A Necessary Action (3 page)

He smiled.

‘I learnt German there. I can even carry on a conversation in German, I think. But why should I do that here, in Spain? For your sake? No, you would never learn our language, Spanish, Castellano, if everyone spoke something else to you. The people here speak very badly, a dialect, a mixed language, very impure.’

He pressed his hands together again, almost laughing now.

Willi Mohr thought: What is this, a language lesson? The direct method? Aloud he said: ‘Why have you had me brought here?’

‘Give me your passport.’

Willi Mohr took his passport out of his hip pocket. It was buckled with the damp. The man behind the desk leafed thoughtfully through it. Then he smiled again, apologetically.

‘You live here in the town, in my district. You are the only
foreigner here. I want to get to know the people in my district. You live in …’

‘Barrio Son Jofre.’

‘B-a-r-r-i-o- S-o-n J-o-f-r-e, yes, B-a-r-r-i-o S-o-n- J-o-f-r-e, you live there. Don’t kid yourself. People here can’t even pronounce their own names.’

He repeated the address twice, with very clear diction.

Language lesson, thought Willi Mohr obstinately.

Sergeant Tornilla went on smiling.

‘Just a few minor points,’ he said. ‘When you live here you have to register, for example. Although you get a renewal of your visa to stay here from the Governor General’s office every third month, you must report here at the police station. You have neglected to do so. You have no money. You’ve debts in several places.’

Pause.

‘Yes, I know. That’s not necessarily a crime. But earlier, you received money regularly from somewhere. A number of things were different before. As far as the money is concerned, you didn’t bring it with you into the country when you came. It wasn’t registered, anyhow.’

Pause.

‘No, you didn’t get it from outside either. Not in a letter either, illegally. You don’t get any post, anyhow no post with money in it. And you’ve not had any foreign currency. You haven’t changed any.’

Pause.

‘No, nor have you changed any illegally either. You received Spanish money. And not in letters.’

Willi Mohr felt his temples growing hot. But outwardly he was calm, stubbornly, sullenly calm. He had fled into truculence, the eternal defence. He said nothing.

‘Well, you see, one sits here and wonders. It’s one’s duty, one’s eternal duty. One wonders and puts two and two together.’

He passed the packet of cigarettes across and lit his lighter.

‘I hope you’ll get some money soon,’ he said in a friendly way. ‘To be without money in a foreign country can be a handicap. If things get too difficult, you can come here. There are perhaps certain possibilities.’

Willi Mohr made a discovery. The man opposite him did not smoke. And yet there had been some cigarette-ends in the ash-tray from the start and someone had certainly been smoking in the room earlier. But that was foolish reasoning, due to fatigue. Naturally someone else had been in here before him.

It was silent for a very long time.

Sergeant Tornilla leafed absently through the passport.

‘Where did you serve during the war?’

‘I wasn’t in time.’

‘No, of course, you were too young.’

‘Not that young.’

‘No, that’s right, not that young. You were eighteen when the war ended. Many of your contemporaries had already been killed then.’

‘I wasn’t in time.’

‘Where were you when the war actually ended?’

‘In Flensburg.’

‘And where had you been before that?’

‘In Gotenhafen.’

‘For training?’

‘Yes.’

‘What type of training?’

‘Submarine training.’

‘In … Gotenhafen?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s called Gdynia, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You never got a commission?’

‘No.’

‘And then, after the war. What did you do then?’

‘Went home.’

‘Where to. To which place?’

‘Dornburg.’

‘In which part of Germany does that lie?’

‘Thüringen.’

‘Isn’t that on the wrong side of the border?’

The question threw Willi Mohr off his balance. He did not answer it.

‘How long is it since you last saw Ramon Alemany?’

‘May I have a little water?’

‘Soon. How long is it since you last saw Ramon Alemany?’

‘Four months.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘No.’

‘Where did you last see him?’

‘In a French port.’

‘Do you remember what it was called?’

‘Ajaccio.’

‘Quite right, Ajaccio in Corsica. But you’ve seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know what his brother’s name is?’

