Whisper of Freedom Page 3

  Philip's eyes darted to hers. They narrowed, and his look jabbed at her heart.

  She wished he would say something. That he'd yell at her or confess his hurt. Anything would be better than this mute anger. Suddenly a new fear crept out from her darkened mood. What if they couldn't get past this? What if he couldn't forgive her? She searched his eyes for a hint of the affection he'd once shown. The comfort he'd given her when she had no one else to turn to.

  "I have thought a lot about it. The gold, that is," she said. "And I think that it's worth it. If my actions can make a difference for the people of Spain, it will be worth all the hardship I have to face. But I never intended to hurt you."

  Sophie turned and walked back toward the truck, hoping Philip hadn't seen the tears pooling in her eyes. She saw Walt coming around the side of the truck and moved in his direction, certain that she'd abandoned whatever budding relationship she'd had with Philip the moment she'd allowed Michael's arms to embrace her at the train in Guernica.

  "Time to head out," Walt called. "We don't know how long it will take Michael and his friends to figure out they've been duped. The farther we can get from the airfield, the better."

  "Do you know yet where we’re going?” Philip asked him.

  From the look in his eyes, Sophie could see Walt didn't.

  "Not exactly, but I believe we're heading in the right direction. This back road is working for now. It has little traffic and plenty of tree cover to hide us from the sky."

  "Do you think they'll send out a plane to find us?" Sophie scanned the sky.

  Philip answered for Walt. "I'm sure they'll use whatever resources they have. It's not like they'll just shrug their shoulders and let us get away with this."

  Walt shook his head. "I'm not sure how quickly they can pull together people to search for us. Our advantage is that Michael trusts very few people."

  He opened the passenger door for Sophie and helped her inside.

  "Everyone who did Michael's bidding did so by his trickery. Even the men who drove the trucks carrying the stolen gold knew nothing of the cargo. They were paid off and are living handsomely somewhere far away from the front lines."

  "But this road will take us to safety, right?" Sophie found her spot in the seat and was soon sandwiched between the men.

  Two doors slammed shut, and Walt started the engine.

  "Well, it's not the most direct route, but it's taking us away from the seat of Nationalist control . . . and toward our best option. I think our best chance is to try to make it to Barcelona. I have good contacts there. I know we can get the gold out through their ports, but in any town closer . . . I'm uncertain what type of help we can get."

  Chapter Two

  The truck continued on with only its clunking, groaning noises to interrupt the silence between the occupants. Long shadows from tree branches spread over the road, telling Philip they were driving east and north. Beside him Sophie slept. Her head, cocked at an awkward angle, rested against the seat behind her and tilted to the left and the right with the movement of the truck over the road. Philip knew she'd be more comfortable if she rested her head on his shoulder. She didn't ask, and he didn't offer.

  For weeks he had prayed to be reunited with her again, but now it seemed like someone was playing a joke on him. More than anything, he wished for space. For time to think and pray. Of course, that wouldn't happen unless he ditched her and Walt to head out across enemy territory on his own. No, he was forced to stay. Forced to follow this thing through, wherever that led.

  When he and Sophie parted at Guernica, there was an apology in her gaze. Now he knew why. It hurt and humiliated him at the same time. What a fool he'd been to think she truly loved him. He should have learned from his first girlfriend in Seattle. He'd loved her too, yet she'd married someone else. Such beautiful, talented women would never love someone ordinary like him.

  Sophie. He couldn't help that his heart warmed as he glanced at her. Yes, she no doubt appreciated his saving her on the battlefield. She seemed to have grown fond of him over those months he'd protected her. They'd grown close as she amazingly transformed oil on canvas to tell the story of the field hospital's carnage and of the faces of the desperate and dying volunteers who were so dedicated. Yet even though they experienced so much together, Philip realized he could never replace Michael. Even though the man had betrayed them all, Philip still saw the concern in Sophie's eyes as she spoke of him.

  It was another cruel joke that their destination now was Barcelona. The city's name was enough to cause Philip's stomach to constrict. He thought back to his first days in Spain—training for the Workers Games, striding down the boulevard in his workout clothes with Attis by his side—as hungry for his friend's victory as he'd been for the authentic food that had saturated the air with its aroma. Stupid smiles had filled their faces, ignorant as they were of the developing political situation. Instead hopes of athletic victory pounded in their hearts with each beat. Had it only been a year ago that he'd dreamed of leaving Spain with a gold medal around Attis's neck?

  Philip patted the gold coin in his pocket. Carrying a piece of history was an amazing thing, but he planned to return it at their next stop. Although he didn't buy into Walt's talk of omens and curses, he felt strange holding it. Perhaps that was because hundreds, even thousands, of people had lost their lives trying to possess it. From the people who first crafted it to the Spaniards who stole it, how many men had died fighting over these riches? He'd feel better knowing the coin was back in the box where it belonged. And after that, knowing collectors would take care of it, instead of allowing more little men to fight for the power and wealth the gold objects brought.

  Walt cleared his throat, and Philip glanced over at him. Their irritation at each other had subsided as they'd both had time to calm their minds with the fresh air.

