Shadowed by Grace (14 page)

Any time the thought arose, she thrust it aside. During the busy days the task was easy. At night, in the silence and deep darkness behind blackout curtains, she had nothing to occupy her mind. Only the artist’s sketchbook, her momma’s diary, and her memories of Scott. None provided answers but created more questions to fill her mind and disrupt her dreams.

She escaped deeper behind her lens. When she viewed the people and scenes around her through the prism of her viewfinder, she could distance herself even from the beauty of Rome. Her momma must have spent time in the city, yet her diary was silent on the fact.

Could her father be right here, hidden in the massive city that had developed into its current form over thousands of years? She woke up determined to spend the sixth visiting many of the capital’s museums asking curators if they remembered an art student named Melanie Justice. Though the museums were closed, she spoke with many curators who remained to protect their riches. At the end of the day, Rachel had aching feet, sweat stains on her shirt, and no one who remembered her mother.

The next day Rachel filled her knapsack with the artist’s sketchbook, her momma’s diary, and her camera. Maybe she could get a sense of the artist and whether he’d become famous by showing the sketchbook and its slight clue of three initials at various galleries. Maybe the curators would recognize him where they hadn’t remembered her mother. Armed with a plan and the faintest inkling of hope, she set out.

The sun broke through the clouds as she walked the sidewalks. At every café bistro tables and chairs pushed into the space. Steaming cups of coffee sat in front of many sitting at those tables. She’d heard the cafés were open as the Germans streamed out of Rome on stolen motorcycles with flat tires, even in stolen cars without tires.

An air of romance hung in Rome that would float around her if she sat down and enjoyed the ambience, but the man she wanted to explore it with wasn’t near. She couldn’t shake the impact his tender kiss had on her heart, but the rose of Rome seemed less vivid without him.

Rachel could imagine her momma sitting there on a spindly chair, watching the passersby. Alone, newly arrived from the States, and waiting to begin her life. Rome? Rachel could still imagine her here. With dreams to take the art world by storm after studying in Italy. Look at how those had turned out. Momma had returned home saddled with disgrace and a baby on the way.

Dreams that smoldered in the ashes as much as the Italian countryside did along the front.

Before the sun cleared the horizon on June 6, Rachel sat exhausted in a corner of the Albergo Città that formed a workroom of sorts, trying to stay as far as possible from the men who had rushed in after finding the headquarters, still unwashed from the battlefield. The sounds of typewriters clacking warred with men grunting as they mumbled through their stories. Rachel ignored the din as she reviewed the content of her short dispatch to accompany the rolls of film and developed photos. Another United Press employee, this one a reporter rather than a photographer, would write the prose that accompanied her photos. Still she could write what she’d seen and experienced since arriving.

She wanted the news desk to wire the photo of the children climbing on the jeep. All that mattered was how the photos hit the editor when he saw them.

The door at the end of the cavernous space banged open. “Boys, we’re on the back page now.” Looked like one of the BBC correspondents, though she couldn’t think of his name.

“What do ya mean?” Archie Letterbein asked.

“They’ve landed in Normandy.”

A chorus of groans rose, and a few threw pencils against the nearest wall.

“They couldn’t even give us one day?”

“All those miles of mud.”

“Slogging with the grunts.”

“Now we’re here and nobody cares.”

Rachel pulled the photo of the children to the top of her stack. Somebody cared. The people they’d liberated cared that they’d finally worked their way up the boot to Rome. Those still under the thumb of the Nazis cared that they hadn’t arrived in Florence and Milan.

The room filled with cigarette smoke as men leaned back and placed their feet next to their typewriters. Marti Piper, a reporter on assignment with Reuters, sidled up to her, dark circles under her pretty eyes. “Guess I can feed this story to the trash can.” The pages fluttered from her fingers into the circular can.

Rachel picked them up. “It still matters, Marti.”

“Guarantee the BBC chum is right. Rome is now back-page copy if it’s anywhere.”

Rachel shook her head. “The moms and pops of the boys fighting their way across Italy care.”

“I’m gonna start calling you Pollyanna.”

“Go ahead. I’m still sending my dispatch.”

“Good for you, kid. Maybe someone will even look at your photos.” Marti sat on the edge of the table where Rachel had set up her space. She grabbed the photos and flipped through them. Her steady movements paused a couple times. “You’re good. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks.” Heat flushed Rachel’s face. “I want more than good. I want Pulitzer material.”

“Keep looking for shots like these.” Marti tapped one of a celebration in front of a small church. “You might make it.” She hopped off the desk. “Well, I’m off for shut-eye now that our purpose has been obliterated by the boys in France.”

Despite her words the malaise of the room settled over Rachel. The final push into Rome overshadowed by events on the other side of Europe. It didn’t seem right. The boys had paid a heavy price to get this far, many of them giving the last full measure. Now their story would be incomplete if attention pivoted to another front.

After finishing the dispatch, she picked up the photos and article and headed to the editor’s desk. Dick Forsythe chomped on an unlit cigar, probably the same one he’d had in Naples if its condition was any indication. The thing looked ready to disintegrate as it slumped in his mouth. He looked up with a frown. “What you got, kid?”

“More photos.” She slid them onto his desk. “Dispatch is ready, and they can go out immediately.”

He groaned. “Might as well save the hassle.”

“You can’t ignore them, sir. The story still needs to be told. These people are finally liberated.”

“Ain’t that the sorry truth. Liberated, and no one cares.”

Rachel bit her lower lip. “Look at them. That’s all I ask. They don’t take up much space or weight.”

“Always got a comeback.”

“I try.” She grinned as he waved his arms at her.

“Off with you. Get some shut-eye or something. I’d bet money this unit will move out of Rome faster than you can say, love me momma’s cooking.”

