Part 20 (2/2)

Steinbach took out a sheet of paper, cleared his throat, and read: ”... if I should die, think this of me, Wher'ere I rest, men one day will be free.”

”Good Christ, that's that's from the man Auden called the most promising voice of his generation? Come on, Steinbach, get your boys to give it a little distinction before you put it out.” from the man Auden called the most promising voice of his generation? Come on, Steinbach, get your boys to give it a little distinction before you put it out.”

Again there was much laughter, and even Steinbach seemed to take part in it. He was able to laugh because he knew it was a good story and they'd use it. Salvage something something out of this b.l.o.o.d.y mess, if only one more martyr for the English left. out of this b.l.o.o.d.y mess, if only one more martyr for the English left.

When it came his turn, Levitsky worked the telescope back and forth across the scaggily vegetated ridge near the city, a good half mile off. He could see brush, gulches, mud, and the Fascist line of sandbags running across the crest. It was, as this sly one-eyed propagandist Steinbach had said, terrible terrain for an attack at night, in the rain.

Julian, you idiot. To die like a flea among millions of fleas in the mudbath of history.

He stepped back, turned for a second, and looked where the Englishman Sampson stood, a hard, trim young man with narrow, suspicious eyes and precise, perhaps military manners and authority. Sampson smoked a pipe and took notes with impressive efficiency and wrote beautifully, it was said. Levitsky, a little shaken perhaps, tried to adjust to the immensity of his loss and, worse, the hideous resonating irony of it.

I was so close. I came so far, I was so close.

It had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away by Julian's utter stupidity. How could he be so frivolous with his own life? And poor Florry's, too. G.o.d knows, Florry had reason to follow him, but it was all such a bitter waste.

He went back to the instrument. Nothing. It was just the same, scruffy no-man's-land. Did he expect to see the dead rise?

”Mr. Ver Steeg?”

It was Comrade Steinbach, calling from the group of reporters farther down the trench. ”We are returning to La Granja. You don't want to be left up here if a Fascist bombardment begins.”

”Ah,” said Levitsky. Yet he did not at once move. For if Julian were gone, there was nothing left to do, except save himself.

If Koba's hounds are to hunt me, let them hunt me hard.

”Best get goin', chum,” said the little English captain, then turned away and headed back to his men gathered at the other end of the trench.

But Levitsky suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Without his mission, he was just a man. His death, which might have had political meaning, suddenly had only a personal one. It was as if his life, in all its fragility, had been handed back to him.

He started up the trench and as he was drawing near the ladder, he ducked into a bunker scooped in the wall. It was filled with gear; two men slept noisily.

Several bombs lay on the table, iron eggs with checkerboard surfaces. He made his decision in a split second, and s.n.a.t.c.hed one up and put it into his hip pocket. He gripped the thing out of sight. It felt heavy and authoritative in his hand. He could remember flinging them by the dozens into White positions during the civil war.

”Comrade!”

Levitsky turned. It was the English captain.

”Forgot this, old man,” he said, holding out Levitsky's notebook. ”Sure you ain't too old for this sort of thing?”

Levitsky smiled, took the notebook, and headed out after the other reporters moving back through the scrubland to La Granja.

By the time he caught up, they had come through the orchard and into a meadow. Ahead, through the line of trees, Levitsky could see the big house with its red tiles.

In the courtyard the reporters milled around amid the soldiers, all of them waiting to be served a meal. The smell of rice and chicken from nearby cook pots filled the air. There was much laughter and camaraderie. Levitsky could see the Britishers teasing the American about his prisoner question and he could see the French reporters arguing strenuously among themselves over some political point.

And he could see Comrade Bolodin, with one man, walking toward him.

His first impulse was to run.

Don't, he told himself. You old fool, stay calm stay calm. Let's see him pull his NKVD card here, in the center of a POUM encampment.

Levitsky began to slide through the crowd.

