Whisper of Freedom Page 5
Ritter nodded his agreement. "Better to lock them up than blow them up. I’ve seen the destruction bombs and artillery can do to a country."
The men drank in silence.
"So where does that leave us?" Ritter finally asked.
"I, for one, am returning to my country to relay my thoughts to any who will listen. I’ll urge my country to stick to the treaties, but also understand those who do not. In my opinion, the conflict in Europe—that which is already happening and that which is to come—will right the wrongs the other nations have imposed. Yes, there will most likely be more battles, more deaths, and more camps . . . but when the dust settles we’ll discover a greater peace than we’ve ever known."
"I hope you are right." Ritter ran his finger along the droplets of water pooling outside his glass. "I can think of nothing greater than to settle down with a good mate and live a good life." He took another drink as his brooding thoughts turned back to Isanna, who was doing just that—with someone other than himself.
The first man rose and staggered across the room to tell another table of his news, and the American ordered another drink with a flick of his finger.
Ritter did the same, and as the bartender approached, he peered over Ritter's shoulder toward the door.
Ritter turned and nearly fell off his stool as he saw Monica Schull approaching.
"Ritter, darling." Her voice rose excitedly. "Your uncle said I might find you here. He's disappointed, actually, that you didn't choose to spend the evening with him. But he was pleased and excited to know that I d come—that I just couldn’t bear to stay away."
"Monica." Ritter opened his arms for a quick hug. "You've followed me home, like a puppy looking for its master."
"I’m not sure about that, but I am here. New York was boring without you, darling." She gazed up at him with large blue eyes and adjusted the red hat that perched on her blonde curls. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind?" Ritter patted the barstool next to him, motioning for her to sit. "You are far more entertaining than the politics these men prattle on about. And far more appealing to the eye as well." Ritter let out a long sigh. "Why ever would I mind?”
Chapter Five
Sophie watched with wide eyes as a lone man exited the woods, his footsteps steady despite the darkness. His hands stretched into the air when he noticed Walt's gun fixed on him.
"Do not shoot. I come as a friend, Señor! I come in peace."
"Come closer. Let me see your face." Walt motioned with his free hand.
There was nothing distinguishing about the Spaniard. The deeply creased wrinkles on his face told Sophie he was most likely as old as her father, but he moved with the energy of a much younger man.
"You drive a truck from Franco's men, but I know you are not one of them. We’ve been watching you. We'd like to offer help."
Walt cocked his head to the side, but held the gun steady. "How do you know we aren't with Franco?"
"Because only those who hide from Franco use this road. There are more direct routes to take if you are working for the general. Also, we noticed the man's jacket. The one who now sleeps in the truck. It was for the Workers Games, was it not? And the men who were in those, they believe in the cause of the people, yes?"
"You are brave, coming to us like this. It could have cost you your life." Walt lowered his gun.
The man shrugged. "That could be said of many things. No place is safe anymore. My hope is that you have supplies for fighting against Franco. Am I right?"
"Sí , you are correct. I—"
"Sophie? Walt? Are you okay?" Philip's voice interrupted Walt's words.
"Yes, come here. We have a visitor."
Philip came closer, and his eyes widened as he spotted the Spaniard. "I thought I heard a strange voice."
"Strange, Sí, my wife says the same thing. I am Emanuel." He moved forward eagerly to shake Philip's hand. "I've come to provide help, Señor. Perhaps you need a place to rest for a few days? Maybe someplace to hide your truck?"
Philip looked toward Walt. Even in the dim moonlight Sophie could tell he questioned whether the man should be trusted.
As if understanding the look, the man continued. "I used to work in a coal mine deep in these mountains. It has been shut down for a while. Now many of us live off what the land and forest provide. We have opposed Franco from the beginning, but no one bothers us up here. We are like fleas to them. No more than a small annoyance."
"You say you have a place where we can hide our truck, our . . . supplies?" The breeze blew slightly, and Sophie tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. A warm peace settled over her, and for some reason she knew this man—his offer—was an answer to her prayers.
" Sí, I can give you directions." Emanuel turned to Walt, as if knowing he was in charge. "It's only a couple hours' drive by truck. We can get there faster on foot, if we are not limited to the roads. It is my job, you see, to know who travels through our hills and why."
"I have paper in the truck. I'd better write these directions down." Walt turned to Philip. "You don't mind, do you, if I take over the cab for a while?"
"Not at all. I . . . I need to talk to Sophie anyway."
The man followed Walt. With excited words he described many of the ways they'd ambushed Franco's troops and stolen weapons from his armories in the nearby towns. When their voices were out of earshot, Sophie turned to Philip.
They were alone, and his look held compassion. Sophie tried to think of something to say, another way to apologize, but Philip didn't give her the chance.
He took her hand. "I know I haven't been the easiest person to get along with, Sophie. But I have to tell you that I fell asleep as soon as I lay down on the truck seat, which is a miracle in itself."
