Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  "Oh, yes," Philip said, jumping into the conversation. "I saw one up close—you should see the 45-mm cannon mounted on the turret. It can pivot 360 degrees. I've never seen anything like it."

  The man drifted off in a fitful, pain-induced sleep as they drove back the way they'd come. As he slept, his head lolled back and forth until Sophie sat up straighter and moved it to her shoulder. With a sigh, the man nestled in, for the first time a gentle peace crossing his face.

  "So are you this kind to all strangers?" Philip asked with a cocked eyebrow.

  "Only tall, blond men who risk their lives on the front line. . . ."

  Philip let out a low whistle and ran his fingers through his hair.

  "And only when they've been injured and are in so much pain that they don't take it as a flirtation."

  "In that case . . ." Philip shook his head and turned his attention out the side window. "I'd rather wait for the out-and-out flirtation. . . ."

  From the slight reflection of the window, Sophie was sure she saw a grin cross Philip's face—a first since they'd crossed paths. And something she hoped to see more of in the future.

  Reports of a second wave of intense fighting made Commander Johnson second-guess his permission for Sophie to visit the front lines.

  "Do a painting of the injured men, señorita. At least until we know the tide of the battle. You are no use to our war effort if you are dead."

  Again, Sophie feigned enthusiasm for the changed plan.

  The next morning Philip waited for her in the small hospital ward. She smiled when she noticed he'd already set up her easel in front of the large window and next to the stove that warmed the room.

  He offered a slight grin as she entered, then dug his hands into his pockets. "Chilly out there. Why don't I see if I can find us something warm?"

  "Thank you, Philip. That would be wonderful."

  And with a small good-bye wave he strode from the room.

  The German soldier they had picked up the day before lay in the cot closest to her. "I am very sorry to have caused such trouble. Your friend, he has told me about your mission to paint canvases—to gather sympathy of your . . . our cause," the man said.

  "Ritter, right?" She settled onto the stool and slid an old uniform shirt over her own clothes—a makeshift painter's frock. "I suppose God had a purpose for my being here instead. Maybe to paint you?"

  His eye's widened with fear, and she laughed. "Oh, do not worry, comrade. You look better today . . . not so gray and pasty."

  Ritter shook his head. "No, I do not think that is such a good idea. . . ." He glanced over at the journal. "I escaped a camp inside Germany, you see. There are many who would like to know where I am. Who would kill me where I lie if they only knew where that was."

  Sophie turned the easel slightly and cocked her head, taking in the light of the room, the sensation of battle anxiety—even though they were a distance from the front lines. Taking in the many voices that spoke to each other in soft tones and in words she couldn't understand.

  "Fine then. I don't do very well with faces anyway, truth be told. I'm much better with landscapes. Besides . . ." She nodded toward a man in the next cot. White bandages circled his head, and red seeped through from a head wound. "That guy has a far more interesting injury. Blood stirs more interest than an old cast."

  A spurt of laughter erupted from the German, seeming to surprise even him.

  "Ouch," he moaned, holding his ribs. "Please warn me if you attempt humor again."

  Just then Philip entered the room, balancing three tins of coffee in his hands. He handed one to Sophie. Placing his on the windowsill, he turned to the German. "It's not very tasty, but it's warm."

  Surprise registered again on Ritter's face, and he sat up slightly, taking the cup from Philip's hand. "Danke."

  Noticing the unnatural tilt of his head, Sophie placed her own cup on the sill next to Philip's and moved toward the German. "Here, let me help you with your pillow. If you could scoot up a little more, we can fix this." He did as he was told, and she adjusted the pillow, setting it behind his shoulder blades. "There, is that better?"

  The man nodded, but his attention was on a small plane taxiing into the field just beyond the makeshift hospital.

  "Is that some type of airfield?" He sipped his coffee, trying to appear only vaguely interested, but Sophie noted the spark of fascination in his gaze.

  "Hardly." Philip settled down on a chair next to the man's bed, also turning his attention to the window. "There's usually only one plane out there. Two if you count the one with some type of mechanical problem. They're mostly used for reconnaissance work—keeping the commanders up to date on the fighting. From what I overheard, they're looking for a mechanic to assist them." Philip cracked a grin. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about planes, would you?"

  The German shrugged and sighed. "No, only a former appreciation that has turned into fear. Even as I slept last night, they filled my dreams. After all, what would it be like to have the bombs fall with this thing weighing me down?" He softly knocked on his plaster cast.

  "Not to worry." Philip leaned closer to the man, resting his elbows on knees. "If I've learned one thing in the war, it's this . . . deep, close friendships may be rare, but a helping hand is never too far away. We’re all in this together, and we didn't volunteer because we're watching out for ourselves."

  "No, I suppose not." Ritter quickly lowered his gaze. "I never thought of it that way before." Then he closed his eyes.

  And whether it was weariness that overwhelmed him, or a distant memory that stirred his thoughts, Sophie couldn't help but notice the man's features soften . . . as if realizing for the first time that he could rest in safety, far from the front lines.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  A quien madruga, Dios le ayuda.

  God helps those who get up early.

