by Cara Putman
These days without her had threatened to drive him to distraction. He’d done his job, but his mind kept wondering where she was and if she was okay. The idea of a woman running around in an army on the move seemed worse with each passing day. It wasn’t like she was a nurse surrounded by other women. No, she was on her own when he wanted her with him.
Keller looked up and nodded at Scott. “Morning.”
“Morning, Dean.”
“You’ve got orders, Lindstrom. General Marshall wants someone liaising with the Vatican posthaste.” DeWald shoved an envelope at him. “This time it’s you. Next time I might send Keller. Or Anthony. Maybe even Blake. Take that jeep of yours and get to Rome. You might make it ahead of some troops. Get a place established. The rest of us will follow as soon as we can talk our way out of Naples.”
“Why aren’t you going first, sir?” It made sense to send the man who headed up the Italian effort rather than Scott. He’d enjoy returning to the city, more if it stood undamaged if the tales and reports were accurate.
“I get to figure out who stays here and what the priorities are in Rome. So you go first. Figure out what’s damaged. Connect with the local art superintendents. You’ve got a decent jeep and a driver. Make use of it. Besides, you’ve spent time in Rome. I want you to hit the ground fast. Make sure things are as good as they sound.” He glanced at the others. “We’ve accomplished a lot here, but Naples still has work.”
Keller sat back, his hands clasped across his stomach. “Give us a week and we’ll be there. Then you can chase the Fifth up to Tuscany while I chase the Eighth.”
All right. He wouldn’t turn down the chance to check the status of the great city. And if things opened up now that the armies were moving, the rush to Tuscany and then Germany would be rapid. He should figure out the best approach for those future advances. When he’d arrived in Naples, things had been a mess, but the occupation government had been in place. In Rome he’d be there as the Allies arrived. Adrenaline pressed through him followed by the sense he could succeed or fail.
Failure wasn’t an option.
It might have been eight years since he’d seen Rome, but some of his art friends and mentors should remain. “When do I leave?”
“With the next convoy. Grab your bag. Anything else you need. Don’t assume Rome will have everything. It’s unknown what we’ll find there.”
“We’re good at improvisation.”
DeWald grinned. “Yes. That’ll serve you well.”
He hoped so. Because Scott was ready to dig in and locate missing art. “Thank you, sir.”
Within hours Scott was sitting in the jeep next to Private Tyler Salmon. They were sandwiched between two half-track trucks as they worked their way north.
“Ready for the big show?” Salmon chewed a wad of gum as he tapped the steering wheel.
“I’m eager to see Rome again.”
“Ah, ya been there before?”
“It’s been a while.” But he remembered his year at the American Academy with fondness.
The tarp on the back of the truck in front of them was rolled back and out of the way. Soldiers looked out, each with a weapon at the ready. Scott hoped it was an unnecessary precaution. The Germans should be on the north side of Rome. Still that didn’t stop the planes from trailing south over them.
The closer they got to the city, the more battle-hardened troops he saw on the road from Anzio to Rome. Dust coated their uniforms in contrast to his. Naples hadn’t been an easy post, but compared to what these men had seen, it looked like a rest-and-relaxation area. After all, he’d spent time at the Royal Palace of Caserta while they’d slogged their way up and down mountains through mud and artillery shells.
He caught a couple looks as the men examined him. What did they see? A soft office worker? Someone who’d never handled a gun in battle? His pistol wouldn’t do much good in the battles these soldiers had experienced. And telling them he’d completed training would be a waste of breath next to men who’d watched comrades in arms die.
No, he hadn’t experienced the same war.
Scott pulled his helmet lower over his eyes and prayed for each man on the road and those who grabbed shut-eye in the back of trucks. As they continued toward the Holy City, soldiers hopped on and off the jeep for a reprieve in the hike.
They camped outside Rome overnight. “Tomorrow, first light, we go in.”
“You sure? There’s still fighting.”
“I’ve got my orders. If you want to wait, fine.” Scott stared Tyler down. Would the private gut it out and join him? “But I’m getting as close as I can.” After all the Germans couldn’t be everywhere if they were retreating. And the sooner he reached the city and started making the key connections with the Italians and Vatican, the earlier they could start the important work of determining what remained.
He hoped the stories that the Germans had taken art were rumors. Then his thoughts turned to the altarpiece that had disappeared from the cave near Naples. Maybe thieves had found it. Or the Germans had removed it. Either was unacceptable. What if the same thing happened around Rome? Many art officials had moved art from smaller towns to Rome’s safety. Hopefully, that hadn’t been a mistake. Based on the destruction many of the villages around Naples experienced, it seemed like a good decision. Nothing could be as terrible as Naples unless the Germans left Rome unharmed but removed her jewels.
As the sun crested the horizon the next morning, Tyler edged the jeep onto the road, grumbling a steady stream as he did. Scott was grateful to have him so he could focus on the destination and the sky while Tyler worried about the road.
“Tell me why we’re doing this.”
How could he explain to someone in a way that conveyed the need and passion? Scott sighed. “Italy houses art and architecture that goes back more than two millennia.”
