Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  But worse than all of that was the Goya-esque scene of bodies. Men, women, and children. Some in coffins, others on stretchers. None of them whole. Some charred corpses were almost completely consumed . . . lying where they'd fallen—with no one to take them away.

  The appalling stench and smoke from the fires thickened the air. Sophie covered her nose, but it did little good. After endless detours around fires, debris, and corpses, the truck finally pulled to a stop in front of a convent. A long line of wounded men, women, and children huddled together on the ground, some surrounded by weeping families. Flies covered the faces of the children, but no one had the strength to brush them away.

  News traveled quickly, and foreign journalists were already arriving, wanting to hear the story. Sophie looked around at the vehicles that entered the town, searching for Michael's face, just in case, and wishing she’d urged Walt to tell her the truth. Who knew if she'd even be able to find José in this destruction?

  And even then, her search for answers seemed so trivial compared to the horror before her. Everywhere she looked, a dazed population sifted through rubble, searching for loved ones and treasured possessions. She wandered through the town, taking it in.

  She glanced over at a nearby field and saw a large group of people gathering. She started to walk that direction, but Deion caught her arm.

  "Don't do it. I heard two men talking. One correspondent counted six hundred bodies. It's best you not look."

  "What were they after?" Sophie wrapped her arms around herself. "I too heard some men talking. There were only two things here that could even be considered threats—the small-arms factory and the highway bridge outside of town. And they're virtually untouched. The Germans missed their mark."

  She saw a priest standing before a still-smoldering church, and hurried to his side.

  He glanced at her camera and spoke as if reciting a news report. "Hardly anything escaped the flames. This was my church . . . or rather, the church the Lord entrusted to me."

  They stood quietly, staring at the rubble; then Sophie spoke. "Excuse me, Father, do you know a José Guezureya? He has married a nurse from this area, and they live here now."

  "I'm sorry. There are many new faces in town. Far too many for me to keep track."

  Sophie watched as the priest scanned the destruction around him.

  "Even now . . . I don't know who still lives." He turned to her. "I'm sorry. I am Father Manuel." He gave a deep sigh, almost a groan. "God knows the days of our lives, and that is not my concern. Before this . . ." He waved a hand toward the rubble that used to be his parish. "It was up to me to do what I could. But now it has become a matter for God."

  "We'd like to help, Father, if there's anything we can do."

  The priest lifted his gaze and looked into Sophie's face again. For the first time she realized how young he was—not much older than she.

  "While his child lay close to death, King David fasted and prayed. But once the child was gone, he rose and dressed and lifted his hands to the Lord. We can plead with the Almighty, but the matter is His."

  Father Manuel reached for her hands, and Sophie offered an understanding smile.

  "You say you want to help?" he asked. "Good, come with me. There is much to be done."

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Más vale pájaro en mano que cientos volando.

  A bird in the hand is better than a hundred flying birds.

  Spanish proverb

  Sophie heard footsteps and paused, her fingers still clutching the filthy sheet laid over the body of a dead woman. The face stared up at her with an empty gaze, and Sophie quickly covered it again. She'd been given one simple task—to prepare the bodies for burial. She also included a prayer—not for the dead, but for those left behind, forced to live with the loss.

  Deion had an even more challenging job, searching for those living and dead—mostly dead—amidst the rubble.

  The footsteps neared and Sophie looked up, expecting one of the nurses. Instead, a young man stood there with hat in hand. He was clean and wore a suit, and she knew he must be one of the reporters trickling into town.

  "Are you Sophie Grace?"

  She turned, surprised. "Yes."

  "I've been sent for you, miss."

  "By whom?"

  "Your news service. They heard you were here, and they're evacuating the rest of their reporters and photographers. There's a car outside to take you to Bilbao, and from there to France."

  "I'm sorry. I'm not leaving."

  The man twisted his hat in hand. "Your editor was afraid you would say that. He asked me to wait until evening. I'll be outside."

  Sophie continued to work at caring for the bodies until numbness overwhelmed her. The first body had touched the core of her soul, but now . . . she was amazed how easy it was to get used to such things.

  A few minutes later, Father Manuel approached. "Sofía, you have worked much too hard. There is some food waiting for you in the kitchen."

  "Thank you, Father, but I'm not hungry."

  "Well, then, at least take a few minutes for some fresh air."

  Sophie picked up her satchel and strode outside, peering at the waiting car and the driver slumped in the seat. Her heart ached. Then the throbbing of her chest spread to her stomach, causing it to knot.

  With ten small steps, she could reach the driver. In five minutes, her things could be loaded and she'd be on her way. She could leave this country altogether. Forget Spain. Forget this war. Forget the life she’d planned with Michael.

  Sophie closed her eyes and saw his face—his eyes more vivid to her than her own reflection. Then fragmented thoughts came. Memories all jumbled together like a kaleidoscope of him.

  Their first kiss.

  Her hand in his.

  Their walks through the streets of Boston.

  Her tears at every parting. And the way he lifted her from the ground and twirled her around every time he saw her again.

  She was alone now. Truly alone, and living in the middle of heartache. But at least in France she'd be safe. . . .

  It was only ten steps.

  Ten steps, and I'd lose myself forever. Lose my new mission, forsake the person I've become.

  The driver glanced her way, his cocked eyebrow expressing his concern. His fingers tapped the steering wheel.

  Sophie swallowed hard, but the tears remained locked tight. And with a firm set of her chin, she waved the driver away.

  I choose Spain. I choose God's plan for my life. It was a decision she'd made more than once, and one she most likely would have to reconfirm with each new heartache. But it was the right path, she knew.

