He knew once he left, Ramona would be safe. She was traveling to Bilbao with the injured. She ’d be protected there behind the Iron Ring. She ’d also be safe from the men who assumed he was dead . . . and who would hunt him until they made sure he was.
When they were young, Michael had taught him to play chess. In chess they say sacrifice is what makes a champion—one must give up minor losses to achieve a major victory. But when would the losses end? When did they not become minor anymore? When would all his strategizing not turn into a loss?
José folded a riding jacket and slid it into the suitcase before strapping it shut. Then he stood, spreading his legs wide and folding his arms across his chest. He considered the woman he loved. Her face, her smile. He thought of the nights they’d spent together and the brightness in her eyes when she awoke in his arms. He ’d do anything to protect her . . . even if it meant separating from her for a while.
He sucked in a deep breath and reminded himself he was doing the right thing.
Chapter Five
Ramona clung to the wooden sideboard of the canvas-covered truck as it chugged along the hilly road toward Bilbao, transporting injured soldiers to safety. The vehicle lurched to avoid a pothole, and she clung tighter, noticing that even though her hands looked red and raw from constantly scrubbing up for surgeries, her gold wedding band still sparkled in the light shining through the open back canvas.
She ’d been the happiest woman in the world as José placed the ring on her finger with a vow of devotion. It had been a small ceremony, a simple one. Her parents had traveled to Madrid at the beginning of the conflict and hadn’t been able to attend, yet the other nurses—now as close as sisters—had been there, rejoicing that true love conquered even war. But now Ramona wasn’t so sure.
When José first showed up injured in Guernica, Ramona believed he ’d clung on to life for her. After his long recovery, he was sensitive about the jagged scar on his neck and the smaller one on his forehead, yet Ramona had seen them as beautiful reminders of God’s merciful hand in bringing him back to her.
But as she rode along, tears welled in her eyes and blurred the ring’s sparkle. Ramona was sure of one thing . . . from the look in José’s eyes, she knew she wouldn’t be seeing him anytime soon in Bilbao. When she asked about it, he told her he was called away to continue his work for the American, but she was not fooled. From the determination in his gaze, and his anxiety at leaving, she knew where he was truly headed. And though she often tried to tell herself it wasn’t so, Ramona sometimes thought that José loved his horses more than her.
Now she was sure of it. She ’d seen his apology in his eyes. He was abandoning her to try to save them. She could tell from the things he packed, the riding jacket, the boots, the breeches he always wore when riding. And secretly she hoped the horses would already be dead when he arrived. If not, she had no doubt José would risk everything to save them. Even his life.
The injured man who lay on the stretcher in front of Ramona moaned, and she stirred back to reality. With a soft shushing whisper, she took his hand in hers and hummed a Spanish lullaby, hoping to calm him. Ramona had talked the nun into allowing him to be transported to Bilbao even though the surgeon in Guernica had refused to operate. He ’d said it was a worthless cause, but Ramona had known only one thing—there was no case too difficult for God.
As she held the man’s hand, she prayed for a surgeon in Bilbao. It was up to the Creator of the universe to save this man. And she knew that somehow God asked her to take part in the miracle by voicing her prayers.
“You are stronger than you think,” Ramona whispered, wondering if the words were for the man or for herself. “The pain is proof you are healing.” She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “Without pain you are dead, so what is a little ache here and there, si?”
Heavy artillery sounded over the hills like far-off thunder. Despite the fear in the eyes of the other passengers, who included three other patients and a priest, Ramona found it hard to keep her own eyes open. By nine o’clock last night, the surgical teams had already performed a record number of operations, yet still more injured patients had lined the halls of the Carmelite convent.
Around midnight she ’d hurriedly eaten a slice of dark bread and sipped at scalding coffee. Now, twelve hours later, her stomach cramped in hunger, yet Ramona knew she wouldn’t be able to eat even if she had a fine feast before her. The memories of what she ’d seen turned her stomach. The injuries of the man they carried with them to Bilbao, with blood seeping through soiled bandages, did the same. And, as if reading her thoughts, another of the men lifted his bandaged arm slightly to inspect it and let out a moan.
But even more painful was the thought that José lied to her and didn’t love her as much as she loved him.
The man moaned again, and the solemn priest sitting in the back of the ambulance reached over and patted his shoulder. Though his mouth moved in prayer, no words emerged. He lifted his eyes, and Ramona saw that they were bloodshot and weary.
“You should try to close your eyes. Have you slept at all, Padre?” she asked. Though she attended Santa Maria’s church, she recognized Father Manuel from around town.
Father Manuel shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Still, he did not move or attempt to lie down.
She wanted to ask him about his parishioners but, from the look of him, she decided not to. Not only was his black robe filthy and torn, but he had the same scratchy cough, the same glazed look in his eyes as the others who’d seen what no human should.
“Three hundred bodies were found the first night. Then they doubled that. Of course, the journalists now arriving in town have quadrupled that number,” Father Manuel mumbled, as if reading her questions in her gaze.
