"I'm fine. I just want to talk when you're through."
He could tell from her face his mother was in one of her good moods. Those who knew her saw her this way most of the time. Those who knew her well realized another lurked behind her smile.
"You poor thing. You're all alone in this world?" His mother moved to the sofa and put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "Your name is Petra, right?"
Petra nodded. She glanced at Michael from the corner of her eyes, but didn't say a word. She looked familiar, and Michael wondered if he'd seen her with Edelberto before.
"I remember what it was like to lose my mother," his mother continued. "My father did the best he could, but it was my brother, Adolfo, who understood me the best. Since I was a child he encouraged me. He told me I was beautiful and wonderful. Everyone should have that voice in their head."
His mother turned and looked out the window. Michael followed her gaze. As far as he could see, beautiful estates stretched in every direction.
His mother sighed. "Of course, one always tries to prove herself. And yet, when one looks in the mirror it's easier to spot faults rather than strengths—at least in my case."
Michael lifted one eyebrow and glanced at his mother. She played many games, did many things to win the approval of others, and he waited. Waited for the charade to end. Waited for her true motivation to come out.
"Come, Petra. Follow me. I have so many clothes." His mother rose. "Too many to wear. I think I can have some tailored to fit you. You are a beautiful girl. So beautiful. And you've seen too many hard things. . . ."
Michael was sure now that his mother had forgotten he was in the room, for she drew the girl to her and placed her arms around her. With a quiet sob, Petra placed her head on his mother's shoulders. And then, for the first time in his life, Michael noticed tears in his mother's eyes, too.
"Shhh, I have searched the world. I have obtained all I thought I desired, but I never found anything to replace my mother. To you . . . I will . . . well, I would like to be here for you," his mother said.
Michael rose in disgust. He stalked from the room, trying to ignore the feeling of rejection. He returned to his automobile, glancing at the briefcase he'd placed on the seat . . . and suddenly he knew what he had to do.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ramona noticed how José's eyes scanned the hills as they hiked the mountain, heading for the caves he knew well. She didn't care about the hot sun or steep climb. She remained thankful they were together. But at the sound of a branch breaking in the small forest of trees, José paused, lifting his hand to quiet her. After a minute he continued on, holding his rifle erect and pointing it ahead of them.
"José, are you looking for someone? Michael? Or do you think the Fascists have come into the mountains?"
"No, that is not what I'm worried about. People have lived in these hills for years. There are small mining camps all over—some with women and children. But also within these hills are the remnants of a defeated army. Many of the men were not political to start with, but since they fought to protect their land, they can't return. They fight simply because they have no place to go. They have no training, no supplies, no arms caches, no radios. They form small guerilla troops, independent of the other. I've heard the same has happened in the south of Spain, around Granada, just as it has here in the Basque region."
"Why don't we join them? We can offer our help and receive theirs?"
"No, that isn't a good idea. You never know who is a true friend and who is not. I must remain on constant guard, and as hard as it is, I think we're better off on our own."
"But it seems if we work together, we could take turns on guard duty or finding food."
"The problem is knowing whom to trust. If someone happens to leave for the day, we'd have no idea if he was visiting his girlfriend or chatting with the guardia civil." He shook his head. "I've heard of horrible things. Men murdered by those they believed were friends. No, our only hope is the sierra."
Hours later, as Ramona looked at the chunk of meat cooking over the open flame, she thought she would be ill. José didn't seem to mind eating meat night after night—the bounty of his hunting skills—but Ramona would give anything for fresh-baked churros, an artichoke, maybe even a fresh orange for dessert.
She noted José's gaze on her as she picked at her portion.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Sí, I am fine."
"You look a little thin. I notice you cut another notch in your belt."
"Well, it's all this hiking. It's good for me. I'm in the best shape of my life."
"A husband is supposed to care for his wife. I have failed much in that department."
Ramona scooted closer, balanced the tin plate on her knees, and reached for José's hand. "I am thankful God brought you back from the dead. You care for me well. Where would I be if you hadn't found me? I might still be running from the Fascists, or locked up in one of those concentration camps I've heard Franco has set up for those who've been brave enough to oppose him."
"Yes, well, providing you shelter and a fine meal is the least I can do." José chuckled.
Ramona took a large bite of her meat. "At least I have food. There are many others who do not."
Suddenly a noise came from the woods—the sound of someone running through the undergrowth. José grabbed his rifle and stood.
A gray-haired man darted into their campsite, and José took aim. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Instead of answering, the man turned to Ramona. "I hear you are a nurse. My son is injured. Please, can you tend him? "
José took a step forward. "How do you know this?"
"How could we not? I myself have lived in these mountains since I was a boy. Of course, with the battles below, many more have sought safety here. Everyone who enters these mountains is watched. I myself saw the way the señora tended the horses."
Ramona turned to José. "It is an answer to prayer. I prayed I could help."
The old man approached, smiling. "Señora, you are like an angel. A gift to us. Come with me if you will. I am afraid my son will die without care."
