Sophie approached the two canvases leaning against the wall. She raised the knife and paused. For the briefest moment she questioned if she should follow through. What if Walt wasn’t telling the truth? Could it simply be a ploy to get her to destroy evidence of the German bombings?
She stood there for a full minute replaying everything he ’d told her, and she knew it was all or nothing. Either she believed him fully . . . or, well, if he wasn’t trustworthy, then she had bigger things to worry about. Besides, deep in her gut she had a feeling Walt told the truth. He ’d brought her Philip, after all. He didn’t have to do that. And he ’d told her the truth about Michael. If he trusted her with so much, how could she not trust him?
So with long swipes, she slashed the knife into the first canvas and tugged it downward until it sliced through the images of the airplanes bombing Guernica. She slashed at the planes as if she could knock them out of the sky with her knife. Over and over again, she took out her anger over Michael on the pigmented forms she had painted with her own hand. She then did the same to the second canvas.
When she ’d finished, Sophie left everything just as it lay. The nuns would think someone else had caused the damage— either that, or they’d all be evacuated before they even had a chance to see the mess. With a sigh she put the knife back into its sheath and tucked it into her satchel.
She ran her fingers through her hair and took a deep, resigned breath. One mission accomplished—the easy one. Now to find Philip.
Sophie did her best to wash her face and tidy up. Still, her eyes carried the evidence of her crying. Nearly an hour had already passed, but she didn’t care. What would Walt do if she took a couple more minutes? It’s not as if he would call the whole thing off.
She found Philip waiting for her outside the convent, his packed duffel bag on the ground by his booted feet. She paused at the top of the steps. Philip also hesitated, then opened his arms to her. Sophie ran into his embrace. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face into his neck, breathing in his scent and attempting to hold back the sobs.
“Oh, dear Sophie.” He stroked the back of her hair. “Please don’t be sad. We’ll see each other again. God will protect me and keep me for you. Believe that, okay?”
Sophie nodded, but she knew she ’d break down the minute she gazed into his eyes. Eventually she forced herself to step back and look into his face, her pounding heart once again betraying how much she cared for him. Could she pull this off without Philip finding out? She couldn’t bear the thought of his doubting her love for even one minute.
She tried to act as casual as possible. “Be safe, Philip. I mean—just watch out. Don’t try to be too brave.”
“You either. No running through enemy territory with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.” He gave her a small grin. “Do you promise to write?”
“Of course, as often as I can. Although I have to admit I’m much better with a paintbrush.” She dug her hands deep into her pants pocket. “Do you think they’ll send you back to Madrid?”
“Probably. Most of the Internationals are around the outskirts trying to protect the city.”
“Are they still bombing heavily?” She winced, imagining Philip once again huddling in a bloody ditch, bombs exploding mere feet away.
“I suppose they are. Pray the Nationalists run out of fuel or bombs. . . .”
“One can only hope.”
“So will you think about me?” He cocked his head, meeting her eyes, then frowned as if he saw through her brave front to what Sophie was trying so hard to hide—uncertainty, sadness, her betrayal.
Sophie evaded his gaze. “All the time.” As she whispered the words, she felt a deep ache in her chest.
“Me too. Every day. Every minute,” he whispered, taking her hand.
“I’ll look you up as soon as I can. . . .” She squeezed his hand, wishing she could hold it forever. “And I’ll be in touch as often as possible. Please don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.” She wiped at her eyes, willing herself to stay strong.
“I thought you said you’d write.” Philip gently extended a finger to wipe away a tear from her cheek. “Why wouldn’t I hear from you?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . but just don’t worry if you don’t.” She glanced back at the convent. “You know how crazy war makes things.”
Sophie ’s fingernails dug into the palms of her balled-up fists with each lie.
“Miss Sophie?” Another voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see Deion’s smiling face.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m leaving too. They said I’m well enough—I can go back to the front.”
She turned and offered Deion a hug. She noticed satisfaction in his gaze—pleasure that he ’d be able to fulfill the work he ’d come for.
“That’s wonderful, but what did I tell you about that ‘Miss’ business?” She stepped back and took in his smile. “You take care of yourself, too, you hear? Oh, yes, and there is something I heard about you, Mister.”
Deion scratched his head. “What was that?”
“That you helped dig out some women and children from underneath a collapsed tailor’s shop. Everyone is talking about the dark hero who came to town.”
“Ah, it wasn’t anything more than any other soldier would have done.”
“Are you kidding?” Philip butted in. “You shouldn’t take it so lightly. Those people you saved sure are thankful.” He winked at Sophie. “You can be sure you’ll be hearing more stories about this guy.”
“We’ll keep in touch, right?” Deion gave her one more quick hug; then he moved to the cab of the truck. “I’ll leave you two to your goodbyes.”
“Not goodbye,” Sophie murmured. “Just see you later.”
Philip placed a slow, tender kiss on her forehead. “See you later,” he whispered. Then, with another kiss on her cheek, he turned and climbed into the cab of the truck. But before he shut the door, he paused. He lifted his hand and curved his finger, motioning her toward him.
