Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The man walked by with a baguette on his shoulder. The whiff of it, the wonderful scent, brought tears to Father Manuel's eyes as he considered the poor and the hungry of Spain. Why should he be healthy and well fed when those God gave him to shepherd lived in hunger, poverty—and now bondage?

  The newspaper was spread open before him on the small café table, and he read the headlines as if reading a letter from home, so urgent to his heart was the news. Bilbao had been taken. The city was now in Nationalist control. Most had escaped and moved to the next town, and the next, hoping to stay one step ahead of the troops. But could they? Could they outrun the inevitable?

  Feeling the weight of his people on his shoulders, Father Manuel rose from the cast-iron chair by the small café table and strolled down the boulevard. Paris was a beautiful city filled with sharply dressed people attending the World's Fair. Yet he knew if it hadn't been for the kindness of a stranger, that reporter Walt Block, he wouldn’t be here at all. He’d be with the others, running, hiding, hoping for escape. Why had he been plucked from the fire? It was a question he couldn't shake.

  And what about Berto? The young man had shown up at the train station the first day Father Manuel had arrived. Many were there that day, all waiting for word from Spain, and when Berto discovered Father Manuel was also from the Basque region, he’d offered help, for which Father Manuel was thankful.

  Through their time together, it was clear that Berto’s heart was for the people of Spain. Father Manuel knew that the young man was another evidence of God's provision. It was clear God wanted him here, even though he did not know why.

  He considered retreating to his small room, but knew his Lord would take no pleasure from his hiding away there, worrying about events that he could no longer influence. Besides, during the day his room offered him no comfort. In one of the other rooms a guitarist played Spanish music, fast and painful, playing what Father Manuel dared not voice. More than that, if a musical instrument could scold, this one did.

  Remember Spain. Do not forget. Fight. Remember. Fight.

  He continued walking until he reached the beautiful church he'd noticed from a distance. Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris. Our Lady of Paris.

  A hedge circled the small grounds. It was trimmed so perfectly flat it could have served as a table. Most visitors lingered outside, taking in the well-known and admired architecture. People came from all over the world, he'd been told, to view the church. Yet this made little sense to him. How could one care for the elaborate towers and spire but ignore the purpose of its construction? A great cathedral pointed to a great God, did it not?

  The church bell tolled three solid rings, and Father Manuel grunted as he walked up the brick steps, as if answering the echoing gong. I'm coming, I'm coming.

  He was far from home, but not far from God. And perhaps instead of trying to make sense in his mind as to why he was in France, it was time to ask God's opinion on the matter.

  Night had come, and they'd found a place to rest. A meadow that allowed him full view of the truck and a long stretch of the road each direction. Still, Walt's focus wasn't on the road.

  He looked to Sophie, curled on her side in a tight little ball. She looked so small, so fragile, lying under the tree. On the other side of her, Philip lay close to the base of the tree, his back to her.

  Walt had known many beautiful women in his life, but that was all they were. Just a shell. But Sophie was so much more. Her spirit. Her strength. Her trust. Her trust in him was overwhelming.

  Yet she no longer looked brave. Instead she appeared like an injured lamb. Her heart had been broken by Michael's betrayal. And by Philip’s anger. And Walt had no answers, no plan to keep her safe. He knew when he got into this treasure hunt that there was a chance he could lose the gold. But now so much more could be lost.

  He let out a sigh and plucked a blade of grass. It had been easy to pull Sophie into the conflict when he didn't know her. Or rather, when he thought she was part of Michael's team. Later, when he knew she was an innocent victim, Walt—for the first time—felt his foundation crumble.

  As someone who prided himself on being in control and unemotional, he questioned if his motives were right—and if his plan would succeed. Until today he'd always acted with determination, but it was clear that Sophie and Philip had witnessed the crumbling of his façade. He had the gold, but it was almost worse than not having it. Keeping it, transporting it, was the problem now. And Sophie was again pulled into the middle of the danger.