  She rose and moved to the garden behind the convent. Part of it had burned, but for the most part it appeared untouched. She hurried to a bench near a large oak and crumbled to her knees. "Please, Lord," she mumbled, "in my weakness be strong." A sob caught in her throat. "Take away the memories. The desire. Help me do the right thing."

  Again Sophie heard footsteps on the gravel walkway behind her. She turned and saw Walt. His hat was set firmly in place, as usual.

  "I talked to the driver from the news service," he said.

  She closed her eyes and rested her head on the bench.

  "You considering it?"

  She looked back at him. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider it. But I've made a different choice—one with far more questions than answers. And I'm praying . . . and I'm feeling strengthened."

  "Well, I have something that might make it easier to decide. Or rather, someone."

  Sophie looked past Walt to the garden gate and saw a tall man with blond hair. Tears trickled down her cheeks as Philip strode to her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Walt disappear around the corner, giving them privacy in their reunion.

  "You're alive. You're here," she whispered.

  Philip knelt beside her and slid an arm around her shoulders. "May I pray with you?" he asked, his voice quivering.

  Sophie nodded,
unable to look into his eyes for fear she would begin to sob.

  With a gentleness that amazed her, Philip prayed for her heart, for her path, and for José and whatever answers he held.

  "And, Lord, I know what's in my heart, but I find it so hard to express. God, if this is Your timing, give us a chance to explore our friendship and care for one another, and discover Your plan for us, whatever that includes."

  Wiping her tears, she dared to open her eyes and peer into his.

  Tears also rimmed Philip's eyes, yet instead of wiping them away, he held her gaze. "I do, you know. Care for you, that is."

  "Me too. That's why I was so worried." She slugged his shoulder. "What took you so long?"

  "It's a long story. But I'm serious, Sophie. I have a hard time expressing myself. The words get all jumbled in this thick skull of mine. But I've had a lot of time to think, and I'm sure it was no accident that I happened to be on that battlefield when you needed help. . . ."

  Sophie nodded. "I know that meeting you was part of God's plan for me too."

  Despite their time apart, there was a look of tenderness in Philip's eyes that she'd never be able to capture if she attempted a thousand portraits.

  "Walt said you've decided to stay in Spain. I just wish I could protect you. Keep you safe. Maybe you should reconsider. . . . After all, you didn't come to Spain for this war. You came for—"

  Instead of letting her thoughts dwell with what might have been, Sophie leaned against Philip's shoulder. "I came for more than I knew . . . much more. And besides, do you think you'd stop worrying if I went to France?" She brushed a piece of ash from Philip's sleeve. "I'm not sure anyplace is free from conflict these days . . . and besides, isn't the safest place the center of God's will?"

  Then she remembered, and sat up straight. "Well, I do have a trip to take. Maybe you could come with me."

  "A trip? To where?"

  "To Bilbao. Father Manuel has to meet someone at the palace of the bishop or something, and he needs a ride. He's already heard over the radio that the Germans are denying their actions. They say the Reds burned down the city, and some of the newspapers believe it. The bishop asked Father Manuel to travel to Bilbao and tell his story. It is the best thing he can do for his people now—to tell the world of their pain and loss. And he asked me to come because he thinks my photos and paintings will increase the impact of what he has to say. You can come too, can't you?" She lowered her head back to his shoulder.

  "I'll have to get that approved . . . I just can't go abandoning my duties now, can I?"

  Sophie wasn't sure if by duties he meant the front lines or he meant her. She also thought she felt the softest touch of his lips against her hair, but she couldn't be sure.

  "Coming with me isn't abandoning anything," she said. "It's just a different set of plans from what you first thought."

  And as she said those words, Sophie sensed the pain of feeling betrayed and unloved crumble like the buildings of Guernica. But instead of smoke, such as had risen from the city's ruins, she felt her own unbounded hope rising to fill her heart, her mind, her spirit. A hope that God wasn't finished with her yet—and wasn't finished with them.

  Sophie looked at Philip and smiled. It was a smile that rose from deep within, from a place she hadn't known existed. "I'm learning that when you look back, those plans may turn out to be the reason something happened in the first place. . . ."

  Acknowledgments

  John, whose eyes shine with more love any wife could imagine possible. And whose ears always listen to my prattle as I go on and on about these stories dear to my heart.

  Cory, Leslie, and Nathan. My favorite cheerleaders.

  My loving family . . . grandma, dad, mom, Ronnie—who always rejoice with me.

  Stacey, Kimberley, Lesley, and Melissa—my unexpected and special gifts from God.

  Amy Lathrop, my right-hand-gal. Thanks friend!

  My agent, Janet Kobobel Grant. I'm thankful for your wisdom and dedication.

  My editor, Andy McGuire. This book is here because of your enthusiasm over my spark of an idea!

  The whole Moody team, whose partnership is a true gift from God.

  LB Norton. You make me look good. I consider you a friend.

  My "unofficial" editors, Cara Putman, Ocieanna Fleiss, Jim Thompson, and Andrea Brunz. You're the best!

  Finally, this book wouldn't be written if not for the wonderful men and women who helped with my research:

  Alun Menai Williams. February 20, 1913-July 2, 2006. Veteran of the Spanish Civil War. I feel privileged to have met you and to have witnessed your enthusiasm for this project.

  Karen Lynn Ginter. Thank you for making Spain real to me!

  Norman Goyer. Though we may not be related, I'm thankful for all your expert aviation advice!

  Stellan Bojerud for excellent research assistance.

  And others from the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Associated who answered all my questions and provided insight.

  Thank you!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven