Shadow of Treason Page 2
Even from her grade-school days, Sophie had dreamt of being a mother. In her neighborhood she had called together the younger children and organized their play. Patiently, she ’d read to them from her storybooks under the shade of the oak tree in front of her brick home in Boston. But the events of the last few days caused her to reconsider her dream.
Raising children wasn’t only about showering love and attention, but about facing the hard things of this world. She ’d seen parents trying to protect their little ones during bombing raids in Madrid. She witnessed the poverty of the Spanish countryside, where no one was protected from lack of food and supplies. And then there were the mothers and fathers weeping over babies lost in yesterday’s bombing. She could see the shocked face of a young woman holding her dead child, crying his name over and over. Wouldn’t it be better never to have known and loved a child than to lose one? Lose one in a war such as this?
With thoughts of motherhood came unwanted memories of Maria Donita. Sophie refused to let one thought linger on the beautiful young Spanish woman who carried Michael’s child. Michael, the man she herself would have married by now. The child she should carry.
Even though she had new hope in a relationship with Philip, the pain of betrayal stung. Somehow it was easier to remember the Spanish mother’s tormented expression than to think of those estranged images—the faces of Michael and Maria. The thought of them together.
Sophie wiped her eyes that brimmed with tears. Her gut ached, and she knew if she hurt this much for a child she didn’t even know, she ’d never survive the hardship and tragedy Spanish mothers faced daily.
It was something she was learning about herself—she didn’t handle loss well. First she ’d lost Michael to a sniper’s bullet; then even her memories of their love were destroyed by the knowledge of his betrayal. Then her friend José was injured when they took a wrong turn and found themselves on the front lines. A brave American had rescued them and transported José to a hospital, never to be seen by her again. She ’d heard he had recovered and traveled to Guernica, where he married his fiancée, Ramona. But now Sophie was here as well, and when she asked around, no one seemed to know him.
Throughout the war, Sophie discovered she was stronger in some ways but weaker in others than she had thought. Losing those she cared about always punched a gaping chasm in her soul.
In less hectic days she ’d dealt with horrifying images, such as the mother and child, by taking up her sketchbook and pencil, or easel and paints. The only way to wash them from her memory and work them through her emotions was to commit them to paper.
Now the war had robbed her of an abundance of time to paint, to process. The convent overflowed with injured people, and the wounded continued to stagger in, due to the continued efforts of the few dozen rescuers who remained in town.
Flies covered the faces of the crying, injured children. They’d screamed for parents lost, but at least they lived. And thinking of them and their future made Sophie more determined to use her art to tell the story of the people ’s fight. If her paintings could make even the slightest difference . . .
She realized the importance of getting her photographs and paintings of the bombing of Guernica to the press. The sooner the world knew the truth, the sooner others would fight for the cause of the Spanish people. But Sophie knew she would have to wait her turn. Survivors fought to get out—by cart, by vehicle, by rail.
Yet she wasn’t really eager to leave, for two reasons. First, because every extra set of hands was needed to care for the sick and injured. Second, her time with Philip was short. Before long he ’d return to the front lines, and who knew when she ’d see him again? Yet another impending loss . . .
The children had been some of the first to be evacuated by train to Bilbao, a coastal city just a few hours’ drive west of Guernica, and hundreds more of the injured who were lucky enough followed them. Behind the “Iron Ring,” a vast fortification of bunkers and trenches, they hoped to find safety.
Hospital workers struggled to care for those who remained, with no water, little light, few medications, and too few staff. Sophie mindlessly carried soiled bandages to a back room where a team of nuns worked diligently warming water on a woodstove. With solemn faces they scrubbed the bandages clean. Sophie handed them to Sister Josefina and was rewarded by a weary smile.
Like the nuns, Sophie had worked day and night with hardly any rest. And like them, Sophie had a clear view of the destruction from the convent’s second-story window—the heaps of debris, people lying on mattresses outside the hospital, and others walking through the torn-up streets looking for missing family members.
Yet that was not the only view that troubled those who worked in the convent. Anyone who walked to the other side of the building and looked out the window could gaze upon the green slopes of Guernica leading to Lumo. The wealthy lived in that area. Their fine white homes still dotted the hills. And their churches and convents remained untouched.
Sophie had heard that the Astra-Unceta pistol, machine gun, and bomb factory remained untouched, as well as the stone bridge over the Mundaka and the two army barracks. Either the German bombers had completely missed their targets, or there was another reason they’d hit the center of this town—a reason that didn’t make sense.
As yesterday was the customary market day, the town had been full of people. And when the church bell announced approaching planes, even those who found refuge in basements and dugouts were not safe.
First the bombs shattered the buildings. Then the firebombs burned them. Then came the fighter planes that machine-gunned those who ran from the fire.
