “It’s a sweet little line—the kindness of my cruelty. I imagine it once had a place.”

There was nothing mocking in Vollman’s tone, more nostalgia than derision. Hoffner was moving well beyond his depth.

Vollman said, “It’s only cruel if that sort of cruelty still exists—the one where a man uses another, wittingly or not, in the name of some larger cause. ‘I will sacrifice you, Leos…’ ” Vollman watched as the words floated out the window. “It’s such a dangerous thing to rely on—sacrifice. Even more ridiculous to ask it of someone. Are we such fools as to think there’s nobility in any of this?”

Hoffner imagined Georg standing in his place, sifting through a conversation built on unspoken truths and unadorned lies, and only then did he realize that he had no idea what his son might be capable of.

Hoffner said, “So, a German socialist working for Soviet communism—and there’s no great cause? I find that highly unlikely.”

“My cause was Germany. Same as yours. That’s long gone. It’s now just making sure the world keeps things balanced.”

“Comrade Stalin never struck me as such a pragmatist.”

“Who said anything about Stalin?” Vollman flicked a bit of ash to the floor. “A grotty little attic—never been the place for ideologies and five-year plans, has it?”

Hoffner was thinking another chair would have been nice right about now. “So the true believer turns out to be not so true. I imagine there’s something sad in that.”

“Why? Would you really want a zealot holed up in here?”

“It’s a long way from this to a zealot.”

“Is it? All it takes is the word ‘truth’ or ‘message’ or ‘cause’—or ‘sacrifice.’ I don’t much cotton to those. For me it’s always been much easier to look at the more practical side of things. Guns, tanks, planes. Who has them, how they get more. That’s why Georg was here. That’s why I’m here. To see how these Spanish generals plan to wage their war. And who they plan to get their weapons from. The practical. That’s why he told me you’d be here.”

Hoffner was getting tired of meeting himself through other people’s eyes. “I’m surprised he mentioned me.”

“No, you’re not. He said you’d come if things went sour. He was actually proud of that.”

Hoffner needed a moment; there was too much caught in his throat to find an answer. “So things have gone sour?”

“He’s been out of touch for what—four days, maybe five?”

“A week.”

Vollman’s eyebrows rose as if to make his point. “That’s not good.”

“No.”

“And you think you’ll just go off and find him?”

“I found you, didn’t I?”

Vollman liked the answer. He moved past it quickly. “The world has never been so ready to declare its allegiances. They’ll all be shipping themselves into Spain by the truckload in the next weeks, months, and every one of them with his arm raised in whatever salute suits him best. It’s a terrible thing to know how pointless it’s all going to be.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Of course I’m here. Who else is going to make sure all those theories and truths don’t muddy what really matters?”

Hoffner nodded quietly. “That balance you and Georg and all the rest of your attic-dwelling friends are keeping safe for us. How lucky for me to be able to thank you in person.”

There was no ruffling Vollman. “Georg might tell you he sees something more in it, something nobler—that can get a man in trouble—but I wouldn’t hold it against him.” Vollman finished his cigarette and began to crush it against the metal leg of the bed. “As for the rest of us, we know exactly why we’re in Spain. We’ve come for the dry run. Germany, Italy, England”—he dropped the butt to the floor—“Comrade Stalin. We’re here to see how it all works before moving onto the big stage. The Spanish have always had such remarkable timing.”

“Your sacrificial lambs.”

Vollman’s smile returned. “They’ve led themselves to the slaughter. There’s no sacrifice in that.”

Hoffner wondered how long it took a man to rid himself of any feeling for the world beyond him: a month, a year, a lifetime watching his own truths ground down to nothing? Easier, then, to toss them all away and damn the world for still trying.

“So your friend Leos,” Hoffner said. “He thinks he’s protecting a frightened little chess player up here, even though the anarchists are running the streets. So what’s he protecting you from?”

Vollman reached for another cigarette; it was clear why he had run out so quickly. “I’m just a poor helpless refugee,” he said, as he lit up. “Leos thinks I might have overheard something or seen something at his club. I need to get out of this war-torn country.”

“And yet here you sit—waiting.”

“Barcelona’s always been much better after dark.”

“And he has no idea what you do then, after dark?”

“It’s all a bit loose—Leos doesn’t press—but there might be a few people who’ve taken an interest in me.”

“And how long have the SS been in Barcelona?”

Vollman spat something to the floor. “A week, ten days. Not early enough to have saved it for themselves.”

“But early enough to have known about Georg?”

Vollman took another pull and let his head rest against the wall. He waited until the smoke had streamed from his nose. “You wouldn’t still be clinging to any hopes of something noble in this, would you? That would be a disappointment.”

“I asked about Georg.”

“Of course you did. And of course they knew. There are never any great surprises in this. Not for those of us who sleep in shithole attics. It comes down to who gets the guns and where they get them from. And how long they can keep it a secret. We know it. The British know it. The Nazis know it. That’s why ideology is meaningless. Something else Georg said you’d understand.”

The truth, once untapped, was such an easy thing for men like this. They used it like a weapon. “So he’s looking for guns?” said Hoffner.

“And planes and tanks and ships and anything else they might try to get through to the generals in the south. Franco has thirty thousand troops sitting in Morocco. He needs to move them across the water to the mainland, and he needs something for them to fight with once he gets them across. It’s a little game. The Nazis say they won’t send in the guns, and everyone says they believe them. And then we all go looking for the way the Nazis will send in the guns. It’s more about the where and the how than the what.”

“And Han Shen’s?”

Vollman stared across at Hoffner. It was another few moments before Hoffner saw it.

“The opium lines,” Hoffner said.

