The Marks of Cain

22

By the time David found José, after searching the many rooms of the old house, the shower had turned into a pelting mountain rainstorm, hammering the ancient slates of the Cagot refuge.

José Garovillo was alone in the kitchen, hunched over the stove, and pouring olive oil into a large earthenware dish. His wife was apparently locked in her room. José seemed locked in himself, just as he had been since they first found him hiding in the refuge house.

‘Angulas,’ said José, pointing to a saucer piled with slimy white worms.

David gazed at the dish, perplexed. His shirt was cold and wet on his back. He shivered and asked, ‘An…gulas?’

‘Elvers. But frozen of course. Fermina went into Campan – to the shop.’

‘She left the house?’

‘Do not worry. She was careful.’ José turned from his cooking, and stared, momentarily, at David. His eyes were grey, and hollowed with sadness. Then the old man switched his attention to the earthenware casserole, adding some transparent slices of garlic, followed by a small half of red chilli pepper. He turned up the gas. The garlicked spiciness filled the air.

‘I just wanted to try them, Davido, angulas bilbaina. One more time. Just one more time.’ José was trembling, visibly. ‘The best little eels come from the Deva river, they are fished when there is no moon, and the water is tainted with tobacco…’ His old hand reached out, with a weary flourish of expertise, and picked up the elvers, and poured them into the dish. For a minute the eels sizzled; José spooned them over.

‘This is the crucial process. Too soon and they are no good, too late and they are ruined. Here we are…’

He picked up the casserole dish, and poured the fried angulas into a waiting sieve. A strange smell filled the kitchen – half fish, half mushroom. José concluded by draping theelvers onto a couple of plates.

‘You will try.’ He reached out and took some green herbs from a bowl, and sprinkled them on top. ‘Fermina is not hungry. Join me?’

‘I guess…OK.’

‘You must use a wooden spoon, the metal of cutlery corrupts the flavour.’

There was nothing for it: the old man wanted to eat. The two men carried their plates into the gloomy sitting room, where an acrid fire in the humble hearth was giving off a pungent smoke.

José winced as he spooned the slithery little eels into his mouth.

‘Aiii…Frozen. Not so good. But better than the fake ones. You know they now make fake angulas? Sí. It is true – they fake them because these real ones are so expensive, fifty euros for half a kilo.’

The impatient anger was rising inside David. The time had come.

‘José…we need to talk. Now.’

‘They make them from reconstituted…cod innards. Mackerel. Meat. Who knows.’ José sighed, quite lyrically. ‘All the real angulas are dying out, like the poets, like the Basque songs, like everything that is good…’

‘José -’

‘They even paint little eyes on the fake eels! Did you know that, Davido! Fake little eyes on the txitxardin!’

‘Enough!’

José stopped.

Setting down his plate on the dusty floorboards, David began: ‘Listen to me. Eloise’s grandmother told me…something. It is painful, José. But I need to know.’

José shook his head, and examined his food, apparently ignoring David’s questions.

‘José! She said you were known at Gurs.’

The old Basque man gazed at his silvery angulas.

David persisted. ‘They said you were known, by some people, as the traitor. Is it a lie? Or is it true? Is this why you have been silent these last days? Why all the mystery? What are you ashamed of?’

José sat motionless, the plate on his lap. Then he raised his watery eyes. The intensely anguished gaze made David flinch: something terrible had happened to José. Or maybe José had done something terrible.

‘José?’

‘It is…it is because…’ His lips were almost white, his face the grey of morning mist on a river. ‘Because it is true. Something happened at Gurs.’

‘Were you imprisoned with my grandfather?’

José rocked back and forth, on his damp wooden chair.

David tried again: ‘Were you imprisoned with my grandfather?’

‘Yes.’

‘But, José. Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?’

‘Because of…things. That happened. I cannot trust anyone. When you know the secrets I know, the secrets I learned in Gurs, then you understand to be very careful. Forever.’ He gazed mournfully at David. ‘And yet…When I saw your face that day, when you came to the cottage…then I remembered my old friend Martinez and I wanted you to know the truth, as much as I could risk.’ The old man was sighing. ‘I felt you deserved to know who your grandfather was. A Basque. But you needed to be protected, as well.’

