by Cara Putman
The slight hitch and hesitance in Armati’s greeting signaled he should proceed with care.
“You are with the Americans? Truly?”
“Yes. The army is already here or right behind me.” Hopefully not too far. Scott didn’t want to think too long about slipping in advance of the fighting troops.
“We are open. What it means, I know not.”
“I pray the city will be transferred without violence to the wonderful landmarks.”
The man waved a liver-spotted hand in the air, the veins pronounced. Then he filled a kettle with water and placed it on a small burner. “If we have electricity, we have tea.” A few moments later the burner turned red, and he sighed. “It is a good day.”
“Did the Germans harass you?”
“No more than the rest of Rome. I tried to be a small target.” He shrugged stooped shoulders. “Some days more successful than others.” Silence except for the building bubbles in the kettle settled between them. Scott let it build. Being comfortable in quiet would signal he hid nothing.
“Sit. Have tea.” The man filled a chipped mug with water and placed a used tea bag in it. Color trickled from the bag. Even bobbing it on the string did little to add to the brew. It would be weak, but Scott accepted it with a nod.
“If the army isn’t here, why are you?”
“I’m sent ahead to work with the museums to protect your holdings. See what’s been damaged, what is missing, and develop a plan to preserve everything.”
“I knew a young man, one without a uniform.”
“I haven’t changed.”
The man considered him, searching his face as if to ferret out the truth. “I believe you.”
“Can you help me connect with others? Allied troops will arrive soon. We want to protect your treasures, but I can’t do that alone.”
“I will try.” He pushed his mug of hot water away. “We see if the phones operate.”
While he listened, Signor Armati called one, then another. “We meet at the Vatican. Two hours. We must leave.” The signor led Scott to a back room. He shoved a pair of work clothes to Scott. “Put on.”
Scott decided not to argue, keeping his dog tags on and stuffing his uniform in a bruised rucksack he found in a corner. He threw the rucksack over his shoulder, then followed Signor Armati out the door. The man locked it behind him.
“Do you need transportation?” Scott gestured to the jeep that waited across the street beneath a large tree.
“Not in that. Not until the Germans are finally gone.”
Scott waved Tyler over. “I’m going with him to a meeting of museum directors. Stay here. If it gets risky, head back to the nearest Allied position. Come each day until we reconnect. Can’t be long.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Thanks. Stay safe.” Scott refused to look back as he followed the signor through the streets.
The man took him on a circuitous path that took twice as long as the most direct route. Still he seemed to know when to duck down and kept a constant gaze on the skyline. Was it an occupation mentality? Always watching? Always waiting for something to happen?
Vatican City was a separate city-state within the city of Rome. Tucked against the Tiber River, it filled a hundred acres with its garden, villas, museums, and holy sites. To enter they passed through one of five entrances past the Swiss Guards. The yellow and white flag flapped in the breeze as they entered. Walls surrounded much of the city-state, giving it an enclosed, contained feel. Add in the gardens, and the area felt like a sanctuary in the midst of Rome’s sprawling mass.
Scott had visited the Vatican’s museums but had never been allowed entrance beyond the public spaces. Signor Armati led him to the Museo Pio-Clementino, the first of the Vatican’s many museums. Established in the late 1700s, the collection focused on classical sculptures dating back to ancient Greece and Rome. Scott longed for time to explore each of its rooms and see the wealth of artistic treasures housed in this one collection. Instead, he followed Signor Armati through a series of doors.
The man passed through each with barely a word and a nod to the guards and others stationed at the entry points. None challenged the presence of an unknown man in worker’s clothing. Lost inside the vast building, Scott moved quicker to keep pace with the man. Though stooped with age, his stride had not altered.
The man stopped in front of a final set of heavy, wooden, intricately carved doors. They towered above Scott making him feel insignificant, not challenging considering where he stood. Even in the areas the public would never see, the walls and ceilings were beautifully frescoed with religious scenes. Mosaics covered the floors in a pattern of colors.
“We have arrived. Say nothing unless asked. Without these men,” the man paused, “you accomplish nothing.”
Scott nodded, then waited as Armati signaled the man in full Swiss Guard uniform. The man leaned forward and opened the door without looking at them. It struck Scott as eerie how the soldier knew they were there yet never acknowledged their presence.
Inside the room, a long walnut conference table was surrounded by a buzz of men. The walls were as heavily frescoed as the rest of the building. If he had to guess, Scott would place them in the 1500s. The massive tapestries hanging on one wall looked older, maybe medieval. Their melodic conversations stopped as he entered the room, then switched to hurried English.
“This is him? The American?”
“He does not look like a soldier.”
“How can he help us?”
“Where are the others?”
“What takes so long?”
Scott couldn’t track who said what in the sea of men seated at the table. Many wore suits, other dressed in the red or purple robes of Catholic cardinals and bishops. Signor Armati took charge by switching to rapid Italian. Scott struggled to keep up with how long Signor Armati had known him, the context, and why those in the room should trust him. Considering how little they’d talked at the gallery, Scott was stunned by the endorsement.
“Let him speak.” A man in a cardinal’s red robe spoke from a throne-like chair at the head of the table.
Scott approached the table and stood at ease. “I’m here with the Monuments and Fine Arts Administration of the United States Army. We desire to work with you to protect Rome’s great artistic treasures and to shore up any damaged monuments. If we can help with locating lost art, we will do that as well.”
“Will you steal our masterpieces, our heritage, as the Germans?” A man snarled from across the table. An answering murmur rose from the others.
Scott held up his hands, palms out. “No. Our sole hope is to help you protect and preserve what belongs in Rome.”
“Your soldiers won’t steal from our caches?”
