Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Philip held up an object that appeared to be a cob of corn . . . a pure gold cob of corn. "Which is exactly what happened. And why these pieces are so valuable."

  Walt held some pieces of jewelry in the light. The necklace and ring were bulkier than Sophie had expected, and much more interesting, too. The double chain of the necklace held a three-tiered pendant that reminded her of an inverted layered wedding cake. Within each tier was a precise pattern of small circles. She couldn't even imagine how long it must have taken a craftsman to create a piece like that.

  Walt gave a low whistle. "I know one thing. Cortés understated the talent of the Mexican goldsmiths. This work is finer than I expected."

  "Can I see?" Philip opened his hand, and Walt placed a ring in his palm. "I studied South American culture in college, and I can see some of the same design elements. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say these pieces were Inca. But you probably know more than I do."

  "I can see why you would think that. Some of their techniques came from Ecuador or Peru and migrated up the Pacific Coast—but this workmanship tops the best of the older goldwork."

  Sophie ran her fingers over a necklace. She tried to picture it around the neck of an Aztec or Inca queen. What type of life did that woman live? Was this a gift from her husband? Father? What would she think of the fact that the society she ruled over had been completely wiped out—partly due to the greed of foreigners who longed for the very necklace she wore around her neck? What would she think of the idea that her jewelry would survive long after she did and would be sought by so many?

  The necklace had been stolen during the conquest—and how many times since then had it changed hands? And now it was in Sophie's. Its fate depended on them. Would it be okay to pray for gold pieces that had been crafted in the worship of false gods?

  "I can't help thinking about the beliefs of the people who crafted this," Sophie said. "The items were made and given in worship in great temples, and now they're hidden in the back of a truck and cared for by us. Maybe their bad omens did come true—I mean, look how things ended for them."

  "That reminds me of a story by Diaz that I used to tell my students." Philip sat back on his haunches. "Diaz claimed that on the night when Cortés retreated from Mexico in the mid-sixteenth century, he took his share of the treasure and then turned the surplus over to his troops.

  "Of course, the natives didn't stand for their temples being robbed. They chased the Spaniards out of their towns—towns that were very confusing to maneuver through, since they were lined with numerous canals. Most of the men tried swimming the canals in order to escape." He paused and looked at Sophie.

  "But the men's pockets were filled with gold . . . they would've drowned!"

  "That is exactly right. You, my dear, get an A for today's assignment!"

  "What about this Diaz? How did he survive to write about it?" she asked.

  "Well, Diaz was smart. He knew the Aztecs believed jade was more valuable than gold. So when he left, he took four pieces of jade instead of the gold treasure. He later traded the jade for food and care. He didn't return to Spain with great wealth, but his awareness of the people and what they valued most saved his life."

  Again, a strange feeling flooded Sophie, and she returned the gold necklace to the box. "That's fascinating. I'm sure your students loved it."

  "Well, they certainly seemed to learn more when I taught history through stories than when I forced them to memorize names and dates."

  "And someday, when you return, you can tell them stories about your own adventures in Spain!"

  Philip laughed. "I'm sure they'd think I made it all up. Their history teacher fought in trenches, rescued a beautiful woman on the front lines, aided a Nazi spy unawares, was kidnapped by a thief, and helped to protect ancient treasure."

  Sophie's laughter joined his, and even Walt smiled and shook his head.

  "They'd believe you had too much Spanish wine, my friend," he said.

  "Still, it is nice to think that we'll go back someday, isn't it?" Sophie studied Philip's face. "I'd love to go see the school where you taught. See the track where you used to race. Meet your parents, too."

  Philip nodded. "I think that can be arranged."

  Walt cleared his throat. "Well, it's nice to know that you two lovebirds have your future all set, but I think we need to find out what's in the house, see what we can use, and start thinking about our plan of attack for now. The way I see it, we won't be safe here for long. News about a truck passing this way won't stay quiet when so many people know of it. We need to consider our assets and our liabilities."

