Captured by the Past

It was the priest, Padre García, who met the newcomer first. A thin man, wearing a heavy coat in the dry heat of midday that hung off him like he was a frame filled with air.

“You look like a man who has made a long and desperate journey,” he pronounced solemnly. The Padre had a habit of making all his conversations sound like sermons, which tended to make many villagers avoid casual conversations with him. “May I offer you some help?”

The man smiled, a weak smile, like sun on a frosty day.

“You could say that, yes,” he said in faintly accented Spanish. “If I may ask a favour of you, Padre, could you show me to the house of the Lord? I would like to sit and contemplate a while, give thanks for my safe delivery.”

Padre García felt himself warm to this good Christian, his fellow man in his hour of need. With an understated sweep of the arm, he bid the man to follow him to the small church, nestled halfway up the dry hillside cloaked in short, sun-scorched grass. It was little more than a chapel, simple whitewashed stone and a terracotta tiled roof. Small windows kept out the sun's blaze, the stones radiating a calming cool, a spiritual refuge. This was not the Catedral de la Santísima Trinidad, with its grand mosaics, frescos and glittering altar, but the rough hand-painted friezes by the locals were worth a thousandfold more, as they spoke directly to the heart, Padre García was fond of lecturing.

“Do you need a place to stay, my friend?” the Padre asked, as he opened the church door for his visitor. The man took in the sanctuary, and breathed a deep sigh.

“No, but thank you all the same. I have friends in the country who continue to help me. They have arranged for me to stay in the old farmhouse on the San Jose road, if you know it?”

“It is good to have caring friends such as these,” Padre García intoned. “If you like, I can stay and pray with you awhile, then direct you to the farmhouse?”

“Yes, I would like that very much,” replied the newcomer, before settling into silent contemplation.

###

It was the dangerous duo, the little bandits, Carlos and Carmen, who spoke to him next. Too young to ride, they often played in the squat stand of live-oak trees by the old farmhouse while their parents tended the herds. It was little Carmen who saw the new man first, wandered over, and stared at him with the lack of self consciousness that can only be found in a four year old. 

“Hello, young madam,” the man greeted her, tipping his fedora, with all the politeness one might accord a marquess. “Do you want to tell me your name?”

“Carmen,” she replied, putting the corner of her red and blue rebozo in her mouth for comfort. She continued to stare while Carlos toddled over, drawn by curiosity.

“Are you going to live here?” she eventually asked. The man crouched down to her level, bending stiffly.

“I should hope I will live here for a very long time, yes,” he replied. “Tell me, little ones, where are your parents?”

“Herding,” stated Carlos with a wave of a pudgy arm. “We get to play till they're done.”

“Is that so?” chuckled the man. “That sounds like a very nice way to be!”

It was a few hours later when Anna-María came by, baked by the sun and coated in the fine dust of the plains. She found her daughter sitting with an old man on the farmhouse wall, telling him a monologue about her cats.

“Oh señor, I am sorry my children have taken up so much of your time! I am Anna-María, welcome to our little village!”

“Oh, not at all!” the man replied. “I enjoyed their company, and it is a pleasure to meet you as well.”

“So you will be living here then? Do you have family?” asked Anna-María, not meaning to pry into the man's private life, except maybe a little. His generous smile faded, the twinkle in his eyes dulled.

“Alas, at this point my family cannot join me, it is not safe,” he replied. 

“Oh!” gasped Anna-María, “I am so sorry, I didn't realise!”

“No, don't worry, please,” the man interjected. He looked away, then a sudden urgency hit him. “Wait there a moment!” He rushed off, then returned with a package. “I have friends here who have looked after me so far, who have sent supplies, I would like to share with you and your little ones.” He unwrapped the package and broke it with a snap. “Here, the very best chocolate, from Europe!” Anna-María was taken aback.

“Why, thank you, what do you say, children? You know I'm sorry, I never asked your name!”

“Well, you can call me Addy.”

“Thank you, Tío Addy!” chorused the children, to a gentle tap between the shoulder blades by their mother.

###

News rarely spreads faster than from the mouth of an excited pair of children, particularly not children who have gobbled their way through a chocolate bar. Soon all the village was gossiping about this new arrival, Tío Addy. Who was he, where did he come from, who were his generous friends?

“So, Padre, why do you think this man has fled here, without his family? What has he fled from?” Roberta grilled the priest as she handed him his grease-paper packages of chorizo and cheese. Cured meats hung from the ceiling, the little store had the gentle scent of herbs and meat. Roberta was usually the nosiest of his parishioners, but if she was asking him then he knew the question was being whispered all over the village. Best to damp this enthusiasm down as best he could, while respecting the man's privacy and what might be personal grief.

“Roberta, my dear, there are far too many things in this world that a man may sensibly run from. Perhaps, we should ask what might he run to. I would say the brotherly love of Christ Jesus, the mercy of strangers in his direst of needs, hm?”

Roberta smiled sweetly and nodded humbly to the priest. There was always a sermon with him, harder to squeeze proper stories from than blood from a stone. Ah well, she was resourceful too.

###

Tap, tap, tap. Roberta stood outside the farmhouse with a tray of fresh empanadas. She glanced around. The peeling wooden shutters were closed, she couldn't see in. Someone had moved things around in the dusty yard. New tiles showed a start had been made on patching the roof. With a jolt, she turned to see the door open. She ran a hand through her bouncy silver curls.

