Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Deion nearly pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. He finished his dinner and then jingled the coins in his pockets, realizing he had enough money left over to visit the Savoy Ballroom on Lenox Avenue. As he strode the streets of Harlem, he recognized one of the guys he'd first met marching through the streets of New York shouting anti-fascist slogans. The man, Jeb was his name, immediately recognized him and paused in the street, offering Deion a pat on the back. Jeb was slightly shorter and quite a bit wider than Deion, with skin so dark it made Deion's look pale in comparison.

  "You looking good; glad to see you. I assume you found yourself a job?"

  "Sure enough, I got one at Father Divine's where you introduced me around."

  "Good, good." Jeb rocked back on his feet. "Good people, they are. Hey, what are you doing tonight? There's a speaker over at one of the local clubs talking about Spain."

  "Is that right? I'm in."

  They strode through the streets of Harlem, and though the sky had already darkened, it seemed as if the people were just getting wound up for the long night ahead. Crowds were lined up at the Apollo for a movie. More people, spit-shined and gussied up in their finest, made their way over to the Savoy where two bands played nightly.

  "So you like it better here than in Chicagee?" Jeb flashed a smile as they passed a group of young ladies.

  "You kidding? I feel like I found my own. Finally, some folks who don't think I'm nuts for my political leanings."

  "I know what you mean. I read Hitler's book myself, and I figured that if those things are happening to the Jews, the Negroes won't be too far behind."

  Deion let out a sigh. "You got that right. It's the same enemy I been fightin' all my life. I saw babies starve to death, and men—boys, really—lynched for being black." Deion shook his head as if trying to dislodge the memory that was never too far away.

  They neared a tall, brick building that looked like hundreds of others on the New York streets. Jeb took the front steps two at a time and opened the door for Deion.

  "That's why I talk to others wherever I go. I'm sure if our colored community knew more, they'd be willing to help. The only problem is, they're living hand to mouth, working hard just to fill their stomachs. They don't have time to consider world events."

  Before they entered the room, already filled with men, Jeb stopped him. "Have you joined officially? For fifty cents you can get a red card."

  Deion turned his near-empty pockets inside out. "Heck, alls I got is three dimes. I'm not even sure where I'll be sleeping tonight."

  Jeb slipped a crisp dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Deion. The edges were sharp as if it had just rolled off the press that morning.

  "What's this for.?"

  "Oh, just one comrade helping another. And I'm offering you a place to stay, if you don't mind sleeping on the floor."

  "Mind? I nearly froze on a bench in Central Park last night."

  "Good, that's settled." Jeb waved to one of the men at the door. "Your brothers will take care of you, you'll see."

  Deion had barely stepped over the threshold of the small meeting room when a white man with skin leathery and tanned from the sun, light blue eyes, and a wide smile approached with his hand outstretched. He wore some type of uniform. Deion stepped aside, sure someone far more important stood behind him. But the man moved toward him, reaching Deion's side and taking his hand with a firm grasp.

  "Welcome, comrade. Thiz is first time you are com-ink here, cor-rect?"

  The r's rolled off the man's tongue, and Deion recognized the Russian accent. A true Russian Communist, welcoming him.

  "Yessir." Deion lowered his eyes. "Thank you, sir."

  "Nyet. No yessir-r, no sir-r, or any other sir-r." The man patted Deion's arm. "You, my comrade, are an asset to our cause. Who better to speak of equality and unity than one who his whole life has lived under the power of others?"

  "Did Jeb tell you that?" Deion dared look into the man's blue eyes and was surprised to find acceptance there—more than that, admiration.

  "Jeb? Nyet. I do not know thiz Jeb. I see it in your eyes, comrade. Thiz is gaze of one who fears to stir the waters, to speak his mind. But let me say, the time for silence is past. Your voice is as important as any other in our new fight. Nyet. More important. Come."

  The man took Deion's elbow and guided him to the front of the room, offering him a seat in the front row.

