father second.
‘About you, your honour,’ Senra repeated submissively. For a few moments, time stood still. The three members of the tribunal sat motionless , as though caught in a flashlight of silence and stillness, betrayed only by a slight quivering of the colonel’s chin. The only other thing that moved in the courtroom was Juan’s Adam’s apple, which went on bobbing up and down as he tried to stifle the dry sensation in his mouth.
‘Did he not speak about the fatherland? Did he speak of Spain?’ asked the colonel, trying to conceal the anxiety that gripped his throat and made his stern voice tremble.
Senra was worried about allowing some truth into his replies, as if the contrast might give the game away, but he admitted that no, he had never spoken about Spain, colonel sir. At this, time started to flow again: the albino clerk went back to drawing flags, the other members of the tribunal leaned back in their chairs and glanced inquisitively at each other, allowing themselves a few moments’ reflection. They had interrogated and condemned many hundreds of enemies of the fatherland to death. All of them had been asked at some point if they had known Miguel Eymar. The answer had always been negative. They had no idea how to respond to Juan Senra’s affirmative reply.
Second Lieutenant Rioboo, worthy of more glorious assignments, cut in with a ‘Listen, you shit-filled Red, are you going to explain what you mean or should we send you straight to La Almudena?’ He turned to the colonel for approval, which he received with a silent nod that betrayed a mix of severity and bewilderment.
The empty-headed clerk had stopped drawing flags, but sat staring down at the sheaves of paper on the inclined desktop. Juan Senra also needed time to reconstruct a memory that did not exist, because neither his weak state nor his feelings of panic would let him forget the real story of Miguel Eymar.
General Franco, wearing his military cap, stared fiercely down at them from the back wall of the courtroom, next to a wooden crucifix. The empty room, which to judge by the huge blackboard on the end wall must once have been used for classes, echoed to the sound of constant activity outside – doors being slammed, barked orders, hurried footsteps. But inside there was complete silence. Three guards stood at the back like statues, although their frozen poses suggested weariness rather than any warlike or epic qualities.
All at once, Juan was flooded with memories, and felt too afraid to remain standing upright. He leaned his right hand on the clerk’s desk, trying not to let his dizziness overcome him, but a pitiless swipe from the flag-illustrator made him lose his balance and collapse onto the papers. This time he took a blow in the back, as the albino shouted, ‘Stand to attention, you bastard!’ Juan struggled awkwardly to push himself up. Yes, sir, he managed to say, before he found himself falling in slow motion like the eyelids of an ether addict. He lay flat on the floor, curled up like a liana.
It was so cold.
The cold, hunger, pain and fear, added to his sense of utter defeat, all conspired to keep him in a state of semi-consciousness. He could make out people moving around him, but could not hear anything being said. Two men dragged him out by the feet and flung him into a dank, dark room where several other motionless people lay slumped. The door slammed, and just before he passed out completely, somebody put an arm round his shoulder and asked: ‘Juan, what have they done to you?’ Hearing his name gave him the comforting feeling he was being protected, and so he slid into unconsciousness.
At nightfall, when he was led out as part of a line of prisoners being taken back to jail, he had no idea why all the others were sent to the fourth floor while he was taken back to the second. There was a perfectly established hierarchy in the prison: those still waiting to be condemned to death were kept on the second
‘About you, your honour,’ Senra repeated submissively. For a few moments, time stood still. The three members of the tribunal sat motionless , as though caught in a flashlight of silence and stillness, betrayed only by a slight quivering of the colonel’s chin. The only other thing that moved in the courtroom was Juan’s Adam’s apple, which went on bobbing up and down as he tried to stifle the dry sensation in his mouth.
‘Did he not speak about the fatherland? Did he speak of Spain?’ asked the colonel, trying to conceal the anxiety that gripped his throat and made his stern voice tremble.
Senra was worried about allowing some truth into his replies, as if the contrast might give the game away, but he admitted that no, he had never spoken about Spain, colonel sir. At this, time started to flow again: the albino clerk went back to drawing flags, the other members of the tribunal leaned back in their chairs and glanced inquisitively at each other, allowing themselves a few moments’ reflection. They had interrogated and condemned many hundreds of enemies of the fatherland to death. All of them had been asked at some point if they had known Miguel Eymar. The answer had always been negative. They had no idea how to respond to Juan Senra’s affirmative reply.
Second Lieutenant Rioboo, worthy of more glorious assignments, cut in with a ‘Listen, you shit-filled Red, are you going to explain what you mean or should we send you straight to La Almudena?’ He turned to the colonel for approval, which he received with a silent nod that betrayed a mix of severity and bewilderment.
The empty-headed clerk had stopped drawing flags, but sat staring down at the sheaves of paper on the inclined desktop. Juan Senra also needed time to reconstruct a memory that did not exist, because neither his weak state nor his feelings of panic would let him forget the real story of Miguel Eymar.
General Franco, wearing his military cap, stared fiercely down at them from the back wall of the courtroom, next to a wooden crucifix. The empty room, which to judge by the huge blackboard on the end wall must once have been used for classes, echoed to the sound of constant activity outside – doors being slammed, barked orders, hurried footsteps. But inside there was complete silence. Three guards stood at the back like statues, although their frozen poses suggested weariness rather than any warlike or epic qualities.
All at once, Juan was flooded with memories, and felt too afraid to remain standing upright. He leaned his right hand on the clerk’s desk, trying not to let his dizziness overcome him, but a pitiless swipe from the flag-illustrator made him lose his balance and collapse onto the papers. This time he took a blow in the back, as the albino shouted, ‘Stand to attention, you bastard!’ Juan struggled awkwardly to push himself up. Yes, sir, he managed to say, before he found himself falling in slow motion like the eyelids of an ether addict. He lay flat on the floor, curled up like a liana.
It was so cold.
The cold, hunger, pain and fear, added to his sense of utter defeat, all conspired to keep him in a state of semi-consciousness. He could make out people moving around him, but could not hear anything being said. Two men dragged him out by the feet and flung him into a dank, dark room where several other motionless people lay slumped. The door slammed, and just before he passed out completely, somebody put an arm round his shoulder and asked: ‘Juan, what have they done to you?’ Hearing his name gave him the comforting feeling he was being protected, and so he slid into unconsciousness.
At nightfall, when he was led out as part of a line of prisoners being taken back to jail, he had no idea why all the others were sent to the fourth floor while he was taken back to the second. There was a perfectly established hierarchy in the prison: those still waiting to be condemned to death were kept on the second
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