Shadowed by Grace

by Cara Putman

  A soldier strode toward them, head high and shoulders back. He looked as if he expected to battle them and win as he had over the retreating Germans. “You are?”

  “Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom.” Scott dropped her bag and snapped a quick salute. “With me are Captain Rachel Justice and Private Tyler Salmon.”

  Tyler didn’t bother with a salute, and the officer’s mustache twitched. “I see. I’ve heard your name. What can I do for you?”

  “A place to work, and we’ll take care of the rest. Captain Justice is with the United Press, so she may wander around a bit in her capacity.”

  The officer eyed her, his gaze taking in every centimeter of her. Rachel fought the rising heat in her neck, praying it didn’t reach her cheeks where it would be noticeable to the men. Instead, she raised her chin and met his gaze. With a quick jerk of his head, he acknowledged her challenge. “All right. Within reason of course.” He turned back to Scott. “My man will show you where you can set up. Study the way there. This place is a maze. Alcoves and such in every direction. I’d suggest you wait in the courtyard for him.”

  “Thank you.” Scott shifted the bags to the ground and stood at ease, even as his fists clenched and released behind his back.

  Chapter 25

  Uniformed men mixed with weary civilians in the courtyard. Each bore the effects of war. Filth, fatigue, with the civilians bearing the added look of starvation. Closer to the land, Rachel had assumed they would have a better source of food, but the initial look belied the idea. While Scott and Tyler conversed with their guide in the courtyard entrance, Rachel looked for a corner of unoccupied shade.

  She worked into a darkened corner, her locket thumping against her collarbone. The best photo opportunities would arise once everyone had returned to their activities. If they could forget she was there, they’d show her what life looked like at this castle turned into refugee center.

  To one side a child wailed, hidden somewhere in the shadows. Several young children kicked around a ball of rags in a version of soccer. Their dirty faces radiated joy as they scrambled. The kind she would see in children back home who were untouched by war. One child kicked the ball in the path of a soldier. He stumbled to get out of the way, and they cowered. He studied them, their frames slumped and eyes hooded. Then he stepped toward the ball, and the boys backed away. What had they experienced that made them fearful?

  The sergeant picked up the ball and tucked a loose rag in the wad. He pointed it toward some of his mates. “Want to play?”

  One pulled his cap lower over his eyes and crossed his arms, sinking lower to the ground. Another nodded. “Why not?”

  In a matter of minutes, the man had rallied a crowd of weary soldiers to participate in a raucous game with the kids. The children lost their fearful expressions, and laughter rang through the courtyard. Rachel edged from the corner and took several photos, praying some captured the spontaneity, joy, and grace.

  Scott found her with the sun warming her back as she framed another photo from her spot on the ground.

  “We’re here until Florence opens. I’ve found us rooms inside.”

  She pulled the camera down and eyed him. “I’m sleeping in a castle?”

  “We’ve got two bedrooms. Almost like a suite. It’s the best I could wrangle unless you want a corner of the courtyard?”

  That held no appeal if there was the possibility of a place to relax in privacy after a full day of jostling over a road. “It has a door?”

  “Yes, and I’ll even sleep in front of it.”

  Her smile grew. “I feel like a princess. Lead on, Lieutenant.”

  Scott led Rachel to the rooms, wondering if he needed a piece of chalk to mark the way. There were more twists and turns than he could track. And stairs going in all directions. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t get lost since his guide had returned to official duties. With each room he passed, Scott ached to open the door and scour it for treasures, many waiting in plain sight from glimpses he’d had. Once the bags were deposited, he’d get to work and Rachel could explore.

  The cracked doors they passed hinted at the riches waiting. He might need several notebooks to catalog all hidden here and identify what—if anything—had been removed. A retreating army shouldn’t place a premium on moving large paintings, but he didn’t understand German interactions with and demands on Italian art superintendents in this region.

  He made a last turn, then opened a large, heavy wooden door. “Here we are.”

  Rachel stepped around him then gasped. The room elicited that kind of response. The frescoes across the walls and ceilings were unlike anything he’d seen in the States.

  “It’s a museum.”

  “In many ways. The owner’s father purchased it on something of a whim.”

  “To be able to finance such whims.”

  “Right.” Scott chuckled and led her to an interior door. “Your room is here.” She followed him into the smaller space. “Will this work?”

  A double bed rested against the wall, with a small dresser carrying a pitcher and bowl next to the bed and a large chest at its foot. “It’s fine.” She dropped her bag and bedroll on the chest, next to the bag he’d already deposited. “Thanks for getting that here.”

  “No problem.” He glanced around the small room, then at her. The space closed around them. Where could time of peace to court the beautiful Rachel Justice lead? He inhaled and corralled his thoughts. “All right. I need to find this Italian.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard.” She glanced up at him, a soft smile tipping her lips, lips that begged him to tug her close for a time-stopping kiss. “I heard several soldiers mention him. Seems to get around and isn’t intimidated by them.”

  A knock followed her words. Scott hurried back across the main room, grateful for the reason to leave before he did something he shouldn’t, like kiss Rachel. When he opened the door, a smallish man with olive complexion waited. A tenuous smile tipped his lips and broadened as he studied Scott.

