by Cara Putman
“You still with me, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out there. Find the art and the journalist. Can’t have anything happen to the press.”
“No, sir.”
“Locate that thief. Now. Dismissed.”
Scott nodded and then hustled after Rachel. Identify a thief? In a sea of soldiers and disillusioned, starving Italians? It was an impossible task. He shook the doubt about the book from his mind. He’d ask Rachel about it at an appropriate moment. Until then he needed to find her and the priest. If he was lucky, she’d be within eyesight when he reached the door. However, after he worked through the crowd separating him from the door, she’d disappeared. All he saw was a sea of soldiers. Some looked energized. As if they couldn’t wait to take the fight to the Germans. Others looked like they’d collapse if they could. Instead, they plodded forward, each step moving them closer to battle.
How could the one woman in the military within twenty kilometers disappear?
Maybe if he looked for a black cassock in the crowd of uniforms, he’d find Rachel. Then he’d accomplish two missions at once. Scott stayed on the top step to see over the heads of those marching past. There. Could that be the priest? Across the court, around the broken fountain, the one with water burbling in a broken mess at the bottom?
Guess there was one way to find out. Follow the robed figure.
The figure turned a corner between a pile of rubble and a still-standing storefront. Scott hurried down the stairs and worked his way through the soldiers. When he reached the corner, the robed man had disappeared. “Come on.”
Now he was no closer to the priest or to Rachel. His success—and by extension the Monuments Men—in the eyes of the general depended on how he did.
“Need a ride?” Tyler pulled the jeep alongside him.
“Have you seen Rachel?”
“Nope.”
“A priest?”
“Nope.” Tyler yawned and crossed his arms. “Why?”
“We’ve got a new assignment. Find an art thief.”
A flicker of some expression flashed on Tyler’s face. “Guess our role’s expanded.”
“Yes.”
“Hop in and let’s find Rachel.”
“I’ll travel by foot. Drive around the perimeter of the village. I’ll walk around the square and intermediate roads. She’s probably shooting photos of the locals.” He hoped. After seeing her art journal, he didn’t know what she was doing.
“Father?” Rachel hurried to catch the man. She’d needed a mission when she woke up, and finding the priest for Scott seemed easy. The man moved. Fast. What gave him such energy and purpose? She had to learn what he knew about art thieves. Her stomach clenched at the idea someone victimized these people and this country by taking what little they had left. Their heritage, their culture, their art. “Padre?”
The man slowed and then turned her direction. “Sì?”
“I’m Rachel Justice. With United Press. In the United States.” That had to be meaningless to him.
“Yes?” The word was heavily accented but beautiful English.
“We’re supposed to, the soldier I’m traveling with and I, the general told us to help you find art thieves.”
“Thieves?”
“Art. Missing.” Rachel groaned. Maybe one word didn’t indicate fluency.
“Ah. An image of the Madonna. Very old. Very precious.”
He did understand! “We want to help.”
“Bene.” He considered her and looked deep into her soul. It wasn’t as uncomfortable an experience as she’d expect. “This way.”
She waved toward the church. “That way.”
“No. Follow me.” The priest picked up the pace without a backward glance. If she wanted to help, he expected her to follow. Where was Scott? He couldn’t be happy she’d disappeared from the church. But when she saw the priest, she couldn’t wait. He was here, headed away, so she’d follow again. Scott would find her. After all, the general told him to keep her safe.
Rachel picked up her speed, glad she’d worn boots and trousers. “Where are we going, Father?”
“The location of the taking.”
Okay, that made sense, but she looked over her shoulder. Now would be a wonderful time for Scott to arrive. Especially since the father led her away from the village toward a row of hills. Away from the main push of soldiers. She’d be fine for a short distance. Keep the village in view, the soldiers within screaming distance.
A rumble followed behind her. She turned to see if she should run away. A shaky laugh escaped when she recognized the American jeep and the face behind the wheel. Tyler Salmon might drive her crazy, but she knew him. She waved and waited as he zipped toward her.
“Scott’s looking for you.”
“And the priest.” Rachel gestured toward the man who had stopped a few yards beyond them. “Let’s collect Scott. The priest wants to take us somewhere.”
The father studied them, a tightness settling around his eyes as he rubbed his face. He waited for the jeep to approach. “Daughter, come with me.”
“After we pick up the soldier charged with protecting art. He will want to come and will know the best way to help.” She hoped. Scott would know the right things to say and do to reassure this man who seemed pressed into himself by age and the weight of war waged all around him. She longed to lift part of the burden from his stooped shoulders.
She turned to Tyler. “Where were you meeting Scott?”
“Around.”
The one-word answer struck her as absurdly obtuse. “Around?”
“Yeah. He headed the direction he thought the father had taken. I was to circle and see if I could find you. Keep moving and we’ll find him. He can’t have walked far.”
Time crept like molasses slinking from its jar as they circled the small village. A couple times Tyler had to stop to wait for troops moving forward. Each time she could think about how far Scott could walk during the delay. At this rate they might not catch him.
