At breakfast the next morning, Ritter watched his uncle pore over the newspaper, pausing to read an in-depth report on Spain. Soon he'd learn what he wanted to know.
"You should have seen the look on Hitler's face when the three delegates from Spanish Morocco pleaded for assistance. He was ready to explode when he heard about the Reds trying to gain control of Spain. Though he has not said so publicly, his eyes are set on Moscow; and if he doesn't help control the situation in Spain he's, in effect, allowing a new enemy to rise." Uncle Oswald ran a hand over his bald head.
"I care little about the politics, Uncle. Tell me more about the conflict. Do I have a chance of being one of the pilots chosen?"
Uncle Oswald nodded slowly as he meticulously spread blackberry jam on his toast. "My friend Göring has hinted as much. And his hints are as good as sealed."
Ritter stirred cream into his coffee.
"General Franco's men already control one-third of the country, you know. But the Republicans hold Madrid and the rich mining and industrial centers along the north and east coasts. The Nationalists need more troops—especially the regiments of the Foreign Legion and Moroccan soldiers stationed in North Africa under Franco. The problem is getting the soldiers to Spain."
"Ferry pilots? Is that all? I'd rather stay in Germany." Ritter dropped his spoon onto the polished tabletop.
"Oh, that's just the beginning." His uncle took a bite of toast, then slowly chewed. "If I know Göring, he will be as displeased with mere ferrying duties as you. I guarantee in a few months the Germans will control the air over Spain. In fact, Göring has named the project Operation Magic Fire. That's the code name representing the circle of fire that Wagner's Siegfried penetrates to rescue the captive Brunhild. Now, does that sound like a mere taxiing effort to you?"
The old man brushed crumbs from his face but missed half.
Ritter smiled, rose, and patted his uncle's shoulder. "As your friend suggested, Uncle, it's time for me to practice up on my Spanish."
Chapter Eight
Tanto te quiero, perrito, pero pa' pan muy poquito.
I love you, puppy, but not enough to feed you.
Spanish proverb
As the sun inched across the brilliant Spanish sky, Sophie tried to convince herself that she'd misread Michael's look. She was imagining things. The young Spanish girl meant nothing to him.
By that evening, she believed it. He loves me. Of course he does.
After lunch Michael had left for a short errand, then escorted her to the twentieth floor of the Telefónica building. The elevator girl was all smiles as they rode up, asking Sophie about the United States and her new role in Madrid. Sophie gave a convincing performance concerning her work as a translator. The girl had honored Sophie's bravery and joked about her own work in the "safest place in all Madrid."
Sophie knew exactly what the girl meant. Earlier, Michael had told her that every phone line in Madrid traveled through the Telefónica building—lines that provided communication with pro-fascist cells hiding inside the city.
"Which is a reminder, you never know who's listening," he’d said, leading her to his office.
She entered the news office, catching the scent of ink, alcohol, and tobacco—similar to Michael's old bureau in Boston. And within a few minutes a white armband stamped with the American flag, a number, and the embassy seal was fastened around her sleeve with a strict warning to wear it on the street at all times.
With business done, Michael whisked her away to a friend's villa overlooking downtown Madrid. Though well kept, the house was old and small. Sophie followed him through a metal archway leading to a small patio. The faded tiles had been scrubbed clean and glimmered in the evening light. A few empty flowerpots and a cushioned bench welcomed them.
Michael approached the bench and brushed off the cushions, though they appeared spotless, extending a hand to her. He sat and patted the spot beside him.
Sophie curled up to Michael's side, taking in the second-story view overlooking the downtown sector of Madrid. Below her, the city appeared as a maze of streets, with people moving in all directions. She was beginning to love this city.
Yet it was good to view it from a distance. She'd grown weary of watching soldiers trudge their way to the front and forever listening to the war news over the radio.
