Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  She ’d walked all day, skirting anything that appeared to be dangerous and eating the last of the stolen food. The colored man’s look of surprise had stayed with her as she walked. It was an odd gaze he gave her as she ran away—almost disappointment that she felt he couldn’t be trusted. But the memory of that look faded as she neared the place she ’d been seeking.

  Petra had only asked one person for directions along the way. She ’d stopped to chat with an old lady sweeping her front porch in the village of Portugalete. They’d discussed the approaching troops and the chickens the woman raised. The woman had even given her two boiled eggs. Nonchalantly, Petra mentioned she ’d once heard of a family who raised horses in the hills above the seaside village.

  “If you do not know where they live, then you have not been to Portugalete before.” The old woman’s voice had crackled, and she eyed Petra suspiciously. “You only have to look up the hillside to see it. It is the large white house, our own castle to watch over our town.”

  And now the castle stood before her. A beautiful house, with equally beautiful stables near the back. It was quiet, and no movement could be seen in any direction.

  Petra clenched her fists. She hadn’t thought about what to do or say when she got here. Did she expect to simply march up to the door and reintroduce herself to the young man whom she had met in a park in Madrid over two years ago?

  She glanced down at her clothes, dirty from the trip. Her hem had been torn, and she didn’t want to think about her smudged face or her hair. She ran her fingers through the rat’s nest it had become and let out a low sigh.

  “May I help you?”

  Petra jumped at the old man’s voice.

  “I, uh . . .” She stood and noticed her height nearly matched his. She thought about running, but changed her mind. Where would she go? Instead Petra decided to tell the truth.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I am looking for Edelberto. I met him in Madrid, and—”

  The old man’s laughter interrupted her words. It was a deep laugh that reminded Petra of her own grandfather.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “And what is so funny?”

  “Only the fact that Edelberto has been gone since the first week of the war. His parents shipped him off to France, and then a month later they joined him. And still, nearly a year after he is gone, there is yet another female looking for him.”

  “Another? I am just one of many?” Petra tried to control her voice.

  “Ten, twenty, one hundred maybe? I am not sure. All I know is that Edelberto has many friends. And you . . . ”

  Petra could see compassion in his eyes. They were the color of the gray marble that used to grace the floor of the entryway to her parents’ home. They were kind eyes, and she felt at ease even if Edelberto wasn’t here.

  “Where are you from?” the old man asked.

  Petra bit her lip, unable even to speak of La Mancha. “I came from Guernica. I was there—”

  “During the bombing?” the old man interrupted. “My son, José, and daughter-in-law, Ramona, were too. Come, you must come inside. Surely things must be bad if you came to Edelberto for help.” He took her arm and led her toward the house. “Did you lose everyone?”

  Petra considered her cousins, but remembering their words and how they didn’t even claim her, she knew they didn’t count. “Yes, everyone.”

  “Oh, sí, señorita, then you must stay with us. Things are lean, but you are small. I’m sure you wouldn’t eat more than a pea or one carrot. We will make a way, you will see.”

  And with quick steps, he led her through the front door of a house that drew Petra back to memories of her own home. As her sore feet padded over the gleaming surface of the entryway—tile the color of the man’s eyes—she couldn’t help but smile at the sweet memories that met her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sea of marchers strode down the Paris street before Father Manuel—waves of men and women in workers’ clothes, hands upraised, crying out for his people in a language he couldn’t understand. Yet God understood their words. And maybe their words would convince their leaders to take heart and offer assistance for the poor in Spain.

  As he walked along with Berto, the crowd swept Father Manuel away with it. His feet hurried him forward to keep up. Pressed around him, men and women waved the printed newspaper images high in the air. Other bits of newspaper flew through the warm breeze, and more paper crunched under his feet.

  As they moved forward, Father Manuel tried to get a better look at the city around him—the buildings all white and ornamental—fancy statues and showy fixtures that, in northern Spain, could only be seen on the inside of elaborate cathedrals, not outside on buildings and in public squares.

