Felix removed her hand. She felt a little dizzy. Nat looked away, and began to feel in his jacket pocket. He took out a packet of cigarettes, Spanish ones. All the soldiers were issued with the same kind. He held the packet in his half-bandaged hand, and used the good one to take out a cigarette. Felix shook her head as he held out the packet to her. Matches? she panicked, hoping he wouldn’t have to fumble it with one hand and need help, but luckily he leaned into the candle and took a light from that.
Her own hands were folded back in her lap. She sat and fretted. He looked so serious. Had she been too forward again? She shouldn’t have touched him like that. She hadn’t been able to help herself. And now the atmosphere had changed, just when it was all going so well. At least she thought it was. Was it too late? All she’d done was talk about herself – nerves, she supposed – and there was so much she wanted to ask him.
Then he exhaled, smiling.
‘Don’t look so worried!’ he said lightly. ‘I was just thinking. It’s so hard to hear you with all these people around. Do you really fancy a drink? We could always just go for a walk . . . while the skies are still clear?’
‘Oh yes, let’s,’ said Felix, standing up immediately.
Nat rose too, and straight away a voice called out: ‘¡Los internacionales! ¡Benvenido a los internacionales!’ and they were pulled into the knot of people at the bar. Everyone plied them with drinks, clapped them on the back, thanked them profusely for coming to Madrid, and generally made them feel they’d saved the city from Franco without a helping hand. The barman thumped the counter and struck up a war song. ‘Los Cuatro Generales’. The noise level rose.
Eventually they escaped, followed out by more thanks and cheers. The old man at the door checked the skies and pronounced the all-clear, then raised a clenched fist salute.
‘This way,’ said Nat.
Felix let him lead her around some wooden struts that were holding up a bomb-damaged building.
‘I reckon we’ve got a couple more hours,’ he said, taking her arm again. Her hip brushed against his leg.
‘Until the bombardment begins?’
Nat nodded, and tightened his grip on her.
‘They time it,’ he said. ‘It usually gets going just as the theatres and bars are shutting. When the streets are most crowded.’
They both looked up. Nothing but stars. From far away, the thin whip crack of rifle fire urged them on. From the west, a deep rumbling.
‘The dinamiteros. They tunnel under the lines at night. Both sides.’
Felix and Nat walked on, watching where they walked, avoiding fallen masonry, alert to possible shelters. Watching how they talked too. All the time Felix kept wondering how she had survived all these months without seeing him. His presence felt like a drug to her now. She was addicted. She didn’t know how she could ever bear to say goodbye again.
‘So, now are you going to tell me why you came?’ said Nat. ‘And how?’
Felix gave him a version of what happened in Paris. She felt him shake his head, slowly. She knew he was admiring her, and it made her feel braver and stronger than before. Taller even. They moved steadily closer together as they felt their way through the darkness. She didn’t ask too much about Jarama, and he didn’t tell her. Instead they compared notes on food, and vermin, and swapped advice.
‘My mother would die if she knew I had lice,’ said Felix.
‘Mine too. But that’s the least of it. The food alone would make her weep. She’s very frum, you see. Always used to make my dad wait up for me in the dark on Friday nights when I wasn’t home in time. For lighting the Shabbos candles, you know.’
Felix nodded. She’d seen them in Whitechapel windows.
‘He was meant to give me a good talking-to. Least those were Mum’s orders. And first he’d always say I mustn’t be late again. Like he had to. Job done. Then he’d say, “Your mother’s your mother, so what can I do?” And then I’d know he’d forgiven me again, at least. He hated our rows, but he knew why they happened, even if she couldn’t admit it. “The truth is heavy. So people don’t like to carry it.” That’s what he’d always say. And then, just as I thought he was going to bed, he’d turn round and ask me exactly what everyone had been saying at the meeting I’d just come from.’
‘And so you’d talk politics for the rest of the night?’ Felix laughed, incredulous. She loved hearing about his family.
‘Usually. I remember a question he asked me once – he’d heard it at the Workers Circle. He used to play chess there. And listen. “Was it true?” he said to me. “Did the rabbis and the rich people talk about God just to keep the poor in their place?”’
‘What did you say?’
‘“Yes,” of course. Then I felt terrible, so I said, “Well, sometimes.” And then he said, “So I’ll see you for synagogue for the morning.”’
Nat couldn’t see Felix’s face, but he must have sensed her smile. ‘You don’t have to believe to be a Jew, you know.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said, wishing she knew more. She wondered if it mattered to him that she wasn’t Jewish.
‘I tell you another thing,’ said Nat quickly, in a lighter voice. ‘If my dad saw the cut of this jacket . . . ! He’s a tailor – did I say? His dad was too. Made to measure.’