  "Here?" Deion asked, still unsure. He felt almost certain it was some type of trick.

  "Yes, here." The man sat beside him. "We wait."

  Only a minute passed, and a hush fell over the room. After a round of welcoming applause, the man at Deion's side was introduced as General Bogdan Kralka. With a set of his chin and erect stance, he strode to the front of the room.

  "Comrades, before I tell you about new developments in Spain, I must warn you." His jaw jutted out and his eyes grew serious. "A great need has arisen, and we are call-ink comrades to arms. I do not look for mercenaries or soldiers of fortune. Nyet. You will earn nothing for effort—nothing but pride. If chosen, the trip will be long—into southern France and across the Pyrenees by foot into Spain. You will face thirst and hunger, loss of friends. Perhaps your life."

  He pointed to a large map of Spain on the wall. Pins marked major points of interest, and lines of red yarn marked the current front.

  A tremble traveled through Deion's body at the thought of actually traveling there. Could he, the grandson of a slave from Mississippi, actually find himself in Spain walking the land and fighting for the people?

  "Yet there will be great reward. For the rest of your days you will have satisfaction of know-ink you had a part in stop-pink the spread of Fascism!"

  Out of the corner of his eye, Deion spotted Jeb raising his hand. Deion did the same.

  "Do you have question?" The general pointed to Jeb.

  "Yes, sir. I was wondering about fund-raising efforts. How will the cost of transporting men be covered?"

  "I am sorry. For se-cur-rity, small information can be given at thiz time. Only after recruits pass the interviews will they receive instructions about such things as funds and passports." He pointed to Deion. "And you, comrade. Do you have question?"

  Deion stood. He removed his cap from his head, twisting it in his hands. "No, sir, I did not. . . . I just didn't want to miss signing up."

  Chapter Twenty One

  Vámonos que nos vamos a major.

  Let's go, we're getting wet.

  Spanish proverb

  Sophie waved good-bye to José and shut the door. She let her smile drop as she surveyed the large room divided into a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. Dust particles danced in the light that filtered through the door and single barred window, which looked into the weed-strewn courtyard.

  Her smile flitted back slightly when she noted the cluster of candles on the table and the small bunch of flowers arranged in a jar next to the flickering light. José . . . what a friend.

  Sophie put down her satchel and set to work sweeping up the dirt her shoes had carried in. She folded the rug in half and laughed out loud, noticing that the wooden floor had been recently repainted—except under the rug. She moved to the next rug, by the small sink basin, and noticed the same.

  Returning the broom to the corner, she plopped onto a spindly chair, causing it to nearly flip onto its side. A burst of laughter spouted, and tears came too. But those tears opened the floodgate for more, and she gulped them back so loudly she was sure it was heard at the market next door.

  With the tears came a sudden weariness, and though her stomach rumbled, she blew out the candles and found her way to the bed, climbing under a soft blanket that smelled of José's shaving soap.

  What did she have to look forward to? She'd lost Michael. Not only that, she didn't know if he ever had loved her. He'd lied to her about Maria. Even when she confronted him, he'd looked into her eyes and lied. With the passing hours since his death, she had lost every feeling of be
ing loved herself.

  And where did that leave her? Alone in a foreign country. Forced to return to Boston with everyone knowing how big a fool she had been.

  I'd rather die than face them.

  The siren bellowed over the rooftops of the city, stirring Sophie from her troubled sleep. She was surprised when she opened her eyes and noticed the morning sun shining through the windows.

  "Air raid!" she heard the old man upstairs call to his wife. "Air raid!"

  Doors slammed as people moved toward the shelter in the basement.

  "The morning song, waking us again." She sighed. And with the siren the thoughts that had replayed in her mind returned. I might as well be dead. I have nothing to live for.

  Following the siren came the faint rumble of aircraft engines in the clouds. And everything within Sophie told her not to run. Only then would the pain stop.

  She sat up, retrieved a comb from her satchel, and ran it through her hair.

