Shadowed by Grace (28 page)

“Tell me this cannot be true. After all this time. My friend Scott Lindstrom.”

“Renaldo! You are well.” Scott pulled the man into a bear hug.

“In one piece as of this moment. Of tomorrow I make no promises.”

“Neither can I.” Scott studied his former mentor. “What brings you to Montegufoni?”

“Similar mission to yours. Protecting my precious arts.”

Scott studied his friend, noting the shadows under his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks. “This has been a hard time.”

“A hard time for
Italia
.”

Scott nodded. How had the man’s experiences melded with his own? He’d seen the devastation after it occurred. How much had Renaldo witnessed? “And your family?”

“Also safe. For the moment.” He jangled something in his pocket, a familiar gesture that reminded Scott of so many conversations they’d had in the past. The teacher impatient for the student to catch up. “It is why I left Florence. Walked the long kilometers from the city. With me gone, maybe the Germans will not care about my family.”

Maybe, but from what Scott had collected from conversations, the Germans liked to use families as tools to prompt actions they demanded. “So where do we begin?”

“A tour.” Renaldo clapped his hands and gestured down the hallway. “This way.”

Scott glanced back toward Rachel’s room. Should he get her or let her rest? She hadn’t slipped from her room, so if he got oriented first, he’d be better prepared to help her. Maybe he could determine whether Renaldo knew of the sketchbook. He followed Renaldo into the hall and down the dark corridor. The amount of filth surprised him. In many of the rooms, it looked as if a previous occupant had smashed the furniture to pieces. “Why?”

“The destruction?” Renaldo shook his head. “Much is beyond repair. But the Germans,” he shrugged, “they weren’t happy to leave such a fine place alone. Up and down the country it is the same. We hear reports of things taken, others destroyed. There won’t be much left when this ends.”

“So art was moved here?”

“At one time, fall 1942 should not feel so distant. We thought the valley would be spared. We prayed Firenze would be, but it was prudent to prepare.” He walked a few feet in silence as if seeing a terrible vision.

Scott understood. “It was prudent. You did what was needed.”

“Until now. Even the owner of Castello di Poppiano returned to Florence, believing it safer.”

“Where is Poppiano?”

“Across the valley. You can see it from here. With its villa it hosts the wealth of Florence not stored here.” He sighed, a rough, bitter edge making the sound harsh. “You should see the paintings. Six hundred. Crammed into vehicles. Shipped in heaps. We tried to wrap them to protect them. But the war . . .”

“Chaos.”

“Yes.”

Renaldo led the way down a narrow staircase and then across a small courtyard. “Like all old castles this started as seven small buildings and has grown over hundreds of years.”

“A maze. I might need you to guide me back.”

“My job is to keep moving. So the soldiers never know where to expect me. Then they will not take even small pieces. I know this
castillo
as well as the owner. Ah, here.”

Scott followed the art superintendent through another door. This room took his breath away. Each wall was painted with a mix of cubist or classical harlequins. “What is this?”

“A commissioned room that is art. Severini is the artist.”

“Who?”

“An Italian artist who paints under the influence of Picasso. You don’t know him?”

“Not yet.” Scott walked closer to the south wall and examined the work along it. “Does this represent something?”

Renaldo made a face. “If you can call it art.”

Looking from the frescoes then out the windows, the setting for it was Montegufoni. “I wonder if the artist inserted himself into the paintings. Maybe the commissioners too.”

“You can ask when this terrible business ends.”

“Maybe.” Scott would remember the name. See if he could learn more about the man who could bring such fanciful creatures to life on a large scale. “So where is all this art?”

“Hidden in plain sight. A couple local farmers have guarded it. Even so some were used as tables for meals cooked in the same rooms.” The man looked like his eyes would roll out of his head at the thought of such perverse use of the art.

“Two years ago this castillo was abandoned. Everything cloth covered and mothballed. Now? Now the farmers moved back. The landowner spent years moving the peasants off the castle, and the war has chased them back. Add in soldiers.” The man raised his hands and rubbed his temples. “It is amazing any survive.”

“In what condition?”

“Varied.” He turned to leave the frescoed room. “This way.”

Five minutes of silence passed as they wove their way through refugees and soldiers. A family was tucked in every covered walkway. Many rooms had sheets strewn along the open spaces to make tiny apartments. “Where have you slept?”

“I have not. If I sleep, the art is undefended.”

No wonder the man stumbled occasionally. He was exhausted. “When did you arrive?”

“Two days ago. In time to seek shelter from an air raid in the Poppiano’s basement.” Renaldo gestured to another room. This one was dark, the curtains drawn against the light, furniture absent. Scott had expected grandeur, but the room felt empty, cold. Then his eyes adjusted to the room.

“There you are.” Tyler strode into the room. “I’ve been searching all over this mess of a place looking for you and Rachel. The New Zealanders ignore me.”

“Must be your sparkling wit,” Scott bit out as he continued to scan the room.

“What have we here?” Tyler marched deeper into the room, toward the stacks of canvases Scott had noticed the moment his eyes adjusted.

Renaldo looked from one to the other.

“This is my driver Private Tyler Salmon.”

Tyler waved without turning toward the man. “The treasure trove sure as day.” He walked to a stack and flipped through them, causing Renaldo to flinch as Tyler smacked frames together.

“Take care, Private.”

With a nod the man kept flipping. “These are fantastic. Look, . . . is this a Giotto?”

Scott strode over, determined to break the man’s hands if he didn’t take some care with the priceless art. He glanced at the piece, then nodded. “Looks to be.” His hands itched to inventory the room and the others in Montegufoni, Poppiano, and the villa. To think there were more repositories, places overflowing with the artistic wealth of Italy. In this case the Medicis’ legacy to Florence and the world.