The big American was drawing closer. They'd grab him first, then pull the cards-guns, too, probably-and haul him away. He only had a few seconds. He put his hand in his pocket and removed the bomb. He held it m.u.f.fled in his coat and with his other hand managed to get the first pin out. He continued walking through the crowd toward the big house; then, abruptly, he turned aside and headed to one of the three smaller buildings off to the side. A guard saw him coming.

”Alto! a.r.s.enal!”

”Eh?” said Levitsky, approaching. ”No hablo ...” ”No hablo ...”

”a.r.s.enal!” repeated the guard. repeated the guard.

Levitsky nodded, pulled the last pin, and in one swift motion tossed it through the window. The guard dropped his rifle and began to run screaming. Levitsky ran in the other direction.

The first blast was m.u.f.fled; the second lifted him from his feet and threw him in the air. He landed, stunned. Men ran in terrified panic. Smoke filled the air. The small house blossomed flames.

”Run! Run! There's more to blow!” somebody shouted. A pair of hands picked him up. He looked up into the face of the young British reporter Sampson.

”Go on, old man! Get out of here! Run for your b.l.o.o.d.y life.” Levitsky ran around the side of the big house and through the orchard. Behind him, there was another detonation.

He turned into a gully and began a little jog down the creek bed. The mountains in the distance were cool and white and beautiful.

”Amigo?”

A man in a trenchcoat stepped from behind the trees. He had an automatic.

”Comrade Amigo. Manos arriba, eh?” said the man smilingly, gesturing for Levitsky to raise his hands. said the man smilingly, gesturing for Levitsky to raise his hands.

”No hablo,” protested Levitsky blandly. protested Levitsky blandly.

The man smiled and relaxed as he came near and seemed to lower the pistol, and Levitsky knew this meant he was about to hit him. When the man lashed out suddenly with the pistol, meaning to crack Levitsky sharply across the cheekbone, Levitsky broke the blow with one hand and with the other struck upward, driving the crucifix nail into the man's throat.

The man fell back, gasping, his eyes filled with stunned astonishment that such an old fool could hurt him so terribly. The pistol fell into the dust. The man went to his knees, trying to hold the blood into his throat with his hands. He tried to cry out but couldn't. He tried to rise, but couldn't.

Levitsky knelt next to him and carefully placed the point of the nail into the ear ca.n.a.l, and plunged it inward. With a convulsion, the man died. Levitsky quickly plucked his papers from the breast pocket, finding him to be one Franco Ruiz, according to a SIM ident.i.ty card. He pulled the body into the brush and picked up the pistol, a short-barreled .380 Colt automatic. He hurried down the creek bed, finding himself surprisingly impressed with Comrade Bolodin. The American was smart, yes, he was. He'd found him, and with a better man than Franco Ruiz, he would have taken him.

Night was falling as Levitsky hurried along the creek bed. He almost froze. He had no exact idea where he was headed other than east, away from La Granja. He s.h.i.+vered as the cold rose to penetrate his coat. The creek bed crossed under a country road after a while, and he chose the road, his feet acquiring an urgency that seemed almost involuntary. On either side in the twilight, the empty fields fell away, their crops unharvested, their farmers driven away. Several miles off a sh.e.l.l or a bomb exploded and now and then came the crackle of shots outside Huesca, but otherwise there was no sign of war in the strange, empty stillness of the land. The Pyrenees off on the left had become indistinct, a wall. Beyond them lay France, and freedom.

You cannot walk across the mountains, old devil, he told himself.

When it grew too dark to continue, he found a deserted stone barn and hid in the straw for warmth. He awoke early the next morning and proceeded on, the hunger gnawing away at his stomach. He was stopped once by a squad of forlorn militiamen who cared more whether he had food to share with them than for his papers. Twice more he came across groups of militia, but they paid him no attention. Finally he came to a larger road. Before him, he could see the plain stretching out for miles, bleak and flat, gnarled here and there with cl.u.s.ters of rock. Who could want such desolation?

He waited by the side of the road until at last a vehicle came along, an empty lorry driven by two men. He hailed them.

”Comrades?” he asked.

”Sprechen sie Deutsch, Kamrade?” came the reply from one of them, a youth of about twenty. came the reply from one of them, a youth of about twenty.

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