He paused, as if replaying a memory, then spoke again. "I thought I was praying, but it must have been a dream. Anyway, dream or not, I was praying for God to make a way for us, when I could almost hear Him speak. 'You're asking Me to help you, but you haven't forgiven Sophie yet. Hurry now. Go right now and forgive her.' "
Sophie felt her heartbeat quicken. "You heard that? In a dream?"
"Strange, isn't it? And then when I came to find you, to talk to you, I heard another person's voice. All I could think of was that something was going to happen to you, and you'd never know I cared. Never know I've forgiven you. I have, you know. And now I ask, can you forgive me?"
Sophie squeezed his hands. "You? But you've done nothing. I was the one who lied to you. I should have told you where I was going and why."
"And I should have trusted your heart. I know that you're not perfect, Sophie, but you try to do what's right."
Sophie didn't know what to say. Instead she offered Philip a quick embrace and stepped back. "Yes, I forgive you . . . I'm glad things are okay between us. They are okay, aren't they?"
Philip was silent for a moment; then he shrugged. "It's still painful for me, knowing you were with Michael all that time." He swallowed hard as he said that name. "But over time you can tell me more. I'm sure it wasn't easy for you either, especially after all you've faced. Soon, Sophie, I want to hear what you went through while we were apart. But not tonight. We better get some rest. Tomorrow, it seems, will be another challenging day."
* * *
With the directions tucked in his pocket, Walt approached Philip, who had resumed his first position at the base of the tree.
Philip was awake, and Walt wasn't surprised. He knew he also wouldn't be able to sleep, knowing they'd been discovered. It made no difference that they'd been discovered by a friend rather than a foe. Thankfully, Sophie trusted their decisions, and her gentle snore was carried along with the sound of crickets.
Walt pointed in the direction opposite her, and Philip rose and followed him.
When they'd moved far enough away that their voices wouldn't be heard, Walt placed a hand on Philip's shoulder. "What do you think?"
"What do you mean, what do I think? I was going to ask you."
"Then again . . ." Philip ran a hand down his face, rubbing the shadow of a beard. "He could be an answer to our prayers."
"Do you believe that?" Walt studied Philip's face. He wished he had the same faith. But to have faith in God now, he had to accept the fact that God had been there all along. A silent figure who did nothing to step in and change the one thing Walt had wanted most—which wasn't the gold.
He felt a glimmer of peace inside him. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It wasn't there, and then suddenly it was. Something inside that was telling him everything was going to be all right. He moved toward the nearest log and sat down.
"I don't know. He seemed genuine," Walt repeated.
"I sure hope so. I'll take the first watch, just in case." Philip straightened his back and crossed his arms over his chest. "This isn't only the gold we're talking about." His eyes were fixed on Sophie.
* * *
Two hours after he and Philip had talked, Walt knew he should have been sleeping. They had an answer to their problem. As strange as it was, it had come to them, walked to them, in the night. He'd never believed in God. Never given it much thought. But could this be just a coincidence?
It hadn't started this way. He never thought so much would be at stake—especially the lives of people he considered friends. He'd just wanted to find the truth about the treasure Michael sought, and a way to redeem himself.
It's been about me all along, Walt realized. I told myself the gold should be saved. I told myself the money would help the people. But the fact of the matter is, I wanted this for myself. I wanted the glory.
The large canopy of black velvet stretched before him. The closest stars were thousands—or was it millions?—of miles away. The large expanse put him in his place. The inner condemnation did too.
Who are you to think that the lives of others should be sacrificed to fill your needs? Yet even as he asked himself that, the inner peace remained. And in a strange way he somehow knew that things had turned out just as they were supposed to. It wasn't an accident.
It was too much for Walt to comprehend. He closed his eyes, hoping again for sleep. Sleep to take him away. To calm his worries and fears. And to make him forget the peace that he feared even more than the questions. Because with it he ached to understand why he had it and where it came from.
José arrived back at their campsite tired, but happy to discover all was well. The sun had already lightened the sky, and the first direct rays stretched their fingers over the high peaks.
Yesterday, before returning, he'd journeyed farther up the mountain, finally coming across the caves he'd found long ago by accident. Ones that would provide shelter for his father, Pepito, and Petra, and also for the horses. The more challenging aspect would be to find enough food and fresh water, but at least they'd have shelter. In the middle of summer, sleeping outdoors wasn't a problem, but he had to think long-term. Who knew how long it would take before...?
Before what? José asked himself. Before the Republicans won back their land? No, that would not be easy. Before winter came, and traveling in the mountains would be impossible and surviving nearly so?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was only one thing to do. He had to get Ramona and then find a passage out of the country for those he cared for. But where could they go? Where would they find the help and safety they needed? Those were just a few of the questions that plagued him.
Then, just as the dew on blades of grass evaporated under the sun's rays, his worried mind calmed under Petra's gaze.
It was just a simple gesture, Petra smiling up at José as he handed her a piece of stale bread. And her words were simple too.
"Where are we headed today?" she asked.
They were words of dependence—on him. And the look was one of pure trust and gratitude. It was only bread. And her willingness to follow, not knowing what waited ahead, caused José's chest to swell with warmth.
