"'So many men just to kill three women!' shouted one of the women. The sound of shots rang out. I gave them absolution, and before the lieutenant could administer the coup de grâce , I distanced myself, walking like an automaton." [ from the diary of prison chaplain Gumersindo de Estella, who witnessed 1,700 executions] The firing squad numbered 24 men...

...The babies were a year old. They were the daughters of Selina Casa and Margarita Navascués. The women were accused of having tried to escape to the Republican zone the day before, 21st September 1937. Two nuns took their daughters after the mothers were killed.

EL PAÍS, "Una plaza para el cura que presenció 1.700 fusilamientos, April 1, 2014

Five standing ovations. The roars of approval filled Christine's ears, but they were all mere white noise to her. Free to look out upon the audience now, Christine's eyes searched for the flash of a white half-mask, or the warm glow of yellow eyes. She smiled and curtsied absently, accepted a bouquet with a gracious nod and blew kisses, but her heart was somewhere else.

She had sung only for Erik. Turandot the ice princess had been awakened to love, and the unknown prince who had melted her heart was her husband.

My husband.

The velvet curtain finally closed at last, and Christine was borne aloft on a wave of fellow artists. She hugged Avelino Ruz, who had outdone himself as the prince. The rest of the cast surrounded them – they laughed, shouted, joked and exclaimed happily over the performance, and the huge knot of people moved haltingly towards the dressing rooms.

After quick change into a cocktail dress, Christine emerged once more into a crowded hallway. More people surrounded her on the way to the reception, there were more congratulatory shouts, and she found herself in the middle of a crush, unable to see anything much. Another burst of applause told Christine that they had arrived at the reception hall, and she smiled automatically, mentally preparing her arsenal of small talk for the evening. Soon she would escape and go to Erik. Soon.


The room was more crowded than she had ever seen it. As she made the rounds and chatted with various patrons – in Spanish, English, and even a some Swedish – she noticed that Carlotta, too, was present. She was at the center of attention of a knot of people, ensconced in her wheelchair and covered in mink. As Christine examined the faces surrounding the diva, she saw fascination and curiosity. The tiger attack had renewed Carlotta's celebrity.

"...and I admit that the Daaé woman did a better job than I expected, but we shall see how things go tomorrow. She has always been inconsistent as a singer, at best. As soon as my leg has mended I will be back where I belong..." Carlotta was saying, her lilting accent more pronounced than ever as she held forth.

"What happened to that tiger?" someone interrupted. "Did they put it down after it attacked you?"

Carlotta's smile faltered, and she was about to issue a retort – Christine knew the diva well enough to know that she was about to be unpleasant – when the room started to fall silent, starting from the people near the arched doorway and spreading throughout the rest of the room gradually. All eyes turned towards the entrance, where Christine could discern several men if she stood on tiptoe.

"...I apologize for having to end these festivities early," said Gonzalo Fernández, "but we must request that all guests leave now. We must have a word with the Victoria's cast and crew please, with no outsiders present, for the good of everyone here."

There was a low murmur of apprehension, and Christine saw that one of the men accompanying Gonzalo was a German officer whom she had met at receptions before. Henrik Beckmann was in uniform tonight, though, and obviously acting in his official capacity. Behind Gonzalo and Beckmann, several Spanish policemen scanned the crowd impassively.

The guests filtered out, not daring to look back at the artists and crew members who were left standing silently in the hall.

Gonzalo Fernández looked grim, his brow furrowed under a sheen of sweat that glistened on his forehead. He, too, was in uniform, and Christine cast an inquiring glance at Margarita. She succeeded in catching the dancer's eye, but Marga merely shook her head, her eyes wide and nervous.

Scanning the policemen behind Fernández, Christine noted that Comandante Oscuro was conspicuously absent. It was odd; if the matter at hand was important enough to summon Beckmann, Oscuro should have been present as the higher-ranking officer.

"I regret that I am obliged to ask you all this question, but I must," announced Gonzalo without preamble. "Are any of you aware of Allied spies who have infiltrated the ranks of the artists here at the Victoria? Do any of you have anything to say now, before it's too late?"

