From the buildings, the yellow-and-red-striped federal flags of Catalonia waved overhead, slapping in the breeze like clapping hands. The two men approached the end of the street, and Attis paused, looking up at the flags with a wide smile. Philip had sensed Attis's excitement for the recently instated government the first time they practiced in Barcelona's new stadium. But nothing moved his friend more than the scarlet colors of the United Socialist Party of Catalonia, the United Party of Communists and Socialists, the black-and-red banner of the anarchists, and in fewer places the government flags of Spain, showing both the old ways and the new Socialist ideas attempting to coexist. It was Attis's beliefs lived out. They'd stumbled upon a real place where people believed in a classless society working together in common ownership—or at the very least, a place where that was the goal, in the five months since the government, comprised mostly of Communists and Socialists, won the election.
Attis also did two things well. First was to run fast. And second was to make himself aware of the fight against Fascism all over the world, and in recent days, especially Spain. After years of living in the midst of economic depression, Attis had joined the Communist Party. He believed this equality among men was just what Spain needed—just what America needed too.
To Philip, the tension that hung in the air was just as noticeable as the symbolism behind the flapping flags. Rumors about a revolution in Spain concerned him, but there was no time for fretting. Attis had come to run, and Philip had come to make sure he won a gold medal. It's what they'd dreamed about since they were kids. Now they were both twenty-three, and this was the second dream Attis was fulfilling. Finding a good wife in Louise had been his first.
At the top of Ramblas they entered a park called the Plaza de Cataluna. It was decked out with brightly colored flowering shrubs, statues—including one of a naked woman forever kneeling down, peering at herself in the center of a pool—and fountains that displayed a formality and dignity unseen in the manufacturing district in Seattle where he lived. Moving beyond that, they reached a circular area of cafés, restaurants, the large telephone building that stretched like a skyscraper into the sky, and the American consulate.
On the upper side, Paseo de Gracia led to the newer, more spacious part of the town. Yet it was this lower side that most intrigued Philip—the shabby, congested quarters that suggest to him how Spaniards had lived and died for hundreds of years. If only he could walk through the streets for a few hours without drawing the attention of the people. His brightly colored uniform didn't allow for that, nor did his light hair and pale skin, which set him apart from even the fairer of the Spaniards. He put those thoughts aside. The race yet to be run, he reminded himself, was the important thing
While the rest of the world was focused on the Olympics in Berlin, Attis had refused to attend.
"I won't run in the same country as Hitler. I won't run with any swastika waving over my head," he had said. "I'd cut off my legs at the knees first."
Philip glanced around as they approached their hotel. Soldiers in olive uniforms marched down the streets, weapons shouldered. Distant gunfire floated on the dusty air, and Philip wondered if Berlin would have been the better, safer choice after all.
Yet Attis had said Spain, and Spain it was. Even if he hadn't been Attis's trainer, he would have come as his protector—even though his friend had long since passed him by in height and strength. That's the way it had always been, and he'd promised Attis's wife, that's the way it would always be—whether the big guy knew it or not.
Chapter Two
The gloomy town outside the train's window matched Sophie's mood as she clutched her passport. Mere miles separated her from the border to Spain. Oh, yes, and the men who guarded those borders.
A porter in pristine uniform approached hurriedly, cap in hand. "I regret to inform you, mademoiselle," he said as he bowed, "the Spanish frontier is closed. Only Spaniards are allowed entrance."
"What do you mean, closed?" Sophie waved her passport under the man's thin pointed nose. "I have been traveling for nearly a month to get this far!"
"You must depart here at Hendaye—the last town before the border. There is a revolution in Spain." He dared to look at her eyes, then looked away again, peering over his shoulder as if hoping someone else on the train would come to his assistance.
"I don't care about foreign politics. I simply have to get to Madrid. It's a matter of life or death!" She wasn't lying, she told herself. Life without Michael would be death.