Michael ran his fingers down Sophie's arms, and she nearly pulled away from his touch. The intimacy seemed shocking after keeping herself at bay for so long. During their time apart, she'd guarded her heart, diverted her eyes from male temptation. She'd even stayed away from the wing of Greek and Roman art at the Museum of Fine Arts, to avoid the sight of all those male nudes. But now . . .
His hands moved to her face, as if studying the curve of her jaw with his fingertips.
She closed her eyes and let out an uneasy sigh. "So, uh . . ." she started, "what do you do when you're not taking pictures?" Her voice quivered. "Do you have friends? Have you traveled much?"
"Dear, dear Sofía,” Michael said, using her Spanish name and clucking his tongue. "You always ramble when you're nervous." He placed a kiss on her cheek, and she opened her eyes. She scooted closer and prepared to place her cheek against his shoulder, when he gently pushed her upright again.
"But wait, your hair."
"What do you mean?" Sophie touched the back of her neck where she’d knotted her dark locks into a French twist.
"Take it out." He tugged at a bobby pin. "It's pretty, but not you at all, sweetheart. Show me the girl I fell in love with."
Sophie pursed her lips, then pulled a few pins and shook her head to free the twist. With her fingers she combed through her hair from the base of her neck to the ends of her hair, until it smoothed over her shoulders and fell slightly into her face.
Then she looked shyly at Michael, and—for the first time since she'd arrived—saw in his eyes the same love she'd seen in Boston.
He pulled her close, wrapping her in an embrace. "I wish . . . ," he whispered. "If only you didn't have to leave."
The sun had set just enough for the red-tiled roofs below her to glisten like the city lights of Boston reflecting on the harbor. And like the small boats in the harbor, the locals moved within the sea of reflection, going about their daily routines despite the turmoil.
Michael pulled her closer, as if not wanting to let her go. "Te amo, mi Divina. You are the girl I have thought about every night since our parting, and although my logic tells me that you must leave, everything within me wants to keep you close."
The image of the raven-haired girl filled her mind, but she brushed it away and relaxed in his embrace.
After a moment, he slowly let her go, and she sat back on the cushioned bench. She watched as he motioned to a servant for some wine, for the first time realizing they were no longer alone.
"To you," he said after the wine was served. "And to our being together. I only wonder how I survived without you for so long."
Sophie brushed her hair behind her ear. "Well, you don't have to think about that, because I'm here, and we are together—just as we planned." She snuggled closer.
"Do you like Spain, then? I haven't had a chance to ask."
"It's more amazing than I'd imagined. It has a terrific sun for painting. The trees and buildings are silhouetted not only in black and white, but in blue, red, and violet. It's lovely."
"Once an artist, always an artist." He kissed the top of her head. "That's what I loved about you first, you know. I saw your heart in your work. Especially those landscapes of the sky and sea. Maybe it is their limitlessness. Is that a word?"
"I understood it." She leaned back and studied his face. His soft smile. That knowing look in his eyes. She closed hers and leaned forward for a kiss. His lips met hers—warm, tender.
With a sigh, she returned her head to his shoulder. "I had a teacher once who said that painting gives shape to sensations and perceptions. He said great art is only created when you discover the truth of what lies before you,
and the truth found within, and you express it on the canvas. That's why I think I'd paint more beautifully here than anywhere else. I've found my heart." She slid her fingers down his arm and wrapped her hand over his. "Despite the war."
He raised her hand to his lips. "War?"
As if in a dream, she watched a flock of yellow birds swoop from behind them and land upon an olive tree making it look as though it had suddenly bloomed with orchids.
"So you're happy to be here?" he asked.
"Almost."
Michael leaned his head back to get a better look at her face, his eyebrow cocked in question.
"Picasso claimed he'd rather go without food than paint. My tummy's full, but . . . well, I left my paints and brushes behind."
"Divina, of course. I'll see what I can do."
