Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The plight of the people unnerved her, but even more worrisome was the ache that filled her chest as she noticed the children begging at cafés packed with what appeared to be journalists and state employees. They were the most beautiful children Sophie had ever seen, with round faces and dark hair and eyes. Yet their thin forms seemed to tremble, despite the lack of a breeze.

  The tram passed, and Michael led her across the road without even noticing the children.

  "And this Walt claimed you were his interpreter?" he continued, his thumb stroking the top of her hand. "Don't you think that shows you he was the one who needed a cover? Or better yet, needed you to smuggle something inside for him."

  She laughed nervously. "You're joking, right? That's not possible. I would have known. I kept a close watch on all my things, and he gave me complete privacy."

  "Really? Then how did he know about the sketch of him? And why did he want it? Did you ever stop to consider that maybe there was information in the journal he needed?"

  "Like what? A girl's thoughts of her fiancé? Seriously, Michael . . . it's not like he ever even had the opportunity to read it."

  Michael looked away and focused on a young Spanish woman entering the nearest café. She was younger than Sophie and beautiful, with thick black hair that fell to the middle of her back. An older gentleman was at her side.

  Her escort, no doubt. It's only the proper thing to do.

  The young woman paused when she noticed Michael. She spotted Sophie and then, with a furrowed brow, quickly looked away and hurried inside.

  "Michael. Who was that?"

  "The girl?" His voice was conspicuously casual. "Oh, the sister of a dear friend. Maria is her name." He quickened his pace.

  "She seemed displeased to see me with you."

  "Honestly, Sophie, you aren't used to this Spanish sun. I believe you're seeing things. Next time, when we're not on an errand, we will stop and I'll introduce you."

  "You don't have anything to hide, do you? I mean . . ."

  "Divina, of course not." His fingers brushed the hair from the nape of her neck. "And you're right about this newspaperman, too. I'm a jealous old man, that's all. I just hate the thought of my girl spending all those hours with someone else. May I see the paperwork you received at the border?"

  Sophie pulled it from her handbag and handed it to him.

  "The Central Committee of the Anti-fascist Militia of Catalonia authorizes the North American newspaper correspondent, Sophie Grace, to pass freely to the ends of all fronts," Michael read aloud. "Impressive. It seems I have competition." He grinned and handed it back.

  Sophie sighed. Her feet ached, and she wondered why she hadn't worn more sensible shoes. "I'm not a newspaper correspondent, and no offense to you news-hungry types, but I don't really ever see myself as one. So why do I have to make this official?"

  Michael patted her hand. "You're a smart girl, but your quick talking can't get you out of every bind. If you get stopped for some reason, proper paperwork will help. It will also help get you out of the country. After lunch, I have a small errand, but then you can meet me at the office. Twenty-third floor of the Telefónica building. We'll get your paperwork authorized for Madrid, which my boss will do—he owes me more than one favor. Besides, maybe you'll even be put to use. Most correspondents can't speak Spanish."

  "Well, then, put me to use as an interpreter. Because I'm not leaving. I want to help these people." She smiled at two young women walking by, arms entwined, chattering away faster than she could translate.

  "Which people? The Socialists? Communists? Anarchists? Fascists? Darling, no offense, but I've lived here for years, and sometimes I still question whose side I believe in."

  "Not the Fascists. That's for sure."

  "Really, it's that clear? You've got the fight between good and evil all figured out, then? Brutality is everywhere, Sophie, on all sides. Here in the city, we hear about the Fascist murderers, but there are many others dead, and not just by the Fascists. The wealthy, Catholics, business owners, landowners."

  "It makes no sense. Why landowners?"

  "The anarchists favor agricultural communities. They model their system after the Russian kolchozes—the people working the land in common. For as long as they can remember, every part of the Spanish people's lives has been controlled by the government, the church, and, yes, the landowners. After the elections, they have tried to find a better way to bring equality with land, with work.

