Death of a Nationalist

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

If those boys had been Reds, they would never have listened to a commanding officer.” If they were loyalists, their comrades wouldn’t have let them attack me. Elena was tempted to say the words aloud. Instead she said stiffly, “Perhaps.”

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

“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

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.

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

“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?”

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.

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