Valley of Betrayal Page 10

  He pointed a finger into the air. "And this, Sofía, is my second gift. Michael has agreed for you to stay."

  She cocked her head and studied his face, sure this was some type of joke. "José, I don't believe you."

  He removed his grasp, stood, and placed a hand over his heart. "Lady, I am shocked you think a noble Spaniard such as I would misrepresent the truth. Your Michael is meeting us for dinner tonight to discuss the new situation, but before that we must move your things."

  Sophie jumped to her feet and snagged her arms around José's neck. He stiffened, and she pulled back, chiding herself for obviously crossing some type of boundary.

  She cleared her throat, noticing his reddening cheeks. "Well, tell me about it, then. What did you say to convince him?"

  José motioned to a park bench, and they sat. He rested elbows on knees and leaned forward. "First, I told him he needs you here. You are the woman of his heart, and he must be reminded of this daily, sí? Not only that, but your press pass will help him greatly."

  "My pass? How so?" She closed her sketchbook.

  "He captures images for one publication, you see. But you have an open pass, which gives you much more leniency. Photos that he cannot get out of the country under his name can be transported under yours."

  An uneasy feeling came over her. "Yes, but is that legal?"

  "Of course not, but neither is lying to get such a pass in the first place. But I told you I would help you, remember? I'm surprised you are not more excited."

  She rubbed her sweaty palms across her skirt. "Of course I am. I'm sorry. So when do I get to see this new place?"

  "At this moment. It is just a short walk from here. We will send later for your things if you so approve." José stood and led her away with quickened steps.

  Dark rain clouds had gathered over the city, blocking the sun and making the heat more bearable. They'd gone no more than a block when a misty rain began to fall. The crowds around her didn't even pause. They strolled through the streets as if unaware of the water falling from the sky.

  "José, do you know somewhere I can purchase an umbrella?" She tucked her sketchbook close to her chest to protect it.

  "You're not serious, are you? Look around, mimo. Spaniards believe water falling from the sky is a sign of wealth and luck. Rain is also supposed to be good for the skin. This is a good sign, yes? Evidence of good things to come."

  Sophie tilted her chin slightly as she continued walking, eager for those good things José spoke of, and trying to ignore the nagging in her mind concerning the use of her press pass. Hadn't José been the one to tell her that there were those who didn't want Michael's photos to get out? Hadn't he been the first to warn her of the danger in Michael's work?

  The streets beyond the main thoroughfare gave Sophie the impression she'd stepped into another world. Peasant carts jammed the roadways. Family groups with their sheep and goats carried the odor and poverty of the countryside into the city. The drabness of the peasant women even caused the simple sidewalk cafés and ornate churches to appear formal and stiff in comparison.

  They walked by a small park, and Sophie saw a group of women washing their children in a fountain. Though they had no soap, their bare hands scrubbed at the faces and full heads of hair with vigor. Sophie smiled, noticing the children's clothes already washed and spread out on the sidewalk to dry.

  Ten minutes later, they approached a small apartment on the lower level of a three-story building. The door opened to them before José had a chance to knock. A tall, thin man with a bushy moustache and large, round eyes greeted them with a smile.

  José patted the man's shoulder. "Sofía, this is Luis."

  "Sof-ia," Luis said, drawing out her name. "We have heard much about you. I am certain you will consider us close friends, as we do you."

  "I would like that." She allowed him to kiss her cheek and followed him inside to a small, but clean, apartment. The painted walls seemed to bring the reds and oranges of the city inside. A large window at street level provided a perfect view of the busy street, packed with people in motion. A table and two chairs sat before the window, and she imagined all the wonderful afternoons she could spend there sketching the quaint neighborhood.

  "My wife has gone to the market, but she will return shortly. Of course, you will notice that we live in no luxury, but we are comfortable. It is also good to be with others when the difficult times come."

