Death of a Nationalist

“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?”

Tejada knew some of the basics of how to elicit a confession but he had never tried to stop one before. Señorita Fernández’s clear voice rang through the empty street. “You don’t believe me, Sergeant? Viva la República! I’m a member of—” Tejada grabbed her arms and kissed her.

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

The only men she would have met in Madrid would have been the Reds, who did not marry their women anyway, and the liberal apologists for the Republic. It was inconceivable that she would have lived in sin with some grubby miliciano, and as for the so-called better classes—Cowards, Tejada thought. Pasty little half-men like that Herrera. Probably fa

He tried to be glad that he was going home today. He would be able to talk to Viviana. He could find out what had been happening. But why did a dead man need to talk, or to know what was happening? It was kind, or perhaps selfish, of Carmen to try to keep him alive, but he was a dead man now, for all that she might try to protect him. Better to hav

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

Three years had taught the sergeant that war was more apt to bring out men’s worst qualities than their finest, but it did occasionally strike little sparks of decency from unlikely flints. Lieutenant Ramos was doing his best.

“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

The best parts of the past lapped gently around him, like ripples on a summer lake: the park on summer Sundays; his first paycheck; the reading room at the union headquarters, where he had discovered Marx and Dickens and Freud and Galdós, whom he had secretly loved best of all; nights in the plaza, when he and Pedro had flirted with the passing gir