Sophie stood, but Philip didn't move. Didn't crack a smile. Instead, calmly, assuredly, he picked up the letters and returned them to his interior pocket. Then, with a gentle pat to ensure they were safe, he let the corners of his lips curl into the smallest grin. "Yes, well, maybe that option—whatever it is—is the answer to our prayer. Ever think of that?"
Chapter Seven
Walt’s idea seemed simple enough. All they had to do was turn the truck around and follow one of the side roads they'd seen not too far back. They spent thirty minutes inching the truck forward and backward, turning the tires, until they eventually got it turned around on the mountain road. Sophie would've given anything for a dimly lit café, a glass of cold water, and a plateful of the chicken and rice Spaniards cooked so well. Her stomach growled at the thought of it.
Walt motioned for the others to get into the truck. The cab reeked of body odor from their hard work in the sun. Sophie knew she smelled just as much as the guys, and if she weren't so desperate to find shelter and food, she would insist they use some water from the stream to clean up before continuing.
Instead Walt turned the key and they were off again. The engine hummed, and his gentle whistling bolstered Sophie's confidence that this adventure would work out.
"Remember how I told you we were nearly to Granada?" Walt said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "The city itself is in Nationalist hands, but the Republicans hold the surrounding area—so the farther we journeyed down the road, the closer we came to friendly territory."
"Well, that's good news." Sophie wiped her own brow.
In a few minutes, Walt found an intersecting side road. It was merely two tire tracks and some gravel, but at least there were no washed-out areas in the way.
"Okay, this road is taking us . . . somewhere, but we still don't know what we'll find. What if we aren't as close to the Republican territory as we thought? Should we start getting our story straight about who we are, and why we're in the middle of nowhere?" Philip rested his arm on the seat back behind Sophie. His fingertips barely brushed her shoulder.
"Well, being this far out has its advantages. Many don't hear news reports or read the papers. In Granada and other Nationalist-held towns, our way will be more difficult." Walt glanced from Philip to Sophie. "In my opinion, our greatest benefit is that no one knows your faces. Sophie, some key people may know your name and the connection with your paintings. We'll worry about that when we get to the city. For the most part you can pass as Eleanor without question. And even for those who have met you before, what type of spy would I be if I couldn't create a simple disguise?"
A burst of laughter flowed from Sophie's lips before she could stop it. "Hmm, for some reason that statement scares me."
"And Philip." Walt cocked one eyebrow and glanced at his face. "Even fewer know you. If we can just find a good cover . . . another name."
"Attis," Philip said promptly. "As a first or last name I don't care, but use the name Attis."
Sophie's heart sank at the pain she saw in Philip's eyes. Pain upon pain, actually, because the glimpses of heartache he'd carried with him since first seeing her with Michael hadn't faded. Yes, she was forgiven. And Philip was trying to make the best of the situation, but much still plagued his soul. If only she knew what to do about it.
Deion wasn't sure if Gwen was aware of the way she tapped her fingers on the pistol's handgrip as she talked, venting her frustration. Her happy-go-lucky attitude from the morning had faded to a memory. Soon after they'd settled under a tree to enjoy their rationed Hershey bars, two ambulances had arrived with more injured. Not just soldiers, but women and children who were hurt as the Fascists took over their small town.
He felt helpless as he watched Gwen race from one person to another, trying to decide who was urgent, who could wait, and who wouldn't survive despite the efforts of the doctors and nurses. Hoping he could help, Deion followed, fetching things she needed and helping her move patients, lining them up in the right order for surgery.
"We don't have the instruments and supplies we need. There isn't enough gauze or bandages to dress the wounds. And not a drop of novocaine, although some may arrive in the next shipment." She moved to the window and folded her arms across her chest. "I never realized that X-ray film was such a luxury. We have to work by touch to determine fractures. Do you know how hard that is?"
Deion didn't answer, and Gwen scowled at him.