  The young man tugged on Father Manuel’s arm and spoke hurriedly. “We are almost there.”

  “Where?” Father Manuel felt his heart pounding as he moved through the crowd, and he forgot for a time he wore the cassock of a priest.

  Berto didn’t answer; he just led Father Manuel to a building with a sign that read The Society of Process Servers. They moved past the offices to a set of spiral steps. Making their way upward, they came to a studio of some sort. A group of people inside were reading the newspaper Ce Soir and speaking rapidly in Spanish. The studio was in an uproar, and it was evident these men and women were fellow émigrés.

  The door was partially open with a piece of paper taped to it. C’EST ICI. This is it.

  Father Manuel followed his guide through two cluttered storage rooms. He noticed large paintings, one by Modigliani, on the floor. A large dog lay in front of them, as if protecting them.

  Father Manuel opened his mouth again to ask why he was here. Then he recognized a name being repeated by many of the others. Picasso.

  Could it be he stood in the studio of the Spanish master?

  Another staircase led to the second of three levels, and an enormous studio opened before them. Women caressed the photos in the newspapers and wept. Others shouted and cursed. Father Manuel saw as much emotion amongst them as from the people themselves during the bombing, and his heart warmed to see so many other Spaniards. Though they were physically far from home, they were present there in heart.

  Father Manuel paused, even as Berto continued forward. There before him was the man he ’d seen many times in photos. Picasso was bald, and thinner than he appeared in pictures. He wore a blue-striped jersey shirt and paced the floor, outraged.

  “Señor Picasso—” Berto interrupted his rant. “This priest, he was there. He shared his story with correspondents yesterday. I was making a delivery for my uncle at the train station, and I saw him come in.”

  The artist paused and turned to Father Manuel. “Is this true?”

  All eyes turned his direction.

  “Yes.” Father Manuel’s voice caught in his throat. “It is.”

  “Come, sit.” A woman led Father Manuel closer to Picasso. “Tell us what you saw.”

  Father Manuel relayed the story again of the bombers. Of the fighter planes machine-gunning the people of the town. Of the cries and even the scared confusion of animals running through the streets.

  Glancing toward Picasso, Father Manuel noticed the master had a sketchbook in hand. His pencil moved rapidly as Father Manuel spoke.

  “Tell me of the people, of their fear,” Picasso said, not lifting his eyes to meet the priest’s gaze.

  Father Manuel continued, forgetting that he ’d already told the story numerous times, forgetting that others listened in the room; he shared his story with an audience of one. He spoke the images that filled his mind of those he loved and cared for— those who had occupied his prayers—running from the terrors in the sky. He shared their pain until his own aching gripped his heart and caught the words in his throat, allowing only sobs to emerge in their place.

  Philip shifted painfully in the narrow trench and wrapped himself in his blanket. Two others sat beside him—Charles and a man Philip hadn’t met befor
e, and didn’t have the energy to get to know. Antony had been there earlier, but Philip hadn’t paid much attention when he left.

  This man next to Philip cursed, and he felt like doing the same, only for a different reason. He didn’t know if the pain in his chest was from cold or fear. Not for himself. The way he felt now, he could take on a whole hillside of Fascists if given the chance. He feared what was happening to Sophie, where she was, what she faced. Were there bombings? Moors? He feared the unknown, and his fingers grasped the stock of his rifle tighter as he waited for the promised assault.

  “You know why we ’re out here, don’t you?” The man next to him spat. “There is no Fascist attack. They needed us to fill a hole in the lines. I heard the Spanish troops had to be withdrawn to suppress insurrection in Barcelona. Isn’t that just like our Trotskyite friends? We ’re risking our butts on the front lines, and they don’t understand that for the Republican cause to succeed they need to fight Franco, not each other.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if it will ever happen.” Philip tilted his head back and gazed into the sky full of stars. They twinkled at him, and he imagined them as flames carried by runners crossing the sky.

