"I'm not going."
"But, Miss Grace, Michael is gone. And the train. We do not know if it will come again anytime soon."
"I'm not going until I say good-bye." Sophie ran her finger along her lace collar.
"Sofía. Really, your safety—it's what Michael worried about most." José placed his hands on her shoulders, and she trembled under his touch.
"It's a chance I'm willing to take. I'll find a way to Valencia next week. Or to France. I'll hire a driver if I must. Just don't question me, José."
English shouts from the automobile outside, pleas—urging the man to hurry—allowed no chance for him to argue.
"Good-bye." Her voice was stern as she turned to the office worker. "I'll see you on the other side. Go before you make everyone else late."
The man cursed under his breath, then hurried away.
José's hand remained on her shoulder. "I'll drive you. After the funeral, I'll take you and . . ."
Planes roaring overheard muffled his words. She didn't need to look out the window to distinguish the black swastikas on their wings. From the sound of their engines, they were Rebel recon planes—most likely sent ahead to discover which areas of Madrid still stood, in order to effectively plan today's bombing raid.
She glanced into his dark eyes and saw there the same sorrow she felt. "And the funeral?"
"It's in two hours. If the bombers don't arrive, that is. . . . Curse this war." José strode from the room and shut the door.
"I'll see you on the other side," she repeated, returning to the garment bag and bunching the light blue fabric of the dress tight in her fist. "Oh, Michael, how could you go ahead without me?"
She'd traveled all this way. Thousands of miles. She'd found a way to illegally cross the closed borders into Spain, and for what? To lose the only man she’d ever loved?
During her time with Benita, Sophie had learned many things—to stitch wounds, to use art to bring healing to children, to trust that God was present always, listening to the prayers and concerns of the needy. Only problem was, Sophie wasn't sure He wanted to hear what she had to say.
God, is this some type of trick? To bring me so close to everything I've ever desired, only to take it away? First the war, then the bombings—now this?
Sophie slowly unbuttoned her blouse, listening to José's heavy footsteps as he moved around the small house. Then the voices of Benita and Luis joined his. Though she couldn't make out their words, knowing they had arrived safely comforted her.
Just as she slipped on the dress, a knock sounded at the door.
"I'll be out in a minute."
"Please hurry, señorita." Luis's voice was low. "We don't have much time. We worry about the bombers coming and have changed the time of the funeral. If we don't pay our respects now, who knows what else the rest of the day will hold. . . ."
Sophie walked through the small group of mourners, drawing nearer to the closed coffin, her blue dress the only spot of color in a sea of black. Upon spotting her, women's heads leaned close together and whispers rippled through the crowd. Sophie ignored them and wove her way to the front.
Only one row of women stood between her and the plain pine coffin. Maria Donita, dressed in black from head to toe, leaned her head on the coffin and sobbed, her wails rising as her shoulders shook.
Sophie lifted her hand, preparing to touch the shoulder of the woman in front of her and ask to pass, when the woman spoke.
"Poor thing. She should not have to deal with such a thing in her condition."
"Her condition?" The second woman patted the tears on her cheeks, then loudly blew her nose in her handkerchief.
"Sí, she is expecting his child. First the American woman arrives, now this. Such tragedy for one so young."
Sophie felt her knees weaken, and she reached out for support, grasping the woman's shoulder. The woman turned, eyes wide, and Sophie immediately recognized her as Maria's sister—the one she had met in the market.
Tears sprang to Sophie's eyes, and she turned and hurried back the way she’d come.
"Sofía!" It was José's voice.
She continued on with staggering steps. Her eyes scanned the road for the carriage José had borrowed for the day. Realizing what she needed even more, she looked around to see if Benita and Luis had arrived. Where are they? She wanted nothing more than to fold herself in Benita's arms, to hear her friend's prayers and know someone cared. Panic clawed at her chest when they were nowhere to be seen.
