Eduard's news at dawn had been just what Ritter had hoped for.
"He did it! Sperrle held discussions with Berlin," Eduard had shouted in Ritter's open window, waking him. "They're going to let German pilots fly the last three He.51s. And we're up today."
Ritter played down his own excitement for appearance's sake.
Now, his hands maneuvered the aircraft expertly toward his target. On the horizon a jagged ripple interrupted the Spanish plain. He smiled as he spotted it ahead. Madrid. The Bolshevik citadel. Through his propeller, it appeared to grow till it resembled a crop of bricks and cement rising up from the brown earth.
Though Ritter had never been there, he recognized the major landmarks from the maps he'd studied in the quiet of his quarters. He flew nearer until Madrid's buildings appeared close enough to touch—and soon he would leave his mark.
Two thin rail lines led into the city to the Atocha station. A perfect target.
The half-dozen bombers ahead of Ritter released their bombs, lurching upward as the weight fell away. Slivers of steel floated downward, and plumes of smoke rose as the gray stones of Madrid splintered like water droplets bouncing into the air.
Fire, smoke, and airborne debris partially obstructed his view of the railroad station as more bombers found their mark.
"Ja . . . ja . . . ja!" Ritter shouted. "Right on target!"
Ritter noted the signal from the lead bomber and grinned as he turned and dove toward downtown Madrid. Just as he prepared to release his fury on the people scurrying from the main square, a spot in the sky grabbed his attention. A Red Breguet XIX reconnaissance aircraft flew about two kilometers in front of him and slightly above. Sucking in a breath, Ritter aborted his attack and maneuvered his gun sight onto the Nationalist aircraft. He anticipated an easy kill, until two Russian aircraft came into view on his left. His hand trembled as they turned in his direction. Thankfully, Ritter had two other German pilots flying his wing.
"Good boys," he whispered, noting their turns to bear down on the Russians.
"The first is mine," Ritter called into the radio. His stomach tensed as he saw the Russian plane bearing toward him. The muzzle lit up, yet Ritter knew the distance was too great. Moving his right hand to the machine guns, he aimed and waited. Sixty meters. Fifty. Thirty.
Ritter fired a short burst, watching the tracers hit their mark, then jerked his aircraft upward. His plane skimmed over the top of the Russian bomber, missing it by mere feet. Turning, Ritter watched as smoke and flame burst from the right engine. The aircraft dove, then rolled over, spinning to the ground like a dead leaf on the wind.
With a wide grin, Ritter circled the area and watched as Eduard attacked a second bomber from a steep climb. "That's a lad."
Ritter turned to back up his friend, but by the time he circled, flame had already erupted from the second Russian plane as it plunged toward the earth. The third backed away, rejoining the formation of Reds returning to their base somewhere north of Madrid, where the Nationalist troops had not yet penetrated the territory.
Laughter filled Ritter's throat, and he knew the first thing he’d do when he returned was write to Isanna. And as the others relived the experience over their radios, Ritter wrote and rewrote the letter in his mind.
Dear Isanna, Today I tasted the first blood of the hunt. Now that we are officially killers, we must have a new name. Perhaps the Hunters of Guadarrama? That is perfect, don't you think?
Later that evening, Ritter found Eduard sitting on his balcony blinking at an empty wine bottle, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The youth looked dazed by the wine and the taste of victory.
"Operation Magic Fire." Eduard patted Ritter's back. "Yes, my friend, that was magic, all right. And just think, those other fools are still ferrying Moorish soldiers to the mainland. Poor saps."
"I think my uncle was right." Ritter sighed, focusing on the bright stars filling the sky. "He believes we'll be home by Christmas. And in my opinion, a winter wedding is always nice."
