Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  His voice was joined by two others, pleading with them to put down their weapons. Armando's voice was urgent as he jumped from the train and ran to Manuel's side. Another young officer ran in front of the soldiers, urging them to lower their rifles. They obeyed and stepped back. The refugees in front of Father Manuel also lowered their clubs.

  "The train is leaving," Father Manuel said to the crowd. "It is carrying vital materials for the war effort. Even if you were to make it on board, soldiers would be waiting on the other side, prepared to kill you for acting in this manner."

  He straightened his cassock as if to remind the people of his authority, and pointed to town. "Go back. All of you. Another train will come."

  Within a few minutes, the crowd melted away. Manuel's hands quivered as the realization of the averted slaughter settled in, and he hid them within his long sleeves. The sound of the train pulling out of the station filled his ears, and he turned to search the windows for Armando's face. He saw only Nesera in the window, waving frantically in his direction. Manuel shielded his eyes to get a better look.

  "Looking for someone?" a voice behind him asked.

  Father Manuel turned to find Armando and smiled. "Yes, I was looking for one last glimpse of my dear friend. He was on that train, traveling to safety."

  "Well, things have changed. He now sends his wife to a place he hopes will be safer, but he chooses to stand by his amigo. The tension in this town is like a volcano, ready to erupt. So tell me, do you know where I could offer my assistance?"

  Manuel clasped Armando's shoulders. "But why, Armando? Why do you stay to help when you hate everything I stand for?"

  "I did not know what you truly stood for until you stood between those rifles and the people." Armando interlocked his arm with Manuel's, and they turned to march toward town. "But enough talk, Father. Take me to where the work is."

  "Of course."

  Armando chuckled as he patted Manuel's shoulder, their steps taking them through the broad plaza. "When you made the vow to feed the Lord's sheep, I had no idea you would take it so seriously."

  The truck lurched slowly along the mountain road, with Deion skillfully navigating the hairpin turns.

  Sophie was thankful the commanding officer had agreed to let her travel into the Basque country. To her surprise, he had immediately begun writing up the orders.

  "Good idea," he had said. "With the Madrid campaign at a stalemate, the Nationalists have shifted their attention there." After scribbling his signature, he’d handed the orders to Deion.

  Deion nodded. "Why, sir? What's so important about that place?"

  "Mining and industry, for one. And a people who refuse to submit. I heard General Mola state last night over the radio that he planned to throw the Condor Legion their direction. The major seaport and industrial center of Bilbao has been hit every clear day this month. The nearby rail junction at Durango was smashed into rubble. Even less significant targets took terrible punishment." He scratched his head. "Are you sure you want to go?"

  Sophie hadn't told him about her search for José—or more accurately, about her search for the truth about Michael. "I'm sure," she said.

  When they'd found Walt waiting for them at the truck, he didn't seem surprised by the approval . . . or the warnings.

  "Yes, there is danger. But your paintings are making a difference, Sophie. I hear more medical workers are on their way from the States—your images moved them. The democratic people need you to keep painting, sweetheart. . . . Who would have thought? When I met you, you were some hopeless romantic, with only marriage and a happily-ever-after on your mind."

  "Yeah, well, reality has a way of changing things, doesn't it?" she said, climbing into the truck. She turned to Deion. "How about some background music? Could you sing 'When the Saints Go Marching In' as a prelude to our journey?"

  Deion smiled. "I can do that, Sophie, though we aren't really marching."

  "Nor are we saints," Walt quipped.

  "No, but it's better than 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.' I don't know about you, but I'm not ready for home yet—either the States or the heavenly abode."

  They sang for the first few miles, but as the truck wound its way into the mountains, the effects of war were evident even in the countryside. Peasant women led skinny white oxen and sheep along the road in the half-light. Dirty children begged for food from every passing vehicle. They even spotted magnesium flares in purple-yellow and poison-green in the distance, indicating where the battle still raged.

