Father Manuel rose and walked slowly toward the church to view the plaster statue of the Virgin in the niche. She, to him, was a reminder that God desired not part of our week—or our heart—but all.
"May it be unto myself, your servant, as you desire," had been the Virgin's prayer before the angel of the Lord. And because of that, the Christ grew in her first—in her womb, then in her heart.
Father Manuel's desire to feel the Presence of Christ caused his chest to ache even more than the biting cold at the darkest time of night. For only then could he offer the common people what they needed most, even if they didn't realize it—peace in their souls despite the war and terror around them.
Chapter Seventeen
NOVEMBER 6, 1936
It ought to be inconceivable that in this modern era,
and in the face of experience, any nation could be so
foolish and ruthless to run the risk of plunging the
whole world into war by invading and violating, in
contravention of solemn treaties, the territory of other
nations that have done them no real harm and which
are too weak to protect themselves adequately.
Yet the peace of the world and the welfare and security
of every nation is today being threatened by that very
thing . . . If civilization is to survive, the principles of the
Prince of Peace must be restored. Shattered truth
between nations must be revived . . . America hates war.
America hopes for peace. Therefore, America actively
engages in the search for peace.
Franklin D. Roosevelt
1936
The planes overhead, flying through the sky dimpled with clouds, had become as common as the sound of armored vehicles roaring through the streets. Cold, fall-scented rains forced Sophie to pull her scarf tight around her head as she hurried back from the school. She was already late for dinner, and she knew she'd receive a tongue-lashing from Luis—the same thing she heard every evening if she were even a minute later than he expected.
"We are a besieged town, with enemies in our midst. Did you hear, señorita? Just yesterday masked assassins drove down our very street, spraying the crowds with bullets. One of my old friends, my amigo from childhood, was killed. Poor, poor Jorge."
Yet Jorge was only one of thousands. Thousands gone. Her mind refused to absorb the numbers.
As she hurried along, the cold, damp air hung heavy with fog and with the wails of mourners burying their dead. Then there were those unaccounted for—caught in an air raid most likely. Sophie's favorite waiter at the local café, the daughter of the corner butcher, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seen one day and gone the next. Never to be heard from again.
Taking her cue from the Spaniards around her, Sophie lifted her weary head and focused on the people, the shops lining the narrow streets, the aching heartbeat of the city. Bullet holes flecked the walls, and every shop window was punctured or shattered.
Even the streets seemed to decay before her eyes. The fires in the buildings around the city dripped soot, causing thick, black liquid to stick to the soles of her shoes. Dyes from the posters ran down the walls like tears of red, blue, gold. Even her clothes were ruined, stained black from brushing against the rubble.
She scooted off the road onto the sidewalk as assault guards drove by in open-sided vehicles that offered no protection for the men perched inside on benches.
At one café, a doctor attended to the wounds of a guest stretched across an outside café table. Not that it's needed for food. They're lucky to have coffee, she thought, hurrying past. Poor man, most likely hit by a sniper's bullet—every day a more common occurrence.
As she walked by one apartment building, she shuddered at the sight of walls peeled away, revealing the shattered contents. It reminded Sophie of the open-faced dollhouse she had played with as a child, the one her grandfather had crafted, adding pieces every birthday and Christmas. Once or twice, as she planned her trip to Spain, she imagined returning home with Michael and starting a family. She even pictured a daughter playing with the dollhouse in the corner of her studio as she painted. It was a dream that had faded in the face of Spain's reality.
Even the open-faced apartments before her did not remain untouched. As soon as a house was destroyed by enemy bombs, propaganda agencies affixed posters on the ruins. Colorful posters denouncing the enemy—their purpose to stir rage. Yet, didn't they realize, the piles of rubble and lost lives needed no propaganda to incite the fighting spirit?
But most curious of all, in the midst of conflict, were the people themselves. Around her they sauntered amidst the shell holes and barricades as if they were stage props. Even after a bombing, the people returned to the streets, gazing at the destruction with curiosity and wonder. And then, in less than an hour, they went on with their daily activities as if they'd been interrupted by a bad turn of the weather and nothing more.
For the most part, tall buildings suppressed sounds of the battle. The crack of hand grenades exploding and the splutter of machine guns could be heard in the distance now and then. Sometimes screeching sirens caused her to jump as officers roared by on motorcycles. But worst of all was the drone of bombers. Even now the sound of them grew louder as they closed in on the city.
"Not again," she moaned, hurrying down the last street. She paused only slightly, reaching the door to Luis and Benita's home. More hisses and explosions sounded behind her. Red, green, blue flares lit the fading sky; and she cocked her ear, listening. Sadly, she—as well as all of Madrid—had become expert at distinguishing between the sounds of artillery shells, antiaircraft, and shrapnel.
As Luis had told her more than once, "When you hear the shrill whistle, throw yourself to the ground. Shrapnel always explodes upward after the strike."
Sophie breathed a sigh of relief, realizing their target was further north.
How horrible, she thought, to be relieved that others face those horrors tonight and not us.
At least for now. . .
