A Necessary Action Read online

  Then he took a step into the room and smiled in a strained manner.

  ‘You won’t have to wait much longer now,’ he said.

  The officer seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he added politely: ‘I hope it hasn’t been too uncomfortable for you.’

  He glanced with irritation at the galvanized bucket and the dirty blanket, turned round quickly and left. The guard locked the door.

  Ten minutes later the small guard returned and said: ‘Come.’

  At the steps at the end of the corridor, Willi Mohr said: ‘What happens now?’

  The man in uniform replied at once, without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘You’re going to be interrogated by Sergeant Tornilla.’

  ‘Was that the man who was here?’

  ‘No, that’s the chief, Lieutenant Pujol.’

  The civil guard knocked on the same door that the other guard had held ajar ten hours earlier. Then he opened it wide and stepped to one side. Willi Mohr shrugged his shoulders and walked into the room. The door was shut behind him, from the outside.

  2

  The room was not so small as the cell, but on the other hand it was not much larger. It contained four pieces of furniture, a small desk, a filing cabinet, a black armchair and a rickety wooden bench with room for two people. But the room still seemed full to overflowing. There was no window, but on the wall behind the desk hung a large photograph of the Caudillo in a heavy black wooden frame. Under the portrait sat a man writing in the circle of light from an electric ceiling light with a green glass shade.

  When Willi Mohr came into the room, the man at once put down his pen and rose from the armchair.

  He saluted meticulously, held out his hand and said with a smile: ‘My name is José Tornilla. Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  Willi Mohr stared at him with clear blue eyes and shook the man’s hand mechanically.

  So this was Sergeant Tornilla, the man with a lisping voice, the man who was to interrogate him, after letting him wait for ten hours. Middle-height, slightly plump, brown eyes, moustache, military cap with tassels, well filled to the fore, white shirt, strap diagonally across his chest, cheeks smooth from his razor, white teeth, well-manicured nails, well-brushed, faultless, straight out of the book of instructions. A nob. A blown-up gasbag.

  Thought Willi Mohr.

  Sergeant Tornilla walked round the desk and pulled the rickety bench a bit nearer. He smiled even more broadly and made an exaggeratedly polite gesture towards it.

  ‘This,’ he said jokingly, ‘is the accused’s bench.’

  He articulated very clearly.

  They sat down opposite each other. The man in the armchair went on smiling. He had his elbows on the desk and slowly pressed first his fingertips and then his whole hands together. As if he had happened to think of something important, he suddenly parted them, got out a cigarette packet from somewhere behind the ancient manual telephone and held it out. Bisonte, Spanish Monopoly cigarettes of American type.

  Not so bad, but unjustifiably expensive. Snob cigarettes, thought Willi Mohr.

  He took one and almost before he had had time to put it to his lips, the other man had stretched across the desk and lit his lighter.

  Willi Mohr inhaled the smoke. It stung and hurt his throat.

  Sergeant Tornilla turned his lighter upside-down and said genially:

  ‘Austrian. Contraband—even in the police …’

  He put it away, again pressed his fingers together and smiled. Willi Mohr noted that the man had never taken his eyes off him since he had come into the room.

  Sergeant Tornilla went on smiling. It was quiet in the room for at least thirty seconds. Then he exploded into a long stream of words, speaking in a low voice, intensely, with a much more marked lisp than before.

  ‘Verstehe kein Wort,’ said Willi Mohr.

  It was true. He had quite literally not understood a single word.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sergeant Tornilla, ‘I was forgetting you were a foreigner.’

  He turned a leather-covered frame so that his visitor could see the three oval portraits, a fat woman with a fan and an elaborately embroidered shawl and two small boys in sailor suits.

  ‘My family,’ he said proudly. ‘My wife and my two sons. They’re eleven and nine now, both born after the war.’ He paused for a moment and raised his right forefinger as if replying to a question that had never been put.

  ‘No, not here. In Huelva. My wife and I, our families come from Huelva. These photographs weren’t taken here, nor in Huelva. In Badajoz. Duty, you see. One is often moved. My sons were seven on these photos. Both were photographed at their first communion, Juan and Antonio.’

  He pointed at the photographs, one after the other, and repeated, as if he were learning a lesson by heart:

  ‘Juan … Antonio … They go to school here now. When they’re older perhaps we’ll be moved to a bigger town—with better schools.’

  He offered another Bisonte, lit it and went on talking.

  Willi Mohr felt as if in some way he was unable to resist this man on the other side of the desk, neither his flow of words nor his unwavering eyes. He was tired and dirty and ill at ease, painfully conscious of the fact that he had not washed for a long time, that his trousers were stiff with turpentine and spots of paint and that his faded brown shirt was impregnated with dried sweat, that his fair hair was dirty and dishevelled and wild, and that despite his long thin body he would feel small if this man in uniform got up.

  And he was hungry too.

  ‘… this is a district where there is always plenty of time. There’s a saying here which says that one is waiting for the boat. There’s a lot to that, much more than you would at first think. You go down to the harbour, perhaps several miles, and you wait. In the end a boat always comes, and then it goes again and you go on waiting. If anyone asks what you are waiting for—then you are still waiting for the boat, perhaps the next boat, perhaps another boat. Some don’t even go to the harbour, but they are waiting all the same, for the boat, or something else. It’s difficult for a stranger at first, but gradually you learn to wait. Sometimes—and in certain situations—it has its advantages.’

  Silence. Sergeant Tornilla had stopped smiling.

  ‘That’s what it’s like. Here and in many other parts of our country. People here are good and simple people. They demand nothing, but they earn their living in calm and order. Perhaps they are poor, many of them, but they are happy or will be happy when all the unpleasant and worrying things they’ve gone through have vanished from their memories. When they’ve been taught to learn what is right. They’re already well on the way. What they need is firm faith, an orderly rhythm of life and sufficient work so that they can live. They only want to live, like most people. They have already got or are going to get what they need. All other influences, all alien influences, only do them harm. Once many of these people were led into disaster, by leaders who weren’t leaders—but criminals. Not all of them were criminals, it is true, for some of them were fools. They weren’t any good at taking responsibility; they were only any good at dying. It takes courage to take responsibility. It doesn’t take any courage to die, but it takes courage to kill, just as it takes courage to take responsibility. By the grace of God, there were some courageous people at that time.’

  Silence.

  Cigarette.

  Smile.

  The lighter and its blue gas flame.

  Willi Mohr made a discovery. He had understood what the man had said, all the time, except at the beginning. Suddenly he knew why he had understood. Sergeant Tornilla was not speaking one language, but two. Into a framework of everyday Spanish he had woven a number of German expressions. The linguistic effect was not awkward or bizarre, but fluently comprehensible.

  ‘You speak German.’

  ‘Yes, some. And where did I learn it? In Russia. During the war. Division Azul—The Blue Division. The Vitebsk pocket … encirc
lement … everything. Very instructive, in many ways.’

  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 D
anish 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.