“Badajoz isn’t a place to find revenge for what they did.”
“I’m not looking for it.”
“Maybe revenge isn’t such a bad thing to be looking for.” The captain turned to Mila. He seemed to want to say something. Instead, he started the engine. “I’ll see you inside the walls.” He put the car in gear and headed off.
There was no escaping the silence. The streets stood empty, save for the occasional grind of a truck or a voice rising from somewhere behind the stones and brick. The horses moved slowly. Twice Hoffner saw young children-tears running down their cheeks-pulled along by mothers, whisked through doorways, and locked safely away. This was how war finally came, he thought, not in the open back of a truck with songs and rifles raised or on a road where men could trade stories and cigarettes. Even the crack of a sniper’s rifle signaled nothing. It came in the silence and the waiting, and the grim certainty that, one day, the dying here would all but be forgotten.
Hoffner heard muffled laughter and peered down an alleyway. Two men, old and unshaven, sat on stools in the shadows, a wooden crate between them. They were drunk. Their heads rested back against the stone of the building. One was humming something low. The other looked over. For some reason he nodded. The man coughed and laughed again. Hoffner nodded back.
“This isn’t their fight,” said the father. “They’ve had theirs. At least they know it.”
The father led them through the streets and into a wide plaza at the foot of the southern gate. There was a strange symmetry to it all, trucks and cars lining the wall, with blue-shirted men and women and uniformed soldiers nestled above in whatever cracks and openings they had found for cover. The two largest trucks stood in front of the gate, while a group of soldiers directed boxes of ammunition to different points along the line. It was already hot, and the dust and grit beneath their feet swirled in tiny clouds of gray smoke.
The father took the horses close enough to hear voices-orders shouted, the relay of information from men with field glasses standing at the topmost reaches of the wall. This was where they would make their stand.
The father and the boy dismounted, and the father handed Mila the reins.
“You take them where you’re going. No reason to have them here.” He nodded to one of the streets off the plaza. “You take that one around, six or seven streets. It’s to the left. You can follow the numbers.”
Hoffner had shown the father the address for the last of the names on Captain Doval’s list-the Hisma liaison in Badajoz, the man hoarding those too-thick crates. There had been no reason to tell the father why.
“Thank you.”
The father nodded and looked at Mila. “You’ll be needed here. A doctor.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know.”
Hoffner waited for her to say more. Instead, he watched as she dismounted and held the reins up to him. He stared at her, disbelieving, and saw the same eyes from the hospital, the same eyes from Durruti’s camp. She was needed here.
She squinted through the sun as she continued to look at him. “You find what you need and come back.”
Hoffner barely moved.
“Take them,” she said, and she placed the reins in his hand. “I’m needed here.”
“I thought you’d be with me.”
“Not for this.”
“I thought you’d be with me,” he repeated.
“I am. But I’m needed here.”
Hoffner hesitated. “And if you’re not here?”
She stared up at him. “Then you’ll find me.”
She drew closer. She waited for him to lean down and brought her hand to the back of his neck. She kissed him, and he felt her fingers press deep into his skin. She released him and whispered, “You’ll come and find me.” And she pulled away.
Hoffner watched as she walked off. He thought to turn and go but called out, “Mila.” She continued to walk. Again he called.
She stopped. The father and the boy moved on, and Hoffner dismounted and brought the horses behind him.
She looked almost pained as he drew up. “You need to go,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you?”
He watched her face grow darker, and he pulled her in. His arm drew tight around her as he felt her cheek press deep into his neck.
“There is no going anymore.”
Her hands clasped at his back. Her lips pressed gently into his neck and she pulled back and he kissed her. She then turned away, and this time he let her go.
The house was like the rest, three crumbling floors of iron and stone, the wood at the bottom of the door split in wide gaps. Hoffner tied the horses to a post and knocked with the side of his fist. He listened. He knocked again, then spoke the name, loudly enough to be heard in the next house. There was movement, and the door slowly pulled open.
A man, small with gray hair, stood in a shirt, trousers, and suspenders. His left arm and hand were shriveled by disease. The fingers reached only to his waist, and the rest hung limp at his side. He leaned his head out the doorway and peered down the street, as if he was expecting to see others. He stepped back and looked up at Hoffner. He spoke with caution. “The fighting has started?”
“No,” said Hoffner. “Where is the German?”
The man continued to stare. “You have the wrong house.”
“No.” Hoffner spoke in German. “I have the right house. I don’t care about the guns. I want only the German.”
The man waited and then said, “I don’t understand this language.”
“I can find a few militiamen at the gate to translate for you. Shall I go get them?”
It was clear why the men of Hisma had picked this Spaniard. He remained unflappable. He waited another few moments and then pulled the door fully open and motioned Hoffner in.
The hall was narrow and dimly lit, with stairs at the side leading up into the shadows. The man led Hoffner beyond them, into a room at the back. It held a few wooden chairs, a low table, and something that had once been a rug. The place had the smell of wet towels left too many days moldering in a corner.
Hoffner looked over and saw the man holding a small pistol in his good hand. It was aimed at Hoffner’s chest.
Hoffner said, “Is the German here?” The man remained absolutely still. Hoffner said, “I’ve told you I don’t care about the guns.”
“Take your pistol out and place it on the table.”
Hoffner removed his pistol and set it down. “The German-is he here?”
“I don’t know about any guns.”
Hoffner stared back. What else was the man going to say?
“He’s told you he comes from Berlin,” said Hoffner. “That he’s part of Hisma, Hispano-Marroqui. He isn’t. He lied.”
The man continued to stare, and Hoffner looked around for a chair. He found the least uncomfortable one and sat.
They waited like this for perhaps a minute before Hoffner said, “I’m not sure what the sound of a bullet would do right now, but I’m thinking you’re not that eager to find out.”
He located the source of the smell. It was a rope mop propped against the wall, standing in a pool of oily water.
Hoffner said, “Yague will be here in the next few hours. He’ll take the city. He’ll thank you for the guns, and you’ll march around with him and point to the people who’ve done you and your little arm the most cruelty. Then you’ll watch him shoot them, all for your Spain. I don’t care one way or the other. I want the German. I want my son.”
The man’s eyes widened for just a moment as gunfire erupted in the distance. It was pistols and rifles. The man turned his head and listened intently. The fighting continued to build as mortars began to explode. He looked at Hoffner. “The sound of one bullet wouldn’t make much of a difference now, would it?”
Hoffner tried not to think of Mila. He shook his head easily.
“You say he’s your son.” Hoffner said nothing, and the man continued. “He told me he was forced to burn his papers. It was too dangerous to keep them in the Republican zone.”