“The Basque president Aguirre pleads for help,” another man said. “In a radio message to Valencia, he admitted their situation was serious. He is calling all men to bear arms.”
“Does that mean we are not safe?” An older gentleman stood and paced toward an olive tree in desperate need of pruning. He peered cautiously over the brick wall, to the mountains outside of town, as if expecting the enemy to advance over the next hill.
“So far I have heard the fortifications are safe,” Michael commented. “There have been diversionary attacks near Miravalles, about seven kilometers due south, on the edge of its Iron Belt fortifications. Yet I worry about the soldiers. The German bombers and other air groups dropped heavy bombs in daily attacks, from morning until night—on hill positions, tunnels, command posts, artillery positions, and troop concentrations.”
Sophie ’s mind immediately went to Philip. She wondered if the Abraham Lincoln Brigade had been sent to help with those fortifications. Perhaps he stood under attack even now.
“Do you think we’ll be asked to fight—if it comes to our town?” the older man asked again.
“That is the least of our worries,” said another. “If they come here, it means our most precious treasure is in danger.”
Sophie tensed, and Michael patted her hand again. She tried to still her breathing as he continued.
“If they come, there are always our wives and our children to worry about.” He motioned toward Sophie. “More than land, it is our families that we must protect. And I for one will give everything to make sure the one I love is guarded. Is anyone with me?”
Chapter Fifteen
Philip joined the men of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade just after they arrived from the front lines at the town of Alcalá de Henares. He soon discovered most of the men had been fighting for three months straight since February.
He eyed the bombed-out church where the men lounged and attempted to unwind. He scanned the faces, looking for anyone familiar. Seeing no one, he realized it seemed like years, not mere months, since he ’d been part of their unit.
It was hard to believe he ’d once again been dropped off within thirty kilometers of Madrid, and even closer to where Attis’s body lay in its eternal rest. Even now it was hard to believe his friend was dead. He ’d give anything to see that boyish grin one more time.
He found a place to sit near the front steps of the church and tossed his duffel bag to the ground near his feet.
An officer strode by with long steps. “Rest is over, men. We’ll be assembling in thirty minutes. I hope you’re all cleaned up. You all got those free showers and shaves as promised, right?” He laughed.
“Sí, and a nice dinner with steak and lobster too!” a soldier joked from somewhere in the back.
All the men around Philip chuckled.
“Wonderful.” The officer nodded. “We ’re ready then—special guests for the town’s local May Day parade.”
Philip quickly changed into his uniform, then fell in with the others. He chatted with a lanky cowboy from northern California and a sailor from New York. Then, just before they marched into town, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He turned to see a short, stocky man with a thick moustache.
“There you are, Charles,” the man said to Philip. “I wondered where you’ve been. Haven’t seen you since breakfast.” Then one of his eyebrows darted up in question. “Wait, you’re not Charles.”
“No, but we met back at Albacete—or wherever that training was. Guys there said we looked like brothers. I haven’t seen him since Soph—since that woman showed up in our foxhole. Is Charles here?”
“Well, he was this morning.”
Philip scanned the crowd and spotted someone just his height with the same blond hair. “There he is.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Charles!”
Charles hurried over, and his eyes widened when he saw Philip. “I don’t believe it. You’re still in Spain. You’re alive.” The two men embraced.
“I never heard anything about you after that lady showed up on the front lines,” Charles continued. “You have to tell me the whole story . . . later. Right now it looks like we ’re going to a parade. Stick by me and we can catch up.”
“Lady on the front lines?” The shorter man shrugged. “I’m Antony, Antony Meyer, by the way.” He shook Philip’s hand with a firm grip; then all three hurried to catch up to the others.
Spanish music played and cheers rose from the crowd as the men marched through the center of town. The intensity of the cheers grew as they approached a plaza packed with people. Somewhere on the other side of the plaza a band played. In the center the statue of a man stood above the crowds.
Philip marched past, looking up to view it.
“Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,” Charles said. “He was a novelist. . . .”
“I read Don Quixote with my students. That seems like a whole other world. I remember thinking I’d like to visit La Mancha after reading Cervantes. Funny how life turns out.”
Charles slapped Philip’s back. “Maybe once we win back control of the country from the Rebels we can travel there. Care to join us, Meyer?”
The shorter man nodded. “Of course. Maybe it will be sooner than we think. I hear Steve Nelson is coming. He ’s our new commissar of the battalion and one of the great leaders of the Communist Party in the States.”
“That ’s good news. But I hope he gives us time to see the sights around town first.” Charles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m getting mighty thirsty.”
When the men were dismissed, Philip followed along as they whistled at beautiful señoritas in the plaza and downed liquor at the local taverns. But his heart wasn’t in it. His thoughts kept traveling to Sophie. Where was she? Was she safe? He pictured every detail of her face, keeping it ever present in his mind’s eye.
Within two hours, news circulated among the men that they were wanted for an assembly back at the plaza. When they finally made it back and stood in ranks, not quite as well ordered as their first assembly, Steve Nelson stood before them. Philip smiled to himself; he ’d heard Nelson’s Croatian name once, although he never could have pronounced or spelled it. It was no wonder the man had Americanized it.
