Valley of Betrayal Page 13

  "No, you're right. And what type of wife would I be if I forced the man I love to leave the country of his heart?" she murmured, more to herself that him. "Maybe we should just spend time apart, reconsider—"

  "Wait." Michael lifted a finger to her lips. "Don't say anything else. Think about what should happen next. Sleep on it." He leaned close, his nose only inches from hers. "And, Divina, I promise to do the same. Love conquers all. Isn't that the popular saying? We'll figure something out. I know we will."

  The music continued at its frenzied pace, but Sophie's attention was focused on the green eyes of the man before her. They'd find a solution. Besides, it wasn't him against her. This was their battle. And they would face it together.

  Michael placed a soft kiss on her lips, then her cheek and ear. "I love you, Sophie. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that."

  "I will remember." She wrapped her arms tight around his neck. "I don't know why I doubted. If there is one thing we can trust in, it is our love," she whispered, and she returned his kisses with fervor.

  It always saddened Father Manuel how an institutionalized religion could matter so little to the people forced to join in. In fact, he often pictured the people's union to their church like an awkward, arranged marriage—the vow mattering more than the relationship. And tragically, to those caught in such a struggle, the time often came when the only way to truly feel free was to kill the one you swore to love.

  The voices on the radio, ever fervent and passionate, were evidence of this as the Nationalist Rebels fought to save the church by slaughtering the people. And the Popular Front, consisting mostly of Communists and Socialists, aimed a knife at the throat of the church, seeking its demise.

  "I think too much," Father Manuel told himself as he walked behind Armando on the familiar trek through the mountains. "And for what good? These eternal, internal conversations lead nowhere."

  He swung his arms as he planted his feet on the roots of trees that over the years had formed a natural stairway up the mountain. The air was crisp on his cheeks, causing a shiver to travel down his spine. But the cold mattered little. In fact, it felt good. It reminded him of the natural cycle of the earth. The dying of green life, of long days, which paralleled the slow death taking place in his country.

  From the moment Cardinal Segura, Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of the Spanish Roman Catholic Church, recommended violence and self-sacrifice in order to defend the national religion of Spain five years before, Father Manuel had replayed the eulogy in his mind. Sometimes he pictured the state religion smoldering like the first Jesuit parish, burned to the ground in the province of Andalusia. Other times he imagined rows of coffins, cradling within them the remains of anarchists, Socialists, and Communists who opposed both formal government and institutionalized religion.

  Yet in both cases, he never wept at their funerals. Instead, he tried to revive them, to bring them to common ground, to hope in their impossible union.

  "I still think a relationship with God is far more important than religion," Manuel declared an hour later as he perched on a fallen log, partly decayed and smelling earthy and sweet. "Where is the heart to devote itself if we focus too much on ritual? Not the essence of what these things stand for, but rather the mindless, meaningless acting—the people playing the same roles their ancestors have followed for a hundred years?" He kneaded his hands in his lap as he watched Armando tirelessly swinging an ax, the blade chipping at a trembling oak that would provide warmth during the long winter.

  "Do you hear yourself?" Armando paused, leaning the ax handle against the tree and reaching for the jar of cool water Nerea had prepared. "It's the same as saying we should have no laws against murder or theft. The people live best when they are given clear guidelines to follow. If we based all our actions on relationship, there would be no boundaries for men's actions."

  Manuel rose and moved to the tree, fingering the ax's wooden handle. He'd give anything to shed his heavy garment and give the ax a swing. To work unhindered with his hands. Instead, his work of late seemed to entail sifting through numerous ideologies and duties that accompanied the Lord's work. The lessons he’d been taught for the priesthood replayed in his mind. The truths seared him, like cattle brands imprinting his brain. Yet these dogmas never quite stuck.

  "Besides," Armando continued, "the state of the church in Spain is not our concern. Madrid declared Basque an independent state, remember? We will neither die for the church, nor for those who strive to disestablish the church." His arms swept to the hills. "Does not God's Word say something about lifting your eyes to the hills? These mountains hold us in, and others out. Do they not? We will be safe here."

