Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  A short walk brought them to the small tavern located on the corner of the market district. The door was ajar and the room was filled with people, despite the fact that both windows had been boarded up, and nothing remained of the building on the opposite corner except a pile of rubble.

  José led her to a table of men, and they all stood as she approached, tipping their hats. Sophie glanced around the room. Only a few other women were present, and those were the waitresses, all older women, who carried glasses of wine to the tables with a sway of their wide hips.

  "We've been discussing your venture, and we think we've found a route." A man with a scarred face, yet soft and gentle eyes, spread a small map before them. "If you can make it to Albacete, we believe there is a train from there."

  "Albacete? That is the opposite direction of France. Why Albacete?"

  "The path through Albacete is the safest way out of the country. It's there they have a training camp for the International Brigades. From there, my amiga, you can catch a train to France . . . safely. They have to keep the line open, you see. Volunteers are crossing the Pyrenees by foot. Then they travel by rail to be trained at the barracks before being sent to the front lines. But do not worry." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. "You do not have to go alone. Alejandro will drive you."

  "Oh, no." A gray-haired man with big ears and small darting eyes stood. "I can't do this. Don't you understand? They're going to kill us. They're going to kill us all."

  The men laughed, and Sophie frowned. It was clear they knew they'd get this response. When the laughter died down, José took a sip from the drink before him, the smile fading. It was also clear that though they joked with their friends, they too felt the same.

  "So is no one willing to risk his life for the sake of a beautiful maiden?" José motioned for the waitress to bring another flask of wine. "Anyone care to join us on our journey?"

  No one responded.

  "As if protecting our lives matters!" someone in the back shouted—his words slightly slurred. "Tell me one man who has cheated death! Show me one body that will not someday become the very dust you walk on. The question isn't how we will die, but how we will live!"

  "Well said!" José lifted his glass, sloshing the red wine over the rim onto his arm. It dribbled down to his sleeve, looking like blood, thick and red.

  Sophie forced herself to look away, remembering the blood pooled under Michael. Despite their laughter and joking, she saw the same fear in their eyes that gnawed at her own insides when she allowed it to. It was easy to talk of death as a noun, but rather impossible to truly understand it—until the verb of death cut your soul like a knife.

  "Fine then, friends." José tossed a coin onto the table and rose. "We will travel alone, and we will not fail!"

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Al buen entendedor, pocas palabras.

  To him who understands, few words are needed.

  Spanish proverb

  The outer defensive line around Madrid surprised Philip. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it. The raw, red earth heaped along the side of the trenches. The ragged soldiers huddled with one gun for every three men—one steel helmet per ten. And though the sun shone overhead, it did little to warm them.

  Trenches ran from house to house, empty rivers containing only six men each, sitting on the cold ground shoulder to shoulder. Sandbags and loose wire looped at the top offered their only protection.

  Some of the International volunteers shouted toward the Fascist lines, taunting them. The men on the other side of the line grew tired of their voices, and bullets whacked against the sandbags. The foul names intensified, volleyed back and forth.

  Attis stood and fired back, a grin curling up the end of his lips. He fired because he could, Philip knew, not because he expected to hit anything or anyone. But only one bullet every thirty minutes or so—there weren't that many to go around.

  "This is foolishness," one Spanish soldier said, cleaning his Spanish Mauser for the second time that hour. Philip remembered his name was Rico; and his baby face and wide, curious eyes fit the name.

  "For all I know, it could be my uncle on the other side, my cousin. Our country has gone mad. Like Cain, we hunt down our brother." Rico lowered his eyes to his hands. "And I am certain it is due to the fight over the church. God has left our country, amigos. And I don't blame Him. If I were Him I'd do the same." He made the sign of the cross.

  "That's why I don't believe in God," another soldier spat. "Believing only brings disappointment. Don't you agree?" He nudged Philip's arm.

