Father Manuel knew there was one more thing he needed to do, and that was to speak out. Louder, bolder if necessary. To stir the people from their complacency. To wake them up from their naive belief that the enemy would not touch their town. Would not touch their souls.
The dead man's face would have appeared to be gently sleeping but for his pasty, translucent skin and utterly still features. Sophie unwrapped the bandage from his arm . . . gingerly, not to avoid hurting the arm, but to avoid tearing the precious bandage.
This was the third hospital at which she'd worked in the last month and a half. During that time, she had followed the troops to photograph the harshest battles, then ridden back with the injured. Only over the course of a month, the situation was getting worse, not better. There were not enough medical workers or supplies. Bandages, in fact, were so scarce that they were forced to remove them from the dead and boil them to sterilize them for reuse.
She turned slightly and noted the familiar eyes on her. She had a new driver, the man who had ridden back with her from the Jarama River Valley. She'd helped care for him in the weeks that followed. And when he was told he could no longer serve on the battlefield due to the disability the injury had caused, he had offered to be her driver instead.
"I got some dinner for you when you're ready, Miss Sophie. They call it arroz con pollo, but it shore looks like chicken and rice to me." A wide smile filled his face, and he stretched out his offering. The tin plate seemed small in the man's large hands.
"Thank you, Deion. Let me clean up, and I'll meet you out front in a few minutes. And, Deion—no more 'Miss,' okay? It's just Sophie."
Sophie scrubbed her hands, wishing she could clean away the memories that swirled in her mind so easily.
Confused memories of Michael, as she continued to scan the newspapers for more photographs from "Arnold Benedict," more sure with every one that they were Michael's pictures, and he was out there somewhere, haunting her.
Hopeful memories of Philip, and of his tenderness and kindness to her. Last she’d heard, he was locked in prison somewhere inside Madrid, where the bomb raids had not let up since she'd left. She had replayed all their moments together, testing her memories to see if there was any connection between him and the German spy, Ritter.
Of course, she knew he was innocent, but no one in authority would take two minutes to listen to her side of the story. In fact, their warnings were the same. If you keep this up, you'll be questioned too. At least they have not killed him. And he's safer locked away than on the front lines.
She found Deion sitting on the front steps of the small church across the street from the hospital. No matter how small, each Spanish village had a steepled church. And though they were mostly closed, they too reminded her of Philip's words: "God is watching over you, Sophie."
She stretched out her hand, taking the plate from Deion, and smiled as she settled next to him on the worn wooden step. "How are you feeling?"
"If I was doing better, I'd be twins," he said, unconsciously rubbing his leg. "In fact, I was just thinking how you made me take my mind off the pain that day in the hospital, even if it was just for a few seconds, after they noticed my leg taking a turn for the worse. 'Member what you said?"
"Of course." Sophie lowered her voice and cocked an eyebrow. "I said, we're supposed to notify the doctor if the wound begins to turn black, but I don't know what to do about you."
They both laughed, and Sophie took a bite of her food.
"Later, Deion, do you think you can sit for me again . . . for the painting? It shouldn't be much longer."
In the kitchen of the small cottage she shared with the nurses, her easel had stood for two weeks. The nurses had been her eager observers as they watched the colors on the canvas transform themselves into Deion's face. And there was something about his eyes—all the nurses said it. Somehow she'd captured them perfectly.
"Of course I'll sit for you. But I thought you said you was a landscape artist." Deion chuckled. "Are you telling me my face has ridges and valleys like the Spanish countryside?"
Sophie laughed. "No, of course not. Although I sometimes think there's a whole world of stories in your gaze. I think I used' landscape artist' as an excuse, for my own protection. It's easier painting trees and hills; but as the days go by, I find myself wanting to paint the things that matter most. There's nothing like witnessing death to make you appreciate life . . . and friends."
Footsteps came from around the church and paused. Sophie turned to see who it was, and her fork slipped from her hand to the ground.
"Hola, señorita. I thought I recognized that jabbering voice. Never stop talking, do you? I heard you all the way across the wide plains and followed the sound here." The speaker tipped his black hat to her.
"Walt? What in the world are you doing here?" She put down her plate and offered him a quick hug.
"Well, I met a friend of yours who wondered how you were doing. I told him I'd do my best to hunt you down, and with a few phone calls to some news offices, I discovered where you were." He crossed his arms over his chest and jutted out his chin. "I see you've made good use of that press pass. And just think . . . you almost didn't want my help."
"Wait a minute. Someone is . . . is looking for me?" Her heartbeat quickened. "What friend?"
"José. He's recovering up north with the help of his wife. She's a lovely woman and an exceptional nurse."
"Oh, he found her, and they're married!"
"Yes. When he was well enough to speak, he asked for her, and they transported him to the hospital in Guernica. He's been there a few weeks now, and last I heard is now living in their home."
"That's wonderful." She clasped her hands in front of her. "Thank you for telling me."
"Did you think I was talking about someone else who might be looking for you?"