  The whistle came first, then a pause, followed by a deep thud.

  Another bomb hit, close enough to cause the apartment to shiver. Flecks of whitewash drifted from the ceiling, and incongruously, she wondered if it was snowing in Boston. The next bomb hit, and the whole building shook. The lamp on the side table tipped, shattering, spilling its precious oil on the floor. With slow steps she retrieved some rags she found near the sink and cleaned up the glass and oil.

  The bombs fell so steadily, it was as if the dark blue sky above them had shattered. She imagined it falling like shards of glass all around, blades of destruction slicing through anything in their path.

  Sophie didn't know how long it was before the sounds of motors faded away. The smell of smoke and scorched stone drifted in through her front door that had somehow been knocked open.

  She thought about rising and forcing herself to the Hotel Palace, now a home for orphaned children. If the bombs didn't kill her, at least it would be something to live for. Maybe they would need art lessons there too. Anything to keep her mind busy. She tried to picture the hotel as it was when she first arrived. It was so different now from the exquisite showplace Michael had first squired her to.

  Michael. . .

  Had it only been four months since she arrived in the city? What a different place Madrid was then. Now, twice a day Fascist planes attacked, and somehow that seemed normal. Was it only weeks ago that the cafés were full, music filled the clean streets, flowers bloomed in the plazas, and children danced in the fountains? Last night she'd dreamed of what life must have been antes de la Guerra . . . before the war. If she'd arrived even two months earlier. The wedding, the groom. Maybe she would have arrived before Michael and Maria . . . she shook her head, banishing that thought.

  Many laughed away the shortages, the hunger, the confusion. But the air raids cut to the core. The loss of life pained the city the most.

  Sophie snatched up José's blanket and the broom and made her way to the courtyard. Sweeping the dead leaves into a pile, she spread out her blanket and lay down on her back, feeling the sun warm her face. She stayed there until the sun dropped behind the tall buildings and the planes came again. Like a string of dots from the south, they grew in her view like sponges soaking up the sky, growing and changing before her eyes.

  The ground shook once more, and she went back inside, taking in the view from her window. She was certain this time the slithering snakes falling from the sky hit the stone buildings of the Gran Via. The street beyond the apartment building moved like waves from the sea. Then, as she watched, a voice broke through her consciousness.

  "Nuestros! Nuestros! Ours!"

  Sophie sat up straighter, noting the small "hummingbirds," as the small Russian planes were called, that attacked the large German bombers. Right overhead now, the clatter of machine guns caused her heart to pound. Men, women, and children rushed into the street to watch. At least six of the Russian fighters darted and jabbed at the flying beasts. A roar rose from the crowd as the first of the German aircraft stalled, rolled over, and plummeted to the ground somewhere beyond the Manzanares River.

  "Beautiful! Estupendo! Our saviors!" Men and women alike waved red handkerchiefs in the air.

  Another German bomber burst into flames, and pieces of metal broke loose, glimmering as they fell to the earth. Sophie then noticed a small German Bf.109, a slender monoplane. It swung over the city low, then turned and attacked the hummingbirds. One of Benita's prayers filled her mind, and she repeated it from memory.

  "Teach Your people to rely on Your strength and to accept their responsibilities to their fellow citizens, that we may serve You faithfully in our generation and honor Your holy name."

  And with those words, she thought of the people, their divisions, their desire for peace. She also thought of the peace she so desperately needed for her soul. The strength she needed. The faith.

  Sophie took a deep breath and finished the prayer, realizing more than anything she desired it to mean the same to her as it did to Benita.

  "For Yours is the kingdom, O Lord, and You are exalted above all."

  And as if the clouds in her foggy mind cleared, she looked to the hummingbirds in the sky that fought so worthily against the enemy. If they, so small, can fight, I can too. She straightened her shoulders. To live. To love again.