  "Dreamer." Manuel found he had been grasping the ax handle with a death grip. He released it and wiped the sweat of his palm on his smock. He shook his head slightly. In his mind's eye he thought of the fine statuette perched on the mantel of Armando's home. The white ceramic image of the suffering Christ, with cuts of red glass cascading down the Lord's face as drops of blood.

  "Do you not realize the statue-like image of God you pray to does not exist? Armando, do you not see? He is not a frozen figure to dust off. He isn't a benevolent king who protects us with hills, for the mere fact we are a people of honor. And believe it or not, His greatest concern isn't that this small cut of land regain the freedom it has always honored above all else. God, He—"

  "Are you, Padre, stating my devotion is false? Or my concern for the land of my father's father is in vain?" Armando replaced the jar with a clunk on the stump so hard Manuel was sure the glass would break.

  Manuel shuddered at the poisonous spouting of Armando's words. "No, I—" He placed a hand on Armando's shoulder, only to have it pushed away.

  "So my faith is weak? Or worse yet, false?" Armando ran his hand through his sweaty hair, then turned and pointed a finger into Manuel's face. "I thought we understood each other. I thought we could be ourselves without that . . . that piece of fabric coming between us."

  He flicked Manuel's white collar, although Manuel was sure he would have rather punched his jaw.

  "You say you want to remain friends. You claim you are the same man inside you've always been. Yet we can't spend one hour together without your words turning to religious babble." Armando lifted the ax with one hand, holding it high over his head as if to emphasize his point. "If you aren't content with the manner in which the church teaches her followers to approach our Lord, then why have you devoted your life to her? If you truly believe in a Lord who desires to speak to us all hours of the day—as you so say—then why do you set yourself up as the one we must turn to, to reach Him?"

  A strong wind came up, and the tree Armando chopped shuddered as if agreeing with his words. Manuel knew that with one firm push, he could topple the tree. He also knew the words he prepared to confess could as easily topple their friendship.

  "These are questions I ask myself, Armando. Truly they are. But in the end it comes down to one thing. When you close your eyes at night, do you sense Him there? When you pray, do you know He hears? If not, then how can you claim you are His follower? For how can we follow One—"

  Armando's curses interrupted Manuel's words, and Armando swung the ax to his shoulder. "I'm through with you, Manuel. Do you understand? Through with all this manner of talk you share even outside church walls. In fact, thank you for helping me, my friend."

  Armando kicked at the wavering tree, severing the wood fibers and propelling it to the forest floor with a crash. "I used to question how the Communists could say that all men are equal and reject the notion of God. Well, thanks to you, I believe their ideals more by the day. Because I, of all people, know what's inside that robe. I know the weakling who chooses his own way because he has neither the moral fiber to stand behind the church, nor the courage to turn his back on it."

  Armando crossed his hands over his chest and jutted out his chin. "In fact, maybe that's why you've chosen to hide behind the robe. Without it,
all the world would see you have no backbone."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The lines of my policy have not been to create an offensive air arm that might constitute a threat to other nations, but to provide Germany with a military air force strong enough to defend her at any time against aerial attack.

  —Hermann Göring on

  March 8, 1935, following

  the announcement that

  the Luftwaffe was

  already in existence

  Ritter strode across the airfield with a grin and punched the air with his fist, spotting new He.51 fighters that had arrived at Caceres, their third airfield in Spain in as many months. This time he didn't mind the move, since there were now enough aircraft to form the complete Staffel. More planes meant more air-power and greater victories.

  From the first scramble in the morning to collapsing in bed at night, Ritter flew as many as four sorties a day. There was enough action—dogfights, bombing runs, reconnaissance missions—to keep them in the air. Only the limited fuel supply brought them home every two hours for the Spanish ground crews to repair, refuel, and rearm the planes.

