Death of a Nationalist

Tejada had seen a few women who had been raped but they had all been dead or unconscious. He had never before dealt with a victim of attempted rape. He had the vague idea that women were supposed to cry, or faint, or have hysterics in such a situation. He had not expected this brittle hostility. By rights, it should have irritated him. But he had 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

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 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.

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.”

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.

José, Gonzalo thought to himself firmly. José. He and his mentors had spent Saturday practicing in the dimly lit kitchen. Long hours of casual conversation and always at an unexpected moment. “What do you think, José?” “Isn’t that right, José?” Isabel and Juan had taken turns stepping out of the room and calling, at random moments, “José! Come quic

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

“Some people will do anything for money,” the Communist sneered, with the fine scorn of someone who would do anything for a cause.