  "No, I don't agree. I don't think God has left Spain. If what the Bible says is true, then that's not the case at all." As Philip spoke the words, he thought of his dream of his father. He also remembered the big, black Bible that had seemed useless to him for many years. But here. He glanced at the red dirt and the barbed wire. Here things are different.

  "Show me this God. Let me see His face. You say God is true, but you have no proof, which means this truth can equally be untrue, can it not?"

  Attis turned to Philip, cocking one eyebrow as if waiting for his response.

  Philip knew that Attis's ideology matched the stranger's more than his own—yet, as a friend Attis would never admit it . . . until they were alone again.

  "Yes, I suppose it can be equally untrue, but as one who's read many of the Holy Scriptures describing man's purpose on earth, I find it makes the most sense. The Bible doesn't try to excuse human behavior, but instead explains it. And if you view Spain in light of the words of Scripture—of men wanting to become God, to have the knowledge of God, to live as gods themselves, in control of their own destinies—then what we see around us also makes sense."

  "It sounds as if you've been thinking about this for a while."Rico shivered and pulled his cap lower over his ears.

  "Before a few nights ago, it was something I hadn't thought about for years. But being here, facing this—" Philip pointed toward the enemy lines. "Well, my mind has taken me back to what I learned in my youth, and I've considered that perhaps my old man isn't as foolish as I once thought. Of course, don't tell him I've said that." Philip chuckled. "It would be like the prodigal son coming home, and there is no way I'm going back just yet."

  A Frenchman, wearing the uniform of an officer in the International Brigades, hurriedly jumped from the next trench into theirs, interrupting their conversation and causing all of them to squeeze in tighter. "I need someone to deliver a message to the university."

  Attis raised his hand, and Philip did the same. Attis must have lifted his fingers too high, because an eruption of gunfire followed, showering sand across their heads and shoulders. Attis cursed, then lowered his hand.

  "I only need one—you." He pointed to Philip.

  Attis slugged Philip's arm, and Philip smiled.

  "Be careful. I hear some of the buildings have been captured by the Fascists," the French officer explained. "Others are ours, held by the 5th Regiment and the Internationals." The officer took a few minutes to explain the safest route and to hand Philip the note.

  Philip sprinted down the line, darting between blocks of brick buildings. An eruption of gunfire sounded as those in the trenches provided cover. Soon he was out of range of the guns, and he slowed his pace slightly, noticing some buildings still stood, others only partly so. He moved past the Casa de Velazquez, remembering the lecture in the courtyard about how the battle over that building cost the Internationals 122 Polish volunteers. Yet passing it, one would never know. It stood so innocently among the rest of the buildings—the red tiles of its roof scattered over the ground where Philip jogged.

  He found the correct building and delivered the sealed note. He hardly looked around the dim room, heavy with the scent of smoke and body odor. Rifles were piled on the tables. Mattresses of lounging men filled one corner. The man at the desk thanked him, and tossed Philip an orange for his effort.

  In less than half an hour, he
was back at the trenches. But just as he jumped inside the first trench to tell the Frenchman he'd succeeded at his mission, two men grabbed his arms.

  "Philip, no, you don't want to go any farther. Come with us." The men tugged against his arms. A third man joined them, jumping between the trenches.

  "Let go. What are you doing?" He struggled against them, realizing they were covered with blood.

  Philip looked into Rico's eyes, and the sadness he witnessed there sent a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his chest. Immediately he understood.

  "Attis . . ." Philip mumbled the name first, then shouted. "Attis!"

  "Your friend stood to shoot, just like always, but they got him first. One bullet, clean in the center of the forehead." A sob escaped with Rico's explanation.

  Philip tugged harder. "Let me go. Let me see him." He jumped into the next trench and saw four men huddled around the body, preparing to hoist it out. A fifth man vomited in the corner.

  "Attis. Let him go. Put him down. Attis."

  The men obeyed, and Philip knelt at his friend's side. His eyes were open, yet unseeing. A single bullet hole dimpled his forehead, and a stream of drying blood trickled down into his eye.