In her dreams, she ran from the twisting shadows falling from the sky. In her nightmares, she covered her ears against the fire bells, policemen's whistles, cries and shouts from the people. And instead of strolling down a church aisle to meet her groom, she now dreamt of walking through the streets over broken glass, the tinkling of it reminding her of the tiny bells her mother hung around the house at Christmas.
The worst part was that even when she awoke, the war continued.
Sophie entered the doorway and paused, noting a third person sitting at the table with Luis and Benita.
Michael. He turned to her with a nostalgic expression and melancholy eyes. "There you are, beautiful," he said with a gentle voice, standing.
"Michael, you're here. You're safe!" She rushed toward him and buried herself in his arms.
It wasn't until he placed a finger over her lips she realized the radio was on.
"Fernando Valera is speaking." He pulled out a chair for her and offered a tired smile. "He's a Republican deputy, very popular with the people."
Sophie sat, then rested her head on Michael's shoulder, as they listened to the voice over the radio.
"Here in Madrid is the universal frontier that separates liberty and slavery," Valera's voice echoed through the radio. "It is here in Madrid that two incompatible civilizations undertake their great struggle: love against hate, peace against war, the fraternity of Christ against the tyranny of the Church. . . . This is Madrid. It is fighting for Spain, for humanity, for justice, and with the mantle of its blood, it shelters all human beings! Madrid! Madrid!"
Leaning forward, Michael switched off the radio.
Luis let out a low sigh. "This is not good."
Benita rose and moved to the stove. "You do not know this. Maybe he simply offers encouragement."
Michael shook his head. "I have to agree with Luis. Back in the States we call that giving a pep talk. Th
is means he knows great hardship is coming. He's preparing the people for the fight ahead."
A knock sounded at the door. Benita opened it and welcomed José in.
"So you heard?" Michael asked.
"Valera? I heard enough in the first two minutes." He turned to Michael, registering no surprise at seeing him there. "You have a smoke?"
Michael handed a cigar to José, lighting it for him, and Sophie felt a knot in her stomach. Can't we get alone to talk? she wanted to say. She hadn't seen Michael in weeks, and now he wanted to talk politics with friends?
José smiled as he took a long drag. "Then again, perhaps it is not as bad as we imagine. "
"Thank you, José. Finally, someone who talks sense. Listen to him, Luis." Benita firmly patted Luis's back with an open hand. "Go on, José."
José lifted his cigar as if making a point. "Sí, maybe it will not be that bad. The Fascists have used up their energy, yet ours is just arriving. From what I hear, tomorrow we will open up on our enemy at its most vulnerable spots."
"Is that why you've been going door to door distributing instructions for hand-to-hand fighting?" Luis asked. "If you do not fear our city will be taken over, why are you working so hard to prepare the people for that very thing?"
José's face reddened. He lowered his voice and leaned in close. "It is not that. Do you not know? That is only part of my job with the elected government. The small part. Mostly I work behind the scenes to search out those who fight against our cause. I'm on the lookout for Fascists among us."
"The newspapers call them the fifth column," Michael said, holding Sophie's hand.
"The what?" She peered into his green eyes, searching for emotion, any type of emotion, but saw only weariness.
José answered. "A month ago, the Fascist pig General Mola declared there were five columns acting against Madrid. Four from the front, surrounding the city, and the fifth, underground within the city itself."
Sophie turned to their friend. "So have you found any of these men—these Fascist rebels?"
“Sí, señorita. I have found many. Yet, please do not let this talk leave these walls. We each do our part, yes, even if it is not on the front lines." He turned to Michael, locking his eyes on his friend's. "Sometimes we fight with weapons, sometimes by befriending people who are in fact enemies, and other times with images caught by the camera."
"And if this isn't enough? What then?" Luis crossed his arms over his chest.
José closed his eyes, drew deeply from his cigar, and then opened his eyes. "The Fascists may win this battle. They may invade our land with foreign ideals, but they cannot hold the people. Spaniards will rise to the occasion as they have before. It cannot remain this way." He cleared his throat. "They call us stupid, yet do not school us. They call us simple, yet we must live according to our meager existence. If you are born poor, poor you will remain all the days of your life. If you are born wealthy, the whole earth is handed to you on a silver platter. . . . Is that fair? Is equality worth fighting for?"
José sighed and turned to Sophie. "Your Roosevelt has been reelected, sí? If only we could choose one man and know he will serve his term. How many lives would be saved?"
Sophie nodded. "I knew things would be different here, or at least I had a hint of that. But I have to admit that once I crossed those borders, it was as if my whole world turned on end. I was so naive." She looked at Michael. "You tried to tell me. . . ."
"You are mistaken. The boundaries that matter most aren't the country borders that separate people and languages." Michael stood and turned to look out the window.
An old woman hobbled by, clutching a small bag to her chest—most likely her food for the week. Three young boys walked side by side, and despite the rain, wore no shoes or hats.
