She placed a hand over her pounding heart, wondering if the dream was sent as a warning. Then she rose and dressed in the dark of the windowless room.
Opening the bedroom door, she saw that the light of dawn flooded the front room of the cottage, and there seated at the table was Walt.
He refused to look at her, diverting his gaze. His foot tapped an irregular beat, and he quickly tucked something into his pocket. "You're awake."
"I thought I heard something."
Something looked different about him. He'd set his hat on the seat of the chair. His hair hung over his forehead, making him look younger than before. His uncertain glance gave her a sinking feeling.
She wondered if Philip was still sleeping in the barn. She thought about waking him, but Walt spoke before she had a chance to ask if she should.
"Sophie, you'd better come sit. I need to talk to you." He rubbed his brow. "The Nationalists hold Bilbao now, all of it. Thousands have tried to flee to the coast of France, but failed. Overcrowded boats have sunk in the Bay of Biscay."
Walt was rarely one to show his emotion, but she saw tears pooled on the bottom edge of his eyes. Yet somehow she wasn't able to connect his words with his emotions. Surely there was more than he was telling. She could see it in his eyes.
"And José?" Sophie searched his face. "Was he one of those?"
"No. From what I can gather, he has gone into the hills with the horses. The mountains are dangerous, but so is the enemy. The city fell so quickly because of the fifth column—Franco's supporters on the inside who took over the key buildings. They were just silently waiting for the right time to strike."
Sophie didn't need Walt to explain that Hector and the other men she'd lived with during the past month had been part of this inside contingent.
But why tell her this now? How did the events happening in Bilbao affect them here?
"The traitors within, that's what brought it down," he repeated again. "It's the silence you have to watch for. You think you know a person . . . ."
He didn't continue, and Sophie waited. She crossed the room and moved the hat, then sat down.
She knew if she asked, Walt would tell her what was really going on. But for some reason her mouth wouldn't move. The words wouldn't form.
"Sophie . . . I . . . " He paused. Then he blew out a breath. "Yes, well, I am back. And I've had a little time to think."
"About how we're getting out of here?"
"Yes, and other things."
Sophie stood and unwrapped a loaf of bread. "I baked this yesterday. It's actually flat, flavorless, and heavy, but I'm guessing you're hungry."
He took a piece from her hand, not really seeing it. "Those that succeed in their plots are the ones willing to move slowly and bide their time, waiting for the right opportunity. To make sudden moves or hasty plans will only end in disaster. We won't travel out with the gold—not yet anyway. Michael will be expecting that very thing. The people he works for will use their resources to watch every harbor. Every airport. We will follow the example of the fifth column in other ways also."
"Such as?"
"They had something more important than treasure, and that was information. They sent it out piece by piece in some of the most unlikely ways." Walt stood and gazed out the window toward the barn, and she could tell he spoke more to himself than to her. "They will expect a large shipment to leave the port, but they will be unconcerned about small packages. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time? And how do you ship a large cargo hold of gold?"
"Little by little." Sophie clenched her hands on her lap, remembering her conversation with Philip.
Listen, watch, Philip had urged her. What Walt believes about the gold—his ultimate goal—will come out in his words and plans.
She rose and looked again to see if there was any movement from the barn. Where is Philip now? Why didn't he wake up and come in? For that matter, where's Badger? He's always the first awake, running around.
She turned her back on Walt, pumping water into the tin coffeepot, hoping he didn't notice her trembling hands. "Yes . . . but how long can we stay here safely? Surely word will leak out. Where can we hide? It's a big truck."
Walt nodded and rubbed his chin. "Yes, I understand these things. But plans, too, must be worked out piece by piece."
Sophie added a scoop of coffee to the pot, noticing Walt didn't ask where she'd found it. She thought again about waking Philip.
Sophie returned to her chair and sighed. "Every time I think about it, I can't believe how I was deceived by Michael. And . . . to be honest, how easily I trusted you when I first crossed the border. I was so naïve…. I suppose I didn't understand that Spain would split in two before my very eyes."
She searched Walt's face as she said the words, trying to see his reaction. Trying to assure herself that she was not being deceived again. "I've failed more times than I can count. You'd think as an artist, I'd see the world a little better."
Walt rubbed his knees with two hands as if he were an old man whose joints ached. "You didn't fail, Sophie. You see the world through eyes of truth. You believe what you see, and that is why you can reflect it back onto the canvas. You believe the destruction, and you paint it. You believe the pain, and we feel it in your work. Of course, you believed in love, only to find it limited and weak. You believed I was a fellow passenger who was kind in offering you a way across the border. That was the layer of truth I showed you, and you had no need to look any deeper."
"And you, Walt? How do you see the world? Through deception? Do you second-guess everything?"
"That's my nature, I'm afraid. I'm not sure I can change. It reminds me of my grandfather. He was a soldier as a teen and faced many battles. Any loud noise would bring him to his knees, covering his head with his arms. As small kids we thought it quite funny. Now, of course, I regret all those times we dropped horseshoes on the cobblestone streets just to see him react. He knew what we were doing, and he was ashamed of his reaction, but still he saw the world through the eyes of that frightened soldier. It colored his existence. As for me, I also—"
A dog's bark pierced the air. Sophie looked out the window to see Badger bounding between the barn and the house. Behind him Philip closed the large barn door.