  On days with a lull in the flight schedule, most of the other pilots visited the notorious German-approved, red-light district where men marched up in formation, ready to advance in single file on orders from the commander inside. The thought of overused and overtired Spanish harlots sickened Ritter, especially knowing Isanna waited at home, thinking of his return.

  Instead, Ritter used his free time to visit with the Spanish mechanics, helping them communicate with the other pilots who, when he wasn't around, often resorted to tourist phrase books or tried snatches of their schoolboy Latin to bridge the language gap. Together crewmen and pilots worked to update the planes and experiment with new devices, such as incendiary bombs. And in these moments, when grease covered his hands and arms, and his back ached from bending to work on engines, Ritter found solving intricate mechanical problems nearly as thrilling as soaring through the clouds.

  The only thing that truly bothered him about Spain was the religious babble of the Nationalist commanders assigned to them. Their talks of "this new Crusade of sincere faith" caused a rush of nausea to Ritter's stomach. In addition, Franco insisted that all Spaniards, the mechanics included, cease work on Sundays whenever possible. No tinkering allowed.

  So after a day of writing letters and studying the maps of Spain, Ritter welcomed Monday, which dawned bright and clear with a chill of winter on the air. He strode into the ready room of the airfield and let out a low moan. The Spanish general they'd labeled "Little Britches," due to his small frame and high-pitched voice, waited for them. Some high-ups had labeled him the morale officer of the group, yet Ritter found the man's religious babble nothing less than ridiculous—as if the Germans cared about the state of Spain's soul.

  "Today, my friends, we prepare for the victory of God," the Spanish general stated after the last pilot of the J/88 fighter group entered the room and sat down. "It is a crusade for what is holy. The men we fight are the fallen angels of Beelzebub, the prince of the demons. And before we fly today, let us gather together and lift up a prayer for our chosen protector, General Franco. It is he who will ensure that Christ's reign never ends in our great country of Spain!"

  Ritter cleared his throat and coughed. The flyer next to him did the same, as did the rest of the German pilots. Soon the clearing of their throats overtook the sound of the man's declarations.

  "What keeps us here sure ain't ideals," one pilot said under his breath in German.

  "More like youthful enthusiasm, lust for adventure, and the 1,200 marks combat pay," Eduard chimed in.

  "Yes, and if our exploits were publicized, we'd be toasted as heroes throughout Germany!" Ritter added louder, drawing the applause of the other pilots in the room.

  The Spanish general, unable to understand their words, turned to the German general with a confused look on his face.

  Sperrle raised his hand, silencing them. His piercing eyes scanned the room. "After we win the war—or maybe if our exploits are so grand as to draw national attention—only then will the newspapermen be allowed to hear of the true saviors of Spain. Until then, you'll have to satisfy yourself with the case of beer for each kill."

  "Is that a promise?" Ritter asked, rising and folding his arms over his uniformed chest. "And I'm not talking about the beer."

  "Of course. But now, men—let's get back to the task at hand. With the new Bf.109s coming in, your team will take over ground support. Which means you'll fly at low altitudes."

  "Which also means we face the danger of our planes being blown up by our own bombs," Eduard spouted. His brows narrowed with concern.

  "That's the risk you take, men," Sperrle said. "You knew the dangers coming into this mission. Just make sure you have your papers on you, in case you end up behind enemy lines."

  Ritter patted his shirt pocket, ensuring his civilian papers were in order. If caught, the papers stated he was Ritter Lindemann, German volunteer for the Communist-sponsored International Brigades. He shook his head in disbelief, not understanding how his own countrymen could defy their Fatherland in such a manner to fight for the other side. Hadn't Hitler pounded into all Germans' minds a hatred for those who, like sly foxes, infiltrated German soil with their lies and anti-German customs?

  "Now that we got all that out in the air, men, let's turn our attention to today's mission," Sperrle said. "We will try a new technique—one I'm sure you'll appreciate."