“Private, make this jeep move.”
He scowled at her with a look of indifference. “You can’t make me run over somebody.”
“I outrank you.” The words felt ridiculous and petty.
“That’s fine and dandy, but you’ll have to hold your horses. Scott’s a big boy. He’s fine.”
The father muttered in Italian, Rachel only able to interpret occasional words like Dio. As the man prayed, she shielded her eyes and scanned the horizon. To the right she made out the small form of someone walking toward them. “Is that him? Over there?”
Tyler followed her point. “Might as well see.” His mumbling didn’t have the same reverent tone of the priest’s. After skirting holes left by mines and artillery shells and bouncing across the jutted field, Rachel knew she’d break a tooth if he didn’t slow down. Tyler finally pulled alongside the soldier.
Rachel leaned out the side. “Need a lift?”
Sweat rolled down the sides of Scott’s face as he stumbled toward the jeep. “It’s about time I found you.”
“Who found who?” Tyler stared straight ahead, only the raising of a cheek muscle indicating his joke.
“I was headed back to the village.” Scott climbed into the backseat. “Who do you have with you?”
“This is your neighborhood priest. He’s looking for a missing Madonna.”
Scott leaned forward to look at the priest. “Father, I’m Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom with the United States Army’s Monuments Men. I’ve come a long way to assist you.”
Chapter 21
June 12
The priest’s impassioned pleas to find the village’s relic rang in Scott’s ears the following morning. They’d spent the day searching the hills until they’d almost run out of gas and risked a long walk to town through fields the tw
o sides contested. An ME-109 had zipped overhead. Scott had ducked so the landing gear wouldn’t brush his hair. Then he’d held his breath as they waited for the plane to circle around and machine-gun them where they sat on the open road. Instead, the plane disappeared over the horizon.
“Mi aiuterebbe.” Over and over the father pleaded for help. He’d alternated languages, using English, French, and Italian to ensure Scott understood.
A few times Scott wondered if someone trailed them in a battered car, but when he decided to confront the vehicle, it disappeared.
A day later Scott was no closer to finding the thief than when General Tucker gave him the stolen-art assignment. Today they’d scour more villages, but the father had confirmed much art had disappeared, not all of it under the German army’s efforts to “protect” the masterpieces.
“It is worse in Florence. Great paintings are gone. Disappeared. Lost.”
Scott didn’t want to contemplate which masters those words represented. He wanted to believe the small Madonna—and other pieces—would reappear miraculously. However, the Madonna would tuck in a rucksack as a souvenir. It was possible if a soldier grabbed it, he would have no idea of the painting’s worth. Some paintings were valuable because of their age, the centuries they had survived. Others were irreplaceable because of the famous artists who held the paintbrush and chose the colors.
Scott’s sleep had been filled with running through a maze. Always moving. Never approaching. Always knowing he had to hurry or lose. Never getting close enough to see the shrouded painting waiting at the end.
Tyler roused Scott from his restless sleep by banging a C-ration kit on the table. In no more than ten minutes, they drove along a road looking for a hiding place the father had mentioned. Rachel had stayed behind with the priest. She said to take photos. He believed it was to help those left in the village however she could, and the jeep felt empty without her riding along.
A break in the cypress trees made Scott sit up. “Turn here.”
Tyler complied, and Scott hoped he’d picked the right break to turn into.
He checked behind the jeep but didn’t see anyone trailing. Today the roads had been vacant. As long as a slim possibility remained that the painting was stored with others from the region and the priest had forgotten, Scott would continue looking. If the painting had disappeared from the storage facility, it might not be recovered. If he found it, that would raise his status with the father, which could generate goodwill in future towns.
Either way they had to move fast. Track down what he could before General Tucker moved headquarters to another broken village with its own shattered church and square. Down the narrow road between the trails, they reached a deserted village. Each building in the small community suffered damage. As he considered the location, Scott couldn’t understand why it would be affected. It didn’t hold strategic significance. It didn’t house industry or anything that could impact the war’s outcome.
“Wonder what happened here.” Tyler stopped the jeep and climbed out.
Scott crouched as he kept an eye on the surroundings. The silence was eerie. To the point that it seemed even the birds had abandoned the place. The last thing he needed was some sniper taking a shot at him because he assumed the residents had abandoned the village.
He scanned the second-story windows of one building and hesitated. Could that be a shadow or just the movement of a curtain in the open window? God, keep us safe. “Tyler.”
The man didn’t hear him, so he hissed louder. “Tyler.”
“What?”
“I think we need to sweep the buildings. Something isn’t right.”
“You want me as booby-trap bait? Do I look like a fool?”
“No. But something’s wrong.”
“Right. This place is abandoned. Empty. Deserted.” The man punctuated the words with a sweep of his arm. “Look at it. It’s falling apart, so who would stay?”
“I doubt the residents left willingly.”
