“No, you may not now, but you will soon. If your testimony is not given to the right sources, lies will surround the destruction of Guernica. The lives of your people will be used as pawns by the Nationalist government. At this very moment news is going over the airwaves, stating that the Reds destroyed the town from the ground.”
The man reached out and firmly clasped his hand. When he withdrew it, Father Manuel looked down to see a few crisp bills there—more money than his country parish saw in two months.
“What is this?” Father Manuel sputtered.
“Sorry, Padre, but you cannot travel to Paris on your good looks and fine character alone. And when you get there, you might be led to stay awhile. A few days, maybe more. It may not be safe to return; one never knows.”
“But how can I do such things? How can I leave my country, my people? How can I follow the directions of a foreign man whose name I don’t even know?”
“My name is Walt Block, and though there are many enemies who roam your country, I am a friend of the people and your cause.” Walt waved his hand toward the center of town where the rubble still smoked. “What you once knew, Padre, is no more. Your people are shattered, yet your next mission could help bring salvation for your country. But don’t take my word for it. Take it before God in prayer. Ask Him to give you peace about your path. . . . I have a feeling my request sits well with Him.”
Father Manuel studied the man’s face as he spoke, and he saw truth there. He knew the man had knowledge of a realm of influence that a poor country priest couldn’t possibly understand. Also, with a stirring in his chest, he realized he ’d be leaving his country to save the people. A foreigner in a strange place—like his beloved Lord. The thought both encouraged and frightened him as he humbly rejected the comparison.
With a heavy hand, he reached for Walt’s, hoping to gain an ounce of the strength and confidence he witnessed in the man’s gaze.
Ritter Agler walked from the debriefing room with a nagging ache that wouldn’t let go. According to all accounts, the concentrated bombing attack of Guernica had been a great success. He would go down in history; he had no doubt. Yet one image wouldn’t leave his mind.
The image of the woman and her Negro driver on the hillside. Sophie, who had saved him, cared for him. The one he ’d once pretended to befriend. The one who haunted his dreams.
He couldn’t make himself forget that truck on the hillside. He knew from the way she stood, the way she moved, who it was. How many days had he lain in that hospital bed, watching her paint the horror she ’d observed. Watching her every move. Yes, it had certainly been Sophie on that hillside, and he ’d almost fired his machine guns when he spotted her. He should have fired. Should have killed her. Then, perhaps, his memories of her would also die.
But he hadn’t, and now, against his wishes, he agonized over whether she still lived. Had someone else taken them down? Or had they somehow managed to survive?
And why had she been in Guernica in the first place?
Mixed with his concern was his rage. For if Sophie had survived, she would no doubt paint what she saw. And her paintings would go around the world. And then all would know the truth that Germany worked so hard to hide—that they had a hand in Franco’s schemes. That their force caused destruction for any in their path.
The pilots had been unable to fly today because of cloud cover and drizzle everywhere. And falling just as steadily were the lies that it was the Basco-Soviets who savaged Guernica.
Ritter walked to his room and turned on the radio, wondering and worrying if the truth of the destruction had been discovered. Instead, the airwaves carried Radio National in Salamanca, speaking on behalf of the government of General Franco. The announcer’s voice filled his room.
“Aguirre lies! The Basque president lies basely. In the first place, there is no German or foreign air force in national Spain. There is a Spanish air force, a noble, heroic Spanish air force, which constantly fights against Red planes, Russian and French, piloted by foreigners. In the second place, we did not burn Guernica. Franco’s Spain does not set fires. The incendiary torch is the monopoly of the arsonists of Irún, of those who set fire to Eibar, of those who tried to burn alive the defenders of the Alcázar of Toledo.”
The announcer’s voice paused. A few minutes later it started again.
“. . . In these moments, news arrives from the Biscayan front that shows the falseness of Aguirre ’s speech. Because of bad weather, our planes have not been able to fly today and consequently could hardly have bombed Guernica.”
At first Ritter felt a slight sense of relief that they hadn’t been discovered. Their commander wished for their deeds to remain secret, and that wish was granted. But then he felt anger at the realization that, though they were following orders and had done their job well, there would be no recognition. Not now, not ever.
As soon as they’d been dismissed from their debriefing, a party had raged. German patriotic songs had spilled out the doors of the hotel’s lounge. Ritter didn’t join them. He knew even alcohol wouldn’t help him forget his conflicted feelings toward Sophie, or being disrespected by his country as a man or as a pilot.
He ’d come to Spain because Isanna wanted a war hero, yet she married another. And even though his deeds were heroic, did it really matter, if no one knew? So in the end, what was he risking his life for? He didn’t care about Spain. Their fight mattered little to him, and the people even less. He couldn’t forget that today didn’t end the bombings, the destruction, the war. He ’d get more assignments, each reinforcing that he flew without honor. And that others died without the appreciation or respect they deserved.
Tomorrow was another day. There would be more missions. Another day in which he might die for a cause he cared nothing about.
Yet to leave now and request a new assignment would label him a coward. And in the end, Ritter decided, he ’d rather die with the honor he received from the few who knew about his missions than live with their disrespect.