  "Reminds me of the Boy Scouts," Philip commented. "The first step in making a feasible plan is to figure out what can help you and what hinders you."

  Walt nodded and placed the lid back on the gold. "Yes. And what could help Spain the most is now our biggest hindrance."

  Deion felt like he was coming home as he slid into the seat of the old Russian truck. The back was filled with supplies for the soldiers. The seat next to him was empty. He'd offered Gwen a ride, but she refused, stating that she wouldn't travel to the front lines after all, since she was needed in the operating room. Deion knew she didn't like what he had told her. And because of that, she now didn't like him.

  But he knew what he'd said was true. For a while carrying the weight of the world could be a good feeling. Personally, with more responsibility, he'd taken more pride in his worth. Yet he had learned the hard way that anyone under that pressure would grow discouraged. He only wished he had walked away seeing the twinkle return to Gwen's eyes.

  Just before the truck pulled out, the commander motioned for Deion to wait. A moment later, a young German soldier climbed into the truck. The man appeared friendly, but Deion's skin crawled. He remembered another German he'd cared for—only to discover he was an enemy pilot. Ritter had fooled them all, and Deion wondered if this man was the same—a liar, a spy trying to gather information for his own cause.

  It wasn't until Deion read his assignment papers that he discovered he'd been assigned not with his own Abraham Lincoln Brigade, but as a driver for the German International Brigade—the Thaelmann Battalion.

  The truck creaked and groaned as Deion drove through the night. The man beside him slept, and as the hours passed he realized the weariness of the soldier was not unlike his own. Deion struggled to keep his eyes open. He would do the best job he could, even if he didn't enjoy it.

  When the German awoke, he worked hard to communicate. Hans had light brown hair and a handsome face. He didn't understand Deion's silence, and treated their lack of communication as a puzzle to figure out. First he'd try a word in Spanish, to see if Deion understood. Then he'd try to remember the English word. He'd hop all around the word he meant until Deion would finally blurt it out, much to the young man's delight.

  Somehow, through bits of English mixed with Spanish, Deion learned that the man's family were Socialists and locked up in Hitler's concentration camps. Only then did his heart begin to soften.

  "They hang dark men from trees in America?" Hans asked, his most clear sentence yet.

  "Yes. People just think it's a free country."

  Deion thought of his own family back home in Mississippi. They were fenced by the same type of hostile feelings this man's family faced, though they didn't live behind barbed wire. Instead they were held in by signs that said WHITES ONLY. And their deaths often came by the rope.

  Deion didn't share his insights with Hans. Instead he told him about his work in Chicago washing dishes, and his train ride to New York with the other hobos on the rail. He told him about the group of friends he discovered in the Big Apple—a few of whom traveled to Spain. He didn't know how much the German understood, but the man nodded and listened.

  Finally, they arrived at the Thaelman outpost and unloaded their supplies. The German volunteers shared some stew and bread with Deion, and gave him many pats on the back for successfully bringing their supplies.

&n
bsp; Before leaving, Deion sought Hans out. Giving him a firm handshake, he cleared his throat. "Great meetin' you. I'll pray fer you."

  Hans nodded and smiled, and Deion laughed out loud, realizing the communication barrier again won. It didn't matter, though. He knew the man understood enough.

  As Deion climbed back into the truck to make the return ride alone, he missed Hans's chatter. He also realized what a strange day it had been. A pretty nurse, a friend, had become an enemy. And a perceived enemy had become a friend. No one ever said things were easy to figure out in Spain.

  Chapter Nine

  Father Manuel stood at the doorstep of the palatial apartment building, certain he had copied the address wrong. The weight of his meager possessions taunted him in the presence of such luxury. He moved his bag to the opposite hand and let out a worried sigh.

  A few days prior, he had entered a great cathedral with hopes of hearing from God. At the time, he had no idea his prayers would lead him here—to the home of Berto's family.