  The smaller German plane shuddered and drifted away, wounded. The hummingbird had hit its mark, and Sophie found herself wiping tears from her face. Tears she didn't know had trickled down her cheek.

  The bells of a fire vehicle rang out in the distance, and a deeper, more sacred ringing stirred in her soul. Like the emotion evoked by the church bells she’d first heard around town, the reminder of God's loving presence sounded in her soul.

  He is near. Come, the church bells used to say. Come.

  Philip scanned the crowd, trying to remember the names of the volunteers he'd already met. Breck, Henry, Richard . . . and many more whose names had slipped his mind.

  Philip had lost track of how many days they'd waited for additional weapons and instructions—three, maybe four. Beside him, Attis shivered and complained about "sunny Spain." A man walked through the lines handing out oranges and cigarettes. Most of the volunteers were British, a few French, and even some Poles and Germans made up their ranks. Some men curled back-to-back against a stone wall, like kittens nestled up to their mother. They were the newest arrivals, catching up on sleep from their journey to Madrid, and Philip wished he were among them. At least sleep made the time go faster.

  The loudspeakers crackled, but the news was the same as it had been. More volunteers were soon to arrive. With them, food and weapons.

  "Oh, joy, more welcome speeches," Attis muttered. "I've heard them often enough to give them myself."

  The fighting had died down slightly, and now their commanders filled their time with political speeches, encouraging them to continue their fight. Preaching to the choir. It was one of his father's favorite sayings.

  Finally, as afternoon rolled around, the courtyard came alive with calisthenics and drills. Philip chuckled at the sight of Attis running in place.

  "Gee, I hope you don't tire yourself out, old boy. You haven't been on your running legs for a while."

  Attis shrugged and pumped his legs harder, not even winded. "It's like riding a bicycle, ol' chap," he answered, mimicking the British volunteers. "It all comes back once you start."

  One of the commanders approached, calling out the names of those heading back to the front lines. Philip's gaze met Attis's, and he could tell his friend hoped their names would be called. Sitting in ditches and hearing the sounds of bullets whizzing overhead was far more exciting than sitting around doing nothing.

  Finally Philip's name was called, but Attis's was not.

  "Excuse me, comrade. My name wasn't on the list, but if I could, I'd like to join my friend."

  "Name?" The man cocked his head to look into Attis's face.

  "Attis Brody, sir."

  The balding man sl
ipped a pencil from behind his ear and jotted the name on the list. "Fine, but hustle now, lad. The truck is leaving in a few minutes."

  "Yes, sir." Attis threw the man a salute, then reached out a hand to help Philip to his feet.

  Attis's hand was warm and big, as was his smile, and Philip couldn't help but chuckle. For though the crisp air brought a chill to his bones, Attis helped him forget the cold, the hunger. Crazy Attis somehow made him feel as if Spain was one great big adventure, after all, like the camping trips they took as kids or the war games they played with sticks and shouts. War games in which the good guys always won.

  Someone knocked on the door. Sophie opened it to find José, but it was a different José from the one she knew. His face was ruggedly handsome as always, but his eyes seemed weary—older than the old men with gray hair and wrinkled skin who sat on the benches in the plaza.

  "I was downtown today, inquiring about the best route for leaving the country. To see if we could not travel a slightly different route and see my future bride. Communication has been scarce over the past month, and I worry she is not well—perhaps she is busy as a nurse? Or maybe there is more danger in the area than the radio suggests."

  José looked at Sophie, but she could tell he was not seeing her face. It was another woman who invaded his thoughts. "I'm going to talk to a few more men at the tavern—perhaps new information has come in."

  "Tavern?"

  "Sí, señorita. Around here, the taverns are more like universities. If you want to know anything about everything of importance, you will hear it there." He pointed a finger in the air. "Or, depending on whom you choose to listen to, you might learn everything about that which has no importance at all."

  "May I go with you?"

  "To the tavern?"

  "Yes, anything to get out of this place for a while. As wonderful as it is," she quickly added, "some fresh air will do me good."