‘From Miguel?’

‘From Miguel. From many others like him. But especially Miguel.’

‘Did he kill my parents?’

The air was filled with the sounds of the downpour outside.

‘Yes…’

This reply seemed to wrench something out of José, who closed his eyes and shuddered. Then he looked away from David: he was staring at the broken window beyond his questioner’s shoulder. David spun, in sharp alarm – was that a shape in the woods beyond the garden?

The misty rain was deceptive: maybe it was just a pottok, one of the wild horses, drifting in that ghostly way, through the forest – but David couldn’t help imagining it was…Miguel. Scoping them out, whispering to an accomplice, the rain dripping off his cap as he cocked his gun.

No: that was impossible. No one knew they were hiding out here. No one even knew they were in Campan, let alone concealed in the cagoterie over the river. And the house was incredibly sequestered: you only knew it existed, behind its screen of firs, by the time you knocked your head on the ancient stone lintel, with its goose foot carved cruelly and brutally into the granite.

But that raised another question. How did José know about this house? It was the ancient home and refuge of the Cagots, not Basques. How did José Garovillo end up here?

And then a cold new possibility gripped David – a claw around his thoughts. If José knew about the house, why shouldn’t Miguel?

David sat forward. His interrogation needed some urgency. Maybe threats.

‘José, does Miguel know about this house?’

‘No. I never tell him, not the house. If he knew I would not be here! One day I knew I would have to run away from him, that I would need somewhere to escape, when he came looking, or when the police came hunting.’

‘But how did you know about a Cagot safe house?’

José quickly spooned a tiny morsel of elvers into his white-lipped mouth.

David gripped José’s other arm. Hard.

‘Tell me. What happened at Gurs? Why did Miguel kill my parents?’

A frown of pain. David gripped harder. José grimaced, and exuded an answer:

‘Because of what they were about to find out.’

‘You mean what happened at Gurs. Your treachery?’

‘Yes.’

David now realized, with an upwelling of contempt mixed with pity – that José was crying. Two or three tears tracked down the old man’s face, as he explained: ‘Yes I did something at Gurs. Things happened there. Miguel did not want people to know…’

‘José, what did you do?’

The old man mumbled a reply; David leaned forward, unhearing. José said again, ‘They torture us. You have to remember, they torture us.’

‘Who?’

‘Eugen Fischer.’

David shook his head.

‘I’ve heard him mentioned, by Eloise’s grandmother. Who is he?’

‘A Nazi doctor.’

‘And what did he do?’ David felt the tingle of a bittersweet excitement: he sensed he was getting closer to the tragic core of this mystery. He was far from sure he wanted to know the answers; yet he wanted the answers more than ever.

‘What did they do? José? How did they torture you?’

‘They tested us. Many tests of the blood. And the hair and the…the blood. Testing the blood.’

‘What else?’

‘There were other doctors. And then the Catholics, many priests.’ José was shivering. He was shivering like the oak leaves in the garden, pelted with cold mountain rain.

‘What did the priests do?’

‘They burned us. Some of us. Killed us.’

‘Why did they do this?’

José took one more mouthful of the cooling, greasy baby eels. And then he said, ‘They thought we were not human, they thought we deserved to be exterminated, like snakes. To die like pagans, or witches. Once they finished their blood testing…Eugen Fischer would hand some of us over to the priests and the criminals…’ José waved a hand, despairingly. ‘And they took us, and burned us. Many many people. In the swamps at the edge of the camp.’

‘But why did they torture you?’ David said. ‘Was it like the witch burnings? Zugarramurdi? The burning of the Basques?’

José gazed with a profound sadness at David. And said, ‘No.’

David’s shoulders slumped. The mystery still eluded him. He was angry now. Angry at himself for not working it out, and angry at his grandfather. And most of all David was angry at José. This old man could tell David everything, blow away the mist, trap the wild horse of the truth. José would have to confess. David had to know now.

Gripping José’s arm, once more, David pressed on.

‘José, people are dying. They’re dying right now. What happened at Gurs? Why were you called the traitor?’

The brown eyes were closed, but José was nodding, muttering.