Walt stood and moved to the door, reaching for his gun. "What in the world is that beast doing?"
A knock sounded at the door only moments after Father Manuel had risen and dressed.
Berto entered and closed the door behind him, almost shy. "Father . . . if it is a good time, I would like to talk to you about something. About God," he whispered.
Father Manuel nodded and motioned to the chair across the room. Instead of sitting in it where it was, Berto moved it to sit across from Father Manuel. So close their knees nearly touched.
"I wanted to thank you for the way you changed the subject last night when my mother asked about our friendship—and about how we met. I should have told you sooner that my parents aren't aware of some of my leanings . . . like that day in Picasso's studio when you shared your story. My father wouldn't approve if he knew I'd been with those people"
Berto was a handsome boy. Anyone could see that his outgoing personality would be a draw to the young women—both the Spanish girls and the French lasses he interacted with. And while he seemed to be playful and flippant, Father Manuel guessed that beneath the surface was a mind that didn't stop thinking and weighing the concerns of the world around him. And a heart that cared much more than he let on.
"He doesn't know those friends, does he? Are you saying your father is for the Nationalist cause?"
"My father thinks that God works best in a well-ordered society—such as the Spanish nation he grew up in. To him the order of the property-owning class and religion are one."
"And you don't believe this?"
"Please tell me if I'm mistaken, Padre, but from what I saw growing up, there are times the church seems more concerned about the outward show. I was brought up
not knowing the love of God. Instead I focused on the worries about purgatory. I've tried to discover God for myself."
Father Manuel leaned back in his chair, realizing that for years he'd longed for someone to share these same thoughts. He could hardly believe that in this house, this country, where he felt so out of place, God had answered his prayer. "And have you, my son, discovered God?"
"I think so, Padre, at least from what I've been reading. You see, I found in our study a copy of the Bible, and I've been reading it for myself." By the look on the young man's face one would think he offered a confession. "Even though I am young, I have known the romantic love of many young girls—not physically, but emotionally. In thinking about these relationships, I've begun to see that the Word of God is a bit like a romance—God loves, and then loses His love to another, only to find a way to win His bride back."
Father Manuel straightened his back and sat up, surprised, mainly because this was the most candid conversation about God he'd had in years. Also because, though the boy sought his guidance, he felt as if he were receiving much in return.
"I think you are right. I have thought of the love of God often myself. It is not enough to love; love's nature is that you take that thing for yourself. Loving from a distance doesn't seem to be true love at all."
"I knew it. I knew you felt the same. Then you too have known the love of God deeply?" Berto's eyes filled with wonder, and a smile curled on his face.
"Sometimes I've wondered if I were the only one. It was a lonely road at times," Father Manuel said. "I met God in the mountains as a boy. It was there that His reality seemed so clear to me. I devoted myself as a priest, because that is how I believed I could prove my affection. Yet sometimes it seemed I served for no purpose. It was like trying to share a great treasure with those content to live in poverty."
"That is why I have asked you here. That is why you cannot return." Berto must have realized his voice rose in volume because he lowered it again, leaning forward with elbows on knees. "Spain is not a place for you anymore. The Basque region is being taken over piece by piece. Soon there will be no place safe. I've heard recently that the insurgents have shot fourteen Basque priests in Guipúzcoa. And they say they're 'for God and for Spain.'"
Father Manuel felt his stomach grow sick at the news. He had no doubt that if he had stayed he'd have been one of those whose blood spilled onto the Spanish soil. He had thought his mission had been to spread the news of Spain, but perhaps it had been to save his life.
But save it for what?
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to upset you with the news." Berto rose and paced toward the window. "I just . . . needed someone to talk to. Sometimes I feel as if I don't fit into this family at all. Other times I question if I'd set up this image of God in my mind, but it doesn't really exist."
"I know what you mean, all the questions and doubts. And I thank you for trusting me with them. I will share mine with you . . . ." Father Manuel heard heavy footsteps outside the doorway, and he paused. "But not today. Today I think we must both seek God and pray. I have no doubt that God has brought us together for a purpose—what an unlikely pair we are. And I'm sure He will reveal why in His due time."
"Thank you, Padre." Berto walked to the door with a smile spreading across his face. "It is a good thing to know that in this world—in this very home—another man will be lifting up prayers to God. It is a very good thing."
Chapter Fifteen
Ritter arrived in Vitoria. He landed the Junkers Ju.52 tri-motor and stepped out on Spanish soil for the first time in months. He'd felt an affection for this country that he couldn't explain as he'd flown over the blue gray mass of hills, the somber clouds, the ancient vineyards. Even the scarred landscape, where little men dug trenches for protection, seemed more familiar to him than the hustle and bustle of the Berlin streets.