She ’d heard from one of the nurses that, in addition to the buildings, houses, and market, the small hospital in town had also been hit. All forty-two wounded militiamen who were being cared for there were killed. And on the outskirts of town, victims lined the fields waiting for burial. They had been killed in a variety of ways, mostly by fire. Though firefighters had battled the edges of the blaze that dominated the town, it had been impossible to penetrate farther inside the city center where the majority of people were taking shelter.
Yet the finest areas of the town and the richest among them had missed destruction. Why?
Sophie returned to the supply room, and with gloved hands removed the surgical instruments from the sterilizer and laid them on a tray. From the open window she saw a cold, thin rain falling straight from the dismal sky. The gray clouds looked like she felt.
Suddenly a pleading cry interrupted her thoughts, and she hurried toward the surgical room, wondering if she could help.
A young man’s face was turned away, staring at a wall, refusing to look at the nurse. “Please, no, it will hurt!” he cried again.
“Try to relax. I am just going to look at it.” The nurse ’s voice was calm but firm.
The young man winced as gloved hands probed his arm. Sophie could tell from his pale face that he was fighting nausea as his face faded to a pasty white.
A young girl—a sister or friend perhaps—sat on the hard wooden chair next to his bed, shivering.
Sophie hurried to their side and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Then she reached for the boy’s free hand. “You’re doing beautifully. It is almost over. Just a minute more. Oh, you have pretty hair, amiga. So curly.”
The girl turned her attention away from the nurse and the blood on the boy’s injured arm. She lifted a hand to her hair. “It’s like my mother’s hair.”
The boy winced, and Sophie wasn’t sure if it was because of the nurse ’s probing fingers or the mention of their mother.
“Do you have someplace to go after this?” Sophie asked. “Are you leaving town?”
The boy refused to meet Sophie ’s gaze. “Our home—it was not hit,” he mumbled. “We were just in the market—that is how we were injured.”
“Everyone else in our family is fine.” The girl shrugged gracefully. “We are lucky, I suppose.” She seemed embarrassed.
“You haven’t gotten much sleep, Sophie,” he said. “I think you should rest. I’ve asked one of the sisters to make up a room in the back.”
“And what about you?” Sophie rose and squeezed his hand. “You’ve been as busy as I have.” She gave one parting glance back to the boy and girl and blew out a sigh of relief, thankful for the distraction.
“There is a group of soldiers in the garden. I’m staying with them.” Philip’s tone made it clear he wanted no special treatment.
Sophie didn’t argue, but instead stood and allowed him to lead her to a far room. His warm hand touched the small of her back. In the room, a nun sat on a single cot. She held a small book in her hands.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Sophie paused in the doorway.
“Interrupt, no. I was waiting for you.” The nun patted the spot on the cot beside her.
“Really?”
“I heard from some of the other sisters that we had an American woman helping here. I wanted to meet you.”
Sophie sat beside her.
“I’ll leave you two.” Philip offered Sophie a small wave and a smile, causing a sweet peace to touch her soul. “See you in a couple of hours . . . at minimum. You get some sleep, you hear?”
“Of course.”
He shut the door behind him, and Sophie turned to the nun.
“He is a man in love.”
“Really?” Sophie couldn’t hide her hint of a smile. “How can you tell?”
The nun smiled in return. “I may be a nun, but I’m still a woman. He loves you, that one does.” She patted Sophie ’s hand. “But that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. I have a gift for you.” She handed Sophie a Bible. An English Bible.
“Where—where did you find this?”
“I did not find it; it was given to me.” The nun’s accent was thick. “My grandmother, she was from America. She met my grandfather in Paris and then moved to Spain. This was back in the day when most young women didn’t move halfway across the world for such things.”
Sophie nodded, understanding too well.
“I kept this Bible all these years,” the nun continued. “I can speak some English, but I cannot read it. I kept it until I found a special person to give it to. There are also some letters tucked in the pages. I do not know why they were never mailed. I’m not even sure who they were written to. And since I cannot read the words, they are a mystery even to me. I have prayed for years that God would show me the right person to give this Bible to.”
“Really? And I’m the one?”
“Do you think a nun would lie?”
“No, I did not mean any such thing. I am so sorry.” Sophie saw the twinkle in the nun’s eyes.
“Sí, I want you to have it. But I cannot stay long. They need me in the surgery.”
“But I have so many questions. I would love to know more about your grandmother and her trip to Spain. How did she do it? What was it like for her to make the change? Did she ever see her family again?”
The nun rose. “I think you will find the answers in these letters.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Just tell me that you will read them, and someday—when the war is over, when our town is rebuilt—you will return and tell me the story.”
“Yes, of course.”
The nun rose and offered Sophie a quick hug; then she left, shutting the door behind her.
Sophie touched the name embossed in the front cover. Eleanor Marie Winslow. And just as the nun had said, there were letters tucked within the pages. Sophie ’s interested was piqued, but her eyes burned. Her eyelids grew heavy.
Laying her head on the small pillow, she pressed the Bible to her chest and closed her eyes. As she drifted off, she thought of all the gifts that the pain of war had brought her . . . her art . . . friendships with Walt and José and with Deion, who faithfully drove her around . . . and now this Bible. And . . . Philip. Of course.
