Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Walt cleared his throat. "Well, just as long as you're not afraid to change who you are."

  Sophie looked toward Walt and cocked her head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

  "Remember our first plan? When we were in Madrid, and we figured out that the gold was hidden in the tunnel near Gibraltar? I told you to make an excuse not to go with Michael, and then I'd come for you and you'd travel to southern Spain with me instead?"

  "Yes, you said you would get fake identity papers for me."

  Walt continued to steer with one hand as he slid the other into his shirt pocket. He pulled out an identity card and handed it to Sophie.

  She opened it. It was her face, but bore the name of another.

  Philip leaned closer. "Eleanor Howard, huh? It says here you are a museum owner and artist, and you've come to volunteer for Franco."

  Walt shrugged. "I wanted to make sure it was a role she'd fit into nicely."

  "So . . . if we are caught? What am I supposed to say?"

  "If I cannot convince them that Philip and I are volunteers for Franco, then you will say that you had just arrived in Gibraltar when we kidnapped you."

  "Are you joking? There is no way I could abandon the two of you."

  "I'm not saying it's going to happen—but if it does, that's the story you're going to stick to. Understood?"

  She turned to Philip, hoping he'd agree with her. "Philip, tell him—"

  "I agree." Philip's voice was firm. "You don't need to worry about it. But if that happens . . . if it's the last resort, then you must do as Walt says."

  Sophie refolded the identity card and tucked it into her satchel, though she felt like throwing it out the window. She knew better than to argue—she'd never win with these two.

  "Fine," she said. "But only as a last resort."

  And though her words seemed to appease the men, Sophie had no intention of doing as she was told. She wouldn't abandon them. She couldn't.

  "One more thing, Sophie. I need your old identity papers. If they're found on you, they'll ruin everything." Walt's voice was firm.

  Sophie dug them out of her satchel and then handed them over. Her fingers clutched the paper for the briefest second, even as Walt tried to take it; then she released her grasp. "You're taking my life, you know. By giving you this, Sophie Grace no longer lives in Spain."

  "Is it such a bad thing," Walt asked, "to start over completely? Your life is yours to design from this moment on. You can choose what you want to bring with you. And whom to leave behind."

  Sophie knew he was referring to Michael. She also knew what her response should be. Yet without Michael in her history, she would be a different person. And for a time, for the briefest moment, it seemed that clinging to the pain was better than stepping out without a past.

  Even though she'd faced many hard things because of her relationship with Michael, she also knew for certain that for a time she had been adored. And in a strange way, knowing that was enough to convince her that when the time came, she would drag the pain with her into her new life as Eleanor Howard.

  Chapter Six

  Deion didn't budge until he heard the movement of the others around him as they stirred. They had slept in the upper story of a whitewashed house made of stone and bricks. The bottom story was something of a barn with a small door in the wall leading into darkness. He had peered inside by the light of an oil lamp the previous night, checking for enemy soldiers. Finding the barn empty hadn't stopped the dreams from invading his sleep. Dreams of the Fascist troops finding them here.

  Even now Deion resisted the urge to climb from his mat and peer out the window, which consisted of four small frames of dirty glass. He told himself no one waited outside, eager to arrest him—or worse, kill him and the other members of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.

  Then, as he lay there, another face filled his memory. It wasn't one from his dream, but rather the face of the nurse who had cared for him. The strength and meekness that shone through her eyes, her shy smile—all made his heart beat faster.

  He rose and slowly ambled to the window. He bent low to look out; from his vantage he could barely make out the roof of the field hospital in the distance. He dressed quickly, then grabbed his rifle and moved to the dirt-packed street, leaving the other soldiers behind to fully rouse at the sound of the breakfast call.

  A donkey cart was the sole occupant of the road, carrying a small load of oranges.

  The farmer offered Deion a one-armed fisted salute, then tossed him an orange. "Salud."

