Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The people lining the street sang along. "Soldiers, the country calls us to the fight. We swear to her to conquer or to die."

  Others hurried out of the stores and buildings, mobbing the streets. Old men filled the sidewalks, with children lifted on their shoulders. And down the center of the avenue a wide column of men moved west toward the river. Toward the front lines. The men's faces against the wind appeared like a religious procession. The first group to pass wore dark blue overalls like the militia, making them appear all the same, like a sepia portrait.

  Sophie's heart swelled at their handsome faces, jaws set with determination. She glanced at the crowd, wishing Michael were here to capture this on film. "Who are they?" She tucked her hands into her sleeves, attempting to warm them.

  "Volunteers from everywhere. They are being trained. They've all come across the Pyrenees in the night. Some call them the Internationals. Mostly, they are the answer to our prayers." Benita made the sign of the cross.

  "Son of the people, your chains oppress you," the men marching past sang. "This injustice cannot go on. In your life is a world of grief. Instead of being a slave, it is better to die!"

  A shudder traveled down Sophie's spine as the last phrase replayed in her mind.

  The voices rose again:

  "We are the young guard.

  Noble is our cause of liberating

  Man from his slavery.

  Maybe the road there will have to be strewn

  With the blood of our youth."

  Sophie turned to Benita. "Why do they say such things? Why don't they sing of victory instead of death?"

  "Sometimes they do. But these songs are messages to the people. They are reminding us of their sacrifice, of the things worth dying for."

  Their voices faded on the last refrain, and Sophie's cheers joined in with those of the crowd. Then she paused, her cries catching in her throat. She pointed to a group of men nearing. "I recognize those men. They are José's friends."

  "Sí." Benita waved to them, and a few noticed and waved back. "After the last fund-raising benefit, the artists signed up to fight. They put down their brushes and took up weapons. They realize, as we all do, there is no need for art in a time of war."

  "Yet look at them. They don't look like soldiers, or even march like them."

  Sophie's eyes focused on one man she recognized from the studio the first day José had taken her there. His blue mono hung on his thin frame, and his spectacles and thin moustache seemed out of place next to the rugged young men marching on either side of him.

  "Oh, Benita. We should pray. Pray they remain safe."

  Benita wrapped an arm around Sophie's shoulders and offered a slight smile. "Sí, child. We will do this as soon as we return home. Now you are understanding, are you not, where our true hope lies?"

  The parade continued for what seemed like hours. Each regiment had its own flag, and the men reveled in throwing salutes to the crowd. There were only a few rifles scattered among them and very little heavy artillery. Most groups had no uniforms, but all marched proudly. Each man's gaze held intense passion as the cry rippled through the ranks. "Viva la Republica!”

  The parade had barely cleared when bombers descended upon the city like vultures, scattering the crowd in all directions. As Sophie and Benita hurried to their quarter of town, people on the streets cheered at the sight of an enemy plane spiraling out of the air. Then they cried in horror as it crashed into the Puerta del Sol, undoubtedly costing numerous lives.

  "Oh, look." Benita paused as they made their way down the street. "Is that not our neighborhood?"

  Sophie's stomach lurched at the sight of airplanes swooping over their district. The first bomber reached it, dropping its bombs at random. Plumes of smoke and fire rose before them, and the ground quaked under their feet.

  "Luis!" Benita lifted the hem of her skirt and quickened her pace.

  "Benita, no. We must wait. Wait until the planes leave."

  Benita tugged forward, attempting to pull away from Sophie's grasp. "My husband, my Luis, Luis . . ."

  "Listen to me." Sophie grasped Benita's shoulders and turned the woman toward her. "You know Luis. He's the most cautious man we know, always the first in the bomb shelter. I'm sure that's where he is now. He's safe. And he'll be very upset if we do not take cover."

  Benita blinked slowly and let out a sigh. The shrill whistle of a fire engine passing forced her to cover her ears. "Sí, you are right." She scanned the street as if attempting to get her bearings. "Come, come."