"Sorry, mademoiselle. Your baggage has already been unloaded at the platform. I have no choice but to escort you from this cabin."
Reluctantly Sophie rose from the cushioned seat and followed the porter to the exit. The cool evening air that hit her cheeks bore the heavy scent of rain. She tucked her journal and small satchel under one arm, and with the other she pulled the collar of her traveling jacket tight to her chin.
Sure enough, her trunks and crates were piled next to the train station. She could feel the tears rising behind her eyes. All around her, other passengers were hurrying away from the station.
She stopped a man who had just exited the train. "Excuse me, sir. Can you give me directions to the nearest hotel?"
He rattled off something in French and threw his arms up in the air when she didn't respond.
Sophie turned back toward her luggage. Next to her things stood the staring man from the train. He glanced at her, dropped his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out.
She fumbled with the journal in her hands and glanced around.
"Miss, my name is Walt Block, and I'm a reporter from New York." He spoke with a crisp New York accent and stepped toward her, unhindered by her glare. "I see we're in the same bind here, and I was hoping we could help each other out?"
Sophie straightened her back. "Unless you have a cart for all my things, a hotel with a vacancy, and some magical powers that could cause me to wake up in Madrid, I really don't think you can be of any help."
"Actually, while you were arguing with the porter, I learned the name of the nearest hotel. Spain has refused entrance to foreigners. It could be weeks before the borders open. Yet why should we sit here forever? I know of a way via Port-Bou, but for that we'll have to get a car to Perpignan."
Sophie nodded as if she understood what he was talking about.
"Once we're in a safe zone, I can help you find a way to Madrid." He shifted the small suitcase he carried. He still wore that black hat, yet when she looked closer, in the light of the streetlamp, Sophie believed she saw compassion in his beady eyes. At least she hoped it was compassion.
"We can be across the border by this time tomorrow. If you trust me, that is," he added, tipping his hat.
"What choice do I have?"
Walt smiled, revealing a dimpled cheek, and Sophie quickly continued. "I mean, I appreciate your going out of your way to help me. But you have to tell me what my part is."
"I've been in Paris a few weeks on assignment for my syndicate, and I've been called to cover Barcelona. I heard you speaking Spanish on the train. You're fairly fluent?"
His voice was pleasant now, and he presented himself as a man of good breeding. Maybe her first impression had been wrong.
"Yes, for the most part. I've studied for the last year preparing for this trip, and took a few years of study at college before that."
The man sighed. "If you could interpret for me, talk to the officials at the border, I can help you with my credentials. I'm sure I can get you a temporary pass to get in as my interpreter. But there is one problem."
"What's that?"
He waved a hand toward the half-dozen crates and trunks. "Newspaper people travel light. If you show up with all this, they'll never believe us. Maybe we can get the local hotel to keep it for you—for a price, of course."
Sophie didn't hesitate. Her things or her man. An easy choice. She stretched out her hand and connected with his. "It's a deal. I've heard about the previous Spanish upr
isings, and I don't want to wait around a few weeks until things settle down. How can I ever repay you?"
"Don't thank me yet. We're not over the border. Now, wait here while I find a place for your things." And with long strides he disappeared, heading toward what appeared to be the center of town.
Sophie looked to the sky, hoping the rain would hold off. Then she glanced around the deserted platform and shivered. I'm alone, in the dark of night, in a village on the French border, committing myself to travel with a man I have exchanged fewer than ten sentences with.
"And to top if off," she muttered under her breath, "I get to take only one suitcase!"
No matter how hard he tried, Philip couldn't think of one witty thing he could say to Marvin Duncan. Not one.
Marv was a high school classmate and the local reporter who'd promised Philip a front-page story when they arrived home from Spain.
We traveled for two weeks, didn't run one race, and scooted away like frightened schoolgirls at the first sign of danger. That wasn't exactly what he wanted to confess to Marv, who got whatever he wanted—including Elizabeth, the girl Philip admired but had been too shy to pursue.
