. . .

  The route hugged the glimmering coast of the continent—the architecture and vegetation astonishingly different from the southern coastline where he’d spent his boyhood. As the train made its way from station to station, Talbot saw contingents of Allied troops, some arriving and others so buoyant and filthy it was clear they were headed home. Beyond the olive drab uniforms, the vista outside his window bore little evidence of the war so recently concluded. But Talbot imagined the accusations and recriminations that flooded these seaside communities, some shopkeepers and farmers having stayed true to France, others now shunned for having cooperated with the occupiers. As he rode, he ruminated. Marie-Claire. Had she asked him for money he would have given it to her. Her deception mattered less to him than the fact that he had not detected it. He had blunted his sensors, taken himself off-duty after the slog of daily mendacity that had characterized his life in Turkey. But in letting go of his created identity, he had relinquished an important set of skills, something he resolved not to do again. Europe was far from a safe place and to navigate it, he would have to reactivate his instincts, employ the skills his spymasters had taken pains to teach him.

  The train traversed Monaco then crossed into Italy, stopping first in Pisa at a badly damaged rail station that had only recently returned to service. He exited the train to find something to eat, astonished by the rubble that filled the alleys and laneways. Fully ten hours after boarding the train in France, he arrived at the Santa Maria Novella station in Florence. He made his way to the Hotel Minerva, finding his new colleagues had taken over the hotel bar. After exchanging names and the barest details of what each had done in the war—polishing off a dozen bottles of wine in the process—the group broke up, dispersing to their rooms, with plans to reconvene to begin their work in the morning.

  They spent the following day examining Florence by grid, noting the extent of the infrastructure damage and familiarizing themselves with the political leaders who seemed to be asserting influence. Their mission was to counter any communist pull that might impede Italy taking a democratic path. They could tap a healthy budget to fund the relocation of any especially problematic individuals. The task group solicited insight from nearly everyone they encountered: the American soldiers waiting for passage home, the men who’d run the last of the Germans out of town; factory owners whose businesses had been co-opted during the war; shopkeepers who had little to sell; women lined up at the fruit markets who spent their days scrounging for enough food to feed their families.

  After his long train ride and a first day of back-to-back meetings, Talbot almost begged off that evening’s private tour of the Uffizi Gallery, a get-to-know-you event for the task group. But reluctant to make waves, he skipped dinner for a shower he hoped would refresh him enough to enjoy the guided tour. Ancient and imposing, the Uffizi and the priceless array of Italian Renaissance artworks within it had somehow survived the war. Workers were in the process of moving items from the collection out of protected spaces underground to reinstall them in the upper floors of the gallery.

  The docent, Talbot was surprised to learn, was an American—a young woman who had been stranded in Florence for the duration of the war. She spoke about various pieces as they circulated through the Uffizi’s rooms, noting the particular care American bombers had taken in the massive raids of 1943, precision bombing that had spared not only art pieces at the Uffizi, but many of the city’s historic structures. It was the Germans in retreat who had bombed the Ponte Vecchio bridge a few blocks away, she noted. Moreover, despite the Italians’ best efforts, the Germans were believed to have made off with several works of art, including the small oil painting Vase of Flowers by the Dutch artist Jan van Huysum.

  “The smaller casualties of war,” the docent observed, “but to the art world, tragedies nonetheless.”

  Talbot thought he heard the barest trace of an accent as she spoke but nothing he could exactly place. He found her presentation outstanding and approached her afterwards to thank her and let her know how much he had learned. He was also curious how an American civilian had subsisted in wartime Italy.

  “Talbot Bentley,” he began. “Thank you for a fascinating tour.”

  “Eleanor Halsey,” she responded. “So glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Tell me, has it just been harrowing for you?”

  “I’m not sure I understand your question,” she responded guardedly.

  “I’m just surprised you weren’t locked up at some point, is all. They let an American stroll through the streets when they were shooting at us just up the road?”

  At this, Eleanor smiled wearily, remembering. “Ah. Yes. That. There was lots of hiding involved, subterfuge and deception,” she said. “I stayed with friends from the university for months and when that got dicey, a professor from the university took me in. I ended up at the Convent of Santa Maria Novella. Me and quite a number of Jewish children.”

  Talbot took in her tall frame and her fair looks, the light blond hair pulled into low braid, the bright blue eyes.

  “I would think you’d have a hard time passing for an Italian nun,” he observed.

  “You’d be surprised,” responded Eleanor. “Men tend not to see women wearing a habit and wimple. Just doesn’t seem to register. And as the city fell apart, no one had any interest in combing through monasteries and convents looking for subversives. Most Italians—the police, the soldiers, everyday people—were too busy trying not to get shot dead in streets themselves. Their instinct for self-preservation saved the lives of many, many Jewish children.”

  “It worked out pretty well for you too, except for the minor problem of being stuck here for five years unable to get home.”

  “Six, actually. I came here to study in 1938. I know, I know. What was I thinking?”