  Then she took Sophie's hand and pulled her in the direction of the nearest air-raid shelter. They hurried down a set of wooden stairs to the basement of an apartment building. Children cried as they curled onto their mothers' laps. Young men helped old women find a place in the musty room to sit, to rest, to wait.

  Sophie helped Benita settle onto a bench, then sat beside her, holding the older woman as Benita lifted her voice in prayer.

  "Eternal God, in whose perfect kingdom no sword is drawn but the sword of righteousness, no strength known but the strength of love," Benita said, reciting the familiar prayer.

  "So mightily spread abroad your Spirit . . ." Sophie joined in, having memorized it from hearing Benita daily.

  The older woman smiled, hearing her.

  "That all peoples may be gathered under the banner of the Prince of Peace." They raised their voices together, causing a stillness to spread through the room. "As children of one Father; to whom be dominion and glory, now and forever. . . . Amen."

  Hours passed, and just as the first stars blinked in the twilight sky, Sophie and Benita trudged back to their apartment. Signs of destruction met them at every block. They turned the corner to their own street. Sophie paused, grasping Benita's arm. The apartment building next to theirs had taken a direct hit. And there, in the middle of the rubble, was Luis, sorting through their things that spilled from the half-crumbled wall onto the sidewalk.

  Tears streamed down his face. "The vendor at the market needed help taking down his stall. He needed the wood to patch holes in his home. So I went with him, Benita. Today of all days. But so many others, our neighbors . . . I do not think they even had time to reach the shelter."

  Together they entered the apartment. The wooden table and chairs set near the window had splintered into hundreds of pieces, like oversized toothpicks scattered around the room. The walls stood, but brick had been exposed under the plaster. In her room, Sophie's bed frame had twisted like a spring.

  Sophie hurried to the small wardrobe where her clothes hung. She brushed aside the rubble and pulled out the garment bag with the dress for her wedding, the only thing untouched. She pulled it to her chest, and her shoulders quivered. What now? Numbness spread through her mind, and she couldn't comprehend the destruction around her.

  Then she remembered her sketchbook. Lifting the mattress, she found it too was safe.

  "Sofía! Someone to see you," Luis's voice called to her.

  She turned to find José standing in the doorway.

  "They ask for you at the newspaper office. It seems in the morning they are evacuating all their correspondents to Valencia."

  "Evacuating? But what about Luis and Benita? What will happen to them?"

  José reached a hand toward her. "We will worry about that later, yes? Why don't you come with me for now?"

  Grabbing up her satchel, she stuffed the dress inside and a few more of her things. "I'll follow. But I'm not leaving—not yet. My friends . . . I need to make sure they are safe first."

  "You think so? Well, you'll have to tell the office that. Remember, señorita, you are here at their allowance. It is their paperwork, after all, that gives you permission to stay."

  "I understand, José, but what about Michael? I can't leave without telling him. How will he find me?" She sighed. "Can't we go in the morning?"

  The weight of the satchel pulled at her shoulder, and she mouthed gracias as José took it from her. "I'm so very weary toni
ght. Tomorrow, my friend, I'm sure things will be better."

  José wore a sad expression. "We can only hope, señorita. We can only hope."

  After staying the night with Benita and Luis in José's small apartment, Sophie set off with determined steps toward the tallest building in Madrid, the Telefónica. A line of cars waited outside, but she ignored them.

  "Evacuation," one reporter muttered to the other as they climbed into the car.

  Inside, the windows were blocked with mattresses. Only a few office workers remained, packing up their things, preparing for the journey ahead.

  The editor to whom Michael had introduced her now sat behind his desk, staring at piles of prints spread before him. Sophie's muddled mind couldn't even focus on the photographs, yet she wondered if they were Michael's.

  "Miss Grace. Good to see that you're okay. I hope you have brought your things." He spoke in English, with a pronounced New York accent.

