Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  With the cloth from his undershirt, Ritter tied the branches tightly to either side of his leg, forming a strong splint. With that secure, he cut a larger branch with a wide fork and measured it for a crutch. He used the remainder of the undershirt to pad the spot where his armpit rested.

  Satisfied with his work, but exhausted, Ritter hobbled back to the cave, the pain nearly causing him to black out. Despite the crisp air, beads of sweat formed on his brow. Have to get inside . . . have to find food, water. Especially since the small canteen of water he'd brought from the cockpit was now empty.

  Eventually he managed to build a small fire with the supplies the man before him had left. But before he could scrounge around for some type of food, the warmth of the fire caused him to drift off into another fitful sleep.

  Dim red light, reminiscent of her favorite Rembrandts, spread over the valley outside the cottage window. It was a lonely view, but lovely just the same. Olive trees and loose stone walls as far as the eye could see.

  Sophie watched as a young woman strolled down the street toward a well, a bucket swinging in her hand. A soldier was already there, washing his feet in the cold running water. They chatted briefly, and the girl blushed; then they both turned as the sounds of an aerial dogfight overhead drew their attention. The planes were close enough that watchers on the ground could appreciate their battle—but far enough away to still feel safe.

  She sighed, appreciating the contours of the Spanish countryside. Sad that they had no place in her painting of Madrid's dark, sharp images after an aerial attack—slightly muted as if a layer of dust still hung in the air.

  Sophie dabbed her brush on the palette and stroked it across the canvas, satisfied she’d mixed the correct shade of brown-red, reminiscent of the bricks that made up the structures of Madrid. Most were whitewashed, of course, a way to reflect the heat of the sun. Yet when they were broken open—torn apart from the bombs—only then was their true color revealed.

  Outside, only a stone’s throw from the well, a group of soldiers huddled around a fire that burned with a cherry-colored flame, and Sophie realized the hue of the flame would make a lovely tinge for the scarf wrapped around the woman's head in her painting. Excited by her discovery, she set to work on the woman's form—a small, timid creature caught up in something much greater.

  Sophie paused to light the small oil lamp on the side table and glance out the window. Though the front lines were only a few miles away, she hadn't known such peace since arriving in Spain. Painting had something to do with that. She had worked with the children, of course. And had painted one small canvas for José. Yet here she could escape into her thoughts and emotions, allowing the images that had been simmering in her heart to work their magic with her brush.

  Yes, Benita was right. Painting is therapy for the soul. . . .

  She turned back to the half-finished painting, wondering what the people who saw it would say of her work. Or more important, what they would do. Would her painting cause someone to care a little more deeply about the fight in Spain?

  She returned to the stool and picked up her brush once again, taking a deep breath. She loved everything about painting—the smell, the feel, the emotions.

  The only thing was, she wondered if Commander Johnson would think her work was worth the risk when she asked if she could stay. . . .

  Ritter found two important things as he scrounged around in the dead man's abandoned knapsack. First were canned food rations, which filled his stomach and kept his mind off the pain for a time. Second, the man's journal. Ritter could hardly believe his eyes when he opened it and found it was written in German by a Communist who had escaped a concentration camp and crossed the border to fight in Spain.

  "The Thaelmann Battalion," Ritter spat. Then he tucked the journal and the rest of the man's things into the knapsack and stood. His only shot at making it back to Isanna was to climb down this mountain.

  He hopped out of the cave, using the crutch to support his weight, and gazed down at the valley below. A cloud of dust caught his attention, and he used the binoculars in the knapsack to take a closer look.

  Yes, there was a road . . . and what looked like a small encampment in a cluster of trees. A cold chill rushed over his body as he noted the small flag waving from the camp. A red flag with a white hammer-and-sickle. He had come down on the wrong side. Worse yet, he didn't know which way or how far away the Nationalist lines were.

  Ritter slumped against his crutch in defeat, and then a new idea hit him. He already had the paperwork of a German soldier fighting for the Internationals.

  He turned and settled back into the cave, removing the journal from the knapsack. One week ago, he would have never thought he'd care so much about knowing the heart of a German Communist. Now his life depended on not only knowing it, but living it.

  Four days after receiving art supplies, Sophie presented her first painting to the English commander, along with the photographs she'd taken.

  He first looked at the photographs, then turned his eyes to the painting. "The pictures are fine, but this . . ." He held the canvas at arm's length to get a complete view. "This is amazing." He cleared his throat.

  The painting wasn't what the commander had asked for, but rather an image imprinted in Sophie's mind from the first bombing she’d witnessed in Madrid. A crumbled building filled the left corner of the canvas, its outer wall peeled away. Clothes and furniture inside the structure were scattered about, looking as if a tornado had hit. Only it wasn't a tornado, but something far worse.

  Partly cloudy skies, gloomy and ominous, revealed just a hint of a bomber flying away from the destruction. Almost hidden among the rubble and smoke, two figures huddled in the lower right corner—a young mother with a child limp in her arms. The mother's head tilted upward, peering into the menacing sky—her mouth open, as if a cry of horror had caught in her throat.

