Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Father Manuel followed the woman down the narrow hallway, and while he knew a few hundred wounded men had been brought to the convent, he hadn't thought much about those who died in the care of the two dozen nuns, five surgeons, and lay nurses.

  "What other duties do you have?"

  "Oh, I don't mind the cleaning, or even caring for the men. It's just the dead—not knowing the state of their souls when they passed. My favorite task has been sitting on the roof scanning the sky for enemy planes. Even though it has been cold lately, it is a great time to talk with the Lord as I watch."

  "And have you seen any planes?"

  "No. Well, once I saw a speck in the distance, but later realized it must have been a bird. But the fighting has picked up around our Basque front lines. And though I know we are not supposed to hate, Padre, I do feel those emotions rising within. Witnessing the shredded bodies and knowing someone caused that on purpose—I just can't imagine the type of demon who would do such a thing."

  Without waiting for a response, Sister Joséfina opened the door and swept her hand across the room, as if emphasizing her point. Bodies of men, shrouded with white sheets, crowded the floor of the room.

  "And my task?" Father Manuel swallowed hard, trying to hold back the emotion filling his chest.

  "To prepare them for burial. Wash away the dirt and blood from the battlefield; fold the arms. I will hurry back with warm water and a towel."

  Father Manuel nodded, seeing relief in the woman's face. Tonight the task would not be hers.

  She hurried away, and Manuel fell to his knees, lifting his hands in the air. "Oh, God of mercy, how You desire to rescue the people from their sin. When will we learn, O Lord, to end our destructive ways? When will we fight for Your cause and not our own? When will we strive to save lives of our brothers instead of destroy them?"

  He opened his eyes and dared to pull back the sheet, revealing the face of the young man beneath. He was younger than Manuel expected—no more than a boy. His peaceful face looked as if he slept, and the only sign of injury was the jagged scar that crossed his abdomen. It had been an attempt at mending the lad. A failed attempt. A reminder to Father Manuel that though men fight their wars, and others try to mend those broken in the process, it was the Lord who determined the span of their lives.

  And the end of their days.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  No por mucho madrugar amanece más temprano.

  Waking up earlier won't make the sun rise any quicker.

  Spanish proverb

  Sophie awoke to the sound of knocking at the door of the small cottage and the tall American soldier's voice speaking her name. She could hear the Spanish woman welcoming him, offering the seat by the fire for him to warm himself.

  Sophie dressed quickly and hurried into the kitchen, pleased to be greeted by his smiling face.

  "You look well. Uh, better than yesterday." The solider removed his helmet, revealing his light hair.

  "Oh, I hope so." She studied the man's features, surprised at how different he looked. He'd bathed—and smelled much better than yesterday—and the bearded shadow had disappeared, revealing a small cleft in his chin.

  "My friend, José. Have you heard? Is he doing okay?"

  "I checked this morning. He made it to the first-aid center. I assume they performed surgery there. But I'm sorry; I know little else." The soldier accepted a tin cup of coffee handed to him by the Spanish woman. She glanced back and forth as they spoke, seemingly confused by their English. She watched as Philip drank.

  "Gracias, señora." He took another sip and smiled. Then he turned back to Sophie. "If it's okay with you, we need to leave soon. Our commander has asked to see you."

  "Your commander?"

  "Yes, ma'am. American press isn't seen too much in these parts."

  Sophie ran her fingers through her hair. "Yes, of course. Give me a few minutes."

  She returned to the small room and took a deep breath, wondering what to expect. Surely, they'd kick her out of the country if they discovered her lie. Could people be hanged for such trickery? Maybe they'd even accuse her of being a spy.

  "Dang you, Walt," she muttered under her breath as she repacked the last of her things. "Just look what you've gotten me into."

  A small gray truck pulled to a stop in front of the cottage and beeped its horn. Sophie thanked the Spanish woman and smiled as Philip graciously opened the truck door for her and helped her inside.