"Hard, I s'pose," he finally croaked. Emotions flooded, and he grew angry with himself for being so captivated by this woman. She cared for many men, and in a few days' time he'd come to care for no one but her.
"They say I'm the only colored nurse in all of Spain," Gwen said, as if reading his thoughts. "And you're one of the few colored soldiers I've seen. I suppose it's only natural to feel attraction."
Deion bit his lower lip. He wanted to ask if it went both ways, but he didn't have the nerve. Besides, he could see it in her eyes. Beyond the frustration and the weariness, Gwen enjoyed having him there. Still, he couldn't believe she could move from the subjects of bandages to their feelings in the span of two sentences.
She walked to the sink and pumped the large handle. Splashes of foggy water trickled out, and she washed her hands. "I'm itching to get on the road. Do you think you could drive me to the first-aid station closer to the front? I hear they've hit some of the villages."
Deion watched as the woman's eyelids lowered to half-mast, as if struggling against a memory.
Finally she sighed. "You know, last time I went near the front, a young woman approached me. She asked where I'd been. Her new husband and baby had both been injured and died the day before. I always think of that. The difference one day could make."
"Don't take that on. It's not your place." Deion meant the words to provide comfort, but Gwen stiffened.
"What do you mean? I came here to save lives." Her chin jutted out.
"You can help, but you can't save people. Only God determines if they gonna live or die."
Anger flashed across her face. "Oh, is that what you think? Then I might as well go home."
"Didn't mean that. But you can't feel every death is one you coulda prevented. People have lived and died for thousands of years, Gwen. If you're gonna carry that weight on your shoulders, why stop with Spain?" He placed a hand on her arm. "'Stead, think of those you do help."
"Never mind. I'll find someone else to take me to the front." Gwen turned and stalked away. Her fingers drummed the handle of the pistol on her side.
The small road wound through another mountain valley, and as she gazed at the chains of mountains, or sierras, Sophie truly understood what the word breathtaking meant. Not a shrub or tree dared thrive on the summits that pierced the sky. Sharp rock peaks sliced into the clouds like the spires of a great church.
"You'd be surprised how the people in those mountains live. Towns and villages exist in the most unlikely places—like eagles' nests in the cliffs. And in some places there are remnants of the watchtowers built by the Moors when they controlled this part of Spain hundreds of years ago," Walt commented. "I was a young twenty on my first trip to Spain. Hopped on a bus and told myself I'd ride it until the end of the trail—which turned out to be a valley not too different from this one. The people were simple but friendly. They thought it was a wonderful thing to have someone from the outside world visit them. Now I know why. Few journey this far out without knowing their destination first."
The truck made its way through the green mountain valley, and they came upon a herd of bulls. Sophie recalled the day in the arena when the bullfighters had surprised her with the beauty of a sport that was also an art.
"They are destined for the arena," Walt said before he was asked.
"Do you think they know they are raised to die?" Sophie asked.
A few bulls lifted their heads and turned in their direction, but none of them moved more than a few steps.
"All they know their whole life is a hostile environment—t
he high mountains, hot summers, hard winters. They rarely interact with people, except for the herdsmen who watch from a distance."
"I'd rather watch lambs." Philip chuckled.
"Everyone has a duty. What appears dangerous or odd to some seems commonplace to others. I suppose if your father and grandfather had such a job, you'd think nothing of it."
They continued on, and Sophie didn't know if it was the warmth penetrating the windshield, the gentle rocking of the truck, or the soothing sound of the men's voices, but she drifted off to sleep.
Soon she awoke to the sound of the engine shutting off and a door opening.
"Let's stop here and stretch," Walt said, jumping from the truck.
Sophie opened her eyes to find they'd stopped in a pleasant green meadow surrounded by hills blanketed by trees. Walt ambled toward an elm tree, and Sophie followed. Soon she could make out the sound of a bubbling creek. On the other side, in a grove of trees, small caves had been dug into the hillside.