  "They say Spain is a Christian nation, but in my opinion, this is more word than deeds. The Christian way, of course, is to give freely. Instead, those with power keep it. Those with land do the same, and the people are tired of it. While I understand the people’s Communist tendencies, their desire to keep their country from Fascist control has gotten out of hand. Hundreds and thousands have lost their lives. I have lost friends, close friends. . . . Do you know the Communist Reds have killed priests?"

  Sophie shuddered, but though Michael spoke with passion, it was hard to tie his words with reality. Though she'd witnessed many things, parts of Madrid still seemed to go on as if no war existed.

  As she listened to Michael's words, she couldn't help but be enraptured by the new sights and sounds on the streets. There was a gentle ebb and flow to the city, an almost peaceful moving of the people. Motion picture theaters were open as usual, with people waiting patiently in orderly lines, chatting and laughing as if it were a typical afternoon's diversion. Posters on the brick walls announced benefit performances for the hospitals and troops. Then, breaking the tranquility as they strolled past another café, the sound of soldiers' singing drifted onto the streets.

  "The Catholic church claims to be the church of the poor," Michael continued, gesturing broadly. He moved and spoke as if he were giving a political speech before a Harvard classroom, and not for her alone. "They say riches are not of this world. Then why then do they grasp the treasures of the world? You should see the luxury these 'servants of God' live in. The lavish cathedrals and rectories are evidence of that. That's why the people are so angry. The priests side with the Fascists, because a powerful government means a powerful church."

  "So that's why Franco is fighting for power?" Sophie asked. "To gain control over the people once again? And that's why the church is helping him?"

  Michael paused and motioned toward a café, then opened the door for her. "Yes, and it's not going as smoothly as planned. Franco's complete failure in Barcelona is one example. The Catalans are not known to be fighters. As history can tell, they usually run at the first shot. Not so this time. I have a feeling this war will be long and drawn out . . . which is exactly why you need to go back to France—at least for a while."

  Sophie didn't respond as a friendly waiter seated them at a table by the front window. She wouldn't argue with him, but Michael couldn't force her to leave.

  "And it's not only the battles outside the city we have to worry about. What will happen when Franco's troops enter Madrid?"

  "You mean if?" She glanced up from her menu to meet his intense stare.

  "I mean when. The people have little organization, few weapons. How can the city hold? It will take a miracle to hold longer than a month. And what a massacre will occur when the city is breeched. The anarchists would rather burn down the whole city than turn it over to Franco. I'm afraid, my love, you've come at the wrong time."

  Michael's words came to an end as he studied something outside the window. Sophie turned and followed his gaze. It was Maria again. She strode down the street, this time with a young man at her side. Sophie's throat grew thick and she cleared it loudly, but Michael didn't seem to notice.

  She placed her hand on his, and finally he turned to her, his mossy green eyes revealing something Sophie feared even more than talk of armies and battles.

  Chapter Seven

  JULY 25, 1936

  BAYREUTH, GERMANY

  Schlafende Hunde soll man nicht wecken.

  One should not awaken s
leeping dogs.

  German proverb

  Ritter smoothed the sleeves of his pressed Luftwaffe uniform as he strolled through the large crowds of the Wagner festival. Some people had come because they actually enjoyed the music—or pretended to, hoping to gain Hitler's approval. The majority came to be seen. Ritter had come to see the woman he knew in his nightly dreams.

  Twenty-one flags bearing national and Bavarian colors decorated the entrance to the opera house. Double that number of black-and-red Nazi flags also waved in the breeze.

  He scanned the crowds and asked himself again why he hadn't insisted on giving Isanna a ride himself. She had no doubt forgotten they were to meet at the entrance of the Festspielhaus, an opera house designed by Wagner. In Ritter's opinion, Wagner should have stuck to arranging music. The Festapielhaus was the only opera house he’d attended where the orchestra pit was hidden from the crowd. At least during most operas he could entertain himself by watching the conductor and musicians. What was Wagner thinking?

  Finally a black sedan pulled up, and he spotted Isanna's blonde curls in the back window. Striding to the parked car, he opened the door before the driver had a chance to reach it.