‘Sı…you are right. It is time. Sı…’

David wasn’t letting go of José’s arm, not this time. He didn’t care if he was hurting the old man. José spoke, his words dry and croaked: ‘They did tests on us all, David. Many tests of blood types and skull sizes. The Cagots and the gypsies, the communists and the Basques, the French and Spanish too…’

José looked down at David’s hand, wrapped around his upper arm. The old man spoke again: ‘Fischer had tests from Namibia, his tests on the…Baster people. And of course the Bushmen. He told us all this…he told me this. Specially.’

‘Don’t get it. What’s this got to do with Basques? Why you?’

‘Because I became…’ A tremble shook through Garovillo. ‘I became his ally. Fischer’s friend and helper.’

‘That’s why you are ashamed? Cause you helped Fischer!’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought I was Basque.’ José was crying again. ‘I was brought up Basque, speaking Basque. Proud to be Basque…’

A bright light shone on the puzzle. David saw.

‘José, did they test you too? Test you…racially?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they tell you that you weren’t a Basque?’

The whispered reply was almost inaudible.

‘Yes.’

‘Did they tell you that you were a Cagot?’

The rain pattered on the windowsill. Then José Garovillo looked at the plate of half-eaten angulas on his lap – and he lifted the plate, and hurled it at the fire. The squidge of fried eels nearly doused the remaining flames.

José was babbling now.

‘Sı. Sı sı sı sı sı! They told me I was not Basque, that in fact my descent was from the Cagots. The cursed people. The people of the goose, the goitre. The madness. The Saracens. The web-footed untouchables. Yes!’

David suppressed his shock and pursued the question.

‘That’s why you are here? In the Cagot house? That’s why you knew where it was?’

‘Yes, David. When Fischer had the results of my tests, they moved me from the Basque barracks to the Cagot division. The Nazis were obsessed with getting these…categories right. This race over here, this race in there. The Jews over there. They were like fussy old women. The racial hierarchy. Vile! But I was so ashamed of what they did to me, so ashamed.’ José wiped another tear with the back of his liver-spotted hand, and stared at David. ‘I was raised to…to despise, no, to abjure the Cagots. We Basques knew what it was like to be pariahs, to be a minority. We sympathized with the Cagots, yes. But still in our hearts, like the French and the Spanish, we thought the Cagots were lower, like the rats and the snakes. The shit people! Something wrong with them!’

‘So Fischer told you that your blood was Cagot, not Basque. Then the Nazis put you in the Cagot section at the camp. But what happened then, José, how -’

‘In the barracks I spoke with many Cagots. They told me of this house. They told me of many things about their people. My people. I tried to make them my people, I tried to believe they were my brothers, but -’

‘You were too ashamed?’

‘Yes.’

David felt the logic of the terrible story unfolding.

‘So what did you do, José? Did you deny them?’

‘That is the good word. Deny. Yes I denied my blood. Because I wanted to live. In the camp the priests and the Nazis were especially cruel to the Cagots; the priests called them the sons of Cain and they tortured and killed them more than anyone else, so yes I wanted to be Basque again, just to save my life. And I was raised as a Basque, I still felt I was a Basque in my soul.’

‘So you went to Eugen Fischer?’

‘I went to Fischer and the other doctors. I told them that if they pretended – forgot – pretended I was not Cagot, if they gave me back my Basque identity, I would help them.’

‘How?’

The old man looked at the pitiful fire.

‘I was a very young man, in my mid-teens, but I was a well known Basque radical. I had influence with the other young Basques in the camp. The real Basques.’ He lifted his bitter gaze to David’s. ‘The Basques are a very brave nation, rebellious, indomitable. They were always brawling in the camp, fighting the Nazis, making things difficult for Fischer, trying to escape.’ José shook his head. ‘So I became a traitor to them. Yes a traitor. I told Fischer I would use my influence, make his work easier. I would persuade the Basques to cooperate. But only if he took me out of the Cagot division and gave me back my blood.’

‘And that’s what he did?’

José’s voice dwindled to a whisper, once more.

‘That is what happened. They pretended they had put me in the Cagot barracks by mistake. So I was restored, I was made a Basque once more! And then I used my influence. To…help Eugen Fischer do his terrible experiments…I persuaded other people to let Fischer test them. And so Fischer became a kind of friend to me. He told me too much. He told me of the Jews…’

‘What? What of the Jews?’