“Great reason to get in and get out. If there’s no one to talk to, let’s keep moving.” Tyler glanced around as if he expected the enemy to show up over his shoulder.
The whistle of a bullet foretold the sharp impact into the driver’s-side mirror. The glass shattered, showering over Scott. “Tyler!”
The man dove back in the idling jeep, then shoved it in reverse as another bullet blazed past, this one lodging in a tree they passed.
“Thank God he’s a bad shot.”
Tyler didn’t answer as he swerved the jeep in reverse along the road. The jeep lurched over a crater, then bounced on the other side. Scott landed against the door then the dash.
“Sorry.” Tyler gritted out the word.
“Just keep moving.”
A couple kilometers outside the village, Tyler pulled to the side and popped the vehicle in park. “What was that?”
“A sniper.”
“How’d you know?”
“It was too quiet.” Scott shrugged as the adrenaline leached from him. “Glad you were driving.”
Tyler kept his gaze on the road. “If it’s not a plane, it’s a hole I don’t see that gets us.”
“Don’t know if we should sit here. He might not be alone.”
“Agree.” A moment later Tyler had the jeep moving again.
The broken trees, destroyed houses, and vacant villages they drove past provided constant reminders of the war. It was hard to remember what life had been like before. “What did you do before the war?”
Tyler looked at him for a second before the wheel jerked in his hands. “Worked on a college degree.”
“Where?”
“A college you’ve never heard of.”
“Unless it’s somewhere like Idaho, I bet I’ve heard of it.”
“Sure. A small liberal arts college for men. I forgot those are all over the place. I’d like to get back and finish what I started.”
“We all want to get home.”
Shrubs lining the road moved, even though no wind stirred the hot air. “Over there.”
“I see it.” Tyler gunned the engine but crushed the brake after a shot whistled near the engine. “Think we’re stopping, boss.”
“Yeah. I’m getting tired of being a target.” Scott reached for his pistol and crouched lower behind the windshield. Any protection was better than nothing.
The shrubs rustled again, and a man in a worn red shirt and filthy denim pants edged out. Rifle barrels pointed toward them from behind the man. He eyed their vehicle, then them. “Americano?”
“Sì.”
The man spoke in rapid, lyrical Italian. Slowly more men fanned around them, their guns held lower, but Scott didn’t doubt they’d jump to firing position at the slightest provocation.
“Partisan.” The man pointed to his chest, then to his comrades. “Tutti partisans.”
“Great,” Tyler mumbled. “What we gonna do with them?”
“Smile. We’re happy to see them.” He hoped. No one had advised him how to handle Italian nationals like these. The Tuscan forests overflowed with men hiding from Germans. Guess they weren’t hiding from the Allies.
“So?”
“So we radio for advice.”
“The general will be delighted.” Tyler gestured toward the ragtag group.
“I’m open to suggestions.”
Tyler settled back in his seat, arms crossed. “No. You’re the lieutenant.”
That didn’t mean he knew what to do. Give him an artillery-pocked church, and he’d intuit where to add support and how to buttress. Give him malnourished Italians, and he’d dole out extra rations. This was outside his experience. Some of the partisans had heavy work boots while others walked barefoot. Made him wonder how much damage they could do against the well-equipped Germans.
The radio crackled and Scott relayed
their situation.
“Tell them we’ll send supplies tonight.” The disjointed voice confirmed where he’d run into the partisans and signed off.
“How you gonna break the news?” Tyler nudged his chin toward the group. A group that shifted and murmured in low tones. Unhappy tones. “I’m thinking at least one understands English.”
Scott could understand enough to know the situation wasn’t good, but he didn’t want them to know he understood Italian. He stood in the jeep, leaning against the windshield. “Who speaks English?”
The men looked at each other, blank expressions as they shrugged.
“Inglese? Who speaks inglese?” Scott waited.
“Me.” A short, sturdy man stepped forward hampered by a limp. “I help.”
Scott conferred with the man, using simple words and lots of gestures to explain supplies were coming. The man nodded, asked a few questions in broken English, then turned to his friends. With much gesticulating and rapid words, he communicated the message. The men disappeared into the shrubs.
“We understand.”
“Thank you.” What had chased the man into the forest? “Have you heard anything of art stolen from churches?”
The man’s expression clouded. “Sì. Artifacts disappear.”
As Scott questioned him, the man could confirm the rumors and nothing else. “Grazie.”
Tyler restarted the car. “Daylight’s wasting. Let’s get while we can.”
The last of the men melted into the fields. After a minute Scott wouldn’t have known anyone watched if he hadn’t noticed where a couple disappeared. Tyler ground the gears, then lurched back to speed. “Wonder if anyone will bring the supplies.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“The battle’s that direction. Not here on this side road to nowhere.”
Rachel sat in the parish as the priest shuffled to the small stove and slid a full kettle on a burner. She couldn’t imagine the sacrifices he’d made to prepare tea for her. At her assertion she didn’t require anything, he’d chuckled and continued his work.