Only a few coins jingled in Deion's pocket as he walked along the ditch with a dozen hoboes waiting to jump a train to New York. Two men huddled around a fire, though the warm sun still hung high in the air. A few more seemed to be napping, yet every once in a while they lifted their heads, cocking their ears toward the tracks as if picking up a distant rumble. Deion kept quiet as two men jabbered on about how cheap everything was in New York, compared to Chicago. They talked about their next destination—maybe D.C. or Miami, wherever they could find a little work and some new scenery.
Deion felt their eyes on him, and he wanted to tell them he wasn't a hobo. He simply needed a way to get to New York to join up with Party members. He heard the Reds accomplished great things for people of the city. He also wanted to see if there were plans to aid Spain. He'd missed out helping in Ethiopia and wouldn't live with the same regrets again.
"Here it comes!" a man called, jumping to his feet.
Deion's knees trembled to see the roaring machine bearing down on them. Tension knotted his stomach at the thought of what he planned to do. He'd jumped trains not ten times in his life—mostly getting himself from Mississippi to Chicago.
He tucked his small satchel under his arm, stretched his legs, and joined in the pursuit. Spotting an open freight car door, he reached out his arms and grasped the edge. With a swing of his legs, he was through the door and inside the car.
A dozen set of eyes turned to him as he found a spot in the corner. Using his satchel for a seat, he made himself comfortable for the ride ahead. The man sitting next to him pulled out a thick book and tilted it to catch the light from the open door.
"We're reading Dickens. You don't mind, do you?" The man cleared his throat. Though filthy and smelling sour, he had a presence about him that reminded Deion of the friendly white banker back home—the one who slipped his mama a few coins whenever he saw her shopping at the corner grocery.
"No, sir, I happen to like that story. I'm lookin' forward to reading it again someday."
"You can read?"
"Sure can."
"Good, then." The man handed him the book. "My eyes are getting tired, since my glasses broke somewhere near Kansas City."
And so Deion began to read, a smile on his face, realizing it was the first time he’d talked to a white man without feeling like trash, without feeling his skin color was the sole reflection of his worth.
The next morning, Deion awoke to the whistle of the train and a half-empty freight car. The book, which had been tucked next to his side as he slept, was gone, as was the friendly white man, who he’d learned was named Rich. Rich had told him about the Empire State Building and the best places to find work around town—or at least where the best places had been five years ago when times weren't quite as bad economic wise. Grabbing his things, Deion jumped from the slowing train and focused his eyes on the large buildings in the center of the city.
Two blocks from the train station, he found a soup line and joined in—the growls of his stomach increasing in volume the nearer he drew to the front.
He got within ten men of the front of the line when a small parade passed.
"Down with Hitler and Mussolini! Defend the Spanish people. End discrimination against Negroes and Jews!" a small group of men, both white and black, called out as they marched along. They carried megaphones and banners, and unlike those in the soup line, their clothes were clean, and they were all shaven.
"Hey, wait!" Deion called as they passed. "Where you headed?" He looked to the bowl of steaming soup only a few feet away, and then turned back to the marchers. They must not have heard him, for they continued on, repeating their same chants, moving forward, for the most part ignored by the people in the streets. Deion placed a hand over his stomach, then bolted from the line.
"Aren't ya hungry?" a voice called from behind him. Deion didn't have time to explain that the soup could wait. There were some things in life far more important than a full stomach.
&nb
sp; FALL
The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.
—Jeremiah 8:20
Chapter Fifteen
SEPTEMBER 21, 1936
En casa del herrero, cuchillo de palo
At the blacksmith's home, there's a wooden knife.
Spanish proverb
Sophie wearily kicked off her shoes and settled at the table by the front window, her mind too tired to focus on the faces of the people who passed. Yet she knew they were not too different from the ones she'd helped care for over the past couple of months. Tired faces. Hungry faces. Fearful ones.
"Coffee, Sofía?"
"Please."
Luis shuffled around the kitchen, reminding Sophie of the chef in the restaurant attached to the hotel where her father worked in Boston. Luis used half as much energy as anyone else in the kitchen, but somehow he managed to accomplish twice the work. He seemed to plan his every move for maximum efficiency.