  Walt nodded toward Sophie, who was snoring softly. "She's sleeping hard."

  Philip couldn't help but think it was the most beautiful snore he'd ever heard.”She's been through a lot."

  "That she has. And what about you? Are you okay? I swear the color drained from your face when I mentioned Barcelona."

  "Next time I'm rescued, I hope it's not by a spy. It seems like I can't keep anything to myself—even my private thoughts."

  "Fine. Next time you're rescued, you can make sure of that. But what about now? You still haven't answered my question."

  "I'm fine." Philip let out a long sigh. Yet even as he spoke those words his knees trembled slightly. "I just had no idea I'd ever have to go back to Barcelona. It's ironic, don't you think? I went there once in search of gold of a different kind, and now I'm returning in an effort to protect that very thing."

  "Don't let your feathers get ruffled just yet. We can't just jump on a turnpike and arrive in a day or two. First we must make it to Granada. There's a castle, a fortress, overlooking the city, with tunnels that lead to different parts of the city. Maybe we can find a place to hide the truck and the gold. At least it's a stopping place."

  "Granada? Isn't that in Franco's hands?" Philip's fist balled in his lap as he said that name.

  "Yes, the Nationalists have captured the city, but the Republicans still hold the rest of the province."

  "How far away is it?"

  "We've been traveling northeast, and we're nearly to Málaga. That means we're halfway."

  "Really? That close?" Philip straightened in his seat. "Still, will we have time to travel all the way without being found? If . . . those guys who are after the gold are smart, they'll figure out where we're headed."

  Philip could not bring himself to speak casually about Michael, even if the others did. He didn't understand how both Sophie and Walt could talk about him as if he were just a lost soul in need of discovering the truth.

  "I don't think so. If the plane has landed, they may just now be discovering they were fooled. But also, it helps to remember how things work in Spain." Walt smirked. "Mañana. Whenever possible the business
of today is put off until tomorrow. The way I figure it, we have another day to get to Granada and hide the gold."

  "Let's hope you're right."

  Philip glanced at sleeping Sophie one more time. She looked like an angel, the way her hair fell across her cheek.

  "You'd better be right," he added with more conviction.

  José knew the mountains well, and though the journey on horseback up the steep hills had sapped the energy from his father and Pepito, and had taken a toll on the horses, they'd all made it. They now rested in a high pasture, off the beaten path, where he hoped they'd be safe for a time.

  Petra did a fine job making sure the men were comfortable and fed. She was young, José knew, but she carried a strength that couldn't be denied. He chuckled to himself at the way his father diligently obeyed when told to wash up for dinner or to peel a few potatoes from the sack of supplies they'd brought with them. Juan Guezureya had never been one to follow another, or hold his tongue, yet he didn't seem to mind following Petra's orders. For that matter, Pepito didn't either. Each had his own reasons, José was sure, but they seemed to appreciate the young woman's care.

  José set up a small camp and then he set out on foot, returning the way he'd come. Curiosity drew him to Bilbao. But more than that, fear forced him from his precipice of safety. What if something had happened to Ramona? What if she had been injured or . . . ? He didn't want to think of what else happened to women by invading armies. He knew he would never forgive himself if his wife experienced such a thing.

  The trees thinned as the forest around him ended at a large cliff overlooking the coastal valley below. Two deep river valleys led to Bilbao. One valley came from the direction of Eibar and Durango, the other from Orduña, some miles to the north of the main Burgos-Vitoria road. High mountains, reaching to 4,500 feet, rose in every direction.

  From these peaks José had witnessed the horror unleashed upon the coastal cities. With little opposition, the Fascists had penetrated the valleys winding through the mountain regions. First the air force and the artillery had bombarded the slopes nearest to Bilbao; then the enemy troops advanced. The opposition had staged a spirited fight, but there were not enough weapons or good men to hold their cities. José knew without a doubt that if the people had had more weapons, more manpower, the Nationalist High Command wouldn't have had a chance. Instead he'd seen them easily moving forward, steadily gaining ground. Nationalist troops had white patches sewn on their shoulders so they could identify each other. They also carried flags for the aircraft to recognize the units from above.

  José had wanted to join the fight against their approach, but what could one man do? Instead he had grieved as he watched the gold and scarlet Nationalist banner carried to a high point where it fluttered from the top peak of the Urquiola range—the one ridge Franco's men dared to climb.

  The Basques had done what they could, digging miles of trenches and spreading out barbed-wire belts, but somehow the enemy invaders had known the easiest penetration points. Once through, nothing—no one—stood in their way. Most of the defenders were forced to retreat. And soon, the town fell.

  Days ago, as he watched the Nationalist flag unfurl above Bilbao, José's gut ached as if someone had slugged him. Even now tears ran down his face as he leaned against a tall tree for support. "Ramona, Ramona . . . How could I have abandoned my wife?" he muttered as a thousand possibilities raced through his mind.

  He didn't know how much time passed as he wept. It seemed all the tension that had mounted since leaving Guernica refused to be dammed any longer. Perhaps there were other, older heartaches he'd been holding inside, too. The pain of discovering the truth about Michael, his friend since childhood. The pain of traveling to Madrid and leaving those he loved behind. The heartache of helping Michael fake his death in order to rescue Sophie from his grasp, but failing at that as well.