  Once on the road, there were few other vehicles in sight. Motor-lorries passed with provisions for the troops on the front lines. Smoke and flames from the distant fighting tinted the air with an eerie haze. Every now and then she heard an explosion in the distance, but so far no planes had flown overhead, dropping their bombs. She'd be thankful if she never saw another plane in her life.

  Sophie noticed that the villages they passed were heavily guarded by men who appeared to have stepped out of Goya paintings. She pulled out her sketchbook, jotting shaky notes about their white billowing shirts with red neckties and bandoliers full of cartridges. Most militiamen also sported red badges with the name of a local committee. All lounged on the road or leaned against their sandbag barricades, perking up as the car approached.

  After about ten minutes, the driver stopped the car at a roadblock. Sophie's heart pounded as she noted the Spanish guard on the side of the road with a rifle swung over his shoulder.

  He looked past the driver to her, and his pencil-thin moustache twitched slightly as he eyed her.

  "Where is your pass?" His dark eyes showed no friendliness.

  She handed her press card to the guard. The driver also produced his papers. With a grunt, the Spaniard handed them both back. Without warning, his face cracked in a grin.

  "Comrades, it is not easy to find dinner. All meals are rationed. But you are in luck. My family owns a small café inside this village. I welcome you as our guests."

  The driver pulled into town.

  "Are you sure this is safe?" Philip questioned.

  "Sí, the people's houses are used for the militia, as are their food and wine," the driver said, passing in front of the café. "Although I have to admit this is the first time I've been welcomed inside. You must have impressed them, señorita."

  Sophie's gut knotted with nervousness about facing the commander, and she longed to ask if they could just continue on when she spotted the group sitting in front of a café eating tortillas. Steam from the warm bread rose in the biting air. Her knotted stomach relaxed enough to growl.

  They entered the café, and she noticed another group of soldiers inside. Sophie thought their accents sounded Russian.

  Many peasants lined the bar, and their eyes turned to Sophie when they entered.

  The driver leaned close to Sophie's ear. "It's a big event to have foreigners in their midst, especially women . . . and especially women who have come to help their cause."

  "But I . . ."

  Her words were cut off by a man hurrying toward her. "Señorita, come; I must tell you my story. My brother and I have killed twenty Fascists ourselves from this small village." He slid his fingers across his throat. "The priest and lawyer. The rich landowners." He beamed. "Well, of course, we did not do it ourselves. We assisted the soldiers when they came here. We showed them where our enemies hid, and they arrested them, then killed them."

  Sophie's stomach lurched. A priest? They killed their priest?

  She turned to Philip. "Why are they telling me this?"

  He placed a hand on Sophie's back. "Your press badge. They believe you will put them in the American newspapers. They feel they are heroes for rooting out the Fascists in their midst." Sophie could see in Philip's eyes that he too was troubled.

  They ate as quickly as possible, then left, to the disappointment of the villagers who continued to fill the small café to overflowing. Soon the truck pulled in to the farmhouse that served as the commander's headquarters.

  Philip led Sophie inside. She crossed he
r arms before her, hoping to hide her trembling hands.

  The commander sat in the farmhouse kitchen. The scarred wooden table before him held a radio and stacks of papers. He rose as she approached. "Miss Grace, welcome. It is not every day we have an American journalist in our midst. Do you plan to stay long?"

  "Actually, I was leaving the country—heading back to France—when we had a most unfortunate accident. Philip, here"—she swept an arm in his direction—"saved my life, and that of my friend, José. Do you know how he is?"

  “Sí, last I heard he was taken from the first-aid station to a hospital farther back in the lines. He's still alive."

  Sophie blew out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

  "But back to you, Miss Grace. The International Brigades are wondering if you'd reconsider. We have volunteers, you see, from all over the world, coming to fight for our cause. Yet . . ." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table before him, looking intensely into her gaze. "We need so much more—funds, weapons, volunteers. Perhaps your photography could be used to draw sympathy to our cause."

  "My photography . . . yes, of course."

  "Good, we will start with the field hospital. Once we get the photos we need, we will be happy to help you find a way out of Spain."