Like small, furless bears emerging from hibernation, people began wandering out of the caves. Soon a dozen curious folks approached with wide yawns and tired expressions. Sophie realized they'd disturbed their afternoon siesta.
Walt went back to the cab and pulled out a box of cigars to distribute to the men. The people didn't seem to care which side they fought for. They didn't even ask. Or maybe they could tell already. Surely that was the case, because soon one man started speaking about the coming triumph of the Republican army, as if assuming they were on his side. Walt talked about war news, and Sophie noticed he didn't show his leanings for one side or the other.
"Come, por favor, to my home. My daughter is preparing dinner." One old man took Sophie's arm with eagerness. "You visitors must come."
She glanced toward Walt.
"Sí, señor, thank you. We would be delighted," Walt answered.
The man tugged harder, and Sophie had no choice but to follow.
The cave smelled of earth and was dim and damp. Sophie tried to suck in a breath, but the stuffiness almost overwhelmed her. The furnishings were as simple as the earthen dwelling. An old chair, a bed. A long bench served as a table, and the woman's thinness told Sophie their one cupboard was mostly bare.
"I keep telling myself we will not be here much longer," the woman said cheerfully. "Once we have beaten the Fascists"—she whispered the last words—"the better off we will all be. Someday we'll move into a good house, with a tree outside to give us shade."
Sophie's mind traveled back to the tree-lined streets of Boston. She had never been rich growing up, but what she'd had seemed like a palace compared to this woman's meager home.
Sophie studied the old man as he talked with Walt. She was sure he'd witnessed many changes in the government, and this was yet another. He ate his simple meal with a decorum that showed he had not always lived in caves or hills. He spoke simply, but Sophie found his speech picturesque. It reminded her of José, who said he was a poet but never shared one poem with her. That was most likely because their friendship had centered on survival and not pleasure. This man's phrases, too, rang with poetic rhythm in a way she couldn't explain.
Sophie took a bite of the warm bread and then slurped the thin soup with a wooden spoon. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, knowing there would be no seconds—what the people shared would have lasted the two of them a couple of days if it weren't for the surprise guests.
Walt sat near her, talking with the man, but Philip sat just outside the door, watching over the truck.
"If you need a place to hide your truck," the old man said, "I know a good spot."
Walt nodded his interest, and Sophie wondered again if they could trust these people. It seemed too easy. Unless . . . maybe it was an answer to prayer.
"There was a woman who used to live up the road. Her husband was a foreman at the mine. They had a house—a real house—not like our dugout. She passed away last week, leaving it abandoned. I have thought of going up there myself, but it is too far. My daughter enjoys her friendships here, and we have planted our garden. But up the road there is a large barn also—a rarity in these parts. It is big enough, I believe, to hide your truck."
"It is something to consider." Walt locked eyes with Philip, and Sophie wished she could read their thoughts.
The young woman placed her spoon on the table and reached for Sophie's hand. "If you are worried about the others, we will make sure no one knows you are there. They will think you passed through. We are God-fearing people," she added. "We only speak the truth."
"In that case, I do not think we can refuse," Walt commented. "We will finish our lunch and then move out." He turned back to the old man. "Would you be willing to meet us down the road and point us in the right direction?"
"Sí, Señor." A smile filled the old man's face. "I will serve you as if I serve my Lord. He has sent you to us, indeed He has. Just this morning I was praying how I, an old man, could contribute. I have no doubt you are my answer." And with that the man clapped his hands in excitement and motioned to their plates on the table. "It is settled. Eat, eat. Let us celebrate how God provides."
Chapter Eight
They found the house and the large barn down the road a few miles and up another winding road, just as the man described. The house was small—no bigger than one of the suites at the hotel Sophie's father managed back in Boston—but it looked well tended. The rough-hewn planks had received a fresh coat of whitewash. A small chicken coop stood to the right of the house. A dozen thin chickens squawked as the truck rumbled up and parked in front of the barn.
