Cal rated that as a bit of an overreaction but he automatically put his hand to his pistol holster and the German’s eyes followed it — Drecker would not know it was empty — a move also noticed by Hemingway.
‘Friend of yours?’
‘Bosom pal.’
The middle-aged captive had been set against the wall of the apartment block and was clearly pleading for mercy, not that it seemed to affect the men who had put him there; they merely stood back and unslung their rifles, shifting the bolts to put a bullet in the chamber.
‘What’s going on?’ Cal yelled in German, which had everyone looking at him, not just Drecker.
‘My, you are full of surprises,’ Hemingway said laconically.
‘What business is it of yours, Jardine?’ Drecker demanded.
Aware that the American’s thick black eyebrows had gone up in surprise, Cal ignored that and concentrated on what was obviously taking place in front of them, the clear prelude to an execution. Fighting to keep any anger out of his voice — Drecker was a dangerous man — he said slowly, again in German, ‘This gentleman with me is an important American journalist. I do not think it will aid our cause for him to see what it is you are planning to carry out.’
‘This man is a traitor, a class enemy and a fifth columnist.’
‘Comrade Drecker, there is no such thing, it is a figment of General Mola’s imagination.’
The use of the word ‘comrade’ caused Drecker some surprise; Cal had rarely been so polite in the past, but it was necessary to save the life of what could well be an innocent man, now sobbing and on his knees. And even if he was not innocent, the poor fellow was entitled to a trial, but it did not soften Drecker up as he had hoped.
‘Then perhaps it is time the Americans, with their soft livers, saw what the revolution does with its traitors.’
‘We are not the revolution, comrade, we are the legitimate government of Spain. Those in revolt are the people we are fighting.’
‘We, Jardine?’ Drecker spat.
The idea of being on the same side as the prize shit he was talking to was anathema, but with a life at stake it was worth it. ‘You have seen me fight for the Republic.’ Then he turned to Hemingway. ‘Use your best Spanish, tell him you will let the world know that people are being shot out of hand.’
‘I’ll try.’
The language was not perfect, little better than Jardine’s, but there was no doubting the sentiment or the fervour; what was worrying was the way it seemed to harden a countenance that was already an exercise in humourlessness. Drecker barked a set of orders and up came the rifles. As they did, Cal Jardine’s hand went automatically once more to his holster.
‘Whoa there, friend,’ Hemingway hissed.
It was not that which stopped Cal, it was the look in Drecker’s eye, one which promised he would be next against that wall; maybe if he could have dropped him he would have chanced it, then turned the weapon on his men, but his pistol was empty, the means to reload it not available, and somehow it was clear that a threat would not be enough.
At a second bark the rifles came up and took aim at a wailing fellow now with his head near his knees. Drecker gave the order to fire and the bullets slammed into the poor man’s body, throwing it back. There was a gleam in Drecker’s eye as he stepped forward, took out his pistol, aimed it, then looked at Cal Jardine as if to say ‘this should be you’. Then he pulled the trigger, his final indignity the dropping of his used cigarette on the corpse.
The walk towards the pair who had observed this was slow, the words addressed to Cal, the blue eyes as hard as the lips. ‘Have a care, Jardine; if you seek to interfere with revolutionary justice you may find that you are the next to be shot.’ Drecker spun round, barked an order, and as he marched off his men fell in behind him.
‘Nice guy,’ said Hemingway.
‘I don’t see this as a time for irony.’
‘I thought you were going to drop him.’
‘What would you have done if I’d tried?’
‘Knocked you out, what else? He would have had to kill me too.’
‘Then you’ll be glad to know that my gun has no bullets.’
Hemingway’s shoulders were shaking with mirth. ‘Now that would have been a dandy trick to pull off. Time, I think, for that drink.’
Cal pointed to the crumpled body, with a deep pool of blood seeping from the shattered head. ‘What about him?’
‘Number of bodies laying around Madrid on a day like this, one more won’t make much difference, and the poor shmuck will never know we just left him to the crows. Besides, I have a pressing need. I want to know why it is Tyler Alverson introduced you by a name that’s different from the one that communist guy used, given he seemed to know you real well. I don’t know a heck of a lot of German but I take it your real name is Jardine?’
When Cal looked to demur, Hemingway added, ‘A dollar bill gets me the hotel register.’ It only needed a nod then. ‘In my experience a reporter only does that when he’s trying to hide a story from a rival.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It did not take long to realise that summary executions were taking place all over Madrid, and as far as anyone could tell, all over Spain, if the reports were true. If it was not politics — and there was a lot of that — it would be, Cal thought, all the usual historical reasons that surface when society collapses: the settling of old scores, the avoidance of a due debt or even retaliation for an imagined slight long past. To try and stop it was dangerous and actually futile; it had its own dynamic.
For all they were still amateurs, the International Brigades had halted the Nationalist advance, albeit at a horrendous cost in men wounded and killed, and then began a successful counter-attack. The Foreign Legionnaires — Franco’s best troops — were being pushed out of the University district and still the other columns could not breach the defences before the city centre.
There had been any number of crises, the whole defence a close-run thing, with aerial combat daily and the front ebbing to and fro. On one black day, the militias before the Toledo Bridge broke, only the prompt action of the top Spanish general stopping a rout, he rallying the fleeing fighters, then leading them personally back into battle with nothing but his pistol as a weapon.
Florencia, over the next few days, was in a state of emotional turmoil, a very changed person from the one Cal had known, given to sudden outbursts of tears during the day and nightmares later, and in no fit state to go back to the fight. There was no mystery to what he was observing, he had seen it too many times and had blessed his luck that though he could recall clearly the death and mutilation he had witnessed, he also had the capacity to contain it within himself.
She was seeing dead comrades, having visions of heads and limbs being blown off, of smashed bodies with staring eyes, while, on top of that, reliving every action of her own, every grenade thrown, the face of each enemy she had killed and many she had not, who would appear in her dreams like ravenous beasts ready to tear her apart. All he could do was hold her soaked-with-sweat body and comfort her with useless platitudes.
That meant he spent time in the hotel, his only action to acquire bullets for his pistol; he was waiting for Florencia to either recover or admit her problem so he could take her away from the front. If his days had their material comforts, they also brought forth a feeling he should really be on the way to Valencia to find out if the government were willing to buy arms from a source that would scare them rigid; they did not know old Zaharoff as he did — if he said it was safe to deal, that would be the case.