It was a singular thought that could scoop his breath out of his lungs and scatter it.

“It’s kind of a cruddy place.”

Renaldo stood as tall as his small frame allowed. “This is improvement over others. Montagnana. Such desolation. Art stolen. And others left on the floor like trash. Perugino’s
Crucifixion
. Lorenzetti’s
Presentation at the Temple
.” Renaldo crossed himself and swooned.

Scott steadied him. “We’re here to help.”

“For that I am grateful. We need assistance.”

Tyler pantomimed sitting on a chair. “You’re missing a few things.”

“That is easy. Many hid valuable furniture. Even in the countryside the elite learned it best to hide anything they did not want destroyed.” Renaldo’s voice carried with authority. “Have you seen her?”

Tyler straightened and walked over. “Seen who?” His eyes held a curious light for one who moments ago had showcased a knowledge of art.

“The
Venus
.”

Chapter 26

A DANK CHILL SEEPED
through Rachel as she lay on the bed. She stretched. How long had she allowed herself to relax? It seemed foolhardy when the day before the Germans and Allies hurled artillery at each other around this very place. Yet after the full day it had taken to travel the ninety kilometers, she’d felt jostled to pieces and in desperate need of a moment to rest.

She reached into her bag to pull out the sketchbook. Then stopped. Of course, it wasn’t there anymore. She knew better, but this seemed the place to study the drawings. From what she remembered, this was the type of location where the sketches could have been produced. The sweeping hills. The wide-open sky. The feeling the land and buildings had stood for centuries and would continue to. What would it be like to belong to something so lasting, so permanent?

No matter how long she thought, an answer wouldn’t come. All she’d known was her small family with Momma. And when Momma died, even that tiny bit ended.

“Stop it.” The words echoed toward the high ceiling.

She needed something to distract her. Florence.

The city was so close, she could see it as a dot on the far horizon if she found a tall enough hill to stand on. She grabbed her momma’s diary from its spot hidden in her bedroll. Now that someone had gone through her bags, it seemed the best place to protect her remaining treasures.

She held the book a moment, fingers stroking the cover as she longed for her momma. The pages had become as familiar to her as a favorite book. If Momma joined her here, would she finally tell the story of her time in Italy? Would she offer it with a smile, or would a cloud of sadness tinge the story?

Momma’s letters spilled onto the bed across Rachel’s lap. They’d arrived in trickles, each letter shorter, as if a reflection of failing strength. She leaned against the pillows and headboard, letting the letters feel like an embrace of her momma’s love. She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks unstopped. No one was here to see so she let them flow. After a few minutes she stopped the silent course. Now she’d read the diary.

Today I met someone. He has a passion for life that is breathtaking. On the whole I expected to find this in most Italians, but they seem to carry a weight. Left over from the war, perhaps? It’s a mystery, but this man has escaped the weight. Instead, he vibrates. Whether teaching a class or escorting me to the next museum, he brings a verve for every situation that must be equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. All I know is I long for that. Or something that will spark me out of this melancholy.

I miss home. I miss the wide-open farm country of Pennsylvania. The excitement of our town house in Washington, D.C. Seeing the different sights, walking the Mall to sit on the steps of the brand-new Lincoln Memorial. Here I feel alone with nothing but my dreams. Then I am with him.

The pen left a squiggly mark as if she had left it there for several moments while she daydreamed or imagined what to write next.

And everything changes.

I am alive.

I feel.

I want more of both.

Rachel released her breath trapped by the passion of the reading. Her momma had hesitated to show such depth of feeling. Instead, she was a steady personality with few passions Rachel had observed. To see this side of her momma unsettled Rachel.

This was a side of her momma that mattered. Without that rush of passion, Rachel would never have breathed. Never discovered the joys and pains of life. Her own existence wouldn’t have slipped from the shadowed worlds of potential. The thought could shatter her. Because here she was—fatherless, alone, maybe motherless and unknowing. Her mother had lived with TB for years until it changed to a relentless course. The thought stabbed Rachel.

Who would she be when alone?

Would she return to a world of shadows without someone who loved her?

The thought pained her to the core of her being. There had to be more to life than wavering in and out of lives. Struggling to know and be known. Always holding back from the real fear that if she exposed who she truly was, the rejection would follow in a rush. She would always be the fatherless one others avoided because of Momma’s questionable morals.

Rachel had developed a story about her daddy dying, but it wore thin like the lie it was. Explaining sounded weak, like defending the actions of another. Instead, as an adult she’d learned to hold her head high and act the part of one who never cared what others thought and hesitated to share her full story. Then she’d met Scott and wanted to be known.

She turned the pages, hand on Momma’s necklace as she read.

Tonight he gave me a heart locket. He said to reflect his great love for me.

Then he took my hand and led me to see the stars.

He said it was to sketch me under a new light. Starlight. To craft a new page in the book that is us. To stroke a pencil across the page as he longed to touch me. Even as I pretended to believe, I knew there was more.

I still can’t write his name, as if the very act of doing so will cause him to evaporate like the mist. I can’t because when I am with him, I am alive. It is as if I hold my breath until the next moment he is with me. Too long and I feel sick as if I will expire from lack of air.

Tonight there was more.

We were more.

We were complete.

It was beautiful. Fearsome. So much more and less than I’d hoped and imagined.

What it means, I know not. Only that my love for him seems more complete and emptied.

Strange. And wonderful.

He took me to see the stars.

Rachel continued to read, inhaling the prose and wondering why her momma had never written for publication. What had stolen this gift from her?

Today my world shattered. The other girls in class giggled when I walked in. They whispered, telling secrets but saying them loud enough to ensure I heard. I told myself they were merely jealous. Upset that I was chosen while they were not. Then the truth confronted me, exposing me, my foolishness.