by Cara Putman
“Snap out of it, Lindstrom, and get your head back in your task.” DeWald’s stare bored through Scott. “Lucky for you here comes the solution to your problems.” The head of the MFAA’s small band of men in Italy inclined his head toward a private on the other side of the room.
The man saluted when he reached them. “Rumor has it you need wheels, Lieutenant.”
Scott eyed the soldier in front of him. “I do.”
“And I have a jeep and orders to transport you.”
“Why?”
“Someone wants to keep your sorry carcass alive. Maybe they’re tired of your bellyaching. All I know is I have orders and the keys.” The man’s posture matched the arrogant tone of his words. DeWald hid a smirk behind his hand.
“Have a name, soldier?”
“Private Tyler Salmon. Sir.”
With the attitude and sneer, Scott could understand why DeWald would think it a great idea to dump a problem soldier in his lap. Scott couldn’t turn down a jeep when days could pass before another came his way. He hadn’t seen even a spare carburetor floating around, let alone a full vehicle. Supplies hadn’t been too happy after the one he’d used came back with dents and squirrelly alignment thanks to his foray into the countryside. “Your orders?”
The man eyed him from beneath overlong chestnut hair and reached into his inside jacket pocket, yanked them out, and plopped them on the desk.
Scott scanned them. Looked authentic. “All right. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Roust up extra petrol. Once we’re out of Naples, getting more is next to impossible. I’d like to make it back.”
“Unlike last time?”
Scott stifled the urge to throttle Private Salmon. For all the ribbing he took, Scott wished he’d never let Captain Justice in his jeep. Sure he’d enjoyed the company, and she seemed to enjoy his—until the sun set and they got detained—but that had been out of his control . . . mostly. “It’s complicated.”
“War is.” The private retrieved his papers. “See ya in the a.m.”
“Be here at six.” He’d make sure they didn’t get caught at night.
“Yes, sir.” The man sauntered away.
Scott grabbed a few of the Frick maps the Army Air Force had prepared for the bombers. The maps were overloaded with landmarks but could help him identify where they needed to go. Reports had it streamlined maps were on the way, but he’d yet to see them. Navigators struggled to use the overcrowded maps as they sought to avoid monuments while hitting war targets. The current maps were bloated like everything else in the occupation forces. If something could be done in an hour, why not make it a week? With a jeep he’d make each day work for him.
After Scott spread a Frick map in front of him, he and DeWald spent the next hours comparing it to one of the Harvard Lists for the region and plotting the best approach.
Scott stood. “You want to join us? There’s room for more in the jeep.”
DeWald shook his head. “I’ve got to get this outfit appreciated. Build plans for the move north. You get out there while I get the framework in place.”
“All right.” Scott worked until his back ached from bending over the maps. The lines blurred in front of him. If he studied the pages more, he wouldn’t be able to make sense of what he saw.
He stopped by Rachel’s hotel on his way to his quarters. It was late, but he wanted to try one more time. Now that he had a jeep and a plan, he’d like her to rejoin him. He wandered around the lobby and small restaurant. He just decided he’d wasted enough time when he spotted her dark hair topped with her military cap. An oversized book sat in her lap, and she looked a thousand miles away.
“You’re alive.”
Rachel jerked to attention, the book sliding on her skirt before she caught it. “Lieutenant.”
He’d hoped for a bit more warmth in her voice. “I haven’t seen you in days. You disappeared.”
She brushed a hand across the cover and sighed. “It wasn’t my intent. I got a new assignment when we returned. Taking photos of refugees.” She shrugged as she looked at him for the first time. “I thought the press office would inform you.”
“They didn’t.” He let a small smile crack his face. “I’m headed out tomorrow. Would you like to join us?”
She bit her lower lip in an appealing gesture. “I’d like to, but . . .”
“You have an assignment.”
“I do. One I’m to keep to myself.”
“Ah, one of those.” He nodded.
“Yes.”
“I enjoyed our day together.”
Her gaze searched his face as if she weighed the truth of his statement. He met her gaze and hoped she read his sincerity.
“I did too. Thank you for showing me your job. One of the photos was picked up by the wire service.”
“That’s great!”
“It is.” Her smile had a shy edge to it, and then she shifted as she stifled a yawn.
“I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing.”
She stood and extended her hand. “Good night, Lieutenant.”
He took her hand. What would she do if he pulled her into an embrace? He shook the impulsive thought away and raised her hand to kiss it instead, then turned to leave before he did anything more ridiculous and impulsive.
The next morning Scott paced outside his office. Would Private Salmon grace him with his presence? Vehicles roared along the street despite the predawn hour. If the private didn’t show up fast, the early start Scott wanted would evaporate.
Someone laid on a horn, enough that it pierced the racket of other traffic. A few moments later, a jeep slid in front of Scott. “Ready, Lieutenant?”
Scott hopped into the vehicle and nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“Salerno.”
