It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  Chiara stepped from behind the desk and crossed the lobby to a shelf displaying flyers for tours in and around Florence. She picked up a couple of brochures and extended them to Sophie. “Perhaps the following day, you might like a tour. I can arrange these for you.”

  Sophie shook her head. “No, thank you. Tomorrow we head south from Florence. I arranged for a driver, who will arrive at nine in the morning.”

  “Where do you head next?”

  “Montepulciano,” Will said. “We’re going to find a woman.”

  Chiara’s eyes widened.

  Sophie thought she needed to clarify. “We are here to look for the woman Will met during the war. He loved her all those years ago.”

  Chiara’s face brightened. “You kept in contact. How wonderful!”

  “Nope,” Will said and slapped his hand against the counter, "but we’re gonna find her. Aren’t we, Miss Sophie?”

  “We’re certainly going to give it our best try.”

  “We’re going to find her.” He uttered the words through pursed lips. “We will.”

  Chiara reached out and patted Will’s arm. “You are a romantic.” She bobbed her chin in a proud nod. “It is what an Italian would do.”

  Will’s voice rose. “We will succeed!”

  “Bravo,” Chiara said.

  The woman had warmed to them. Now was Sophie’s chance to pick her brain. She asked for dinner recommendations for tonight.

  Chiara pulled out a walking map.

  “Here,” Chiara circled the hotel’s name on the brochure, “is where we are situated.” She pointed to the street guide. “Here is the Ponte Vecchio, and here,” she tapped with her pen at a street on this side of the bridge, “is Osteria Armando. The food is quite good. It is one of my favorites near the hotel.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not like the place you went last night.”

  “I hope not.” A flush crept over Sophie’s cheeks.

  Chiara offered the diagram to Sophie. “Please tell them that I sent you. You will enjoy the restaurant and the food.

  “Grazie.”

  Chiara’s face lit with a wide smile. “Prego.”

  36

  Chiara was true to her word.

  A black car and a driver, dressed in a black shirt and slacks, picked up Will and Sophie an hour later. Thirty minutes after leaving the hotel, they entered the grounds of the Florence American Cemetery.

  A somber cornerstone on each side anchored the metal lattice fence, which featured ornate gold at the center. Prickles raced up Sophie’s legs.

  Sophie and Will got out of the car and walked toward the grassy meadow of graves.

  On the west border of the property, Sophie saw the dark green of a forest on the hillside above the memorial. The tall, thin spires of cypress trees reached toward the heavens.

  They crossed the bridge to where U.S. soldiers rested.

  Neither Sophie nor Will spoke.

  Ahead and on either side of them, the solemn markers that guarded the fallen spanned the hillside in symmetrical rows. Pristine white marble Latin crosses, interspersed with headstone posts topped by the Star of David, crisscrossed the hallowed ground like a massive choir of angels.

  Sophie gasped. Thousands of headstones. She’d seen pictures of the vast burial ground at Normandy, but viewing in person these hills dotted with gravesites made the war of her grandfather’s generation suddenly real.

  She fought her urge to turn and run away. She handled Marie’s funeral. She could do this, too. Will needed her.

  Sophie looked at Will. “Some men from your division are here?”

  Will nodded.

  Will had told her the 10th Mountain troops never lost a battle but incurred a high percentage of casualties. This holy place evidenced the war’s toll.

  Will clasped his hands in front of himself. “I’m going to Tom Hermann’s grave. He was in my unit.”

  “Do you know where to find his gravesite?”

  “Yes. One of my ski buddies did the research on the Internet for me. He even printed out a diagram.”

  Will pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He studied it without asking for help or advice, twisting his head back and forth as he matched landmarks to the map.

  Sophie squashed her impulse to peer over his shoulder and offer assistance. This was something Will had to do by himself.

  “Was Tom Hermann a close friend of yours?”

  “No.” Will strode off. His mission was to find Tom. Sophie wasn’t a part of the team.

  Not a friend? Sophie knew that despite what he claimed, something propelled Will to find this man’s resting place.