  Members of Talbot’s group began to speak a bit louder and to circulate in his peripheral vision. They were ready to return to their hotel.

  “Listen, Eleanor,” Talbot began. “We’re headed back to the Minerva. Any interest in joining us there for a drink?”

  She looked over at Talbot’s colleagues, seeming to genuinely consider his offer. “Perhaps, well… no, thank you. You are very kind but it was a lengthy tour and a long day. I hope you can understand. I do appreciate your offer. It would be lovely to spend some time with Americans for a change. But tonight, I’d have to say no.”

  So, thought Talbot, she is practically inviting me to ask her out for another time.

  “Tomorrow night, then? Dinner? Or would lunch work better?” he asked.

  Her face lit up, her shoulders relaxing in relief.

  “Dinner tomorrow would be perfect. I know exactly where to take you.”

  . . .

  The next night, they walked from the lobby of the Minerva to a dimly lit trattoria several blocks away. Eleanor had enjoyed a day off, as the gallery was still only open sporadically, and she’d used much of the afternoon to prepare for her date. She arrived at the Minerva early, wearing a bright blue cotton dress with a boat-neck and cap sleeves that revealed an expanse of smooth, pale skin from her neck to her shoulders to her arms. Surrounded by dark-haired, dark-eyed Italians, she stood out in a way that captured the eye of every man who saw her. Most especially Talbot.

  Once they were seated and the wine poured, Eleanor wasted no time. “So, tell me—where did you spend the war? Not here, I suspect, since that was your first time at the gallery.”

  Talbot rolled out his well-practiced story. “I served on the command staff in North Africa. At the end of ‘43, I was deployed to England to prepare for the invasion of France.”

  “So, it was your idea to invade France! Well done, Talbot! Terrific planning!” Her eyes sparkled at her joke.

  “Yes. Completely my idea. Ike followed my instructions to a tee.” Talbot moved smoothly off his storyline. “And you? Where is home and why did you come to Europe when it was preparing to explode?”

  “Junior year abroad. Or that’s what it was supposed to be. I was attending Smith and earned a spot in an arts program that allowed me to come to the University of Florence to study sculpture. If I did well enough, I planned to stay and earn my degree here.”

  “And that didn’t happen.”

  “It did not,” said Eleanor, dropping her gaze. “Not at all. When I finally understood that Europe was falling in on itself, there was no safe way to get out. But I had some friends here by that point, good friends, who kept me out of harm’s way.”

  “So, you can leave now. I’m sure you’re eager to see your family.”

  “My father died of a heart attack when I was a fifteen. He was a professor of economics at Smith and they graciously allowed my mother and my brother and me to remain in faculty housing after we lost him. Mom worked as a secretary in the mathematics department. But last year, she passed away from cancer. My brother was killed in the Pacific. So, it’s just me now. No rush to head anywhere. Lots to sort out.”

  Talbot was stunned by the magnitude of Eleanor’s loss, how she had managed to hold herself together to shoulder it. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor, for all of it. I can’t imagine how hard this has been on you.”

  “I’m not the only one. Not at all. I look around and loss is all I see. And—although it’s probably terrible to say—it helps, I think, to know you’re in good company. No point in feeling sorry for myself. Who would notice? So, you move on. Make a plan for what’s next.”

  “And what is next for you, do you think?” Talbot asked.

  A hint of a smile played at Eleanor’s lips. “I’m not sure. Perhaps my situation will sort itself out before long.”

  . . .

  Over the next few months, Eleanor shared with Talbot all she had come to love about Florence.

  “The Renaissance began right here—in the Florentine Republic,” she explained, as they walked along the portico bordering the Uffizi, where merchants called out from their stalls to market handcrafted leather, wood, and art pieces. “The Medicis—the bankers—fueled the art scene, supporting a stable of artists that included da Vinci, Donatello, Michelangelo.”

  “And they supported a few popes, I seem to recall,” Talbot offered.

  Eleanor laughed. “That’s one way to put it. They made sure their choice rose to the top job, using bribery, corruption—you know, the usual. They had their hands in lots of things. And the cultural movement they funded went on to transform Europe.”

  She took Talbot to the Piazza del Duomo with the immense Cathedral of Saint Maria del Fiore, explaining the construction of the main building encompassed a 150-year project. She pointed out the green and pink marble on the exterior which came from nearby Impruneta, also the source of the terracotta tiles that covered virtually every rooftop across the city. She introduced him to the Baptistry of St. John, where Dante himself was baptized, with its many paneled doors that practically told the entire Christian story, and the gilded mosaic ceiling that did the same. They traversed the Piazza della Signoria, where she had spent so many evenings as a student, to see the copy of Michelangelo’s David, along with works by Giambologna, Donatello, and others. They walked along the Arno, noting progress in the effort to restore the Ponte Vecchio and the shops embedded in the bridge’s structure. Eleanor impressed Talbot with her detailed answers when he asked about the provenance of a particular piece of art—the context of its creation or the point it was trying to make. Ten years his junior, Eleanor’s knowledge of Renaissance history and insight into the current day made Talbot aware of some distinct holes in his education.