Chapter Three
Father Manuel stared in disbelief at the second oak of Guernica. Though most of the buildings around it had crumbled to the ground, the tree—over one hundred years old—still stood, as did the council building where the Lords of Biscay had pledged their allegiance to the freedom of the Basque nation. The first oak had lived four hundred years, and many songs and poems had been written in its honor. Like the first, this second oak symbolized the traditional freedoms of the Biscayan people, and somehow—perhaps by the hand of God covering its limbs— the oak still stood.
The shade beneath the tree had provided rest for thousands of citizens over the years. The cool, fragrant dimness shaded any who took time to rest there for an afternoon siesta.
If only trees told their stories, there would be grand ones of victory at this spot. Perhaps someday it would tell of a victory over yesterday’s destruction. Father Manuel prayed it would be so.
A cough tore through his raw throat, and tears sprang to his eyes. He covered his mouth as he expelled the smoky mucus that filled his lungs. The acrid taste of ashes coated his tongue. It was the taste of hell’s fiery lake, and that alone would be enough to shun perdition.
He hadn’t slept since the German planes descended on Guernica. And no matter how often Armando urged him to rest, Father Manuel’s mind wouldn’t stop replaying the events. His church had burned to the ground, and much of his parish, too. The lines of mutilated bodies waiting to be buried overwhelmed him.
How many of them had been ready to stand before the judge of the universe? The injured constantly filled his mind, even in the silence of the tree ’s shade. He had no idea how many prayers he ’d uttered over the last twenty-four hours, how many last rites. Now his constant, desperate prayers for help failed to awaken his soul. Father Manuel felt like a failure.
Was it his fault? Perhaps he hadn’t prayed often enough or said the right words. If he had known the Scriptures better, or walked more closely with his Lord, perhaps that would have made the difference. He had been assigned as the people ’s spiritual leader, after all.
He knew that even his closest friend, Armando, would chide him for such thinking. After all, it made no sense that the town’s destruction should rest on the shoulders of one man. But logic could not displace his ruthless emotions.
He somehow felt that prayer was not enough. God was not responding to his silent cries. His heart was with his people. He knew that priests weren’t expected to roll up their sleeves and provide manual labor, but that is what he longed to be doing— helping in more tangible ways. He wanted to be working and praying. Even now Armando helped to load injured men and women into trucks that would take them to safety; and he, the man of God, was supposed to be seeking the Father’s favor.
So he ’d come here, to the oak. Perhaps the tree reminded him of the cross of his Savior’s sacrifice. And for some reason, the reality that this tree—a symbol of freedom and liberty—still stood helped him believe that God ’s hope could still be found amid the destruction. Though the sky was overcast and the air was putrid and dark, the sturdy oak’s branches stretched toward the heavens with new green leaves trembling slightly in the afternoon breeze. He knelt before the large oak, grasped the silver cross that hung around his neck, and began to pray.
He caught movement from the corner of his eye and assumed it was Armando coming to talk to him, to urge him once more to rest. He lowered his head, trying to think of an argument that would justify his visit to the tree. And so Father Manuel was surprised when he heard a man’s American-accented voice.
“Padre, do you have a moment?” The voice conveyed a sense of strength and importance despite the man’s thin frame.
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“Yes?” Father Manuel attempted to rise, but his knees buckled slightly as weariness gripped his limbs.
The man apparently sensed his struggle and placed a hand under the priest’s elbow, helping him to his feet.
Father Manuel turned to look at him directly and saw a kind-looking man with a black hat.
“I only need a few minutes of your time. It’s been a difficult few days, I know.”
“Sí.” Father Manuel saw a heaviness in the speaker’s eyes; a weariness even deeper than the destruction of Guernica weighed on this man’s heart. A burden of a thousand thoughts within his head, each vying for expression.
The man motioned toward the steps of the council building, and they walked toward it. He turned and sat easily, while Father Manuel slowly lowered himself, feeling twice as old as his thirty years. Then the man pulled out two apples from his jacket pocket and handed one to the priest.
Father Manuel took the offering as his stomach rumbled. Without hesitation he silently mouthed a prayer of thanks and took a large bite, the sweet moistness filling his mouth. He wiped away the juice that escaped down his chin.
“I know you’ve been asked to go to Bilbao to speak on a radio broadcast there.”
Father Manuel’s mind was too tired to wonder how this man knew such a thing. “Sí, the bishop has asked me to come.”
“I know it is a big request, but I need to ask you to change your plans. In my work through the newspapers I have heard that your life is in danger there. Instead, you must travel to Paris as quickly as possible. Travel to Bilbao as normal; then take the next late train out of the country. You will arrive in Paris early on Thursday. From there go directly to the Gate de Lyon. A newspaperman will be waiting, eager to hear the truth of who destroyed the town.”
“The truth?” Father Manuel shook his head. “I do not understand.”