"Sophie, you stay here. Philip and I will check the premises before we settle in."
The men got out of the truck and moved together, like two soldiers scouting the area for the enemy—looking first in the house and then the barn, and finally the area surrounding the buildings. After twenty minutes they returned.
"It looks good. Almost too much so." Walt climbed into the cab and started the engine. "There is a garden in back, a well for water, and a creek less than a half mile away. It's a perfect setup really, with everything we need."
A way to heat bathwater? Someplace to sleep other than the ground? To Sophie, this was the center of comfort, and it was safe . . . an answer to prayer. Though she was thankful, she wished that somehow she'd also find clothes not faded and mended. And boots that hadn't traipsed from one end of Spain to the other. But she knew better than even to wish for such things.
"A creek, that will be nice. And to sleep in a bed will be wonderful. There is a bed, isn't there?"
Walt turned the truck around so it backed up to the barn. "Yes, one bed. Philip and I have already decided we'll sleep outside to guard the gold."
For the briefest second Sophie felt a tinge of guilt that she'd have a bed and pillow, and they wouldn't. She thought about suggesting they take turns, but she knew these men. They wouldn't hear of it. Besides, it was the only thing to do. She couldn't sleep one night in the bed and the next with one of the guys.
Philip jumped from the truck and opened the two large barn doors. Slowly Walt backed the truck in, the large tires crunching the hay. When he'd made it all the way back, Philip shut the door most of the way, so just a crack of light illuminated the truck.
Sophie let out a long sigh. "Amazing. How come I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my chest?"
"Well, it's a good start—that's for sure." Walt opened the door and jumped down. His eyes didn't meet hers, and she sensed that something bothered him. Something he wasn't telling.
"We can't stay here long," he commented, his voice more cheerful than she'd ever heard it. "But it will give us time to make a plan, find more supplies, and rest. Then we can get the gold out of this country and sell it to the right people." He pulled off his hat and rubbed his forehead. Dark circles under his eyes and worry lines creasing his forehead made his face appear older.
Sophie climbed from the truck, sneezing at the cloud of dust that stirred on the floor of t
he barn. "When you say rest . . . do we also have time to look at what we have back there?" She pointed to the back of the truck.
The initial feeling she had of not wanting to see or touch the gold had subsided the farther they'd driven from the airfield. It was as if the thin blanket of security she felt piqued her curiosity.
Philip had approached and heard her question. "I imagine there are people who would give anything to view our load. Most of the Aztec and Inca goldwork found its way into the Spanish melting pot hundreds of years ago."
"The gold sent on to Russia has most likely met the same fate," Walt added. "This is all that's left." He opened the back and jumped onto the truck bed, lifting the lid off of one of the boxes. "Philip, can you get that lantern?"
Philip took the lantern from the wall, pulled out a lighter from his pocket and lit it, handing it to Walt. Walt set the lantern on the lid of another box, illuminating the cargo. Rays of light glittered off the gold, as if the pieces glowed with light.
Sophie and Philip joined him, running their hands through the coins, jewelry, and other gold treasures.
"So, how many antique artifacts remain? Not counting these, of course," Sophie asked.
"Well, let me put it this way. Just five years ago a treasure hunter, Dr. Alfonso Caso, discovered the undisturbed tomb of a high Mixtec official. What he found doubled the ornaments held by collectors—which tells you that there aren't many pieces."
"What about the pieces held by Spain? Did they include those in the count?"
"No, they didn't." Walt held up a coin, studied it closely, then returned it to the box. "Not many people even knew it was there. The Spanish government hasn't been stable in years. Bank officers come and go. Perhaps if someone had a good friend, they might have been able to get a look at the treasure hidden in the bank vaults. The greatest fear of those who understood was that others who had no idea of its worth would sell it or melt it down."
Whisper of Freedom Page 7
