by Cara Putman
“The joy of a guest is the serving.”
“I should help.”
“Talk with me.”
“There’s little to share.”
He paused in his work and studied her. “You have deep waters, my child. There is much you see as you develop wisdom.”
Rachel soaked in his words, accepting the compliment. “You speak English well.”
“My brother studied at Oxford. I stayed in Italy. But when he returned, I practiced English.” He gestured around the small room. “Here I have few . . .” He looked toward the ceiling as if searching for the word.
“Opportunities?”
“Sì. Few opportunities to practice. Today you bring me pleasure.”
She smiled, charmed by his graciousness.
He reached into a small cupboard and pulled out a plate. After he placed a few slices of white cheese on it, he cut an apple. “I don’t have much food. The Germans were locusts and took much.”
“What was it like?”
The father turned toward her, his gown sweeping the floor. “Like? There was nothing to like. It was tense. Never knowing friend from foe. Who can I trust? Today who like me? Who curse me? Today will a German commander arrive and demand more than I have? What of the Fascists? The Partisans?” He sighed. “I am grateful God holds me in His hand. Many days I needed that knowledge.”
Rachel hesitated, caught by something the priest said. “God holds you?”
“Yes, it brings peace in the middle of storms.”
Peace. She hadn’t experienced that since Momma’s diagnosis. The thought of Momma leaving her. . . . Where was God in that? Was he that cruel? And look at the war that gripped the world. She’d seen the devastation, the lost lives, dodged the shells. Surely, if God cared, he could end it. Why would God allow it when he could end the death and destruction? Peace evaded Europe and much of the world. She doubted God cared much at all.
She’d never seen him care for her.
As she studied the priest’s face, she saw openness and acceptance. If she couldn’t ask him, who could she ask questions about faith? “Why would God care?” She gestured toward the destruction outside the window. “In the midst of everything, does he see one person?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I can’t step outside without seeing a destroyed building. It’s everywhere. People’s lives ended. Where’s God? Does he even get involved?” She stilled, waiting for his answer.
The man slid the teakettle from its burner and poured the hot water into two cups. He handed one to her, then settled across from her on a rustic chair. “You have many questions.”
“Too many. At least that’s what Momma always said.” Rachel blinked rapidly, fighting the urge to curl up and cry over the pain her momma’s illness caused. The way their relationship had altered as they argued about finding her father. She’d launched from not caring about his absence to desperately needing to find him. All as her momma’s body continued to lose its fight and she faced the reality that without a miracle from a distant God, her momma would die. Sooner than she should.
“You are troubled by God’s distance?”
“No. Yes. I hear he’s personal. Yet he doesn’t see me.” The words rushed from her. She wouldn’t tell the father how she longed to find God. Not too many years ago, he’d been real. Someone she counted as a friend. More than a character in a fable, but a person she knew and longed to know better. Now? Now she didn’t know. Could she trust him with her bruised heart? Not when it appeared he had more important things to do than heal her momma and couldn’t even do those well.
“May I tell you a brief story? Of a group who felt much like you?”
“Of course.”
“Millennia ago, the Israelites, God’s chosen, were enslaved. The Bible says they groaned and felt abandoned. Like the God who had spoken to their forefathers had forgotten them. Everything showed God had turned His attention a different direction.”
“I’ve heard the story.”
“Yes, yes. But there is an interesting note tucked in the midst of the telling.” He leaned forward, eyes alight with joy. “God Himself tells Moses to tell the Israelites He had visited them and seen what was done to them. Even when they felt most alone and forgotten, God was in their midst taking note of everything.”
“You believe he still does?”
“Yes.”
The simple word resonated with a passion that stirred Rachel.
The father let silence fill the space between them. A silence so deep and sure, she felt it deep inside. She opened her mouth, then closed it, not wanting to disturb the gift. It was tinged with grief, filled with grace. In a world that churned with the machine of war, a moment to pause, to think, felt like the rarest gem.
She walked life alone, always alone.
In that pause she could almost hear a voice whispering her name. So sure, so soft, so full of peace.
She closed her eyes and tried to sort through the peace.
Was it real?
She longed to believe it was. That in God’s eyes she was worth seeing and loving. That her lack of a father didn’t matter to him.
Could it be possible?
Chapter 22
Tuscany
July 30, 1944
“Everything okay?” Scott turned to Rachel after she’d spent a morning glancing behind them every ten or fifteen minutes. As the days had slipped by, glances over her shoulder had become more common.
She shook her head, then sighed. “I don’t know. I keep thinking a vehicle is following us, but I must be imagining it.” She smiled, but it never lit her eyes. “Guess I’m jumpy today.”
Tyler exchanged a look with Scott that communicated how little he thought of her nerves.
“Why do you think someone is following?”
“I’m probably paranoid.” She shrugged. “In most towns we visit something is missing. Could it be because someone is following us there?”
Tyler snorted. “The problem with that is those in the know miss it before we arrive.”