  Talbot loved listening to Eleanor follow ideas around corners, test them with contradictory perspectives, tie them to the history she deeply knew, and share theories she had read about or formulated herself about how Europe would progress and finally recover. Ever the artist, she continued to consume books and articles about sculpture and painting and spoke expansively about areas of study she still wished to pursue. But when the conversation grew personal, when Talbot gently probed for details about life during the war, a strand of melancholy emerged, Eleanor’s brow creasing as she worked out answers to his questions. This inclined him not to ask, not wanting to increase the emotional distance between them. As it was, Eleanor was slow to respond to his obvious interest in her. Her attachment to Florence—and to Italy—however, was unambiguous, a connection so uncompromising Talbot was almost jealous of it.

  “I became myself here,” she explained one night as they sat at the Caffè Gilli on the Piazza della Repubblica. She took a sip of her espresso and nibbled a corner of a hazelnut nocciolino, the chocolate so rich Talbot could smell it across the table. “I was a teenager when I arrived and now I’m an adult who understands the vagaries of the world—that nothing is promised. When I lost my brother, then my mother, I was surprised to realize beauty still existed in the world. I’m literally surrounded by it.” She told Talbot that through her hardest months, the very curves in the city’s ancient architecture, the graceful columns and arches, the mathematical precision that joined them, soothed and reassured her in some primal way—evidence the world would survive the current terror and return to an understandable order, and that she, too, would recover from her grief.

  When they walked through the city, Eleanor happily took his hand and leaned into him when he slipped his arm around her. She responded to his kisses at the end of the night, clasping her hands behind his neck to pull him closer. But she went no further, never inviting him to stay overnight at her little apartment or intimating that she wished to stay with him. There was a formality to her, a reserve, something Talbot attributed to the fact that she had no mother, no sister, no best friend to take stock and assure her Talbot was a safe bet. Talbot took his cues from her and didn’t push, knowing she was young and, believing her inexperienced with men, trusting their intimacy would eventually come, that she would see they were an awfully good match.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  1946

  The European Continent

  They spent their Florentine Year, as Eleanor came to call it, traveling across a reawakening Europe. They took the train to Rome, transfixed each time by the beauty of the countryside, the cypress trees seeming to stand at attention as the train moved through the swell of green hills. They passed through the medieval villages of San Giovanni Valdarno, Montepulciano, and Orvieto, with their red-tiled roofs and ancient cathedrals, most located on fortified hilltops that seemed to touch the azure Tuscan sky. They took long weekends in Paris, seeing for themselves the city’s purposeful revival, its poets and musicians putting forward prodigious works meant to interpret for the rest of the world the depth of the city’s suffering during Occupation.

  Talbot put in for a week of R&R, suggesting to Eleanor they go to London, where he had plans to get together with Harold Warren. His former deputy and his wife, Molly, were coming from New York for a meeting at England’s oldest bank, Hoare & Company. In little more than a year, Harold had established himself on Wall Street, much of his work now devoted to helping Europe’s damaged cities find the capital they needed to rebuild and move forward, hence the meeting at Hoare.

  Eleanor readily agreed to go to London, and as was her habit, confirmed he would book separate quarters for the trip. They had dated for a year now and despite often passionate farewells at her doorstep, despite her turning 26, she kept a firm boundary in place that baffled and frustrated Talbot.

  They caught an early morning train out of Florence that carried them to the edge of the continent, where they crossed an unusually placid Strait of Dover by ferry. On the train ride to London, Talbot remarked that Eleanor had arrived, for the first time seven years, in an English-speaking country—English with a British accent, but still.

  “I hope my ear is attuned to it,” she smiled. “You’re the only person I speak English with at this point. If I can’t understand your friends, will you translate?”

  And in fact, when they met the Warrens for drinks that night, Talbot saw Eleanor had a little trouble getting into the flow of the conversation, amid Harold’s frequent interjections and Molly’s happy, fast-paced chattering. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, her focus intense, absorbing the slang, the colloquialisms used by this quintessentially American couple, their references to popular culture in her own homeland that she acknowledged she would need to reacquaint herself with. She believed them to be old family friends, Talbot not making clear his and Harold’s shared history in Turkey.

  “So, when are you coming back to the States, Tal?” asked Harold, a question he had been posing in various ways since they’d ended their duty in Istanbul. “Any interest in banking? We can use a smart lawyer like you, although I’ll have to fix it so you’re not disqualified by your Georgia Bulldog education—or should I say lack thereof.”

  “Ha ha, Harold. Tell the snobs in New York that there are fully educated people out there who are proud and happy they didn’t go Ivy League—men like me who would not have it any other way. While you were freezing your asses off in Connecticut, we were having luaus at the beach on Christmas break. That, by any measure, proves who’s really smarter.”