Shadowed by Grace (38 page)

Rachel stayed silent. It was clear he loved Florence, and as she watched it grow across the horizon, she sensed its magic.

The jeep inched forward. At this point walking would transport them faster. Maybe they’d need the jeep when they arrived, but otherwise she’d abandon it to others. “Where are we going when we reach the city?”

“Headquarters. The tried-and-true destination. It’s supposed to be located in the Giardino Torrigiani. The army’s using a villa there.”

Rachel had no idea where that was, but Scott would manage to find it like he did everything else.

“MFAA officer Captain Ellis got into Florence a couple days ago. The Allies are bottled up on this side of the Arno while the Germans dug in on the far side. Ellis reported the destruction is horrific.” Scott’s jaw hardened and he swallowed. “But we can enter the city to interview the chief personnel of the superintendency. Then we’ll leave. There’s conflicting information about the status of deposits and the monuments in Florence, and I’m to sort through it and create a plan. Even though I can’t see anything.”

“Why you?”

“I want to help you find Renaldo.” His knuckles were white, he clutched the steering wheel so tightly. “I’m too late to help much with the monuments. The Germans blew the bridges. Monuments that have stood since medieval times.”

As they reached the outskirts of Florence, the buzz of artillery never eased. Somewhere in this madness the Seventy-First Garrison had set up an interim headquarters at the Giardino Torrigiani. The problem was, Scott didn’t know how best to work his way through the mess of Florence. People on the streets were drawn, pale, and terribly thin from the weeks of siege. Where the Florence streets of his memory rang with vibrancy, shell-shocked silence and quick movements stirred now. Men were scarce. Why?

“Are we getting close?” Rachel’s voice sounded tight and tired as she snapped a photo.

“As long as we find the Seventy-First, we’ll find someone who can help us.”

The Porta Romana roundabout came into view, and Scott relaxed. They would make it to the villa. The intensity of driving with never knowing where the next shot would come from or if the jeep would hold together long enough to get them off the road had left him with rock-hard shoulders.

A hurly-burly collection of jeeps, trucks, officers, soldiers, and Italian citizens filled the gardens, making it hard to penetrate the space to find the villa. “Let’s park here.”

Rachel nodded and he found a spot.

Inside the villa finally, the provisional commissioner for American Military Government hailed Scott. “Lindstrom, you’re finally here.”

“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 slowed 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.”