  "Salud,” Deion responded. He caught the orange with a smile, anticipating its juicy sweetness. He ate it quickly, wiping his sticky hands on his pants, and hurried on.

  It was hard to believe that just days ago he'd been so near a mortar shell's blast that it had completely knocked him out. He'd been carried back to a waiting ambulance by fellow volunteers—or so he'd been told. Then, in his unconscious state, he'd been moved up through the mountainous interior.

  Only upon awakening did Deion realize he'd discovered yet another part of Spain. Its beauty overwhelmed him. He'd been taken farther east up the coast, deeper into the mountains, where the doctors and nurses running the field hospital hoped to find protection from Franco's ever-advancing troops. Tall cliffs and bare rock formed the tumbled landscape, much as he imagined the Rocky Mountains would look.

  With quick strides, Deion hurried to the field hospital. Upon opening the door, he was struck by a feeling of celebration.

  "Double rations of Lucky Strikes and Hershey bars. Ah, the simple pleasures in life."

  It was a female voice that spoke to him, one he recognized right away. He turned and met Gwen's gaze. If he weren't mistaken, he saw color rising to her cheeks as their eyes met.

  "Double rations?"

  "It's the Fourth of July. Did you forget?"

  Deion scratched his forehead. "S'pose I did . . . but I'm all for celebratin'," he quickly added. "Got plans for tonight?"

  "Nothing different from usual. When I get off work, I usually listen to the radio for a while and then write a letter home." She moved to a cabinet and rearranged the bandages. One came undone, and she worked to wind it back up, making sure the clean cloth didn't touch the dirt floor.

  Deion plunged his hands deep into his front pockets. "So, there's someone special at home?"

  "Oh, yes, he's wonderfully special. He says I'm his pride and joy. He's a real catch...."

  Deion hoped his face didn't betray his disappointment. "You don't say. Sounds like a great guy."

  "My mom thinks so. She's been married to him for the last thirty years."

  Gwen laughed, and Deion couldn't help but smile at the twinkle in her eyes. He almost forgot that just days ago he'd been injured in the fight to protect Bilbao's Iron Ring. That they'd retreated, and that the area they'd held had been lost.

  It's a strange thing, he thought, as he watched the beautiful nurse move toward an injured man, how easy we forget. One day he was fighting for his life, and the next trying to catch the interest of a pretty girl.

  Well, almost forget, he corrected himself. Because deep down in the pit of his stomach there was a nagging feeling. He'd learned one thing in Spain, and that was how quickly things changed. How happy thoughts could be gone in an instant. One enemy aircraft overhead. One planned attack, and cries of terror would replace the laughter.

  Walt slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded, barely stopping just before sliding into the washout in their path.

  Sophie sat stunned as both Philip and Walt jumped from the truck. With reluctant steps, she followed.

  A nearly ten-foot stretch of the road had been washed away. A stream of water from the mountainside formed a small, wide river. Dead branches and chunks of earth mixed with small boulders, telling Sophie that some type of mud slide from above had caused the destruction. There was no way to pass.

  Surely that man last night, Emanuel, must have known that. Her eyes scoured the hillside, almost expecting a band of
men to attack at any moment. After all, Walt had told the man that the truck carried weapons. And weapons were nearly as valuable as gold in Spain these days.

  "Do you think it's a trap?" She turned first to Walt, then to Philip. "You said this morning our fuel supply was dwindling. And it is a long way back. We'll surely run out of fuel before we make it out of these mountains. Not to mention those guys tailing us. They'd love to find us where we started."

  Neither man spoke, but Sophie could tell by the intense looks on their faces and the way they scanned the hills they were considering her words.

  Walt's gaze returned to the washed-out section of road. "Well, we could try to fix it. But I imagine that would take a couple of days."

  "If it were a trap, they'd be here by now, taking what they wanted. I think Emanuel didn't know about the washout. It looks to me as if it just happened." Philip took Sophie's hand.