  Sophie followed Will. His rigid cadence turned the elderly man’s shallow steps into a slow-motion march.

  They passed one large section, and then, at the next, Will counted each row as he strode past. He turned and faced the left section.

  His lips pressed together in a narrow line. He stood motionless at the edge of the row.

  Will stepped forward with a slower pace, moving along the graves with an even stride. His head bobbed slightly as he walked by each fallen fighter.

  Sophie walked several paces behind him. Pinpricks did a centipede walk up her legs. She glanced at the names on the headstones beside her.

  These men left someone behind. Their loved ones were far across an ocean. Mother, father, friend, sweetheart, wife, or child. Someone grieved for those buried here.

  Will paused and his head turned to read the inscriptions.

  His shoulders straightened and he moved in a brisk walk to a burial plot farther down.

  One crisp quarter-turn and he faced the headstone.

  He saluted.

  Sophie stopped and watched from a distance.

  Will talked to the soldier in the ground. He removed something from his pants pocket, kissed the small object, and moved to the marker.

  Will leaned on the arm of the cross to drop to one knee and placed the contents of his hand at its base. He bowed his head, folded his hands, and prayed. Will used the gravestone to support him when he stood.

  He resumed his position at the foot of the grassy vault and saluted again.

  Will returned to where Sophie waited. “OK. I’m done here. Let’s go to the memorial.”

  Sophie walked beside him, burning with curiosity. She wanted to know what Will left for the man he claimed wasn’t a close friend.

  They neared an intersection with another paved path. She eased a packet of tissues from her purse into her palm.

  Sophie tossed the pack behind her and said, “This is an impressive sight, isn’t it?” She gestured to the tall pylon presiding over the memorial. She hoped her voice would cover the sound of the tissues landing on the soft grass.

  Sophie waited until five more rows were behind them. “I can’t believe the number of Americans interred here. This is just one of many cemeteries on foreign soil, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Over 4,400 American warriors from the U.S. Fifth Army are buried here. That includes 355 soldiers from the 10th.”

  “So many for the short time you were in Italy.”

  “Too damn many.”

  37

  She sniffled, to set up her excuse. She rubbed her eyes with one hand. “I lost my tissues. I must have dropped them. I know I had them when you stopped to pay your respects to Tom Hermann.” She waved him ahead. “You go on. I’ll dash back and see if I can find them. I can catch up.”

  Afraid he would offer his starched handkerchief, Sophie turned and jogged back to the row where she tossed her tissues.

  Sophie ran past the packet and went to Tom’s grave. She saw Will move steadily forward. Please don’t turn around. She knelt and looked at the object on the grass.

  It was a Bronze Star attached to a blue-striped red ribbon.

  Did Will give his own medal to Tom Hermann?

  Sophie stood and sprinted back. She bent down beside the plastic pack and pretended to tie her shoe.

  She intended to jog up to Will
, but her side hurt. She settled for a quick walk.

  Will stood by the pylon. A lovely sculpted figure topped the tall column.

  “I found it,” Sophie said with labored breath.

  “You didn’t have to go through that charade, Miss Sophie. I know you did that on purpose. You’re a terrible actor and a worse liar. You could have merely asked what I left with Tom.”

  Sophie felt her face flush. Will had been evasive when she asked if he’d known the man well. “OK, I’ll ask you straight up. Was that your Bronze Star?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why did you leave it there?”

  Will met her gaze with a steady look but revealed nothing. “Tom died of battle wounds. I imagine his next of kin got a piece of metal for his sacrifice.”

  Sophie was frustrated with his cat-and-mouse game.

  She jammed both of her fists onto her hips so that her elbows jutted out to the sides.

  “Will,” Sophie said in a stern, disciplinarian voice, “That’s enough. You’ve accused me of lying and called me a terrible actor. Now you’re dancing around my question.”

  Will snapped at her with the voice he used when he had threatened to report Bangor to the apartment manager. “I’m not dancing!” Will’s tight face glared at her.

