They found the house and the large barn down the road a few miles and up another winding road, just as the man described. The house was small—no bigger than one of the suites at the hotel Sophie's father managed back in Boston—but it looked well tended. The rough-hewn planks had received a fresh coat of whitewash. A small chicken coop stood to the right of the house. A dozen thin chickens squawked as the truck rumbled up and parked in front of the barn.
"Sophie, you stay here. Philip and I will check the premises before we settle in."
The men got out of the truck and moved together, like two soldiers scouting the area for the enemy—looking first in the house and then the barn, and finally the area surrounding the buildings. After twenty minutes they returned.
"It looks good. Almost too much so." Walt climbed into the cab and started the engine. "There is a garden in back, a well for water, and a creek less than a half mile away. It's a perfect setup really, with everything we need."
A way to heat bathwater? Someplace to sleep other than the ground? To Sophie, this was the center of comfort, and it was safe . . . an answer to prayer. Though she was thankful, she wished that somehow she'd also find clothes not faded and mended. And boots that hadn't traipsed from one end of Spain to the other. But she knew better than even to wish for such things.
"A creek, that will be nice. And to sleep in a bed will be wonderful. There is a bed, isn't there?"
Walt turned the truck around so it backed up to the barn. "Yes, one bed. Philip and I have already decided we'll sleep outside to guard the gold."
For the briefest second Sophie felt a tinge of guilt that she'd have a bed and pillow, and they wouldn't. She thought about suggesting they take turns, but she knew these men. They wouldn't hear of it. Besides, it was the only thing to do. She couldn't sleep one night in the bed and the next with one of the guys.
Philip jumped from the truck and opened the two large barn doors. Slowly Walt backed the truck in, the large tires crunching the hay. When he'd made it all the way back, Philip shut the door most of the way, so just a crack of light illuminated the truck.
Sophie let out a long sigh. "Amazing. How come I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my chest?"
"Well, it's a good start—that's for sure." Walt opened the door and jumped down. His eyes didn't meet hers, and she sensed that something bothered him. Something he wasn't telling.
"We can't stay here long," he commented, his voice more cheerful than she'd ever heard it. "But it will give us time to make a plan, find more supplies, and rest. Then we can get the gold out of this country and sell it to the right people." He pulled off his hat and rubbed his forehead. Dark circles under his eyes and worry lines creasing his forehead made his face appear older.
Sophie climbed from the truck, sneezing at the cloud of dust that stirred on the floor of the barn. "When you say rest . . . do we also have time to look at what we have back there?" She pointed to the back of the truck.
The initial feeling she had of not wanting to see or touch the gold had subsided the farther they'd driven from the airfield. It was as if the thin blanket of security she felt piqued her curiosity.
Philip had approached and heard her question. "I imagine there are people who would give anything to view our load. Most of the Aztec and Inca goldwork found its way into the Spanish melting pot hundreds of years ago."
"The gold sent on to Russia has most likely met the same fate," Walt added. "This is all that's left." He opened the back and jumped onto the truck bed, lifting the lid off of one of the boxes. "Philip, can you get that lantern?"
Philip took the lantern from the wall, pulled out a lighter from his pocket and lit it, handing it to Walt. Walt set the lantern on the lid of another box, illuminating the cargo. Rays of light glittered off the gold, as if the pieces glowed with light.
Sophie and Philip joined him, running their hands through the coins, jewelry, and other gold treasures.
"So, how many antique artifacts remain? Not counting these, of course," Sophie asked.
"Well, let me put it this way. Just five years ago a treasure hunter, Dr. Alfonso Caso, discovered the undisturbed tomb of a high Mixtec official. What he found doubled the ornaments held by collectors—which tells you that there aren't many pieces."
"What about the pieces held by Spain? Did they include those in the count?"
"No, they didn't." Walt held up a coin, studied it closely, then returned it to the box. "Not many people even knew it was there. The Spanish government hasn't been stable in years. Bank officers come and go. Perhaps if someone had a good friend, they might have been able to get a look at the treasure hidden in the bank vaults. The greatest fear of those who understood was that others who had no idea of its worth would sell it or melt it down."
Philip held up an object that appeared to be a cob of corn . . . a pure gold cob of corn. "Which is exactly what happened. And why these pieces are so valuable."
Walt held some pieces of jewelry in the light. The necklace and ring were bulkier than Sophie had expected, and much more interesting, too. The double chain of the necklace held a three-tiered pendant that reminded her of an inverted layered wedding cake. Within each tier was a precise pattern of small circles. She couldn't even imagine how long it must have taken a craftsman to create a piece like that.
Walt gave a low whistle. "I know one thing. Cortés understated the talent of the Mexican goldsmiths. This work is finer than I expected."
"Can I see?" Philip opened his hand, and Walt placed a ring in his palm. "I studied South American culture in college, and I can see some of the same design elements. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say these pieces were Inca. But you probably know more than I do."
"I can see why you would think that. Some of their techniques came from Ecuador or Peru and migrated up the Pacific Coast—but this workmanship tops the best of the older goldwork."
Sophie ran her fingers over a necklace. She tried to picture it around the neck of an Aztec or Inca queen. What type of life did that woman live? Was this a gift from her husband? Father? What would she think of the fact that the society she ruled over had been completely wiped out—partly due to the greed of foreigners who longed for the very necklace she wore around her neck? What would she think of the idea that her jewelry would survive long after she did and would be sought by so many?
The necklace had been stolen during the conquest—and how many times since then had it changed hands? And now it was in Sophie's. Its fate depended on them. Would it be okay to pray for gold pieces that had been crafted in the worship of false gods?
