"That is beautiful, Sofía, truly it us. The daily renewal—sí, a good reminder."
"So." She returned the book to the table. "Do you want to go first, or should I?"
"I think you'd better." He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and opened his hand expectantly.
Sophie bent down and pulled a small canvas from under the bed, placing it in his hand. "Okay, you can open it."
José's eyes brightened as he took in the angelic form on the canvas.
"Do you recognize it?"
"Sí, the cherub from San Antonio de la Florida. It's as if Goya painted it himself."
Sophie chuckled. "Not quite. But it was the best I could do, under the circumstances. My time lately has been filled with trying to find food for the displaced persons, and . . ." She shook her head. "You don't want to hear about those things. Today is our time of celebration."
José nodded, then dropped his eyes to the bag. "First, I must explain. My plan was to give you this when you arrived in France. You should have been there by now—safe." With a sigh, he held it out to her.
Sophie took it from him, the weight of the object inside the canvas startling her. She untied the cords and looked inside, sucking in a breath. Tears soon followed. Gingerly she pulled a large camera from the bag.
"It's Michael's. . . ." A sob caught in her throat, and she could almost feel his presence in the room. Anger stirred within her at the sight of it, rage at what he’d done to both her and Maria. But also the deep ache that comes from losing someone cherished for so long.
"I knew he’d want you to have it. But even more than that, Michael wished for your safety. We will leave in the morning."
"Leave?"
"Sí, to France. I still need to find a good map, but I've already gathered our supplies."
Sophie fingered the camera, lifting it to look through the viewfinder to the street outside her window. The street was nearly empty, but even the emptiness was comfortable to her now. Was there life beyond war? Did people really go to bed at night in safety or wake up without questioning where the day's meal would come from? She returned the camera to the bag, uncertain what it would feel like to be safely across the border. "Are you sure? Do you feel well enough?"
José rubbed his leg where it had been broken. "I am still on the mend, yes. But I hear that Franco is repositioning his troops outside Madrid. If we are leaving, now is the time. Who knows how long the city will stand? The people have already faced so much."
"Fine. I'll be ready in the morning." Sophie glanced across the room and realized there wasn't much to prepare. She had only a few items, including her blue dress. Though it was her last clean item of clothing and the only thing not suited for the rubbish heap, she didn't know why she'd held on to it.
She looked down at the camera once again, her conflicting emotions still waging a war inside her. "Yes, I'll be ready at dawn, José." She took his hands in hers. "Thank you, my friend."
But instead of answering, José glanced away, letting his eyes follow two young women who hurried down the street. His mind was someplace else entirely. Sophie had a feeling the camera wasn't the only thing he’d withheld from her . . . but in time, she was sure, he would tell all.
Deion laid back and idly stared at the ceiling, hoping that the ship's gentle rocking would lull him to sleep. Yesterday he’d celebrated Christmas with Jeb and their other comrades. And today he was deep within the belly of the French luxury liner Normandie. If he dared to venture outside in the biting cold, he imagined their ship was moving past the Statue of Liberty about now. But he was looking to the future rather than the past. For Deion and the other eighty-five Americans aboard, the next destination was Le Havre, France.
Most of the other volunteers aboard the ship were members of the New York Artists' Union. They had stood in line with one suitcase each, waiting to board, chatting about the Armageddon ahead—where Fascists attempted to control all freethinkers and threatened the essence of independent creativity. To these writers, artists, and musicians, Spain was a place where their blood would redeem art and liberty, or those ideals would vanish forever. And though Deion knew nothing about art, he did identify with their passionate drive for freedom.
Another volunteer approached, his walk swaying with the ship's motion, and sat on the floor next to Deion's bunk. The man, who looked to be nearly forty, wrapped his arms around his long, thin legs and pushed his steel-rimmed glasses back on his nose. "I met you before, at Jeb's house, right? I'm Clark. And you're Deion, right?"
He extended his hand, and Deion sat up on his bed and shook it firmly. "So where is old Jeb now?"
"Back in the city, raising funds. He says he could be a better help there, making sure we can get the supplies we need."
Deion looked away, hoping Clark didn't see the disappointment on his face. Over the months, as he worked with some of the other men, he'd come to the growing realization that some people, Jeb included, were more talk than bite.
"And what about you?" Clark removed his glasses and wiped them with the corner of his shirt. "I assume you got the paperwork you needed, after all. I know you were worried about that."
"My birth certificate. Yessir, I got that straightened out. My mama had to sign an affidavit giving the day I was born. In Mississippi they didn't pay no mind to the birth of Negro babies. Or their death either, for that matter. According to the family Bible, I'll be twenty-three in April."
"And she signed it without question?"
"Nah, my mama's like any mama. She worries 'bout everything. I had to spin her a tale. I told her up north you need a birth certificate to get a marriage license. She was so happy I found me a woman." Deion lowered his voice, ashamed at the memory of his deceit. "I'll be sorry when she discovers the truth. . . ."
Deion slid his passport from his pocket, glancing at the large, red print—Not Valid for Travel in Spain. His story to his mother was simply the first of many lies.