  "Well, maybe the revolt will be over soon. Surely, it can't last more than a few weeks, can it?" She turned to study José's face, but he only shrugged. She glanced back at Luis.

  Luis's eyes fell to the floor. "Sí Dios quiere, So-fi-ia. If God so wishes. I suppose we will only have to wait and see."

  A soft knock sounded on the open door, and Sophie turned to see Michael standing there.

  "It will be a safe place until we make arrangements for you to return to France." Michael's voice was quiet, controlled, without inflection.

  She attempted to mimic his demeanor and crossed her arms. "Do you mean, until we return?"

  Luis's eyes darted between them, and the look on Michael's face told her she had overstepped.

  José spread his arms wide as if to smooth over the situation. "Until we all experience the goodwill of God and—"

  The sound of gunshots split the air, followed by women's screams on the street.

  Sophie froze, and José ran to the window. He cursed. "Two soldiers, shot in the street!"

  More gunfire exploded. A shot rang out against the apartment wall. Michael grasped Sophie's arm, pulling her down the hall. Shattering glass met her ears.

  "José!"

  Chapter Twelve

  De árbol caído todos hacen leña.

  Everyone gets firewood from a fallen tree.

  Spanish proverb

  Sophie's stomach turned at the sight of a shard of glass protruding from José's shoulder. She covered her mouth with her hand, as much to retain her stomach's contents as to suppress a cry.

  His face had drained of color, yet his expression said he worried about her. "Do not worry, señorita. I have faced much worse. We can be glad the rebel was a bad shot, yes?"

  "Sophie, hurry. Start some water on the cookstove. And see if you can find some clean dishcloths for bandages," Michael urged, helping to ease José down the hall and onto the narrow bed in the first room.

  She returned to the main room. The shards from the window glistened like a creek of glass on the tile floor. The wind had picked up, blowing in damp air through the gaping hole. Without a barrier between the street and apartment, the cries and shouts of those on the street overwhelmed her. A crowd had gathered, tending to the injured men while crying children searched for their mothers. Didn't the people worry there would be more shots? Why didn't they escape into the safety of their homes?

  With trembling hands, she turned to the cookstove. At home her mother did the cooking—that is, when they weren't dining at the hotel where her father worked. She looked at the black, wood-burning monster and wondered what to do first. Then she heard the crunch of footsteps over broken glass behind her.

  "I'm sorry," Michael said. "I forgot. This is all new to you." He made quick work of lighting the stove. "I'll take care of this. Why don't you see if you can find Benita and tell her what happened. There is a market a few blocks away, down the same street you came. Just ask at any of the stalls. Everyone knows who she is."

  He must have seen the panic on her face. "Don't worry, the shooters are gone. They've been doing this all over the city—shooting from the rooftops, picking their targets, then escaping before they are discovered." He placed a hand on her shoulder and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. "Do you think you can do it?"

  Her mind raced, trying to remember the streets José had led her along. They all looked the same; how would her fragmented mind find the way? Her stomach clenched at the thought of walking past the men lying in pools of blood on the street.

  She glanced toward the stre
et and back to Michael, noticing his eyes narrow, as if in challenge. She knew him well enough to read his look. So you say you want to stay . . . show me you can handle it.

  She planted her sweaty palms on her hips and let out a low breath. "Benita. Okay. I'll be right back."

  With determined steps she hurried out the door and moved through the crowd. Sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly, she placed a hand over her quivering stomach and hurried past the downed men, past the ambulance rumbling toward them, to the market, which seemed to be emptying of people who'd surely heard the shots. With halting steps she approached a woman sorting a basket of oranges.

  "Pardon me, can you point out Benita . . . Luis's wife? There has been an incident."

  "Benita is not here. She is delivering food."

  "To whom, where?"

  The woman's mouth opened to speak, but another interrupted.

  "I'll show you."

  Sophie turned and noticed Maria Donita with another young woman at her side.

  "Many people have taken refugees into their homes, but most are housed at the school. Come."