  "Where is Michael?"

  "He is somewhere at the front—just outside the city." The man shrugged. "Who knows exactly? He's a hard man to keep up with. But he'll be happy to know you've come. Things in Madrid are no longer safe."

  "I do not argue." Sophie crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. "But must I go today? I want to help my friends move their things; they have so little left. And no"—she opened her arms—"I don't have my satchel. I'll have to go back and get it either way."

  "We’re evacuating to Valencia. If you want to live to see next year, here’s your chance."

  "I will think about it."

  "Think about it?" He leaned forward. "You're not sure?"

  "Can you give me a couple of hours to make a decision? I wish to see my friends one last time. And maybe, if you knew where I could find Michael . . ."

  "If I hear from him, I'll send him to you. Does he know where to find you?"

  "Tell him we’ll be at José's house. For the time being." Sophie jotted down the address and handed it to the man. "If you need to reach me . . ."

  "Yes, Miss Grace. I will tell him. But we are leaving this afternoon. If you are not with us, I cannot guarantee your safe travel out of the city."

  "I understand."

  There was a look in his eyes Sophie couldn't quite trust. She didn't know this man—or any of the other workers. How did they know Valencia would be any safer? If she faced danger, she’d rather do so with friends. And what about the children at the school? If she could be of any help to them, it would be worth staying.

  By the time she reached the street, planes were again roaring overhead.

  "German bombers," a man behind her on the street said in English. "Junkers. They even wear the swastikas. It seems Franco is becoming bold with his strong arm. And it looks as if things will only get worse. An enemy lurks—"

  The boom of antiaircraft fire interrupted his words.

  Sophie covered her ears; then she paused, suddenly recognizing the voice. She turned and saw the black hat pulled low over the speaker's eyes. "Walt?"

  The whistle-whine-scream-roar filled the air. Sophie covered her ears, wondering how close it would hit. Not more than a hundred yards from her, a geyser of cobblestones erupted into the air. The ground shook, and violent air beat against her. Tall buildings around her trembled, then settled again. Excited, high-pitched voices called out. Pained cries met her ears.

  She turned again to the spot where Walt had stood, but he was gone. Had she imagined him? Pillars of smoke rose around her, and she coughed, attempting to expel its heaviness from her lungs. The continual roar assaulted her body and mind with vibrating concussions. Sophie ran for cover, noting people darting across the square. She followed them, knowing they'd lead her to the closest bomb shelter.

  Another blast, closer this time. A window shattered, tinkling like an off-key music box, sprinkling glass shards at her shoes. She stumbled, and frantic movements of the crowd behind knocked her off her feet. A woman landed on top of her, the weight of her body pressing Sophie into the ground.

  She tried to turn, to breathe. The woman moaned and rolled off her. Sophie crawled to the closest wall, leaning against it for support and trying to catch her breath, wiping blood from her nose.

  A scream pierced the air, and Sophie turned to see another woman leaning over a man's body. He lay on the ground covered in chunks of brick and debris. The side of his head had been crushed in, and he stared into the sky with wide, unseeing eyes.

  "Carlos!" the woman cried, touching his face as if trying to wake him.

  Sophie knew it was no use.

  The ground trembled around her, yet fear froze her legs. She stared into the sky, watching the planes above twist and dive. Those running for cover paused slightly and went wild with joy as more planes appeared. Russian planes—there to save them. The screams of engines and propellers overhead replaced the roar of explosions.

  Sophie began to cry. Then, as the droning faded, she stood and sprinted, skirt hoisted to her knees, toward the basement of a nearby apartment building. Like a rabbit running to its burrow, she joined other equally frightened rabbits.

  After an hour of their quivering bodies pressed together, their attention focused on the sounds of aircraft overhead; the rumbling of airplane engines and boom of bombs began to fade.

  She had tried to remember the words of one of Benita's prayers, but they eluded her. Why can't I think of them? Why won't they come?