“Ah, señor Addy, I hope I am not interrupting?” she crooned, peeking over his shoulder at the house behind. “I brought you a gift as a welcome!”

“Not at all, señora, ah?”

“Call me Roberta, please.”

“Roberta, no, please come in, although we are currently a work in progress!” 

The inside of the house was dark, cool, dusty. A neat stack of timbers rested against a wall, pots of paint were stacked in a corner. Roberta set her tray down on the weather-beaten oak table and cast a beady glance around the room. Holes from years of disuse were being filled, the bricks of the fireplace were being repointed, life and heart were being breathed back into this once unloved home.

“Are you preparing the house for when your wife and family join you?” Roberta asked, affecting a casual air and mobilising her full, if limited, reserves of subtlety. As Addy took an empanada, she saw he wore no ring, but that his finger held a crease in the right place.

“I, ah, know not when or if they may join me,” Addy replied, his twinkling manner dulled. “Say, these are truly delicious!” he twinkled once more, changing the subject. “You are quite the cook, Roberta! Some time, I shall have to invite you and your family over and make my hunter's stew!”

“Why, I would be delighted. My Enrique, God rest his soul, is no longer with us, but my son Juan and I would be honoured! In fact, he's a strapping young lad, I'll see if he can't help you out with some of the stone walls!”

###

Tío Addy wasn't the only unusual newcomer to the village: out patching some holes in the road, Juan saw a black sedan car, the sort you got a few of in the city, but rarely out here. Cars fascinated Juan, even though he would have to save up for decades to have enough to buy one. He wandered over, hearing a conversation between the three men inside in a harsh, incomprehensible language. They stopped and looked at him.

“Nice car!” he grinned, following the sleek lines with his eyes. “Do you need help?”

“We are telephone engineers,” replied one, gruffly. 

“Oh, the café is that way,” he gestured helpfully. The man waved thanks, still looking uncertain, and the car drove off. Juan watched it go, listened keenly to the engine’s hum.

It took a few days of gentle maternal pressure, but eventually Juan found a free morning to visit señor Addy. He brought some tools that would be of help to any task; a saw, a hammer, some nails. He could come back later in the evening if there was anything specialist the old man needed help with. He'd give the man what help he needed, he told himself, but he'd not do the prying into the man's mysterious friends that Roberta had encouraged him to ‘just ask a few questions about, man to man’. So it was that Juan was the first to discover: the farmhouse door left carelessly ajar, Addy nowhere to be seen, bullet holes in the fresh plaster. Juan was a good, solid man, not always prone to quick thinking, but straight away he dropped his tools and ran, off to the small café which housed the village’s only phone, to call the Policía de la Provincia.

If news spread quickly of the newcomer’s arrival, that was nothing compared to this. Who could want to harm this gentle old man, Tío Addy, who had been so kind to the dangerous duo, given them chocolate? Were Juan’s mystery engineers, who never visited the café, involved? Why were the Policía not listening, sitting in their fancy offices downtown thinking they knew best? The world was full of such nasty types who just wanted to cause harm no matter the cost! Padre García found himself accosted by Roberta while taking a moment to relax with his morning coffee while the sun's gentle warmth was still welcome.

“Well, Padre, surely you know something more about this? Who was out to harm señor Addy, who were his mysterious friends? If you'd told us before, perhaps none of this would have happened!”

The priest took a deep breath, thought of the lessons from the Bible he might draw upon. He replied with total calm:

“Roberta, I know little more than you. I do not have your curiosity for what a man was, if he will not tell me. I have prayed for his safety, but sadly the world is full of men who insist on wickedness. To them I am reminded of Matthew 26:52; those who take the sword shall perish by the sword.”

“But what is there of his past life that caught up with him now?” pressed Roberta. “Surely you may know something, from your, um, position?”

“Come now, you know matters of the confessional are sacrosanct,” the priest sighed. This wasn't the first time she'd asked him to do this. “I can say this, though: there was nothing he said that I would not expect from a diligent Catholic. Señora, I see you are shaken by this, as are we all. I suggest, take some time, pray, seek solace in the Lord.”

Roberta squeezed her bolero in her hands, aching with worry, grief. She had always been able to do something, to keep busy, even during Enrique's illness. Now she only felt lost, helpless.

###

It was not the Policía who brought the news, but the young lad with the Padre’s newspaper. His bicycle rattled along the dusty road to find the priest sitting at the café, exchanging pleasantries with Anna-María over a short black coffee. The lad pulled the Saturday edition from his backpack and handed it to Padre García, who thanked him and handed over a few pesos. He had all of Saturday to peruse the paper at his leisure, perhaps even find some examples of worthy lessons to impress upon his parishioners on Sunday. He pulled out his half-moon reading glasses; his eyes had, recently, not been so reliable on the smaller print of the articles.

Anna-María saw the photo as Padre García unfolded the paper: Tío Addy. She could barely believe her eyes. She watched, heart fluttering with tension, as the priest read the headline. The colour drained from his face. With a shaking hand, he reached up, removed his glasses.

“I, I had always thought I knew… knew the world… good, evil…” the priest stuttered, lapsing into stunned silence. His focus seemed to vanish beyond the horizon. Anna-María could wait no longer. She snatched the paper from his unresisting hands, and gasped as she read:

“Adolf Eichmann, mastermind of the atrocities of Auschwitz and Treblinka, has been captured from Argentina and will stand trial for crimes against humanity.”