  “Tell me this cannot be true. After all this time. My friend Scott Lindstrom.”

  “Renaldo! You are well.” Scott pulled the man into a bear hug.

  “In one piece as of this moment. Of tomorrow I make no promises.”

  “Neither can I.” Scott studied his former mentor. “What brings you to Montegufoni?”

  “Similar mission to yours. Protecting my precious arts.”

  Scott studied his friend, noting the shadows under his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks. “This has been a hard time.”

  “A hard time for Italia.”

  Scott nodded. How had the man’s experiences melded with his own? He’d seen the devastation after it occurred. How much had Renaldo witnessed? “And your family?”

  “Also safe. For the moment.” He jangled something in his pocket, a familiar gesture that reminded Scott of so many conversations they’d had in the past. The teacher impatient for the student to catch up. “It is why I left Florence. Walked the long kilometers from the city. With me gone, maybe the Germans will not care about my family.”

  Maybe, but from what Scott had collected from conversations, the Germans liked to use families as tools to prompt actions they demanded. “So where do we begin?”

  “A tour.” Renaldo clapped his hands and gestured down the hallway. “This way.”

  Scott glanced back toward Rachel’s room. Should he get her or let her rest? She hadn’t slipped from her room, so if he got oriented first, he’d be better prepared to help her. Maybe he could determine whether Renaldo knew of the sketchbook. He followed Renaldo into the hall and down the dark corridor. The amount of filth surprised him. In many of the rooms, it looked as if a previous occupant had smashed the furniture to pieces. “Why?”

  “The destruction?” Renaldo shook his head. “Much is beyond repair. But the Germans,” he shrugged, “they weren�
��t happy to leave such a fine place alone. Up and down the country it is the same. We hear reports of things taken, others destroyed. There won’t be much left when this ends.”

  “So art was moved here?”

  “At one time, fall 1942 should not feel so distant. We thought the valley would be spared. We prayed Firenze would be, but it was prudent to prepare.” He walked a few feet in silence as if seeing a terrible vision.

  Scott understood. “It was prudent. You did what was needed.”

  “Until now. Even the owner of Castello di Poppiano returned to Florence, believing it safer.”

  “Where is Poppiano?”

  “Across the valley. You can see it from here. With its villa it hosts the wealth of Florence not stored here.” He sighed, a rough, bitter edge making the sound harsh. “You should see the paintings. Six hundred. Crammed into vehicles. Shipped in heaps. We tried to wrap them to protect them. But the war . . .”

  “Chaos.”

  “Yes.”

  Renaldo led the way down a narrow staircase and then across a small courtyard. “Like all old castles this started as seven small buildings and has grown over hundreds of years.”

  “A maze. I might need you to guide me back.”

  “My job is to keep moving. So the soldiers never know where to expect me. Then they will not take even small pieces. I know this castillo as well as the owner. Ah, here.”

  Scott followed the art superintendent through another door. This room took his breath away. Each wall was painted with a mix of cubist or classical harlequins. “What is this?”

  “A commissioned room that is art. Severini is the artist.”

  “Who?”

  “An Italian artist who paints under the influence of Picasso. You don’t know him?”

  “Not yet.” Scott walked closer to the south wall and examined the work along it. “Does this represent something?”

  Renaldo made a face. “If you can call it art.”

  Looking from the frescoes then out the windows, the setting for it was Montegufoni. “I wonder if the artist inserted himself into the paintings. Maybe the commissioners too.”

  “You can ask when this terrible business ends.”

  “Maybe.” Scott would remember the name. See if he could learn more about the man who could bring such fanciful creatures to life on a large scale. “So where is all this art?”

  “Hidden in plain sight. A couple local farmers have guarded it. Even so some were used as tables for meals cooked in the same rooms.” The man looked like his eyes would roll out of his head at the thought of such perverse use of the art.

  “Two years ago this castillo was abandoned. Everything cloth covered and mothballed. Now? Now the farmers moved back. The landowner spent years moving the peasants off the castle, and the war has chased them back. Add in soldiers.” The man raised his hands and rubbed his temples. “It is amazing any survive.”

  “In what condition?”

  “Varied.” He turned to leave the frescoed room. “This way.”

  Five minutes of silence passed as they wove their way through refugees and soldiers. A family was tucked in every covered walkway. Many rooms had sheets strewn along the open spaces to make tiny apartments. “Where have you slept?”

  “I have not. If I sleep, the art is undefended.”

  No wonder the man stumbled occasionally. He was exhausted. “When did you arrive?”

  “Two days ago. In time to seek shelter from an air raid in the Poppiano’s basement.” Renaldo gestured to another room. This one was dark, the curtains drawn against the light, furniture absent. Scott had expected grandeur, but the room felt empty, cold. Then his eyes adjusted to the room.

  “There you are.” Tyler strode into the room. “I’ve been searching all over this mess of a place looking for you and Rachel. The New Zealanders ignore me.”

  “Must be your sparkling wit,” Scott bit out as he continued to scan the room.

  “What have we here?” Tyler marched deeper into the room, toward the stacks of canvases Scott had noticed the moment his eyes adjusted.

