Shadowed by Grace

by Cara Putman

  “Yes, my orders came for a quick trip.”

  “Forget quick. There’s too much work. I want you in the northern part of the city immediately. Cross the Arno, but first you’ll need to get travel passes for the Italian superintendency personnel so they can guide you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My aide can find you a spot to work.” The man reached across the table he used as a desk. “Good to have you here.”

  “Thank you.”

  A corporal materialized at his elbow. “Right this way.” Scott followed him through a maze of people working, hoping Rachel could keep up. “Here are the forms you’ll need. Complete them carefully, and I’ll get you on your way. You’ll find the staff on the grounds. Before you leave though,” the corporal handed Scott a message, “this arrived a couple hours ago.”

  Scott accepted the folded piece of paper. “Who delivered it?”

  “I didn’t see but was told a child.”

  “Thanks.” Scott edged away from the stream of people wanting a piece of the corporal. Only one person would know to look for him attached to the AMG. Renaldo Adamo.

  Could he finally introduce the man to his daughter?

  He scanned the note.

  I have news of great import. Meet me at the Ponte Vecchio at 9:00 p.m. I will come each evening until you arrive. I pray this finds you quickly.

  Rachel came alongside him. “Good news?”

  Scott slipped the note into his jacket pocket. Should he get her hopes up?

  “My father?”

  He smiled. She was too intuitive sometimes. “Yes. He wants to meet.”

  Rachel studied him. “When?”

  “Tonight. He gives a fixed location at the Ponte Vecchio bridge.”

  “So what do we do until then?”

  “Get this paperwork complete and cross the Arno. We’ll stay for the meeting tonight.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Okay. Give me an hour to connect with the United Press office. I’ve got film to turn in. Surely one’s an award winner.” Her smile was bright but not enough to reach her eyes. Would finding her father remove the last trace of shadows?

  Scott finished the passes, a mind-numbing labyrinth of getting just the right information and the right approvals. Then he worked through materials that had been brought up from the other MFAA officers. They’d arrive in Florence soon, but for now he remained a solo endeavor since Ellis had been forced to leave. It would be good to have the help of other experts. What he’d seen on the drive indicated Florence would be filled with damage inflicted by the fighting. Why hadn’t the Germans withdrawn as they had in Rome?

  After completing the run around with the paperwork and a meal of C rations under a garden pine tree, it was time to head out and assess the damage. While he’d found several of the local art experts, he hadn’t located Rachel. Finding her in the pool of people closed into the gardens seemed an impossible task. Too bad smoke signals or some other form of communication couldn’t be used to let her know where he’d set up.

  “Looking for someone?” Her sweet voice came from behind him.

  “You’re here.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but perseverance paid off. Now where?”

  “The Piazza Pitti. The palazzo is a monument of great importance.”

  “And one you will not recognize.” A man stepped near, dapper in a worn suit, bow tie, and fedora. He’d made an effort to be presentable in a city with no electricity, working sewer, or running water, another gift to the city from the retreating Germans.

  “Lieutenant Lindstrom at your service.”

  The man bowed slightly at the waist. “I am Professor Berti. I shall guide you to the others. The Pitti is our center.”

  They reclaimed the jeep, then used it to work through the crowds. The professor wove a story of the people who lived along the Arno being told to evacuate. Then of the Pitti that offered sanctuary to many of the displaced. “It is worse than any slum you can imagine. But what choice is there?” The man shrugged in a smooth motion of pain and explanation. “War changes things.”

  As they approached the beautiful Boboli Gardens, Scott couldn’t believe the sight. “How many refugees are here?”

  “Rough guess only. More than five thousand. The gardens are the facilities, and the water supply is taxed.”

  Rachel wrinkled her nose in a way that only emphasized her pale beauty. “I don’t think I wanted to know that.”

  “It is reality.”

  Scott maneuvered to a spot where he hoped the jeep would wait when they returned. Before he pulled the brake, a crowd surrounded the vehicle.

  “My colleagues.” In short order the professor introduced him to at least a dozen people. Their names swam in a quagmire in his mind.

  One superintendent clapped. “This way. We meet now.” He led the way to a conference room that stood in a frescoed hall of the palace. Once all were settled, the man turned to Scott. “Please explain the process.”

  “My pleasure.” Scott fought for patience as he worked through the MFAA structure and how it would interface with the local superintendency to reclaim and restore the art and monuments of Florence. “That’s the plan.”

  The man snapped and an assistant presented a document. “This contains information on the deposits that remain occupied by the Germans and their locations.”

  “This will help us know where to avoid shelling.”

  “Yes. The shells are too destructive.”

  All around the table murmurs of assent erupted.

  “This meeting has been productive.” Scott eased his chair back and stood. “But now I must see the bridges.”

  Professor Berti nodded. “You will need a guide. I will take you.”

  Chapter 35

  August 13

  The day’s sun shone too bright, rays colliding off the mounds of rubble that marred the beautiful city. If she tried hard, Rachel could imagine how the streets must have looked, striking her as a romantic escape. Today her combat boots formed an essential part of her wardrobe. Without them she would have fallen or stumbled in the debris of stones splintered from buildings by shells and bombs.