  Ritter could not ignore the twinkle in his commander's eye as Sperrle lowered a large-scale map of Madrid.

  "You will head out in three waves." The general moved his pointer across the map of the city. "First will come the 2,000-pound bombs, which will smash the concrete buildings. Then the 220-pound bombs to break up the rubble into smaller pieces. Followed by incendiary and antipersonnel 22-pound bombs designed to kill the men who arrive to put out the fires."

  "Not to mention our machine guns that will mow down those who dare show their faces to care for the wounded," Ritter said with a smirk.

  "Of course." Maj. Gen. Sperrle cast Ritter a smile. "I see you think the same as I. Now do us proud. We are named after the giant birds of the South American Andes, after all. It is the role of the condor to make its presence known in the sky. And whether we receive glory or not, that is not our concern. Instead, think of every battle won in Spain as one less Germany will have to fight."

  Before they headed out for the day's missions, "Little Britches" led them in a Nationalist tune. While most pilots followed along, singing the Spanish words with gusto while understanding little of their meaning, Ritter stood with his fists balled at his side.

  "My comrades who went to fight with happy and firm attitude, they died in the name of the Spanish way of life," they sang. "Honor and glory to the fallen of Spain. Our redemption rests in you. The blood that spilled from the fallen marks the road of resurrection."

  The general dismissed them, and Ritter tucked his leather flight helmet into his belt and strode to his aircraft. Only one problem, he thought, offering one last wave to Eduard. I have no plans to die for Spain. And the only blood to be spilled as far as I'm concerned will be that of those saps on the ground, fighting for a cause that will only bring them imprisonment and death.

  Father Manuel's prayers seemed to hang in the fog of the chill, gray air, yet he refused to return to the warmth and security of his small rectory. Weeks had passed since Armando's outburst on the mountain, and while the words replayed in his mind as if they were spoken only moments before, Manuel understood for the first time what it meant to feel truly alone in the world.

  A shiver ran down his arms, and he pulled them tighter to his chest, remembering the biblical account of Jesus' last day on earth. In the darkness of the garden He had prayed, wanting more than anything to have a friend to hold His hands, to pray with Him, to warm Him with a concerned look—but no one remained.

  Of course, the Lord cho
se His path to further God's plan, unlike I, who despite good intentions, fail miserably at the task given to me by God.

  Of that he had no doubt. Not only did he struggle in leading the Mass and sharing messages of hope in a time of war, but his own heart leaked like a cistern. No matter how he prayed, and no matter the sweet peace that filled his heart for a time, as soon as he rose from his knees or began the simplest tasks of daily living, fear and doubt pounced upon him like scavengers on a dead carcass. Having no one to talk to about these things didn't help.

  The population of Guernica grew by the day as hundreds of refugees fled aerial bombing on a scale their country had not experienced before. The people in the outlying areas realized that once the planes dropped their death-loads, ground troops followed. And the horror of what those troops imparted upon the people caused Father Manuel's skin to crawl.

  Men were shot after surrendering, and women faced worse. Not only were they raped, they were condemned to live and carry that memory always. Yet out of those people fleeing such horrors—or the town's citizens taking them in—there was not one he could turn to who understood. Even Father Sebastian of the Church of Santa Maria did not have time to talk about their common concerns. He had his own parish to oversee, his own people with numerous needs. Not to mention the ceremony to occur in a few hours.

  With so much unrest, the Basque people had decided they must care for their own, even with Spain treading with uncertainty. Though Guernica's famous Parliament Building hadn't been used for fifty year, preparations were being made even now for the Procuradores, Basque leaders, to assemble together. They would elect a president, and Father Sebastian would hold a Mass, leading them in prayer for divine guidance.

  And while Father Manuel was thankful that the leaders considered God at such a time, his heart turned again to the common people, his congregation, mostly made up of the working class who, living among the cobbled streets between the Rentería Bridge and the railway station, also lived their lives as they always had, deciding that an hour-long Mass once a week was enough to secure their souls.