Finishing the schnapps, he remembered a time when he didn’t need schnapps for courage: his beliefs had been enough. But that was when he was a young man.
He stepped out into the salt air, blinking at the hot sunlight. It was so temperate here; June was a lovely month. Taking a breath, he headed up the street, turned left, and walked another two blocks. He came after a time to the graveyard. The markers, white, without ornamentation, looked fresh as baby’s teeth against the grass. He walked in. It was completely quiet. Levitsky walked the ranks of the dead and came to graves that looked freshest.
“So many,” a voice said.
Levitsky turned, to face an old man.
“Are you the caretaker?”
“Yes, senor. The boys who die at night in the hospital are brought here in the morning.”
“Yes, I know,” said Levitsky.
“You are perhaps looking for a certain person?”
“No. I meant merely to pay my respects to the fallen.”
“So many. I hope they die in a good cause.”
One has, thought Levitsky.
He walked back, stopping once to rest. Getting old. An Asalto gave him a curious look but let him pass. When he reached the hospital, he went in.
“What business, have you, sir?” asked the nurse. Another young German Jew, she did not call him comrade anymore.
“I seek after my son. His name is Braunstein. Joseph. He was fighting with the Thaelmann Column, but I have been told he was wounded.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The girl went to her list. Levitsky sat down on a chair in the lobby. Soldiers milled about.
“Herr Braunstein?”
“Please. We left Germany in ’thirty-three. It’s just Mr. Braunstein now. You have news of my son? He is all right? They told me at Party headquarters in Barcelona that?”
“Mr. Braunstein, I’m sorry to inform you that your son Joseph Braunstein, wounded May twenty-sixth outside Huesca, died last night of his wounds. He never recov?”
“Ahhhhhh. Oh God, no. Oh God, Oh God. Please. I must … Oh, God, I?”
He faltered, dropping to one knee.
“Orderly,” the girl shouted, “call a doctor. This man is ill. Please, please, Herr Braunstein, I’m so sorry. Please. Here, please, come with me. Come in here.”
He stood up.
“They said it was only a minor wound. Oh, God, he was a flutist. He was studying music in Paris. Oh, such a wonderful boy. I told him not to come ? Oh, God, he was such a wonderful boy.”
She led him back into the inner office, where there was a couch. A doctor came by.
“I’m terribly sorry about your son,” he said. “But you must understand, the war is terrible. It kills in the thousands. But it kills for a purpose.”
“Oh, God.”
“Here, take these. Rest here, for a time. Your son died fighting Hitler. Can’t you take some pride in that, Herr Braunstein?”
Levitsky took the pills into his mouth, pretended to swallow. He lay back.
“Look, just stay here for a time, Herr Braunstein. When you feel better, you can move. Perhaps we can find out where they put your son. Then you can?”
Levitsky closed his eyes until they left. He waited another five minutes, then rolled off the couch. Spitting out the pills, he went swiftly to the filing cabinet against the wall, opened the drawer marked F, flipped through the files.
There was no Florry.
He sat back down.
Failure. Another failure.
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes, miss. I think I had better go.”
“Herr Braunstein, we could perhaps take you someplace? Where are you staying?”
“No. Thank you, miss. I’d best be off.”
She led him out through the outer office.
“Here,” she said, halting at her desk. “I found this for you.”
She opened her drawer and removed something. It was a medal.
“It’s the Cross of the Republic. I thought perhaps you might care to have it.”
“But it is yours.”
“My brother’s. He won it last year. But he died in the defense of Madrid. Here, I want you to have it. Your son earned it, after all.”
Levitsky seemed suddenly to falter again.
“Are you all right?”
“Could I perhaps have a glass of water. My throat feels very dry.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll get it.”
She rushed off. Levitsky could see the file on her desk. It said FLORRY, ROB’T. (BRIT.); 29TH DIV.
He opened it, his eyes scanned the Spanish until at last he came to an entry that read,
When the girl arrived with the water, he drank it swiftly and started to leave.
“The medal. Sir, you forgot the medal.”
“Thank you, miss,” he said and took it.
He left for Cab de Salou later that afternoon. But he stopped at the graveyard and found the old man.
“Yes?”
“This medal.”
“Yes, senor?”
“It belongs to that boy over there, Braunstein. Would you plant it under his marker.”
“Yes,” said the old man, and Levitsky hurried off.
It had not occurred to him to wonder why Florry’s file had been out on the desk rather than in its drawer. The reason was that it had been flagged by express order of SIM. Comrade Major Bolodin himself was on his way to pick it up.
22
THE MISSION
It’s about tanks, comrade Florry. And it’s about bridges. And it’s about our future.”
The speaker was a portly yet studious figure of a man in a turtleneck sweater of bulky knit, whose girth was in no way disguised by the garment, or by the raffish Sam Brown belt complete with heavy Star automatic he sported. He rose to greet Florry with an insincere smile as Florry entered Julian’s room.
“Glad you could join us,” said Comrade Steinbach, his dead eye blank and glitterless, his other fiendishly alive. “How’s the wound?”
“It’s fine,” said Florry, sure Steinbach cared little for the answer. “Stiff. A messy scar, that’s all.”
“You’ve met my friend Portela. Under slightly different circumstances, if I recall.”
“In considerably better shape now than when last seen,” said Florry. “I had thought the Church had a monopoly on resurrection.”