Color swept up her cheeks. “That’s why I haven’t said anything. I just sense someone watching me. All the time.”
“That’s just lover boy keeping an eye on you.”
Rachel crossed her arms and harrumphed at Tyler’s words.
Scott tapped down a grin. Maybe she noticed the way he sought her out more than he’d recognized. Tyler certainly had. “I’ll keep an eye out too, Rachel. If anyone’s following us, we’ll catch them.”
She nodded but looked unconvinced as she glanced behind her.
The days slipped by, each filled with visiting one village after another.
In each village Scott led Rachel in a search of churches and other landmarks on his lists. She took careful photos as he examined the structures for damage. Then he’d look for any listed art not at the church. In almost each place Scott was regaled with stories of the lengths the Italian art superintendents and priests had taken to protect the treasures left in their care. Many landholders made their villas available for large deposits of paintings while a large statute or two might fill a stall in a barn. Other times they’d used caves tucked in the hills. Even after all the effort, the Germans had come, seeking and taking what pleased them.
Then there were the items that vanished. In a couple villages the priests or superintendents didn’t realize the piece had disappeared until Scott arrived. Could Rachel be right? Did someone follow them and slip ahead of them to take the valuable art?
The list Scott maintained of missing statues, masterpieces, and other artifacts grew piece by piece. The German SS seemed to have a list of their own as they’d moved across Italy making selections. They’d told the local art officials the paintings and statues should be moved north until they reached the Germans’ protection.
Had the pieces b
een moved north for protection? How many of the stolen pieces had been confiscated by the Germans rather than an Allied soldier? Scott couldn’t know unless he found a list of art the Germans held. It was possible some pieces had moved north to Florence. Yet the Germans could have used the front lines as an excuse to move the pieces into Austria and Germany.
General Tucker wasn’t impressed with his lack of progress. The man didn’t realize building relationships with the local church and art superintendents mattered. It would expedite his work as they continued north. The relationships he’d formed in Rome helped, but the local men had to trust him too. Finding a missing piece would go further than shoring up another roof. Scott needed to find something.
“You look like your best friend died.” Rachel handed him a mug of coffee.
“The locals believe our soldiers are taking their art just like the Germans did.”
“They consider it a souvenir.”
“Maybe, but to these villages it’s their religious artifact or a piece a Medici gifted.”
“I know.” She sank beside him, turning to face him.
He took another sip. “I thought I could do something important. Now I wonder.”
“You’re helping these towns restore what’s been damaged. Letting them know they aren’t alone, we’re here to help.”
He wanted to believe her. “When I left, my fiancée returned my ring because she believed I was a fool. I didn’t believe her because I knew I could help save Western civilization. Instead, I dodge artillery shells as we move from town to town. Elaine was right. I should have stayed in Philadelphia and continued working my way up the art world.”
Rachel reached across and touched his hand. “She was wrong. You’re doing something important. The soldiers just don’t understand. You can educate them.”
“DeWald made booklets for the soldiers in Rome on R & R. That won’t work here.”
“Find another way to let them know why the art is important. Your passion will catch. You have to communicate it when you work with the soldiers.”
“Look at Tyler. He’s traveled with me for weeks and has no greater understanding than the first day. He doesn’t care.”
“I think he understands more than he lets on.” Rachel stared into her cup.
She met his gaze, her chocolate eyes filled with something he couldn’t discern. “You don’t give the soldiers enough credit. Most recognize beauty. Sometimes they need help understanding it in a new format. Explain what you see in a church that looks like it should be bulldozed.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
Rachel nodded, almost dislodging her cap in the process. “I wasn’t sure this had a place in the army initially. But spending time with you and with the priests . . . you’ve changed my mind. I want to help preserve Italy’s buildings and art. They will too.”
He considered her words. He’d been quick to judge the soldiers. Even Tyler. You’d think driving around, trying to stay alive, would create some type of bond between them. Foxhole if nothing else. Yet the man remained aloof, indifferent, almost as if he schooled himself to behave that way. Maybe it was an act.
Scott poured the balance of his coffee onto the ground. “Time to get back to it.”
Despite her brave words as she sat next to Scott, the days that dragged to weeks had attained a monotony of tagging along behind General Tucker’s troops in the slow progression north. Each day they’d drive into another small village she couldn’t find on a map, and she’d wonder if and when she’d take a photo that would make it onto the front page of a U.S. newspaper. The photos felt the same. One more demolished building. One more broken fountain. One more destroyed village. One more plant poking through the rubble.
Unfortunately the men in the Rome newsroom had nailed it when they said the French landing trumped anything happening in Italy. Without a breathtaking, eye-catching photo, she wouldn’t make any extra money to pay medical bills. The good news was each day they inched closer to Florence and Tuscany, but the battle ahead constrained their speed.
She carried the sketchbook with her and showed it to priests, but while they’d been courteous, none had any ideas about the artist. They humored her and said it would take an Italian art expert to identify the artist.
