Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  "Sophie, how much do you know about Franco?" he asked.

  "Not much."

  "Well, since you are a dedicated follower as of today, maybe you should know a little more."

  She yawned and stretched again. "I'll give you five minutes."

  Walt leaned his head back against the cave. "It will only take me two."

  "Even better."

  "In 1934, Franco took part in the massacre of Asturian miners. . . ."

  "Miners?" Sophie's mind immediately went to Eleanor's journal. Mateo—Eleanor's husband—had been a miner, working for their very existence. A pain tugged at Sophie's heart, and her hatred of Franco grew even greater.

  Walt cocked his head and studied her face by the light of the moon. "Señorita, you look as if you've lost your best friend. What are you thinking about?"

  Sophie didn't know how to explain. "I . . . well . . . it's just that I've heard about the miners and the conditions they work in. It was—it is—a tough life."

  "Yes, well . . . Franco, a general after the '33 elections, was put in charge of the insurgency by the miners' union. Over twelve hundred men lost their lives."

  Walt didn't explain how, and for that Sophie was glad. She could imagine.

  "So what happened after the massacre?"

  "Less than two years later, after the elections, the Popular Front won control of the government. In spite of the demands of the Communists, they didn't put Franco in prison. Instead they sent him to be military governor of the Canary Islands."

  "And that is where he was when this war broke out, right?"

  "Yes, and he was called back to Spain right away. It was the Germans who ferried his troops from North Africa." Walt paused, and then smiled. "I dare to say that took less than two minutes."

  "So that's it? That's all I need to know? That is surprising. You usually like to spend more time imparting your knowledge." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "But not as surprising as Domingo's reaction to the story of the Moorish treasure. I felt my skin burning. Did you see the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke of it?"

  "Yes, he did transform into a different person before our eyes, didn't he?"

  Sophie looked back into the sky just in time to see a shooting star. She made a quick wish that Philip would return safe from his guard duty, then turned her mind back to the conversation. "So many people talk about such riches. I never really thought about hidden treasure before. I feel bad that Domingo has no idea how close he really is to the sort of treasure he talks about. I almost wanted to get out one gold coin for him. Can you imagine how his eyes would have lit up then?"

  "Yes, and if you had, the news of what our truck contained would fall to all the people in this area harder and faster than any rainfall. It is wise to watch yourself and your words carefully. These people lead simple lives, and anything out of the ordinary is great news. It's tricky enough seeking out help and food. If word got out to the wrong person about strangers—Americans—up in these hills, Michael and his friends would find us before the sun crested over the peaks."

  He rose and offered her a hand. "Speaking of which, the day will be upon us before we know it. Your uncle Tomas is already making arrangements for your arrival. It will be a big day for you . . . Eleanor."

  * * *

  Pain, which he had spent a year ignoring, rose in Philip's chest. He leaned against the cave wall breathing hard as if he'd just finished a race. In truth, he attempted to hold his thoughts at bay, attempted to dam up the tears that threatened to flow. Sophie would be leaving again—out of his sight. Out of his grasp. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  He glanced over his shoulder and knew that she watched him. He had returned from the patrol and noticed her laying out her blankets to sleep. Her worried eyes studied him, but he didn't care. He had stayed in Spain for Attis. He had stayed in Spain because the Americans needed volunteers. He had stayed by Sophie's side even when he really wanted to be on the front lines. Then he had been taken from his duties because of her. His heart had broken a hundred times because of her too.

  He took another drink from the wineskin. His new friend, Salvador, had given it to him as they'd walked up the road, back to the cave.

  Sophie lay down on her blanket, but still she watched him. After a moment, she rose, drew near, and sat by his side. Philip ran a hand down his face, knowing he looked awful—smelled awful too—but he didn't care.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  "Something wrong? Sophie, I was bound and taken to the south of Spain. Nobody asked if I wanted to go," he mumbled, as if trying to make a joke out of it. "Then I got roped into helping Walt. Nobody asked, 'Philip, what do you think? Where should we go?' Now I'm patrolling mountain trails around who knows where—and you're leaving."

  "Walt thinks it's best. He thinks the information . . ." She glanced around, and her voice trailed off.

  Yes, and I thought it was a good idea too, he wanted to tell her. Until he really started thinking about it. The men had talked excitedly through the day about how wonderful it would be to have her on the inside. They talked about her as if she were another weapon to help their cause. But to Philip she was much more than that.

  He looked at her again. Her face was so beautiful; Philip didn't think he could bear to lose her. His chest throbbed as he imagined her going into the castle alone. Surrounded by the enemy. Don't do it. I can't lose you. He reached over and took her hand.

  She leaned close and whispered. "Walt thinks it is best. . . . I can help us get the information we need for the rest of our journey. Each step now will take us closer to home, to America. Where we can be safe . . . together."

  He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he released it abruptly. He was tired of hurting. Tired of worrying.

  "Well, right now, Sophie, I honestly don't care what anyone else thinks we should do. What I should do. What you should do. I'm going to drink a little more wine, and then I'm going to get a good night's sleep. I'm going to dream. Maybe I'll dream about running that doesn't involve people chasing me. Or maybe I'll dream about actually having a fighting chance to win this war."