Still, this decision did nothing to help him forget Isanna. He flipped off the radio and walked outside. After a five-minute walk, he strolled among the aircraft, walking to the piles of bombs. Hundreds had been used in yesterday’s effort, each one causing untold destruction.
Thousands more remained.
Chapter Four
The few hours of sleep should have revived Sophie, but instead, when she awoke, she felt more drained than ever. Maybe it was the perpetual, tortured wail of injured men and women in the vestibule. She stood and glanced at the Bible on the small stand in the room. She tucked it into her satchel, then glanced into the hallway just outside the door.
Nothing had changed. Stretchers were continually brought in with torn, charred human beings, and rooms that once cloistered nuns had become morgues.
Or maybe her weariness was due to knowing that Philip would leave for the front lines—the killing fields—at the end of the day. So, after she changed clothes and freshened up, she stole a few minutes to talk with him.
They sat on the stairs of a church just down the street from the convent that was now being used as a hospital. Though the smaller one in town had taken a direct hit, this larger one still stood white against the clouded sky.
“So much has happened since we met.” She sought out Philip’s eyes and saw his caring gaze. “I don’t know where to start. It’s just too much. I mean, to come upon your foxhole when I needed you most, and then have you by my side all those months as I painted. I didn’t realize how much strength I got from having you at my side until you were gone.”
He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she felt the caring in his touch. The warmth of his fingers near her neck spread to her chest.
“You’ve been through a lot, and . . .” His gentle voice paused. “Though I wasn’t at your side over the last few months, you’ve never left my thoughts.”
“Yes . . . I too feel this . . . special connection between us.”
“You’ve made me so proud of y
ou, Sophie. I mean, you never thought any of this would happen when you first came to Spain, did you? It must be exciting and scary and overwhelming.” He took her hand. “And yet there is still a little hope inside you . . . isn’t there?”
His understanding animated her tired soul. “That ’s what I mean,” she said. “You really know me. You believe in me, in a way no one has before.”
“And why wouldn’t I? You amaze me, Sophie. Everything about you.”
She watched him, trying to find her answer in the motion of his fingers entwined around hers. She had thought Michael was the only person she could ever love. He had taken so much from her—taken her heart. But being with Philip was different. She knew where she stood. Philip communicated with her, and he listened as she talked. She saw no secrets in his eyes. She had no reason to question his love. He didn’t require her to give him everything. Instead, he freely offered her his thoughts, his care . . . his very being.
He glanced away, released her hands, and stood. He paced back and forth in front of the steps as if searching for the right words, then stopped to search her face. “Sophie, I—I’m returning to the front lines. I promised my commander. I told him that I just needed to find you, see if you were okay.”
“I’m not naïve. I know what may happen out there, but I have to believe We’ll be together again soon.” She reached out and took his rough soldier’s hand in hers. “And I am fine. Or at least I will be once I get to paint. They love my paintings, remember? They say they’re making a difference. And you won’t always be on the front lines, right?” she added. “I’ll find you. I’ll make sure they assign me wherever you are. There are breaks in the fighting, and we can see each other then.”
He allowed her to pull him back down beside her, and she softly slugged his shoulder. “Just don’t frown so much; you’ll get me depressed. If these are our last moments for a while, I want to hear more about you. Not Philip, the soldier. Not about your time as a prisoner. But the real you.”
“Is there a distinction anymore? It seems like Spain is all I know.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “But I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t want to waste our time together on this war.”
He turned slightly to face her and opened his hands to her, taking her small hands in his large ones. “When I look into your eyes, Sophie, I see the same emotions I feel. They were there that day we headed to the battlefield, or at least a hint of them. But now, well, I guess the old saying is true. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.”
The sound of footsteps interrupted them, and Sophie turned to see a nun coming her direction.
“Sofía, come quickly. You will not believe what is on the radio.”
Sophie and Philip rose and hurried inside. For the first time since the bombing, most of the doctors and nurses were taking a break from their duties; they stood huddled around the large radio.
“It was Radio Bilbao,” a doctor commented as they approached. “You just missed it. President Aguirre told the world of the bombing. He spoke in Spanish, not Euskera . . . which means his message was for the world, not only the Basque people. He said the Germans are denying responsibility. They claim the Red terrorists are the ones who set the town on fire.”
“The Communists? But I have my photographs and paintings to prove otherwise.”
“No offense, señorita,” the doctor replied, “but your paintings will make little impression. Anyone can paint something from the imagination. But the photos, they are a different matter. Are they in a safe place?”
Sophie thought of the small room where her things were stored. She had never for a minute thought of this convent as anything but safe.
“Yes, of course. And I’ll be leaving soon . . . to make sure the press gets them. I was just doing what I could to help here first. There are so many injured.”
She turned to Philip, who nodded his agreement. Yet she could see in his eyes that he knew as well as she did that they both stayed for a deeper, more personal reason as well.
