Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The messenger left, and Ritter sat at his desk to read the telegram.

  OBERLEUTNANT RITTER AGLER STOP YOUR UNCLE TOLD ME ABOUT YOUR WORK ON THE GROUND AND HOW YOU OUTSMARTED THE ENEMY STOP RETURN TO BERLIN AT ONCE STOP HERMANN

  Deion kicked at the dirt with his big, booted foot. Then, without removing the boots, he eased himself onto the bed—a straw tick with rough sheets and blankets. The scent of slightly moldy straw almost comforted him. He hadn’t grown up with those fancy mattresses or feather beds like some of the other guys in the brigade. One doesn’t long for what one never had.

  The driver had dropped Deion off near this area and told him he ’d join the men protecting Bilbao. Philip had continued on with the truck; his assignment was near Madrid with another group of the Internationals.

  The driver had been too impatient to allow the men more than a quick handshake as they said goodbye. He was trying to cover as many miles as possible before darkness fell on the land.

  Deion wondered if he ’d ever see Philip again, or Sophie, for that matter. Still, it was good to be around the other volunteers and know that he was back doing his part in protecting the Spanish people. After all, that’s why he ’d traveled all this way.

  He rubbed his sore leg, reminded of the injury that had taken him out of the action for a few months. It still bothered him and was still weaker than the other—giving out every now and then. But he didn’t tell anyone that.

  Not that he ’d had time to talk with any of the other men. He arrived just in time to sleep. Or to lie in bed thinking about sleeping, as memories of the last few months replayed in his mind. And somewhere outside, the sound of a guitar drifted through the night air along with the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass on a distant hillside.

  One memory was most vivid, and it seemed to hover in his mind at all times. It was the look of the injured woman’s face as he opened the door to the basement, rescuing her from beneath the debris of the tailor shop in Guernica.

  The appreciation had been evident in her gaze; and her trust, when she handed her infant over to him, was unlike anything he ’d ever experienced. His chest grew warm just thinking of it. That one moment alone made the whole trip worthwhile.

  “Hey, you schmuck, stop snoring,” one American called to another, interrupting his thoughts.

  Deion knew it wasn’t the sound of the snoring that bothered the other soldiers. Everyone had gotten used to sleeping under any conditions. What they objected to was that the snoring drowned out the Spanish love songs the guitar played from somewhere outside. No one got up to gaze out the window, but if they were like him, the other men were no doubt picturing a handsome guitarist strumming and singing to a fair Spanish señorita under the light of a golden moon. Deion didn’t usually put much stock in all that romance business, but somehow after what he ’d witnessed over the last few days, it had a special appeal.

  He thought about the olive groves outside the windows. They belonged to the people now. According to the peasants who’d welcomed them, the owners hadn’t been around much, and now they wouldn’t come back. He tried to imagine what that would be like if such a thing happened in the American South. If the rich landowners were gone, and the people were in control of their land, their destiny. It was hard to imagine.

  Hours later, still unable to sleep, he strolled outside to the campfire where the guitarist had played. Though a fire had licked the air just a few hours before, the ashes were now cold, the night air silent. He picked up a stick and poked it at the pit, stirring the ashes as one would a pot of stew.

  Suddenly a sound startled him, and turning, he caught the image of someone behind him. The shadowy image carried a rifle, that much he knew—but at an awkward angle, as if fearful of it.

  This was no soldier. Perhaps a young boy, a friend of Franco, with dreams of becoming a hero by taking out volunteers for liberty. Without thinking, Deion was on his feet, chasing the lithe form by the light of a half-moon.

  The figure ducked into the olive groves, with Deion right behind. Darting under low branches, four long strides later, Deion tackled the figure to the ground. A cry pierced the air. The screech of a girl.

  Surprised, Deion scrambled backward onto his haunches and peered into the dark. Just in time to see the barrel of the rifle leveled at his chest. The barrel swayed slightly as if the weight of the gun was too much for the girl’s arms.

  He slowly raised his hands, speaking in a low voice and wondering if his few Spanish words spoken with a Mississippi twang made any sense to her.

  “Easy now, señorita. I won’t hurt you. I thought you were someone else. A soldier.”

  The trembling of the girl’s arms increased. She sat up straighter and shook her head but didn’t respond.

  They stood there for a minute, maybe two, Deion trying to think of the right words. Words to convince her that he wouldn’t hurt her, in fact, could help. Her eyes perused him, as if wondering just what stood before her. Had she never seen a black man? From the look in her eyes, he assumed not.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and another small cry escaped her lips. Her arms, tired from the weight of the rifle, dipped slightly, and Deion took the opportunity. With one swoop, he snatched the rifle from her hands and tossed it onto the ground. With two more steps, he swept her off the ground and pulled her tight to his body. She struggled but didn’t make a sound. Suddenly a pain shot up his arm as she bit into his flesh. Surprised and hurt, he released his grasp; and before he knew it, she was gone. Darting again through the trees.

  Deion thought about following her but changed his mind. It would only scare her. What would he do with the girl anyway? He ’d only wanted to stop her from doing something stupid or hurting someone. Dragging her back to the barn would only achieve one thing—waking the rest of the sleepy men.