"Yes, he speaks truth," José said, running his fingers through his dark hair. "If that were the case, there would be no war here. It is the invisible barriers—economic, political, religious—that oppress. They prevent the poor man from ever making something of his life, ever providing for his children. They keep rich men in power, and the church in control. This is what people fight against. In that system there is no hope. And without hope, what's the purpose of life? They wouldn't fight if they didn't have a chance to think otherwise.
"The world is getting smaller, and other ideals are seeping into their minds and hearts. The people now understand there are other ways to live. Ways worth fighting and dying for. That's why many are Communist. Or Socialist. Or anarchists. They've learned these new ways, which tell them they can shed oppression and fight for equality and freedom. That is something worth dying for—if not for themselves, for their children."
"José, you never cease to surprise me. You, my friend, are someone I'd love to take home to meet my mother." Sophie patted his hand and looked into his dark, soulful eyes.
"Your mother?"
"She writes speeches for causes—some of which she has a passion for, and some whose passion she attempts to absorb. She spends hours writing and rewriting, yet you say so much with so few words. Promise me that after this is over, you will find a way to travel to Boston. The city is called the Cradle of Freedom, because that is where the men who formed our nation first formed their thoughts."
José's grin stretched until his white teeth contrasted against his dark skin. "I think I would like that. The Cradle of Freedom? Yes, I believe I should like that very much."
"Of course, we have to win here first, right?" Sophie rose and wrapped her arms around Michael's waist. "When this is over, sweetheart, I want to see all of Spain. But until that time, I consider whatever little I can do here worth the fight."
Before she could read his expression, Michael looked away, turning his focus back to the street and the plumes of smoke in the distance where the enemy's bombs dropped more destruction.
Tanks bore down on early morning Madrid, yet to Philip the whole scene seemed far removed from reality. It had taken over a month for Attis and him to reach the capital. On foot and by cart, they'd traveled mostly on small country roads to avoid the fighting. And it appeared they reached their destination just in time. With only a few days to acquaint themselves with the other Internationals who volunteered for Spain's cause, they were given a weapon to share, directed to a ditch near one of the main roadways leading into Madrid, and told to hold the line at all costs.
Never mind the fact that Philip had never held a rifle before in his life. Unless you count those popguns at the Washington State Fair. He studied the weapon in his hand, replaying in his mind the directions for how to reload.
"Wake up, friend. Snap to it. We're really here. No time to be sluggish about your work." Attis cocked back a hand grenade, waiting for the perfect time to hoist it toward an approaching tank.
The lead tank shuddered and rumbled forward, its turret gun tilted downward, aiming at the mines in the road. Men and women swarmed around Philip like ants in a crazed dance—at least the ones still able to move. Others lay dead or dying.
A woman next to him grabbed the gun from Philip's trembling fingers and cast him a look of disgust. With a determined set of her chin she lifted it to her shoulder and fired. "No pasaran! No pasaran! They shall not pass," she cried.
Other women in the barricade screamed out the same. Women militia. Fighting for their very survival.
With the perfect form of a baseball player in centerfield, Attis cocked back his arm toward a group of Moorish horsemen following the tanks. It hit in the middle of the group, exploding in bright white. Men's screams and the trampling of hooves filled the air. Scents of blood and cordite stung Philip's nose. The horsemen retreated, and soon small sounds of gunfire were lost in louder explosions from old cannons—outdated weaponry pulled from military museums, no doubt, suddenly dragged from retirement.
Just as it seemed the lead tank would make it to a bridge, a deafening blast tore through one of the tracks and the hull's underside. Shards of steel flew through the air. Thick, black smoke rolled fr
om its still-quivering body. A human torch piled out of one of the hatches, and Philip turned, pressing his face into his hands at the sight. Women around him cheered.
A voice erupted from the loudspeaker overhead. "Men and women of Madrid, this is La Pasionaria. The glorious victory of Madrid can be ours. . . . They shall not pass. It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees!"
Chapter Eighteen
NOVEMBER 8, 1936
Espana prefiere morir de pie que vivir de rodilla.
Spain prefers to die on her feet rather than live
on bended knees.
La Pasionaria
Sophie awoke, remembering that Michael had been there. And remembering next that he had already left—with no more than a quick hug and a few words, and not a mention of the cottage in France.
"I'm sorry, Divina. I must get back to my office. There are reports I still need to write and send out tonight."
In the darkness of the alcove just outside the door, she couldn't see the expression on his face, but the caress of his hand on her cheek made her ache with missing his touch. "But I wanted time to talk. We—"
"Shhh, I understand. But now is not the time." He leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead. Then he moved his lips to her ear. "Just remember, no matter what happens, I love you, Sophie. I always will."
"Michael, that’s the second time—"
"Shh, just remember." And with one last kiss, he was gone.
"Sofía!" Benita's voice broke Sophie from her memory. "Hurry, señorita. There is something happening downtown. Something we do not wish to miss."
Thirty minutes later, Sophie caught her breath as she noted the Gran Via shimmering under a frosting of ice. She pulled her sweater tighter and followed Benita to the edge of the street where a line of people had gathered, as if preparing to view a parade. Above them, the loudspeaker blared El Himno de Riego.
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