  “If what will happen?” the man asked.

  “You know. All we ’re fighting for. I mean, it sounds great in a speech that we ’re ‘helping the people’s civil liberties, assisting workers, and spurring land reform.’ ” Philip lowered his voice to mimic the commanders who regaled them with never-ending speeches at every opportunity. “But they’re still fighting— among themselves. Sometimes it seems as if they don’t want to be saved.”

  “Yeah, like the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” Charles ran a cloth over the barrel of his spotless rifle. “But at least maybe they’ll catch the scent of water and get a thirst for it. You know what I mean.”

  Philip nodded. “I suppose I do. And I suppose the scent of water is something I can fight for. The rest I’ll have to leave up to them.”

  Antony stumbled toward them, blinking into the lantern light. He smiled crookedly. “They have fresh bread back there. And hot coffee. I’ll cover for you if you want to go.”

  Without checking to see if the other two wanted to go first, Philip clambered out of the ditch and mindlessly moved through the darkness. Among a row of olive trees, he found a line forming. News spread fast when it came to food and letters from home. He smiled ever so slightly as a cook ladled hot coffee into outstretched tin cups.

  As Philip lifted the cup to his face and breathed in the scent of the coffee—real coffee, not that fake stuff they’d been drinking—he remembered Charles’s words. Sophie, to him, was like the scent of water. For some reason, God had led him to her—or her to him, really. He knew now that if he had the chance, he would take the plunge and confess every emotion he held inside, holding nothing back.

  Göring had called Ritter back to Germany, and Ritter had no choice but to comply. As he prepared to leave the base, word reached them of the most serious loss of the war. Republican fighters had intercepted a Junker 52 carrying seven fighter pilots being transferred to another base. All were killed when it was shot down. It was a horrible loss. These were pilots Ritter knew and respected. Pilots eager to find adventure in Spain. Pilots he ’d never see again.

  And as Ritter flew away at the bidding of the most powerful man in the military, one German phrase ran continually through his thoughts: Wo gehobelt wird, da fallen Spähne. Where wood is planed, shavings are bound to fall. Death and destruction came to those who killed and destroyed, and somehow Ritter had missed both. For some reason Ritter had been called away. For some reason destiny had spared him . . . again.

  Perhaps destiny offered a great task worthy of Ritter’s skills. Or maybe it was a form of punishment for the pain he ’d caused. Because even though Ritter lived and others died, he had a feeling that destiny’s greatest trick was forcing Ritter to live with the pain of being unable to obtain what—or who—his heart wanted above all else.

  Back in Berlin, Ritter walked the street, telling himself to turn the other direction, to find something else—anything else—to do in the two hours before he met with Göring.

  Anything but hunt down Isanna.

  Not that finding her was hard. Though Isanna embraced all the freedom offered to women in New Germany, she was traditional in many ways—such as the weekly visit to the hair stylist and lunch with her grandmother afterward. Ritter had joined them for lunch once, and that was enough. The two women chattered on about the latest news of this budding romance, or that new baby, or who was last seen with whom. It was enough to make a man want to fling himself off the large balcony in the hotel lobby.

  He slowed his steps as he neared the large hotel. The doorman tipped his hat as he opened the door for Ritter. He paused inside the entry, taking in the polished marble floors, men in suits, women in dresses and hats, suited bellhops carrying their things.

  Ritter straightened the lapel of his military uniform, wishing for some new medal or badge to signify his service in Spain. Unfortunately, the majority of Germany knew little, if anything, of their exploits. There were rumors of the Spanish war, but little more. And even those who knew about the fighting believed Germany was there to train and support Spanish pilots. If they had only a glimpse into Ritter’s mind, they’d know otherwise.