“So?”
“What we hold dear is built on that foundation. The Greeks and Romans laid the foundation for everything we value as a society.” He thought of the Coliseum and David by Michelangelo. Different yet both illustrated the amazing creativity and beauty the human mind was capable of while war depicted the opposite. “People swoon when they see Michelangelo’s David because it is so perfect. It’s good we think it’s worth preserving. We send a signal that some items transcend cultures and peoples and have value because they exist.”
Tyler shook his head. “Sounds nuts to me.”
“Hang around, and you’ll change your mind.”
Once the jeep entered the outskirts of Rome, Scott wondered how far they could drive. “Ready to take a risk?”
“With you?”
“Who else?”
Tyler jerked the jeep to the side of the road, then scanned the buildings behind Scott. “What were your orders?”
“We’ll coordinate with Italian art superintendents in Rome and begin the process of securing the museums and other galleries.”
“Did those orders happen to have my name on them?”
Scott made a show of pulling the document from his inside pocket and scanning them. “Tyler Salmon?”
“Give me that.” Tyler snatched the paper from his hand and made a show of reading them. “When did I get so tied to you?”
“About the time you showed up and decided I had an easy job that kept you from the front lines.”
Something dark passed across Tyler’s features.
“Are you with me?”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting as far into the city as we can.” Scott rubbed his hands over his pant legs. “I’m not saying we should be reckless.”
“Just push hard.”
“As fast as we can. Look, we need to connect with the art officials, before a bunch of GIs who can’t tell the difference between a da Vinci and a Raphael overwhelm the city.”
“H
ey, I’m one of those GIs.”
“Which is why I’m glad you’re with me. By the end of your tour, you’ll appreciate the finer details of the world’s masterpieces.”
“I can’t wait.” The man grumbled under his breath a minute, then gave a slow nod. “Fine. My momma always told me I needed culture. I never thought it would take a war to make her happy.”
The next hour slipped by filled with tense moments as they eased the jeep out of the caravan and started using little traveled roads to maneuver into the heart of Rome. People peeked out windows but for the most part stayed sequestered behind closed doors. The silence was punctuated by machine guns and artillery. Eventually, it got too dark to navigate, and Tyler refused to turn on the headlights.
“You looking for a neon sign announcing our presence to the Germans? No thanks.”
“Then we spend the night here.”
“Yep, you get first watch.” With that Tyler climbed in the narrow backseat and made a big show of twisting around, grunting and groaning as he sought a comfortable position.
“You can cut the show. I get your point.”
“You’d better get your gun ready.”
“Right.” The thought of shooting someone unsettled Scott. He could shoot in self-defense, but he’d never force the issue. Shooting targets couldn’t be more different than the reality he’d confront if he wasn’t careful. He pulled out a C ration and wondered what waited in the can. He tugged the can opener from the accessory pack and used it to open the M-unit. Looked like he’d gotten lucky with spaghetti. Without a fire he’d eat it cold, but it was something. Tomorrow they’d be in Rome and he’d find better food. At least he hadn’t lived off C rations like so many soldiers. After he choked down the noodles, he put the opener on the chain next to his dog tags, keeping it ready for the next time.
As he stayed alert, wondering if a German scout or sniper would spot the American jeep, he worked his way through several psalms he had memorized as a child. The familiar words soothed his taunt nerves.
“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” So many of David’s psalms contained promises like that. Promises that comforted Scott as he stood watch, knowing he couldn’t see whatever dangers might wait.
Around two he woke Tyler. “Your turn, sleepyhead.”
“This mean you didn’t get us killed.”
“Not yet.” Scott stifled a yawn. “That comes in the morning.”
“Great. Let me sleep then. Maybe I’ll miss your date with the Germans.”
“Maybe we’ll find some partisans to escort us, Salmon.”
“Nope. We’ll end up with a Fascist who’ll be all too happy to take us to a German who’ll ship us somewhere, and we’ll never be heard from again.”
“What kind of dreams were you having?”
“The kind that tell me I’m not in Kansas anymore. Or Naples.” Tyler stretched and groaned. “Give me a minute.” When he returned, he shooed Scott to the backseat. “Hope you can curl up smaller than I did. Otherwise you’ll find muscles you didn’t know you had.”
“Just stay awake.”
“Sure, Lieutenant. That’s what you brought me along for.”
Scott ignored the private’s other mutterings and fell asleep. What felt like five minutes later, Tyler shook him.
“Wakey, wakey.”
Scott groaned. It felt like he’d slept on a field of rocks, and it had been the jeep’s backseat. The boys on the battlefields had to feel beat up. “See, we made it through the night.”
“Yep.” Tyler pointed through the windshield. “Better get cracking if you want to make Rome this morning.”
“I thought you didn’t want to rush in.”
“That’s before a pretty little gal on her way to get water told me the Germans declared Rome an open city. Seems that makes it fair game for the Allies. That would be us.”
“Yes, it would.” Urgency welled inside Scott. “You know where we are?”
“In general. And the gal told me to head that way.” He pointed toward a road that intersected with the one they were on.