  Footsteps approached from behind Sophie, and Commander Johnson turned the canvas toward Philip.

  "Amazing, I know," Philip said. "She hid away for a few days in a quiet room and emerged with this. Unfortunately, sir, I'm afraid I haven't been of much help in the matter. I question how my friends are doing, and wonder if I might return to the front lines."

  His eyes darted to Sophie's. She nodded her head in agreement, and Philip's eyebrow cocked, obviously with surprise.

  "Yes, I agree. Philip has done a fine job protecting me, and now he should get his opportunity to serve in the capacity he volunteered for . . . and I should go with him," she said.

  "To the front lines?" The commander lowered the canvas onto the table.

  "I can use my sketches, paint more of the things that happened in Madrid, but don't you think it would be more effective if the paintings represented what was happening now?" She stood straighter, setting her face with determination. "I wish to stay, Commander. I desire to do this. To bring the war to life, to give it meaning—for those who don't understand."

  Commander Johnson leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. "Yes, I've heard the pen is mightier than the sword, Miss Grace. I suppose the same could be said of the paintbrush."

  Sophie turned to Philip.

  Instead of smiling, fear radiated from his eyes. "Sophie, I don't think—"

  The commander's voice interrupted. "Pack your things, Miss Grace. Philip will escort you on the front. But be warned; it is a dangerous place—even roadways are roamed by snipers. And you can be sure of one thing. If word gets out concerning your work, you too will become a target. The Nationalists have killed many who fight against their cause with the pen and the brush. The fact that you're a woman will not hinder them . . . if anything, it will draw more attention. And attention is the last thing you want on the front lines of war."

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Siembra vientos y recogerás tormentas.

  Sow winds and you will reap storms.

  Spanish proverb

  Though weary from the climb and the train ride across
Spain, Deion could hardly sleep more than a few hours without waking to the sound of voices around him. They'd finally arrived at the Albacete base, or what the men referred to as the Grand Hotel, where they would train. Albacete was situated ninety miles southwest of Valencia, the provisional capital of Republican Spain and one hundred miles southeast of Madrid. In addition to all the International volunteers, streams of refugees also entered the city, hoping to find a safe haven.

  Deion rolled to his side and rubbed his eyes. The men closest to him were speaking French. He could make out only a few words. Their dress was similar to that of the farmers they'd passed in the fields during their journey through France—also very similar to the field hands back in Mississippi with their white cotton shirts, baggy pants, and suspenders.

  Noticing this, Deion jotted down notes to himself about the way they spoke with their hands and leaned close, nearly touching noses as they jabbered. He had never kept a journal in his life, but during the climb, men ahead of him had thrown out their possessions in an effort to lighten their load—blankets, coats, knapsacks, and a journal with a few pages written in a language he couldn't read. Instead of tossing it to the side, Deion kept the man's pages intact and added his own memories and thoughts. Maybe someday he'd find someone who could read the other man's words to him.

  Already he’d filled pages with his first memories of Spain. The monastery halfway down the Pyrenees where they'd found refuge, a bed, and a warm meal after the seemingly never-ending hike. The celebration at their arrival. Two Hungarians had kissed each other on the cheeks. An Italian and a Pole had each taken one of Deion's hands and swung him around in a jig.

  The truck ride down the narrow donkey trail. Their first days housed in a military barracks at Castillo de San Fernando in Figueras—a small town with hilly streets and white houses and buildings.

  The numerous slogans and appeals on the walls.

  Spanish men with rifles, who welcomed them with the salute of clenched fists—the People's Front salute. "Salud, Camaradas!"

  And, of course, the real reason he came—Deion took special note of the refugees escaping the regions occupied by Rebels, glad he could be there to help these people. Their small carts harnessed with mules or donkeys, transporting their meager household goods.

  And now, ten days later, their arrival at Albacete, headquarters of the International Brigades of Volunteers.

  Fire crackled in the fire pit, causing the men's faces to glow a warm orange color. Two Germans spoke to a group of American Jews in broken English, sharing stories of concentration camps in Germany that sounded bloodier than the stockyards in Chicago. The men had been imprisoned there because of their anti-fascist beliefs, and they displayed their scars like medals.

  "Not all Germans are friends with Hitler," one man stated in a heavy accent, as his friend nodded his agreement. "Ve know the cost of going against him. Vat is it you say, conquer or die? Ja, ja, ve have approached death. Now ve try to conquer."

  "We are on the right side; we'll win for sure," one American stated.

  Deion recognized him from the ship, and watched as he gave the German a firm handshake.

  "The right side uf the hill?" The German cracked a grin.

  "That too, but I meant the right side of the war," the American replied.

  "I do not know, lads." A man with a heavy Irish accent approached the small group. "I hear Madrid has fallen, but the officers are afraid to tell us."

  "That's a lie." The American planted his hands on his hips. "Franco has claimed that a few times before. In November the newspapers even reported that he rode down the Gran Via on a white stallion." He nudged Deion. "What do you think?"