  Instead, he took a closer look at the rifle and realized it was one of their own. She hadn’t come into the camp to hurt anyone, but rather to steal a rifle. Maybe for protection. Maybe to hunt for food. Either way, it didn’t matter. Deion had a sneaking hunch that the girl was alone and in trouble.

  And as he slowly made his way back to camp, he knew that he ’d get no sleep. As soon as dawn brightened the horizon, he wanted to be out there looking for her. From the thinness of her frame and the desperation of her actions, he suspected she would try something equally drastic again, and perhaps the next guy wouldn’t be so friendly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Petra wiped her face and spit again, disgusted that she ’d actually broken the man’s flesh as she bit his arm. She knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her. At least that’s what he said. For the first time in her life, Petra was thankful for all that time inside the cold and quiet house taking English lessons from a tutor.

  Still, even if the man wouldn’t harm her, he could keep her from getting to her destination.

  With a soft grunt, she pushed a large rock over the hole she had dug to stash her food. She didn’t want any wild animals to get it—although they were the least of her concerns. She had spent enough time roaming the hills outside her family’s home to know that wild creatures were more scared of her than she was of them. It was the soldiers she had to watch out for.

  That afternoon she had left Guernica in the back of a truck loaded with injured men and women and a few children allowed to ride along. Three soldiers rode up front, including the black man she ’d encountered in the night. Her biggest concern had been finding a way out of town, and she was relieved to catch a ride.

  She ’d monitored the truck’s progress by peeking out from the canvas flap. As soon as it headed the wrong direction, she ’d planned on jumping from the back and looking for another ride. Amazingly, it had taken her nearly to the town of Bilbao—not far from her destination.

  Petra stood and brushed her hands on the maid ’s clothes. Then she scanned the area, trying to figure out the best place to hide. Spying a hill that might give her a better view of her surroundings, she ran toward it and climbed it
to the top.

  In the moonlight, she could barely make out the large building the soldiers used as barracks, but her position on the hill provided no hiding place. Instead she spotted a nearby olive grove, and decided to wait in one of the trees. From childhood, she had always loved scrambling up trees and hiding in their branches. This would give her a wonderful vantage point, where she could keep an eye out for danger.

  She found the tree with the most foliage and scaled it as if she had just shed ten years of her young life. Once settled into the curve where two branches joined, she scanned the adjacent fields, roads, and buildings. She thought of the map she ’d torn out of one of the books in her father’s library and hidden in her room. Dozens of times she had plotted the best route to visit Edelberto.

  It was hard to believe it had been two years ago since she ’d seen him, so vivid were her memories. They’d met at an outside concert in Madrid. He had been with his family, and she with hers.

  He had told her of the place his family owned west of Bilbao. Edelberto said his family raised some of the finest horses in the country, and described them in vivid detail. They talked as they sat on the blanket between their families, until they were shushed by those around them. Then, with her parents’ permission, they had walked to a nearby fountain—still in her father’s full view, and she had talked about their land in La Mancha. In that short time, a friendship was born. A friendship that could have been decades old.

  As the day turned to afternoon, and their families prepared to go their separate ways, they’d exchanged addresses, and even wrote once or twice a month. Petra hadn’t heard from him since the war broke out, and she hoped he was still safe.

  She supposed she ’d find out soon enough. When she ’d first arrived, in the fading light she had scanned the distant hills and estimated that she could make it to his house in a few days’ travel—staying off the main road for safety. She ’d failed to keep the gun she had stolen for protection. She ’d have to wait it out and try again. No one, not even the colored man, would believe she had enough courage—or as they said in English, “enough guts”—to return.

  She had already succeeded in stealing an armful of food. She ate enough to stop the rumbling of her stomach, but knew she needed to make sure it would last. The rest was hidden, and she knew more would be needed for the journey. She ’d have to find out sources as she went and eat as little as possible. She had a long journey ahead, as soon as the morning dawned. But in the meantime, she leaned against the tree limbs cradling her and let her weary eyes close.

  As soon as he had enough light to make his way through the hills surrounding their barracks, Deion headed out, wondering what the others thought of waking up and not finding him there. Did they think he had sneaked away to meet with a señorita? Or perhaps decided to run from the fight?

  Hungry, he hunkered down to lean his back against an olive tree, squirting water from the wineskin he ’d brought. The slightest hint of fermented grapes gave flavor to his drink. Some dripped down the side of his face, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Drinking from a wineskin was trickier than it looked. The first time he ’d used one, he ’d tried to squirt it in a stream into his mouth, but that hadn’t worked. He now knew to hold the spout to his mouth, cupping the opening with his lips. Next, he stretched the skin high above his head and let gravity take over.

  Above him, through the branches of the trees, the sky was pale. He was taking another long drink when he heard a crashing sound above him. He jumped to his feet and looked up just in time to see a thin body falling through the branches.

  Deion chuckled to himself. He had hoped he ’d find her, but still, he didn’t expect her to drop in his lap.

