The Second Son

She said, “He was a chemist.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She looked at him. “Why do you think I’m telling you?”

Hoffner hesitated before turning to her. There was nowhere for the car to go but along the track.

Her face showed nothing, no longing or need. And yet it was strange to see this intimacy given so freely. It was the loss behind her eyes that reached out to him, and made plain-only now-why he himself felt the longing. It had never been about her beauty, raw and fine as it was. It was this. And while he could find nothing safe in it-its pull no less daunting than if she had offered him love-Hoffner let it take him. She placed a hand on his cheek. She held it there, then brought it down and looked out again to the road.

She said, “It’s your son who’s not here-the one you don’t follow-that makes you this way. Why is that?”

Hoffner stared at the powder on her cheek, the soft ridges she had failed to smooth. He turned, and his eyes settled on the fields in the distance. They swayed with a momentary wind.

“You know this for certain?” he said, trying to sound too cavalier.

“I do.”

There was no hope of distracting her.

“He’s called Sascha,” he said. “He hasn’t been a boy for quite some time.”

“And he knows the pain it gives you?”

“He thinks I’m not capable of feeling it.”

“But he tries anyway.”

“He did-once. Not for a long time now.”

“But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

They were halfway through a canteen of water. Hoffner picked it up and unscrewed the top. He drank. When he looked out again, he was relieved to see what Durruti had called the Ontinar Crossroads just over a rise-two or three houses and another dirt track coming in from the west.

Hoffner had kept his collar buttoned, his tie tight to the neck. The jacket was soaked through, down to the waist. Still, better to be the bitter German sweating his way through Spain than a man comfortable with the Aragon summer. He noticed the telephone wire sprouting from the roof of one of the small buildings. It was exactly as Durruti had described it.

“No,” he said, “it doesn’t.”

He slowed the car as they reached the buildings. It might have been due to the three Nationalist soldiers standing with their rifles raised, or the sandbag barricade that was clearly a recent addition. More likely it was the sight of the Renault tank perched behind them. The tank was old, maybe not even a match for the big guns back in Osera, but it made its point. Hoffner pulled up to the barricade and turned off the engine.

Two of the men kept their rifles raised as the third now walked over. He was wearing the green and tan uniform of a requete, with the dual leather straps that cut across his shoulders and chest. The belt buckle was well polished, although the three leather bags that clung to the belt-ammunition, cigarettes, papers-looked as if they had seen better days. A silver crucifix was pinned just above the heart, with a red barbed X sewn onto the pocket. The jodhpur pants were narrow at the shin and looped over the boots. He wore a crimson beret angled to the forehead and without a hint of panache.

There was no mistaking these for soldiers. The one approaching pulled his pistol from its holster and cocked the barrel. He held it at his side.

“Out of the car,” he said, when he had positioned himself just beyond the grille.

Hoffner opened the door slowly, stepped out, and put his hand back for Mila as she slid across. He took her hand. The two stood and waited.

The man said, “This road is closed.”

“I have papers,” Hoffner said calmly. His Spanish was now simple, halting, and with a distinct German accent.

The man stared. “This road is closed.”

“I have papers.”

The man looked at Mila for the first time. Hoffner wanted to turn to her, but he kept his eyes on the man, who looked back and said, “How do you come to be on this road?”

“I am not a Spaniard,” said Hoffner. “I do not know these roads. I have come down from the north. My driving instructions were poor. I am going to Zaragoza.”

The man glanced again at Mila, then at Hoffner. He held out his hand. “Show me these papers.”

Hoffner slowly reached into his jacket pocket. He retrieved them and held them out. The man took them and, with the pistol still in hand, unfolded them. He read.

“Where did you get these papers?” he said.

“Berlin,” said Hoffner.

The man quickly looked up. Despite himself, he showed a moment’s uncertainty. “This is a Safe Conduct.”

“Yes.”

“Signed by Nicholas Franco.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “The General’s brother sent it by dispatch eight days ago.”

“To Berlin.”

“Yes.”

The man was finding himself well beyond his capacity, but still he held his ground. Durruti had been wise to be so precise with the story.

“Your passport,” said the man.

Again Hoffner reached into his jacket. He handed the papers to the man and chanced a look at Mila. Her face was moist from the heat, but she stood without the least sign of discomfort. It was a remarkable pose of submissive indifference.

The man looked up from the papers. “And the woman?”

Before Hoffner could answer, Mila said, “My papers are in my purse.” She turned to the car, but the man stepped over and raised his pistol.

“No, Senora,” he said. “Where is the purse?”

Mila looked at the man. Hoffner couldn’t be sure if this was genuine fear in her eyes or not. She said, “I was only trying to get them.”

“Yes, Senora. Where is the purse?”

Mila pointed to the seat and the man called over to one of the others. The second man quickly walked up, leaned his rifle against the car, and reached in through the passenger window for the small purse. He held it up, took his rifle, and brought it around.

The first man opened it. He looked through and brought out a small crucifix on a chain of prayer beads. He looked up at Mila.

“This is yours, Senora?”

She nodded and he held it out to her. She took it and kissed it.

“There are no papers, Senora.”

Mila’s look of panic was only momentary before she quickly turned to Hoffner. “You have them,” she said. “Remember? The man gave them both to you when we left the last post. You put them in the other pocket.”

Durruti had been very specific on this. A woman-a good Catholic woman-in distress was almost irresistible to a soldier of God. And the man able to save her-His obvious emissary.

Hoffner nodded, relieved, as if he had just remembered. He reached into his pocket. “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’m sorry to have caused any trouble.”

He handed the papers to the man, who quickly glanced through them.

“Another Safe Conduct.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner.

The man continued to look through them. “How did you get on this road?”

Hoffner waited for the man to look up. “There was gunfire,” Hoffner said. “I was stopped and told to drive around. The soldier said it would meet up with the first road. He was mistaken.”

The man held the papers out to Hoffner. “And why do you go to Zaragoza?”