Yet worse than having to face up to Marv was the idea of coming all this way without Attis having the chance to run a single race.
Just hours ago, after he and Attis had returned to the hotel and toasted their hoped-for success over dinner, they received notice that the Workers' Games were off, cancelled due to rebel uprisings all over Spain. As they prepared for bed, the swanky avenues they were scheduled to march down for the Workers' Games parade filled up with activists instead—some on horseback, others on foot. Still others lounged drowsily on the terraces of nearby cafés closed for the night, the red glow from their cigarettes spotting the black street like Christmas lights strung on a thin line down the avenue.
Now he lay in bed in the dark hotel room, considering their options. Maybe he could convince the committee to let the athletes run a few races despite the threat. So far this revolution consisted of more talk than bite.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden rumbling of cannons, the sound of high-powered motorcars racing up the avenue, and the sputtering of machine guns. Seconds later, the pounding of marching feet met his ears.
Philip scrambled to the bureau for his trousers and turned to the window. Attis was already up and peering outside.
Shouts filled the air. "Viva la Rep˙blica! Viva Azana! Viva Cataluna!"
"What's going on?" Philip's knees trembled as he buttoned his pants, and a rumbling of excitement coursed through his gut. He moved to the window and spotted groups of men marching below. A group broke off and literally began tearing up the streets, prying up cobblestones. Then came more crackling of rifles, closer.
Attis pushed the half-open shutters wider, their hinges squeaking.
"What's in their crazy heads?" Philip wiped at his tired eyes as if they were deceiving him.
"Building barricades, I believe."
"That means the Rebels are coming."
"Yeah, they're coming, all right. Fascist pigs."
As if sensing their presence in the window, a machine gun fired from somewhere, the pinging sound hitting the facade of their building.
"Get down!" Philip fell to the floor, his hands protecting his head.
When the shots died down, Attis rose from the floor. Then he quickly dressed and moved to the door.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To find me a crowbar."
"For what?" Philip asked, but he already knew the answer. Attis's ideals had forced him to boycott Fascist Germany. Why would he be hesitant to fight the same ideology here?
Attis stormed out the door without answering, and Philip had no choice but to follow. He had to bring Attis back inside. To keep him safe. He'd promised Louise . . . but where was his jacket? Attis had slid it on by mistake, and it held Philip's passport. Now he really had to follow his friend. If he lost track of his passport, he'd never get out of this place.
The soft light of morning and a strong smell of gunpowder met Philip as he exited the building. Gunfire sounded, yet now it seemed farther down the street. A one-horse garbage cart rambled by, abandoning the filthy streets in an effort to escape. Militiamen darted cautiously back and forth, their rifles aimed and shooting toward those firing at them from the flat, parapet-lined roofs above. Most of the shutters on the buildings around them were tightly closed, yet a few had been cracked opened to allow snipers' rifles to poke through.
A sudden movement above him caught his attention. Philip quickly scanned the roof just as several militiamen, dressed in dark blue, dashed toward the rebel snipers. The militiamen reached them, pointing their guns to the back of their heads and . . .
The pounding of horses' hooves pulled his attention away. Horses carrying more armed citizens rushed through the streets—communist and socialist colors were tied to the men's arms.
"Viva la Rep˙blica! Viva Azana!"
"Viva Azana! Viva la Rep˙blica! Viva Cataluna!"
Other men's voices rose in Spanish song.
Moving beyond the front door of the hotel, Philip paused and hunkered down. Attis had already joined others piling cobblestones around two dead horses, building a barricade.
The horses are barely dead, he thought, noticing steam still rising from their backs. He watched as Attis now worked as diligently prying cobblestones as he had trained for his races. He wore a look of determination, as if this were what he'd truly come for.
Philip sprinted toward the men digging up the street, thinking back to every war novel he’d read. Every detailed battle. Every maimed fighter. Every lifeless soldier who gave his all for naught.