"Sofía! Wait." José's voice called out to her again, but she knew if she stopped, she’d collapse. She spotted the carriage and moved toward it, tears blurring the cobblestones before her. She tripped, nearly fell, then righted herself again.
"Sofía." His voice was closer now.
Stomping her foot, she turned and pointed a finger at him. "You knew, didn't you?" She swallowed hard and felt her breath coming quicker. "Have I been played for a fool this whole time? If this was the reason he wanted me to leave so badly, why didn't he tell me? The war. The bombings. What a good excuse. If only I had known the truth—" She peered into José's face and saw tears streaming from his eyes too.
"The truth?" His brow furrowed. "What is this you speak of?"
"That woman . . . Maria . . . is pregnant with . . . by . . ." Sophie shook her head and covered her mouth with her hands, unable to say the words or even imagine them.
José opened his arms to her, and she collapsed into his embrace.
"I did not know," he whispered in her ear. "I promise I did not."
Sophie let out a shuddering breath. "If someone would have told me the truth, I would have left," she whispered, wiping her face with her hand. "A child . . . Michael's child? Oh, God, what have I done to deserve such a thing? I can't face this, José. It's too much. Too much for me to bear. The bombings. The fighting, anything but this . . ."
"Oh, dear Sofía. I am so sorry. If it is any consolation, I would have spoken the truth if I had known. Once or twice I watched them dance. And maybe noticed them leaving a party together, but that was before you arrived. I had my concerns, but . . . yes, it is my fault. I should have asked. I should have been so bold as—"
"No." She shook her head. "Don't blame yourself. I—I can't think of this. Let's go far away, shall we? Is there any way we can make it to the French border?"
"Leave Madrid?"
"Yes, José. I want to be anywhere but Madrid."
"Sofíia, are you awake?" José's voice was urgent.
She attempted to open her eyes, but they were thick and sticky from her tears. Even worse than her nightmares of late was the image in her mind of Maria in Michael's arms.
Finally her eyes opened, and the room around her was dim. Somehow, dusk had gathered without Sophie perceiving it.
"Benita and Luis have gone to stay with his sister across town. They didn't want to wake you, but they were needed to help care for their nieces and nephews—some who have lost everything. They would offer you room there, until we leave . . ." He shrugged. "But there is no space. I told them not to worry; you will be well cared for."
"Thank you, José. You are too kind."
José's eyes darted toward the bedroom door as if expecting someone to walk in at any moment. He dug his hands deeper in his pockets. "But there is a problem—a few actually, but one we must discuss first. I have a fiancée, you see. She lives in the north. Ramona is a wonderful and understanding woman, but I'm sure you can agree—it would not be good for us to stay here alone."
Sophie sat up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. "I'm so sorry. Of course, you're right. I'll find a place. Maybe a hotel?"
José cocked an eyebrow. "The hotels are full. They are orphanages now, homes for widows. As you know, there are many refugees from the villages. My neighbor, he is on the front lines. His place is small, but I can stay—"
"No, José. You stay here; this is your home. And I'll go there until we leave." She studied the concerned look on his face. "We can leave so
on, can't we?"
An ache filled Sophie's gut. All the desire that just days ago had made her long to remain in Spain had turned into a need to leave that was equally great.
He let out a low sigh. "I am looking at the possibilities. The front has moved, even in the last few days. The trick will be seeing who is fighting where, who has control of which piece of land, and finding a safe passage."
Sophie's head throbbed. Yet she rose and lifted her satchel from the floor onto the bed, then took the blue dress from the peg on the wall. "I sure have made a mess of things, haven't I? The whole idea of traveling to Spain was a horrible mistake, and staying, even worse."
"Yet somehow we must trust, Sofía, that you are here for a purpose. This turn of events did not surprise our Maker. I, for one, feel honored to have you as a friend."
"Now you're starting to talk like Benita. God this—God that." She tossed the dress onto the bed, considering leaving it. Yet her anger toward Michael and shame over the situation with Maria hadn't completely replaced the love that still lingered. The two feelings formed a jagged edge that parted her heart, and she couldn't wipe away the pain as easily as her tears. "In my opinion, God has a sadistic sense of humor."