  Oppression bore down on Walt, and he suddenly wondered why he was doing this. His life was entrapped in the middle of a tangled web.

  His mind replayed every contact, every idea.

  In the past he’d consider all his options, and one would rise to the top. Like a miner in days of old, he would swish the ideas around in his mind, washing away the silt until only a nugget of gold remained.

  But not this time. This time his muddled mind wouldn’t process. There was no easy answer. More than that, there were two more people who depended on him. He wasn’t used to this sort of prolonged contact. His modus operandi was in and out of people’s lives. No entanglements, no ties. But, Sophie . . . and now Philip. It was all different.

  Weariness overcame him, and suddenly he didn’t want to be in charge anymore. Maybe he'd talk to Philip in the morning and get some ideas. Or maybe he should just walk away. Or take the truck. Risk getting caught by himself. Philip and Sophie would think he’d abandoned them to keep the gold, but it might save their necks. Philip had crossed Spain before; no doubt he could do it again. Sophie would be better in Philip’s hands than Walt’s at this moment.

  Because the truth was, there was more to the story than they knew. Yes, he had followed Michael, but not for the gold. For something far more precious.

  * * *

  Sophie had no blanket. No pillow. But she did her best to find a comfortable place under the trees. For a pillow she used an old shirt that had seen better days. Thankfully the air was warm and smelled of pine, and the grass that grew thick formed her mattress under the tree. She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her.

  Not more than ten feet away Philip curled to his side, his back to her. He wore a blue and white jacket and had tucked an identical one under his head. He had other things in his pack that had been useful. A tin they used to heat water over the fire. A waterskin they’d refilled in the creek. He even had some dry crackers to share. That, with the few fish that he’d caught in the small creek, had taken away the hunger pains.

  But even as he did his best to make sure Sophie was safe, comfortable, and fed, he’d said little to her. Every time she looked at him guilt stabbed her heart, and she wondered if they'd ever reclaim what they once had. She missed the way they used to talk so easily. The way they laughed and joked. She missed his hand taking hers and the feel of his breath against her neck as they embraced.

  During the time she’d known Philip, they’d been apart nearly as much as they’d been together. And now the ten feet separating them seemed like an abyss.

  Sophie sighed, rolled to her stomach, and imagined snuggling next to his back. She wanted to know he still cared for her. She wanted his assurance and his warmth.

  She heard him stir and hoped he would scoot a few feet closer. Maybe then they could talk in the darkness of the night. Maybe that would be easier, so they wouldn't have to look at the pained expression on each other's face.

  Instead, in the light of the moon, Sophie watched as Philip stood and turned in Walt's direction.

  "I'm going to sleep in the cab of the truck," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"

  "Not at all. If you think it will be more comfortable."

  He walked in the direction of the road, and Sophie heard the cab door creak open.

  Minutes passed, and the sounds of crickets rose from the nearby creek.

  "Do you think he's asleep?" Sophie whispered to Walt.

  "I doubt it. I m sure he’s trying to come to grips wi
th all that's happened." Walt had settled on the other side of the clearing, close enough for Sophie to know that he was there if she needed his protection.

  She lay for a few more minutes, trying to find shapes and constellations in the stars. "Maybe I'll go talk to him. We need to clear the air."

  "I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sophie." Walt’s voice sounded weary. "Leave him alone. Give him some time to sort things out."

  "Yeah, well, I hate this tension between us." She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling a small twig caught in it. "Neither of us will be able to sleep unless we talk."

  "He doesn't think the same as you. You want to talk so there won't be conflict between you. Philip doesn't want to talk because he already knows there is conflict. He’s not ready to hear what you have to say."

  She patted the ground and readjusted the shirt she’d tucked under her cheek. Then she yawned. "Maybe you’re right. Forcing him to talk when we’re both tired and worried wouldn’t be the best idea."