‘Santiago.’

‘When did you last speak to Santiago?’

‘Don’t know. In the summer perhaps.’

‘Didn’t you meet him three days ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you were wrong when you said you hadn’t spoken to him since the summer?’

‘No.’

‘But you met him three days ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you explain yourself a bit?’

‘We met, but we didn’t speak to each other.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘Here.’

‘Here? At the guard-post?’

‘At home.’

‘In the house in Barrio Son Jofre?’

‘Yes.’

‘Repeat: I met him in the house in B-a-r-r-i-o S-o-n J-o-f-r-e.’

‘I met him in the house in Barrio Son Jofre.’

‘Good. Your Spanish is getting better and better. Well, had you asked Santiago Alemany to come to see you?’

‘No.’

‘Why did he come then?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Did he just come to meet you?’

‘He was on his way into town with some fish.’

‘Quite right. He was on his way to the provincial capital with fish. What did you talk about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘For an hour?’

‘I don’t remember the time.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Didn’t you say a word to each other for an hour?’

‘I don’t remember the time.’

‘Didn’t you say a word to each other?’

‘Perhaps a few words.’

‘Did he give you money?’

Willi Mohr did not answer the question.

‘Dornburg in Thüringen. Does it lie in the Russian zone?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long did you live there?’

‘Until 1951.’

‘How many years?’

‘Six.’

‘Why did you move?’

‘I didn’t like it.’

‘How long did you stay in West Germany?’

‘For two and a half years.’

‘And then you moved away from there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I didn’t like it.’

‘When you had tired of West Germany, you came here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like it here?’

Willi Mohr opened his mouth but did not reply. He realized that he could answer yes or no, but he could not bring himself to choose. As usual after a winning blow Sergeant Tornilla at once changed the subject.

‘You lived in Barrio Son Jofre before, when your Danish friends were still here?’

‘Norwegian.’

‘Quite right. So you lived in Barrio Son Jofre, while your Norwegian friends were here?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long?’

‘Three months.’

‘Perhaps four?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Let’s see, while your Norwegian friends were still here and you lived with them, didn’t you also mix with the Alemany brothers then too?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mixed with all five, like one big family?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘So you’ve known Santiago Alemany for a long time?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you know Antonio Millan, too, called Antonio Rojo?’

‘No.’

‘Just by name?’

‘No.’

‘But you know Santiago Alemany?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like Santiago Alemany?’

Sergeant Tornilla had hit the target again. He changed the subject at once.

‘Are your parents still alive?’

‘Only my mother.’

‘And she lives in …’

‘Dornburg.’

‘Quite right. She lives in Dornburg. In the Russian zone.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you belong to the Communist Party when you lived in the Russian zone?’

‘No.’

‘Only during the last years?’

‘No.’

‘Was it very difficult living there?’

‘No.’

‘And yet you moved?’

‘I didn’t like it.’

‘Now you paint. Paint pictures. They say you paint well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Did you make a living as an artist in Germany?’

‘No.’

‘Did you paint at all when you lived there?’

‘No.’

‘So you began to paint when you came here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think your Norwegians friends are alive?’

‘No.’

‘Is Ramon Alemany in Spain now?’

‘No.’

‘How do you know he’s not in Spain?’

Willi did not reply. The air wavered in front of his eyes. Sergeant Tornilla asked him only two more questions.

‘That shirt you’re wearing, is it yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you tired?’

‘Yes.’

Sergeant Tornilla had sat still while asking his questions, quite still, his eyes steady and his fingertips pressed together. Now he stretched one hand down behind his chair and lifted up an earthenware jug of water. He rose and walked round his desk. He looked totally unmoved, just as well groomed and faultless as before. He was smiling again now, in a friendly and compassionate manner.

‘You’re beginning to get tired,’ he said, ‘but you can get much tireder than this. Do have a drink.’

Willi Mohr drank, deeply and long. Then he was given a cigarette and a light. The other man went and sat down beneath the portrait.