He blew life into the fire and placed two stale churros in the oven to heat.
Within a few moments he brought a large cup of steaming café con leche and a churro, and set them before her. He readjusted the three forks that had been laid out for dinner, and Sophie knew his idling meant he wished to talk.
"Have you heard from Miguel?" he finally asked.
She motioned to the empty chair and sighed. "No, all I know is he's at the front."
Luis sat, shaking his head. "This is not good. On the radio I hear reprisals are being carried out. In the towns and villages once held by the Republic, men and women are lined up and shot. I even heard of one whole town that was dragged into a bullfighting arena, yet instead of a savage bull being released . . ." Luis's eyes grew wide as he spoke. "Rebels armed with machine guns slaughtered them all. The blood. The screams." He shuddered and paused. "I can't imagine."
Sophie sipped her coffee. The horror in her mind's eye turned her stomach, and she glanced out the window, hoping to see Benita approaching. Luis never spoke like this when she was around, unless he wished for a tongue-lashing.
"Do you not think the Lord Himself will protect us?" Benita often proclaimed. "Do you believe our prayers fall on deaf ears?"
While Sophie had not grown up around such open religious discussion, she found comfort in the woman's words. Benita's confidence might not be as realistic as Luis's fears, but it sure helped her to sleep at night.
"Poor, poor man," Luis proclaimed, fingering a postcard of the great Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca. "Even the greatest of men is not above being shot in a ravine. And we think we have a chance to survive the terror?"
Sophie absently stared at the crowd outside until something caught her attention. A man strolling through the crowd moved like Michael—or maybe she'd just imagined it. She lost sight of the figure among the others.
No, there he was again. Yes, it was Michael's walk. As the face came into view, Sophie sprang from her chair, knocking it over as she lunged for the front door. She swung it wide open, stretched to her tiptoes, and scanned the throng.
"Michael!" In ten steps she was in his arms. The long weeks since she’d seen him had passed so slowly. She let out a sigh of relief as she peered into his face and saw for herself that he was well, safe, alive.
"Darling, you look wonderful. I saw Benita as I passed the market, and she told me about your work with the children." He rapped her chin with his soft knuckle. "That's my girl. I want to hear all about it, and I'm sure you will not get bored by my experiences. Come. Let's celebrate. I hear that one of the finest Spanish dancers is in town, raising money for the troops in training. Hurry now; I have the whole night planned."
Two hours later, after a fine dinner and a romantic stroll through the streets, Michael led her to a villa not far from the center of town. People of all ages and stations in life pooled in front of the large home, and men dressed in white suits escorted them inside.
Men and women filled the large room, seated among the granite columns, with their attention focused on the center stage. Women of all ages wore high combs and delicate lace mantillas. Even the older women looked ravishing with carnations in their salt-and-pepper hair and fringed shawls draped over their voluptuous curves. The women's dresses splashed color about the room and contrasted with the handsome men's dark suits.
As they entered, Sophie's eyes were drawn to a beautiful gypsy on stage. Her thick, black curls cascaded down her back. Her large, enchanting eyes radiated green, like the first blades of spring's new grass. Her curvaceous body swirled as her dancing shoes clacked and her hands clapped a rapid staccato with the guitar player's flawless flamenco. The guitarist sat in the corner with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his brow, his dark eyes fixed on the twirling woman while his fingers danced over the strings. The air between them was electric.
The wild, lusty dance caused heat to rise in Sophie's cheeks till she felt compelled to look away, but couldn't. Yet instead of calming, the dancer's passionate fury grew with the rhythm's crescendo.
When the dance abruptly ended, a curtain fell over the stage, and the crowd erupted in wild applause. Sophie's heart skipped and heat again rose to her cheeks as she spotted Maria Donita across the room wearing an incredible blue satin dress that accentuated her . . . everything. Her dark hair was tied back in a neat chignon under a wide-brimmed hat.