  "He didn't know what hit him. Look, he’s still smiling."

  Philip looked at his friend's lips, curled up slightly, so happy to be included in this. Thankful to be doing his part.

  Philip sank to the ground, laying his head on his friend's still-warm chest. It neither rose nor fell.

  "Why did I go? I should have stayed." He shook his fist in the air. "One of you should have volunteered." He pointed at a face blurred by his tears. "How come you didn't go?"

  "Quiet now. No one is to blame. He was our friend," Rico said. "A brave example to all of us . . . he was so kind."

  "I should have made him get on that ship." Philip's throat was tight and achy. "He'd be alive now." He entwined his fingers with Attis's larger ones. "He'd still be alive. What am I going to tell Louise?"

  Ritter had stayed up until 3 a.m. dancing, talking, drinking champagne, and watching the girls perform their Spanish dances, yet he could not forget. He knew there was a problem when Major General Sperrle met him on the runway after the last bombing raid over Madrid.

  The day's events played and replayed in Ritter's mind, and sleep evaded him.

  "Eduard's plane is missing." They'd been the first words out of the general's mouth. "A few others witnessed it going down in a spin with a lot of smoke near the Red lines. I know you were close."

  "Close? He was a fellow pilot, and nothing more. True soldiers know better than to make friends." Yet even as Ritter spouted the words, he knew it was a lie. He'd taken the kid under his wing, like a younger brother. Ritter had even shared about his feelings for Isanna, after Eduard had teased him about not starting a romance with a Spanish maiden.

  "Do they know the cause of the crash?"

  "Shrapnel from the ground, most likely. They believe his right engine blew up. Smoke billowed from it."

  "He could still have made it." Ritter turned and strode across the landing strip.

  Sperrle followed close to his side. "Yes, of course." When they reached the pilots' quarters, the general paused. "You okay?"

  "Of course. See you in the morning."

  Entering the room, Ritter spotted a group of the other pilots circled around the radio. He could tell from the excited voice of the host that they were listening to Radio Libertad, the Red station broadcasting in German.

  Felix, one of the other pilots, spotted Ritter and immediately switched it off.

  Ritter paused in his tracks. "Is there a problem?"

  "Red lies, all of them," spouted Niklas, another pilot.

  Ritter noted the bead of perspiration on Niklas's brow and went closer. "Really? Well, what do these lies say?"

  Instead of answering, Felix turned the radio knob, and the announcer's voice blared.

  "Today, comrades, a German He.51 was discovered behind enemy lines. The young pilot was still alive, but not for long. The Reds not only made quick work of the foreign enemy, but as a symbol to others like him, the body was crated up and dropped over enemy lines. I pity the Fascist pig who opens the crate to discover a body wrapped in a bag—one of their own!"

  The man's voice continued on about new tanks arriving daily, when Ritter reached over and turned the switch.

  "You are correct. Lies, all of it. Eduard is alive; wait and see. They only wish they could do such a thing . . . they only dream . . ." Ritter's voice caught in his throat and he turned, high-stepping his way to his quarters. His hand shook as he opened the door, and he cursed at the sound of flamenco drifting through his open window.

  He shut the window, then noticed a piece of paper stuck in the frame. He unfolded it, recognizing Eduard's handwriting. As of yesterday, some of the pilots had been writing a song for the Condor Legion, and Eduard was lending a hand. He must have slipped the note inside the window frame before heading out for the day.

  "Hey, maybe my name will go down in history," Eduard had said the previous day. "I can be known as one of the men who gave voice to our fight."

  Ritter had laughed at him. "Ja, well, I'd rather be known as one of the men who provided more fight than words, more caskets than silly songs."

  Eduard had shrugged it off with a smile, but Ritter could not help noticing the pained look in the young man's eyes.

  With a tightening of his chest, Ritter read the words, first in Spanish. Then in German.

  Die Jungfrau Maria ist unsere Legion

  Franco¸ ber Azana.

