Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  It was only then that he noticed the trickle of sweat running down his forehead. He grabbed his flying scarf to wipe it away. He pulled the scarf back only to notice it wasn’t sweat, but blood. Without his realizing it, one bullet from the Rata had grazed his head.

  A dark cloud cover descended over the field, and from somewhere Ritter heard voices calling to him, approaching. The sky darkened even more, and he wondered what blocked out the light. Ritter wiped his goggles as his world went to gray.

  Then black.

  Chapter Eleven

  Philip stuck his head out the truck’s window, thinking he would be sick. His head ached. His stomach too. His mind kept flipping through images of the previous days. The long rows of bodies waiting to be buried. Or parts of bodies. Men, women, children. The memories refused to leave his brain.

  He knew that wasn’t all that sickened him. The idea of leaving Sophie behind . . . again. Of not being there to watch over her. Of not being able to protect her in the days ahead. More than that, the look in her eyes had unnerved him. The pain she attempted to mask behind the smile. The words she didn’t speak. The apology in her gaze.

  An apology he didn’t understand.

  Petrol fumes from the engine refused to allow him fresh air, so Philip blew out his breath, drawing his head back inside the truck’s cab.

  The truck rumbled by a small village that appeared more like makeshift rows of shelters. So different from the high-rise buildings and fine cathedrals of Barcelona and Madrid.

  Yet even in the midst of such poverty, a church rose from the center. The finest building in town, to be certain—the focal point of the people ’s world. Or at least it had been.

  The truck jolted, and Philip held on to the door to avoid slamming into Deion next to him on the seat. His mind tried to put together the pieces of his nine months in Spain. He ’d come with his best friend and fellow sprinter, Attis, in hopes of helping him win victory at the Workers’ Games. Not only was the medal not won, the race hadn’t even been run. Instead, Philip had chosen to stay in Spain to protect his friend, who insisted on volunteering in this foreign conflict. Attis had failed at that, too.

  He ’d joined the Internationals as a member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, yet even in the middle of the fighting he didn’t fully agree with their ideals. Sometimes it seemed the Spanish people fought to replace one set of governing ideals with another. They would still follow the dictates of powerful men imposing views on them. Yet would changing their allegiance to socialism and communism improve their welfare? Philip was unsure. Yet this hope propelled him to fight.

  After all, anything had to be better than fascism. Sure, Franco favored the Church—or rather used it to gain support— but from what Philip could see, his deeds mocked all that Christ stood for. Franco’s fight for power and control of the Spanish people seemed to mock God. In fact, there were few places these days in which true Christianity was lived out.

  The one place Philip witnessed true faith was in his father’s letters. He wrote about the work he did in his community. How his parents helped take care of a family who had lost both father and mother in a house fire. How they formed relationships with some widows in town, bringing them together once a week for dinner and to study the Bible. The letters also always included his father’s prayers. Prayers that came right from his heart and made him homesick to know this man—his father—better.

  This kind of faith worked for a soon-to-be retired pastor from Washington State. But what about everyone else? Did his father’s God care about Philip, too? About Spain? Could true Christianity be lived out here, in the midst of war?

  He glanced back over his shoulder and watched as the church steeple grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Soon, only the utmost point of the steeple remained in view as the truck crested a rolling hill. It was easier to believe in God with Sophie around. To believe God somehow had a plan in bringing their lives together halfway around the world. But now he went one way and she another. He let out a sigh and looked at his hands, surprised to see his fingers clenched in anxiety.

  I can’t do it. I can’t let go.

  He thought of praying for the strength to release her, but he couldn’t do that either. The fact was, he didn’t want to release her. He focused his eyes on the road ahead, unseeing.

  The air from the side window began to lose its smell of smoke and destruction, and he tried to come to a place where he could trust that God had a plan in the parting as much as the bringing together. Yet instead of peace filling his heart, his anxiety mounted with each mile.