‘You don’t seem happy. But perhaps that’s good for you. I read in a newspaper article, in
Vanguardia
, I think, that true art is often created under difficult, even miserable circumstances. Otherwise it’s easy to be happy here. Just look at people round about you. They are poor, but many of them are happy. Look at their faces. They are simple workers and peasants—but happy, for their families, their faith, for the miracle of being alive and creating another branch of the family. It’s easy to be unhappy here too, and it’s easy to find trouble for yourself. If you want to. Unhappiness is easy to find for anyone who seeks it out. But this
is really a fine little town, when you get to know it, and the people, with a few exceptions, are good people. When the exceptions have been eliminated everything will be fine. It’s a big task, eliminating the exceptions.’

Willi Mohr made yet another discovery. He had raised his eyes to stop his head sinking down and now he noticed the similarity between the man in the chair and the general on the portrait. The picture was old and the Caudillo must have been about forty when it was taken, so much the same age as Sergeant Tornilla was now. The likeness was striking. The same uniform except the badges of rank, the same kind of moustache, the same shoulder-strap, the same angle of cap. Was that why he kept his cap on indoors? Willi Mohr looked at the portrait for so long that it began to shimmer in front of his eyes, and all the time the stream of words was boring its way into his mind. Suddenly he found himself sitting and listening to the portrait, seeing the mouth move. He shook his head slightly and tried to fix his eyes on the real living face below.

‘… nine years, from 1936 to ’45 I was a soldier, in other words. Almost uninterruptedly throughout the war. Amongst other things, one learnt to be afraid and at the same time control one’s fear. They were, whatever people say, not unhappy years, not for those who had their aims in front of them. One had to learn to eliminate the enemies, one’s own and one’s country’s, if one didn’t want to have to live with them for ever in the future. There are many ways of eliminating. I was with the Navarre army corps during the offensive at Noguera Pallaresa in April ’38. Do you know about the offensive at Noguera Pallaresa? No, of course not. Smoke, my dear friend?’

Willi Mohr fumbled as he took the cigarette. The hand holding the lighter did not tremble.

‘Noguera Pallaresa is a tributary of the Segre. The Segre, as you probably know, runs along the border between Aragonia and Catalonia. At the Segre, directly west of Barcelona, lies Lerida, the largest town in eastern Catalonia. Just north of Lerida, there’s a town called Balaguer and even farther north, just by the Noguera Pallaresa, a town called Tremp provides Barcelona and almost the whole of northern Catalonia with drinking-water and electricity. At that time the Catalonians were
amongst those people who found it most difficult to think as we do. Some of them still haven’t learnt. Many of our soldiers were Moroccans. The Moroccans took Lerida on the second, and it was presumed that we should continue into Catalonia. The Catalonians expected it. Everyone expected it. But General Solchaga made a diversion northwards, we took Balaguer and advanced along the Noguera Pallaresa, where the reds had hardly any troops. Four days later we stormed Tremp. The Catalonians hadn’t many people there, only a few weak forces, but they panicked, almost to the last man. Many people died that day. It was up in the mountains and still winter—a good exercise for Russia. When we saw the water-reservoirs and the electricity works, we knew that a million workers would be unemployed and that one and a half million households would be without water and electricity. Barcelona is a big city. We broke its back and with that the Catalonians’ backs too. And yet …’

He paused and looked thoughtfully at the man on the bench, as if to see whether his pupil were still reacting.

‘And yet,’ he said, ‘Catalonia didn’t capitulate until a year later. Sometimes the rot is so deep-rooted that it cannot be healed. Sometimes ignorance is so great that the teacher has to kill the pupil. For both’s sake. But let’s talk about something else. How long is it since you last met Ramon Alemany?’

‘Four months.’

‘Five months and sixteen days to be exact. You said so yourself at your interrogation. I’ve the record here.’

He tapped the cardboard file on his desk.

‘You live in a poor part of the town,’ he said, with concern. ‘Barrio Son Jofre. I live in a better part, near the church, on the Avenue. A really fine house, old but well built, a garden at the back and plenty of space. Good for the children.’