José regarded David.

‘The Holocaust. Eugen Fischer told me – why the Germans did what they did. The truth of the Holocaust. That is all I can say.’

‘What?’

José’s eyes were fluttering. Almost as if he was falling asleep. David reckoned the old man must be exhausted: confessing these murderous and long-buried secrets. He let go of José’s arm. But continued the questioning:

‘José, I need to know about Miguel. All this is the reason Miguel killed my parents. Right? He is ashamed of his Cagot blood. Yes?’

‘Yes. This is the worst mistake I ever made. I told my son the truth, when he was maybe nineteen. He never forgave me. He was so proud to be Basque up to then. The great ETA activist…’

‘So he was angry. And he thought my mother and father…were about to uncover his shame.’

‘Sı.’

‘And then he finds out I am on the same chase. And he needs to kill me, too.’

The wind rattled the dusty glass in the windows.

‘Sı sı. It is so.’ José grimaced. ‘But there is still more…Davido.’

‘My grandfather, you mean?’ David felt the question hanging in the air, like the dampness of the house. A revenant of the past. A ghost he had to exorcise. ‘Tell me, José. Was my grandfather…was he also a collaborator?’

‘No!’ The reply was fierce. ‘Do not think that! Your grandfather was a good man. No…I mean Miguel.’

‘What? What is it?’

‘There is something strange and terrible about my son. You must be very careful. Sometimes I have thought about killing him myself. Before he kills me. Before he kills everyone. He will kill me one day.’

‘Why?’

‘It is the way he is made. By God. My son is…bad to the bone. Is that the phrase? And yet I love him. He is my son. Remember I am so old, I thought I would never have a child, but then young Fermina…we had a baby. A son. We were so happy. Ena semea…’

The old man’s eyes were bright, for the first time in days; then they dimmed over again, dimmed unto darkness.

‘But as he grew up…we realized he has the true shame of the Cagots. The true shame. But he is big and strong and clever. And he has friends, helpers. Powerful people you do not understand. The Society.’

‘What is the Society?’

‘No. I cannot say. Enough. Please.’ The tears were rolling now. ‘Leave me this last shame to conceal.’ José wiped the smears of the elver grease from his mouth. ‘I have told you far far too much. Too much, too late. If I tell you more no one will let you live. Because the secret Miguel is protecting is not just about me, about me and him and the Cagots. It is far far deeper than that, Davido, it is so terrible and dangerous, for us all, for all la humanidad. The secret will get you killed, if not by Miguel then by someone else. His friends. The Society. Anyone.’ The old man looked, hard, at David. ‘You understand? I am saving your life by not telling you any more!’

This was more than perplexing. It was bizarre. David sat in the half-lit dampness, trying to work it out. The rain was still nailing slates on the roof. Through the window he could see the fog, the votive mist summoned from the forests by the downpour; the streams were brawling down the slopes, to join the torrential Adour.

David tried again, one more question. But José was resolutely unforthcoming. The old man, it seemed, had had enough.

Silence.

It was all an intense frustration, he had so many more questions. The death of his parents. Where the money came from. What was this about the Holocaust? What secret was so terrible it meant inevitable death?

Yet he wasn’t going to get more answers, at least not now.

The door was thrown open: it was Fermina. The anger in her was blazing, she was shrieking at José, her bangles jangling, she was almost beating him with her words.

Her ferocious monologue was in Basque and Spanish, and yet the meaning was clear, she was asking José: what have you told him? You fool. What secrets have you revealed?

And then, in front of David, the younger wife came over – and she slapped the old husband – contemptuously.

José cowered under the blow, unresisting.

David was paralyzed by this ghastly scene. He watched, mute and inert, as Fermina slapped José twice, then grabbed her husband’s frail hand, and hauled him to his feet – and dragged him from the room like a naughty infant. The door slammed. The stairs creaked.

Alone by the hearth of the old Cagot house, David heard another door slam, upstairs. The whole building shuddered in response; the dew-heavy cobwebs trembled along the cornices, dust motes flittered, unhappily, from room to room.