  Renaldo looked from one to the other.

  “This is my driver Private Tyler Salmon.”

  Tyler waved without turning toward the man. “The treasure trove sure as day.” He walked to a stack and flipped through them, causing Renaldo to flinch as Tyler smacked frames together.

  “Take care, Private.”

  With a nod the man kept flipping. “These are fantastic. Look, . . . is this a Giotto?”

  Scott strode over, determined to break the man’s hands if he didn’t take some care with the priceless art. He glanced at the piece, then nodded. “Looks to be.” His hands itched to inventory the room and the others in Montegufoni, Poppiano, and the villa. To think there were more repositories, places overflowing with the artistic wealth of Italy. In this case the Medicis’ legacy to Florence and the world.

  It was a singular thought that could scoop his breath out of his lungs and scatter it.

  “It’s kind of a cruddy place.”

  Renaldo stood as tall as his small frame allowed. “This is improvement over others. Montagnana. Such desolation. Art stolen. And others left on the floor like trash. Perugino’s Crucifixion. Lorenzetti’s Presentation at the Temple.” Renaldo crossed himself and swooned.

  Scott steadied him. “We’re here to help.”

  “For that I am grateful. We need assistance.”

  Tyler pantomimed sitting on a chair. “You’re missing a few things.”

  “That is easy. Many hid valuable furniture. Even in the countryside the elite learned it best to hide anything they did not want destroyed.” Renaldo’s voice carried with authority. “Have you seen her?”

  Tyler straightened and walked over. “Seen who?” His eyes held a curious light for one who moments ago had showcased a knowledge of art.

  “The Venus.”

  Chapter 26

  A dank chill seeped through Rachel as she lay on the bed. She stretched. How long had she allowed herself to relax? It seemed foolhardy when the day before the Germans and Allies hurled artillery at each other around this very place. Yet after the full day it had taken to travel the ninety kilometers, she’d felt jostled to pieces and in desperate need of a moment to rest.

  She reached into her bag to pull out the sketchbook. Then stopped. Of course, it wasn’t there anymore. She knew better, but this seemed the place to study the drawings. From what she remembered, this was the type of location where the sketches could have been produced. The sweeping hills. The wide-open sky. The feeling the land and buildings had stood for centuries and would continue to. What would it be like to belong to something so lasting, so permanent?

  No matter how long she thought, an answer wouldn’t come. All she’d known was her small family with Momma. And when Momma died, even that tiny bit ended.

  “Stop it.” The words echoed toward the high ceiling.

  She needed something to distract her. Florence.

  The city was so close, she could see it as a dot on the far horizon if she found a tall enough hill to stand on. She grabbed her momma’s diary from its spot hidden in her bedroll. Now that someone had gone through her bags, it seemed the best place to protect her remaining treasures.

  She held the book a moment, fingers stroking the cover as she longed for her momma. The pages had become as familiar to her as a favorite book. If Momma joined her here, would she finally tell the story of her time in Italy? Would she offer it with a smile, or would a cloud of sadness tinge the story?

  Momma’s letters spilled onto the bed across Rachel’s lap. They’d arrived in trickles, each letter shorter, as if a reflection of failing strength. She leaned against the pillows and headboard, letting the letters feel like an embrace of her momma’s love. She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks unstopped. No one wa
s here to see so she let them flow. After a few minutes she stopped the silent course. Now she’d read the diary.

  Today I met someone. He has a passion for life that is breathtaking. On the whole I expected to find this in most Italians, but they seem to carry a weight. Left over from the war, perhaps? It’s a mystery, but this man has escaped the weight. Instead, he vibrates. Whether teaching a class or escorting me to the next museum, he brings a verve for every situation that must be equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. All I know is I long for that. Or something that will spark me out of this melancholy.

  I miss home. I miss the wide-open farm country of Pennsylvania. The excitement of our town house in Washington, D.C. Seeing the different sights, walking the Mall to sit on the steps of the brand-new Lincoln Memorial. Here I feel alone with nothing but my dreams. Then I am with him.

  The pen left a squiggly mark as if she had left it there for several moments while she daydreamed or imagined what to write next.

  And everything changes.

  I am alive.

  I feel.

  I want more of both.

  Rachel released her breath trapped by the passion of the reading. Her momma had hesitated to show such depth of feeling. Instead, she was a steady personality with few passions Rachel had observed. To see this side of her momma unsettled Rachel.

  This was a side of her momma that mattered. Without that rush of passion, Rachel would never have breathed. Never discovered the joys and pains of life. Her own existence wouldn’t have slipped from the shadowed worlds of potential. The thought could shatter her. Because here she was—fatherless, alone, maybe motherless and unknowing. Her mother had lived with TB for years until it changed to a relentless course. The thought stabbed Rachel.

  Who would she be when alone?

  Would she return to a world of shadows without someone who loved her?

  The thought pained her to the core of her being. There had to be more to life than wavering in and out of lives. Struggling to know and be known. Always holding back from the real fear that if she exposed who she truly was, the rejection would follow in a rush. She would always be the fatherless one others avoided because of Momma’s questionable morals.