"There are some caves I remembered exploring as a boy with . . . a friend." He didn't mention Michael's name, although Petra would make no connection even if he did. For the briefest second a thought flickered through his mind. Perhaps Michael, too, would remember the caves and guess that's where José had gone. Yet Michael had made it clear that he cared little about the horses. In fact, José knew if things had gone as planned, Michael was now far from Spain. The Michael of today cared little about anything except for the size of his bulging bank account.
The sound of footsteps neared, and José turned to see his father approaching. Juan Guezureya's color appeared normal again, not as flushed from the heat of the sun. Still, his legs wobbled from the long days in the saddle. José could tell his father was trying to walk straight, and he realized how difficult it must be for one who trained horses and commanded stallions to have to submit to an aging body.
He searched his mind for anything witty to take his father's mind off his obvious embarrassment, when Petra jumped from where she sat on the cool grass and approached him.
"Do you have a minute, Señor, to help me with a problem?" She slid her hand in the crook of Juan's arm and led him to a fallen log, brushing off debris. "Erro, you see—I still don't think he trusts me completely. Maybe it's his hesitation when I pull on his lead that gives me that idea. Or the evil eye he gives me when I saddle him. I have the feeling he still thinks he's in charge, and that's he's just being nice to allow me to ride him."
José watched his father's countenance lift. His feeble body was forgotten, and a new energy lit his face.
"Sí, I do." Juan patted Petra's hand. "Listen closely, and I'm sure within a few days' time, the horse will understand just who is boss."
Perhaps because she knew that safety was only a few hours away, Sophie was even more nervous about being spotted. She tried to forget the danger as they drove along the dirt road, and thought only of the fact that Philip did care for her. A smile graced her lips as she scanned the views of the Spanish countryside.
Their truck rumbled past a large tree, not far off the road. It looked to Sophie to be an oak, but strangely, from the ground to the branches most of the bark had been stripped away.
Walt must have noticed her curious gaze. "Cork trees. Their bark is stripped every summer and used for wine bottles and other things, like soles for shoes."
The tree's branches spread upward at odd angles. It was hauntingly beautiful in its nakedness. Again Sophie's artist's heart wished she had time to paint these new sights, even though that was the last thing she should be thinking about. "I never thought about where cork comes from."
"Yes. And while that is interesting, there are a few things we need to discuss," Walt stated. "If we are stopped and questioned, the story we will all stick to is that we are Americans volunteering for Franco."
"Are there such people?" As soon as the words spilled from her mouth, Sophie thought of Michael.
"Do you think it is only the Republican side that has gained the sympathies of Americans? Many have come to fight for Franco—mostly Roman Catholics outraged that the Spanish Republic has disestablished the church. They believe in Franco's cry for the defense of 'Christian civilization.'"
"I wonder what Father Manuel thinks of that?" Sophie commented.
"Father Manuel?" Philip asked.
"A priest I met in Guernica right after the bombing. You should have seen the horror on his face as he looked at the destruction of his town. I bet he'd have something to say about Franco fighting for a Christian nation."
"Yes, well," Walt commented, "most volunteers for Franco do not know that side of the story—of all the destruction Franco has done in the name of Christ. All they've heard about are the church burnings and lynching of priests by the antifascists during the first months of the war."
"Something I witnessed with my own eyes in Barcelona," Philip said. "I saw a church burn. I didn't ask what happened to the priests."
&
nbsp; A deep sadness caused his face to fall. Sophie could see in his eyes that his memory took him back to that place.
"Like the volunteers on the other side," Walt said, "most of the Fascist volunteers know no Spanish, and virtually nothing of Spain itself."
"Yet, once they get here . . . can't they see they are fighting against the Spanish people?" Sophie asked.
"Are they? Imagine it from their point of view. Who are they fighting?" Walt glanced at Philip, and Sophie tried to put herself in the mind of a Fascist volunteer.
She thought of those she'd helped in the field hospitals. She thought of her former driver and friend Deion, a member of the Communist party.
"I am sure they believe they are fighting against Russia. Against the Soviet Union invading. Against foreigners trying to take over their country."
"You are very observant, Señorita."
"I've thought of this before, but . . . well, it makes me wonder what would have happened if my journey into Spain had led me to Nationalist-held territory. Would I now be fighting equally as hard for their side?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Of course, I didn't give you that opportunity, did I?"
Sophie laughed, yet even her laughter seemed stilted due to the pain she still noted in Philip's gaze. "No, I don't suppose you did. Like a fish biting on to bait, I was pulled from a safe pond into a huge ocean of conflict. Then again"—she patted Philip's hand—"I wouldn't have it any other way. As odd as it sounds, this is exactly where I want to be—no matter the number of times I've questioned this very thing."
Walt cocked an eyebrow. "So this is your idea of a vacation, huh? You like knowing that people are hunting us down as we speak?"
"I meant to imply that I am thankful I am in Spain I could do without being in the territory of the enemy. But more than that, I'm with exactly who I want to be with."