  The cathedral's massive scale and solemn beauty had intimidated him; it wasn't the same as seeking God on the hillsides surrounding Guernica. For the grandest of man-made objects, even the sacred paintings and stained glass windows, paled in comparison to the smallest pinecone, perfectly designed, or the awe-inspiring delicacy of a bird's wayward feather as it fluttered from a nest high in the trees.

  But even though the cathedral wasn't the setting in which he felt most comfortable, Father Manuel had known his prayers were heard, and he trusted God's purpose for his time in France. He'd left the cathedral with no answers, but instead a sweet peace had settled in his soul. And somehow, when he returned to his rented room and spotted Berto—the young man who'd first greeted him on his arrival in Paris—sitting in the hall by his door, he realized that they could help each other. Father Manuel was a stranger in a strange land, and Berto provided friendship. On the other hand, though Berto's physical needs were being met in Paris, perhaps Father Manuel could offer direction for the young man's soul.

  So when Berto offered Father Manuel a place to stay with his family in the fine neighborhood of Le Marias, Father Manuel agreed. Now he breathed in the scent of flowers as he walked through the courtyard, awed to be transported into a private haven in the midst of a large city.

  Three dozen large windows faced the courtyard, and just when Father Manuel had decided to turn around and go back to his small rented room, he saw movement in the window closest to him. Before he could take another step, the door swung open, and he found himself in Berto's warm embrace.

  "Father Manuel! You found us. I apologize for not meeting you and carrying the bags myself. My mother discovered my tutor was not as diligent in his hours as she had hoped, and I am the lucky recipient of his eagerness to please her. It seems I have studied all day." Berto laughed heartily as he took the weathered satchel from Father Manuel's hand and motioned him inside.

  Father Manuel's plain black shoes squeaked as he strode across the floors that shone like glass, and he followed Berto down the hall to the right of the entrance. His robe swished as the black fabric trailed over the geometric pattern of the floor. A maid hurried by, pausing briefly to bob a curtsy.

  "It is a fine place, I suppose. It is only a short walk to the Place des Vosges, or to the best boutiques in Paris, if you care about those things." He glanced back at Father Manuel. "Which I suppose you do not, with those vows of poverty and the like." He laughed again. "If you would believe it, my favorite place to live was our summer cottage in Santander by the sea. It was small but nice, and just a stone's throw from the water. I miss it. We were just packing to go there last summer when the war erupted." Berto paused before a closed door and pulled out a key.

  Father Manuel glanced back over his shoulder and counted—it was the fifth door down the long hall. The last thing he wanted to do was end up where he wasn't welcome. He felt uncomfortable enough as it was.

  "No, I have not done much shopping in Paris," he commented, clearing his throat, "though they do have fine things."

  Berto unlocked the door, then handed the key to Father Manuel. "My father, he is very different from me, and he appreciates his privacy. He anticipates his guests feel the same. I hope you do not mind."

  Berto entered the room and set Father Manuel's satchel on a small bench by the doorway. "But if you happen to lose it, there is a master key." A grin curled on Berto's face. "I have used it before. But that is a story for a different day."

  He flounced upon the bed, unconcerned with disheveling the fine layers of bedding. "I like to explore the city—not the shops, but visit with the people. That is how I met Señor Picasso, you know. A friend of a friend. And though I try to keep track, sometimes I lose more than a key, much to the dismay of my mother. Por favor, do not ask about the numerous textbooks she has replaced."

  "No, of course not." Father Manuel pretended to lock his lips with the key, bringing another burst of laughter from his young friend.

  "Well, then." Berto rose. "Dinner is in an hour. I will give you time to rest. I always like to check out the menu ahead of time." He winked as he hurried to the door. "Or rather the young maids who help serve." Berto's hand flew up to cover his mouth, as if just realizing to whom he spoke.

  "Of course, I understand. A young man, old enough to be married, must appreciate beautiful young women. Then again . . ." Father Manuel reached out and patted the boy's shoulder. "That is not something I really do much, either."