  Instead, she’d mumbled one phrase over and over, barely loud enough to hear herself, "Be merciful, O Lord. Be merciful,O Lord."

  Finally, only the sound of fire engines filled the air outside. "Certainly they will not return today. They have done enough damage," said a young mother, clutching her baby to her chest.

  "They are leaving, all right. Returning to reload," an old man replied, rising and brushing himself off.

  "By now they are landing at their base," another added, offering a hand to help Sophie up from her place on a hard bench. "And tonight they will join their friends for a drink at the bar."

  "Humans who have made themselves into demons, leaving the rest of us to take cover and wonder why," Sophie said, following them out of the musty room. "Sometimes it's hard to believe this is really happening." She shielded her eyes as she climbed up the stairs into the smoke- and dust-filled sky of midafternoon.

  It took Sophie less than twenty minutes to make her way to José's apartment. As she rounded the block, she noticed a small crowd gathered on the street. She hurried forward, wondering if someone was hurt. Sophie paused in her quickened steps as she saw the crumpled body of a man lying facedown. The clothes, the hair, the camera bag at the man's side.

  Michael. . .

  José knelt beside the limp body lying in a pool of blood. He glanced up and spotted Sophie. The color drained from his face, and he sadly shook his head. "A sniper." He cursed under his breath.

  Sophie's knees grew weak, and a sob caught in her throat. She rushed toward him, but someone grabbed her arms, holding her back. "Michael!"

  "No, señorita. It is not good," one of the men said in her ear. "Remember him as he was."

  She longed to look into Michael's face, to see him one more time, but couldn't bring herself to do it. The fixed eyes of the dead man she’d passed on the street earlier that day, staring lifeless into the sky, came to mind. Blood had oozed from his temple. Her stomach lurched, and she felt her knees grow weak.

  Sophie held her stomach, and then lifted her face toward the windows in the apartment above, wondering if the demon who'd shot Michael still watched. Watched her naked grief.

  José hurried to her and grasped her arm with bloody hands. He turned her away from the sight of Michael. "We must go. It is not safe. He is the third American correspondent shot today." He yanked the armband from her blouse.

  "We can't just leave him . . . I'm not going to leave him!" She turned to look back at his body. Michael's body.

  "Why doesn't the sniper just kill me too?" She yanked her arms from José's grasp and li
fted her fist to the sky. "Kill me. I want to die!" she shouted, sobs overtaking her.

  José's arms embraced her, and she sank into his chest.

  "I want to die. Just let them kill me. . . ."

  Another shot rang out, and Sophie screamed.

  "Come." José yanked her hand and pulled her along down the street. More shots, more screams.

  Her legs propelled her forward. And as they turned the corner she paused, glancing back over her shoulder one last time. The image of Michael's body being dragged off by two men shattered her heart like the storefront glass, falling to a million pieces at her feet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres

  Tell me who is by your side, and I'll tell you who you are.

  Spanish proverb

  The dim Spanish sun attempted to shine through the haze as Sophie unzipped the garment bag, realizing she would wear her blue dress to Michael's funeral instead of their wedding.

  The sound of an automobile pulling to a stop filtered through the open window on a cold breeze. Sophie squared her shoulders, knowing what she had to do. The door was slightly ajar, and she heard José in the living area, welcoming a man inside. She left the dress in the wardrobe and sat upon the bed, her back to the door.

  The men's footsteps and hushed voices approached. José knocked on the door to his bedroom—the one he’dturned over to her and Benita to share for the time being.

  "Sofía?" Though he attempted to be all business for the stranger's benefit, she sensed the gentleness in José's voice.

  When she didn't respond, he knocked louder.

  "Miss Grace. It's time." The man spoke in English—most likely one of the office workers sent to fetch her. "The train to Valencia is due to arrive in thirty minutes."

  The hinges squeaked as the door opened, but she refused to turn. Sophie knew that one look at the urgency on the man's face would cause her to second-guess her decision.