Scott nudged her shoulder, and she startled. “I’ll take the cups back. Meet you at the jeep?”
“Sure.” Scott handed her the cup, then stood and headed toward the jeep.
After depositing the cups in the mess tent, she returned to the tent she now shared with nurses placed with the hospital at this temporary base. It was an unusual pleasure to have some women around after days spent primarily with Scott and Tyler. Last night she’d developed film in her helmet while they washed clothes in a tub, the group wrapping her into their camaraderie.
When she entered through the flap, the tent was empty of all but a sleeping nurse. Rachel moved as soundlessly as possible as she reclaimed the negatives. She took them to headquarters for dispatch to Rome, then walked by the mail station.
“Letters for you, Captain Justice.”
“Glad the mail can find me.”
“We do our best.” The private handed it over with a grin. “They’re getting the system worked out between here and Rome. Expect it more regularly.”
She nodded her thanks. No need to tell him letters for her were like snow in July. With the time she had before meeting the guys at the jeep, she settled into a nook of shade to enjoy her letter in peace. Sharp whistles had followed her but she ignored them, background noise to being one of a handful of women surrounded by men. A few tipped their heads as they passed, and she answered with a smile. Her thoughts remained centered on the letters in her hand.
The first was something from her editor. The other V-mail felt thin in her hand, and she wanted to savor it. This was the third letter to reach her in the months since she’d left the States. She wanted to believe others were only lost.
A small, flowering white olive tree sat off the main road adjacent to the field the army had turned into its headquarters for this phase of the approach to Florence. Terraced fields lined with grape vines rose to the north of the tents, but here she’d find a slice of peace away from the watching eyes surrounding her.
She eased to the ground beneath the tree, holding the letters in her hand. The note from her editor said to prepare for a reassignment. If she didn’t get fresh photos, he’d have to move her or bring her back to Rome. She refolded the letter and slipped it back in its envelope.
Finding fresh subjects wasn’t easy in a region ripped apart by fighting. She shook her head and raised the V-mail to her nose. She longed for one whiff of Momma’s lilac perfume. One whiff would feel like a hug, but this copy the army had made from microfiche shipped overseas carried no scent.
The penmanship looked like Momma’s, spidery and thin. The wavers through the letters weren’t normal. The t’s dipped and the m’s swooned, nothing like her normal handwriting. Momma always wrote with a strong hand, the hand of an artist.
She let the letter linger another minute, then returned to it. Time to see what news Momma had. The letter was chatty, telling all that was happening in the neighborhood. While Rachel hoped Momma was up and around, visiting her friends and learning their news, it also meant Momma was out of the hospital receiving no treatment.
Life continues. It always does though. Calendar pages flip. Months change. Years change. But one thing remains constant. I love you dearly. I will never regret my time in Italy because it gave me you. You are my treasure.
Tears slipped down Rachel’s cheeks. The words felt like a benediction, as if Momma was preparing for a good-bye. Surely Momma hadn’t given up. She couldn’t. Not while Rachel stayed in Italy, still looking even if it was as hopeless as finding the perfect dress on the battlefield.
“You ready?” Tyler’s voice broke into her thoughts.
She wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath. Then turned to watch him approach. He sauntered as if the countryside belonged to him. A lord taking in his estate. “Time already?”
“Scott’s waiting by the jeep. He wouldn’t interrupt.”
Which was why she enjoyed his company more than Tyler’s. “I’ll be there in a moment.” First she needed to slip her letter into the sketchbook. Then it would be safe until she could read it again.
She ignored Tyler’s hand and scrambled to her feet. She hurried across the field, back to the shelter of the tent. After she pulled her musette bag from under her cot, she unzipped it and felt around for the sketchbook. Where was it? It wasn’t where she’d tucked it.
Frantically she dumped the bag on her bed but didn’t see it.
Her heart stuttered at the thought it had disappeared. She’d studied the illustrations until she could probably sketch the outlines herself. However, nothing would replace the ability to turn the pages and see a representation of the woman she believed was her momma during her year in Italy.
She slipped down and looked under the cot. Pulled back her bedroll. It was gone. Utterly, completely gone. Her breath hitched and her hands shook.
Time slipped as she rammed everything back into her bag, unconcerned with where they went. She didn’t care how it was packed. She wanted that book.
Somewhere.
It was here.
It had to be. She hadn’t done anything else with it.
“Rachel?” Scott stood in the doorway watching her frantic movements.
“It’s gone.” She forced the words past the lump in her throat.
“What is?”
“The sketchbook.” Her words hiccupped. It had to be here, but she’d looked everywhere. Nobody else would value it, a simple collection of sketches by an unknown artist with the initials RMA. Momma was the one who cared about it, and now Rachel had lost it.
Just like she would lose Momma.
Her thoughts shuddered as her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t cry. Not over this. She’d look hysterical, but the tears came anyway.