He looked around the airfield and realized nothing much had changed—the same aircraft, mechanics, and pilots strode across the dirt runways after finely executed missions—yet in a strange way everything was different. A new solemnity permeated the airfield, despite the victories on the Northern front. It was here on the third of June, just a month prior, that General Mola, the most brilliant military advisor, had met his death.
The general had left the Vitoria aerodrome in his own communication plane with two members of his staff and his personal pilot. Ritter believed the man had gotten the pilot's job because of his friendship with the general, rather than because he had superb flying skills. And perhaps that was the problem.
Ritter strode across the field, tucking his flying helmet into his pocket. He removed his heavy jacket, lest he melt under the Spanish sun. On the day of the accident, the weather had been extremely bad and visibility poor. Which was hard to believe since this day was so beautiful.
The accident had occurred only a few minutes from Burgos when the pilot descended, looking for the signals from the airfield. Being lower than the pilot thought, the small aircraft flew into the side of a hill. It was a tragedy for Spain and for the German pilots. General Mola had often smoothed things between the Spanish high command and the foreign generals, including those from the Condor Legion. More conflict existed now between the groups. Ritter was thankful he was not here to join in the battle. He answered only to Göring himself.
Yet last night in Göring’s office, Hitler's general had another request. A simple one, it seemed. He asked Ritter to be a ferry pilot between Germany and various parts of Fascist Spain. He was to deliver specific items and pick up others for the return trip. No questions. No need to know the identity of the items he delivered or their purpose. Only obedience. And a healthy paycheck.
Though Ritter had skirted most of the northern coast on his flight from Germany to Spain, the clear Spanish sky made it possible not only to watch the bombs descending on the Basque towns in the distance, but also the artillery shells. Heavy shells from the howitzers streaked through the sky, appearing almost pretty if one did not realize what they were. Even the three-inch trench mortars arced at a high angle, upward, like silvery birds.
He had no doubt the war would end soon. It was only a matter of time, and he wondered how much the "materials" he transported would help make that so.
Ritter checked in at the main office, then—as Göring requested—watched as unmarked crates were hauled from the aircraft to a secure area. He didn't ask about the contents. He didn't care.
In fact, Ritter cared about little these days. Once the last box was delivered, he ran his fingers through his hair and considered heading toward the nearest tavern to unwind before finding a spare bunk to sleep in. As he walked toward the auto pool, hoping to beg a ride to town, a man's voice interrupted his thoughts. He spoke in crisp German, with an air of appreciation for Ritter's position, which caused Ritter to smile.
"Sir, can you come to the office, please? My commander wishes a word with you before you depart."
"Of course; lead the way."
Ritter sighed as he entered, realizing he now had the upper hand. He had free entry into Göring’s office, and no doubt more Spaniards would ask favors of him. The thing was, Ritter determinedly heeded Göring—and Göring only. Anything less would waste his time. Göring considered him more than a pilot. He was an asset to the German cause . . . and with authority came responsibility. Something he did not take lightly. He would do the bidding of Hitler's general.
Deion had only spent a few days driving the truck for the Thaelmanns when he was told that someone had messed up, and he should, in fact, return to the front lines with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. While they waited for their next orders, he thought about visiting the hospital again to talk to Gwen, but his feet refused to carry him that direction.
The battlefield was no place to spark a romance, he told himself—even if Gwen had gotten over her anger. It was easier if things ended now, before they really got started. He knew if he let himself fall for her, he couldn't live with himself if anything happened to her.
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A strange uneasiness hung in the air. Perhaps because the commanders checked and rechecked their troops and inspected their weapons—just in case. Or maybe because the troops had received double the amount of food for dinner. A last meal before the big battle to come?
They finished their dinner, and he washed his face and brushed off his dusty uniform the best he could. Then the word came. They were leaving tonight. He'd have no time to say goodbye to friends in the hospital or, for other soldiers, Señoritas they'd been seeing in town. They had to pack up and head out. Not a minute could be wasted.
Major George Nathan called the men to order, then stepped out from the cluster of brigade staff, clearing his voice to speak. "Battalions stand ready to move out!" He relayed no grand plans other than that they would head to the front lines. Still, another word traveled through the groups and brought excitement to their limbs. Offensive. After a year of defensive warfare, it was their turn to make the move, to lead the fight.
They headed out on foot because they heard there were tens of thousands of Republican soldiers and International volunteers merging on the Nationalists. As Deion set out, keeping time in stiff, creaky boots, he had never felt so conflicted. Fighting had been his main goal, to make a difference. Yet he couldn't deny that if he had a few more days, he most likely would have paid another visit to the pretty nurse. There was something about her he couldn't shake. And now he left, without the chance to say good-bye. It seemed foolish, but in a very real sense his heart was another victim in this foreign war.
The man to his left sipped from a canteen, and Deion could tell by his trembling hands he'd already seen the front lines. Those who had witnessed the death of friends, and suffered injuries of their own, gathered the nerve to march forward. As Deion had seen through his seven months in Spain, they faced their own fears on the battlefield as clearly as they faced the enemy. Others—those new to the brigades—walked taller, with straight backs and sure smiles.
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