Death of a Nationalist

He shook his head. “The trouble with Madrid is that it’s in the middle of goddamn nowhere.” Gonzalo stiffened at the insult to his home. He knew what the man meant, of course, but it made more sense to say that Portugal and France were nowhere. Madrid was the center of things.

“He was the greatest poet of his generation,” the miliciano said, a little defiantly. “Agreed.” “And your side killed him.” “A regrettable mistake. Accidents happen in wartime.” Tejada was busy with the clutch. “The way Viviana was a mistake?” Gonzalo asked. “How many mistakes do you allow yourself, Sergeant?”

Señorita Fernández’s eyes widened. “Coffee!” she repeated, stunned. “Really?” “It’s a flexible term,” Tejada admitted with a smile. “But one can’t say to a guest after dinner, ‘hot brown liquid?’” Elena laughed. “If you will drink also.”

Tejada gestured toward the hallway with one hand. “Should I get my coat?” she asked in a low voice designed to pass over the heads of the children. The sergeant felt a moment of unwilling admiration for Señorita Fernández. She was cooler than many of the men he had arrested. She was either very courageous, or else she had a very clear conscience—an

And if she has any relatives, tell them to feed her up. She’s suffering from malnutrition.” Tejada wondered briefly if medical training had the unintentional side effect of divorcing doctors’ brains from their external surroundings. Since Villalba was a superior officer, he did not point out that most children in Madrid were probably suffering from

Gonzalo realized, as he told his story, that he had just robbed a man at gunpoint, and was ready to laugh with joy at the results. Some feeble prewar self hammered at the ice crystal that imprisoned it, and tried to protest this immoral behavior but its cries and gesticulations remained safely locked away. Carmen, as she listened to the story, fear

So she had not lied to Aleja. He had been a Fascist. One of the victors, Viviana thought, though it still hurt to admit it. She was not ashamed of having lost: the army, the rich landowners, the church with all its wealth, the old aristocrats with all their power, had been behind the Nationalists. And their German and Italian friends had provided t

“I don’t know,” she said after a moment. He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know if you recognize it?” She looked up at him, and her mouth twisted. “Guardia, as you probably are aware, all of the students at this school have notebooks like that one. I won’t say that I recognize this specific one, because I don’t, but I won’t be entrapped into sayin

It was nearly eight o’clock, and those who had food were cooking dinner. Those who did not were preparing for bed. An evening stroll had become a dangerous custom, and in a city without fuel, darkness meant bedtime.