  Arriba Espana . . .

  Es ist so schoen

  In der Condor A.G.

  Jetze sind wir Legionäre

  RLM ade . . .

  Es kommt kein Fein duns in die Quer

  Wo unser Banner weht

  Wir sind die Condor legion

  Der niemand wiedersteht.

  The Virgin Mary is our Legion.

  Franco over Azana.

  Upward Spain . . .

  It is so beautiful

  In the Condor Company

  Now we are Legionnaires

  Reich Air Ministry, Good-bye . . .

  We will meet no enemy on the square

  Where our banner flies.

  We are the Condor Legion

  That no man can hold back.

  Anger coursed through Ritter's chest, and he crumbled the paper, hoping the news report was indeed a lie. Hoping that tomorrow they'd receive a call from Eduard, telling them it had been a mistake and he waited on another base, safe and needing a ride back.

  Ritter poured himself a drink, then sank into his chair by the window. He sipped his whisky, enjoying the burn in his throat and the heat that traveled through him—numbing heat.

  Outside, a shepherd's campfire glowed on a distant hill, and that glow gave him solace. It reminded him of the fires that raged in Madrid. The ones started by the bombers . . . and the ones that continued to burn—drawing them in and marking the best targets to destroy the mortally wounded.

  Then, for the first time since he’d been in Spain, the sound of the flamenco called him, inviting him to join in the laughter, the party. And promising he’d forget.

  WINTER

  And pray ye that your flight be not in the winter.

  —Mark 13:18

  Chapter Twenty Three

  DECEMBER 25, 1936

  Saliste de Guatemala y te metiste en Guatepeor

  Out of the pot, into the fire.

  Spanish proverb

  Sophie couldn't help grinning as she heard the step-step-thump of José walking up to her front door. She opened it before the knock and caught him standing there with a wide-eyed look of surprise.

  She pointed to the crutch he'd been using for the past month. "How's your leg feeling?"

  "It would be doing much better if Franco would stop the bombing. One building falling around me was enough."

  She welcomed him in and noted the dark circles
under his eyes and the worry lines on his forehead. She also noticed a canvas bag hanging from his shoulder, swinging with his every step across the wooden floor.

  A strong wind blustered through the doorway, blowing dust and debris in from the street. Sophie quickly shut the door.

  "Winter is upon us, and you are still here, Sofía. This was not the plan. . . ." He turned to sit on her spindly chair; then, thinking better of it, he hobbled to the bed.

  Sophie sat beside him. "Honestly, I understand. It's not as though you planned to get caught in a building that took a direct hit." She patted his knee. "I'm just thankful you fared as well as you did."

  "Sí, señorita, but the plan was to take you to safety as soon as possible. The city is far too dangerous." He shrugged his shoulders. "But as Benita would say, that was not God's plan."

  "I miss Benita. Are they well?" Sophie had only seen her friend three times since Michael's death, as Benita had rushed around caring for her three nieces and two nephews who'd lost their mother to the bombs and their father to the front lines.

  Sophie stood and walked to the table, retrieving the book Benita had brought over during her last visit. She had apologized that it wasn't a complete Bible, but Sophie had been thrilled with the devotional book, in English no less, which included the Psalms. She reread them on many lonely nights, using the biblical songs as her own prayers for safety, courage, hope.

  She caressed the leather cover. "I thought I'd read a prayer, and then we 'd exchange presents."

  José's brow furrowed. "Christmas, sí, I almost forgot. But I'm sorry, I . . ." He followed her gaze to the canvas bag. "Oh, I suppose I do have a gift, after all."

  Sophie opened the book and read. "The Nativity of Our Lord: Christmas Day. Almighty God, You have given Your only begotten Son to take our nature upon Him, and to be born this day of a pure virgin: Grant that we, who have been born again and made Your children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by Your Holy Spirit; through our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom with You and the same Spirit be honor and glory, now and forever. Amen."