Her stunning beauty, her graceful presence, and the admiring looks the men sent in Maria's direction made Sophie feel frumpy, clumsy, and annoyed. Even the young woman's simple gesture of sliding one hand up and down her arm while she spoke to her escort appeared innocent, but Sophie could tell from the interest in the man's eyes he considered it extremely sensuous.
"What did you think of the dance?" Michael turned to her, his eyes sparkling.
"I liked it. It was very good."
"Good?" He frowned. "It was the most stunning thing I've ever witnessed." Then his expression softened as he tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. "Except for you, of course. You, Sofía, look truly stunning tonight."
Sophie relaxed and slid her hand into Michael's.
"Come." Michael rose, glancing ever so slightly in Maria's direction. "The party will continue for hours, but there is something we must discuss."
Sophie followed Michael from the crowded room, outside and down marble stairs, which led to a private garden behind the residence. Michael whistled along as the melody started up again. The music rose in volume, its quick, urgent beats causing Sophie's heart to pound.
Michael released her hand and turned to her with a wink. "Wait here."
She clung to the lamppost illuminating the garden, suddenly feeling weak at the knees. When he returned after a brief moment, the flushed look on Michael's face reminded her of the night he’d proposed. He grinned widely and reached into the inside lapel pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded newspaper clipping, handing it to Sophie.
She took it, her brow furrowed. It was a photo of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor strolling, arms linked, down the street.
"And you're excited because . . . ?" Sophie cast him a questioning glance.
"Look beyond the people, and see the small cottage behind them. I bought it, Sophie." He took her hands in his. "For you. For us."
Though she couldn't make out the words, Sophie knew the text was French.
"You bought us a house in . . . France? We’re leaving, together as man and wife?"
Michael rubbed his chin. "Not quite. The man and wife part, yes. But until this war is over . . . well, I can promise to visit once a month."
"You're joking, right? Once a month?" The music swirling around her suddenly caused her head to pound. "That's not a marriage. Two people facing life's obstacles together is what a marriage is."
An image of Maria in the blue dress flashed in Sophie's mind. The picture of Maria's adoring face when she looked at Michael, and Michael's attempt to hide any evidence that he cared for the young Spanish woman. Sophie had ignored it for long enough, and she had to
know the truth—no matter how much it hurt.
"And that's not the only thing," she said. "I'm still uncertain—"
"About what? My love?" Michael spouted. "Just because I'm not willing to leave Spain, my career, and move away, you question my love?"
"Michael, I know you care for me, I really do." She looked at him intently, hoping that even if his words didn't tell her the truth, she would read it in his eyes. "It's . . . it's Maria. I want to know what's going on between the two of you. And don't tell me nothing, because I can see it. Women can always tell these things."
Michael let out a sigh. "You are right, Sophie. I should have been more honest from the beginning. It's Maria, you see, and her family too. For a while they were determined to get us together. I've told them she's too young. I told them I was in love with someone else. But they continued to push us together. She's a beautiful girl, and I suppose they thought that I would eventually give in."
"And that's all? That's the truth?" She studied his green eyes, searching for any hint that he had more to hide. But she saw only tenderness in his gaze.
"Yes, Divina. That is the truth. No matter how she pursues me, it is you I love. It is you I long to spend my life with. Of course, unless you are determined not to make that the case—a long life, that is."
The smile on Michael's face faded. "You are the most stubborn woman I know. What type of husband would I be if I allowed the woman I love to remain in danger? I'm sorry, but I can't be at peace with you here in this war-torn country. I see the worst, Sophie. I photograph it. I know the dangers as no one else does."
"But if I leave Spain, I leave you. I don't want to live that way."
"So what is your solution? For me to leave Spain, as well?"
Sophie could see how much even saying those words pained him.
Valley of Betrayal Page 12