"Yes. I have a dear friend, Philip—"
"Philip. Now I'm confused. I thought you were going to say Michael." He tapped his finger on his lip. "Who is Philip?"
"Wait. What do you know about Michael?"
"You didn't answer my question." Walt's small eyes narrowed, and his gaze was so intense she was forced to look away.
Sophie blew out a sigh. "He's someone I met—someone who saved both me and José on the battlefield. He's been imprisoned . . . oh, I'll tell you the rest later." She stepped closer to him and took his hands in hers. "Now, what do you know about Michael?"
"I think it would be better if José told you that."
"Will you take me to José?"
"No, I figured you'd take me. You're the one with the driver, aren't you?"
"Oh, Deion . . . I'm so sorry. I forgot to introduce you."
Sophie turned, and the large man stood, extending his hand. "Yessir, nice to meet you, Walt. I'd be happy to drive you both where you need to go. Where's that again?"
"Guernica. It's a small town near the Bay of Biscay, and, amazingly, it's one of the few places still untouched by the war. Come inside, and I'll show you on the map."
The prison cells were ankle-deep in water—no better than dugouts with iron bars and heavy wooden doors. There was no part of Philip that was not wet. The man next to him shivered in the dark corner. They took turns sitting in the light. For the next hour it was Philip's turn, and he realized as he sat there that he would never take for granted the sun's rays again.
The bang of the door startled them, and it swung open.
"You." The guard pointed to Philip. "Come with me."
Philip ran a hand through the hair that fell to his collar, then combed his fingers through his beard. Not being able to shower and shave bothered him. Feeling a weakness in his limbs from lack of use did too.
He strode into the commander's office—the fourth commander in as many weeks. Only this one had given him hope. Just a few days ago he’d listened to Philip with a compassionate gaze and promised to check into his story.
Now the man motioned to the empty chair on the other side of the desk. "P
hilip, have a seat."
Philip's heart pounded at hearing his first name. It had to mean something.
"I've reviewed your story of finding the German on the side of the road. I sent men out to search the area you described and they found an airplane crashed nearby—a German plane."
Philip sat straighter in his chair. "They did? Does that mean you believe me?"
"It helped. There was one other thing that convinced me. These . . ." He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a stack of letters, then handed them to Philip.
The envelopes had been opened. Philip turned them over and saw the return address. Tears sprang to his eyes as he recognized his father's handwriting.
"With volunteers being moved around so much, it's hard to get mail to them. We do the best we can. Some of these were sent months ago."
"May I?" Philip asked, lifting one of the envelopes. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard.
Dear Son,
Here's another of my favorite passages: Isaiah 42:6—9.
"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles;
"To open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house.
"I am the Lord: that is my name: and my glory will I not give to another, neither my praise to graven images.
"Behold, the former things are come to pass, and new things do I declare: before they spring forth I tell you of them."
Your mother and I are keeping you in our prayers. It rained again today, nothing unusual. We were sorry to hear about Attis's death; Louise told us. She has been visiting a lot lately, and we've been praying with her too. Ma's made dinner. Sure smells good. Hope the food isn't too hard to digest there.
Love, Dad
Philip refolded the letter and started to open another when the officer interrupted.
"No need to look at them now. You can take them with you and read them at your leisure."
Philip looked at him in surprise. "I'm free to go?"
"Yes, comrade. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding."
Philip held up the letters. "These letters played a part in changing your mind? I don't understand."
The officer lowered his head. "The fact is, we can't be certain. You could be a spy. I've learned in the few months I've been here not to judge people by what they seem to be. But as I read these letters, I kept coming back to the thought that you could very well be innocent. That you had no involvement with the German, but just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."
He paused, as if weighing his words, then sighed deeply. "And since it seems to be a coin toss, at least by letting you go I'll have a part in helping to answer a father's prayers. . . ."
The officer lifted his head and met Philip's eyes as if seeking the truth with one look. He must have seen his answer there, because he cleared his throat. "We'll find you a bed, give you some good food, and get you back on your feet. I read in one of those letters that you're a runner."
Philip glanced down at his thin legs. "I was."
"And you will be again. We can use men like you on the lines."
"Uh, sir, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I was wondering if you could help me with something else too. I need to find someone. . . ."
"From the look in your eyes, I assume this someone is a female?"
For the first time in weeks, Philip smiled. "Yes, sir. She is."
"Of course. Come back tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, and we'll discuss it. And I promise, friend, I'll see what I can do."
Chapter Thirty-Three
APRIL 24, 1937
A donde fueres haz lo que vieres.
Wherever you go, do what: you see.
Spanish proverb
The Reverend Mother claimed God had brought these people into their care for a purpose, but Father Manuel only wished God had not trusted him so much. His eyelids weighed heavy as his head pounded. The dead and the dying haunted him even in his dreams. He'd only slept a few hours, but the urgent needs of those in his town prodded him from his bed like black banderillas stabbing his heart. Dressing, he took his walking stick and moved through the dark, asking the Lord to guide him to the lost sheep in need of his care.
