Shadowed by Grace (5 page)

“Not yet.” Scott pointed ahead of them. “If I read the map right, that’s it. You wouldn’t think much is there, but according to my list, we should find an interesting altarpiece in the local cathedral.”

As they approached the town, a couple young boys kicked a small bucket back and forth. Their clothes hung in tatters from their filthy bodies, their hair long enough to braid. Rachel longed to scoop them up, take them to the creek for a good scrubbing, and then somehow find clothes and shoes for them. The boys stepped from the road as the jeep eased by. She could imagine the pain of nothing to protect their feet from the sharp rocks and ruins.

“Slow down!” She scrambled for her camera. If she could capture their image—children playing in the aftermath of war. All the mothers back home could imagine their children caught in the same situation and pray for an end to this war. Maybe they’d even send money to the relief organizations that began to infiltrate southern Italy.

Scott waited while she snapped a shot. “Got it?”

“I hope so.”

“All right. In that bag I’ve got a stash of chocolate bars. Grab a couple?”

Rachel nodded and found a few.

“Buono giorno
.
Cioccolato?”

The boys eyed them then each other, leaned toward the vehicle, then away. The taller one cocked his head.
“Sì?”

Scott waved the bars at them.
“Per tu.”

The boy nodded, dashed to the jeep, grabbed the bars, then stepped back. “Grazie.”

Scott drove to the town square.

Rachel glanced around. Other than the two boys, no one was about. “It’s so quiet.”

Scott nodded. “It is. But we know someone is here. The boys can’t be alone.”

Rachel hoped he was right. She couldn’t imagine what their lives were like now, let alone if they’d been abandoned. Movement caught her attention. “Over there.”

The road circled around a plaza with a broken fountain, the church standing on the far side of the open space. The statue that graced the fountain had lost an arm and bore a series of cracks. Rachel tugged her camera out and framed the shot against the cross on the tip of the cathedral’s modest facade. Roof tiles scattered across the courtyard, dotting the plaza with clay shrapnel.

A bird sang a song, its trilling whistle piercing Rachel. Could it warble a hymn of praise among the destruction?

“Village doesn’t look too bad.”

“Tell that to those who live here.” How could she convey the devastation in a way that reached Americans? To show how the ongoing crawl up the boot of Italy left little behind. “What the Germans don’t take, we destroy.”

“It’s war.” Scott voice fell soft between them.

He was right. She knew that. “We see it. What about those back home?”

“You mean the moms hanging blue flags in their front windows? They care deeply. Everybody knows someone over here. That gives them an interest in what’s happening.”

The clouds parted and a beam of light fell across the cathedral. The cross almost glowed in the rays. Rachel stepped farther from the jeep and snapped a shot, then framed another including the broken fountain and crushed building next to the church. Out of the destruction the church seemed to whisper there was still hope. She longed to believe it. That hope waited to be grasped with both hands and yanked to her heart. That life, this country, could be salvaged before everything in the path of two armies was destroyed.

A man in priest’s robes exited the back of the church. Rachel stepped back, not wanting to distract the man but wishing she’d opted for the standard-issue WAC skirt rather than the more practical trousers.

“Buono giorno.” Scott exited the jeep and made a small bow in the direction of the priest.

“May I help you?” The words hung in the air, heavy from the Italian accent. The priest eyed them, not unpleasantly, yet he didn’t extend his hand or offer his name.

“I’m Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom, United States Army. I’m here to check your church and artwork.”

“Why?”

“We want to help you protect them.”

“Like the Germans?” The man’s placid features transformed into a frozen mask.

“No.” Scott looked at Rachel. What did he think she could do? “We want to help you protect your treasures.”

A formation of planes buzzed overhead, and the father ducked. “My name is Father Guilliamo. Come in, come in. Is not safe out in open.”

A few minutes later he placed a plate of hard biscuit cookies and a pot of tea on a battered kitchen table. “We have little.”

“We expect less,” Rachel assured him.

“Hardship . . . it is our companion. But nothing compared to the suffering of our Christ.” He poured, then offered the cup to Rachel. “All day we wait. For what we are not sure. But we wait.”

“Waiting is hard.” Scott shifted against the hard-backed chair.

The counter stood empty. The kitchen itself clean but spare. Even with rationing, Americans experienced abundance. The parish kitchen reinforced just how little one could survive on.

The priest poured weak tea into two more cups, and they all sipped. What would Scott do? Sitting in uncomfortable closeness, wondering what they should do next, seemed counterproductive.

Scott gulped his tea—had he even tasted it?—then pulled a small booklet from his jacket pocket. “Father, I’m here to offer the assistance of the U.S. Army to your church.”

“I need no help.” The priest swept a hand around the room. “I have a roof. End the war. That would help most.”

End the war. If they could do that. But with soldiers continuing to slog in the valleys around Cassino, that seemed unlikely . . . laughable even.

“We do what we can.”

“Stop gunning down civilians.”

“I’m sorry?” Rachel couldn’t help the words that erupted from her soul. Machine-gunning?

The father made like he had two hands clenched around something and vibrated them, the way a gunner in a plane would. “Innocents are killed while Germans and Fascists fight.”

A sick feeling rose against the cookie she’d choked down. “We don’t do things like that.”

“These old eyes have seen.”

Scott swallowed and then straightened in his chair. “Please accept my apologies on behalf of the United States.” He looked down at his hands. “War causes great tragedies. This is one. I am here to help avoid another tragedy. Father, is your altarpiece safe? Did it stay behind or did the Germans take it?”