  "We could go for help. Maybe the others can help us build something—a bridge of sorts that would make this passable." Walt sighed. "Then again, if word gets out about our whereabouts, we'll be found easier. It's better not to draw attention to our plight."

  Sophie looked back at the truck. "The size of the truck is a huge hindrance, plus the weight of the gold. How could we ever engineer something that could hold up under that? And it's not like we can explain why our truck is so heavy. Anyone can turn on us, and . . . well, I just hope Philip is right, and the man from the forest had good intentions."

  She pressed her lips together, refusing to voice her fear of being betrayed again. She knew too well the pain of discovering that a friend—no, more than that—the man she loved was actually her enemy. The thought of a friend turning out to be an enemy cut her to the core even more than the thought of being caught by enemy soldiers. At least with the Nationalists she knew where she stood. She couldn't stop the shiver that traveled up her spine.

  She moved to a fallen log, brushed aside some of the dust, and sat down.

  Philip ran his fingers through his blond hair and focused his eyes on the scattering of clouds in the sky as if hoping to find his answer there. "Walt, you know the area—and you have connections. Maybe you can hike out for help."

  "Connections I can no longer guarantee." Walt pushed his fedora back from his head. "Michael is a smart man. He no doubt will figure out, if he hasn't already, that I've been playing both sides. Journalists are rarer than the soldiers who have flooded into the country. I'm sure with a few phone calls he could easily discover that Walt Block and James Kimmel are one and the same. No, I don't think that is an option."

  Walt moved closer to the hillside. He shielded the sunlight filtering through the trees with his hand and studied the terrain, as a draftsman would view a proposed building site.

  "James Kimmel?" Sophie's eyes widened as she remembered the name she'd read in the paper. "You're the one who wrote that piece about the destruction of Guernica being caused by Russians on the ground?" Heat coursed through her, and she thought again of the photos she'd taken of the German bombers and other planes over the small Basque town. "Is that why you wanted me to give you the photos? You had no plans of seeing them published, did you? You just wanted to make sure they didn't make it to the press and contradict what you were writing about the explosives on the ground."

  A trapped feeling gripped her chest. She'd trusted Walt time and time again, but should she? She turned to Philip, to see his reaction. More than anything she wanted to see support in his gaze, and maybe shock that Walt, or James—or whoever he was—was the one who spread those reports. Instead Philip looked away, as if his mind were focused on something else.

  Walt sighed. "The photos were published. . . . I can show you the papers if we ever make it back to the safe zone. And as for James Kimmel, I thought I told you about that."

  Sophie pressed her fists into her hips. "No . . . um . . . that would have been an oversight on your part."

  "Well, all that drama to say that although I still have connections, I doubt I can count on my cover. Also, I don't like the idea of leaving the two of you here, even if I could count on finding help." He tapped his finger to his chin and hurriedly continued, not giving Sophie time to continue her tirade.

  "Our biggest asset is that I truly believe the man was on the Republican side. I've heard about groups of men in the mountains who've escaped from the towns Franco's troops invaded. Also, the stories Emanuel told me last night are consistent with the guerilla warfare I've heard of in this part of the country—"

  "We have another asset." Philip's words interrupted Walt, his voice rising with conviction. He pulled a small stack of letters from the inside pocket of his jacket, tossing them onto one of the smooth rocks on the edge of the road. "We have God on our side. We have prayer. God knows who we are and what we are. He knows our desire to use this gold to help the war-battered people of Spain. He has not forgotten their plight, and He has not forgotten ours."

  "You're right, of course." Sophie knew his words were true, but it really annoyed her at this moment. She crossed her arms. "But doesn't it seem like a huge obstacle, getting this gold out? It's impossible. We have to figure something out, or this river will be the end of us." She stood and kicked a dirt clod into the rushing water. "Every moment we sit here gives Michael's guys more time to find us."

  Philip took her hand and tugged her back to the log. "You've allowed the Fascists to get too big in your eyes."

  "What do you mean, too big? They are big. They control the territory we are in. The ports and airfields and the roads—or at least the passable ones. That seems pretty big to me."