"Madre Maria!" José touched his forehead, chest, and shoulders in the sign of the cross. "I would not go that far. Though I do not believe as strongly as Benita does, I still show my respect. I believe." He extended his hands in a gesture of appeal. "But at least you know the truth. No matter what happens from here, you know you've done all you could—loved all that was possible."
"Unfortunately, that's the problem. It seems I have more questions than answers. And with Michael de—" The word caught in her throat. "With Michael gone, there are some things I'll never know."
Chapter Twenty
Workers and anti-Fascists of all lands! We
the workers of Spain are poor, but we are
pursuing a noble ideal. Our fight is your
fight. Our victory is the victory of liberty.
We are the vanguard of the international
proletariat in our fight against fascism.
Men and women of all lands! Come to
our aid! Arms for Spain
Republican appeal
One bare, dusty lightbulb fought to illuminate the room packed with men. No wonder the Communist cause is so strong in this country, Philip thought as he stepped lightly through the group to where Attis sat in the far corner.
The prevalence of poverty humbled him. Though the main avenues of Barcelona and Madrid displayed extravagance, the common people lived in small shacks and had a few tattered garments and meager food—barely enough to survive.
No wonder they're willing to fight and die for the hope of something better for their children. Philip was glad he could help with their efforts.
Attis rested against the wall with no blanket or pillow, reclining in a half lying, half sitting position. As of late, they slept in shifts, mostly to protect the front lines surrounding Madrid, but also because there was no room for all of them to lie side by side in the cramped warehouse.
Philip reached Attis and squeezed himself between two other sound-asleep soldiers, wedging himself by Attis's feet.
"Weird dreams last night," Attis mumbled, opening one eye. "You should have woken me up."
Philip laughed, trying to forget the imprinted images of shredded bodies and the haunting memories of pained cries on the front lines—anything to forget. "As if your dream was my fault? What'd you dream about?"
"Dreamt I was back in school, and I showed up to find everyone waiting on stage for me—I was supposed to be the drummer in some type of band performance. Only problem was, I didn't know the rhythm. The beat kept changing in my ear until I threw down the sticks and ran from the stage."
As if on cue, the concussion of ground artillery shook the brick building, flaking a layer of ceiling plaster that fell like snow. The machine guns' rat-a-tat-tat soon followed.
Philip yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, that is a confusing beat to follow. I had a few dreams too."
"Any pretty girls?"
"Now that would have been nice. A caring American girl with dark eyes and a sweet smile. If I could have ordered up that dream, you know I would have."
The man next to Philip coughed and rolled onto his side.
Philip lowered his voice. "Actually, we were back in Barcelona, and both of us were racing. We lined up, preparing to start, and my dad showed up with his big, black Bible. He told me he had some encouragement for the race, but I pushed him away, telling him I didn't have time." Philip's voice caught in his throat. "It made me miss him, even if it was only in a dream. Surely, he and Mom received my letter by now, telling them where we are and why we’re staying. I wonder what they said. They must think I've lost my mind."
The man on Philip's left side stirred, accidentally kicking Philip's shin. Philip rubbed the sore spot and nudged Attis, urging him to scoot closer to the wall.
"I was anxious for Louise's letter too, hoping she'd agree with my decision to stay. I told her as an anti-fascist, I saw this as my opportunity to stop aggression before another world war erupted. She’s a Communist too, you know. She embraced the cause after seeing how the Party has helped the unemployed and homeless."
"You said you were anxious. Does that mean you've heard from her?"
Attis straightened and slid a letter from his pocket. "Arrived yesterday."
"And you didn't tell me?" Philip playfully slugged Attis's socked foot.
Attis shrugged. "I just needed time to read it alone, think about it. Wanna hear?"
"Of course.
Attis cleared his throat.