One of the men noticed his athletic uniform shirt and handed him a crowbar. The uniform identified Philip as part of the pro-communist workers' games, proving he was on their side.
Philip sidled up to Attis, then wedged the end of the bar under one of the bricks.
He dug in with vengeance, and despite the seriousness of the situation, a small smile played on his lips. It was a crazy thought, and one he wasn't proud of. In fact, if he truly realized the seriousness of the situation, it wasn't a thought he should let play on his mind at all. But the truth was, if he couldn't return from Spain with a medal for Attis, at least he’d return with a good story—one Marv would be forced to write, and one Philip and Attis could talk about, as old men do when talking is all they can do with vigor.
Nearly an hour after the world seemed to erupt, awakening a unified spirit of determination among the anti-fascists of Barcelona, a small-framed Spaniard with wide, bulging eyes approached the group of men still working to barricade the streets.
Philip paused, wiping the sweat from his brow with cracked and bloodied hands. Others did the same, their frenzied activity ceasing as if someone had flipped off an engine, and they all leaned close to the small man, eager for the latest report.
"The government regiments quartered in the city have rebelled," he said hurriedly in Spanish. "They left their barracks and now are in full-fledged attack, fighting for the Fascist cause. Their orders are to take control of the telephone building and city hall."
"Not today, comrades!" one man shouted. "They shall not pass!" Other joined in with words as vigorous as their movements had been for the last hour.
Philip leaned close to Attis. "Their own military is fighting against the people?"
Attis nodded his response.
The men around him spoke in Spanish, and he understood enough to know they were arguing about who should go evaluate the situation down the street.
"I'll go." Philip raised his hand like a schoolboy eager to be picked for an assignment. If he didn't, he had no doubt Attis would. He was glad he'd raised his hand first. And at least the gunfire had subsided.
The small man nodded, then hurried away, continuing to spread the news and shout orders to the others working to fortify the streets.
His heartbeat pounding in his
ears, Philip scanned the road, hoping that snipers did not continue to lie in wait. Then, moving back to the shadowed sidewalk, he hurried down the street toward the mounting action. He stopped short when a fortresslike building loomed before him—a beautiful cathedral.
His jaw fell open when he noticed rifle barrels pointed from the windows. What were they doing up there?
Snipers crouched in the bell tower. Puffs of smoke erupted from their rifle barrels, and one of their bullets nicked the cobblestone inches from Philip's foot.
He cried out, and his heart pounded like a hammer against his chest as he sprinted toward a brick building. As he slammed against the wall to catch his breath, he saw a group of Socialist workers moving past, carrying cans of gasoline and torches.
One man crumbled to the ground with a cry, struck by a sniper's bullet. Gasoline splashed as the can tipped in the injured man's hands, but another caught it before losing any more precious fuel. They left the wounded man to drag himself off the road and marched forward, determination etched on their faces.
Philip didn't want to watch, yet he couldn't look away. His stomach knotted at the sight of yellow and orange tongues of fire engulfing the cross, rocks being tossed through the stained glass, the meek statue of Jesus with its pierced hands and bloodstained brow bursting into a thousand shards at the impact of shovels and picks.
There was an explosion, and a flock of sparrows that had nested in the trees alongside the church swished into the air and swooped down over the militiamen as if scolding them for their misdeeds. Flames engulfed the church.
Sucking in a breath, and urging his hands to cease their trembling, Philip turned and sprinted back to the men barricading the roads, hurriedly relating news of the snipers and the fire. Cheers rose from the men, and they returned to their efforts with renewed vigor. An ache filled Philip's gut, and he had a sudden urge to escape to the safety of the hotel.
Though he'd left his family's religion when he'd moved out on his own, he couldn't help thinking of his own father and his small parish in Washington. Surely there was another way to stop the snipers than to desecrate a holy dwelling. Tearing up the streets was one thing. Burning down the sanctuary dedicated to a holy God was something else entirely.
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