  Sophie sighed. She knew it was her responsibility to de-escalate the situation, even though she thought his actions justified her response.

  She inhaled and exhaled a slow, deep breath to calm herself.

  “Will,” Sophie said, reaching out and touching his forearm, “I apologize for being so insistent. Whenever you’re ready, I’d love to learn why you left your medal on Tom Hermann’s grave.”

  He nodded in a curt acknowledgment.

  She waited.

  OK. You don’t want to tell me now. But I won’t forget.

  Sophie pointed to the memorial. “Are you ready to go on?”

  Will nodded.

  They stopped by the low fountain. The murmuring water encouraged visitors to pause and reflect.

  Will sat on the bench. He lifted his left hand and shielded his eyes. His head tilted forward. Will’s other hand rested on his thigh. Both his arm and leg trembled.

  Exhaustion? Emotion? Sophie bet either one might apply.

  Will lowered his hand from his eyes and motioned for her to join him on the seat.

  She sat next to him, with a small span between them.

  His face had turned the dusky gray of the Rocky Mountains clinging to their last moments of sunset.

  Will spoke slowly with quiet words. “Tom and I were sent ahead to search and clear an area. We were within range of the enemy, headed for the best cover we could find.”

  Will’s right hand clamped tighter on his leg. “A sniper saw us. Tom stopped and leaned in front of me an instant before the sniper’s bullet flew.”

  Will turned to face her. He bit his lower lip. “Tom took the slug that should have been mine.”

  He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He swallowed with difficulty. “Tom called to me for help. But I followed my orders. I protected myself and blasted those Germans with everything I had.”

  The proud, brave veteran sat stiff-backed beside Sophie. “By the time the fight was over, Tom was gone.”

  He turned to look at Sophie. “Tom took the hit and I didn’t help him.” Will’s chin dipped once, and then he pushed himself up to a stand.

  Teardrops trickled down Sophie’s cheeks.

  He extended a hand to help her up.

  “Thank you,” Sophie said, “for sharing your story. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you to recall that horrific day.”

  Will muttered something Sophie couldn’t quite understand. It sounded like, “That wasn’t all.”

  In a firm voice, born of the steel that makes a young man volunteer for hazardous, life-threatening, body-punishing duty, he continued. “I said I’d tell you why I gave him my Star. Tom got one, too. His Medal of Honor, though, went to his surviving family.

  “I figured after freezing, climbing, damn near starving, battling the peaks and the Germans, and then saving another guy’s life, Tom deserved his very own medal.”

  Sophie’s tears blurred her vision. “He did.”

  “I better move before I get too creaky.” Will clapped his hands once. “Miss Sophie,” he said with forced determination, “let’s finish the tour.”

  They walked up to the third tier of the memorial, the highest level. Two open courts created a frame on the north and south ends. The south atrium served as a forecourt to the chapel.

  A rectangular pool faced with travertine sat in the center of the open court. It featured one spray of water that jetted toward the sky.

  Will edged toward the connecting wall between the two solemn courtyards. The granite Tablets of the Missing were inscribed with names. Names of the 1,409 missing in action in the region, on land or at sea.

  Will stopped a couple of times during his somber walk along the wall. Each time, he moved closer to the wall to read it better. Once, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and leaned closer to the name before him. His fingers traced the inscription on the cool stone. His head bowed.

  Sophie didn’t intrude on his pensive stroll. It was apparent Will had lost friends to death as well as that black void of “missing in action.”

  He walked over to rejoin Sophie. “I’m ready to go.”

  Sophie had a hunch Will harbored more secrets about those war years. Secrets that caused him pain. Or shame. Or both.

  38

  Will knocked on Sophie’s door five minutes ahead of the agreed time to leave for dinner.

  “I’m starving. How about you?” Will had showered, shaved, and, no doubt, napped after their emotional trip to the cemetery.

  “Me, too.” Sophie had been afraid she wouldn’t sleep after seeing the thousands of graves that morning. She was wrong.