“Maybe.”

“Guarantee it. Wash up, rest, and get ready for whatever the army has next. You’re still with the Fifth, long as you don’t mess things up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. Who knows when you’ll get a chance to relax in a real bed again.”

Rachel gathered her things and left the building. After stopping at the neighboring hotel long enough to drop off everything but her camera and knapsack and brush her teeth, she asked the concierge for directions and left. Rest could wait but not the streets of Rome on the day after liberation. She’d explored Rome in her dreams, wondering what it would be like if she ever saved enough to visit. Now she was here and without the hope of returning during times of peace. She’d use her time until the Fifth moved to soak in the mood and find a few more photos to send in the next dispatch.

If Scott were here, maybe she could take photos for him. Help him catalog art. Talk her way into a couple museums.

The contrast between Naples and Rome gave her pause. The people were gaunt with watchful eyes, yet the buildings were intact with little visible damage. After walking a bit, she stopped at a café and ordered a chilled espresso. The brew tasted bitter as she sipped at a sidewalk table.

Soldiers walked by, some alone, others in small clusters. She watched them carefully, looking for a certain soldier. One whose garrison cap would sit slightly off balance on his head, not quite military precision. She didn’t see Lieutenant Lindstrom. His six-foot frame wasn’t visible above the others.

Quit looking for him
. It would take a minor miracle to find one man in the midst of a city overflowing with soldiers. Still her heart looked for that familiar face. She pulled out a postcard she’d bought at the hotel and jotted a few lines to Momma. Enough to let her know she was safe. Then she collected her things, left a few coins on the table, and started walking.

She mixed with those on the sidewalk, her military uniform drawing respectful gazes from the Italians. Grazies followed the soldiers. Beautiful Italian women threw warm hugs and planted kisses on the cheeks of the GIs who stopped. Rachel held back a laugh at some of the reactions. It was clear some of the men weren’t used to the European greeting and didn’t know how to respond. Others suffered no qualms and dove in with ardent pecks of their own. If anyone slanted a look her direction, she raised her camera and pretended to take a photo or high-stepped it out of the area. She didn’t need anyone thinking she’d welcome attention.

The jeep flew up and down the hilly Roman landscape. Tyler didn’t slow as he turned corners. Anyone who stepped in front of the jeep did so at their own risk. Tyler didn’t seem inclined to slow down for anyone.

“What’s got you flying on the road?”

“Eager to get out of here.”

Scott eyed the man. Something more was going on. “Care to elaborate?”

“Lots to see, and knowing my luck, I’ll be back on the road as soon as these boys head out.”

“Maybe you’ll get stuck here with me like you did in Naples.”

“They’ll let some other bloke take over, and I’ll march wherever’s next. Somewhere north.”

“Over hill, over dale.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” The man had become a decent traveling companion, but he kept his sense of humor under wraps and his private details quiet. Scott glanced around. They were near the Coliseum, as good a place as any for him to get out and start checking monuments. “Let me out here. Go check in at the depot. I’m walking around.”

Tyler cocked an eye at him.

“I can find the hotel again.”

“Sure you can. If not, shoot a flare.”

“I spent a year here compared to your twenty-four hours.”

“War makes a quick learner.” Tyler yanked the car to the side of the road, almost hitting a dilapidated jalopy that rested on tireless rims. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Scott hopped out and rapped the hood. “See you tonight.”

“If you’re out too late, don’t wait up for me. I plan to find me a pretty young lady. Let her show me her appreciation.”

Unfortunately, there would be a line of women willing to entertain the soldiers and convey their thanks in tangible ways. The thought made Scott recoil. That wasn’t the impression of Americans he wanted to leave behind.

After Tyler disappeared in a swerve of tires and hustle of pedestrians, Scott scanned the skyline. He remembered where he was, but it had been eight years since he’d lived in the city. It felt good to join the throngs enjoying freedom.

As he walked, he decided experiencing the city again from the sidewalks was the right choice. He could almost taste the joy and excitement of those he passed. The celebrating Italians were exuberant. He joined the flow of people, garrison cap in his back pocket. Along the Via Veneto, the throngs celebrated with huzzahs.

Scott turned his feet toward the Coliseum. Bells pealed in the distance. One of many small churches or Saint Peter’s at the Vatican? Other bells took up the song, and soon the harmony of celebration filled the air. Rosaries were kissed and prayers offered as he watched. The gratitude extended with people reaching out to touch him. Didn’t they realize he’d never fired a shot in this war? The fact he wore a uniform didn’t mean he’d played a role in pushing the Germans from Rome. He battled for the preservation of the nation’s culture, but it was a fight most would never realize existed and, if they did, might not value. Elaine certainly hadn’t. Rachel, no Captain Justice, might. He’d seen something that looked like respect in her face when she watched him work with the priest.

Even after the great success of his meeting with the art superintendents the prior day, it didn’t feel like he’d accomplished much. The curators had agreed to close their museums for a day or two, and most he passed were shut tight. Long enough to get military police into town to help monitor the passing soldiers.

He’d heard rumors that made him think those preparatory steps were unnecessary. General Clark wanted the men through Rome and thrusting the Germans north. While some soldiers enjoyed their moment to bask in appreciation, many Scott passed wore a dazed look. As if they couldn’t believe they’d been asked to keep moving. That the battle hadn’t stopped. This was not even a pause on the path to Germany.

Scott reached the Coliseum. Round and round he circled as he climbed the interior. He paused on his hike to take in the view. Rome’s beauty stole his breath. Its beauty drew art students like magnets drew metal shavings. And it created a deep hunger in those who longed for beauty. Ultimately, though, it begged to be shared. It was the type of beauty that grew as it was divided among people.