Sophie folded her arms over her chest and approached.
Philip cocked his head, his gentle blue eyes trying to penetrate her soul. “Sophie, is everything okay?”
“Of course not. You’re leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” She brushed away her tears, then wiped at her dripping nose.
“There ’s something . . . in your eyes. Like something’s wrong.” Philip shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just me, reflecting the ache I feel in my heart.”
He gave her one last hug, and she soaked in the feeling of his arms.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?”
Sophie slowly nodded and sucked in a deep breath.
“It will all work out, you’ll see.” He stroked her cheek with his finger. “I just have a feeling it will all work out.”
Without another word, Sophie stepped back and waved.
The truck started, then drove out of town. The canvas-covered bed was filled with injured soldiers on stretchers, again moving to what they hoped would be a safe place.
“They have to leave before the Nationalists arrive.” It was Walt ’s voice. “This area has pretty much been abandoned; they’ve given up trying to hold it.”
Sophie refused to turn and meet his gaze. “Okay,” she said flatly, steel in her voice. “My first two assignments are done. What’s next?”
“Come . . . we need to find another quiet place. There is more I need to tell you. Things for your eyes and ears only.”
They found a garden, most likely tended by the nuns, and Sophie sat on a tree stump. Her gut ached, and weariness washed over her. More than anything she wished she could find a blanket, spread it out, and drift away to sleep where she didn’t have to face the reality of what Walt was asking.
“Sophie, you need to know this first.” He spoke with a gentle tone. “Wars are fought on three fronts. The men in the battlefield are evidence of the first. These men give their lives, but two other battlefields
are equally important—if not more so. The second is the foreign chancelleries where diplomats consider how much help they can give, and to whom—with their own best interests in mind, of course. And the third is the bankers, from the little clerk to the ministers of finance. Where the money flows, there is power. Your Michael is involved in the third.”
“He ’s not my Michael,” she said wearily. “From the day he died, he ’s been dead to me.”
“You say that with your mouth, but I see something different in your eyes. Once a piece of your heart is given away, it’s not so easy to reclaim—even if you indeed have found someone more worthy to give it to.”
Sophie sighed and poked a finger into the neatly raked dirt at her feet. Below the ground, Sophie knew that small seeds had been planted in hope of a future harvest. The only problem was that the nuns wouldn’t be around to see it. If anyone benefited, it would be the Fascists.
“Walt, while I appreciate your commentary on love,” she said, sifting the dirt with her fingers, “I’m more interested in the economic factors right now, if you don’t mind.”
Walt cleared his throat, and she could tell by his stance he would play her game. If she wanted all business, he ’d give her just that.
“The Republican side had two advantages—control of Spain’s gold reserves and control of the major cities.”
“And the Nationalist side?”
“Agriculture. We all know that without food, even the strongest force will weaken.”
“Which means both sides have to look outside Spain for help.”
“You’re a quick study.” Walt removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and took a long draw. “There is no question the war would be over now if Franco had taken over Madrid from the start. The gold reserves were the salvation of the Republicans, but now I question if even that is enough. You see, some believe the Republicans’ actions have simply prolonged the war and contributed to the suffering of the Spanish people.”
“Yet if Russia sends more help . . . well, that’s sure to make a difference, isn’t it? Then maybe others will get involved too?”
“Stalin isn’t concerned about a world revolution. He simply wants his say in what’s happening here.” Walt took the cigarette out of his mouth and flipped the butt into the soft dirt.
Sophie watched it smolder.
And as she watched it, she realized that she feared one thing most—that the long tentacles of Michael’s influence would seize her, gripping until she ’d not be able to shake them. He ’d so easily pulled her in before . . . would she be strong enough to resist this time?
Walt looked past her, waving at someone on the roof above. Sophie turned and lifted her gaze, noting a nun with field glasses on the roof of the convent. After she waved back, she returned to studying the sky.
“When you’re with Michael, I need you to listen for a specific name, Lester McGovern—though that is merely a nom de guerre. He is a British agent, as English as the queen. Last we heard, he was on assignment with Michael, and he told us he was on to something big. He hoped to send a full report in a few days’ time. It’s been two weeks since we’ve heard from him.”
Walt leaned down and used the end of a stick to sketch a map of the Basque region of Spain in the dirt. Sophie watched intently, burning the image in her mind.
“We assume that Michael will stay in this region.” Walt pointed to the area along the northern coastline. “This is behind what the Basques are calling the Ring of Iron. They feel they’re protected there, but they don’t know who walks among them.”
He tossed the stick to the ground. “Yet, even if they leave this area, do not worry. Go with them, and we will go with you. You won’t see us, but know we will be there.”
He spent the next few minutes talking over various procedures, such as things to do to tell if she was being followed, or how to know if her items were searched when she wasn’t around.
Sophie ’s mind swelled with information, but she knew she wouldn’t forget a single word—her hope of seeing Philip again depended on it.
“Okay, I understand,” she said with a sigh.
With a swipe of Walt’s shoe, all evidence of their conversation was wiped out.