“You trust her?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “She called us liberators. Why would she do that if she wanted to harm us?”
“Because she wants us ambushed.”
“That could have happened last night. One didn’t show up, so we’re fine.”
Scott hoped he was right. “Let’s move out.”
When they left the parking lot of a main road, their speed improved. Handkerchiefs and small Italian flags appeared in windows like welcoming flags. Still the citizens stayed off the roads, making passage an easy matter.
As they approached Rome, Scott had Tyler deviate from their course. A battered car followed them, then pulled onto a side street. Scott hadn’t seen many civilian vehicles on the road to Naples but shook the thought free. He needed to focus on his strategy for Rome. In a city overwhelmed with riches of history, culture, and meaning, a small museum had sat in this quarter of the city when he’d studied there. He often frequented it, and if he was lucky, the curator would be unchanged. If he was, Scott had entrée to the local art community. That would open doors that could be forced open but were best accomplished through friends telling others he was a trustworthy and good man.
If he could form those relationships, then the work of the MFAA in Rome would be easier than after the fact in Naples. And the easier it was, the sooner they could ensure the important pieces and places were preserved.
“Turn here.” After Tyler did, Scott hopped out. “Find a place to wait. Stay close enough to come if I whistle.”
“How long will you be?”
“I have no idea.” If the curator he remembered wasn’t here, he could be out in a couple minutes, empty of any connections or direction. If the superintendent was in, then it could be days before he surfaced. It would take at least that long to entice the man to share what he knew.
And Scott didn’t have days to accomplish that.
Chapter 12
An eerie silence filled the street. Rome wasn’t a quiet city, at least not unoccupied Rome. Scott remembered a city that vibrated with conversations, laughter—the noise of a city on the move at all hours. The Rome he walked resonated with stillness. The stillness left him unsettled, scanning the rooftops for snipers, each window for a shadow that contained a gun silhouette.
He edged toward the shadowed alcove of the museum’s door. It had contained a small gallery years earlier. The kind of gallery that contained an extensive collection from one thin slice of the rich art history of Italy. Mainly Titian and his related workshop. The Venetian artist was celebrated for his rich chromatic schemes, full forms, and balanced compositions, elements identified in the gallery’s collection.
Even more interesting during his time was a visiting artist from Tuscany. An artist whose work he had helped sneak from Italy in the guise of an exhibition. That had served as a useful excuse. The validation to slip the work to a safer environment pending the end of hostilities. One more piece of his effort to protect the beauty and creative genius of a nation.
While he needed to connect with the Roman art community, he also hoped to hear word on the whereabouts and well-being of that artist Renaldo Adamo. Maybe his old friend Mario Armati at the museum could help him on both missions: protecting Italy’s treasures and learning about Renaldo. Would the man see him as a peer?
If the curator remained anything like he was in 1936, he’d be in the thick of the effort, with or without assistance.
Scott pulled his thoughts back to the present and the need to get inside a building. Even the flimsy protection of the jeep left him less vulnerable than his current state.
With a few more careful steps, he reached the edge of the building and turned the corner for the main door. Just a few more feet . . . though it f
elt like a mile as he trudged, gaze constantly roving for any hidden danger. His senses tingled as he scanned and slid. Was this what combat felt like? The alert readiness for a shot at any moment? The certainty that someone watched, someone you couldn’t see but who had a clear line of sight on you?
He inhaled around the tightness of his lungs once he reached the shelter of the doorway. If he was blessed, the door would be unlocked. He didn’t want to edge around the building to a side door, especially when he couldn’t be sure anyone waited inside.
His hand gripped the door, pushed down on the latch, but nothing moved. He banged on the door. “Signor Armati? Signor? It’s Scott Lindstrom. Do you remember me?” He waited then repeated the barrage on the door and his words. “I’m here with the United States Army. I’m helping with the art.”
Silence continued to confront him. Fine. Guess he’d better try the side door. As he garnered the courage to move into the open, the door gave way behind his back. He stumbled backward into the foyer. His eyes adjusted to the dark as he regained his balance.
A short man stood before him, gray hair forming a crown around a bald dome. His suit had a sheen that suggested extra wears and washes than the pristine man he remembered would have chosen. Yet it fit him like it had been tailored for him alone. The suit had been selected during better times.
“Signor?”
The man studied him with eyes that looked extra large behind thick glasses. Yet in them rested the same brilliance and wisdom that had caused Scott to spend hours in this small museum studying this thin sliver of art. Others could have the Michelangelos, da Vincis, and Rembrandts. He’d wanted to soak in Signor Armati’s wisdom, not just in art but in living well. This man along with Renaldo Adamo had made Scott’s year in Rome so pivotal in moving him into art curation as a career.
“I’m so glad to see you well.”
“Mr. Lindstrom. You are back.”
“Yes, sir. Not in a way I would have chosen.”
“Come. We will sit. Brew something we once called tea.”
Scott followed the man through the now-empty gallery. He would ask where the art had disappeared. Later. After the signor trusted he still shared a passion.