"Michael, also, do you think I can visit the Paseo del Prado? I'd love to see some of the work of Diego Velázquez and Goya. Things have settled down enough for a little tour, don't you think?"
"Well . . ." He studied her face for a second, then sighed. "Unfortunately, I have to work tomorrow. But I have a dear friend from childhood, José, who I'm sure would be happy to escort you. I met him years ago when visiting my mother's family here, and I trust him completely, as he is deeply in love with a nurse in a small northern village. Although any other Spaniard, beware . . . This is a country of admirers and lovers. Madrilenos are the worst. I witnessed for myself men turning their eyes from the fighting to take a second glance at some of the women fighters dressed in the monos. Even though the women looked like house painters, those overalls accentuate every curve and have a dazing effect on the men who aren't used to seeing women in pants."
Sophie chuckled. "No wonder I received so much attention on the train. I'd changed into trousers for the journey over the border."
Michael pointed his finger into the air. "See, I told you who really helped whom. You, my dear, were a lovely distraction. And you just thought your quick wit impressed the committee leader."
Sophie stood and leaned against the balcony to catch the evening breeze. "And after the Paseo," she resumed, "may I spend a day painting near the Puerta de Alcalá? I read it's so similar to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The Alcalá is something I've always wanted to see. . . ."
"Sophie, you never know your limits, do you?"
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I will allow this, but you must return to France by the end of the week."
She returned to the bench. "But you just said you're glad I've come. . . ."
He moved beside her, smiled, and brushed her hair with his hand. "But you know it's not safe. Just until things calm down. You can wait for me in France—"
She rested her head on the cushion on the back of the bench and pulled her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and tucking her skirt around her legs.
"Sophie." Michael sighed. "You don't understand. You missed the worst of the fighting, but I fear it's only the beginning. If you were here when the government recaptured the Curatel—that large barrack that overlooks Madrid—you wouldn't think it is so safe."
He pointed, and she saw the building in the distance. It stood like a fortress overlooking the city.
"On the day the revolution broke out, most of the soldiers mutinied to the Rebel side and took control of the barracks. At first, the people acted as if nothing had changed. In the city, one minute it seemed as if everything was normal. Everyone went about his business. Friends met at cafés. Lovers walked hand in hand through the streets. Then, at ten to four, men from every station of life rose and joined together. I think they only had one heavy gun, two fieldpieces, and some rifles. The people against a trained army. Yet they marched toward the Curatel as if they were led by Napoleon himself."
"That was happening here, in Madrid?" Her eyes widened. "Who was inside?"
"Militia, police, cadets, and officers—all those who sided with the Rebels. The anti-fascists marched up the steep ascent under full gunfire. The men walked over the bodies of their fallen comrades right into the barracks. Over two thousand were killed. And that was just days before you came."
She shielded her eyes from the setting sun and studied the hillside below the barracks, trying to imagine the bodies of two thousand men strewn there, their blood seeping into the hillside.
"These poor people. Someone should step in to help them. It almost makes me want to write President—"
Michael held up his hands. "I have one last piece of advice for you, Divina. During the time you are here, make sure you don't get too involved."
"Involved?"
"From first appearances, it may seem that this war is a clear fight between good and evil. The people against the Fascists. Democracy against dictatorship. I wish it were that easy."
"Well, the people did elect a government."
Michael's brows furrowed. "Yes, well, this government calls themselves 'The Popular Front,' but as I said before, they don't even agree among themselves. If you ask me, most of the people are too simple and untutored to govern themselves. Like little children, they need discipline, and Franco and his Fascists could provide just that." He shrugged. "And so their whole world is at war."
"Of course, I'm not here for war," Sophie said, leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around him. "I've come for love, remember?"
Philip and Attis lined up with the other Americans to board the small Spanish boat, Ciudad di Ibiza. They were just two of the five hundred being evacuated from Barcelona at the order of the Catalonian government. Fading sunlight sparkled orange across the water, and Hungarian and Belgian voices radiated over the dock. These foreigners had chartered the ship, and those from the Workers' Games were lucky enough to catch a ride. The destination of all was Séte, the first port in France.