The man eyed him, wariness and skepticism casting shadows. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I value the great treasures of Italy. Because the things we value speak volumes about the country and the world we will have after the war. Because the things that were created in Italy should stay here, in the land of their birth. And because the Allies have created a team to help you protect what is yours.”

Rachel stared at him, soaking in the passion of his words. He leaned forward under the weight of his beliefs. A fervor in his gaze matched the intensity of his words. His passion drew her like a child to a stream on a warm day.

The father matched his posture.

“What of Monte Cassino’s monastery? If you value the old things, the ancient treasures, why destroy that?”

The distance shortened between the men. The passion on their faces caused Rachel’s breath to catch in her throat.

Chapter 5

SCOTT BREATHED FOR A
moment, then exhaled a whoosh. “Sometimes we have to value human life more than monuments.” He choked out the words he knew were true. Would the father respect the position or show him outside?

“Still they fight. In the same positions.”

The words settled across Scott like a heavy shroud. Yes, three months after the Monte Cassino bombing, the Allied forces remained bogged down, but this last assault might work. It had to for the troops to move forward. He prayed the irreplaceable library had been moved, its archives protected, but feared it hadn’t since all there would have assumed the abbey would never feel the thrust of bombs. Until the battle was over, the extent of the damage couldn’t be known. Anything they heard was German propaganda. The priest studied him as if reading his thoughts. What could he say to make the priest trust him? Probably nothing, so he held his silence.

If the father didn’t believe him, wouldn’t entrust him with the information about the altarpiece, then what? If he couldn’t make the local priests, archbishops, and art officials trust him, his mission would fail. That prospect haunted Scott.

The man jerked his chin down. “Follow me. We take your vehicle.”

Warmth rushed through Scott. He could finally do something for the art, but he tamped it down. Nothing to celebrate until he knew for sure where the priest planned to take him. Maybe on a wild-goose chase or straight to the local Fascists.

The ride passed in silence other than occasional directions from the priest as he sent them on roads that wound ever back from the village and main road.

Scott felt Rachel’s gaze but stayed focused ahead. He had to, because if he looked back, he’d see everything he’d left behind in Philadelphia. He’d spent his education and career developing expertise in Italian Medieval and Renaissance art. Now he could help preserve it from the devastation of a war. He felt destined to help protect it; otherwise, he’d let Elaine walk away in vain.

That day on the pier seemed so long ago, more so when this beauty sat next to him, turning his thoughts homeward. Yet it wasn’t that long ago because he carried his grandmother’s wedding ring in the bottom of his duffel in a sealed envelope. A constant reminder that when he’d boarded the ship to Europe, he had abandoned his dreams for the future. He and Elaine could have been married by now, happily starting life together in a brownstone her parents bought them. Instead he bounced over rutted roads in a dilapidated jeep with an Italian priest and an intriguing photographer.

Thirty minutes later Scott stopped to refill the petrol from a can.

“Do we have enough to get back?” Rachel whispered as he set the empty container in the narrow space beside her.

“We’ll make it.”

“Over the next hill and down a narrow road.” The priest pointed toward the coast. “I hid the pieces where I felt certain they would survive. Vesuvius, she gave me sleepless nights with her eruptions. I have worried the Germans found them. But the telephone lines are down, and it is impossible to know. Maybe God sent you to answer my prayer to know the altarpiece’s fate.”

Scott wanted to be an answered prayer.

“Do you believe God can use you? Answer prayers through you?”

“I hope so, Father.” Though it seemed doubtful.

“In a kilometer we shall find out. You already are an answer to the prayer resonating in this old heart.”

Scott hoped he still felt that way when he steered the jeep from the village.

Rachel braced herself as Scott maneuvered the jeep around potholes and craters. She’d glanced back a few times but hadn’t seen any vehicles trailing them. If the priest sent the altarpiece here to hide it, she couldn’t imagine there’d be a good outcome. Not based on the state of the road. Heavy fighting must have pounded the area. She hoped, no prayed, the battle was long over.

Could she be an answer to prayer? The words lingered in her soul. She’d never considered being part of an answer. Instead, she tended to focus on the answers she needed, like finding her father before it was too late. Only as the armies battered through the Purple Heart Valley could she hope to follow them into Tuscany and beyond.

Her camera bounced against her and she clutched it. If it broke, she’d get a quick ticket home. That couldn’t happen.

“Turn here.”

Lieutenant Lindstrom followed the instruction. The jeep jarred and Rachel’s teeth clicked together. She ran her tongue over them, grateful none had chipped.

“Down this road and off another sits a small village. My brother once served as its priest.”

“Where is he now?” Rachel leaned toward the front seat.

The man shrugged, a gesture both weary and heavy. “I cannot say. He disappeared on a dark night in December. The villagers think the Gestapo took him.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged again. “It is all in God’s hands. We all are.” He turned and pointed into the woods. “Now we walk.”

Fifteen minutes later he led them to a network of caves. “At different times Italians have hidden here. Avoiding German demands to transport to labor camps. The Germans demand too much.” He pulled out a flashlight and flicked on the light.

Scott waited for Rachel to enter. Did she want him ahead or behind? Either felt dangerous, but she entered the dim reaches of the cave and followed the father through its twists and turns. When the flashlight’s beam flickered, the priest pointed to the left. “In that hollow.”

Scott slipped past her and reached into the darkness. “Nothing’s here.”

The priest pushed forward. “You missed it. It is in pieces. We dismantled the altarpiece.”

Scott reached back into the darkness. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel anything.”

The priest groaned, a sound that seemed to reach from the depths of his being. “It must be here. No one knew I hid it here. No one but my brother.”