  "Photos at the field hospital?" Sophie strode forward and extended her hand, feigning confidence. "Yes, sir. That is something I can do." She glanced toward the soldier standing beside her. "And what about Philip?"

  The commander stood and stretched a hand toward the tall, blond soldier, giving him a firm pat on his back. "You've read my mind. I wish for him to stay, of course. For your protection. You can be sure that anyone offering help to our cause in such a public way is sure to be a target of the enemy."

  Sophie shivered slightly at his words, but the thought of Philip by her side was reassuring. Still, she wondered what he thought about it. After all, he hadn't planned on leaving the front lines.

  She looked to see his reaction, and noted his slightly furrowed eyebrows. For a second she thought he was going to decline the request.

  Instead he offered the commander a quick nod. "If it's helping the war effort, sir, I'd be glad to stay. Just as long as I know I'm doing my part."

  "That you are, son," the commander said, leading them into the fading light. "That goes for both of you."

  As delicately as if she were pulling out a Ming vase, Sophie removed Michael's camera from its bag. The Leica was Michael's treasure. Holding it was like holding his hand once more. At night when she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed that it wasn't truly Michael who'd lain dead on the pavement. But now, with this camera in her hand, her doubt evaporated. Michael had journeyed to the one place where he wasn't allowed to take it with him. Though, Sophie guessed, he most likely put up quite an argument with Saint Peter about that fact.

  Thankfully, she’d taken a few photography classes and had learned enough from watching Michael that she hoped for a few exceptional photos—or at least some good enough for the commander to find her a ride to France. There she’d retrieve her things, and maybe even look up the small cottage Michael had purchased for her. After that, she'd decide how to live next.

  As Sophie gently cleaned the camera's lens, she realized she was doing it again—remembering Michael without including thoughts of Maria or their relationship. It was easier that way. The grief felt cleaner, though, she’d be the first to admit, it was built on lies.

  Sophie lifted the viewfinder to her eye and looked through it at the young man in the bed closest to her. She focused on his bandaged face, keeping the rows of beds beyond him out of focus. When developed, she hoped the image would appear as surreal as she felt. As if the pain of one man stood alone, no matter how many others suffered with him.

  Having Philip beside her brought her a sense of comfort. Maybe it was the peace she sensed in the American soldier's eyes, despite the conflict all around them.

  "How did so many foreigners end up here?" she asked him, referring to Spain as well as to the makeshift hospital. She'd come for love, and her mind couldn't even begin to fathom another purpose strong enough to compete with that.

  Not that love had made any difference for her.

  "These guys are volunteers. Americans from New York, Chicago. All over, I suppose. Others are from all over the globe—Poland, Germany, Holland, Scotland, you name it. They've come to help the people hold their country from the Fascists."

  Sophie moved to the next bed and focused on the man's bandaged hand. Blood seeped through, the crimson flow refusing to be stanched. She tried to talk to the man in Spanish and English, but the injured man shook his head, understanding neither.

  "Abraham Lincoln," Philip stated flatly.

  "What was that?" She snapped the picture, wound the film, then turned to face him, realizing for the first time how very dark his blue eyes appeared. As deep as the moonless sky had appeared the first night she’d seen the Pyrenees Mountains from the train window.

  "The name of our English-speaking battalion. Symbolic of our freedom fight."

  "The Abraham Lincoln Battalion. Interesting." Though a thousand questions filled her mind about the quest of these Americans, Sophie snapped the photos in silence, then hastily retreated to the bathroom where red cellophane had been taped around the sole lightbulb for her use.

  Would they turn out? Or would these prints prove her deception?

  When the photos were developed, Sophie's tears came. Tears she’d managed to hold at bay since yesterday's accident. Tears for José and for the danger she’d been in. Then old, bottled-up tears for Michael. And for his stupidity. And for the realization that if he were here he'd be able to accomplish what she'd failed to do.

  Philip must have heard her sobs through the solid wooden door, because he knocked, then entered cautiously.

