to take her to the rear had failed to appear. They could hear occasional bursts of shooting as mopping-up continued a few streets away.
‘What have we gained?’ Lloyd said to Dave. ‘We used scarce ammunition, we lost a lot of men, and we’re no farther forward. Worse, we’ve given the Fascists time to bring up reinforcements.’
‘I can tell you the fucking reason,’ Dave said in his East End accent. His soul had hardened even more than his body, and he had become cynical and contemptuous. ‘Our officers are more afraid of their commissars than of the fucking enemy. At the least excuse they can be branded as Trotsky-Fascist spies and tortured to death, so they’re terrified of sticking their necks out. They’d rather sit still than move, they won’t do anything on their own initiative, and they never take risks. I bet they don’t shit without an order in writing.’
Lloyd wondered whether Dave’s scornful analysis was right. The Communists never ceased to talk about the need for a disciplined army with a clear chain of command. By that they meant an army following Russian orders, but, all the same, Lloyd saw their point. However, too much discipline could stifle thinking. Was that what was going wrong?
Lloyd did not want to believe it. Surely Social Democrats, Communists and anarchists could fight in a common cause without one group tyrannizing the others: they all hated Fascism, and they all believed in a future society that was fairer to everyone.
He wondered what Lenny thought, but Lenny was sitting next to Teresa, talking to her in a low voice. She giggled at something he said, and Lloyd guessed that he must be making progress. It was a good sign when you could make a girl laugh. Then she touched his arm, said a few words, and stood up. Lenny said: ‘Hurry back.’ She smiled over her shoulder.
Lucky Lenny, thought Lloyd, but he felt no envy. A passing romance held no appeal for him: he did not see the point. He was an all-or-nothing man, he supposed. The only girl he had ever really wanted had been Daisy. She was now Boy Fitzherbert’s wife, and Lloyd still had not met the girl who might take her place in his heart. He would, one day, he felt sure; but, meanwhile, he was not much attracted to temporary substitutes, even when they were as alluring as Teresa.
Someone said: ‘Here come the Russians.’ The speaker was Jasper Johnson, a black American electrician from Chicago. Lloyd looked up to see a dozen or so military advisors walking through the village like conquerors. The Russians were recognizable by their leather jackets and buttoned holsters. ‘Strange thing, I didn’t see them while we were fighting,’ Jasper went on sarcastically. ‘I guess they must have been in a different part of the battlefield.’
Lloyd looked around, making sure that no political commissars were nearby to hear this subversive talk.
As the Russians passed through the graveyard of the ruined church, Lloyd spotted Ilya Dvorkin, the weaselly secret policeman he had clashed with a week ago. The Russian crossed paths with Teresa and stopped to speak to her. Lloyd heard him say something in bad Spanish about dinner.
She replied, he spoke again, and she shook her head, evidently refusing. She turned to walk away, but he took hold of her arm, detaining her.
Lloyd saw Lenny sit upright, looking alertly at the tableau, the two figures framed by a stone archway that no longer led anywhere.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Lloyd.
Teresa tried again to move away, and Ilya seemed to tighten his grip.
Lenny moved to get up, but Lloyd put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. ‘Let me deal with this,’ he said.
Dave murmured a low warning. ‘Careful, mate – he’s in the NKVD. Best not to mess with those fucking bastards.’
Lloyd walked over to Teresa and Ilya.
The Russian saw him and said in Spanish: ‘Get lost.’
Lloyd said: ‘Hello, Teresa.’
She said: ‘I can handle this, don’t worry.’
Ilya looked more closely at Lloyd. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You tried to prevent the arrest of a dangerous Trotsky-Fascist spy last week.’
Lloyd said: ‘And is this young lady also a dangerous Trotsky-Fascist spy? I thought I just heard you ask her to have dinner with you.’
Ilya’s sidekick Berezovsky appeared and stood aggressively close to Lloyd.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lloyd saw Dave draw the Luger from his belt.
This was getting out of control.
Lloyd said: ‘I came to tell you, Senorita, that Colonel Bobrov wants to see you in his headquarters immediately. Please follow me and I’ll take you to him.’ Bobrov was a senior Russian military ‘advisor’. He had not invited Teresa, but it was a plausible story, and Ilya did not know it was a lie.
For a frozen moment Lloyd could not tell which way it was going to go. Then the bang of a nearby gunshot was heard, perhaps from the next street. It seemed to return the Russians to reality. Teresa again moved away from Ilya, and this time he let her go.
Ilya pointed a finger aggressively at Lloyd’s face. ‘I’ll see you again,’ he said, and he made a dramatic exit, followed dog-like by Berezovsky.
Dave said: ‘Stupid prick.’
Ilya pretended not to hear.