“Remember that your efforts are for the good of the people. You are part of a noble line of work.” Walt dared crack a smile.
Sophie lifted one eyebrow. “Oh, really. And how’s that?”
“Moses employed spies before taking Canaan. Julius Caesar before landing in England. And just think, someday your efforts for the Spanish people can be viewed on an equally grand scale.”
Sophie stood and brushed off her pants. “Well . . . if that’s it, I’d like to get this over with.”
“There ’s one more thing.” Walt pulled out something from his shirt pocket. It looked like a tiny piece of rice paper. “This telephone number is for urgent communications. It also contains a code and several cover addresses outside Spain. Keep this on you at all times in case you need it. And don’t be afraid to flee the country if you ever feel your life is at stake and you can’t contact us.”
She took it from his hand, noting it wasn’t much larger than a postage stamp. “And if I’m caught with this?”
Walt ’s gaze narrowed. “That is not an option. If you think they’re on to you, distract them, crunch, and swallow. It will be gone.”
Sophie looked at the paper once more and slid it into her pocket. “Yes, well, let’s just hope it never comes to that, agreed? I want this whole thing to be over and be on my way to the front lines to find Philip in a month’s time.”
Chapter Eight
Petra Larios bolted upright, her heart pounding as her eyes opened. The high-low peals of the church bells echoed through the destroyed town of Guernica. She had drifted off again, perhaps because most of the night hours she ’d lain awake, staring out the window for any sign of the enemy at their doors. Not those who had destroyed the town, but the town’s survivors, who were lashing out against the wealthy—ransacking the homes that the nearly universal carnage had somehow missed.
The sun’s rays filtered through the large windows into the elegant yet unfamiliar room where she had slept, once again reminding Petra that she was alone in the world, and her life would never be the same. Like the films that had played at the cinema back home, the events of the last nine months ran through her mind unabated.
When her father was killed in their home in La Mancha, she had been forced to flee to Guernica. She had found refuge for a time in this quaint, historic town, but no longer. Petra wondered if there was any safe place in Spain.
Before her father’s death, Petra was alerted that something was wrong when Señora Rossi approached their door in La Mancha weeping, blurting out a mix of cries and prayers. The landowners from the neighboring towns were disappearing, she had reported, along with everybody else who had money and status.
That night, as she considered Señora Rossi’s warnings, Petra’s ears had heard the uncharacteristic sound of large trucks rumbling through the village. Gunshots followed, and she didn’t discover until days later that sometime in that hour, one of those shots had taken her father’s life. Not wishing to wake his family, he ’d waited for his executioners with the front door open. And although Petra had not heard him leave, she ’d heard him die. Just one shot out of hundreds crumbled Petra’s whole life.
While her mother and brothers had wailed at his loss, Petra fought to accept it was true. As a parade of visitors stopped by to offer their condolences, she sat in the parlor perfectly still, her hands folded on her lap. Only the day before his death, Petra’s father had chided her for not being ladylike. Now he was gone, and she had no heart to run and chase her brothers as she had for the first seventeen years of her life. She wanted to be a lady now. She wanted to make her father happy. If only she had done so before! How much trouble had she brought him instead?
“Petra from the fields of La Mancha.” She spat at her image in the mirror, still that of
a child despite her seventeen years.
Mancha meant stain. In La Mancha country, the arid earth was or angered and as close to the color of bloodstains as soil can get. In La Mancha country, the earth was soaked with her father’s blood, staining her soul. For the first time, Petra felt the name fit.
She thought again of the olive groves sloping upward to gentle ridges with rows of enormous windmills turning in searing hot winds. They were only memories now.
Two days after her father’s death, she witnessed the same fate overtake her brothers. Petra knew then it was only time before she herself faced the guns. Her mother must have realized it too and intervened in an attempt to save Petra’s life. She had sent Petra to Guernica, but for what? To be killed by enemy bombers? Or would her countrymen kill her simply because they felt her family’s status and wealth made her the enemy?
Petra from the fields of La Mancha—that’s what the men and
women who worked her father’s land had called her. They said she was from the fields because, on days when there was no school, she only returned inside their fine home when the sun set, or when her stomach rumbled for dinner. Why sit in the dim coolness and quiet when she could run through the hills with the hot breeze whipping her dark hair around her face? But that was then. She didn’t know who she was anymore. Or where she belonged.
Petra rose from the bed and pressed her hands against the wrinkles in her white blouse and blue pleated skirt. She ignored the view of Guernica from her window as she moved to the vanity and grasped the ivory-handled hairbrush, yanking it through her tangled, waist-long auburn hair. Meeting resistance, she tugged harder against the strands, hurting her scalp. Tears filled her eyes, not from the pain, but from the realization that she ’d never be the elegant beauty her father had desired. She slammed the hairbrush onto the vanity, quickly twisted her hair, and pinned it on top of her head. She could dress up, but she ’d never be a lady. She could think back to all the days before July—before her world ended—but that didn’t change the fact that she was alone. No one cared about her here. And she was no longer safe.
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