"Where you from?" Deion matched his pace to the man beside him.
The soldier was stocky, with a freckled face and reddish brown hair that stuck out from beneath his cap.
"Stockholm. I never thought I'd miss it." He turned to Deion as he spoke, wiping his red eyes.
The man's breath smelled like alcohol, and Deion knew it was cognac, not water, in his canteen.
"Can ya believe it?" Deion tried to act as if he didn't notice the way fear caused the man's eyes to dart wildly. "We gonna be the one surprisin' the enemy this time."
The man was silent for a while as they walked along, and Deion wondered what he was thinking. When the sun set over the ridge of the distant mountains, his companion finally spoke.
"The last time I was on the front lines, we was sitting there when this young man came up—a Spanish lad. We chatted for a while, and he offered us cigarettes. Then he headed back out across no-man's-land."
"A scout?" Deion asked, replacing the face of the boy in the story with a dozen others he had met and seen.
"So we believed. Not two minutes later, a guy from the staff came by. Said the boy was sneakin' round for the other side. They headed out after him, but secretly I hoped he made it back. I heard that happened in the Great War, too. Men saw the enemy face-to-face, only to discover you can't hate the guys on the other side once you joked with them. I think about that kid every time I fire my gun, and hope my bullet's not heading his direction."
Deion's footsteps slowed slightly, and he questioned why he'd even started this conversation. His mood was bad enough as he replayed his own misgivings. Not talking to Gwen one last time, knowing his last injury—a concussion—was just inches from being more serious. Not to mention the bullet to his leg that caused stiffness and aching even now.
Third strike you're out! He tried to push the thought away.
Another guy approached Deion, passing out Hershey bars. He moved on, making sure each man had one.
"Is this what they call a good-bye gift?" the man from Stockholm mumbled. "Something to enjoy because tomorrow we die?"
"Don't talk like that," Deion spat out. His words came out harsher than he'd intended. "I been injured twice. You think I wanna go out there again?"
A foul attitude settled over him, and he didn't know where it came from. Just hours before he'd been eager to fight, and now . . . the more he marched, the more faces of the dead flashed through his mind. Guys he'd known for such a short time.
As they marched on, morning came, and then the hot sun was high in the sky. The path they followed sloped, like a gully now; so many boots had marched through it.
No clouds shadowed the sky, and Deion wasn't sure when he'd ever felt so hot. They passed a row of poplars, and for a brief time found relief. The trees curved over the road as if offering a moment of shade and protection. But soon they too disappeared, and nothing remained except a solemn house and Spanish fields that also seemed to wilt under the sun.
A layer of sweat covered his body and soaked his uniform. And when they approached a square of a small town, they found no relief.
"Wait here, men; we have a special surprise. La Pasionaria, Dolores Ibárruri, will visit us soon! In fact, she plans to travel down the entire front of soldiers as they prepare to advance."
Deion settled to the ground, but didn't remove his boots for fear that he'd never get them back on his swelling feet.
"I've heard of her, but no disrespect . . . it's hot out here," he mumbled.
A bespectacled man with a long, thin nose looked at Deion as if he'd just cursed the Virgin Mother. "Dolores Ibárruri is a great woman—a leader to the people. She is the daughter of an Astu-rian miner. She even led the coal miners' strike of 1934."
"Yeah, I know," Deion stated, curling onto the patch of dirt and dried grass. "But do she come with shade and water? My canteen ran dry hours ago." Deion lay there in distress, realizing he had become just as miserable to the others as the Stockholm man had been for him.
The stirring of the men around him woke Deion from his fitful sleep. And as he rose and stood with the rest, blearily blinking at the woman standing in front of the men, he realized why the commanders felt an audience with La Pasionaria was worth the wait.
She spoke of the hardship to come and the solidarity of the people of Spain. More than that, they now knew why their offensive was so vital. It seemed Franco's armies continued to press into the Basque region, conquering one town after the other. In addition, Nationalist artillery did not let up on Madrid. The Republicans believed that attacking Franco's army just west of Madrid would relieve both sections. Perhaps they could end the siege against the capital!
Hope blossomed in Deion's chest.
"We will go forward under the banner of the United Front," she proclaimed. "We will smash the Fascist generals."
She said more, but Deion could hardly hear her over the roar of approval from the men around him. Her words encouraged them, strengthened them for the fight.
She ended her speech by extending a fisted hand, and the men responded in kind. "Viva la Republica!" they shouted, and Deion joined them. "No pasaran! They shall not pass!"
Chapter Sixteen
Gusts of hot wind blew over the tall, pointed sierras, flowing down the hillside to meet Sophie as she climbed by Philip's side. Badger ran ahead, darting around the trees and then circling back again. Sophie wished she had the mutt's energy. Her legs burned, and she wondered what had possessed her to tackle the hillside behind their cottage. She paused and moaned, grabbing on to a small tree lest she tumble back down the hill. "Why are we doing this again?"
Philip turned and reached back, extending his hand toward hers. "Walt says on the top of the hill on a clear day we can see a Moorish outpost. It's been here since the time the Moors ruled this part of the country four hundred years ago."