  "In Madrid, right before I saw you, Sophie, I'd received a batch of letters from my father. I only had time to read a few. These were still in my jacket pocket—and somehow that henchman, Cesar, missed them when he went through my things."

  Sophie didn't need to ask what had happened to the rest of the letters. Michael had taken them, no doubt. Her stomach ached just thinking of Philip's loss. News from family back home was something every soldier treasured—just another thing she could add to the list of hurts Michael had caused.

  He picked up the letters. "My father told me to remember David fighting Goliath."

  Sophie snorted. "I know who Goliath is. But we’re no Davids."

  "Well, we're not the great warrior King David, but don't you see? David was just a young man when he killed the giant. It wasn't his strength." He sat down on the log and looked up at her. "David was the one person who saw differently."

  Sophie's throat tightened. For some reason she almost felt as if she were going to cry.

  "It was—"

  She interrupted Philip. "I know. I know. It was God's strength. This just seems so impossible. Sometimes I trust that God will help us, and sometimes . . . well, I don't." She sighed and wiped away a tear.

  Philip put an arm around her shoulder.

  She leaned in. "I guess I'm focusing on the impossibility—making this situation look large in my eyes. When really, a great God is over it all."

  "God may choose to rescue us, as He rescued David. Or He may not. But I think He'd be pleased to know that we see Him as greater than our enemies. Greater than the borders and boundaries."

  "And greater than this hole in the road, too," Sophie added. She let her gaze fall to her hands clenched in her lap.

  "If He so chooses, we will discover a way of escape. But if there is none, then we have to trust that He has another assignment for us." Philip offered a soft smile. "One that involves being stuck behind enemy lines."

  Sophie tried to think of what such a thing could be, but her mind couldn't comprehend it. Her chest tightened again as she considered hiding and running. What could God possibly do with that?

  Still, Philip's words stirred something within her. She couldn't help but think about Benita, her faith and prayers. Staying with the older woman and Luis—dear Luis now gone—had been an exercise in faith. No, more than that. It had been the planting of the first seeds of faith that had
grown in her as the months passed and the war progressed. The only problem was that too often she forgot to turn to the source, like a gentle, sweet spring of hope, when the salty waves of war pummeled her.

  "I think Philip's right." She turned to Walt, ignoring his patronizing expression. "I know you're not a praying man, but would you let us . . . turn to God? Seek some direction from Him?"

  Walt didn't seem overly excited about the idea, but he didn't mock them either. He simply shrugged. "What could it hurt?" He hunched down near Sophie and Philip.

  Sophie let her eyes flutter closed; then she opened them for just a second and grasped the hands of the two men sitting on either side of her. Then, in the sweet stillness of the forest, accompanied by the muddy, small stream of water gurgling over the rocks, Philip began to pray.

  "Lord, You know where we are and You know our problem, too. Neither surprises You. What surprises me, God, is how often I forget to turn to You when I need help . . . ." He squeezed Sophie's hand. "When we need help. You know the situation we're facing. After all, Lord, You made Spain and created each of its citizens. You also know the history of this gold, and You alone know its worth and whether it will be used to help the people's plight. You also know the way out of the wilderness. And the right path we need to take.

  "God, I remember the story of Your leading the Israelites while they were in the desert—a cloud by day and a plume of fire by night. We don't need a plume of fire exactly, but we do need deliverance. Please either show us how to fill this hole or show us another route. Anytime You see fit would be great. And if it's Your will that we stay stuck, help us to trust You anyway. In Jesus' name. Amen."

  Sophie smiled, gave Philip's hand a squeeze, and then released it. "Thank you," she whispered.

  Walt also quickly released her hand, but he just sat there, unblinking, as if trying to figure out what the big deal was.

  They waited a few minutes more, each lost in thought, until Walt finally spoke. "Well, I don't see the clouds parting or hear a voice. But I see only one option, so let's give it a try."