“Nice little network for delivery, if you think about it.”

Hoffner hadn’t. “And the Nazis—they think they can use the drug lines to supply guns for the fascists?”

“They did a week ago.”

“And now?”

Vollman shrugged, took another pull, and tossed the match to the floor. “That depends on whether they know who’s running it. If they think it’s still the Chinese, the Nazis will send the guns. Naturally they won’t know it’s Leos and his Communists who’ll be getting them. That’ll make the Barcelona anarchists stand up and take notice of their clever little Communist friends. Duping Berlin. Nice twist, don’t you think?”

“And if the Nazis have figured it out?”

“Then there’ll be a lot of dead Chinese and dead Communists. That’s the way things always go at the beginning. Trial and error.”

There wasn’t even a hint of feeling. “And Georg knew all this?”

Vollman took another pull. He seemed to be deciding whether to mislead or enlighten. “He was following something south,” he said. “Down to Teruel. Something to do with the guns. That’s my gift to you.”

“So who are Bernhardt and Langenheim?” Hoffner thought it time for a little strafing of the truth of his own.

Vollman had been at this too long, though, to show any kind of reaction. He continued to stare across before taking a final pull. “You should get to the Ritz. Leos isn’t one for idle threats.”

“And Hisma?” said Hoffner.

The silence this time was too long. Vollman said, “You should go.”

“I imagine Georg expected me to pass those names along.”

“He’s a clever boy.”

“It’s
B-E-R-N
—”

“Yes,” said Vollman. “You’ll need to head south if you want to find him.”

“And you’ll be here in Barcelona?” Hoffner knew there would be no answer. He waited and then moved to the door. He had the handle in his grip when Vollman said, “Pawn to queen bishop three. It’s the Caro-Kann defense. My specialty. Leos likes to know I’m safe.”

Hoffner had his back to him. So this was what safety felt like, he thought. He nodded and opened the door.

*   *   *

The wide avenue of the Rambla was up and moving as Hoffner made his way through the heat. Open-backed trucks carrying men and rifles, men and grain, men and pigs, trundled between the lines of trees, careful to avoid the still uncleared piles of brick and stone. A week ago trucks like these, then filled with boys eager for the fight at Huesca or Zaragoza, or maybe even as far west as Madrid, had been cheered on by the thousands. Even now the frenzy of those first few days hung in the branches—hats and scarves tossed high and abandoned—but who could deny the sound of victory still echoing in the leaves?

Vollman had talked a great deal; he had said almost nothing. It was clear he recognized the names in the wire: Langenheim and Bernhardt. Hisma might have been something new to him—or maybe Hoffner just wanted to think that—but at least things were now on the table. This was about guns and the way the Nazis would get them into Spain. And Georg had been sent to expose that. In a world gone mad on truths and malice, ideologies and sacrifice, this was nothing more than a boy’s playground game. Smack the bully and make him cry. That tens of thousands of Spaniards might have to die in the process hardly seemed to matter.

It was a sobering thought as Hoffner came to the Ritz, its ten stories of palatial stone and glass filling the entire block. The curved rise of the façade and the blackened windows did little to soften the appearance; even the row of balconies above seemed to sneer down at the plaza through gritted teeth. Hoffner imagined this to have been the breeding ground for Barcelona’s elite, with chandeliers and dinner jackets and crystal glasses set across endless stretches of brocaded linen tablecloth: all those photographs of withering smiles, men and women staring up in perfectly seated lines of privilege and decay.

It would have been enough to smell the hair tonic and toilet water if not for the riddling of pockmarks along the stone from recent machine-gun fire. Likewise, the ragtag group of trucks parked outside—men hauling carcasses of beef and pork through the front door—cast out any lingering sophistication. Most glaring, though, was the awning where the words
HOTEL GASTRONÓMICO NO. 1
severed all links to the past. The Ritz was now a UGT/CNT canteen: so nice to see the socialists and anarchists working hand in hand to feed the people.

Hoffner crossed the plaza and joined the line heading in. The man in front of him was reading the latest issue of the
Solidaridad Obrera
, most of the newspaper’s front page a description of the fighting in Aragón: a pilot by the name of Gayoso—anarchist or socialist was still unclear—had coasted down to 150 meters and dropped a bomb on Our Lady of the Pillar in Zaragoza. The “purring of the engines,” so the article read, had been unfamiliar to those in the streets, but both church and city had escaped any real damage when the bomb failed to explode.

The man in front snorted and shook his head.

“They think Jesus saved their little church,” he said. “You get us some bombs that work, and General Mola will be wishing he never left Navarre.”

Hoffner was expecting more of the history lesson, but the line began to move. Four minutes later he stood in one of the grand ballrooms, now teeming with diners. It was humanity at its chewing best, a long narrow table at the side running some thirty meters to the back wall; large and small round tables filled the rest of the floor. The chandeliers were still above—most without bulbs—but the light pouring in from the ceiling-high windows made them almost an afterthought.

If there was an empty chair to be found Hoffner couldn’t see it—mothers with children bent over bowls of soup and bread, waiters in white coats or shirtsleeves darting in between, and above it all the hum of eager silverware and untamed conversation. These might have been the recently dispossessed, but Hoffner suspected the room brought its own brand of self-satisfaction to those inside. Even eating was a kind of triumph in the new Barcelona.

A man approached through the maze of chairs. “You’re alone, friend?”

It was a single motion to call Hoffner over and send him off toward the long table where the next chair in line stood empty. Hoffner thought to explain, but there was too much movement behind him—in front of him, to the side of him—to stand in the way of progress. He sidestepped his way through and took his seat.