  She didn't move. Didn't try to talk some sense into him. "Okay, Philip. If that's what you think best. I suppose a good night's sleep is a good idea." She went back to the blanket laid out by the crackling fire, turning her back to him.

  Philip took another long drink from the wineskin. Then another for the mere fact that he did have a voice, and had all along. And if there was anyone to blame for what had happened in Spain, it was himself. He didn't like that fact. It was easier to blame others than to realize the truth.

  And, when it came down to it, he would have chosen to follow Sophie, gold or no gold. He'd been tied up and taken down to the south of Spain; that was for sure. But in the long run it had made it easier for him. He hadn't needed to find his own ride.

  He set the wineskin to the side and pressed his face into his hands, trying to hold back the emotion.

  She'll be okay, he told himself. She'll be okay.

  Dear God, please let Sophie be okay.

  Each day Deion's small group moved. Some days it was forward. Some days it was back. Sometimes the only movement was lateral as they traveled down the dry riverbed to check on the others and see how everyone else was holding up.

  His throat ached. He could never find enough to drink, and the continual thirst bothered him more than the sound of explosions in the distance.

  In the rainy season there were rivers all around this area, but in July the riverbeds were dry. Bone dry.

  Overhead, bombers flew. The same type that had bombed Guernica, he knew. Of course here there were no buildings to aim for, just lines of men in hastily dug foxholes.

  Deion heard a plunk, and the man standing next to him fell dead. It was a surprise, but in a strange way not unexpected. He didn't ask why it wasn't him; he was just thankful that it wasn't.

  In the light of the moon, Deion watched his feet move forward as
if they belonged to another. He felt numb all over. He'd seen too much to try to feel any longer. Somewhere he had a memory of what life was before Spain, but it was too hard to draw out. Too hard to remember.

  A friend called his name, and he turned. At least he remembered his name.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ritter couldn't sleep, and he cursed Monica for ever opening that satchel. After tossing and turning for two hours, he decided to walk.

  No matter how hard he tried, his mind wouldn't release its grasp on the gold. Obviously, if Göring was interested in it there had to be some truth to the matter. And the more he thought about it, the idea of traveling to South America didn't seem so crazy.

  The night air around the city smelled of history. Of all things old. Things that struggled not to be forgotten. He thought about golden treasure and imagined leaving Berlin for good.

  Before his parents' death they had told him he was someone special—that he'd do great things in his life. They told him that Germany would not always live in defeat, that great victories would come. And more than that . . . that he would also be great.

  At the time it didn't sink in. Didn't all parents tell their children such things? But now . . . what they had prophesied was beginning to come true. And he had been a part. First in Spain, and now with this.

  "Any coins to spare?" The voice rose to Ritter out of the darkness, interrupting his thoughts.

  Ritter ignored the beggar in the shadows and continued on through the streets. He purposefully walked the opposite direction from where Monica lived. And it wasn't until the first rays of sunlight brought the city to life that Ritter realized he was near the home of Isanna's parents.

  At first his stomach knotted; then he dug his fists deeper into his pockets, realizing it didn't matter. She wouldn't be there anyway. She was a married woman now, living with her pilot-hero.

  But perhaps things had worked out that way for a purpose. After all, if he were a married man, the thought of traveling to South America would be out of the question.

  Ritter thought about the look on her face when he'd last seen her. He'd been angry; that was certain. Looking back, he liked to believe he'd seen sadness in her eyes. And he realized that perhaps he wasn't the only one who'd lost out.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, and then rounded the corner, deciding to find someplace to stop for breakfast. His footsteps stopped short when he noticed a man and woman approaching with a carriage.

  "Isanna." The name escaped before he had a chance to stop it.

  "Ritter." A smile filled her face, and then disappeared as she looked first to Xavier, and then the child in the carriage. "You're back from Spain."

  Ritter quickly ran a hand across his wrinkled shirt. "I . . . I was just out for a walk. I didn't expect to see you."

  Xavier narrowed his gaze and placed his hands on the handle of the carriage. "Yes, well, it was good seeing you. Welcome back to Berlin." The tone in his voice was anything but welcoming.

  The baby from inside the carriage started to fuss. "Xavier, wait. Perhaps Ritter would like to meet Sebastian." Without waiting for an answer, Isanna lifted the child from the carriage. He noted her arms trembled as she pulled the baby to her chest and kissed his forehead.

  In his mother's arms the baby hushed. He had light blond hair and round, blue eyes. His chin had a small cleft. He wore a light blue sailor suit and small black shoes. The baby cooed and reached a hand to Xavier. Xavier kissed it, then turned his gaze to Ritter. "This is Sebastian."

  Isanna stepped forward. "Here, why don't you hold him? Don't be shy. He's six months old and very strong." Her voice quivered.

  Ritter took the child in his arms. The baby was lighter than he expected. And his face so similar to his mother's.

  "You say the child is six months old?" He quickly did the math.

  "Yes." Isanna didn't offer more of an explanation.

  This child could be his, of course. But . . .