"So what made you decide, you know, to go to Spain and all?"
Deion smiled, then slowly nodded. "It's like this. The little guy finally won out against these big landowners. The peasants, workers, unions, Socialists, and Communists beat out the monarchy, right-wingers, and military. Can you imagine that? It would be like my uncle in Mississippi becoming mayor, and my mama and aunts being the ones to get the good union jobs—not having to wash the floors for those white women no more. Then, imagine all the whiteys going and taking it back, with nobody stepping in to say a word—" He paused, remembering the color of Clark's skin. "No offense and all."
Clark pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. "None taken." He waited, and Deion continued.
"I imagined these Spanish people facing the same oppression I'd seen growing up. Both in Chicago and New York, I'd leave work, walking those busy streets and feelin' small and insignificant. I always knew if I walked out, there'd be a hundred more just like me in line to take my job. But in Spain . . . that's a different matter. There I can fight to hold onto what people like me worked so hard to achieve. In Spain I'll make a difference."
"You're right. The Negro people suffer doubly. Why shouldn't you get equal pay for equal work? Or the right to organize, vote, serve on juries, and hold public office? Doesn't the constitution say it should be so?"
Deion studied the man before him and figured he was a writer. The artists he knew studied his face. His large nose and ears. His black eyes. But the writers looked at his mouth, waiting for the words and the story behind them.
Deion pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. Seeing the eagerness in Clark's face for what might come next, he decided it was worth sharing a little more of his story.
"Even more than that, I grew up with a mama and grandma tellin' me I could do anything I set my mind to. That color didn't matter one bit. This was saying a lot, since my grandma lived near a quarter of her life as a slave. She remembers the day she heard she was finally free. The Yanks come down the road, and all those in the field star
ted hootin' and hollerin'. Their master had left the day before, runnin' for his life, you see. But she really didn't believe it till the Yanks showed up."
Clark yawned and rose, his legs unfolding, bringing him to his full height. "I want to be a Yank for these people. A Yank for Spain. Hey, I like that." He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Can you read, Deion?"
"Shore can, better'n most. My mama got together with some other folks and hired us a tutor at the church. We ate potatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but I've read Dickens. Shakespeare too. Not that I understood much of it." Deion grinned.
"Then take a look at this." Clark withdrew a newspaper from under his shirt and pushed it into Deion's hands. The headline read "Republican Spain Under Attack."
Deion studied the photographs of Spain, of Moroccan soldiers, and General Francisco Franco himself observing the course of the battle through binoculars. In another photograph, children were presenting flowers to the Rebel general.
"I hope we make it in time," Deion said, looking up.
But the tall man was already gone.
"I hope we make it," he repeated to himself.
Chapter Twenty Four
Cuando te toca, te toca.
When it's your time, it's your time.
Spanish proverb
Philip shivered under the wool poncho as he rested on his haunches and listened to his trench mate whistle a catchy jazz tune, just loud enough for Philip to enjoy too. In the past month he'd moved from place to place with the International Brigades in a half daze, as if watching someone else complete the drills, fire the weapons, and shout the Communist slogans with a fisted, straight-armed salute.
They were back on the Madrid front with La Marsellaise, the French-British battalion. He did his part, obeying orders and trying to join in small talk with friends, but sometimes he marveled that he was still in Spain. The fact that those who deserted were hunted down and killed was a pretty good reason to stay, he supposed. But staying meant something more than that. Attis's body lay in a grave in Spain.
He'd want it that way. No one can make him go back. . . .
Now, when Philip fought, he battled for his friend. And as the days passed, the cause in which Attis had believed so strongly became Philip's own.
"Hey, chap, got any smokes?" the man in the trench next to Philip asked. "I lost the last of mine in Albacete."
What was the fellow's name? Charles, Philip reminded himself. His name is Charles.
Philip felt his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Though he didn't smoke himself, he bought the best cigarettes possible with the few pesos he received each week. It was his way of keeping connected, of not walling himself off completely.
Charles lit the cigarette, took a long drag, then let the cigarette hang from his lips as he spoke. "I have to use the slit trench. I'll be right back." He slapped Philip on the back and climbed from the foxhole. Then he tightened the strap on his steel helmet, hiding his blond hair.
It was the same color as Philip's. In fact, many commented they could be brothers. Philip only nodded when they said that. He didn't want to burst their bubble, but over the last few months he'd learned one thing—brotherhood had little to do with similar appearance, and everything to do with heart. Philip also knew that he’d have to start opening his heart back up again, before it turned as dry and impenetrable as the hard-packed dirt he sat on.
The sound of an approaching automobile stirred him from his thoughts. He listened, holding his breath. Gunfire erupted from the opposite direction of where Charles had just run. Then he heard the crunch of metal and something that sounded like a woman's scream. He lifted his rifle and peered over the edge of the trench. More gunfire sounded, closer this time. And then he saw movement in the trees between his location and the road.