  In fact, it seemed in every way he tried to help he simply brought more pain, more heartache, to those he loved. He was ready now for things to be different. For once, he hoped, he would protect his wife as a husband should. And keep safe those in his care, despite the dangers around them.

  Minutes passed on the quiet hillside, maybe an hour, as he looked upon the captured city below. All José knew was that when he rose and turned back up the mountain, he had made a promise to get his father and the others settled as best he could, and then return to find Ramona. He refused to allow the enemy to harm that which was most precious.

  Chapter Three

  Ramona's endless steps brought her to the top of a small rise, her feet aching in the broken-down shoes she'd worn for the past six months. The hot, dry road stretched before her as it had from so many other small rises she'd ascended. When would it end? Not just this stretch of the journey, but the war. Her back ached from leaning over countless war-ravaged casualties—individual human beings who'd looked to her for healing, for hope. Her heart hurt too, but that was nothing new. Nothing she wasn't used to.

  Her feet continued moving one in front of the other, linked to her conscious mind only by the pain of each step. Small dust clouds formed with each footfall, rising to join the choking large cloud caused by the thousands of other feet trudging along the side of the paved road. The sun bore down on her without the slightest stirring of air to carry away its heat. She wiped her sweaty brow with the handkerchief, now as rough as sandpaper, and tried to find her way to the edge of the walking mass. Maybe there was a breeze to be found there.

  A caravan of trucks had carried the other nurses, but Ramona gave up her place so one of the injured could find a way out. She was young and could walk for a while, she told herself, hoping for another truck to come along. But none came, so she continued on. Just one in a sea of many.

  She replayed in her mind the weeks before the fall of Bilbao. She'd carried a tray of food to one of the ill nuns just as the first wave of bombers appeared over the mountains. German planes. Like those that had attacked Guernica. Soon the church bells pealed, but the terrified cries of the people were louder than the bells.

  In Guernica, before the bombers came, Ramona thought the war would simply pass, just like the numerous little battles she'd experienced while growing up, and then they'd all get on with normal life. She believed if she worked hard and helped those she could, then she would make a difference. And since those around her worked as hard as she, together they would find victory. The war was hard on all of them, but the fight was worthy. She'd lost any close to her, but the war had also brought José back to her from Madrid.

  Instead, food shortages had caused many to grow sick and weak. And though she helped all she could, trucks transported the dead from the front lines, depositing their ghastly cargo in record numbers. It seemed they lost more soldiers than they had time to bury.

  Ramona trudged past a small oxcart and nodded to the older man and woman who sat under it, seeking shade and rest before they continued. From somewhere ahead she heard the cry of an infant and wondered if the mother had enough water for herself and the baby—not that she could do anything if they didn't. Ramona had drained her own waterskin over an hour ago.

  She thought back to the first time she'd heard that José had returned to Guernica. His injury had reunited them, and in a way she felt it was God's hand—to bring them back together when so much threatened to keep them apart. They could stand anything for a short time, including their most recent separation. They would get past this too, and be reunited. All of Spain would get past this and find the peace they all longed for. Or at least that's what she had hoped.

  But the bombers told her differently. First in Guernica, then in Bilbao. It was the bombers that proved to her that the mountains could no longer protect her people. It was the bombers that forced José to return and care for others he felt a responsibility for, both two-legged and four-legged.

  She felt guilty for feeling thankful that his injury was bad enough for him to be brought to her care. At least it hadn't damaged him permanently.


  And because she firmly believed God had brought José to her, when the bombs fell she had decided to stay at the hospital to help care for the injured who were brought in, instead of leaving with him. Surely if God had saved José once, He'd do so again.

  She had heard that tragedy brought people together. Instead it had pulled them apart. José still embraced her, but she could see a distance in his gaze, as if there were a part of him that had died that day . . . something she didn't understand, but that had affected him all the same.

  The Germans knew what they were doing. They knew war that killed and injured women and children touched men in a way that battlefield casualties couldn't. And their hellish strategy had worked, changing José because he couldn't protect what he felt responsible for.

  While she traveled to Bilbao with the injured, he'd gone another way—back to the place where his father was . . . and the horses. To be with them, to protect them. He'd run to the one place he hoped he could make a difference.

  Even though she told him to go, her heart wanted him to stay. And even when she claimed she'd be okay, she wanted more than anything for him to realize how much she needed him. Why couldn't he see that? Why couldn't he fight for her? Protect her?

  She'd wanted him to stay because it was in his heart—not because she had asked. But instead he left. He embraced her, turned, and left.

  Yes, her body was fine, but Ramona's heart hurt. It felt as if a bomb had exploded across it, shattering it into a million little pieces and then burning what remained.

  "But what difference does that make now?" she muttered as she continued on, moving one foot and then the other. "He is gone and I am alone."

  She looked down at her nurse’s uniform, now stained and soiled, and then repeated herself, though there was no one close enough to hear. "I am alone. I'm surrounded by strangers, but alone all the same."