  "I'm sorry. I tried." She motioned to the prints strung across the room, drying. "But it's no use. These black-and-white pictures take the blood out of the pain. They seem flat, lifeless." Just like my soul . . . she wanted to add.

  "Sophie, these will work." Philip leaned closer to take a better look. "Surely, people will see the pain in these images. Their hearts will be able to see the color their eyes cannot."

  "That's it." Sophie rose and moved toward the door, and she motioned for Philip to follow. "Red paint. Blue. Black. And a green as sharp as the new grass in spring. All the colors. I need canvases, too."

  "What are you talking about?" Philip scratched his head.

  "I don't know why I didn't think of it before." She looked at Michael's camera again, understanding that he could have captured the drama of the hospital, even in black-and-white. Yet she was a painter. And in order to earn her ride out of the country, she’d paint images that would bring the most uncaring Wall Street businessman to tears.

  Excitement built in her as she remembered the images plastered all over Madrid. The posters called out to the illiterate nation, urging them to resist Fascism and defend the Republic. They encouraged international solidarity.

  In her mind's eye, she remembered one of the last posters she'd spotted on the door of a factory shop—an image of a war-impoverished family standing against the backdrop of their burning village. The woman leaned against her husband's frame. He wore no shirt and his hands were open, palms forward, reminding Sophie of Paul Gauguin's yellow-skinned Christ. If illustrations could do that for the common people of Spain, what about the common people in New York? or Boston? Would they rally to help the cause?

  She returned the camera to her satchel, not understanding why this idea hadn't come to her sooner. She had dozens of pencil sketches from Madrid that she could bring to life . . . and these men . . . maybe even the battlefield.

  Sophie laughed and gave Philip a quick embrace. "Seriously, I need paint and canvas. I need your help. I know a way to stir help for our cause. . . ."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  If you don't have a plan for yourself,

  you'll b
e part of someone else's.

  American proverb

  The fierce shivering of Ritter's body woke him from a troubled sleep. How many days and nights had he been exposed to the elements? He tried to sit, but pain shot up his leg. He glanced down and cringed, noticing the bruising and swelling around his ankle. It was broken, he knew it. Just his luck.

  The plane had fallen quicker than he ever imagined it could, hitting a steep hillside and sliding down, finally catching in the trees. Though smoke had poured from the engine, there was no fire. He'd managed to climb from the wreckage, nearly passing out from the pain. Not only did his leg throb, but pains shooting through his chest made it hard to breathe. His fingers gently prodded his ribs; then he pulled them back as the pain increased with the slightest touch. Broken ribs too . . . what a fine mess.

  After climbing down to solid ground, he half-crawled toward a small cluster of trees, planning to use his knife to cut down a branch for a splint. Halfway there, he'd come upon a small cave opening, just large enough for one or two men and offering a wide view of the valley below. A filthy knapsack, mess tin, a cartridge belt of ammunition, even a rifle, proved it was used for such a lookout. Or at least it had been. A thin layer of snow told Ritter no one had used it for at least a few days. Most likely, someone had gone out for the day and been injured or killed, never to return. Maybe Ritter's plane had delivered the fatal wound. Despite the pain, he grinned at the thought.

  Too weary and overcome with pain to make it to the trees, he crawled inside and waited to be captured. Or rescued, depending on which side of the lines he’d gone down. Surely someone had seen the plane crash. Or maybe the cold would take him before his injuries did. . . .

  In his fitful sleep, Ritter dreamt he was back in Berlin, marrying Isanna in a winter wedding as he'd planned. He awoke to a clacking jaw and numb fingers. Curse the fool who'd told him he'd be home by Christmas.

  Yet one, two, maybe three days had passed and nobody had come, which only meant one thing. He needed to find a way out. Struggling, he took off his outer shirt, then removed the undershirt underneath and tore it into strips. Then he half-crawled, half-dragged himself to the closest tree. Removing his knife from his belt, he sawed away at a small yet sturdy sapling. His numb fingers made the job slow and tedious, but it gave him something to focus on—to forget the cold and pain for a time.