‘Very smart. So did he make your suit? The one you were wearing when you came to say goodbye?’ Felix had been surprised and delighted by the elegance of that suit. She’d never imagined a communist might dress like that.
‘Yes. God knows where that is now! I was sorry to lose it, I can tell you.’
‘Is he angry with you? For coming here? Does he write?’
‘Not yet. My big sister does sometimes. Rachel. They’re getting over it. She says.’
‘That’s good,’ said Felix, wondering if the same were true in Sydenham. She still hadn’t told them where to reach her. Only that she was safe. Perhaps it was time to relent.
Distracted, she stumbled on a broken paving stone, and Nat caught her before she fell. He moved his arm to her shoulders, and she felt his fingers brush against her hair. Before she could stop herself she tilted her head and rubbed it briefly against his hand, like a cat.
‘Oh, how I wish I wasn’t going back tomorrow,’ she risked. He gave her an awkward one-armed hug. Once, twice. She was so close now she felt a kind of shudder run through him, and its ripples seemed to spread to her own body.
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘And I wish I didn’t have to stay. I hate it, you know. Being here, useless. And helpless. It’s driving me crazy.’
‘I know. You want to get back to the front.’ They all did. It had shocked Felix at first. Then, in the first quiet spell at the hospital, she’d understood.
‘I feel guilty, safe here.’
‘Not exactly safe.’ A louder explosion, not so far away that they couldn’t feel it shake the pavement. He pulled her even nearer. She felt as light as air.
‘Safer.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. Everyone had picked up something of Madrid’s fatalism. He stopped and she knew he was looking at her, curiously, trying to decipher her shadowed face.
‘You like the danger, don’t you?’ he teased her, gently. ‘Admit it.’ Nat turned and took her face in his hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb, studying her as closely as the darkness allowed.
‘No, no, of course I don’t.’ Felix was almost too embarrassed to enjoy the sensation, this warm weightlessness, as if every cell in her body were gently expanding. ‘Not really.’ She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her. He’d seen through her.
‘A bit of you . . . ?’
‘Well, it’s exciting,’ she admitted, meeting his eyes again, at last. ‘You know it is.’
‘Life and death.’
That was it. He knew. ‘It makes you feel so alive . . .’
‘. . . A part of things . . . ?’
‘. . . Here and now.’
Their lips were almost brushing as they spoke. Felix wasn’t sure what would happen if she stopped speaking.
‘Everything seems more important when there’s so much at stake,’ she said.
Everything. She kept silent at last, lips slightly parted. She’d said what she had to say.
‘It is important,’ he whispered, moving his hand to the back of her neck and then making it impossible for her to go on talking even if she wanted to.
Kissing Nat, here, in the dark, in Madrid, was more easy and delicious than Felix could have imagined. She’d always wondered if she’d know what to do. If it would be obvious that she didn’t. If that would matter. At night sometimes she’d even tested her own lips against her own arm, felt their softness, as if it might somehow help when the time came. Her tongue greeted his, tentatively at first, and then more bravely. It even crossed her mind that he might think her more experienced than she was. Maybe that didn’t matter either. He’d managed to shave since that afternoon, she noticed. She was glad.
As they came up for air, a half-sob escaped her.
‘Felix?’
‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘Except my legs. I can barely stand. I don’t know what it is.’
‘Do you want to go back?’
‘No, no,’ she almost shouted. ‘Not at all.’
‘Here. Come here, then.’
He led her to a doorway, a great big one, with a great heavy door, and no sign of life behind it. In fact, half the building behind it was gone. They sat on the stone steps, huddled into the corner, and Felix wondered how it would feel to have both Nat’s arms around her.
‘This damned sling . . .’ he said, at just that moment. ‘Do I really need it just now?’
‘Probably not,’ Felix said, kneeling up so she could loosen it. An unprofessional stab of jealousy pierced her as she thought about the nurse who had tied the knot, and she had to stop herself from asking about her. She rubbed at the skin, feeling the indentation made by the sling. Then she stroked the bare nape of Nat’s neck, where the short hairs became softer. His arms round her waist, he buried his face in her jersey with a groan.
‘We can’t . . .’ whispered Felix, not even sure what she meant. ‘We can’t . . .’ She heard the clip-clop of a mule coming up the cobbles, and froze. Then the echoing hoofs passed and retreated, and she let herself breathe out again. She slid her fingers under Nat’s collar and enjoyed the smoothness she found there. Nat was trembling again. Was he in pain, or simply aching inside as much she was? She didn’t know if she wanted to protect him, or be sheltered herself. She cradled his bowed head against her and felt the heat of his breath penetrate the wool and warm her skin.