  "If you care what I think, hiding in Nationalist territory with a stolen, hunted treasure probably isn’t the best time for two people to talk about their relationship—" Walt’s voice stopped abruptly at a rustling in the bushes near the creek.

  Before she knew what was happening, he was on his feet. It was dark, but not too dark to notice the moonlight glinting off the handgun he held pointed toward the noises in the night.

  Chapter Four

  Michael cursed as he paced in front of the cargo plane, waiting for his parents. He had sent a telegram ahead telling them to meet him at the airfield. And what did he have to show for it? Rocks. The white ammunition boxes held nothing but rocks.

  In the distance, the lights of Paris caused the night sky to glow above the city. He used to love this place, but not anymore. He'd do anything to be back in Spain, and not have to face the fact that he'd been made a fool.

  Across the landing strip, he saw his father walking toward him. That tall frame, those stiff shoulders. And just a hint of gray hair peeking out from under the fedora he always wore.

  "Your mother couldn't make it. You know how stress weakens her heart."

  "It’s better that way." Michael lifted the lid showing the rocks where there should have been gold. He didn’t need to explain. The disappointment in his father's gaze was clear.

  "They tricked you, didn't they?" The older man shook a fist in the air. "I told you to stay away from that woman. From the first I thought she was a distraction. But I had no idea it would come to this."

  "I'm going back. We'll find them. Get the gold." Michael remembered Sophie's look the last time he'd seen her. She'd been hurt. And she was determined to stay with the volunteer, Philip. Obviously she believed she cared for the man. But her eyes had shown no trickery.

  "I imagine she thinks she will be rich. She’ll use the gold for her own gain!" his father’spouted.

  Michael didn’t argue. But he knew, deep inside, that Sophie believed he had flown away with the gold in the cargo hold. She was just a pawn in the hands of that man, Walt Block. He'd targeted Sophie even before she’dcrossed into Spain. It was because of Walt that the gold would again be at the bidding of the Republicans—to be sold to Communist Russia and melted down into gold bars, despite its value.

  Foolish woman . . . open your eyes to what's happening!

  "I'll make sure we get the gold back. Nothing will happen to it," Michael repeated. His voice was firm, but he knew better than to raise it in the presence of his father.

  "Who will ensure this? You and your bodyguard? Do you have the ability to cover the entire country in your search? I thought I could trust you, Son. Your mother . . . what is she going to say? Can you imagine how she’ll feel to know that the priceless artifacts are once again lost?"

  Michael didn't want to think about that. His mother could be the kindest person on earth if she got what she wanted. And when she didn’t . . .

  A new emotion came over him—pity for his father. Pity for any man forced to face his mother’s wrath.

  Weariness also washed over Michael. Pain from the wound to his leg and weakness from losing so much blood. His father hadn’t even asked about his bandaged leg. Didn’t he care about his son’s injury?

  No matter how hard Michael tried, nothing changed. His parents were concerned about what mattered to them. They cared for their son . . . if he shared their concerns. Never a day passed that he didn’t strive for their approval, long for their praise. But whatever he accomplished never seemed to be good enough.

  "How could this happen?" His father paced, throwing his hands in the air. "When did they make the switch?"

  "At the airfield. That reporter, or spy—whatever he is—must have more connections than I realized. I thought the guards loaded the gold, but they were on his payroll instead."

  "Which makes reclaiming our booty even more difficult. Who knows who else is under his control! The gold is most likely at the port right now, being shipped to line their pockets. Shipped to the melting pots." His father’s face fell. "What will I tell the collectors?"

  "Tell them nothing." Michael limped closer to his father. "Not yet. Simply say that the war in Spain is making transport more difficult than we thought."

