May 16
The hill they drove stood like a multilayered terrace, each level lined with the remnants of vines. Grapes maybe? Rachel fingered Momma’s silver locket as she searched the landscape. She’d never seen anything like it in Philadelphia. She hadn’t grown up in an agricultural center. Now she wished she’d asked her mom more questions and made her talk about Italy.
The GI seated next to her drove the jeep with confidence, but what did he see? The silence that settled over them said he didn’t need to entertain her. Yet the longer the silence stretched, the more curious she became. Then she’d catch him looking at her. The kind of glance that telegraphed he saw her, really saw her, and wanted to know more.
Her cheeks warmed and her palms sweated. He’d given her openings to share some of her story, but the words failed. They’d just met, and she couldn’t let him see the turmoil roiling inside. No, she needed to affix a look of composure and strength and never let it slip. One word from him and she’d spend her time in Naples fighting with Sergeant Bowers for another assignment.
“Do you think we should stop?” She held up the map. “We should have arrived by now.”
He glanced at her, his brows merging in a frown. A crater in the road almost yanked the steering wheel from his hands, and he fought the car back into position. “A couple more minutes. We can’t go fast, so it’s still ahead of us.”
“All right.” She turned back to the map. The lines zigged and zagged across the page without making much sense. Guess this wasn’t the time to mention she’d never had occasion to drive or use foreign maps.
They approached a crossroads. “Which way, Justice?”
She stilled as her name sounded like a caress. “I’m not sure. Sorry.”
He pulled the jeep to the side of the roadway and gestured for the map, which she handed over with a smile. After a minute studying it, he eased back onto the road. “We’ll try left.”
“Try? Aren’t we in a war zone? Trying doesn’t sound safe.”
Did he just growl?
He was driving her into the unknown and growled at her. Rachel crossed her arms and leaned against the bench seat. Her gaze darted back and forth. Far behind them the dust of a vehicle rose in a cloud. What if they drove into Germans? Or partisan Fascist troops? Would her rank as a captain protect her in the event she became a prisoner of war, or would they know it was a sham?
“I’ll get us there and back.”
She nodded but refused to comment, not sure her voice would cooperate. She turned to look at the cloud but couldn’t tell if it drew closer.
“What are you looking at?”
Rachel shrugged. “I can’t tell. Is someone following us?”
Scott shook his head. “As far as I know we’re alone out here. But there are a lot of men in the army.”
“You’re right.” Rachel turned around and tried to focus on what was ahead of them. She’d anticipated many things when she asked for a war assignment. She tried to weigh the costs, and compared to her momma’s life, this seemed small—when she was half a world away reading the stories and watching newsreels. Now that a shell could explode next to the jeep or a bullet could pierce her, it seemed real. Too real.
She longed to excel at her assignment, to see her name grace the byline for photos that filled newspaper and magazine pages next to Therese Bonney’s photos. Maybe Rachel’s photos could impact breakfast conversations around the States. Then she would belong with the elite photojournalists who could tell an entire story in fewer column inches than their typing brethren. That was an important purpose. One that gave meaning to her time in Italy even if she never found her father. Even more important, with each photo that found its way into the papers, she’d earn the extra money needed to keep her momma alive until she could finance a miracle.
A formation of planes flew overhead, and Scott jerked the jeep to a stop at the side of the road under a tree. She hunched down reflexively and startled when Scott pushed her down, then placed his body over hers. She felt him move, then ease away, and she fought the urge to pull him back down. She felt safe with him between her and danger.
“They’re ours.”
Relief surged through her veins, making its way to her brain even as she missed the security his arms around her generated. She tried to relax her muscles but felt locked in place.
“Village should be over the next hill.”
“All right.” It was all she could squeak out. Please help me find my father. Fast. Then she could leave on the next ship headed home. To safety. To her momma.
The gears ground as Scott restarted the jeep and shifted to force it up a steep hill. The vehicle slowed, chugged, lurched, and then grunted over the crest. Rachel breathed out. “Guess we don’t have to push.”
“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.