  Berto's laughter filled the hall as he hurried away with a wave. Manuel closed the door, hoping that someone would come get him when it was time to eat. He could always follow his nose to discover the dining room, but that might lead him to off-limit places, something that his host wouldn't appreciate.

  Father Manuel recalled the day he'd met Berto. The young man had led him away from the reporters at the train station and found a small room for Father Manuel to rent. At first the priest had questioned Berto's motivation. Later he discovered the young man's political leanings drove his compassion.

  It was Berto who'd taken him to the Workers Parade on May Day to see the thousands crying for support for the Spanish people. It was Berto who'd ushered Father Manuel into the private studio to meet Picasso. The great master had asked him to give a painful, eyewitness account of the bombing by German planes. And now . . . it was Berto who once again sought to help a simple, Spanish priest who questioned why he'd been saved when so many others had perished.

  Father Manuel noticed a basin of water on a small table in the corner and washed up, drying his face with a towel that smelled of lemons and lilacs. Then, as gingerly as possible, he folded down the layers of blankets and bedding until only one sheet remained.

  He kicked off his shoes and stretched out in the center of the bed. His glance darted from here to there, taking in the crown molding on the ceiling, the rose-patterned wallpaper, the fine burgundy drapes. His being here still didn't seem real. A poor country priest far from his people and home. Or whatever remained of both.

  His mind wandered to the canvas of Guernica he'd seen earlier that week. He was amazed that the horror of the event could be captured by such abstract forms and shapes, representing the people and animals of the town. He also thought of the photos and paintings of the young American woman; had she escaped? He would look for her art, in hopes his worries were for naught.

  Still, the ache in the center of his stomach that came each time he thought of the beautiful young American finding herself in war-torn Spain would not leave him. His teacher had once told him that sometimes the Spirit of God moves in such a way—as a reminder to pray. He closed his eyes and brought her needs before the Savior Jesus, whatever those needs were.

  He also asked for forgiveness for not kneeling to pray at the side of the bed. For some reason, his body felt weary. Perhaps from the miles he walked in the city each day, but more likely from the overwhelming feeling that God had indeed brought him to Paris, but Father Manuel had somehow missed Him
and headed the opposite direction from where he should be.

  "Oh, Father," he prayed, "how has it come that I have found my way here? And am I right to believe that a young boy's heart is the assignment you have for me now?"

  Father Manuel's words were cut short by a knock at the door. He rose, straightened his clothes, and opened the door, expecting to see Berto. Instead a taller man with dark hair and green eyes stood there. A camera bag hung from his shoulder as naturally as if it were a part of him.

  "Excuse me, Father, for interrupting. I am Edelberto's cousin, and I've just arrived from Spain. I am not a patient man, and I am eager to meet the priest that my cousin says witnessed the bombing of Guernica."

  The man spoke with an American accent, and didn't look Spanish. He shifted his weight, and Father Manuel could tell he favored his right leg. On closer inspection, Father Manuel noted bulkiness near the man's thigh, as if his leg was bandaged underneath his clothes.

  Father Manuel stretched out his hand. "Edelberto? . . . Yes, I see . . . he calls himself by a nickname."

  The man's hand was warm and his handshake firm. Father Manuel liked him.

  "I am Father Manuel, and I am happy to meet you. I am sorry, but I did not catch your name."

  "Michael," the man said with a smile. "My name is Michael. Come, and I will lead you to dinner."

  Michael moved with slow, sure steps through the house, and Father Manuel found himself trying to keep track of the direction they walked and also follow the conversation. Not an easy task.

  "So, Padre, I hope you do not mind me being so bold, but I have a friend who was also in Guernica at the time of the bombing—an American artist named Sophie. You would not have happened to have seen such a person there, now would you?"

  Excitement stirred in Father Manuel's chest. "Why, yes, I did, just minutes after the bombing ended. She approached me with tears in her eyes and said she was looking for a friend. José something."

  "Immediately after the bombing?" Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure it was not the next day?"