  He stretched out his arms to catch the girl. It wasn’t until he held her, gazing into her terrified face, that he realized it wasn’t a girl at all, but rather a woman—a young one, but clearly a woman. She sat motionless, her chin quivering with shock.

  Deion tried to think of reassuring words. The Spanish he ’d picked up—plaza, agua, churros, niños, casa—none of those words would do. Then he remembered another. Iglesia—church.

  “Me, iglesia . . .” He made the sign of the cross, hoping that his effort would show that he was a man of faith—at least some faith, and would not hurt her.

  She frowned and pushed back from his chest. Deion set her on the ground, but held her arm gently, willing her not to run.

  “I won’t hurt you. I . . .” Then he remembered a word. “Me amigo. A friend.”

  “I do not know an amigo like this.” The woman tilted her head and offered a cautious smile.

  “English? How in the world does a peasant girl know English?”

  Her eyes widened, and fear again filled her gaze. She mumbled something under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, nothing . . . nada, de nada.”

  He released her arm and pointed back to the barn where the soldiers bunked. “Come. I’ll take you to camp. For . . . help. You need help, don’t you?”

  She didn’t respond, but she followed, taking cautious steps.

  Deion hadn’t brought his rifle with him, but his satchel hung on his shoulder, hitting his leg with each step. Remembering what was inside, he slid it from his shoulder and paused. The woman paused too. Reaching inside, he pulled out a churro from yesterday’s dinner.

  “Sorry it’s cold. The best I can do.”

  She eyed it; then her eyes locked on Deion’s. With a quick movement of her hands, she took it from him, then took a large bite. She chewed, then took another bite. This time a piece crumbled and fell to the ground. Stooping to retrieve it, she suddenly paused, picked up the piece of bread, and glanced back up at him. Embarrassment tinted her cheeks pink.

  “It’s okay.” Deion shrugged, wondering if she could understand all his words. “This war has changed all of us in some way. I know what it’s like to be scared. To be hungry.”

  She stood and started walking toward the building, and Deion followed. He wanted to ask this woman her story. Where had she come from? Did she have anyone left?

  As he watched her, he wondered how many others the war had ruined. How many Spanish women had lost everything. How many now begged and stole to survive.

  And though Deion’s faith was growing—something his comrades would never understand—he wondered how God allowed this. Just as He allowed the killings of Deion’s own people.

  Despite there being some things about the communist movement he questioned, he resolved to continue the fight. It was a good way, a better way at least, to live than anything else offered to this people.

  At least communism would bring equality, he reasoned, and give them all a chance. . . .

  In the morning Sophie dressed, then hurried downstairs, scolding herself for not waking up sooner. After all, it wasn’t as if she were on holiday and could waste the day away. Just the opposite. The sooner she could find the information Walt needed, the sooner she could leave Michael behind for good.

  Sophie followed voices to the patio behind the house. The yard and garden had seen better days, and she could tell that it had once been a beautiful garden. Now it was quite overrun, and the only area not overwhelmed with foliage was the tile patio where Michael and five others now sat, sipping their morning coffee.

  She couldn’t help but smile as its aroma met her nostrils, and she wondered just what they did to get the real stuff, instead of the poorly flavored ersatz everyone else around the country drank.

  The conversation stopped as Sophie appeared, and a half-dozen faces turned to her.

  She took a step back. “I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt. I was just looking for Michael, but I will leave you to your business.”

  Michael stood. “No, it is fine. What you will hear is nothing that will not be on the radio tomorrow. Come, Divina. Have a seat by me. If you care to listen to war stories, that is.”

  Sophie followed Michael, noting the surprised look on many o
f the men’s faces.

  “We don’t have to worry about our words making the press,” he explained. “All Sophie told her supervisor was that she is waiting out the fighting in Bilbao, and they do not expect anything from her.”

  Two of the men looked at each other with lifted eyebrows. Still they did not speak.

  “Look at her,” Michael commented. “This is my fiancée; does she not appear harmless? She is here with me . . . and has no official duties.” Michael wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  Sophie smiled, hoping it didn’t appear too strained, and settled her cheek against his shoulder.

  Finally one man cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the Italian Brigade has been ordered to take Guernica and the heights northwest of it. The Reds have left their positions west of Deva. Unfortunately, the Italian Brigade marched from Guernica to Bermeo along a valley road that is only a little above sea level. Fools. They did this without securing the heights west of the road. Things are not looking well for them. They are surrounded by heavy fire, but they are holding the position. Sperrle and Richthofen responded by sending their fighters and bombers through the thick clouds, but it will do little good.”

  Sophie tried to appear uninterested, but her mind worked to record all the facts. After a few more minutes of attempting to remember troop units and positions, her memory had filled to capacity. Then she recalled Walt’s request. She was only here to get one set of information—and that was about the gold. So far nothing they’d said about troop movements had anything to do with that.

  “And what is the response of the Basques?” Michael asked, patting Sophie ’s hand on her lap, but otherwise ignoring her completely. From the even tone of these men’s voices as they conversed, it was hard to determine just whose side they were rooting for.