  She had struggled to keep her eyes open during the ride back into Florence but had felt it was her duty to stay alert. Sophie collapsed on her bed for a nap as soon as she returned to her room.

  She finished freshening up and rushed downstairs.

  Will stood by the reception desk, visiting with the heavyset man who had taken over for Chiara. On top of his blue-and-white-striped, short-sleeved shirt, a navy blue sweater rested on the back of Will’s thin shoulders. The arms of the cardigan hung straight down across his chest.

  Sophie had taken note of the Italian men with sweaters draped over them the night before when she and Will walked to their disastrous meal. It was evident that Will had also noticed.

  She walked up to Will and patted one shoulder. “You’re looking very dapper this evening.”

  Will had decided he needed only two pairs of pants for the journey, khaki slacks and blue jeans. Tonight, he wore the khakis.

  In the Denver airport, Will had insisted on stopping to have his brown dress shoes shined, one of the many revelations about the terminal Sophie learned. The variety of food stands, sports bars, and stores selling sundries, clothing, luggage, and books shocked her.

  A glance at her scuffed black ballerina flats made Sophie regret the lost opportunity for a polish.

  Her jean skirt and knit shirt made Sophie feel underdressed. She hadn’t brought anything sporting a logo or a saying, but a wrinkled pullover top couldn’t match his crisp-looking outfit.

  “Did you iron your shirt?” The words blurted out before Sophie could stop herself.

  Will grinned. “A fella’s gotta always look good. Never know when, or where, we’ll find Francesca.”

  A pin pricked Sophie’s heart. She doubted they’d find Francesca in Florence or anywhere else. What will the disappointment do to Will?

  The aromas that filled Sophie’s nostrils when she entered Chiara’s recommended restaurant pushed aside her worries about Will.

  The warm, soft light from wall sconces and candlelit wooden tables embraced her and beckoned weary travelers inside.

  The milky-
white, rough-plastered walls and a travertine floor resembled the pictures Sophie had seen online of Italian trattorias. Burnt umber cushions topped the ladder-back chairs. The restaurant’s decor was a reflection of the Tuscan color palette.

  The tempting aromas of savory meat and freshly baked bread brought a growl to Sophie’s stomach.

  She felt Will’s eyes on her.

  Will nodded with a wistful smile on his face. “That smells like the last meal Francesca cooked for me before I left for the port.”

  How can he remember the smell of food he ate over seventy years ago?

  A dark-haired twenty-something beauty interrupted Sophie’s thoughts by showing them to a table. “Please enjoy your evening.” She held out a chair for Sophie.

  Sophie slumped against the back of the wooden chair with relief. She looked around the room. Unlike where they dined the previous night, the room was empty of guests, except for one other table.

  An elderly couple, both short and plump, sat at the table closest to the kitchen. The woman’s hands flew through the air as she relayed a story in Italian to her companion.

  Sophie saw the man raise one finger as a young male waiter walked past. The server moved to the man’s side and bent low. Sophie could not hear their conversation.

  The young man rushed into the kitchen.

  A man swathed in a long, white apron over a pale green shirt and black pants stepped out of the kitchen. He walked up to the couple and visited with them.

  The apron-clad man moved to a side table covered with bottles of spirits, cordial glasses, and thin champagne glassware. He opened a bottle that had been chilling in an ice bucket and filled two flutes.

  He picked up the stemware and presented one each to Sophie and Will. “Would you care for a glass of Prosecco?” he asked in English.

  “Yes, please,” Sophie said. “Grazie.”

  “Prego.” The man smiled at Sophie.

  The chef, with a glance and nod at Will, moved one step closer to Sophie. He angled in toward her and described their specialty, Pappardelle al Ragù di Cinghiale—noodles with a sauce of cinghiale—which, he explained, was wild boar.

  A solemn look replaced the chef’s smile. “Many restaurants carry this dish, but ours is most special. We use only homemade pasta, the best tomatoes, and the most delicious cinghiale in Italy.”