  God, I’ll do anything for You if You just bring us back together again. If You can keep her safe. If You can make her mine . . . forever.

  The driver didn’t say a word as the daylight faded. He looked straight out the windshield and hummed a catchy jazz tune. On the seat next to him Deion slept, his head resting against the back of the seat and rolling from side to side with each bump. And at that moment, he was jealous of his friend— envious of his zeal for the communist cause. And for holding on to his heart.

  Father Manuel was thankful for the clean clothes offered to him before his meeting. He dressed in a cassock that was just slightly too big and ran a brush through his dark hair. He had been called to give his story to the bishop in Bilbao, yet he could not forget the warning of the man with the dark hat. The thin man had told him to skip the meeting and instead tell his story in Paris. Yet Father Manuel shook his head in disbelief. Who was he? The stranger was no one of importance. How could a simple country priest’s life be in danger?

  More than anything, he wished that Armando were with him. But Armando had remained in Guernica, helping to bury the last of the bodies. Then he was off to find his wife, Nerea.

  “You have an important meeting,” Armando had urged. “I will find a spot on the next train out of town, I promise you.”

  Father Manuel glanced at the clock on the wall. He still had a few moments before his meeting, so he made his way down to the lobby of the small hotel to see if there was any more news about the war. In the center of the lobby, a small group of men and women huddled around a radio, listening to a news report and grumbling among themselves at an obviously new turn of events.

  “What’s going on?” Father Manuel asked the man closest to him.

  “We heard on the radio, from the mouth of President Aguirre himself, that German aviators in the service of the Spanish rebels bombed Guernica. But now they are giving a new report. Listen. It is a man from Franco’s headquarters who speaks.”

  Father Manuel scooted closer, focusing his full attention on the announcer’s voice.

  “We wish to tell the world loudly and clearly about the burning of Guernica. Guernica was destroyed by fire and gasoline. The Red hordes in the criminal service of Aguirre burned it to ruins. The fire took place yesterday, and Aguirre, since he is a common criminal, has uttered the infamous lie of attributing this atrocity to our noble and heroic air force.”

  The man beside Father Manuel cursed; then he turned. wide-eyed. “Sorry, Padre, but can you believe such things? And the Spanish church backs this story completely—you just missed their words. A professor of theology in Rome even declared there was not a single German in Spain, and that Franco needed only Spanish soldiers—who are second to none in the world—to fight for his cause. I pity anyone who tries to speak otherwise— standing against the Church itself!”

  The words echoed in Father Manuel’s thoughts as he remembered the warning from the man with the hat. He glanced to the clock in the foyer, knowing he had less than an hour to make it to the bishop’s palace. Yet, if the Church backed Franco, what good would his testimony do? Why did they wish for him to come? Unless . . . unless their plan had been to silence him all along.

  “There is proof to the contrary,” Father Manuel said to the man with the pencil-thin moustache and large grayish-brown eyes. “There are some who witnessed the truth. They clearly saw the German markings on the planes.”


  The man shrugged. “Sí, that may be so, Padre, but who will believe a few voices in comparison to these official reports?” He waved his hand toward the radio.

  “There are photographs, too,” Father Manuel found himself saying. “A women correspondent from America was there, and she took photos herself. I am certain she is on her way as we speak, to share them with the world.”

  “Photographs?” The man’s eyes widened even more. “Can this be true?”

  “I was there. I saw her taking them.”

  “You were there?” The man took a step closer to Father Manuel and touched his arm. “You must tell me more.”

  Father Manuel felt a strange sensation wash over him, and he pressed his lips tight. There was something in the man’s eyes. And though Father Manuel couldn’t put his finger on it, he had a feeling he shouldn’t say another word.

  “Really, I would love to hear your story. You look hungry, Padre. Tired. Perhaps I can buy you some coffee at the café here. You are staying in this hotel, aren’t you?”