Sophie took his hand. His palm felt soft and sweaty. He tugged, and she felt herself being dragged up the hill. The landscape around them stretched brownish green in every direction, with dark green brush appearing like freckles on the face of the mountain.
Badger approached with a stick in his mouth. Philip took it and flung it as far down the hill as possible. "There, that should keep him busy for a while."
From somewhere a bird sang, yet Sophie couldn't place the location, nor the melody. It was unlike any she'd ever heard. Small pebbles rolled under her feet, causing her to catch herself more than once. Yet in front of her, Philip strolled with poise and ease as if he walked down a cobblestone path. Even pulling her along with him didn't hinder his pace. Her feet moved quicker to keep up.
"Okay, this works. Why didn't we try this sooner?" she laughed. "From now on, this is the only way to hike."
The hill leveled off some, but Philip didn't release her hand as they walked side by side.
"You know, what I'd really like to see is the coal mine," she said. "How far do you think it is?"
"I'd guess about five miles. Down that first road we were on, remember?"
Sophie nodded. "Do you know why I picked the name Eleanor for my new identity papers?”
"Actually, I do. It's because of the nun who gave you the Bible. Or her grandmother's Bible. Eleanor's."
Sophie's feet stopped, and she tugged against his hand. "How did you know?" For so long Eleanor had been her private friend—and the Bible her secret treasure. "Did you look through my things?"
"That day in Guernica. The nun told me you needed to rest. She set up your room, and then she showed me the Bible."
"Hmmph. And to think all this time I thought you were the one who put my concerns first."
He glanced at her and grinned, the blue of his eyes matching the brilliant sky above. "Well, a guy needs help sometimes—to know what to do."
She held his gaze and smiled.
He let out a deep sigh, and then turned and continued up the hill. Sophie frowned, wondering why he was so quick to break any moment of tenderness between them.
After a few m
inutes of silence, Philip spoke. "So, have you thought about what we talked about? I spoke with Walt. I don't know what he said to you, but he told me he'd like to send the gold out a little at a time."
"He said the same to me. It made me consider what you said about the gold itself—certain pieces at least—being key to a great treasure. That's all very interesting, but it seems so unlikely. I mean, why would Walt risk losing the treasure he has for the hope of something that could be made up?" Sophie paused, and her eyes widened. "Unless what he found was enough to convince him that it was the real thing."
"You may be right. What if you were in Walt's shoes? What would cause you to sacrifice the treasure we have in our grasp by just sending out—saving—a little at a time?"
"A hope that key pieces could be clues to a greater treasure, of course. It only makes sense." With that realization, troubling thoughts filled her mind. "But it's like that old saying, 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' If this is truly Walt's motive, he may be seeking something that may not even exist, or at least may never be found."
Philip released her hand and stretched his arms wide, as if the vista surrounding them helped prove his point. "But don't you see? It all comes down to faith. Think of all the smirks—the looks—all the comments he's given us when we talk about God He chided you for putting your faith in what you can't see . . . when, in truth, he's doing the very same."
The path leveled off to a wide plateau, and Sophie turned in a half circle. Her eyes took in the vastness of the view around her, and she suddenly felt very small. Then in the distance, a white, man-made platform caught her eyes. Like a rock terrace to a great castle, it had been built in the side of the mountain opposite them, no doubt for the purpose of a lookout against invaders.
She sucked in a deep breath. "Yes, I'm starting to see it more clearly. I'm getting a better view of how Walt sees things. As you said the other day, what we believe colors our world and the view of it. If this truly is what Walt believes—"
Philip picked up where she left off. "Then the last thing Walt is concerned about is making sure we get out of this, or in that case, making sure all the gold does . . . no matter how much it is worth." He squeezed her hand tighter. "I have a feeling, Sophie, that we 're on our own. We can't count on Walt to get us out, no matter what he says."
Sophie nodded; then she sat on a large rock and wiped her brow. She studied the outlook built by the Moors hundreds of years before. They'd reigned for a time, but their kingdom ended. And generations of people had lived since then . . . each person with his or her own goals and dreams. All of them living out their beliefs, seeking their own treasure—whether it was someone to love or something to achieve.
Sophie thought about all she'd faced trying to find worth in someone else's arms. There was so much that she held deep inside still—so much she couldn't tell Philip. Because of her own secrets, Sophie had compassion for Walt. She knew how easy it was to hide things from others—especially if one believed that it was for the good of the other person.
She sighed. "I wouldn't give up on Walt just yet. He's always been there when I needed him. He has never left me stranded. He even showed up with more fuel for the truck and maps of the mountain roads. I don't think he's going to let us down. We could be imagining more than what is there. But, still, it makes me think about where I put my hope."
Philip drank deeply from his waterskin, filled with fresh springwater. Then he handed it to her. She took it and smiled, hoping he couldn't see the concern in her gaze. It wasn't only concern for Walt, but also worry that Philip would turn his questions away from their mysterious companion and to her.