The room was completely silent, and Christine could see people exchanging terrified glances. Junyent and Soler were trembling in a distant corner.

When Carlotta cackled, everyone in the room jumped.

"I've told you and told you, but would you listen to Carlotta? No, no, no! Nobody listened! Christine Daaé is a Red judeo-masonic spy and has been a spy for those godless hordes for a long time – yes, a long time! And I'm sure, very sure, the little bitch has friends, too! Why else–?"

"Thank you, signora," Gonzalo cut her off smoothly. "The rest of you may leave, please. We will speak with Signora Carlotta and señora Daaé. Quickly, please..."

Christine remained standing where she was as the rest of the cast and crew left the room, many of them glancing back at her sympathetically. Marga gave her a long look and made to approach Gonzalo, but he warned her off with a sharp glance. At last, the two divas were alone with the authorities.

Henrik Beckmann cleared his throat. "This is not an easy task for me, nor is it agreeable. This afternoon, a message was delivered to the Allies. The vehicle through which this message was delivered was music itself. A piece sung at today's concert contained a message in Morse code within its notes. We have been told that such messages have been disseminated to the Allies in this way at each weekly recital, and that the Victoria's best, most celebrated soprano has been the traitor sending these messages." Beckmann's voice was calm and neutral. He had a good ear, and his Spanish only bore a slight accent.

Carlotta snorted. "Best, most celebrated soprano? I would hardly call that toad the best! I am the best."

"Señores," said Christine, keeping her voice carefully under control, "I didn't sing at the recital today, much less deliver a message as you describe. Carlotta sang today, though."

"It's true," said Gonzalo, turning to Beckmann as if he had just remembered something. "As busy as the day has been, I completely forgot that Daaé did not sing today. La Carlotta, however-"

Carlotta's complexion went from red to white. "She trapped me! That bitch gave me that music to sing! She's your spy, and she's a slippery one, too! And I know another thing about her -"

"All I remember is that you wanted to keep me from singing at this afternoon's concert, Carlotta," Christine interrupted, in tones that she hoped conveyed sadness and disappointment.

"You little Red traitor!" Carlotta screamed, and she turned in her wheelchair frantically so that she faced Beckmann. "She pretends to be a widow, but her husband is with the French Resistance, and he's here in Barcelona – yes, a very big fish for you! My maid, Paqui, knows – she'll tell you! She'll tell you everything! And her friend, that anarchist bitch, Margarita -"

"Calm yourself, señora!" Gonzalo barked, then turned to Beckmann with a sigh. "You remember how this poor woman has behaved in public – even at the Ritz! All this time, it seems, she was on the offensive against señora Daaé because she knew it would divert attention from her own activities."

"No!" screamed Carlotta, and Christine noted that beads of perspiration were collecting on her forehead and trembling upper lip. "Get Paqui! Get my maid! She knows the truth! She will tell you!"

"I don't see why -" Gonzalo began, but Beckmann cut him up with an imperious gesture.

"Things look very bad for Carlotta Caracciolo at the moment. She needs all the opportunities to defend herself that are available," Beckmann said. "Bring in her maid."

Christine's heart sank.

Within two minutes, a visibly cowed Paqui entered the hall. She stood, motionless, except for a thumb and forefinger that pinched and released the fabric of her skirt repeatedly.

"Paqui, tell these men the truth," Carlotta said with a sweetness to her tone that was meant to be disarming. "Tell them how Christine Daaé gave me that music in her dressing room today. She did, didn't she?"

Paqui coughed and glanced at the floor before looking from Gonzalo to Beckmann almost apologetically. "I will not lie to you gentlemen, no matter how much the señora wants me to. Carlotta brought her own music today. She always brings her own music to the weekly recital."

There was a silence. Christine stared at Paqui and tried to hide her amazement. Paqui was a better actress, she decided, than anyone else present in the room.