He took them a few miles away to some type of mining camp in the mountains. Ramona looked around and tried to imagine how someone could live in such a place his whole life. She also wondered what they thought of their hills filling with guerilla soldiers and others attempting to hide from the Fascists.
José waited outside the cabin, watching and guarding, while he man led her up the steps to the porch. She followed him inside. A woman greeted her and made the sign of a cross, muttering a prayer of thanksgiving under her breath.
The floor was tiled, even the closet. The man got on his knees and lifted what looked like a trapdoor.
"We dug a tunnel between our home and the barn. Three men sleep here at night. The other two are gone for the day, scouting the hills and watching out for us."
It took a moment for Ramona's eyes to adjust to the dim light cast by a lone lantern. She climbed into the hole. It was no bigger than the interior of an automobile. The young man lay next to a radio with towels wrapped around it to muffle the sound. A small stack of books sat next to the radio.
From the odor of the space she knew the infection was worse than he'd explained to her. She lifted the man's hand and set it on her lap so she could get a better look at his arm. The man moaned with the slightest movement.
"Shh." She hushed him. "It will be fine. I simply need a look."
He gritted his teeth and nodded. Sweat covered his forehead.
Slowly, gingerly, Ramona unwrapped the bandages. "So, how long have you been staying down here?" she asked, more to get his attention away from the pain than anything.
"Since the fall of Bilbao. We sta–started with a hole under the . . . the haystack. But then we h–heard they burned barns. We . . . I've been digging this out and living down here . . . since then."
The closer she got to the wound, the more dried blood she found, and under
that, pus. The odor grew stronger, and she didn't need to finish unwrapping to know what she needed to do.
"Well, now that I've had a look . . . I just need to get some things ready before I can take care of you."
She climbed out of the hole and wiped her dirty hands on her equally dirty coveralls. Her eyes darted to the young man's parents and then to José, who had come inside. "I'm going to need your help. His arm . . . it needs to come off at the elbow."
The mother lifted her arms to the air and let out a wail.
"Are you sure? Isn't there anything else you can do?" the father pleaded with his hands folded, as if in prayer.
"I'm afraid not. The infection has set in too deep. If we don't take care of it right away, your son will be dead within a couple of days. Even now it's difficult to know how much infection has already gone into his system."
"Have you done such a thing before?" The woman's eyes were filled with fear.
"Unfortunately, more times than I'd like to remember. At first I assisted the doctors, but after awhile . . ." Ramona shook her head as if ridding herself of a memory. "Well, we nurses had to do more than we were ever trained for. We had no choice. There were so many. . . . And the more the war progressed, the fewer supplies we had. Soon any clean room with minimal instruments would do."
"What do you need?" the father asked.
"I can make you a list . . . but where in the world will you find these items? It's not as simple as finding a few herbs from the woods. I—"
"I'll do it." José's voice interrupted.
She turned to him and saw the compassion in his gaze. "Are you sure? Where will you look?"
"That is for me to worry about. I only want you to think about caring for him."
"Fine." Ramona ripped a page from one of the books and used a pen and ink to write down the items she needed.
She handed the list to José with a kiss. She didn't need to hear the details to know finding the items would be dangerous.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
"All I can do is try. Pray, my dear wife, that I succeed." And with that José hurried from the room.
He returned the next morning with everything on the list. "The nearest miner's first-aid station—it is not too far. I found friends there. And . . . your supplies."
Ramona thanked him and set to work. José stayed by her side through the whole procedure. He helped to comfort the young man's parents, and he assured them they would be back to check on him—to make sure he was still well in a couple of days.
When she walked from the cottage later in the afternoon, José turned to her with a smile. "While I was out, I discovered something else. Come . . . it is a surprise."
José took her hand and led her through the woods. It didn't matter that she was tired and dirty. It didn't matter that she was covered with blood. Her husband led her as if she were a princess, and he was a king, and they were about to find a castle on the edge of the forest where they would live happily ever after.
Ramona sighed. If only it could be so.
Chapter Thirty-Five
José led Ramona inside a windowless room—a small cave apartment—and spread his arms, as if it were the bridal suite at a fine hotel. There was only one piece of furniture—a large iron bed smothered with goatskins. She smiled, thinking it was the most beautiful bed she'd ever seen.
The next day they were met by a young boy who wore a poncho of rabbit skins. He gingerly led them toward a creek were a small band of men waited. As the minutes ticked by, another man joined, then another. Then three men were followed by five more, coming out of the hills. Ramona couldn't believe the sight. Just days ago, when they'd walked through the forests, she'd felt so alone. Now, she wondered how many eyes had watched their trek.
On either side of the group men perched on their legs, with straight backs and guns ready like sentries. Ramona drew up her knees to her chest and blew into her cupped hands, hoping to warm them.
"Señora," a man said, and offered her a chunk of dark bread.
Though she knew it was provided for the man by a wife or a sister back in the valley, or perhaps in one of the mining camps, she could not resist. She liked to think she was protecting his pride, but it was truly her hunger that forced her to accept the gift.