  Walt let out a heavy sigh as he stared out the window. "Things are so—" The truck banging through a hole in the road made him grunt. "—so different now. Last April, around this time, I danced at the fair in Seville. It follows Lent and Holy Week. Sometimes the sounds of castanets and dancing feet still occupy my dreams. When this whole mess is over, I'll take you there, Sophie. Take you both there. You can be rich or poor, Gypsies or foreigners. Everyone celebrates together."

  "Sounds like my sort of place," Deion said, his eyes fixed on the roadway. His arms moved the steering wheel sharply in his efforts to miss another pothole.

  "You never told me, Walt. How long have you been in Spain?" Sophie asked.

  "Long enough to watch her die a slow death."

  "Have you worked for the newspaper this whole time?"

  "Yes, but I'm not one to always be on the hunt for the next headline. Let's just say I have more interest in watching people than keeping up with politics."

  "Do you like to photograph them too? The people, I mean."

  "That's part of my job. A good photo, after all, can tell a whole story without words."

  "I agree. And that's why I have a question for you." Sophie bit her lower lip, turning to him. "I keep seeing photographs in the papers by a man named Arnold Benedict. He has this style that many newspapers seem to like—the edges of his photos look blurry, giving it a dreamy effect and making the clarity of the object in the center more stunning."

  "It's called soft focus. Producers have been using it in films for years. Sometimes a special cloth is used, other times Vaseline over the camera lens." He turned to Sophie, his eyes locking with hers. "It's a difficult technique to master. Few do it well. Your Michael was one of them."

  "And this Arnold Benedict is another."

  "It appears so."

  "Which means they could be the same person."

  "It could. It very well could." Walt removed his hat, ran his hand over his sweaty brow, and returned it.

  "So are you telling me that Michael is alive?"

  "I'm not telling you anything. You need to talk to José."

  "Walt, you're really starting to annoy me. I don't understand why you have to talk in cir—"

  An ear-shattering explosion kicked the rear of the truck into the air, throwing it into a skid that nearly turned it over.

  "Out, out!" Deion screamed as he brought the truck to a stop. "Everyone in the ditch!"

  Sophie grabbed her satchel and followed Walt out the side door. As soon as she stepped to the ground, an instant of blinding light and a solid wall of pressurized heat ripped the air and pounded her head, quaking the earth beneath her and punching her hard to her knees. The unimaginable roar soon turned into a ringing in her ears, and pain shot through her skull. In the confusion of noise and dark haziness, she wondered if she'd been shot.

  She felt hands upon her, yet her eyes wouldn't cooperate. Her lips wouldn't voice the jumble of questions and thoughts that crowded for attention. And as she felt the darkness pulling at her, drawing her inward, she refused to submit. To be counted as one of the dead.

  Dear God. . . not my will, but Yours.

  She didn't know if it was a dream, but through the intense ringing in her ears she heard singing . . . Deion's voice, carrying her, refusing to let go.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  El que se va a la villa pierde su silla.

  He who leaves the manor loses his seat.

  Spanish proverb

 
In the Church of San Juan, Father Manuel lit the altar candles. The altar was bare except for the mandatory cushion for the Missal, the two flickering candles, and the crucifix. He cleared his voice as he turned to his congregation, wondering if, after he spoke, they would ever venture through these doors again.

  "It is good that you are here, but for the first time ever, I must ask you to leave. Men, you prepare your fields for the harvest, but I worry the enemy will be upon us before you have time to plant, let alone reap from your toil." Father Manuel lifted his fisted hand high in the air. "It is time to rise up, as one, to protect your families, to defend your homeland. Not only our Basque nation, but Spain. Spain needs you at such a time as this!"

  A stir rippled through the congregation.