As he began speaking in his thick Croatian accent, describing his journey to Paris with other volunteers, the men fell silent, rapt by Nelson’s oratorical skill. He told how they had traveled to southern France and embarked on a passenger ferry across the Mediterranean Sea. Their cheers over their first sighting of the Spanish coast had been interrupted by the sounds of a rapidly closing diesel engine. French border officers arrested them and treated them like common criminals. And after a trial in Céret, Nelson and the other volunteers received three-week jail terms for attempting to cross into Spain, since the borders were closed to all outsiders.
“We were then kicked out of the country,” Nelson told the group. “Fortunately, no one watched which direction we took.”
The men roared with laughter; then they cheered.
Nelson lifted his hands, and when the voices quieted, he continued. “You should be proud of your efforts, men. Fighting the antifascists is a benefit to our homeland. Our world! Even in the United States, the CIO labor unions heard of your fight, and it presages an increasingly sympathetic political climate. What you are doing here will benefit the lives of generations to come!”
Philip glanced at the men around him, noting how Nelson’s words affected their fighting spirit. They drew their shoulders back and stood taller at this man’s respect; in a matter of minutes they were transformed from a group of jovial men who wanted nothing more than to drown their memories of battle with liquor to a solemn group whose pride beamed from their faces.
Philip glanced over and saw tears streaming down Charles’s face.
After Nelson’s speech, they returned to the burned-out church for dinner. The men nearly talked over each other, discussing their part in recent battles and their hopes for those
to come. But their voices stilled as another officer approached.
“we’ve just received word, men, of an imminent Fascist attack. Down the rest of your food. We leave for the front lines right away.”
Philip scanned the men’s faces. He could see a mix of disappointment and acceptance. Steve Nelson’s words had not come a moment too soon. They could handle the adversity ahead.
As they began packing for their return, he was thankful to head back into danger. Danger drew the attention of correspondents. Maybe even Sophie.
Philip smiled as he swung his duffel over his shoulder, imagining Sophie finding him there—wherever “there” happened to be.
Father Manuel never had a chance to meet the one reporter Walt had asked him to talk to. Instead, as he stepped off the train in Paris, a mob of reporters greeted him. He turned to Armando, but another man stood next to him. Then he remembered that his
friend had exited at the border, and he was alone.
“Padre, Padre!” the numerous voices shouted.
Father Manuel scanned the crowd. Were these people all here to meet him? Had the man in the hat sent word ahead that a priest from Guernica would be arriving on this train? The bombing had been in everyone ’s conversation on the train, and no doubt across the border, too.
Doing his best to remember every detail, Father Manuel related the events of the day, three times. He spoke in Spanish and wondered just how much they understood.
Even then the reporters weren’t finished throwing questions at him, yet he wearily held up his hand. “Please, I can answer more questions tomorrow. Tonight I must rest.”
Like the Red Sea parting for Moses, they let him pass. One young man, a Spaniard like himself, even offered to carry Father Manuel’s small suitcase. Father Manuel looked at the man warily, unsure how to act in this strange new place. The man looked friendly enough. He not only carried the case; he led Father Manuel to an inexpensive hotel and convinced the manager to find “one more bed.” Paris, it seemed, was filled to the brim with those attending the World’s Fair.
Father Manuel had hardly undressed before he drifted into a fitful sleep. The memories of bombs and cries woke him through the night. It was then he prayed, and he couldn’t tell if his prayers were part of his dreams or his wakefulness.
He ’d just drifted off to sleep when a pounding on the door woke him.
“Padre, come quick,” a voice said. “It’s me, Berto.”
Father Manuel opened his eyes to see morning light flooding into the room. He quickly dressed, then opened the door. The young man who had helped him yesterday stood there.
“Come and see. This May Day they are marching—thousands of people, Frenchmen mostly, maybe millions—marching between the Place de la République and the Bastille in the largest workers’ parade. They march to bring justice after the bombings, justice for Spain.”
“Thousands?” Father Manuel stood, his knees trembling.
“Then they know about Guernica?”
“Sí, the story is all over the papers. Your words and others. Come quickly, and you can see for yourself! It is a May Day parade like no other.”
Father Manuel followed him, but they didn’t go far before they came upon a swelling crowd of workers filling the streets, their fists lifted in a high salute.
Berto brushed his hair from his eyes, speaking before Father Manuel had time to ask these questions. “They shout their abhorrence of the bombing. They plead for aid for the victims of Guernica. They beg their government to assist Spain’s Republican government.”
“My words helped to do this?”
The young man nodded enthusiastically. “Sí, Padre. Your words and the photographs taken by others . . . photographs of the city.”
“May I see the newspapers?” Father Manuel raised his voice to be heard over the voices of the workers around them. “I met the female correspondent who took them. She was there in Guernica during the bombing.”