  More prickles shot up Father Manuel’s arms, and he knew he had to get rid of this man at once.

  “No, I am staying with friends close by. I just came here looking for a friend. And I wish I had time for coffee, but I must be going. I have a meeting in ten minutes.” The three lies flowed out of Father Manuel’s mouth in such quick succession, he didn’t fully realize until all the words were out just what he had done. He felt heat rising to his cheeks.

  He immediately thought of the woman, Sofía, and for the first time wondered if his words could place her in danger. In Guernica he knew most people in town, and he knew who was worthy of his trust and who was not. Yet here . . .

  “Yes, I need to go,” Father Manuel said again. “It was nice to meet you, señor.” He nodded a farewell, then quickly hurried out of the lobby into the city packed with refugees who had come to find protection behind the Ring of Iron.

  As he walked down the crowded street, Father Manuel uttered a silent prayer that the woman would indeed get her photographs to the press soon.

  He barely glanced at the people and buildings that he passed. Resolve filled him as he moved in a direction away from the bishop’s palace. Yet the voice of his conscience continued to whisper that he was a fool and should go there. What would they tell him? Was it true the Church stood behind Franco’s explanation of the bombing of Guernica?

  While the Basque priest had little in common with those in the south, he was still under the leadership of Rome. A leadership that sided with Franco. This realization flooded Father Manuel with understanding of the burden of his testimony. His words would stand against the Church . . . if he were allowed to speak.

  Nowhere does one find signs of bomb splatter, Father Manuel repeated in his mind, words he ’d also heard the reporter say.

  “The large craters were caused by exploding land mines. . . . As if they know anything. As if he were there,” Father Manuel muttered to himself, swinging his arms as he walked faster. “I can understand them bombing Madrid. Or even Málaga or Barcelona. But why Guernica? Why now? And what is my duty . . . and to whom?” None of it made any sense.

  Not knowing where to turn, Father Manuel returned to his hotel. On his way back, every few steps he was approached by sad little groups of refugees from Guernica who recognized him and wondered if he had news of their loved ones. Scattered among these people were armed soldiers on full alert, adding tension to the air.

  Eager for some solitude and thankful that the man with the moustache was no longer in the lobby, Father Manuel entered his small room and settled on the bed, watching the clock and realizing, as the hands approached three o’clock, that he had disobeyed a direct order from the Church.

  A knock on his door startled him, and Father Manuel opened it cautiously. “Armando!”

  Father Manuel swept his smiling friend into his arms, feeling as if he were ten again. He felt as relieved as the time when he ’d been freed from his teacher’s reprimand by Armando’s persuasive talk and charm.

  Only this time Armando could do nothing to help. Father Manuel had defied a request by the Church, and he had made up his mind to head out of the country on his own. The lives of his people were at stake. As a man of God, he knew it was up to him to act, to tell the world the truth, despite his fears.

  The door was barely shut when Armando studied Father Manuel’s face. “You didn’t go to the bishop’s palace, did you?”

  “No. I’m going to France instead. A reporter is waiting to hear my story—it is the only way to get the truth to the outside world.”

  “Then I will join you. I—”

  “Absolutely not.” Father Manuel puffed out his chest, feeling a rush of energy course through his limbs.

  “Will you let me finish?” Armando ran his fingers through his dark hair. “You’re always too quick to speak your mind. I’ve come to join you on your trip as far as the border. Then I must return and check to see that Nerea is fine. She ’s staying in the home of her cousin for now, and is safe—but as we know, the safety of a home, a town, can diminish from one moment to the next.”

  With his words, Father Manuel got another image of the planes sweeping, releasing their fury on those who in no way deserved it. And while he wanted to tell Armando that even a trip to the border was too much, he didn’t argue. The fact was, his soul settled knowing his oldest, closest friend would be at his side up until that moment.

  “You can do that? Come with me to the border?”