  "For months I have hesitated. Failed to be bold with my words. I, like you, have heard of the horrors committed 'in the name of God' by Franco's forces. This is not the God I serve. God would never sanction such wickedness. The God I serve is the God who empowered the children of Israel to fight for the land that was theirs. Some died, yes, risking their lives for the sake of their people. Shall we, because of fear or even denial, accept all the horrors of the wicked to come upon us? If these things are precious to you—our freedom, our land, our families—then we must rise up and protect that which God has entrusted to us."

  Father Manuel lowered his voice and bowed his head, opening his arms before them, wondering if he had the strength to follow through with the words he had planned and prayed over. Then he heard shuffling in the back of the room and saw Armando rising to his feet.

  "Know that your silence means only one thing—you condone that which should not be done. It is time to step out of complacency and fight the battle God has given us."

  Then Father Manuel strode down the aisle to Armando, and together they walked out the door, hoping others would follow. Hoping the congregation of the faithful would not continue to wait until death and destruction rained upon their doorsteps before they took action to save their lives and souls.

  The first thing Sophie realized upon waking was that her head was pounding—as was nearly every part of her body. The second thing was Walt's and Deion's voices arguing over whether Babe Ruth would stay in retirement or come out for another season.

  Sophie felt for the blood-soaked bandage she knew would be covering her head, but there was none. "Personally, I think the Babe needs to stop while he's ahead," she croaked. "I think I might need to consider doing the same."

  "Sophie, you're awake."

  She felt Deion's hands take hers, and she squeezed back. "That was a nasty explosion. Am I still in one piece?"

  She opened her eyes and winced at the lights shining on her from the ceiling. Shading her eyes, she tried to examine her surroundings. Despite the blurry double vision, she saw that she was in some type of first-aid station, similar to the ones she'd manned.

  Walt leaned closer. "Thankfully, yes. Although the doctor says you have a nasty concussion, and he needs to watch you for a while." He stifled a laugh.

  "Okay, Walt. What's so funny?"

  "I'm sorry, Sophie. I just discovered where the expression 'knocked cross-eyed' comes from."

  "Very funny. What hit us?"

  "Artillery. It seems the Rebels are closing in. We arrived just in time to find ourselves in the middle of it."

  "Lucky us." Deion handed her a cup of water and helped her lift her head to take a sip.

  "Did we make it to Guernica?"

  "Not quite," Walt replied. "We're in Marquina, and it's been under attack for days. Guernica isn't too far."

  "As soon as you feel better, we can move that way." Deion placed the now-empty cup on the floor. "It's a miracle, but the truck got only minor damage. Nothing to stop us now . . . well, almost nothing."

  Walt shot Deion a look that Sophie couldn't read.

  Deion stood. "Speaking of our truck, I'd better go see if I can round up some fuel. . . ." He limped away faster than Sophie had ever seen him move.

  She turned back to Walt. "What was that about? And don't say nothing, because I saw the look you gave him."

  "You need to rest, Sophie. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

  "Walt, do you really believe I can rest after a statement like that?"

  "All right. Remember I told you the Basque country is in the middle of all the action? Well . . . I've received information that it may be too dangerous to go there."

  " 'Received information'? From whom? You're a newspaperman. You report the news, not . . ." Sophie sat up, leaning her back against the wall. She cocked her head, studying his face, remembering how they'd met, how he'd fooled her into believing he couldn't speak Spanish. What other things did she not know about him?

  "I saw you that day during the bombing near the Telefónica, didn't I? Walt, you're more than a newspaperman, aren't you?"

  He glanced away, looking to the doorway as if hoping someone would enter to distract them. "Sophie, to tell you more than you've already guessed would be to put your life in danger."

  She pulled her hands away. "So you do know more than you're letting on. More about the war, about Michael, and maybe about me too? When you approached me at the border, that wasn't simply a chance meeting, was it?"

  "No, Sophie, but I can't tell you anything more. I want you to talk to José first. He's in Guernica. He . . . well, he knows the whole story concerning Michael even better than I. Let me just say that nothing has been as it's seemed. . . ."