  Maria squeezed the hand of the young woman beside her. "Tell Mama I'll meet her at home." Then Maria turned, the rustling of her long skirt brushing against Sophie's leg.

  Sophie had no choice but to follow.

  Maria walked straight-backed and graceful, despite her quickened pace. "How do you know Benita?"

  "I am staying there. And there has been an accident. A shooting. Their window was shot. Michael—"

  Maria interrupted. "He's hurt?"

  "No. A piece of glass injured José. Michael sent me for help."

  Maria nodded, then led her into a more depressed area of town. Alongside the dilapidated buildings, small hovels had been built, and the people used oxcarts, blankets, anything to keep out the elements. Animals filled the streets, and Sophie held her breath as she pushed through a small flock of sheep. Their baaing rang in her ears, and they nuzzled her legs as if searching for food.

  "We are trying to find homes for all the people. And helping family members to find each other—so many were separated in the fighting."

  Maria paused before a small primary school. An older woman with a round face and equally robust frame exited as Sophie waited for Maria.

  "Señora Sanchez, you must come." Maria rushed the older woman to Sophie's side. "We have been sent—there is a horrible incident at your home."

  As Maria related the events, Sophie peered into the windows of the primitive school and noticed scores of children, some staring back at her. They huddled in small groups, eating with vigor from dented tins, scooping some type of mush with their cupped fingers.

  "You!" Benita pointed to Maria. "Hurry to Francisco the glassmaker and tell him we need a new window by nightfall."

  Maria scampered away without a word.

  "And you." She placed a hand on Sophie's arm. "Do you know how to sew?"

  "No, I—"

  "Bueno. This will be a perfect opportunity to learn. The days of war will force all of us to find new ways to help our fellow man." Benita started out with slow, plodding steps, and Sophie followed by her side.

  Though she wasn't tall herself, Sophie seemed to tower over the older woman as they walked, yet she’d never witnessed such strength emanating from one person. Sophie immediately respected this woman. And it wasn't until they turned onto the street with their apartment and spotted the pools of blood on the street that she remembered she should feel afraid.

  Sophie followed Benita into the small apartment and watched with amusement as Michael and Luis snapped to attention.

  "You." She pointed to Michael. "The broom is in the corner. Clean up the shards before someone injures himself further. And, Luis, will you fetch my sewing basket? Sofía is going to patch José's arm."

  José, who had been lying quietly on the bed, opened his eyes wide and attempted to sit.

  Benita pushed against his chest, sinking him back onto the bed. "What, you ask, am I doing? You asked me to take her in, as one would a daughter. And I tell you, if the good Lord had blessed me with a daughter she would be useful and skilled in all things. Señorita, scrub your hands, please, with hot water. I will clean the wound."

  When Sophie returned, her hands hot and itchy, she watched as Benita cut away the fabric from the bloody mass of flesh and gingerly worked the shard of glass from José's shoulder.

  José winced, and Benita clucked her tongue. "Oh, please, señor, what is this? Just today I watched a soldier's leg amputated. He made less of a fuss than you."

  "That is because they give medications for the pain. Unlike you." A bead of sweat rolled down José's brow.

  Sophie held her red hands out for Benita's inspection.

  Benita lifted her nose and nodded her approval.

  "Are there many injured soldiers from the front?" Sophie inquired.

  "Yes, many."

  "Is there some way I can help them? Or maybe work with the children?"

  "And what kind of help would that be? What skills do you have—no offense meant, of course, señorita."

  "I know how to paint, and I've taught classes in Boston. It is not much, but it can help to occupy the children's minds for a time—to help them forget what they've seen."

  "Not to forget, Sofía, but to explore it with art. Haven't the great painters done the same—to let their emotions reveal themselves on the paper?"

  The shard slid completely from the shoulder, and Sophie grimaced as Benita plunged her fingers into the wound to check for fragments.

  "Luis, do you have that needle sterilized yet?" she called.