"I can't help thinking about the beliefs of the people who crafted this," Sophie said. "The items were made and given in worship in great temples, and now they're hidden in the back of a truck and cared for by us. Maybe their bad omens did come true—I mean, look how things ended for them."
"That reminds me of a story by Diaz that I used to tell my students." Philip sat back on his haunches. "Diaz claimed that on the night when Cortés retreated from Mexico in the mid-sixteenth century, he took his share of the treasure and then turned the surplus over to his troops.
"Of course, the natives didn't stand for their temples being robbed. They chased the Spaniards out of their towns—towns that were very confusing to maneuver through, since they were lined with numerous canals. Most of the men tried swimming the canals in order to escape." He paused and looked at Sophie.
"But the men's pockets were filled with gold . . . they would've drowned!"
"That is exactly right. You, my dear, get an A for today's assignment!"
"What about this Diaz? How did he survive to write about it?" she asked.
"Well, Diaz was smart. He knew the Aztecs believed jade was more valuable than gold. So when he left, he took four pieces of jade instead of the gold treasure. He later traded the jade for food and care. He didn't return to Spain with great wealth, but his awareness of the people and what they valued most saved his life."
Again, a strange feeling flooded Sophie, and she returned the gold necklace to the box. "That's fascinating. I'm sure your students loved it."
"Well, they certainly seemed to learn more when I taught history through stories than when I forced them to memorize names and dates."
"And someday, when you return, you can tell them stories about your own adventures in Spain!"
Philip laughed. "I'm sure they'd think I made it all up. Their history teacher fought in trenches, rescued a beautiful woman on the front lines, aided a Nazi spy unawares, was kidnapped by a thief, and helped to protect ancient treasure."
Sophie's laughter joined his, and even Walt smiled and shook his head.
"They'd believe you had too much Spanish wine, my friend," he said.
"Still, it is nice to think that we'll go back someday, isn't it?" Sophie studied Philip's face. "I'd love to go see the school where you taught. See the track where you used to race. Meet your parents, too."
Philip nodded. "I think that can be arranged."
Walt cleared his throat. "Well, it's nice to know that you two lovebirds have your future all set, but I think we need to find out what's in the house, see what we can use, and start thinking about our plan of attack for now. The way I see it, we won't be safe here for long. News about a truck passing this way won't stay quiet when so many people know of it. We need to consider our assets and our liabilities."
"Reminds me of the Boy Scouts," Philip commented. "The first step in making a feasible plan is to figure out what can help you and what hinders you."
Walt nodded and placed the lid back on the gold. "Yes. And what could help Spain the most is now our biggest hindrance."
Deion felt like he was coming home as he slid into the seat of the old Russian truck. The back was filled with supplies for the soldiers. The seat next to him was empty. He'd offered Gwen a ride, but she refused, stating that she wouldn't travel to the front lines after all, since she was needed in the operating room. Deion knew she didn't like what he had told her. And because of that, she now didn't like him.
But he knew what he'd said was true. For a while carrying the weight of the world could be a good feeling. Personally, with more responsibility, he'd taken more pride in his worth. Yet he had learned the hard way that anyone under that pressure would grow discouraged. He only wished he had walked away seeing the twinkle return to Gwen's eyes.
Just before the truck pulled out, the commander motioned for Deion to wait. A moment later, a young German soldier climbed into the truck. The man appeared friendly, but Deion's skin crawled. He remembered another German he'd cared for—only to discover he was an enemy pilot. Ritter had fooled them all, and Deion wondered if this man was the same—a liar, a spy trying to gather information for his own cause.
It wasn't until Deion read his assignment papers that he discovered he'd been assigned not with his own Abraham Lincoln Brigade, but as a driver for the German International Brigade—the Thaelmann Battalion.
The truck creaked and groaned as Deion drove through the night. The man beside him slept, and as the hours passed he realized the weariness of the soldier was not unlike his own. Deion struggled to keep his eyes open. He would do the best job he could, even if he didn't enjoy it.
When the German awoke, he worked hard to communicate. Hans had light brown hair and a handsome face. He didn't understand Deion's silence, and treated their lack of communication as a puzzle to figure out. First he'd try a word in Spanish, to see if Deion understood. Then he'd try to remember the English word. He'd hop all around the word he meant until Deion would finally blurt it out, much to the young man's delight.
Somehow, through bits of English mixed with Spanish, Deion learned that the man's family were Socialists and locked up in Hitler's concentration camps. Only then did his heart begin to soften.
"They hang dark men from trees in America?" Hans asked, his most clear sentence yet.
"Yes. People just think it's a free country."
Deion thought of his own family back home in Mississippi. They were fenced by the same type of hostile feelings this man's family faced, though they didn't live behind barbed wire. Instead they were held in by signs that said WHITES ONLY. And their deaths often came by the rope.
Deion didn't share his insights with Hans. Instead he told him about his work in Chicago washing dishes, and his train ride to New York with the other hobos on the rail. He told him about the group of friends he discovered in the Big Apple—a few of whom traveled to Spain. He didn't know how much the German understood, but the man nodded and listened.
Finally, they arrived at the Thaelman outpost and unloaded their supplies. The German volunteers shared some stew and bread with Deion, and gave him many pats on the back for successfully bringing their supplies.
Before leaving, Deion sought Hans out. Giving him a firm handshake, he cleared his throat. "Great meetin' you. I'll pray fer you."
Hans nodded and smiled, and Deion laughed out loud, realizing the communication barrier again won. It didn't matter, though. He knew the man understood enough.
As Deion climbed back into the truck to make the return ride alone, he missed Hans's chatter. He also realized what a strange day it had been. A pretty nurse, a friend, had become an enemy. And a perceived enemy had become a friend. No one ever said things were easy to figure out in Spain.