The next days passed as they worked their way up and down streets, trails, and bomb-pitted roads. The devastation extended in each direction. Scott made notes as they drove, looking for landmarks listed in the brochures. In the late thirties his time in Rome had extended to Naples but not many villages—each of which had a treasure. Now his assignment from DeWald was to get to as many of the sixty-five Neapolitan churches damaged by recent battles. By June each should have repair work underway until restoration could be attempted.
What would Rachel think of the countryside, small towns, and churches? Would she sense the loss he felt as they traveled the countryside and worked with local Italian art superintendents to reinforce churches? Churches stood with roofs bombed off. Stained glass created centuries before by renowned artists—shattered. Frescoes incinerated by fire. Roofs could be rebuilt, but salvaging frescoes and stained glass was a different matter altogether.
At the end of long days, he wished for dozens more men trained in repairing and shoring up the great edifices. Then there were the paintings, altarpieces, and sculptures that begged for the careful, cautious hands and skill of restorers. His work as a curator hadn’t prepared him for those kinds of challenges. He applied what he’d learned from watching others and talking to the Monuments and Fine Arts Administration officers in Naples.
While trapped in Naples, Scott and the other MFAA soldiers found a sort of stasis, a place of tolerated assignments while restlessness built. Tyler Salmon appeared day after day, and Scott worked with the man, but he wasn’t a good fit with the MFAA since he showed no interest in the mission.
One morning Tyler leaned against a pillar pitted with bullet holes as Scott walked around a neighborhood church, evaluating the local Italian workers’ progress. Watching him lounge day after day ate at Scott. His pulse throbbed until he could hardly move. He marched toward the man. “Get up and do something.”
“What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?”
Scott point
ed at a broom. “At least sweep up debris. Make yourself useful.”
Tyler shifted until his chest puffed out like a rooster’s. “You don’t have authority. Someone else gives me orders to babysit you.”
Scott clenched his jaw to the point he had to relax or crack a tooth. Not what he needed in the decimated city. “I suggest you wait with the jeep. I’d hate to have it disappear while you support a column.”
“Sure. I can do that.” Tyler grinned, and Scott wanted to knock the cockiness from him.
What gave Tyler the idea he was untouchable? Maybe reality. Scott had less authority than most lieutenants and less training than the rest. His art knowledge was what got his commission enhanced, not his prowess on the battlefield. Though if he were a wagering sort of man, he’d say odds were good Tyler didn’t have a lick more battle sense than he had.
Rachel’s new assignment with the Fifth Division didn’t move her closer to Tuscany. She’d spent several days waiting for the Fifth to move. Her editor, Dick, kept her busy at the United Press offices as he mumbled about not liking her moving into the unknown with the division, as if to convince her to decline and stay in the office. But she needed to do something more than stay in place.
She’d wandered the city when she could, but Naples was old news. No more photos would be published until she left the city behind. After Scott found her in the hotel, she wondered where he’d spent his days. She’d asked to be reassigned to him while she waited, but the request was denied. Any moment the Fifth would move, but it evolved into the longest moment of her life. She couldn’t do a thing to move the war forward. With each wave of mail and no letter from home, the noose of worry tightened around her heart.
Waiting. What a horrid word when she knew the tuberculosis wouldn’t wait as it ravaged her momma’s body. It might slide to the side, but it wouldn’t disappear without aggressive treatment.
She had to find a way north to Tuscany. Since that’s where her mother spent most of her time in Italy, it seemed the best place to search for her father.
One night when the other girls had gone to dinner with a few officers, Rachel stayed behind and pulled out her momma’s diary. She closed her eyes and imagined her mom in Italy. A young woman, soul full of dreams, heart filled with ideas of love as she learned all she could about art.
The opportunity to study abroad could launch my artistic career. After a year of studying in Florence, I could take a place next to Mary Cassatt. Paint and teach. Instead the romance of Italy, the very word vibrates with beauty and love, distracted me. Now I return to the States with a steamer trunk filled with canvasses and shattered dreams. My womb filled with a child. A child that will cause my parents to disown me.
Even now I love my Italian passionately. My whole heart is consumed with him. My thoughts constantly return to him, even as the boat carries me ever farther away. At least I will have my child, since I will never open my heart or arms to another man. Italy will be a chapter of my past. A page I will turn and forget as much as I can. I must turn my face to the future with its uncertainty. Somehow I will make a way for us. Us . . . not the way I envisioned my life.
Reading the words shook Rachel. She’d been the reason Momma abandoned her life’s ambitions. Somehow her momma had survived those days of disillusionment and uncertainty when her family turned their back.
Rachel leaned back against the headboard. What would she do in a similar position? Abandon all she knew to run back to the arms of the man she loved? Maybe someday she’d know. But as she sat in the small hotel room in a battered city, the possibility of finding a love to cherish for a lifetime seemed beyond infinitesimal.
It was impossible.
Chapter 8
May 24
Rachel had seen one painting and the preparatory photos her momma took while in Italy. On a rare visit to her grandmother’s, Rachel had noticed a framed photo, dotted and faded by time. She’d studied the composition of the piece, armed with new knowledge from her college art-appreciation class, and knew she would have framed the scene the same way. Her grandmother had smiled, sadness tingeing her eyes. “Your momma took that in Italy. It became the basis for her painting.”