  "Coming. Coming!" Luis's voice answered from the front room.

  Benita looked to Sophie, then pulled her fingers from the wound. "Yes, very well. Good. The children need someone like you. But do not believe this"—she moved her fingers like a paintbrush—"will get you out of this." She swooped them in the air like a needle rising and plunging, then wiped her bloody fingers on José's shirt.

  Finally, she patted his chest with a smile. "Do not worry, José. She knows how to hold a paintbrush; how different can a needle be?"

  The congregation squirmed in their seats as they waited for the last words of the Mass. With Father Manuel's final "Amen," they rose.

  "Wait!" Father Manuel raised his hands. "Let us sing together our anthem. And let it remind us of our great God and His power even during times like these."

  Lowering his hands, he lifted his eyes to the rough-hewn lumber of the church's ceiling and began.

  "Hay un roble en Bizkaya."

  The congregation's voice joined his.

  "Viejo, fuerte y fiel, commo ella y como su ley.

  Encima del árbol tenemos la Santa Cruz,

  Siempre nuestro lema . . ."

  Without a pause he led them through a second time, smiling at the devotion clear in the bright eyes of men, women, and children—young and old before him.

  "There's an oak in Biscay,

  Old strong and true, like her and her law.

  Above the tree is the Holy Cross,

  Ever our guide . . ."

  Their voices faded, and Father Manuel spread his hand to the door. Near the back sat his childhood friend, Armando, with his wife, Nerea, at his side. While most of the other successful businessmen attended the larger cathedral in town—the fifteenth-century Santa Maria—Armando remained one of his most faithful parishioners.

  Armando lifted his hand to wave, then must have thought twice and lowered it again. Father Manuel cast him a smile, then turned to Señora Vega, helping her to stand from the hard wooden bench.

  "Bless you, Padre." The white-haired widow patted his hand. "May God bless you and keep you, and your beautiful voice, in his safekeeping until we meet again." It was the same parting every week, but her eyes sparkled as if it were the first time.

  Father Manuel smiled. "But no voice is finer than yours. And no heart as gentle." He patted her hand in return, causing her to blush.<
br />
  He led her to the back door and noticed Armando had slipped out. No matter. He would see him later that afternoon, when his friend dropped off a week's worth of produce, a gift from his wife's abundant garden. Nerea always sent over the best of her crop, and the visit from Armando was the highlight of the week.

  Sure enough, not two hours later, neither the bounty of fresh vegetables or conversation disappointed him. As he sipped a cup of tea, Father Manuel shuffled his sandals along the paving stones of his small patio.

  "You are keeping the place well, better than the old priest." Armando settled in one of the willow chairs and scanned the tree branches, laughing at the two bluebirds that flitted from limb to limb.

  "The man was old."

  "He was from the south. He cared more for himself than his people. More for himself than the Lord's church. The stones look nice."

  Father Manuel wished he could share how he'd hauled them there himself, one each morning just before dawn. He enjoyed scouring the hills for the flat, wide rocks. And, as remembrance of his Savior's passion, he carried each one home by hoisting it on his shoulder, prayerfully reminding himself of the heaviness of the cross.

  "Yes, just a few more and the patio will be done."

  Armando lifted a large tomato from Nerea's basket, turning it over in his hands. "They say the Generalissimo Franco fights against atheism. Did you hear him last night over the radio, stating God has marked him for glory?"

  Father Manuel reached across the small table and placed a hand on Armando's shoulder. "Sí, my son, but I wonder what our Lord has to say about that?"

  Though his tone was playful, he knew Armando grasped the seriousness of his words.

  "He fights the constitution. It is what all generalissimos fight, only this one holds a crucifix in his hands." Father Manuel sighed. "And wasn't it the men in their fine robes and religious claims whom Christ rebuked? Our Lord is not found here"—he pointed to Armando's forehead—"but here." He moved his hand to his heart.