  "Isanna, precious, why do you make me wait so long to partake of your beauty?"

  She stretched out her hand and placed it in his, her blue eyes peering up at his, full of mischief. "I'm so sorry, dear, but an old friend arrived from out of town. You remember Xavier von Herman, don't you?"

  Ritter bent lower to peer into the backseat. His fists balled at his sides as Xavier flashed a brilliant smile.

  Isanna climbed out and moved to Ritter's side. "Xavier is a veteran of the Gran Chaco war in South America. He's been telling me wonderful tales of his exploits. They are fascinating, to say the least." She patted Ritter's arm, then reached for Xavier's hand. "I'm awed by men who risk their lives to defend our strongly held beliefs. Aren't you?"

  "Of course. So, Xavier, are you meeting someone here?"

  Isanna laughed. "Just us. I knew you wouldn't mind. I've already phoned your uncle, and he agreed to switch seats so Xavier could sit with us."

  Ritter offered his best practiced smile. "Of course. We’re delighted to have you join us."

  "Would you believe this is the first time I've attended the festival?" Xavier said.

  Isanna slipped an arm through each of theirs and moved them toward the building. But her attention remained on Xavier, who continued his babbling.

  "Look at all the people." Xavier gave a low whistle. "I never really wanted to associate myself with the crazed fans that descend on this little Bavarian town. But Isanna encouraged me to come. She said I needed a little culture in my life in order to find a good wife."

  "That's right. Good looks, charm, and military honors aren't nearly enough." Isanna chuckled again, and Ritter placed his hand over hers, giving it a firm pat.

  "So what did you do in South America?" Ritter asked, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd.

  "Trained troops for Bolivia."

  "Did you see any action yourself?"

  "Of course, but I'm no hero. It takes an army to win a war, not just one man."

  "Sometimes." Ritter slid his arm around Isanna's waist, pulling her closer to him. "Sometimes not."

  Isanna pulled back slightly and cast him an angry glance. "Excuse us for a moment, Xavier, would you? There's something I must discuss with Ritter before we go in."

  "Yes, of course." Xavier slid a cigarette from his pocket, leaning against a lamppost and lighting up.

  Isannna took Ritter's hand and pulled him around the corner of the opera house.

  With a smile, he pulled her into his arms and snuggled up to her neck. "Really now. You can't wait until later, after the performance? I always knew my uniform did something to you, but—"

  She pushed against his chest full force. "Ritter, please, you're embarrassing me."

  "That is not what you said last week."

  "Last week was different. Last week we were in Berlin and there was news of a mounting war. This week you still wear the uniform, but for what? To parade around town, acting as if . . ." She bit her lip and paused, turning from him.

  "Go on." He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, refusing to let her leave. "Finish. Tell me what you were going to say. Acting as if I were someone of importance like your friend Xavier? You can't seriously be taken by that guy. He's at least ten years older than you and most likely never came under gunfire once, despite whatever tales he tells you."

  "And you have?" Her eyes narrowed, and she flipped a handful of curls back over her shoulder. "As if you have a reason to talk."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying that I want you to treat Xavier with the dignity he deserves. He is a friend and a war veteran. If you keep up this act, I'll highly reconsider the next time we attend an event together." She tilted her head, cast him the pout she knew he adored, and slowly pulled her arm from his grasp. "Yes?"

  "And if the tables were turned? What if I showed up—"

  "In a uniform with medals across your chest?" She snuggled up to him and smiled.

  "That's not what I was going to say. What if I were to show up with another woman on my arm?"

  Isanna ran a finger down Ritter's sideburn, and then brushed a fingernail across his lips. "You know you are madly in love with me and wouldn't consider it. Now be a doll and show some kindness, okay? We have an opera to watch, and I hear this one is especially good."

  "Fine, but tell me afterward there will only be two of us riding away together."

  "Of course." Isanna strode ahead, but looked back over her shoulder. "Tonight we'll ride away together and catch the moon; how does that sound? You know how Wagner's soaring music and Teutonic legend cause my heart to pound."

  Ritter pressed his hand to his forehead and chided himself. How could he have been so foolish . . . and so jealous. Destiny demanded Isanna was his; he knew it. Now if he could only make Xavier aware of that fact.

  Ritter slumped in his sedan in a darkened parking lot, waiting for his uncle. The night hadn't gone as planned. Halfway through the opera, Xavier had complained of a headache, and Isanna offered to see him back to his hotel. Ritter pounded his fist into the steering wheel, wishing he’d introduced that headache.

  To make matters worse, after the curtain ran down on Siegfried at 9:50 p.m., his uncle pulled Ritter aside to inform him that an important matter had developed concerning Spain, and Hitler himself had requested his attendance at an impromptu meeting. So Ritter drove Uncle Oswald to the Wagner family villa nearby where Hitler waited.

  Now the clock read after 1:00 a.m. as Uncle Oswald finally exited the villa with his friend Hermann Göring. Ritter drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then paused their motion as the front door opened and three other men were escorted out by Hitler himself.

  Hitler stood on the stoop and waved to the small group of men. "Give General Franco my best wishes for the defeat of Communism!"

  As if a weak country like Spain should be of any concern to Germany, Ritter thought.

  Ritter knew he should step out of the car and greet the Führer. He knew his uncle would scold him if he didn't, but Ritter didn't care. The only thing that mattered was Isanna. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he climbed from the car and opened the door for the two men.

  "Thank you, my boy," Uncle Oswald said, sliding inside and handing Ritter his hat and cane as though his nephew were a mere servant. Ritter gritted his teeth and nodded, also helping Herr Göring inside.

  The balding, overweight general hardly resembled the much-decorated pilot who'd flown in the Red Baron's squadron. The gaudy uniform did nothing to improve his looks—quite the contrary. Ritter's stomach turned at the vain smile on the man's face and the heavy odor of liquor on his breath. He slammed their doors shut, then returned to the driver's seat.

  "So, I hear you're having woman problems?" Göring called from the backseat.

  Seeing no reason to answer,
Ritter's fingers tightened on the key as he started the automobile.

  "A pity, isn't it," Uncle Oswald added. "You'd think my fine nephew would have dozens of women vying for his attention, with his uniform and all."

  "I care only about the attention of one." He focused his eyes on the roadway, reminding himself that soon such experiences would no longer plague him—if he could only remain patient.

  "Well, lad, if you need a place to prove yourself, perhaps I could help." Göring's voice rose in volume. "I've been looking for the opportunity to test the Luftwaffe's men and machines, and it seems my desire will soon be granted."

  "To your utmost delight, my friend," Uncle Oswald added. In the rearview mirror Ritter noticed his uncle’s pat on Göring's shoulder.

  "An opportunity for pilots?" Ritter cocked one eyebrow.

  "Ja. I cannot reveal more, but may I suggest practicing your Spanish."

  "Why should the Duce have all the fun cleaning up Ethiopia?" Uncle Oswald added. "It's time we got to have a little fun, throw ourselves into international affairs. Mussolini is a good man for our Führer to follow. After all, what happens beyond our borders greatly impacts Germany as well."

  Ritter pulled up to the hotel and parked the car. He jumped from the vehicle and rushed to the back door to assist the general.

  "It should be a short fight—but worth doing. Nothing like seeing if our planes and pilots can maneuver as well as we hope in combat." Göring heaved his massive frame from the automobile. "And most likely, son, you'll be home by Christmas. With a hero's welcome, I may add."

  Though Göring hadn't been ready to share details of the news of Spain, it didn't take much coaxing from Ritter to get Uncle Oswald to spill the facts. Orphaned as a young teen, Ritter had not only enjoyed the pleasantries of living in the old man's home, he also became a student of his uncle. Ritter studied his moods and watched for the right moment to present his requests. He knew the more Uncle Oswald talked with his friends, the looser his tongue would develop toward his nephew. Talking with Göring had primed the pump.