  Spanish proverb

  As Ritter lay in the dark hospital room, his mind considered every possibility for escape. One of the airplanes, he knew, would provide the easiest route once he fled into the air. The problem, of course, was making it onto the field without being discovered. Not only that, but getting into the aircraft unassisted while wearing the heavy cast and feeling so weak was a major problem. He grew tired after sitting too long. He couldn't imagine finding the energy to make it out to the plane.

  He also replayed in his mind the best way to hurt the enemy. Could he sabotage their weapons? Spy on their commander's office? Or maybe he should think ahead to their efforts to gain support from the war effort.

  That woman artist. . . she is a greater threat than the simple soldiers. As someone who had followed Germany's propaganda efforts, Ritter knew all too well how a speech, a song, an image could move the hearts of the people.

  Maybe it would be better to wait. To heal. To discover his enemies' weakness. To befriend the woman and the American soldier. To use them for his escape. And then to make sure their plans to recruit for their cause died with them.

  Philip scooted his chair closer to the woodstove—closer to Sophie, actually—to get a better look at the painting. It was an image of the hospital room, the beds lined up, the men displayed in their various forms of brokenness—without Ritter, as promised. Ritter, who slept peacefully not four feet from them and seemed to be healing well.

  It was one of three paintings she had completed in the past four weeks. The others were images of Madrid—skies filled with enemy bombers while rows of men marched out to battle. Another of a lone man lying in the street, cut down by a sniper's bullet.

  A soft smile rested on Sophie's lips, despite the pain and anguish Philip noted in the hospital painting.

  "You seem content, Sophie. Each day, it's as if you transform the canvas with the pictures in your mind, and the canvas does its own transformation within you."

  "I've painted as long as I can remember. The colors and shapes come together in my mind, and I give them life on the canvas. It's more like I'm relating a
message than creating it. And though I question many things about my life, I never have questioned my art."

  "I can see why."

  "And what about you, Philip? You ask so many questions about me, my life. What's going on inside there?" She pointed to his heart.

  "Oh, I don't know. I guess you could say I'm a work in progress. Only instead of holding a brush in my hand, I suppose my ideals are expressed by my involvement in this war." He patted his rifle, set in the corner of the room, but never farther than arm's reach.

  "You can't compare war with art." Sophie picked at the paint under her nails, then cocked her head and studied the canvas before her.

  "I couldn't disagree more. Each morning when a soldier wakes up, there's an image in his mind he's trying to capture. For me it's an image passed on by my friend. A picture of poor people having the same respect, the same freedom, as the rich. We're both idyllic dreamers, Sophie. Only I know that for my picture to come to pass, it requires many shades of red."

  "It's a good picture—the equality part, that is. And I think I understand what you're saying. I paint with brushes; you, on the other hand, lace up your boots and clean your rifle for the day's battle. I never thought about it that way."

  "Nor did I when I waited on the front line. Lately, I feel as if I'm falling behind on my responsibilities."

  "I'm not so sure." She chuckled. "It might be easier facing those Moroccan soldiers than dealing with me."

  Commander Johnson strode into the room, and Philip noticed Sophie's face brighten as the commander nodded appreciatively at the painting on the easel.

  "Good work. I already have word that as soon as it is finished and shipped, it will appear in the Daily Worker . . . and perhaps a few other, more well-known magazines."

  "Thank you." Sophie smiled at the compliment and turned to Philip, who nodded his agreement.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ritter awaken, yawn, and stretch.

  "Then we're heading out to the front lines?" Philip asked as much for himself as for Sophie's sake.

  "Yes, there's a battle mounting near the river Jarama. The Nationalists are attempting to push the line forward."

  Ritter sat up straighter in his bed, his eyes bright. "I would like to go too, if possible. My strength has returned, and surely it is time for the cast to be removed."

  Commander Johnson crossed his arms over his chest, and Ritter seemed to cower slightly under the man's gaze. "I will check with your doctor and see what can be done. I appreciate those who are eager to get back on the lines."

  He turned to leave, then paused, reaching for the newspaper tucked under his arm. "Oh, I almost forgot."

  Philip noted a twinkle in the commander's eyes.

  "Your first painting—the one we sent by courier last month—has already made the press." He handed the newspaper to Sophie.

  She opened it and gasped. A black-and-white print of her Madrid bombing scene had made the front page. "Is this a French paper?"

  "Yes. The story talks about the bombings themselves. More than that, copies of your painting have been made into colored posters and now hang around the city. You should be proud, Sophie. I cannot tell you how much this helps our cause."

  With only faint light rays seeping through the window to light the twelve beds in the room, Ritter listened as the nurse's footsteps padded down the hall. Then he quietly slid off the covers. She had been later tonight than usual, caring for a new batch of wounded soldiers from the front lines. With every injured man carried through the doors, Ritter inwardly cheered, knowing his teammates performed their job well.

  Now only a few hours separated the night nurse from the early morning shift. He had to move quickly. He looked to his knapsack, then decided to leave it all except his knife. He slid it into its sheath.

  Four days had passed since he first saw the French newspaper with Sophie's painting on the front page. Four days of sneaking out to work on the airplane in the hangar. Four nights to convince himself he could do what needed to be done . . . finish off the biggest threat to their cause.