  “How much of this was done as the Germans moved out?”

  The professor hobbled along, his gait hesitant and his gaze darting as they neared the edge of the palazzo. His shoulders hunched up to his ears until he looked like a turtle unwilling to stick his head out of the shell. “They were active. The partisans remain so.”

  Rachel sidled closer to Scott. “Should we be worried?”

  “It’s an active war zone.”

  Right. And she hadn’t already considered that. Rachel waited as he moved closer to the professor and bit back her frustration. She pulled her camera out and raised it to her eye, scanning for a shot. If Scott was one of the first nonessential AMG officers in, then she might be one of the first photojournalists. She patted the pass he’d given her.

  “Oh my.” Rachel stopped in her approach. A mound of debris at least thirty-feet high stood at the edge of the Piazza Pitti. She raised her camera and took several pictures.

  “We cannot pass here.” The professor glanced at her with an apologetic air. “I wanted you to see.”

  Scott’s jaw worked and his hands fisted as he took in the scene. “The Arno is a couple blocks away. No more than a five- or ten-minute walk.”

  “If you are very slow.”

  Scott matched the professor’s weary smile. “True. Are we barred from approaching?”

  “There is a way.” The professor waved them back toward the Giardino di Boboli.

  Scott spoke in a muffled tone to Professor Berti. Rachel tuned them out as she kept looking for a shot that would be different from another photographer’s. Their circuit took them along the edge of the gardens and in range of the rubble and a few standing buildings. She sl
owed her circuit as she scanned to the right. Sunlight glinted off something metallic. “Scott?”

  “What?”

  “Something is shining in that window.”

  Professor Berti dove behind a pile of rubble that barely stood tall enough to protect his head. Scott tugged her down. She kept her camera up and snapped a shot.

  “What are you doing?” Scott yanked her down again, and she tumbled onto the debris. Her palms scraped against the jagged rocks, and her camera banged against the ground. He crouched beside her.

  “Scott?”

  “If that’s a sniper, the sun can glint off your lens and draw attention to you. It would become a clear target.”

  “There are many who shoot as cowards but kill at will.” The professor wiped his brow with a handkerchief from his position behind a pile of broken cement blocks.

  She examined her camera, then folded it up with shaking fingers. “I . . . I didn’t think.”

  “Just keep your helmet secured.” Scott tapped it, even as he searched beyond the piled broken rocks to the windows overlooking the street.

  “Shooters keep us full of nerves.” The professor’s gaze shuttled over the building, never settling, always moving. Professor Berti glanced over his shoulder. “All is clear.”

  “You are sure?” Scott asked.

  “A friend cleared the building and signaled me.” The man stood but remained stooped. “We must hurry. The dark brings danger.” Berti studied the road, then glanced back. “It is not easy from here. The Germans destroyed much along Ponte Vecchio.”

  “Yet spared the bridge.”

  “Yes.”

  The destruction was so complete, Rachel could hardly capture the utter and absolute nature of it through her viewfinder. Nothing was left inhabitable within a couple blocks of the bridge.

  The professor narrated as he led them to a ladder. “The Germans told the residents to leave on 29 July. They had short hours’ notice. The Jewel of Europe was attacked by former friends. General Alexander’s proclamations that dropped from the sky over Rome made things worse. By the thirty-first no one could cross the bridges. We feared the worst, but the Germans made us wait three days. The night of 3 August rang with the artillery of your advancing army but worse with the destructive German mines.” The man teared up. “Follow me.”

  He started up the ladder. Rachel examined it before trusting it to climb up out of the gardens into the blast zone. “Where did my father want to meet?”

  “Along the Ponte Vecchio.” Scott’s breath sounded ragged. “This corridor used to connect the palace and the Uffizi, the famous museum. Is it open?”

  Professor Berti tipped his head to the side in that universal sign that he didn’t know. “It will take us to the Santa Felicita.”

  Quiet minutes followed as they traversed the distance.

  Scott took her hand to help her over a pile that had once been a house wall and then kept his hold. His warmth enveloped her, and she rested in the sense of protection. As the corridor came to an end, she was grateful to have him next to her. “There’s nothing left.”

  Scott closed his eyes, then reopened them. “This is criminal. There was no reason to destroy this ancient section of the city.”

  “Rome was their reason.” The professor knelt in front of a shattered cross. “Your army moved through Rome too quickly. Our bridges paid the price.” He crossed himself and stood. “We must move on.”

  Rachel held her nose against a smell that took her breath and shoved it back down her throat.

  “The sewers.” Professor Berti said no more.

  They joined a flood of civilians picking their way across the Ponte Vecchio. “Be careful. The mines are plentiful.”

  Rachel had to agree as she noticed the liberality with which the Germans had strewn the mines along the bridge. Even with the low level of the river, walking the bridge was better than fording the Arno with some dangers hidden and others visible.

  “There’s the Uffizi.” Scott pointed. “How damaged is she?”

  The professor shrugged. “Much broken glass and plaster. The art was removed.” He paused and looked at Scott. “Your friend will meet you there?”