“Pajaitos. Anglice—the birdies. I heard the children. . . .” Ramona sighed. “That’s what the children called the bombing planes: birdies. They brought such destruction, such fear. Let us hope that those birdies have migrated back to Germany. . . .” Her voice faded as the memory caused a tightening of her chest.
Father Manuel’s eyes widened. “Then you saw them, the markings on the airplanes?”
“Sí. I was taking Sister Josefina lunch on the roof. She saw them in the distance and gave me a peek through her glasses— what are they called?”
“The field glasses?”
“Yes. I looked through the field glasses.”
He seemed flushed and slightly excited. “Then I need you to help me. To tell the press. The more eyewitnesses . . .”
“I don’t understand. I heard you speaking with that man; you said you would share your story. Who would doubt a priest?”
His brow wrinkled, and Ramona bit her lip, remembering. Many had done more than doubt priests, far more. In the southern part of Spain, the people had killed them. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, uncertain of what to say.
“Many will not believe.” Father Manuel spoke with urgency. “Especially with reports that it was the Reds who burned the city down.”
“And people believe that?”
The injured man before her moaned, and Ramona gently patted his hand again.
“People believe what they want to hear. Unless . . . unless many voices rise together to declare the truth.” The Padre ran his hand down his jaw. “So will you join me, when we get to Bilbao?”
Ramona nodded her head to respond, then paused. She thought again of José and their last moments together. She remembered his firm embrace and the words he ’d whispered in her ears. Do your work, my love, and keep to yourself. Do not trust anyone—even the person you would usually trust the most. There are many with false motives, and one cannot look into the heart. And whatever you do, do not draw attention to yourself. It is the only way you can be sure to be safe until I come to you again.
“I will . . . think about it,” she told the priest. Ramona yawned, pretending her entire soul was not in conflict over this co
nversation. “Caring for the people is my first responsibility, of course—as I am sure, Padre, you know so well.”
The bells of Santa Maria rang out, helping Sophie for the briefest moment to forget the acrid odor of burnt flesh that permeated the air.
She had felt brave with Philip by her side. They’d talked through the afternoon, and he had shared more of his story of being locked up in a damp prison cell because of a simple misunderstanding. He also talked about the peaceful knowledge of believing that, even from thousands of miles away, his father—or rather his father’s faith—had most likely saved his life.
Sophie shared her experiences of the journey to Guernica, about getting knocked unconscious when their truck was hit by artillery, about the bombing. Yet neither of them spoke of the one thing that hung in the air between them like an invisible curtain—Michael.
When Philip was called away to help with the rescue efforts in town, Sophie knew she had to find Walt and get the truth about Michael out of him—no matter how much the truth hurt. She couldn’t count on finding José now, and she couldn’t live one more day without knowing whether her fiancé was dead or alive.
She found Walt in the convent gardens, helping to dig graves for the hundreds lost. Upon seeing her, he placed his shovel on the ground and motioned to a quiet spot near the stone wall.
“There ’s something I need to talk to you about,” she said. “Or rather, someone.”
She didn’t have to prod. Walt opened his mouth and shared what she ’d been waiting, and fearing, to hear.
“Michael is many men, Sophie. You, my dear, just happened to fall in love with one of them. It ’s been my job over the past two years to get to know his other sides. You’d better sit down.”
She leaned against the rock wall. “I’m fine.”
“Really, Sophie. You should sit.” He led her to a small bench, then gently turned her jaw to face him.
“For two years?” She let that thought filter through her brain. Two years ago Michael was with her, in Boston.
“I have one objective in this war,” Walt continued. “To keep track of Michael. To watch his every move and report it. He is too cautious to foster many close friendships, so I took the position of fellow reporter. Then I would not arouse suspicion. Reporters tend to move in packs as they follow a story. I have just cause to travel where he travels.”
“You say keep track.” She studied Walt’s eyes. She saw care there, concern. And something else. She saw mystery and control, as if Walt had a thousand secrets and was carefully choosing which ones to share with her. “What do you mean by keep track? Walt, are you a spy? And if you are, why in the world would you devote so much time to one man?”
Instead of answering her, Walt stood and plucked a green leaf from an oak tree, twirling the stem between his fingers.
“Did you ever wonder, Sophie, where Michael’s mother’s sympathies lie?”
“His mother?”
She thought about the graceful Spanish woman. Carmen may have lived in a wealthy part of Boston, but in her kitchen one felt transported to the heart of Spain. The family’s home was always filled with music—Spanish music that played from the gramophone. And the scents that had greeted Sophie every time she entered the home made her mouth water—even now. It seemed there was always something simmering on the stove.
“Did you simply assume she felt as you do—caring for the social cause? She was a dancer, yes, but she came from one of the wealthiest families in the country.”
“I just assumed . . .” Sophie ’s mind began to jumble, as if Walt had uprooted every previous belief she ’d held about Michael and his parents. It was true that many of Spain’s landowners and businessmen supported Franco’s Nationalists . . . which meant, Michael . . . ?
Suddenly all the conversations she ’d had with her fiancé made sense. How many times had he chided her for not understanding the politics of Spain?