Dear Attis,
Darling, though I miss you greatly, I truly understand your desire to fight for this cause in Spain. Though my heart wishes you were home again, my mind knows full well the importance of your fight. I consider you a liberator, my dear—giving your time, your spunk, and mostly your hope. During our three years together, I have seen your desire to do your part in opposing social, financial, and racial injustic. And, deep down, I see this as a new birth of who you were truly meant to be. . . .
Attis paused. "It goes on from there, personal stuff—married stuff, you know."
Philip glanced to the high, lone window, but it gave no hint dawn would arrive anytime soon. "Actually, I don't—wish I did."
Attis refolded the letter and stuffed it back into his pocket. "In that case—it probably would interest you, but I'm still not gonna let you read it."
The man next to Philip turned and sat up, resting on his elbow. "Hope you don't mind me butting in, ol' chap, but that letter sounds like a Take Three to me."
"Take three?" Attis rubbed his jaw and cocked one eyebrow.
"Don't you know how they do it in Hollywood? Being Americans and all, you should. When they're filming those movies, they usually don't like the first thing they capture on film. So the next time, they say 'Take Two' and try again. They keep on going until they get it right."
"So what are you trying to tell me?"
The red-haired man pulled out a pipe and lit it, pressing it between his lips and speaking out of the side of his mouth. "My pappy, he was after fightin' in the Great War. I'm Breck O'Malley, by the way; nice to meet yer."
Breck didn't give them time to respond before he continued, puffing with each sentence. "My mother, bless her departed soul, she'd pull out a piece of paper, cursin' and mumblin', complainin' about all the things going wrong on the farm and yellin' at Pappy for leavin' her to deal with so much. Then she'd crumble that letter and toss it aside and write a second. Sometimes she'd mail that one; other times she'd rewrite it again, leavin' out everything but her undyin' love and support."
He pulled his pipe from his mouth and pointed toward Attis. "Yes sir, that's a Take Three, and you should be glad of it. I'd say that your rubbish pail was after dealin' with the first two drafts. Like my pappy said, there is nothing worse than a woman's scorn."
<
br /> "Or as my father used to say," Philip added, "it's better to live in the corner of an attic than in a fine home with a contentious woman. Then again . . ." He scanned the sleeping men. "An attic would be moving up in the world."
The two men laughed, and Philip joined them.
Philip cocked his head and studied the man with a mischievous grin. "I'm after thinkin' you might be Irish, O'Malley. Am I right?"
"Yes, lad, but don't be spreadin' that rumor. I'm tryin' to keep up on my English; otherwise, they might send me to the Germans."
"Germans? You mean the ones fighting for Franco?"
"No, sir. There are German volunteers in the International Brigades. Most of the Irishmen have been teamed up with them for the fight. Those Germans are as anti-fascist as the rest of us. A few welcomed us with food, wine, and women after our hike over the Pyrenees. Most were born and raised there—as German as they come. One man was even a Berliner, in fact."
"Is that so? I assumed all Germans would be on the other side," Attis said.
"Not quite. One in the group told me he'd been in Spain over three years now. As members of the Party, the chaps fled when Hitler took office." He spread his hand around the room. "There's quite a crew collectin'. They're callin' themselves the Thaelmann Battalion, in honor of Ernst Thaelmann, leader of the German Communist party. Thaelmann got a good number of votes when he ran against Hitler, you know. But not near enough."
"Wasn't he arrested after the Reichstag fire?" Attis sat up straighter. "Remember me telling you about that, Philip? He's still in prison."
Philip nodded, though he had to admit that too often it was easier to let his mind wander than to keep straight all of Attis's political concerns.
"Those Thaelmanns are a good group, really they are, but I speak better English than German. . . ." Breck lowered his voice and leaned close. "Besides, I've heard rumors of spies among them. Pro-Nazi soldiers sent in to infiltrate our lines." Breck shrugged. "Then again, lad, that could be said of any of us. It all comes down to trust, doesn't it now. Trustin' that the man watchin' your back is truly on your side."
Valley of Betrayal Page 16