“And with your photos you must tell them what it was like to witness this event,” the doctor commented, pushing his small glasses up the bridge of his nose. “For centuries, Guernica has been a shrine to the Basque spirit of freedom and independence. Here, at the foot of a venerable oak tree, Spain’s monarchs once pledged to respect the rights of the local citizens.” He sighed. “What has come of it? Now the town will be known more for how it was destroyed than how it lived.”
“They’re denying their actions. I cannot believe the Germans are denying their actions,” Sophie commented.
“They have sought to wound us in the most sensitive of our patriotic sentiments . . . they made a statement against our liberty and democracy.” The doctor wiped his hands on his stained surgical shirt. “And because of that, the blood of the people cries from the streets.” He placed a hand on her arm. “It is up to you to make sure they did not die in vain, señorita. I appreciate your help here, but it is more important that you go to Bilbao. You must show the photos and prove our case.”
Sophie felt Philip’s hand on the small of her back, and she nodded. She thought of the words he spoke to her on the church steps and how he understood her ambivalence so well. The thought that she could make a difference in this foreign war caused her heart to pound.
That was not all, though, for the pit of her stomach filled with dread as she realized that, while her hands could only care for one person at a time, her art could reach so many more with the truth. And she knew that every moment she stayed kept the truth from being revealed.
She had to leave soon, even if it meant leaving Philip behind.
José awoke to the sound of footsteps approaching and wondered if he was still dreaming. Yet if it were a dream, it would be more of a nightmare. The kind that chilled you to the core and hung around even after you’d awakened.
He ’d had the mind of a poet since he was a child. His mother had told him so, but coming from her it was a kind way to say that he allowed his imagination to improve reality. The beauty and soul he discovered taming words were the same he experienced every day living and working with the finest horses in the world.
He ’d taken a break from that for a time. He had to travel south, to the center of Spain. He had work to do in Madrid— work only he could accomplish. But now that he ’d returned to the Basque countryside, every day it had been harder and harder to stay away from God’s beautiful creatures.
At first, leaving the hospital in Guernica had been out of the question. And when he gained his strength, he began his new life with Ramona. He ’d enjoyed all married life had to offer and told himself he ’d have time to return to riding once the war turned in their favor.
But now, after the bombing by the German planes, all his thoughts were with those horses, and he knew he couldn’t stay away. He had to know if they were safe. If they were being cared for as they should be.
He also thought of his father.
He was raised understanding that his father needed his help. His assistance with the horses, of course. And then, after José’s mother’s death, the old man needed so much more—including the smile on his son’s face that reminded him of his beloved wife.
It had been hard for José to travel to Madrid, knowing the pain his absence caused at home. Yet he did so in hopes of more than just saving something priceless. His goal had been to save Spain itself. What foolish thinking. In the end it had almost cost him his life, and Sophie ’s life. He wondered again where she was and questioned when, not if, Walt would approach him again, pulling him back into the web of deception.
Not that any of it had made a difference.
José’s senses were alert as he considered what the world had become over the last twenty-four hours. The stench, the piles of rubble, the cries of mourning in the distance. Beads of sweat rose at his hairline as he thought about what had happened to their town.
And Ramona—how many nights had he dreamt of their being together? But now José knew the best th
ing would be for them to part. At first when he ’d found her, he only thought of love. That had been a foolish thing to do. He blamed the injury— the loss of blood from the neck wound and concussion—for knocking the sense out of him. If he had thought about it, he would have realized that, if he truly loved her, he would have stayed away.
There were too many people who wanted him dead. Who wanted him to keep silent about all that he knew. He knew they had found him on the road out of Madrid. Though others assumed it had been a Nationalist on the battlefield who’d shot him, José knew otherwise. He ’d run from them, but he could not hide. They had assumed he was dead, and like a fool he ’d used his momentary freedom to find Ramona.
José’s determination rose like the smoke from the ashes of Guernica. He had a job to do before they discovered he ’d cheated death. If Michael was still out there, that is.
But first, another task called to him. One he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t be this close and not at least check on the horses. And though his wife believed he was packing his things for Bilbao, he instead prepared for the short trip to his home in the seaside village of Portugalete, where the creatures that had consumed him until the day he realized there was more to life than riding still lived. And where he ’d first met Michael. The place where it all had started. Only ten kilometers distant, but worlds apart.
Still, José’s chest ached at the thought of leaving Ramona. He could hear her in the kitchen, sweeping the floors and washing their breakfast dishes. It didn’t matter that once they left, there was no doubt that the Nationalists would invade their town and their home. It didn’t matter that there were still more injured people to care for. Ramona would not leave until the kitchen was clean.
More than anything, José wanted to go into the kitchen and sweep her into his arms. To nestle his face in the warmth of her neck and run his fingers through her long dark hair—yet he knew if he did, he would not want to leave.
Instead, he rose and stuffed only the most necessary of things into a small cardboard suitcase. He glanced at the wedding photo that sat on the small side table by their bed. It was one of the things he ’d been taught, to disconnect himself from what he loved most in order to protect them—if only he ’d clung to that.
Shadow of Treason Page 3