  “Of course. I only wish it were all the way. When do we leave? In the morning, before dawn?”

  “No. This evening. We must make the next train in two hours.”

  “I’ll be ready. I will meet you at the station.”

  “And if you are not there?”

  “If I’m not there, I am dead.” Armando chuckled. “And in that case, I will not be joining you, no matter how much I wish to do so.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Father Manuel never dreamed he would leave Spain. He was a Spaniard, called by God to serve the people. As the train carried him to France, he pondered how God would use him now. Many of his congregation were dead, the rest scattered. And after defying the church leadership, would he ever have another congregation to shepherd? With the Nationalist troops bearing down, most of the townspeople had fled Guernica.

  He and Armando joined the people in their flight, but theirs was for a different purpose. Father Manuel was running to something; he was running toward truth. But he was doing the bidding of a stranger. He didn’t know what would be in store for him when he arrived.

  “Comfortable?” Armando asked, adjusting a blanket over Manuel’s lap.

  Father Manuel noticed how Armando spoke lowly and gently; they acted more like father and son than two friends the same age. Yet Manuel didn’t mind. He felt as if years had passed in the last week, not days. He felt like an old man.

  “As comfortable as one could be, I expect,” he mumbled, glancing at the small town passing outside the window without really seeing it. His mind was elsewhere, on the homes and buildings left behind—reduced to rubble. All he knew, destroyed and burned by German bombers.

  Father Manuel stiffened as he recognized, a few rows ahead, the reporter who had spoken with him in Guernica. The man wore the same black fedora hat low over his brow.

  Eventually he rose and shuffled over. He leaned down to Armando first. “Excuse me, señor, sorry to interrupt. May we switch seats for only a few minutes? I would like to talk to the priest, if you do not mind.”

  Armando eyed him cautiously and did not answer.

  Manuel reached over and patted his friend ’s hand. “It’s all right, Armando. This man is a reporter. A good man I have met before.”

  The man’s eyes widened with appreciation. “Thank you. I only need a few minutes, I assure you.”

  Slowly Armando rose and moved to the seat the man had vacated. But he turned slightly to observe the man’s every move.

 
“It is wonderful you have someone like that. Is he your brother, perhaps?”

  “No, a friend,” Father Manuel replied simply, “but close enough to be a brother. We have known each other since before we could talk, walk even. I believe our mothers were friends from the time we were carried in their wombs.”

  “Similar to John the Baptist and our Savior then?” The man gave a caring smile.

  “Similar, maybe. But neither of us qualifies as holy.” Father Manuel let out a low chuckle. “Though I serve God to the best of my ability, I am afraid it is often not enough.” He patted the man’s hand. “What was your name again?”

  “My name is Walt.” He settled back into the seat. “I watched you in Guernica. I saw the way you take care of your people. You are to be commended.”

  Father Manuel shook his head. “I just do what needs to be done. When I look around at the devastation and loss, I know it’s not nearly enough.”

  “But would it ever be enough?” Walt cocked an eyebrow. “Can one ever get to the place where he has served all he can?”

  Father Manuel recalled all the people of his small parish before the war. The widows, the orphans, the drunkards. Their needs had overwhelmed him. But now, after the bombing, all their needs had been multiplied tenfold. If he had to consider all the hurting men and women in Guernica, let alone Spain, he ’d never be able to sleep or think of anything else. He folded his hands in his lap. “No.” He sighed. “I suppose I never will.”

  “But you can do this one thing that will reach many, sharing the needs of your people. You are a wise man. I assume you did not go to the bishop’s palace.”

  “No. I did not go. I did not even send an excuse, or tell them where I was headed instead. I am not sure I will remain a priest when I return, but . . . well, what you said made sense. And after I heard the news reports in the hotel, that the Church had sided with Franco’s story, I could not take the chance of being told not to speak. Better not to know what the bishop was beckoning me for than to defy any order he might give me to keep silent about the truth.”