* * *
Exhausted from the hike, and with her mind more settled with the knowledge that God had a plan for Walt, Philip, and even herself, Sophie had gone to bed early. Through the thin walls of the cottage, she heard Walt and Philip outside tossing sticks for Badger. And as she collapsed onto the bed, the darkness caressed her as if it were night, even though they had just finished dinner.
She drifted easily off to sleep. But she didn't know if five minutes or five hours had passed when she suddenly awoke with the knowledge that she'd been calling out in her sleep. The door to her bedroom creaked open, and she saw a man's form moving toward her.
"Michael?" she whispered, both surprise and fear pounding through her mind.
The man paused, then knelt by the bed. By the light of the moon, she saw it was Philip's face, filled with compassion and confusion.
"Did you dream about him again?"
Sophie hadn't told Philip of the other dreams. The ones where Michael chased her down a dark alley. Or the others—more frightening yet—the ones where he loved her, and she gladly returned to him.
She hadn't mentioned these dreams to Philip, and she wondered how he knew. Had he seen the confused look in her eyes in the morning? Had she called out Michael's name on other nights?
"I'm sorry. I don't know why. I don't want to dream about him, believe me." Sophie studied his face and hoped he believed her, because it was the truth.
"What do you want, Sophie?"
She saw that Badger had followed Philip into the room, and she motioned for the dog to jump onto the bed.
"I don't understand. I want to stop these dreams, of course. I want to stop these feelings for him."
"Are you sure?"
She sat up straighter, and the dog curled next to her. She could feel his warmth through the blanket.
"Why wouldn't I? Why would I want to keep dealing with this over and over again?"
"That's what I want to know. I want to know if you really do, or if you're just trying to make me believe it. Maybe you're even fooling yourself. It seems as if you get something from the pain. Maybe justification for the way things are turning out?"
She reached for Philip's hand, but instead of clenching hers as his fingers had earlier that day, it felt lifeless. Badger licked both of their hands. His tongue scratched the surface of her skin.
"If I could erase every memory of Michael, I would do it. If I could tear out every bit of feeling toward him I would.The anger. The fear."
Philip refused to meet her gaze.
She released his hand and took her sheet in her fingers and twisted it, tighter and tighter as if it were possible to rip away the thoughts of him from her heart.
"I know, Sophie. I trust that you love me."
"I do, you know," she whispered.
"Didn't I just say that?" He sighed. "I also know you didn't plan for any of this. You didn't know what you were getting yourself into. But think of it this way. If it hadn't been for him, you'd never be in Spain. And we wouldn't have met. We wouldn't be together now."
Sophie noticed Philip didn't speak Michael's name. It was as if he kept the idea that Sophie had loved another at arm's distance. Or rather as if it were some entity that plagued her instead of a living, breathing man. A man that, no doubt, hunted them even now, eager to reclaim what he desired most—which, Sophie knew, was not her.
"But why can't I just forget? Every time I think of him I push him out of my mind. Every thought, every memory. But I can't control my dreams. Why does he still plague me?"
Philip sat down on the dirt floor. He folded his legs in front of him, and his tight fists rested on his knees. Seeing those clenched fists made her realize that he was bothered by that fact too. The look in his eyes spoke something else. That he wanted to come to her and hold her, but this was not the time and the place. Sophie was thankful he honored her.
Philip blew out a breath. "I've thought about it. And I tried to imagine what it would be like if, for the past three years, all my dreams, thoughts, and hopes had been centered on one person. I imagine if that were the case, I'd be having the same struggles. It's not just that the emotions were one-sided, Sophie. He drew you in. He promised you his love. You'd planned to marry."
Philip was silent for a moment, and he turned from her to the open door. It was only then she saw the tears on his
cheeks.
"I'm praying, with you, that the emotions will go away. But you've watered them, tended them for a long while. I'm sure they can't be uprooted easily, no matter how much I wish they could. But I'm praying God will do a work in your heart as only He can. And that someday—hopefully not too long in the future—you can look me in the eyes and tell me that your heart is undivided. That your love for me has overgrown all those old places. I'm praying that same day those longings will be just a memory."
He didn't wait for her to respond, but rose and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Badger followed, casting one last look at Sophie with a wag of his tail before the door closed.
At that moment Sophie's heart swelled with love for that man. How did she deserve someone so wonderful and understanding? Someone so wise. She didn't know, but she knew he was right. It wasn't as though she wanted to admit she still had feelings for Michael. But the truth was she'd loved him for a very long time. And even after all the pain he'd caused her, glimmers of it still rested deep in her soul. Glimmers that had reemerged during their days before she and Michael had been found by Walt at the cave. Moments together that caused her throat to tighten with emotion whenever she thought of them.
Sophie thought back to Eleanor. She thought of the letters Eleanor had written to her past love, Jeremiah. They weren't letters of passion or longing. Instead they told Sophie that it was okay to accept the past for what it was. It was okay to face the realization that two hearts had connected.
But Michael was still living and breathing out there somewhere. Sophie knew that in her case, it was time to turn those same feelings over to God one by one. She'd think of Him as a master gardener, digging out the deep roots that no longer belonged. She closed her eyes and pictured it . . . God with His small shovel digging in her heart.
Whisper of Freedom Page 13