The Second Son: A Novel (32 page)

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, Señor.” 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, Señor. 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, Señor, 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, Señor, nor the señora’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, Señor. 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—

She said, “Do you think that’s what I’m asking? Do you think I don’t see that?”

Hoffner had no bearings for this. His head was suddenly light, the sound of voices behind him—somewhere—beginning to vibrate unrelentingly. He felt his arm go weak, then his legs. He let go of her and reached for the wall, the scarred stone scraping into his hand, the pain a momentary relief. He heard his own breath—deep and heavy—saw himself crouching, then sitting on the stone. He had an instant of nausea and then great thirst. His eyes tried to find their focus, movement somewhere in front of him, when he saw her, on her knees. She was doing something with his neck or throat or tie. It was the tie. And then the cold tin of the canteen on his lips, and water, the stream of it flowing down to the pit of his stomach. He looked at her as she doused his handkerchief with water and set it at the back of his neck. His head throbbed.

She turned to the courtyard below and said, “The heat. He’s not used to it.” Hoffner noticed people behind her. They were staring, nodding. She said, “I’m a doctor. It’s fine.”

They moved off, and Hoffner felt his arms again. “It’s not the heat,” he said.

She moved the handkerchief to his brow and squeezed it, and the water ran down his face. “I know,” she said. “But maybe it is just a little.”

He took her hand and felt the dampness of it.

With her other, she placed two fingers under his jaw and felt for his pulse. Hoffner looked into her face, the color gone, the beads of sweat creasing her cheeks and lips. He said, “I won’t choose—”

“You should stop talking.”

“You don’t understand.” He needed her to know this. “I won’t have this be a choice.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“No. You have to see what I’m saying, what I need from you.”

She stopped and stared into his eyes. “What you need from me you have. What you need from me isn’t a question. There are no choices.”

“I have to find him.”

Her gaze softened. “You really don’t understand this, do you?” Hoffner tried to answer, and she said, “Of course we find him. What did you think—just because I tell you you’re an idiot when it comes to a man like Alfassi it means more than that? You
are
an idiot when it comes to Alfassi, and you have no idea what this war is about, but why would that change anything? Wouldn’t it have been worse if I hadn’t screamed a little after that?”

Hoffner felt a relief he had no hope of understanding. “I thought—”

“Yes. I know. But I’m allowed to tell you how sad and desperate this war makes me, Nikolai. And I need to know you won’t collapse every time I do.” She handed him the canteen again. “But I’m glad you thought it was a choice. Now drink.”

Hoffner drank and felt his strength returning. He waited another half minute and drank again.

She said, “You’re all right?”

He took a last drink and handed her the canteen. He nodded and got to his feet.

He said, “It’s nice to know I’m an idiot.” His legs felt heavy but at least they were there.

“He’s a Spaniard with a conscience. It’s easy to be fooled.” She took a drink and saw something down in the courtyard. She slipped her arm through his. “We should get you something with salt. I could use some myself.” They began to walk.

He said, “So when did conscience become such a terrible thing?”

“You’ve been living in Germany too long. The fascists there don’t bother with it.”

“And here?”

She slipped her hand farther down his arm and took his hand. “Here Alfassi has God and truth and what he takes for compassion. His is a fascism that breeds inspiration.” Her fingers curled through his, and Hoffner gripped at them. “If he manages to win this war, you can be sure he and his friends will be here long after your thousand-year Reich is dust. Alfassi knows it—brutality as brutality runs its course—but a man of conscience, gentility, kindness? He can breathe life into brutality again and again and make it seem almost humane. It’s a particularly Spanish cruelty and we’ve had centuries to become very, very good at it.”

They came to a little awning, two tables and three chairs. A curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door to keep out the flies. They sat, and Mila said into the curtain, “Two beers and an order of
migas
, please.”

A voice grunted acknowledgment. Hoffner didn’t know
migas
.

“Bread crumbs,” she said. “Like porridge, with bacon or chorizo or whatever they have lying around. It’ll be good for you.”

He nodded and pulled out his cigarettes.

“I wouldn’t,” she said. “Not until you get something in your stomach.”

Hoffner set the pack on the table. He kept his eyes on it as he placed his hand on hers. The knuckles were wonderfully smooth.

He said, “You don’t expect this, do you?”

He waited for her to answer. When she didn’t, he looked up. She was staring across at him. Hoffner felt his head go light again, until he saw the smile curl her lips.

She said, “And what is it you didn’t expect?”

For some reason he had no idea what he had been meaning to say. None. He shook his head quietly, and watched as her smile grew.

“It must be terrible,” she said easily, “to feel something and not have the courage to admit it, even to yourself. I’m not asking you to. I have no such cares about love. It doesn’t make me weak or sad or hopeful or carefree. I’ll leave that to the young. All I know is when it comes. And how rare it is. And that makes it even more certain.”

Hoffner felt her hand under his, and he found his voice. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. I think … that’s right.”

The bamboo beads swayed, the plates arrived, and they ate.

*   *   *

Major Sanz proved to be a man of little conscience. He was cut from the same cloth as Captain Doval and kept his interviews brief.

And so, knowing that the telephone lines might reengage at any moment—and perhaps still a little lightheaded—Hoffner barreled on. He showed Sanz the Safe Conduct papers, he mentioned Alfassi and Doval, and he explained his role with the contact names in each of the cities to the west.

Naïvely, Sanz said he thought Georg had been a journalist. Hoffner quickly disabused him of this: Georg was a member of German Intelligence—why not? The SS had lost track of him. He had been heading into Republican territory to secure the routes and the contacts.

Major Sanz was only too happy to confirm them.

More remarkable, though, was Sanz’s request for thinner crates. Naturally, Hoffner had no idea what the man was talking about.

“For the rifles,” Sanz said, as if speaking to a child. “You’re getting twelve—not even that—into each one.” Hoffner’s expression prompted further details. “The wood is too thick. Use a thinner wood and you get maybe eighteen, even twenty inside. It’s not so important here in Teruel. We can leave the crates out in the open, have as many as we like. Who’s going to care? But you go west—Cuenca or, my God, think of Toledo—and the more crates you have, the more difficult it will be to keep them hidden. You see what I’m saying?”

Hoffner did not, until Sanz showed him the printed packing slip that had accompanied the crate.

At the top, in an official script, was the crate’s origin: Tetuán, Morocco. Just below, in the same script, was the name of the company that had shipped it: Hispano-Marroquí de Transportes, Sociedad Limitada. Elsewhere on the slip, the company was simply referred to as Hisma.

Hoffner stared at the word. It was the final name from Georg’s wire, the name connected to Bernhardt and Langenheim.

Hoffner said, “You have other papers from the company, Major?”

The man hesitated.

“In your files,” said Hoffner. “I need to make sure you have the proper paperwork, should anyone come asking for it.” What could be more convincing? thought Hoffner. A German asking for paperwork. He looked directly at Sanz. “You see what I’m saying?”