  Sophie ignored the pounding in her head, ignored her trembling hands. "Then we have to go. I need to talk to José. I know it's dangerous, but are we safe anywhere in this country?"

  Walt grinned. "Not entirely, though you never heard it from me."

  "Then can we leave?" Sophie swung her legs over the bed to stand. Suddenly the room began to spin, and a rush of nausea washed over her. She moaned and settled back into the bed.

  Walt stood. "We'll leave, Sophie, but maybe not today. You don't have to think of any of this now . . . just rest, sweetheart."

  A nurse came in then and handed Sophie a small white pill. Sophie had given them out to injured soldiers many times. She knew it would ease her physical pain and help her sleep. She just wished it could touch the pain in her heart as well.

  She took the pill; then she rolled to her side and pulled the blanket over her head. As she drifted off, the memory of Michael's voice broke through her haze. "Oh, Divina . . ."

  Just two words, but enough for Sophie to question if she'd ever really move on.

  When Sophie awoke, the ache in her head was gone and Deion was by her side. "Hey, there, it's you. You're a sight for sore eyes," she mumbled.

  "You expecting someone else?" He offered her a cool compress for her head and a cup of water.

  "No, not really." She drank deeply from the cup, then handed it back.

  "I know you're most likely not up to this, but we need to talk about whether we head to Guernica today or wait until tomorrow. Walt's afraid the bombers will come back, and if we plan to stay here, we need shelter."

  The church bells began to chime, warning them that bombers had been spotted in the distance.

  Sophie kicked her feet over the bed and stood, reaching her hand to Deion. "I suppose that's our answer. We're not going anywhere yet."

  She let Deion lead her away, down to a crowded basement room. Yet even more than Sophie's fear of the bombers was her realization that soon she would know the truth about Michael. But as the bombs fell around them, she found it was Philip she wished were by her side. Is he still in prison? she wondered. Is he alive?

  After an hour, the sounds of the bombing faded, and Sophie and Deion were two of the last to straggle out of the shelter.

  "You're sure Walt had someplace safe to go, right? He didn't get caught in that?" She'd asked the question at least a dozen times, but Deion's answer remained the same.

  "That's what he said."

  They got to the top of the steps, back to ground level, and Sophi
e let her eyes scan the destruction. Though the bombers hadn't struck their area, smoke and flame filled the sky across town, evidence of the bombers' target. And in the distant mountains, intermittent shelling flashed as if lightning radiated from the ground, followed by deep thuds.

  "I have to ask, Sophie. Where do you want to go next? Guernica? Back to Madrid?"

  "Honestly? I want to rewind nine months and talk myself out of crossing the border."

  She stepped gingerly over the concrete rubble as they walked back to the first-aid station. Around her others walked through the streets, their glazed looks of disbelief bringing an ache to Sophie's soul.

  Deion smiled. "Well, if time travel doesn't work, there's one other thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Listen to that nagging voice in your head. The one that tells you the right thing to do. Some people call it conscience. I call it gut feeling. My mama says for those who believe in God, it's His voice speaking."

  "Before I came here, I wouldn't exactly have called myself a woman of faith. But God's given me some wonderful people to lean on, and I've chosen to follow Him." She slid her arm into Deion's. "Though my steps haven't been all too sturdy or sure."

  They walked in silence for a few minutes; then Sophie paused and looked up into his face. "Listen to that nagging voice, huh? The one that says maybe I didn't come here for Michael, after all. That maybe that was just the means to get me here to fulfill a greater purpose."

  Deion rubbed his chin. "That sounds like the one to me."

  "Yeah, well, I hope that small voice sends a telegram to my heart before it breaks in two."

  Chapter Thirty Five

  APRIL 26, 1937

  Quien con lobos anda a aullar aprende.

  Live with wolves, and you learn to howl.

  Spanish proverb

  Ritter scanned the skies over the mountains surrounding Vitoria as he strode down the tarmac, attempting to hide his limp the best he could. The wind from the south blew on his face as he crossed the airfield.