The man shrugged. “I’m sorry, Padre, there are none of the bombing itself. Only afterward, of the destruction. Come. Come, and I will show you the photographs that the world sees of your town.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sophie endured Hector’s hospitality for what seemed like weeks, though only a few days had passed. She listened intently to the men talk about their families, their homes, all they could lose if the enemy gained ground. Not one of them gave a hint of anything dealing with the gold, and she was more than slightly disappointed. The sooner she could find out the information Walt needed, the sooner she could pass it on and find her way to the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.
Michael must have seen her boredom with the men’s prattle. She tried to hide a yawn as they talked about everything from the bridges in the town to crops in the fields.
He winked at her; then he rose from the wingback chair, one of many that graced the elegant living room, and motioned for her to follow. “Care to go for a walk?” He stretched a hand toward her.
Sophie offered a sincere smile and took his hand. “I’d love to.”
They exited the front door onto the sidewalk that lined an active street. Even here, near the center of town, the war’s closeness was evident. In the distance artillery rumbled, and the acrid odor of gunpowder wafted by. It was scary, she realized, how well she ’d come to recognize that odor.
They walked in silence, the tragedy of the homeless refugees and children they saw begging for food—the degradation—stifling their spirits.
One homeless man watched them from under a wide-brimmed cap. When Sophie looked toward him, he quickly looked away, and she could feel his shame of living on the streets.
Signs in every grocery store and restaurant read: No Hay Nada. There is nothing. Michael’s eyes never wavered from their path, and in less than fifteen minutes they reached the port.
Sophie noticed his troubled expression, and they’d barely neared the waterfront when, with quickened steps, he turned her back toward the sanctuary of Hector’s home.
As they began the return trip, Sophie noticed Michael repeatedly glancing to the side, furtively studying a large contraption—a bridge of some sort—spanning the river.
She eyed it curiously, then pointed. “What is that?”
“A transporter bridge. The automobiles drive up onto a roadway, and the framework of the bridge moves the road across the river.”
“I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Yes, it’s unique and fascinating. Hurry, though. Let’s get back. I despise seeing this country in such a condition.”
When they got back to Hector’s house, Sophie studied the newspapers that Michael brought in, eager for any news of the Internationals. The news about Guernica was finally beginning to filter through the press. Le Figaro published the first photographs of the few standing walls in the stricken town—their window holes appearing like vacant eyes or open wounds.
Another newspaper printed a wrenching image of homeless Basque children. Reports from L’Illustration and ParisSoir offered pages of photographs of the destroyed town of Guernica and the now-desperate victims of the attack. Sophie cocked her head, studying a photo of a burning church. It looked very similar to one she ’d taken. She wondered if it was one of the ones Walt had promised to publish for her.
“Is something wrong?” Michael asked, noting the question on her face.
“No, it’s just—well, this photograph seems familiar. Like one I could have taken. But that’s silly. As you saw, none of mine turned out.” She recalled Michael’s disappointment at the photos she had offered him when they’d first arrived at Hector’s house. Walt had taken the best. None she gave Michael, the two of them decided, were good enough to publish. “I’m a far better painter than photographer, I suppose.”
She continued reading. “Listen to this. L’Humanité has printed Aguirre ’s first statement: ‘Before God and history that will judge us, for three and a half hours German planes bombed with inconceivable destruction the undefended civil populati
on of Guernica, reducing the celebrated city to cinders. They pursued with machinegun fire the women and children who were frantically fleeing. I ask today of the civilized world if it will permit the extermination of a people whose first concerns always have been the defense of liberty and democracy, which the tree of Guernica has symbolized for centuries.’ ” She put down the paper and looked at Michael. “Sad, isn’t it.”
“Horrible,” Michael commented, peering over her shoulder to study the photos himself. Then he breathed in, as if taking in the scent of her, and placed a kiss on her cheek.
Sophie ignored his advances and tried to keep her emotions under control. Seeing the photographs of the destruction was bad enough. Being this close to Michael and pretending that all was well between them caused her stomach to churn. But the report she read in the next paper made it all even worse.
Anger surged through her chest at the report written by a James Kimmel.
“Michael, you’re not going to believe this. They’re still spreading these lies.”
“Let me see.”
She handed him the paper, and Michael read aloud: “The fire burned up most of the evidence, but from my observances of the wreckage of the town that had once been Guernica, the incendiaries were caused by those on the ground. There is no evidence that any of the destruction of this town was accomplished by General Franco’s aircraft. I have not seen any evidence of fragment bombs, and the craters I inspected were larger than anything a bomb dropped by an aircraft could accomplish.”
Michael’s voice was steady as he read, and though she tried to gauge his emotion, he showed none.
“It’s safe to say these craters were caused by exploding mines on the ground,” Michael continued, “most likely put there to destroy the roads and keep Franco’s troops from passing. The Basques are a curious people—first destroying their town for their own protection, and then blaming their enemies for the destruction in order to gain the world’s sympathy.”
Sophie pressed her fingertips to her temples, sure her head was about to explode from its pounding. Tears sprang to her eyes. It was bad enough, what the people had faced. Now these lies . . .
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