  He moved toward the dining area with sure steps, careful not to favor his weak leg. No one questioned him as he moved into the dining room and slid into a small table near the entrance. His heart pounded as her laughter met his ears even before he spotted her. Following the sound of her voice, he spied her at the table with her grandmother and another young woman. They sipped cups of tea and leaned close as the waitress brought in trays of finger sandwiches and small cookies.

  His stomach churned as he gazed at her. She was more beautiful than ever. Her long blonde curls that used to hang around her shoulders were pinned to the top of her head in a stylish coif. She wore a white lace blouse with a high collar, and her cheeks were flushed pink.

  Ritter knew he should stand and walk away, never to confront her again. Yet he couldn’t bear the thought of living his whole life without knowing if his love had been onesided.

  Waving away a waiter who approached with a silver carafe, Ritter strode toward Isanna’s table. He had almost made it to her side when she lifted her eyes and met his. Her mouth gaped, and with a clatter her teacup crashed to the table, shattered, and splashed hot liquid on her companions. Squeals of disbelief spouted from their lips as they rose, pushing back from the table and grabbing white cloth napkins to wipe themselves. A flurry of activity erupted around them, service staff rushing to their aid.

  Still Ritter stood without a word, watching with pleasure as tears filled Isanna’s wide eyes.

  “You’re—you are . . . here.” She covered her mouth with her hands, and Ritter noticed the ring on her finger.

  “And you’re married.” He spat the words, eyeing the ring.

  “Ritter, I—”

  “Could you have not waited one month, two, for my body to get cold in the grave?”

  “Please, let me explain.” She tossed her napkin from her lap onto the table and pushed back, rising.

  It was then that Ritter noticed her round stomach. His jaw dropped open as he looked down.

  Isanna instinctively placed a hand over her growing form—a protective hand.

  His fists clenched and he stepped toward her, searching her gaze.

  Ashamed, she looked away, glancing at her grandmother, who was still wiping at the brown stain on her cream-colored dress. “Please, can we go somewhere to talk? I—I have so much to say. I need to tell you the truth. . . .”

  “No words are needed, Isanna. I see how much I truly meant to you. As I said, you wasted no time playing house while I was away fighting . . . for you.”

  She reached her hand toward his shoulder, and he brushed it away.

  Then he cursed and turne
d, striding from the room.

  “Ritter, please.” And with her words came a low moan, followed by sobs.

  Ritter refused to turn. Refused to offer one word of comfort. She had made her bed; let her lie in it. His heart ached every day for what had become of his existence. Let her deal with her pain, as he was forced to. Let her go home to her husband tonight with anguish in her heart. But even then, he knew, it would hardly reflect the agony within his own soul.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ritter pushed all thoughts of Isanna out of his mind as he followed the security officer into Hermann Göring’s lush office. The large man sat behind a massive oak desk. His eyes focused on a map spread on the surface before him, yet Ritter could tell the general’s ears listened for his approaching footsteps.

  When Ritter came within ten steps, Göring’s head lifted, and a small smile curled on his lips. “Well, there, my son, there ’s the man I’ve been eager to talk with. Please come in; have a seat. I’ve read the debriefs, but tell me . . . what is it like flying over Spain? Was it everything you expected?”

  Ritter chose his words carefully as images filled his mind. Explosions, clouds of smoke and rubble, men and women falling under the spray of his machine gun. The helpless feeling as his airplane spiraled to the ground.

  “Oh, no, Herr General. It is not what I expected, but more. Oh, so much more.”

  As he settled into the plush leather armchair, another face filled Ritter’s thoughts. Sophie ’s warm smile. The way she cocked her head and lost herself as she focused on the canvas before her.

  “The fighting is intense.” Ritter crossed his arms over his chest. “And the enemy far more deceptive than any of us anticipated.”

  For the next few hours, Ritter told Göring details of the true war in Spain. He was shocked to learn his reports were different from the battle reports Göring received. Ritter had flown the planes. He knew how their aircraft compared to enemy planes. He ’d seen firsthand which strategies worked and which failed.