"You little bitch!" Carlotta screamed, a sheen of sweat now covering her motley complexion. "How could you do this to me? I am innocent! I am a staunch supporter of the Falange! I am-"

"Whatever you are, we will need a list of your collaborators. We will also need the music from today's recital as well as previous recitals," Beckmann said. "Captain Fernández..."

"Yes. Her dressing room will be searched," Fernández replied, and he nodded to two of the officers behind him, who left the room eagerly.

A knot that had been forming in Christine's stomach tightened. Erik's music! If they found it, they would decipher its message. Or did they know what it contained already? How much did they know? Her mind raced. If the police had not stopped today's concert before its damaging message could be disseminated, then perhaps nobody but her contact had heard and interpreted the code. The Gestapo must have arrested and interrogated one of her contacts, but she did not know how many there were or who they were, or even how much they might know. One thing was clear: her code had been broken.

Oh, where was Erik? She had to move, she had to get to Carlotta's dressing room before the officers found the music.

"May I leave now?" she asked, but her question was drowned out.

Three officers had surrounded Carlotta, and one began to push her wheelchair out of the room. The diva was screaming invectives in Italian and began to slide out of the wheelchair. There was a flurry of movement as hands seized her, hauling her up into the seat again. She screamed more loudly.

Christine feigned grief at the indignity of Carlotta's situation and, turning, took measured steps towards the exit. Paqui glanced at her with naked curiosity.

Beckmann seized Christine's elbow and escorted her gallantly away from the scene. When they had reached a connecting hallway, he turned to her, shaking his head sadly.

"I apologize for your having to witness such a scene, señora Daaé. It's a shame that such treason has occurred here, within the walls of this opera house. Such a thing does harm to everyone working for our common cause."

A feeling of apprehension and suspicion invaded Christine at Beckmann's words, but a veiled glance at him revealed his sincerity. He was a devotee of the Reich and was suffering the pangs of honest disappointment. She breathed again.

"Might I add, however, how relieved and happy I am that the treachery was not yours, señora Daaé?" added Beckmann almost shyly. "Considering how wonderfully you interpret Wagner – and your beautiful Turandot tonight – it would have been a terrible loss indeed."

He was an opera lover, then. He kissed her hand with practiced gallantry, turned on his heel, and headed back towards Carlotta's screams. As soon as he was out of sight, Christine shifted direction, her mind focused on Carlotta's dressing room. As she turned the next corner, though, a hand gripped her arm, this time painfully.

"Christine. How nice to see you again." It was Comandante Oscuro.


Oscuro permitted her to put her coat, hat and gloves on and retrieve her purse, but nothing more. His eyes never left her.

"You won't escape this time...and neither will Deschamps, if I find him." He pushed the cold barrel of his gun against her back again for emphasis. The pressure of it would leave bruises, Christine knew, but she refused to wince. Calm. I must be calm.

"I don't know where he is now. He's left me, you know," Christine said, though she knew instinctively that Oscuro would be implacable. She could feel it in his heat, in his breathing, in the endless something that writhed within the cold depths of his black eyes.

The revolver pressed harder. "It doesn't matter if he's left you. He has gold bars, and he has them hidden somewhere, and I know you know where. The Gestapo is keeping him very busy right now – very busy indeed – so we'll have time to look for his little treasure without interference."

"Comandante Oscuro, I don't know -"

As he backhanded her, her head snapped to the side, and sparks of pain centered, then radiated from the side of her head. Over the ringing in her ear, she could hear him laugh.

"You think I'm going to coddle you as your other men do? Your services may be expensive, but you're still nothing better than a common whore."

Christine remained silent and kept her eyes carefully trained on the floor.

"You will take me to his home. I know you can lead me there safely. And I believe I'll have you drive." Oscuro lifted his chin and grinned. For a split second Christine raised her eyes and thought she saw a death's head in his lineaments, but the illusion was fleeting.

As Oscuro marched her through the now-empty hallways of the Victoria out towards the street, Christine was on the verge of turning and slapping him, of inviting him to kill her. Guiding Oscuro to Erik's home was a betrayal, and could even endanger her husband. Yet something within kept her from acting so recklessly. There is hope yet.