Thirty minutes later, as he walked the darkened roadway, he spotted retreating soldiers staggering across the Renteria Bridge in the east, coming into the city, their faces downcast in their retreat. Their mud-splattered gray trousers had been cinched tight with pieces of rope, and Father Manuel wondered when they'd last eaten something filling.
He approached them with arms outstretched. "Men, come, you may sleep in my church tonight."
One tall, thin soldier spoke for the rest. "Sorry, Padre, but the men—they've seen a lot. They steer clear of churches, 'cause they're targets for bombers. Did you hear about Durango?"
Before Manuel could reply, the man continued.
"Bombers killed fourteen nuns in the chapel, and the Jesuit church got a direct hit, killing the priest and civilians. These soldiers—they fled the town days before the first bomb fell. They don't even feel safe sleeping in open squares or anywhere near the rail yard."
Father Manuel dug the tip of his stick into the ground, thinking of the nuns who were working so hard at this moment, caring for the injured. Emotion swelled within his chest. First he would care for these men; then he'd figure out what to do to help the Sisters.
"We have air-raid shelters built by some of the men in town," he answered, pointing toward the town square. "They aren't much, but they're reinforced with sandbags and wooden supports."
The soldier nodded, but hardly seemed impressed. "Got any better ideas?"
It occurred to Father Manuel that Father Sebastian might be willing to help, but even after three years he felt uncomfortable in the man's presence. Father Sebastian was highly respected by the people of Guernica. And though he knew it was wrong to compare, Manuel felt as if he never quite measured up in wisdom or influence. And besides, he had heard from others that Father Sebastian had not yet addressed the subject of the war from his pulpit. Who knew his true feelings? Did he inwardly side with the Nationalists? Did he have his eye on a strong state church in hopes of someday being reassigned to the Bishop's Palace in Bilbao?
"I have an idea. Follow me." Manuel turned toward the edge of town, motioning to the soldiers.
The soldiers shuffled behind Father Manuel as he led them to the gardens outside the Carmelite convent at the northern boundary of the town. Manuel retreated and watched from a distance as the men lay down on the soft ground and fell fast asleep, surrounded by the scent of spring flowers and budding trees.
Christ spent his last night in a garden too. Father Manuel quickly banished the unbidden thought, and then he returned home . . . wondering if there was rest for the weary. And if sleep would be a gift given to him that night.
With dawn came the freight trains, lined up to be loaded with supplies from one of the town's armament factories, the Talleres de Guernica. Lines of men carried boxes of hand grenades and mortar shells, followed by disassembled machinery.
Armando stood among the other workers, overseeing the loading.
Though they hadn't spoken in months, Manuel approached him, waving a hand at the commotion. "What is happening here?"
"The war is coming closer, and there is nothing to stop the destruction of our armament factory—the leaders are worried. Everything movable is being shipped out and reassembled behind Bilbao's Ring of Iron. I'm going to help oversee the reassembly."
"Ring of Iron?"
"Sí, a ring of antiaircraft guns, field artillery, rifle trenches, and barbed wire. And since I know how to put these machines back together, they're letting me go. Nesera is coming with me."
"The safest place to be is in the center of God's will."
Armando gave a shrug but said nothing. Father Manuel could see from Arma
ndo's eyes that he considered such a thought foolishness.
"Have you heard the stories? Some say the Moors have murdered, looted, raped . . . no one is safe. My wife, she is too precious to me. I must do everything possible to protect her."
Father Manuel scanned the crowd. Refugees loaded down with their meager possessions filled the wooden platform. "I am worried." He crossed his arms over his chest.
"About staying?"
"No, about the panic this will cause. Look at the refugees, how they are lined up, hoping to make the train."
As the loading progressed, men inched closer to the train. When the last box was on board, the train door slammed shut and the engine valve hissed.
"Now!" a man cried out. "The train is leaving. Hurry."
In a mass of bodies and swinging clubs, the men rushed the train. The eyes of the soldiers guarding it grew wide with panic.
An officer raised his rifle to his shoulder and cried, "Aim!"
The others obeyed.
"No!" Father Manuel moved in the direction of the soldiers.
The people continued forward.
"Warning volley! Fire."
Shots rang out over the heads of the refugees. Father Manuel stood before two of the closest soldiers, his arms outstretched. "Please, let me talk to the people."
"Reload!" The officer clicked his rifle bolt as he opened, reloaded, and closed his rifle; and the soldiers followed suit.
"Aim. Shoot to kill on command."
All the soldiers except the two in front of Father Manuel lifted their rifles. He moved down the line. "Stop!" He turned to the people. "Throw down your sticks!"
When they didn't listen, he strode to one of the men in the front of the line. "For the love of God, do you see what is happening? You risk being killed for the mere chance of saving your life? Does that make any sense? Stop! Put down your weapons—all of you!"
Valley of Betrayal Page 26