Rachel clutched the diary close to her chest. Her momma’s paintings had the late Impressionist feel of Mary Cassatt’s paintings. Tears flowed at the thought that her momma had given up so much to provide for her, and now Rachel was failing in her attempt to find her father. She swiped at the dampness that trailed down her skin. She had to slog forward, step-by-step, through the muck of war.
Maybe if luck and heaven smiled on her, she’d find her father. Maybe he’d believe her. Maybe he’d have the resources and willingness to help Momma. And maybe Momma would still live.
All Rachel could control was her search.
If her father was an artist, would Lieutenant Lindstrom interact with him? If she had a name, she could solicit his help. Sketches alone couldn’t be enough.
She opened the diary to Momma’s earlier entries, rubbing a hand along Momma’s spidery writing, unchanged in loops and formalness to this day. So much like Momma’s personality. A stiff, almost foreboding exterior walling off the slight silliness tinged with flair.
The nights have a depth, a richness, I can’t see in New York City. Yes, Florence is a city, but travel a few kilometers . . . only a few . . . and I find myself thrust deep into a velvet sky dotted with diamonds. I search them for the formations, the lore of old hidden in its vastness. Then my guide arrives and weaves stories of passion and war. I find myself swept away by the art and romance.
What would Momma’s life have been like if she’d stood strong? Vastly different, nothing like her present. Instead, in the next pages her momma outlined what Rachel saw as a web of seduction. Gifts and poetry all delivered with a delightful Italian accent. What could Momma do but fall in love? At least that’s how the diary painted the situation.
Maybe knowing her momma’s story prompted Rachel to keep her walls high, never letting anyone into her soul. She’d spent weeks in Naples, and yet Dottie remained an acquaintance despite her roommate’s continued attempts to get her to join the girls when they went out after long days of work. The girls had even tapered off on teasing her about her night with Scott.
Someday they’d realize they teased about nothing because nothing had happened. Scott had treated her with complete respect. Did that mean he didn’t find her the least bit appealing? She shouldn’t care, yet no matter how many times she told herself that, she still wondered why he hadn’t been even a little interested. Yet he’d sought her out. That had to mean something.
What did she want?
To lock her heart away and keep it safe?
Or a man who would scale the barriers and wariness to penetrate her heart?
Rachel couldn’t risk meeting someone who would seduce her with an imitation of love. The starkness of her thoughts scared her. She couldn’t live her life with barriers surrounding her heart.
The room’s door banged open, and Rachel shoved the diary under her pillow. Dottie bounced in, her blonde curls swirling about her pixie face. “You missed the most divine night.”
“I’m glad you had a good time.”
“You must come next time. It’s unhealthy to spend so much time cooped up in this small space. You have to get out and do something.”
“Dancing?”
“It is exercise.” Dottie’s grin sparked an answering one in Rachel. “And nice to forget for a bit where we are.” She lay back against her pillow. “I always wanted to see Naples. It seemed so romantic.” She propped up on her elbow and wrinkled her nose. “This is not.”
Rachel stifled a smile. It could be . . . if she spent more time with a certain lieutenant.
The next morning Rachel roamed the streets of Naples, her camera in hand. The breath of approaching summer filled her as she saw rosebushes pushing to life through a moun
d of rubble that must have been a home before the battle. She opened her camera and framed the shot. This wasn’t an image her boss would use, but it spoke to her. Somehow in the rose finding the strength to bud, she imagined the Italian people doing the same. Yes, it would take time. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but the country would rebuild.
After snapping a frame, she moved on. This portion of road stood almost clear of debris. She glanced down occasionally to keep from tripping or falling into a hole. Strains of an opera turned her gaze up. She paused when she noticed a Victrola phonograph standing in the glassless window of a second-story apartment. The building looked intact, if one didn’t need windows. Maybe that’s why the high contralto floated unhindered to Rachel’s ears. A bass undertone vibrated with it. Rachel closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the warmth of the sun as the song played.
The moment felt touched by grace. Kissed by heaven with the resonance that life would go on. Despite the destruction.
As the last notes warbled on the air, Rachel opened her eyes and sighed. The warmth of the music penetrated her, and she longed to savor the moment. After raising her Argus C3, she took another photo, trying to capture the contrasting grace of the beautiful phonograph against the broken shards in the window’s corners.
A woman stepped next to the phonograph. Rachel pointed at the camera, then the woman. The woman frowned then seemed to understand. She posed, one hand resting on the horn of the phonograph, the other on the window ledge. Her solemn gaze never flinched from the camera until Rachel pulled it from her face and smiled. “Grazie.”
“Certamente.” The woman waved a birdlike hand and then restarted the phonograph.
Rachel resumed her pace, then turned once when her senses stood at attention. She felt like someone was watching her. She turned to examine the sidewalk for someone, then shrugged and resumed her wandering when she saw no one.
Since coming to Naples, that’s all she’d done. Like the stories she’d heard in Sunday school of the Israelites. The problem was, she couldn’t afford to wander for forty days, let alone forty years.