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"Who is he?"
"She!" said Dave, and pointed.
In the shade of a misshapen black poplar tree, a dozen British and German soldiers were talking to a startlingly beautiful woman.
"Oh, Duw," said Lenny, using the Welsh word for God. "She's a sight for sore eyes."
She looked about twenty-five, Lloyd thought, and she was petite, with big eyes and a mass of black hair pinned up and topped by a fore-and-aft army cap. Somehow her baggy uniform seemed to cling to her like an evening gown.
A volunteer called Heinz who knew that Lloyd understood German spoke to him in that language. "This is Teresa, sir. She has come to teach us to read."
Lloyd nodded understanding. The International Brigades consisted of foreign volunteers mixed with Spanish soldiers, and literacy was a problem with the Spanish. They had spent their childhood chanting the catechism in village schools run by the Catholic Church. Many priests did not teach the children to read, for fear that in later life they would get hold of socialist books. As a result, only about half the population had been literate under the monarchy. The republican government elected in 1931 had improved education, but there remained millions of Spaniards who could not read or write, and classes for soldiers continued even in the front line.
"I'm illiterate," said Dave, who was not.
"Me, too," said Joe Eli, who taught Spanish literature at Columbia University in New York.
Teresa spoke in Spanish. Her voice was low and calm and very sexy. "How many times do you think I have heard this joke?" she said, but she did not seem very cross.
Lenny moved closer. "I'm Sergeant Griffiths," he said. "I'll do anything I can to help you, of course." His words were practical, but his tone of voice made them sound like an amorous invitation.
She gave him a dazzling smile. "That would be most helpful," she said.
Lloyd spoke formally to her in his best Spanish. "I'm so very glad you're here, senorita." He had spent much of the last ten months studying the language. "I am Lieutenant Williams. I can tell you exactly which members of the group require lessons . . . and which do not."
Lenny said dismissively: "But the lieutenant has to go to Bujaraloz to get our orders." Bujaraloz was the small town where government forces had set up headquarters. "Perhaps you and I should look around here for a suitable place to hold classes." He might have been suggesting a walk in the moonlight.
Lloyd smiled and nodded agreement. He was happy to let Lenny romance Teresa. He himself was in no mood for flirting, whereas Lenny seemed already in love. In Lloyd's opinion Lenny's chances were close to zero. Teresa was an educated twenty-five-year-old who probably got a dozen propositions a day, and Lenny was a seventeen-year-old coal miner who had not taken a bath for a month. But he said nothing: Teresa seemed capable of looking after herself.
A new figure appeared, a man of Lloyd's age who looked vaguely familiar. He was dressed better than the soldiers, in wool breeches and a cotton shirt, and had a handgun in a buttoned holster. His hair was cut so short it looked like stubble, a style favored by Russians. He was only a lieutenant, but had an air of authority, even power. He said in fluent German: "I am looking for Lieutenant Garcia."
"He's not here," said Lloyd in the same language. "Where have you and I met before?"
The Russian seemed shocked and irritated at the same time, like one who finds a snake in his bedroll. "We have never met," he said firmly. "You are mistaken."
Lloyd snapped his fingers. "Berlin," he said. "Nineteen thirty-three. We were attacked by Brownshirts."
A look of relief came briefly over the man's face, as if he had been expecting somethin
g worse. "Yes, I was there," he said. "My name is Vladimir Peshkov."
"But we called you Volodya."
"Yes."
"At that scrap in Berlin you were with a boy called Werner Franck."
Volodya looked panicked for a moment, then hid his feelings with an effort. "I know no one of that name."
Lloyd decided not to press the point. He could guess why Volodya was jumpy. The Russians were as terrified as everyone else of their secret police, the NKVD, who were operating in Spain and had a reputation for brutality. To them, any Russian who was friendly with foreigners might be a traitor. "I'm Lloyd Williams."
"I do remember." Volodya looked at him with a penetrating blue-eyed stare. "How strange that we should meet again here."
"Not so strange, really," Lloyd said. "We fight the Fascists wherever we can."
"Can I have a quiet word?"
"Of course."