Attis shuffled from one foot to the other and glanced at the guards lining the docks.
Philip noted a familiar look in his friend's eye—one he'd first witnessed when they were thirteen and saw an open window to the girls' locker room. As they hoisted each other up to peek, Philip had learned more in that day than his science class taught him all through junior high. He knew that look meant trouble if he didn't put a stop to whatever crazy notion was brewing in his friend's head.
Attis bounced his duffel bag in his hand as if measuring its weight. "If we toss these aside, we can run faster." He leaned close to Philip's ear and spoke low. "We just need something to distract the guards."
Attis's scheming was no surprise. He had mentioned staying on in Spain at least once a day—as they left Barcelona, on the train, last night at the small hotel on the water's edge.
"We’ll be thrown in prison if we’re caught. And you may never see your wife again." Philip shuffled his feet as the line moved slightly forward. Mentioning Louise always brought Attis back to his senses.
"Yeah, but if I don't do this thing—don't fight for what's right—then who will? I'll make it home. I know I will. I just have this gut—"
Shouting interrupted Attis's words. A fight had broken out between members of the Belgian and French wrestling teams. The pent-up frustrations of the week's events, added to the inability to meet in the ring, must have reached a head.
"Ouch, you'd think they'd move to the grass or something." Philip winced as he watched one man plow another man's head into the hard wooden dock.
Attis made no response.
"Attis?" Philip turned. Attis's duffel bag was abandoned at Philip's feet. "Why, that—"
Scanning the perimeter of the dock, Philip noticed a flash of red and blue scaling a brick wall. Without hesitation, he hoisted both bags to his shoulders and sprinted toward the wall. With each pounding of his feet upon the pavement, he expected the sound of gunfire to erupt.
"I'm gonna kill him," Philip panted, as he wove through the crowd. "He's dead now. He's . . ."
In a matter of seconds he reached the brick wall. With all his strength, he tossed one bag over, then the other. Then, using every bit of the muscle in
his arms, he hoisted himself over. He landed unevenly on the other side and felt his body crashing toward the ground. Two hands encircled his waist from behind and pulled him upright.
Philip let out a slow breath. He lifted his hands high in the air. "I'm sorry. I wasn't planning to leave, honest. I was just—"
"Rescuing a wayward friend?" The familiar voice shook with laughter.
Philip spun around, and with an open hand struck Attis's shoulder. "What are you thinking? Are you loony? You could've gotten us killed."
Attis leaned down and pulled civilian clothes out of his duffel, stuffing his track jacket inside. He quickly changed, then snatched up his bag. "Yeah, but we're not dead, are we?" He turned toward town and began strolling down the narrow alleyway.
"Not yet!"
"Keep shouting like that and you'll draw the guards."
"Ugh." Philip removed his jacket, pulled out a white shirt and pulled it on, then hurried after Attis.
"I should've let you go."
"Without my bag? What would I wear?"
"That's not my concern."
Attis cocked his head toward Philip. "Obviously, you've made it so."
"You knew I'd follow, didn't you?"
"You're here, aren't you?"
"Louise is going to kill me."
"She can't if you're in Spain with me."
His cocksure attitude made Philip want to turn and head back to the docks—to leave Attis to his own devices—that would show him.
The alleyway opened to a wide street. Attis pulled some money from his pocket and hailed a horse carriage. Philip sighed. He shook his head and tossed his bag inside.
"To the train station, please," Attis said.
The carriage moved toward the station with the driver humming in time to the clomping of the horse's hooves.
"Then where, after that?" Philip glanced around, checking to be sure they weren't being followed.
"Madrid."
"Why there?"
"Because I've heard they're organizing international volunteers."
Valley of Betrayal Page 7