“But I don’t understand. Michael’s friends. They sided with the Republicans. Did they know? Or did he pull the wool over their eyes too?”
Benita, Luis, José—whose side were they really on? She wondered, but was afraid to ask. Still, she had to know.
“What about José? Where does he fit? Isn’t it true they’ve been friends for years?”
“Yes, they are old friends. José worked on the estate of Michael’s family as a stable boy. Every summer when Michael visited Spain, they spent time together.”
“A stable boy! José seemed much more cultured than that. He told me he was a poet. . . .”
“Well, not a stable boy as you imagine one. More like a trainer of horses. José and Michael became friends as young children and have been so ever since—despite the fact that sometimes they believe differently. And that is why José is part of my network.”
“Network?” Sophie wrapped her arms more tightly around herself.
Surely Walt was teasing her. In a few minutes he would crack a smile and tell her that it was all a big joke, that he was just trying to make her think he was a spy. She searched his face, wishing, hoping that Walt was a newspaper correspondent and nothing more, but the look on his face told her that he had a purpose for disclosing all of this. That he had brought her to Guernica for another reason.
“A network . . . of informants.” Walt spoke bluntly, tilting his head back and scanning the sky as if watching for a sign from the heavens that telling her was the right decision. “I needed a network of men I could trust to feed me the information I need.”
“You’re scaring me—even more than the bombs falling on the city blocks.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I know if you were truly a spy you wouldn’t be telling me these things. Unless . . .”
“Unless?” Walt tilted his head, waiting for her response.
“Unless you’re asking me to join your network,” she blurted out. “Unless Michael is alive. Unless you want me to get involved with him again.”
“You’re a bright young lady. I knew you would be a good choice.”
Sophie didn’t need to ask again if Michael were indeed alive. And she didn’t need to ask what Walt wanted from her. He wanted the unthinkable.
“What if I say no?”
“You won’t.”
A gruff laugh erupted from her lips. “Why not?” she nearly shouted. “Why shouldn’t I refuse? He is dead to me. He died before my very eyes. How could someone do that? How could he pull it off? Besides . . . I’ve found someone else. . . .” She glanced toward the gate that Philip had exited no more than an hour earlier.
Had it only been an hour? Only an hour ago when she thought for sure she ’d be able to bury the past, just as they buried the dead from around the destroyed city? Sophie was ready to start over. She ’d accepted the fact she had come to Spain for two reasons—to paint for the people and to meet Philip. Had it only been an hour since she had concluded that she could begin a new life with someone who had become dear to her heart?
“You’ll help because this thing is bigger than you, Sophie. It’s bigger than all the numerous volunteer organizations that are giving everything for this cause. Bigger than painting canvases for the war effort. It ’s a matter of national security. The war could be lost or won according to what I’m asking of you.”
Sophie laughed, certain now that Walt was joking. She was a mere girl, a painter pulled into a great big mess. What did she have to do with national security?
She was glad Walt had insisted she sit. Her knees trembled so violently she believed they wouldn’t support her if she tried to stand.
Walt’s eyes narrowed as he focused on her gaze. “This war is as good as lost if you don’t help. Your paintings assisted the effort some, but this—”
“If you don’t need me to paint, what do you need me to do?” A slight breeze stirred around her, and she brushed her hair back from her face. “Not that I’ve agreed to anything,” she quickly added.
Walt sighed; then he took both of her hands in
his. “I need you to get close to Michael. To get some information about a very important shipment.”
“I can’t do that. What about Philip?” She pulled her hands back, placed them on the bench for support, stood on shaking legs, and stepped away, trying to put space between herself and Walt’s impossible request.
She couldn’t even comprehend seeing Michael again, because the face of another filled her thoughts. “I really care for Philip. What would he think?”
“I know your feelings, Sophie. I could tell from the first moment you spoke of him. That ’s why I brought him here. I brought him for you to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” Again she turned to see if Walt was kidding with her—but his face was set with resolve.
“I’m sorry, Sophie.” Walt removed his hat, turned it over in his hands. “There ’s no other way.”
Chapter Six
Telling her that his message was for her ears only, Walt directed Sophie to a small chapel in one corner of the convent. Sophie ’s gut told her to walk away. Yet for the rest of her life she would wonder what had been so important—if she could indeed have been a bigger help in the war.
In the end it wasn’t Walt’s coaxing, but the sight of an aged Spaniard that persuaded her to follow Walt into the chapel. Choking back sobs and leaning heavily on his cane, the old man was shuffling down the road toward a refugee transport truck. He dabbed his tears with the fringes of a woman’s tattered shawl hung over his arm. Seeing him, Sophie realized that she could not refuse the task Walt asked of her if it would save even one person from such pain and loss.
Besides, it was too late to walk away. She ’d been involved from the moment Walt had first approached her at the train station in France. He ’d roped her in like a rodeo cowboy at a county fair. Now, the uncounted people whom this war had herded and destroyed simply to fulfill the grand dreams of little men prodded Sophie to play out her part.
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