  “Renaldo? He said the bridge later tonight.”

  “He sent me to bring you here.”

  Scott nodded. “All right. Let’s be quick. We’ll need to return to our quarters before dark.” He swatted at a mosquito.

  “You mean to the castle?” Rachel tried to keep the enthusiasm from her voice. So many were trapped in desperate circumstances, yet if they could leave, it would mean less strain on the limited resources.

  “Yes. It’s a better location to regroup than here. With our passes we can come and go freely.”

  The shelling picked up again. Rachel kept an eye on the sky as the professor ignored the constant whine and whistles.

  “If this keeps up, Florence will be pulverized.” Scott helped Rachel over another compilation of rubble that left her scrambling like a mountain goat to get to the other side.

  “We can only pray.” The professor’s stoic words matched his resigned expression.

  Rachel wished there was more she could do, but at the moment taking photos and praying seemed all that was left to her. She hoped it was enough to stave the hand of destruction.

  He should have left Rachel at the gardens or the palazzo. As she slipped and slid over another mound of rubble, he hurried to her side. She grimaced whenever her hands touched the rocks. Her palms must sting. They had to use care as they picked their way across. A mine could hide anywhere in this mess, and there was little he could do. Still, she was with him, and he had to get to the Uffizi and find Renaldo somewhere in the maze of the palatial museum.

  Rachel reached the top of yet another mound and snapped a series of photos, starting with a backward glance at the Arno River and the utter destruction around the Ponte Vecchio before continuing to the disaster in front of them.

  Time ticked as he waited for her to finish her shooting. Time in which another sniper could site on her. “Are you ready to move?”

  She shook her head yet began closing her camera. “I could take photos for a week and never capture the absolute destruction.” She sighed. “It’s such a waste.”

  A bullet whistled past, and she dropped to the ground. Scott army-crawled toward her. “Can we get out of here?”

  “The shooter is too far away to harm us.”

  “That didn’t feel far.” Scott waited five minutes, then nodded at Rachel. She crouched as the professor led them on to the Uffizi.

  The slight man remained silent as he led the way until a ripple of applause reached them. Scott stopped and looked for the source, humbled when he saw a small group of Florentine residents with half-empty baskets resting at their feet. “They wish to say thank you.”

  Heat charged up his neck into his face. Snipers mixed with celebrations. What a crazy circumstance. “I’m the wrong one to say grazie to.”

  “You are here.”

  The solemn words settled over Scott. Professor Berti was right. Scott and Rachel were the only ones wearing American uniforms. So they received the thanks that belonged to the soldiers who had fought their way up Italy and now across Florence. Rachel had reopened her camera and snapped another photo as Scott bowed his head to acknowledge the quiet applause that ended after a look from their guide.

  “Follow me.” The professor led them into the building and up a glass-strewn staircase to the top floor of the Uffizi. There, in the loggia that ran around the top of the building, windows and their frames were destroyed. Roof tiles were displaced, but in the shadows stood the figure of a man, looking out over the Arno.

  The professor turned to Rachel. “Captain Justice, a roof tour of Florence?”

  Rachel glanced at Scott, then accepted the professor’s proffered arm. “Thank you.”
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  Scott waited until Professor Berti led her in the opposite direction before approaching Renaldo. The man reached out to grasp him with a strong hug and kissed both of his cheeks. “You made it to Florence.”

  “Yes.” Scott slipped into Italian. “I am saddened at what I see.”

  “Hearts have broken.” Renaldo stepped back and turned to stare in the direction of the Pitti. “Now that you are here, I can provide more information. Where the Germans have taken art. Much are tales, but you are better positioned to locate the truth than I.”

  “I will do what I can.” He checked the progress of the professor and Rachel. “We have another matter to discuss.”

  “Sì.” The man bowed his head. “I think I know of what you speak.”

  “She has come a long way to find you. To know you as her father.”

  His mentor looked as if he had aged a decade in the short days since he’d left Montegufoni. Could Rachel be the reason? Or was it the destruction of historic Florence? Scott waited, giving his friend the freedom to direct the conversation.

  “I did not expect her.” The man held his hands up in a small gesture. “When Melanie left, . . .” he groaned, “she took my heart with her. I did not know she carried a child. If I had, I would have followed. Somehow.” He walked away, head bowed. “How do I help Rachel understand?”

  Scott considered his words carefully. The man needed hope almost as much as Rachel needed her father to acknowledge her. “God has her on a journey of opening her heart. But you should also know she comes seeking something.”

  “This I expected.” The man turned to Scott, an intensity burning in his eyes. “I must meet her. Officially. Where she knows who I am.”

  Scott looked out the windows, noting the time. “Do you want to meet her now? Or come with us to Montegufoni for the night?”

  “Now. We shall see about the rest.”

  “Wait here.” Scott left the man leaning against a broken window, his head bowed as if in prayer. Rachel turned toward Scott as if she’d waited, keenly in tune with his every move. She held her breath until he took her hands and stroked them, feeling a faint tremble in hers. He waited until she lifted glistening eyes to his. “Your father would like to officially meet you.”