He peeked out to get a closer look, and a few enemy bullets thudded into the ground next to his head. He knew he'd been hit—maybe shot dead—when he saw the angel of light coming toward him. A dark-haired beauty with fair skin, wearing a light blue dress. The angel's hair blew in her face, and her hands tried to brush it away, as if she fought against the very breath of life escaping his lungs.
She hurried to him, her eyes locked with his, and leaned down. Her hands touched his face. She spoke to him in Spanish.
"Sir, can you understand me? My friend—he needs help. We got lost. Made the wrong turn. We ended up—oh, can you please come quick?"
He could tell Spanish wasn't her native tongue. The tears in her eyes pulled him to his senses and woke him up completely, causing him to stand up with a start.
"Who are you?" It wasn't until the words were out that he realized he'd spoken in English.
"Sophie. I'm—oh, it would take too long to explain why I'm here, but can you please come help my friend? There was blood everywhere, and . . ." Her voice trailed off as a sob caught in her throat.
He heard a distant rumble, and an instinct to protect her kicked in. Philip pulled her down on him. Her mouth opened to scream, but he clamped his hand tight over it. She smelled of clean skin and lilacs. Her hair wrapped around his hand like silk, and her dress was thin and soft under his fingers. She trembled, from the cold and from fear, then tugged against him, struggling. Grasping her more firmly, Philip pulled her ear closer to his mouth. "Shhh . . . they'll think we're injured and come for us. You must be quiet."
Gunfire sounded; then a flurry of fire was returned. It was farther away than he thought, which was good.
The skin of her cheek brushed his lips, and he pulled his head back, still unsure if this fleshly being were real or a wayward angel come to his rescue.
"If I move my hand, will you promise not to scream?"
She nodded slightly.
"Okay. Now who are you, and what are you doing here?" He released his grasp, and she sucked in a great breath.
"Sophie. My name is Sophie. I'm an American . . . news correspondent. My friend was trying to drive me to the French border. Obviously he took a wrong turn, and our automobile came under fire." Her body trembled under his grasp, and Philip released his hold. "I think he might be dead."
"And you got out and came for help? How did you know where to go? You could have ended up on the wrong side."
More trembling. "I didn't know, but I knew I couldn't stay there and watch José die." She lowered her head. "I prayed."
"We can't go yet; we have to wait till dark. I still don't know how you made it across that field."
"But . . . José. We can't just leave him. I'll go back alone if I have to."
"Where was he hit?"
She wrapped her arms around herself. "His head."
"Was he moving?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Then most likely he's dead. Or will be when the Fascists find him. I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what to do, and he hoped Charles would return soon. What was taking him so long? "But I can go back after dark."
He took his blanket, dirty and smelling of sweat and campfire, and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I'm sorry this is all I have."
"Thank you."
"Can I ask you something? Why are you wearing that?"
"Oh, it's . . . it's my wedding dress. I had this crazy notion this morning . . . as a final good-bye." She brushed her hair from her face. "It was stupid, I know. But I can't . . . I can't wait."
Before he could stop her, the woman climbed from the trench and darted back the way she came. The blanket flapped from her shoulders—making the biggest target possible.
Philip had no choice but to follow.
The automobile's motor still ran. The back wheels remained on the road, but the front had slid off the side into a sheared-off tree. The woman had climbed back into the passenger seat and scrunched low, attempting to stay out of line of the shooter—wherever he happened to be hiding.
Philip repositioned his rifle on his shoulder and scanned the rolling field across the roadway. Though no sign indicated it
was any different from the opposite side, Philip knew it was enemy territory. He reached the automobile and opened the driver's door, the bottom of it catching in the stony ground. Reaching his hand around to turn off the engine, he let his eyes fall on the driver. A Spanish man, about Philip's own age. His face had turned powder gray, and blood trickled down his forehead. But that was only a flesh wound. A larger gash beneath the spot was already swelling, and Philip guessed he’d hit the steering wheel hard. The worst wound, however, was a gaping hole in the man's neck, seeping blood down his shoulder. That was the bullet that killed him.
"We've gotta go. There's nothing I can do for him." Shots rang out up the road, and Philip scanned the hills. Whoever shot this fellow had moved on—though it made no sense why he would.
The woman held the man's hand between her own. "No, he's still alive; I can feel his pulse."
"That's not possible, ma'am." Philip took the man's other limp hand from his side. He search for the vein, then closed his eyes. There was a slight pulse.
"See? I told you."
Philip quickly slid his poncho off and covered the man. Then he took off his outer shirt, ripped it into the strips, and wrapped it around the wound to help with the bleeding. With a loud sigh, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and crouched, sliding his arms under the man's legs and around his back. Thankfully, the man was light.
His eyes locked on the woman's. "Go on ahead—back to the trenches. Wait there."
"No, I'm staying with you."
"Ma'am." He tugged on the man, feeling the full weight of his body, and winced. "Go back . . . and tell Charles to send for a medic."
With a look of resignation she obeyed, lifting her dress to her knees and sprinting ahead, the blanket again flapping behind her like a cape.
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