Her words seemed to pop the bubble that had formed around her in the apartment, releasing the tension, and she gave a nervous laugh as the others cheerily rushed over to welcome her formally, Ivan clapping her on the back, Marta and Luciana throwing their arms around her as though she was a long-lost daughter. Only Sindo was restrained, greeting her with a handshake: his skin was cool to the touch, his grip firm, reinforcing her initial impression that he was a man not to be trifled with.

‘Welcome to the club,’ he said in a quiet voice, so quiet she almost had to lean closer.

‘Thank you.’

‘Andalusia, Paloma said?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. Near Seville.’

It was a white lie. Technically, Ronda was closer to Malaga but she needed to walk a tightrope – putting distance between her and her abandoned family, whilst remaining close enough to the area to be able to discuss it familiarly.

‘My people are from Cordoba.’

‘Oh,’ she nodded, feeling her heart beat faster. ‘I have never been there. I would like to visit – one day.’

‘When the agrarian oligarchy is annihilated.’ It was a question. Or perhaps a test.

‘Of course.’

He looked at her, his expression partially obscured by the reflection on his glasses, and she wondered – did he know? Could he see past the shorn hair and the dirty face and see she was no poverty-born revolutionary? Did he recognize her? Her family’s renown in the region was so great, her father always used to boast the fame of their bulls brought people not to see the matadors but the beasts themselves. Mendoza was a name he would know.

Finally, though, he nodded, looking down the length of her. The food sack, empty now, hung limply across her body. ‘That is all you have?’

She nodded, not daring to offer more and reveal she had run away. Most of the Republican fighters travelled with and fought for their families, not against them.

‘Then go through to the bedroom and rest. You look weary.’

‘I’m ready to work,’ she said stoically, even though she couldn’t think of anything more enticing than a stuffed mattress and twelve hours of oblivion. It had been so long since she had slept well.

His eyes saw everything, it seemed. ‘Rest first. The cause can wait a few hours. You will be more use to us after a wash and some sleep.’

She nodded, looking down. She turned and walked towards the door.

‘The bedroom is the third door—’

On the right, she willed him to say.

‘On the left.’

She smiled her thanks and walked out, but her heart was thudding alarmingly now, her eyes tripping over the friezed walls as some of the details came back: had there been a small oil of a mountain scene here? An oval table against that wall there? Perhaps. Or perhaps not, these places must look all the same, surely? But there was one thing she did remember, something even a little girl could not confuse or forget. She walked to the doorway, third on the left, and looked in – and up.