"Thank you."
She took a bite and then broke off a chunk for José. She offered it to him, but he shook his head. She knew he was hungry; she could see the familiar look in his eyes. But he cared more for her than his own stomach.
"God has sent us a gift." One man's voice rose among the rest. "For so long we have fought, and we've seen many die. But today we have an angel of mercy who will heal our wounds." He pointed to Ramona. "So fight hard, men, fight brave. For we now have hope on our side!"
"Don't you think I should actually offer some help before they call me an 'angel of mercy'?" Ramona murmured to José.
He took her hand and squeezed; then he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "They know. To meet you is to know. . . ."
Ramona felt joy settle over her. One that surpassed any since this war had begun. They were together . . . not just the two of them, but many. This was their fight. And she knew this was exactly where God wanted her, trusting in Him no matter the forces that waged around her.
Deion met a new group of Spanish men the first night he returned to the trenches. The battalion returned to the front lines in the middle of August, taking positions outside Azaila. They planned to begin a new offensive in Aragon, which would take pressure off the Euzkadi and Asturian fronts—two areas under siege by Franco's legions.
But before the first shot was fired, Deion was called back to the command center.
His commander approached him with quickened steps. "We need you to drive a doctor and a nurse to Barcelona. They seek medical supplies for the hospital."
Deion heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Gwen smiling at him. He almost thought he was dreaming.
"And after you drive them there," the commander continued, "you will return home."
"Home?" Deion scratched his forehead—the word seemed unfamiliar.
Gwen touched his arms, and he could read an apology in her gaze. "They've asked me to go back—after I find supplies. They're looking for someone to go back and tell the news of Spain. Someone who has been here, to share what they've seen. I told them I'd go if I found you. And you could go with me. We can travel together—raise money and help the cause."
Deion straightened his shoulders. "But what if I told 'em the war isn't over yet—and I want to stay?"
Her smile fell.
"The truth is, we could you use more at home," Steve Nelson interrupted. "To tell others of your fight. To get them to send more help to Spain. Few have witnessed as many battles as you and made it through. You will be leaving tonight for Barcelona, and taking a ship from there."
Deion nodded his answer, and Gwen took his hand. He was going home. Going to urge others to help their fight. Somehow it seemed good. It seemed right. He squeezed Gwen's hand.
Sophie chatted with Maria as they walked. They laughed as baby Carlito clapped his hands at the sight of the water.
"I think he wants to jump in," Maria commented, offering her son a kiss on his cheek. He had curly black hair and large, dark eyes. Sophie thought he was the sweetest baby she'd ever seen.
Sophie had sent word to Walt that there would be two more passengers when they left. Walt had sent a message back for her to meet him in the tunnel this evening. Sophie only hoped he didn't argue. She couldn't bear the thought of telling Maria they couldn't help her.
They strolled in front of the Hall of the Ambassadors. A long pool of water stretched half the length of a football field. On either side of the pool, myrtle trees stood. And at the end of the Hall of Ambassadors a statue sat cross-legged. It was said he could dispense favors or dispense death to those who asked it of him. Sophie knew no idol held such power, but she whispered a prayer that God would hear her plea for this
mother and child.
In the distance, a man entered the courtyard. He was too far away for her to recognize his face—but his walk, his body structure, even his slight limp caused Sophie to pause in her tracks. "Ritter," she whispered.
"I'm sorry; what did you say?" Maria asked.
"That man." Sophie turned her back to him before he could see her. "I know him."
"The German? That's Hermann von Bachman—he's a German advisor. I heard some friends talking last night, and it seems he's here for a short stay before heading to South America. When did you meet him?"
"South America? Hermann? No, never mind. I'm mistaken. I thought he was someone else."
Sophie turned and noticed Ritter approaching. She knew better than to run, for others mingled in the garden. Instead she placed a hand on her stomach and took a deep breath. Don't panic, she told herself. Apparently Ritter was in hiding once again. He had as much to fear from her as she did from him.
Maria reached out her hand. In her arms Carlito cooed. "Hermann, I'd like you to meet Eleanor."
Ritter stretched out his hand. "Eleanor?"
She took his hand and bobbed a curtsey. "Hermann . . . so nice to meet you."
Sophie's heartbeat quickened. Perhaps their way of escape was going to come from a very unlikely source.
"Hermann, would you like to walk with us?"
"Thank you for the offer, but I won't be here long. Perhaps we can talk another time? To share how we both ended up here. Talk about what we seek in Spain?" His gaze fixed on Sophie.
"Yes, I would like that very much." She touched his arm with her hand. "Let's make sure that happens, shall we?"
* * *
Sophie waited impatiently at the opening of the tunnel. She paced back and forth, eager to tell Walt her news. Finally she heard footsteps, and she nearly threw herself into Walt's arms. "I've found it! I know how we can get out."
She spent the next ten minutes explaining how she knew Ritter, and her plan for their escape.
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