He said something in a muffled voice. She caught the word ‘taste’ and tilted his head towards hers with terrifying courage, dropping into his lap. Gradually they both became more daring. But they did not have long. A familiar noise above forced them to break off and look up. A humming moan rose quickly to a roar. Five planes in formation passed across the narrow strip of sky between the buildings. Felix closed her eyes. The bombers sped on. Then came the explosion. A siren started up.
‘Carabanchel, I think. I don’t know how much more that place can take,’ said Nat, drawing back so he could listen. Felix felt bereft. ‘There’ll be more soon. Quick. Let’s get you back.’ He pulled her to her feet. Her legs seemed to be working again now.
More planes soon followed and they started to run, not looking up any more, just concentrating on finding the right turnings, and avoiding the holes in the roads. They must have been walking in circles all this time; the hotel was closer than Felix realised. Nat almost pushed her inside. He didn’t seem to trust himself to say goodbye. ‘Go on. Quickly. Stay with Dolores.’
Felix wanted to hold onto him, to pull him in with her. How could she possibly let him go? Something inside her felt so stretched it hurt.
‘What about you?’ she said.
‘I know where there’s a refugio.’
He was backing away from her, looking over her shoulder at the receptionist, looking back over his shoulder at the sky. Another siren started somewhere, closer. The old lady on duty set down her knitting, to watch and to listen, doing her own sums about how far away the danger might be tonight.
‘I wish . . .’
‘Me too.’
‘Will you . . . ?’
‘I’ll write,’ he promised. ‘I really will this time.’ And the door shut between them.
The receptionist quickly bowed her head over her needles. Felix said goodnight. Climbing the stairs, dragging her feet, she could still taste Nat. She buried her face in her hands, and breathed in hungrily, wondering if the smell of him had rubbed off on her, if she could keep it for a little longer. Her palms smelled of soap and cigarette smoke and something else she couldn’t quite recognise.
On the landing, she saw a line of light under their door. She turned the handle as quietly as she could, wondering if Dolores had fallen asleep with the lamps still on. But Dolores was still sitting up in bed. She started as Felix entered, and turned her papers face down on the cover.
‘How was your evening?’ she said.
‘Lovely,’ Felix replied slowly, thinking about it. Her throat felt blocked and achy. She didn’t want to talk.
Dolores said nothing.
‘Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to stay out so late.’ Felix sat on the bed and took off her shoes. Why was Dolores looking at her like that? As though she despised her.
‘You look . . . tired. You shouldn’t have waited up.’ Felix rubbed her feet, sighing. Dolores could be tricky sometimes. Not surprising, really after all she must have been through. Everything in Spain had changed so fast. She thinks I’m a slut. She can tell somehow. She knows what I’ve been doing, and what I’m thinking now. Catholic girls don’t have thoughts like these. Or feelings like these. I’m sure they don’t. ‘Are you still studying? You are so good.’
‘I’ve finished now,’ said Dolores, putting her papers away, lips tight.
It was too bad. Felix’s chin came forward. She didn’t care what Dolores thought. How could she possibly understand this? Felix knew she wasn’t mistaken about Nat. He really wanted her, wanted her properly, in the right kind of way. He wasn’t the kiss-me-quick type, she was certain. How could he be? And as for those girls at the nurses’ home in London, they were wrong too, the way they always talked about men. Not to be trusted. Always playing the field. She remembered their warnings . . . a man would say anything to get a girl to . . . No, Nat was different – well, of course he was different – and he wasn’t like that. They just didn’t know.
Has this place fallen? Nat screams into the ear of the motorcyclist as they sweep into the main square together. His comrade half-turns, his hair whipping into both their eyes, and Nat can briefly see the panic rising as he mouths: No sé. I don’t know.
There’s no way to tell who holds each village now. In retreat, no stranger can be trusted. Best not to stop and see.
The joyful faces that once greeted every arrival of the Brigades are all gone. You might catch a child, whisking out of sight, too late, or ducking fearfully into a doorway at the approach of an engine. You might glimpse a figure in black behind a window, moving away. You couldn’t expect a welcome. It’s no use asking for food in times like these. The signs outside the houses make it quite clear. No hay pan. There is no bread.
How much petrol do we have? Gas?
No sé.
The bike swerves round a crater and Nat fastens his grip, smells fresh sweat on the man’s neck, feels the strain in his thighs. Then he sees the ambulance ahead. It’s a burned-out shell, on its side in a culvert, one blackened door hanging open, and no sign of life. Must have taken a direct hit. They can’t stop. They can’t check. There’s no going back.
Oseh shalom bim’romav . . .