  He climbed from the bed, thankful there would be no sleep tonight. Last night, after returning from his work on the plane, he’d dropped into bed exhausted, only to dream about his winter wedding again. Only this time, instead of Isanna walking down the aisle to him, it was Sophie. Beautiful dark-haired Sophie, whose wit and charm tempted him not to follow through with what he knew he had to do.

  Ritter slid on the mechanics overalls he’d hidden under his mattress and quietly shuffled out of the hospital ward into the crisp night air. He'd been caught only once, peering at the plane with his stolen flashlight. Thankfully his mumbled excuse about how Commander Johnson needed the plane by morning had worked. The guard hadn't even noted anything odd about Ritter's outstretched right leg.

  One more connection between the ignition wires, and he'd be on his way. But first he had to deal with Sophie.

  He crept along to the small cluster of cottages not far from the hospital. Earlier in the day, the window near his hospital cot had afforded a view of Philip carrying the easel to the third cottage, setting it up for her to paint by the window, peering out at the fading sun as she worked.

  Ritter made his way to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. He took a deep breath. The image of her walking down the aisle wouldn't leave him.

  But her paintings . . .

  He turned the knob, and the door opened slightly. Just then, the sound of an approaching truck startled him. Its headlights bounced over the road, and he knew in a matter of seconds they'd see him. Releasing the knob, he moved around the corner of the building, squatting behind some overgrown shrubs the best he could.

  The truck stopped outside the cottages, and he heard the sound of a man's footsteps approaching. Then an urgent knock pounded on the cottage door. The unlatched door creaked open.

  "Sophie?" It was Philip's voice. "Are you in there? Is there a reason why your door is open?"

  Ritter cursed under his breath, then wondered if he could kill them both and still have time to make it to the plane. Already a thin layer of light promised the new dawn.

  The driver. There's a truck driver out there too . . . it would be too noisy. And then I'd have to give up my escape.

  Sliding the knife into the sheath, he turned and scurried toward the airplane.

  He hobbled the best he could, removed the chocks from the wheels, and climbed into the plane. He'd be in the sky before he knew it. Heading back to the Nationalist side of the lines. And then he could forget any of this had ever happened.

  Ritter waited until Philip and Sophie jumped into the truck and the headlights slid out of view, then started the engine. He smiled, noting how it purred like a kitten, and he realized that perhaps their planes arriving in boxes hadn't been such a bad thing, after all.

  Ritter taxied onto the field and aligned the plane with the barely visible ruts that defined the runway. A glance toward the cottages revealed lights coming on and two doors open, showing the profiles of men investigating the noise.

  He shoved the throttle lever all the way forward, and soon he was in the air, forcing himself to ignore his conflicted soul.

  Though many of the volunteers had previously served in the military, the Americans, Deion discovered, were the least trained soldiers of the International Brigades. They made a pact among themselves that they'd prove their worth by excelling at the front. And today they'd get their chance.

  Their task was to hold the lines in the valley surrounding the river Jarama. It was a land of rough scrub and gentle slopes, covered with leafy olive trees.

  Deion stepped lightly, just one of a small group of men walking through the river valley. Their leader, twenty yards ahead, raised his hand and signaled them to stop. The pounding of Nationalist artillery was evident. Every now and then—hearing an approaching shell—the leader motioned for them to hit the ground. But there was no guarantee of safety.

  As Deion walked, he spotted eviden
ce of the previous bombardments—bodies scattered in the fields or leaning up against the base of trees. Many images of the trip to the valley filled his mind as he moved along—the square with the Baroque church, the road with many hairpin turns, the gray village on the hill. He'd come to the front after an unpleasant ride in the back of a van, only to wish he could return—to experience the countryside they'd passed through so quickly. Maybe he'd get that chance, for when Deion received his rifle and helmet, a promise followed that when he returned he’d be transferred to the drivers' pool.

  As they prepared to climb into the vans and trucks to take them to the front lines, their commander had offered these parting words.

  "Men, before you head to the lines, there is one thing you need to understand. The Fascists came to suppress the people, yet we are here to do the people's will. The People's Front contains various parties, and we are not to prefer one party more than another. Hitler and Mussolini have sent hundreds of planes, hundreds of thousands of men, and a vast quantity of machines to conquer the people. Our purpose is to make sure they don't succeed. If we have come to fight for our own agenda, then we will do so in vain. What sort of government the Spanish people decide to have is up to them, not to us. For that reason we will wear no party insignia."

  Hearing that, Deion had removed his Party armband. For the first time he wondered if he’d come with the right motives, after all. No, he didn't want to impose his views on anyone else . . . but what about those who'd sent him?

  A shout broke his reverie. "Everyone get down!"

  Gunfire broke out, and a man only ten yards in front of Deion crumbled to the ground. Deion dropped facedown, hands on his helmet, pulling it tighter on his head. Then he heard another cry off to his left. On a bridge in the distance, a large colored man held a knife to the throat of a Brigade member. With one quick motion he slit the man's throat, then pushed the convulsing body over the side of the bridge. It tumbled like a limp rag doll, splashing into the river below.