  "Me?" Deion straightened his shoulders, realizing again things were different here. "They've said the same thing before. All lies. And not only that. Once we secure Republican Spain, we can go on to fight other battles. Maybe even back home! Look at us. I never knew so many would volunteer for the same fight."

  "I hear there are twenty thousand volunteers now. Four thousand through these gates between Christmas and New Year alone," one of the Germans stated.

  The numbers passed down the lines, in various languages, and excitement stirred among the men. Soon the Germans took it upon themselves to display their commitment and gathered into a long line, breaking out in song. "We do not fear the thunder of the cannon! We do not fear the Nazi police!" they sang.

  Not to be outdone, a Frenchman called to the others, "Let's sing Le Jeune Garde'''

  Deion couldn't understand the words, but one of the other Americans translated. "We are the young guard. We are the bodyguard of the future," they sang.

  Finally the British followed with one of their popular labor songs, a song Deion knew well.

  We meet today in Freedom's cause,

  And raise our voices high;

  We'll battle here in union strong

  To conquer or to die.

  Deion had sung it many times himself at union meetings, and he felt more at home as he heard it. With a smile, he added those words to his journal too. Just as he finished writing, the men were asked to line up.

  "Cooks?" an officer called.

  A few men raised their hands.

  "Riders?" he called next.

  A few more did the same.

  Deion leaned close to a dark-haired man beside him. "I don't understand. What is he doing?"

  "Typists?" the clerk called, jotting down the names of men who stepped forward.

  "They are identifying the recruits and registering them," the Jewish man answered.

  "Officers?"

  "But I have no training in these things. They told me we'd be trained." Deion felt his heartbeat quicken, wondering if he'd misunderstood all along.

  "Do not worry, my friend." The man patted his back. "Most reply according to their ambitions rather than ability."

  "Machine gunners?" the clerk called.

  "In that case, I've always wanted to learn how to drive a truck. . . ."

  And when the clerk called for drivers, Deion lifted his hand high.

  Large bomb craters, pieces of scattered equipment, even a burned-out tank littered the sides of the road as the truck carried Sophie and Philip to the front lines. Yet as the truck slowly rumbled through a rough spot in the roadway, something about the pile of rags on the side didn't seem right to Sophie.

  "Wait!" she called to the driver. "It's a soldier, over there to the left."

  "You're right." Philip leaned closer to her side, peering out the window to get a better look.

  The driver slowed, and the man's face lifted. Under his light hair, his face seemed to be drained of color. With wide eyes, he lifted his hand and waved some type of crutch.

  The driver's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "I don't know. It could be a trap. I see a rifle."

  As if hearing the driver's words, the soldier lifted the rifle and tossed it before him. Then, reaching into his jacket pocket, he waved a small red armband in the air, similar to those worn by Party members on the streets of Madrid.

  The driver stopped the truck and stepped out. Philip opened the passenger side door. His eyes focused on Sophie's. "You stay here. And if anything happens, you leave us and drive until you get to safety, understand?"

  Sophie nodded, though she had no intention of leaving them . . . even if she did know how to drive.

  The driver and Philip leaned over the man, who removed some type of identification from his pocket and showed it to them. They conversed for a minute longer, then moved to either side, carrying him to the vehicle. Sophie scooted closer to where the driver sat to make room.

  “Gracias, señorita.” His eyes appeared weary.

  Sophie could tell by his accent and his features that he was German.

  The driver climbed in, and Philip did the same. Philip turned sideways on his seat, partly against the door, to give the man as much room as possible.

  "He was on lookout in the hills when the bombers hit days ago. The b
last from a stray bomb knocked him down a small cliff. He's been struggling to make it to the road ever since." Philip shook his head in awe, refocusing the conversation from Sophie to the man between them.

  "I'm not sure how you made it this long, comrade. Ritter, right? It appears you had quite the break."

  "During the climb over the Pyrenees, one of our companions had a similar break after a fall. I—" He paused as the driver started to turn the truck around. "Wait, you have supplies you are delivering to the lines, correct? You must do this first, and then take me back. The men, they are in need of these things."

  "Are you kidding? The road's too rough. Besides, the supplies are few." The driver glanced at Sophie. "These two are my main delivery, and I'm sure they don't mind."

  "Of course we don't mind. What's another day?" she said, hoping they couldn't sense her disappointment. More than anything, she longed to take in the men and activity on the front lines. Though she was sure she'd never be allowed in the heat of battle, she itched to get out her paints and capture some of the soldiers' world just the same.

  “Gracias,” the injured man said again. "And can you tell me, friends, how are we holding? Last I heard the enemy tanks had taken a lot of ground."

  The driver scoffed. "Then you heard wrong, my friend." His voice rose with excitement. "They thought they had us, they did! The German tanks don't stand a chance with the Russian T-26s. It's like a dolphin facing a shark—they both look the same, but only one has bite."

  The truck hit a bump, and the man grasped his leg and let out a low moan. "They are really that impressive?" he asked, as if trying to take his mind off the pain.