“Not if we can help it.” Scott took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I’ll admit Allied soldiers haven’t always understood the importance of the areas where they bivouacked. The North African campaign highlighted that. But we’ve learned. That’s why I’m here ahead of the troops to work with you to protect what is yours.”
“The Germans had pretty words too. But those were empty.”
“Mine aren’t. I will do all I can, and those who follow will do the same.”
The conversation returned to rapid-fire Italian, at a speed Scott could barely translate. He kept his posture deferential and as nonthreatening as he could. He needed these men to cooperate. If they didn’t trust him, then he couldn’t do his job. He didn’t have time to invest in earning their trust. They had to decide.
The debate raged until Scott’s back ached from the length of time he’d stood. Still they talked, yelled, and bickered. Signor Armati caught his attention and motioned to a chair in front of a marble fireplace. The chair looked like a Louis XIV and might even have the original upholstery. Still, Scott chose to stand because if he sat, they might forget
he remained in the room.
The cardinal gestured toward a man standing near the door. The man bowed slightly, then disappeared. Fifteen minutes later he returned, followed by several other men, each bearing a tray.
“Come, we will refresh ourselves.” He spoke the words in accented English and turned toward Scott with a gracious nod. “Our guest must be parched.”
The trays were set on the cavernous table near the cardinal. He washed his hands with a warm towel, then nodded to the others. Scott watched as each man was presented with a hand towel and then a small plate laden with crackers and small cakes. Tea and coffee followed next.
Signor Armati approached him. “Things are hard in Rome but improving.”
“Do you have word from Florence?”
His old mentor considered him. “It is difficult. More so than here.”
Scott leaned forward. “Anything from Renaldo Adamo?”
“Not in recent weeks.” The man considered him, then accepted a cup of coffee from one of the servers. “He wrote you helped him.”
“I set up an exhibit in Philadelphia.”
“It is more than many did.”
“It wasn’t enough. Too few paintings and only his.”
“It was something.” Armati sipped the brew.
The cardinal touched the arm of the chair next to his. “Sit by me.”
Armati nodded so Scott accepted the empty seat next to the cardinal. As the conversation restarted, with a more restrained air, Scott realized that by gifting him with that position, the cardinal had given his consent to working with the Americans. The rest fell into agreement with that expectation.
In short order they had an understanding to close all the museums pending further notice. In addition they compiled a list of the places the Allies should guard as the army arrived.
“Soon I will have assistance.”
The cardinal nodded. “This is good. You will require much.”
As Scott considered all those seated at the table and the great museums and repositories of ancient and medieval works they represented, he had to agree. Rome was a multilayered city with strata of history, culture, and art that went back millennia. He couldn’t begin to protect it all. He needed help immediately.
The problem came in finding it.
First he had to make his army understand. And right now he didn’t know where to find his army.
Chapter 13
June 5
Rachel had accompanied the army into the suburbs surrounding Rome yesterday with a sense of relief at moving. The week of waiting up to the fourth had tormented her with moments when she longed to return to Naples to see if Scott would hold her. Or had they been caught in a night that wove a spell around them distance destroyed? The thought of his soft kiss claiming her terrified her yet left her longing to repeat it.
Rome transferred hands without a battle, largely untouched. All was quiet as the Romans followed instructions leafleted to them from the air ahead of time. She’d picked up a discarded leaflet off the street where it had curled against a building. “Rome is yours! Your job is to save the city; ours is to destroy the enemy.”
The Romans had listened and kept the streets empty, allowing the army to sweep in and clear out remaining Germans. As Rachel arrived in Rome on June 4, the celebration of elated citizens slowed the army’s progress.
With a smile to the soldiers who’d entertained her, she hopped from the transport vehicle she’d traveled north on. “Keep my bag safe, boys.”
They whooped and hollered agreement. She’d need to keep the vehicle in sight or she’d never find her bag again. Still, she couldn’t wait in the truck and not capture the jubilation the liberated showed.
She hustled a few steps from the truck before her steps were halted by the crowd. She readied her Argus. The narrow cobblestone road was lined with stone buildings. Italian flags hung from many windows and balconies. Children in their best clothes, many of the girls’ dresses short and the boys’ shirts a size too small, climbed on the transport in front of her.
A couple clicks and she captured the scene. The relieved smiles on the soldiers’ faces. The joy on a boy’s as one soldier plopped his helmet on the boy’s dark curls.
In sharp contrast to the lingering horrors and destruction Rachel had witnessed in Naples, the Germans had left Rome intact when they evacuated. Still Naples had appeared safe as the Allies raced to rebuild the infrastructure. It had been days later before the time-delayed bombs started detonating. Rachel knew to approach each building with care, hoping there would be no time-delayed explosions to mar the late-spring days.
As the vehicles lurched forward, Rachel hurried to her truck. A soldier reached down and hauled her up. She landed in a heap on the floor and giggled. The soldiers smiled. She soaked in the moment.
They’d made it to Rome. That meant Scott would follow.
The first hours blurred as she hurried from place to place. Finding the UP office in Rome. Then hours at Albergo Città, the press relations office, waiting for orders or an assignment. In between she watched for Scott. Had he reached Rome?
The way the population sought normal routines reflected a city ready to move forward. But look into the eyes of those on the streets, and Rachel saw a people who had lived in the shadow of terror. Stories reached her of random killings, especially after any show of resistance. Even more after Italians of a certain age and army eligibility did not appear for the mass-ordered evacuations to the north.
The celebrations continued to erupt where Allied soldiers appeared, but as Rachel snapped photos, she hoped the lens captured the shadowed look of hope. It was as if deep in their souls the Italians prayed this was the end of occupations, but fear warred with the whisper of assurance. If she dared to look deeply into her heart, would the same emotions war within her soul?
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.
