once they had wound him up, to move when they gave him a push, to stop when told to do so. That was why they could not understand his behaviour now.
‘The thing is, I’ve remembered,’ he said.
The woman in astrakhan made the mistake of asking him what he had remembered that made him feel so ill.
Juan told her he had remembered the truth. That her son had been justifiably shot because he was a criminal, and not a war criminal, where guilt or innocence depended on which side was doing the judging, but a common criminal, a thief, someone who murdered civilians to steal from them and sell what did not belong to him on the black market, a gang leader who had not even shown loyalty to his fellows. Thanks to him, they had rounded up a whole organisation of traitors, thanks to his tip-off theyhad broken up a network that dealt in contaminated medicines. Fortunately not even being a coward had worked in his favour, because in the end he had been given a fair trial, condemned to death, and shot even more fairly by a firing squad. And he did not die a hero’s death. I – in this Juan Senra was lying – I was in charge of the squad that executed him. He shit himself, he cried, he begged us not to kill him, he promised he would tell us more about the organisations loyal to Franco still hiding in Madrid… he was scum, and died like scum. Everything I told you before was lies. I did it so that I could live, but I no longer want to live if it means I have to give you comfort. Now I want to go.
All this was like a thunderbolt, an earth tremor that took Colonel Eymar and his wife’s breath away. They listened in silence to this rapid sketch of their son, done in colours they knew at once were the colours of truth. Nobody lies when they want to die.
They did not even protest when Juan Senra walked out of the room he had been carried into, or when he ordered the sergeant outside to take him back to his cell, even though the soldier looked to the colonel for confirmation. He interpreted the glassy look in the officer’s eyes as approval, and, feeling obliged to look more professional, straightened up and roughly pushed Juan Senra along the corridor in front of him. He kept a safe distance behind his prisoner as they climbed the stairs back up to the second floor.
Juan said nothing to anyone. He did not queue with his bowl for the evening broth, but stood silently beneath the window, imagining a vast grey sky beyond its bars that had the power to abolish all sign of spring.
Two days later, his name was first on the list of those summoned before the tribunal. He was the first to appear before Colonel Eymar. He was the first person condemned to death that day. None of the threats from Lieutenant Rioboo or any of the blows in the face from the albino, flag-doodling clerk could force him to stand to attention.
At first light the next morning, his was the first name on the list of those taken out into the yard. As the lorry carrying him and the other condemned men to La Almudena cemetery emerged from the prison gate, Juan Senra thought Eduardo López would be relieved now there was no longer any reason to keep him alive. He tried to guess what arcane criteria the chaplain had used to censor the letter he had written his brother. It reassured him to think it would never be sent.
He also thought – and this too gave him a certain satisfaction – that the smug look of triumph must have disappeared forever from Colonel Eymar’s face.
He only stopped hating when he thought of his brother.
Fourth defeat: 1942
or
Blind sunflowers
Reverend Father, I have lost all sense of direction, like a blind sunflower. Despite the fact that today I saw a communist die, I have been defeated in everything else, Father, and that is why I feel sicut nubes… quasi fluctus… velut umbra, like a passing shadow .
Read my letter as a confession. At the end, God willing, I hope you will find it in you to absolve me, but if, as I suspect, my sin is
‘The thing is, I’ve remembered,’ he said.
The woman in astrakhan made the mistake of asking him what he had remembered that made him feel so ill.
Juan told her he had remembered the truth. That her son had been justifiably shot because he was a criminal, and not a war criminal, where guilt or innocence depended on which side was doing the judging, but a common criminal, a thief, someone who murdered civilians to steal from them and sell what did not belong to him on the black market, a gang leader who had not even shown loyalty to his fellows. Thanks to him, they had rounded up a whole organisation of traitors, thanks to his tip-off theyhad broken up a network that dealt in contaminated medicines. Fortunately not even being a coward had worked in his favour, because in the end he had been given a fair trial, condemned to death, and shot even more fairly by a firing squad. And he did not die a hero’s death. I – in this Juan Senra was lying – I was in charge of the squad that executed him. He shit himself, he cried, he begged us not to kill him, he promised he would tell us more about the organisations loyal to Franco still hiding in Madrid… he was scum, and died like scum. Everything I told you before was lies. I did it so that I could live, but I no longer want to live if it means I have to give you comfort. Now I want to go.
All this was like a thunderbolt, an earth tremor that took Colonel Eymar and his wife’s breath away. They listened in silence to this rapid sketch of their son, done in colours they knew at once were the colours of truth. Nobody lies when they want to die.
They did not even protest when Juan Senra walked out of the room he had been carried into, or when he ordered the sergeant outside to take him back to his cell, even though the soldier looked to the colonel for confirmation. He interpreted the glassy look in the officer’s eyes as approval, and, feeling obliged to look more professional, straightened up and roughly pushed Juan Senra along the corridor in front of him. He kept a safe distance behind his prisoner as they climbed the stairs back up to the second floor.
Juan said nothing to anyone. He did not queue with his bowl for the evening broth, but stood silently beneath the window, imagining a vast grey sky beyond its bars that had the power to abolish all sign of spring.
Two days later, his name was first on the list of those summoned before the tribunal. He was the first to appear before Colonel Eymar. He was the first person condemned to death that day. None of the threats from Lieutenant Rioboo or any of the blows in the face from the albino, flag-doodling clerk could force him to stand to attention.
At first light the next morning, his was the first name on the list of those taken out into the yard. As the lorry carrying him and the other condemned men to La Almudena cemetery emerged from the prison gate, Juan Senra thought Eduardo López would be relieved now there was no longer any reason to keep him alive. He tried to guess what arcane criteria the chaplain had used to censor the letter he had written his brother. It reassured him to think it would never be sent.
He also thought – and this too gave him a certain satisfaction – that the smug look of triumph must have disappeared forever from Colonel Eymar’s face.
He only stopped hating when he thought of his brother.
Fourth defeat: 1942
or
Blind sunflowers
Reverend Father, I have lost all sense of direction, like a blind sunflower. Despite the fact that today I saw a communist die, I have been defeated in everything else, Father, and that is why I feel sicut nubes… quasi fluctus… velut umbra, like a passing shadow .
Read my letter as a confession. At the end, God willing, I hope you will find it in you to absolve me, but if, as I suspect, my sin is
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