THE SNOW HAD LAIN THICK in the Tierra Muerta for nearly a month. It had come early and stayed; the guards said people in Cuenca were calling it the hardest winter for years. Clear icy days alternated with heavy snow, the wind always from the north-east. Sometimes at night the little deer from the hills, smelling food, came and stood at a little distance from the camp. If they came too close the guards in the watchtowers shot them and there was venison in their mess.

Now, early in December, there was a well-worn path through the drifts between the camp and the quarry. Each morning the work detail shuffled into the hills where the endless white vista was broken only by the thin bare branches of the mountain oaks.

Bernie was lonely. He missed Vicente and none of the Communists would speak to him now. In the evenings he lay on his pallet in silence. Even at Rookwood there had always been someone to talk to. He thought of Harry Brett; Vicente had reminded him of Harry sometimes, good-natured and principled, if hopelessly middle-class.

The prisoners were finding the hard weather difficult. Everyone had colds or coughs; already there had been deaths, more processions to the unmarked graveyard. Bernie found his old arm wound troubling him; by mid-afternoon wielding his pick in the quarry was agonizingly painful. His leg injury from the Jarama, which had healed quickly and never really troubled him again, had started to ache too.

He hadn’t managed to move huts as Establo had ordered. He had made a request weeks ago, but nothing had happened. Then one evening when he returned from the quarry, he was told Aranda wanted to see him.

Bernie stood before the comandante in his warm hut. Aranda sat in his leather chair, his riding crop propped against the side. To Bernie’s surprise he smiled and invited him to sit. He picked up a folder and glanced through it.

‘I have Dr Lorenzo’s report,’ he said jovially. ‘He says you are an antisocial psychopath. For him, all educated leftists suffer from a form of inborn antisocial madness.’

‘Yes, comandante?’

‘Myself, I think it is bullshit. In the war your side fought for your interests and we fought for ours. We hold Spain now by right of conquest.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you say, eh?’

‘I agree with you, comandante.’

‘Good. We are de acuerdo.’ Aranda took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. ‘Would you like one of these?’ Bernie hesitated. Aranda waved the box at him. ‘Go on, take one. I order you.’

Bernie lifted out a cigarette and Aranda held up a gold lighter. The comandante leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking.

‘Now, what is this about your wishing a change of hut?’

‘Since my friend died last month I have found it hard to be there.’

‘Also I hear you have fallen out with your Communist friends. With Establo Cabo specifically. He is a strong man, I admire him in a way.’ He smiled. ‘Do not look so surprised, Piper. I have my ears among the prisoners.’

Bernie was silent. He knew there were informers in most huts. In his own they had been suspicious of a little Basque, a Catholic who attended the services. He had died from pneumonia two weeks before.

‘It is not easy to be a prisoner and unpopular with the men as well. Your Communist friends have abandoned you, why not have some revenge?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You could have as many cigarettes as you wanted, and other privileges. I could take you off the quarry detail. It must be cold up there, I feel frozen even going out in the yard these mornings. If you were to become one of my friends among the prisoners I would not ask for much, just some information now and again. Whether anyone is breaking any rules, that sort of thing. Having friends in the enemy camp makes life much easier.’

Bernie bit his lip. He guessed if he refused there would be trouble. He replied quietly, making his voice as respectful as possible.

‘It would not work, comandante. Establo already believes I am disloyal. He watches me.’

Aranda considered. ‘Yes, I can see that, but perhaps your trouble with the Communists would be a good excuse for you to seek other friends. You could find out things that way.’

Bernie hesitated. ‘Comandante, you spoke of the battle between our two sides earlier—’

‘You are going to tell me you cannot change your loyalties,’ Aranda said. He was still smiling but his eyes narrowed.

Bernie was silent.

‘I thought you might say that, Piper. You ideologues, you do make trouble for yourselves.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, you can go, I am busy now.’

Bernie got up. He was surprised to get off so lightly. But sometimes Aranda waited and got you later. His cigarette had burned down and he leaned across to stub it out in the ashtray. He half expected the comandante to lift his riding crop and slash it across his face, but he didn’t move. He smiled cynically, enjoying Bernie’s fear, then raised his arm in the Fascist salute. ‘¡Arriba Espanã!’

‘¡Grieve Espanã!’ Bernie left the hut and closed the door. His legs were shaking.

ESTABLO WAS ILL. His scabies was worse than ever and now he had developed a stomach illness; he had diarrhoea most days. He was wasting away, he was skin and bone now and had to walk with a stick, yet the weaker his body grew the more brutally authoritarian he became.

Pablo had taken Vicente’s bunk but was under orders to ignore Bernie. He turned his head away as Bernie came in from seeing Aranda and flopped down on his pallet. Establo had been talking with the other Communists at the bottom of the hut but now he approached Bernie out of the candlelit gloom, his stick tapping on the wooden floor. He stood at the foot of the bed.

‘What did Aranda want with you? His voice was a throaty wheeze. Bernie looked up at the yellow scabbed face.

‘It was about my request to move huts. He said no.’

Establo looked at him suspiciously. ‘He treats you very lightly. As he does all informers.’ He spoke loudly and some of the other men turned to stare at them.

Bernie raised his voice. ‘He asked me to inform, Establo. He said he would move me if I did. Did you guess he might do that, now you’ve got me isolated? I told him a Communist does not inform.’

‘You are no Communist,’ Establo wheezed. ‘Be careful, Piper, we are watching you.’ He limped off to his bed.

NEXT DAY Bernie was working with a group clearing the area where the cave had stood. A huge charge of dynamite had been detonated inside, completely demolishing it and leaving a gigantic pile of rubble. The group was ordered to sort them into chunks of different sizes, breaking up those that were too big to handle. A lorry would be coming that evening to take them away: to Franco’s monument, it was still rumoured.

Pablo was working next to Bernie. Suddenly he put his pick aside and picked something up. ‘Ay, look here!’ he exclaimed.

Bernie turned, wondering what could have made Pablo break the prohibition on speaking to him. Glancing at the nearest guard to make sure he was unobserved, he bent to where Pablo held a flat piece of stone in his chapped hands. Its surface was dark red; the head of a black mammoth was painted on it, confronted by two of the stick-like men who held spears poised to strike.

‘See,’ Pablo whispered. ‘Something has survived.’

Bernie ran his finger lightly over the surface. It felt just like ordinary stone, the paint baked hard thousands of years before. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispered.

Pablo nodded. He slipped the stone into the pocket of the old oilskin poncho he wore. ‘I shall keep it hidden. One day I will show people what they destroyed here.’