  Michael could not tell his father that half the gold had already been claimed by Franco, even before they had a chance to rescue it from its "safe" place in the tunnel. To his father, Franco was Spain's savior. Telling him the truth would only shame the older man and feed his anger. Michael’s only hope was that the collectors would be so enthralled by the beauty and worth of the ancient treasure remaining that they’d forget that what he offered was far less than first promised. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Perhaps he'd been doomed from the start.

  Pain shot up Michael's leg. He caught himself on the door of his father’s automobile, using all his strength not to crumple to the ground. Then he straightened, forcing himself to be strong in his father’s eyes.

  His father looked toward the bloody shirt wrapped around Michael's leg but still did not ask about the wound. "You have two months to find the gold. Two months to get it to France. And to get rid of that woman, Sophie." He spat her name. "And finish off her friends. Nothing less will do." He wiped a drop of sweat from his lip. "What will I tell your mother?"

  "Tell her that . . ." Michael's voice caught in his throat. His words escaped with a heavy breath. "I am sorry, and I will not fail again."

  "Fine, but if I were you I wouldn't show my face until that promise comes to pass." His father looked away. "Her words can slice deeper than any knife."

  Walter opened the door, climbed into the automobile, and started the engine. Michael hobbled two steps back, then watched him drive away without another glance.

  Cesar approached, and Michael saw the pity in his gaze. It was the last thing he wanted.

  "We need to return to Spain as soon as possible."

  "And find help from where?" Cesar questioned. "It's obvious we can’t trust the police or Franco’s men. Besides . . ." He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Michael’s waist. "We're going nowhere until you get that leg looked at and find your strength. Many have already died in search of the gold. Let's not add your name to that list."

  Ritter settled on the stool in front of the bar and rested his weight on his arms. He was happy to be back in Germany. Happy that the plans for the Norden bombsight had been delivered and that Göring had been generous in his reward.

  The strong smell of beer caused a weary smile to curl on Ritter's face, and he knew that its numbing warmth would soon spread its wings over his anxious mind.

  The bartender acknowledged his presence with the faintest of nods. He offered Ritter a tall glass, filled to the top with frothy cold beer, and then turned back to a man who claimed he'd just arrived from Thuringia.

  "You should see what the fuehrer has planned for the enemies of the Reich." The man's words slurred, and his eyes were bloodshot. Ritter wondered how much longer the
man would be able to sit at the stool at this rate.

  "I was asked to come and tour the place myself—a new concentration camp that will be opening in a month," the man continued. "They have plans for a thousand inmates, maybe more. Some prisoners are already there, building the very walls that will confine them! It is not a good time to be an enemy of the Reich." Laughter spilled from the man's lips.

  Ritter opened his mouth to ask more questions, but another man spoke before he had the chance. This man spoke German, but with an American accent.

  "Perhaps if such a cleansing of one's enemies had been done in Spain, their civil battle would not have escalated as it has." He spoke with the slow, even tone of a politician.

  "I’ve been in Spain," Ritter said, hoping to impress. "The people are mad—both sides. And the ideas they die for pale in comparison to those of our new Germany."

  The American raised one eyebrow. "The Spanish war is only an outward indication of the disease that is inflicting mankind—it is not the disease itself. The fault lies in the Treaty of Versailles. Upon signing it, those conquered in the last war were labeled second-rate. It robbed them of any hope for a better future."

  "Germany was one of those nations, but not any longer," Ritter replied. "And though it seemed as if we were robbed, that is no longer the case. We have grand hopes, grand dreams." He leaned toward the man. "Dreams many are willing to fight for, die for."

  "Ja, because you have a great leader. Hitler has emerged at the right time, with a message that twenty years of despair has primed the people for."

  Ritter studied the man s face, surprised that the American’s views matched his own.

  "Men and women living as second-class citizens, due to the mistakes of an earlier generation, will embrace the first opportunity to free themselves." The American turned to the man who had spoken of the building of the camp. "And in this case, their freedom hinges on locking up those they feel threaten that freedom. It's a step." He took a long drink from his tall stein of beer. "Only a first step."