  Ritter scowled, remembering those times Isanna also spent with Xavier. Who could know for sure?

  His mind returned to the day he saw her in the café. Her pregnancy had been evident. Yet perhaps this was simply another trick to play the two men against each other as she'd done in the past.

  Ritter glanced at Xavier and saw fear in the man's eyes. Fear that he'd lose what he loved.

  Ritter lifted the baby into the air, noting his eyes were the same color as the sky above. The baby, Sebastian, smiled and kicked his feet.

  This could be my son.

  He glanced to Xavier again. But another is his father.

  A lump grew in Ritter's throat. Then he thought of the gold, and he knew what he had to do.

  "He is a beautiful boy. His father must be proud to have such a son." With his words he saw Xavier's face soften. Ritter pressed the baby to his chest and kissed the top of the soft blond head.

  He handed the baby back to his mother. "A beautiful child. Congratulations. I wish the best for . . . for your family."

  Isanna offered a smile as she took the baby from his arms. "Thank you." The words held deep meaning. "And someday, when he is older, I will tell him of Spain."

  Ritter nodded, and he watched as she placed the baby back in his carriage. Then with a lighter step she pushed the carriage down the street. Xavier walked by her side with a protective hand on the small of her back. Inside Ritter ached, but another emotion rose within him. It was a sense of pride. For once he'd thought of others more than himself. Strangely, it was a good feeling.

  He walked back to his apartment with slow steps. When he entered his apartment building, he tried to clear his throat, but the emotion refused to budge. He approached his door and noticed a figure leaning against the wall. Waiting for him outside his door was Monica. He tried to speak but failed.

  As she approached, he took her in his arms and wondered if it was so bad that he imagined he held another.

  José waited until late in the night to whisper his plan to Ramona. Though he couldn't see her, just the touch of her—mixed with the fear they'd be caught—caused his heart to pound faster.

  "I used to play hide-and-seek here as a boy. Underneath the house is a cellar with a door to the outside. If we can get down there, maybe we can escape."

  "Just tell me what to do." The touch of her fingertips caressing his cheeks caused him to smile. Or perhaps it was her words.

  "I'm going to see if I can find a soft spot in the wood." He crawled on his hands and knees toward the kitchen. Ramona touched his ankle to keep track of him and followed.

  In his mind's eye, he tried to remember where the table had sat all those years ago. He pictured the pantry. The sink. The stove. He thought about the leak in the roof that his mother had asked his father to patch numerous times. Of course his father had given the same answer every time. "Mañana. I'll take care of it mañana."

  José neared the spot, and it was as he hoped. The wooden boards were soft, rotting. He ran his finger against the seam, but they were too thick to pry inside.

  "Ramona, I need you," he whispered. "Try to reach between these boards and pry one up—even a little bit, so I can grasp it."

  She did, and within a few minutes, they'd lifted one small piece of wood.

  He removed his shoe and slid his hand inside. Then he used it as a lever to fix underneath. With all his strength, he pushed upward. The board broke with a loud snap. He reached his hand into the hole. It was cool and . . . his fingers entwined on a cobweb, causing a shudder to travel down his spine.

  "I hope spiders are our biggest worries," he whispered to his wife. "I don't want to think what else could be living down there."

  He pried away a few more boards. A whiff of dirt mixed with rotting . . . something . . . rose to great them. Ramona reached her hand down just as he'd done.

  "Maybe we should wait until morning, when we'll have more light to see what's down there."

  "We can't. It will be too late. I don't hear anything outside, which means C
esar must be sleeping in the main house. Either way, now is our perfect chance."

  When he'd created an opening large enough to slide through, José poked his head down through the hole, hoping for a look. Amazingly, it was brighter there than inside the boarded-up house. He turned his head and saw why. The door to the cellar had either been taken off or had broken on its own. Moonlight filtered in from outside, and his heart leapt as he realized his plan would work.

  "Let me go first." José lowered himself to the cellar, but he couldn't stand upright. His head poked through the opening.

  "Come. I'll help you." He reached his hands to his wife and helped her down. With his hands before him, he cleared their path—sticky webs clinging to his hands and shirt. When he made it to the opening, he paused. "Wait here."

  "No, I'm coming with you. It doesn't matter what is out there," she whispered. "Let's run for it."

  José didn't hesitate. He took her hand and together they exited. He glanced around, didn't see anyone, and they began to run.

  * * *

  Ramona squeezed her hand tighter around José's as he pulled her forward. She moved her legs as fast as she could to keep up. In the moonlight it was hard to see the ground, and she stumbled more than once. A gunshot sounded from somewhere behind them, and then nothing. José paused slightly, then tilted his head. The sound of a horse's whinny could be heard somewhere in the distance, and he wondered if it was Calisto.

  José continued on. He led Ramona toward the hillside and behind a stand of bushes. To her surprise there was a chamizo—a very narrow gallery that farmers often dug to extract their own coal. Dried grass had been laid out on the floor of the gallery; others, no doubt, had used this very spot to hide.

  José's voice was low. "Stay here. I'll be back. I think someone was trying to take the horses."

  "Who? Like the Fascists? Or maybe the Moors?"