Chapter 7: Crossing the Arno

As they approached from a side street, the magnificent Ponte Vecchio came into view, arched over the river Arno. The descending sun cast rainbow hues over the sides of its colorful shops and set the water into a fiery blaze. Three stories high, the bridge complex became a widely popular location for those in search of Florence's finest gold and silver merchandise.

Built originally in 1345 AD by Taddeo Gaddi, the Ponte Vecchio became a home to a group of butchers in the 16th century. However, when Cosimo I moved into the Palazzo Pitti across the river, the rancid stench provoked him to evict the butchers and install goldsmiths and silversmiths. To this day they have remained.

Even in 1944, at the height of the war, business seemed to flourish in the district. It had been spared the fate of all other bridges over the Arno. Gefreiter Berlitz marveled at the unexpected display of historical passion among the leaders of the Reich.

Leutnant Metz halted the group with a raised hand. He pointed upwards at one of the third-story balconies, where two Allied soldiers were lingering about and keeping watch. Another three soldiers could be seen among the Roman arches spanning the center of the bridge.

" Listen," Metz said. " We have not the ammunition or the manpower to engage in an open fight. The entire success of this operation—and our lives—depend on remaining quiet. The Amis must not know that we are here."

" Can we cross over the roof?" Schmidt demanded.

Metz squinted at the red tiled roof over the shop district, like embers in the dying sunlight. " No, we'll be too visible from any point in the city. Our only chances are to use the main street."

Sighing collectively, they nodded their agreement and moved onwards. Berlitz still needed Schmidt's support to take the pressure off his bad knee. The thought of even climbing up to the roof had rattled him.

They drifted like shadows from one alley to another, zigzagging through the abandoned streets closer and closer to the entrance of the bridge. Occasionally the muffled cries of a baby could be heard through the doors of the buildings nearby. If not for this, the town might as well have been inhabited by ghosts.

Four American soldiers, clad in their dirty green uniforms, stood in discussion at the threshold of the bridge. Behind them, the empty shop district could be seen. Roofs cut jagged angles out over the main street, and in the setting sun, shadows stretched out everywhere. This would provide good cover once they were on the bridge.

The Amis were calmly smoking cigarettes. Word must have reached them that their half of the city had been secured.

Metz and his men approached to within twenty feet, their feet soundless on the cobbled roads. The taunting aroma of smoke reached their nostrils—a brand which Berlitz recognized to be Camel—and a longing went through the four of them.

What a pleasant time the Amis have had in this war, Berlitz thought angrily, a pang of jealousy racing through him. They wait for five years to join the fighting, and come with warm food and fresh cigarettes and enough ammunition to level mountains.

The Americans at the bridge, thankfully, had turned their attention away to gaze at the wondrous Duomo, raising its great dome over the city in the orange sun. Metz slipped past them, hugging the opposite side of the street. Schmidt and Berlitz followed quietly, with Hilden bringing up the rear. Their guns were trained on the Amis, ready to open fire the second one turned around. Such an event would spell disaster for the remainder of their journey.

Berlitz caught fragments of the English conversation through his rudimentary learning. The main theme of the discussion was about the sweethearts left back in America. He thought of his own Lena, back in Hamburg, who would be waiting for letters from her brother, Hilden, and he himself. A deep ache went through his heart.

Metz tugged them, one by one, into a narrow alley once they had passed the soldiers. They were safely on the bridge now and out of sight for the time being.

The Leutnant tried the knobs of the adjacent doors and found them all locked. Fearing that a break-in would cause too much noise, he signaled the others to follow him back out onto the street.

From where they advanced, a jutting building sheltered them from the vantage of the four Amis.

Berlitz had broken into a nervous sweat, which caused his head wound to throb again. He worried that he might pass out.

They reached the central portion of the bridge, where three more Americans were lounging around the arched portals of the wall. It was a span of thirty meters to the safety of the shops beyond. However, fortune seemed to favor the German soldiers, for the Amis were leaning over the railing and had their backs turned to the street.

The four men of the 1st Fallschirmjäger moved soundlessly, not daring to even breathe. They were close enough that Berlitz feared their very odor giving them away. His worry was needless—the wind was blowing back on them.

Even as they reached the dense shop district and stepped into darkness, Berlitz never took his eyes off the Americans. Perhaps this was why his foot caught an uneven cobblestone, and he toppled with Schmidt into a small wooden counter. Immediately, the doctor grabbed him by the lapel and dragged him over the top. They landed hard on the other side.

His head spinning, Berlitz struggled to listen for approaching footsteps. Surely the Amis must have heard that.

Schmidt, lying beside him, had his MP-44 cocked upwards. The next curious face that leaned over the counter would find itself staring at the grimy barrel of a machine gun.

English voices drifted over the barrier, although Berlitz could not make out any traces of alarm. He thought he heard something that sounded like "stupid animal," but the pace of footsteps could be heard.

Only one soldier had been sent to inspect the intrusion, and his voice carried strongly back to the others. He paused on the other side of the counter, his shadow falling on the store's tan walls. From where he was standing, all it would take was another step forward, and he would spot two bodies pressed against the barrier.

Berlitz felt his lungs on fire as sweat trickled down his brow. He dared not breathe, nor make any sound at all. He waited anxiously for the sound of Schmidt's gun blowing off the man's head.

It did not come.

After a lingering glance, the American returned to join his friends. Berlitz exhaled shakily and glanced at Schmidt. The other soldier pursed his lips and shook his head wearily.

They waited another minute and rose together, peering over the edge. Metz and Hilden were nestled into crevices across the street; the Leutnant had his knife drawn and ready. Hilden gave Berlitz a scorching glare, to which Berlitz shrugged apologetically and swung his body over the counter.

United again on the streets, they proceeded another twenty meters and froze.

Ahead, a band of five more American soldiers were in a heated debate with six British men. A British officer spoke angrily towards an American sergeant, who fired back responses with a flurry of gesticulations. The other men stood about in a wide circle, encompassing the width of the street, watching curiously as their two leaders disputed.

There would be no sneaking around this blockade.

Hilden pointed out a window nearby, which was slightly ajar. Metz nodded his approval, and together they forced it open. The Leutnant then clambered inside, followed by Schmidt, Berlitz, and Hilden.

They found themselves in the darkness of a jewelry store. Unslinging his flashlight, Metz guided them through a maze of glass counters to a rear door. This too was locked, but it was safe enough now for him to ram his shoulder into it.

With a sharp crack, the old frame splintered and gave way.

Together as one they stumbled into the small parlor of an apartment. Several lamps cast light over the faces of a frightened family at the dinner table. A small, dark-haired woman with delicate skin sprang to her feet and let out a wail of terror, accompanied by two smaller cries from a boy and girl.

Metz dashed to the woman and clamped his hand on her mouth. He turned two the children and snapped, " Sei ruhig!" Then, remembering where he was, he switched to Italian. " Silenzio!"

They did not shut up. He turned menacingly towards the frail father, who had backed feebly into the corner. Metz pressed his knife against the wife's throat and notched his head towards the children.

Terrified, the father rushed to his children and knelt next to them, begging them to be quiet and wrapping them around him. They began to cry, but this was muffled against his shirt.

" Tetto?" Metz demanded, asking for a roof.

The man nodded and pointed with a trembling hand at the stairs to the rear, " Si, scalare le scale."

Metz nodded to Hilden and Schmidt, who helped Berlitz ascend the stairs. Then, pressing his finger against his lips sternly, the Leutnant let go of the woman and hurried up after them.

The second floor was narrow and partitioned into two sleeping chambers. One was for the kids. The other, dominated by a large bed, served the parents. It was in the latter room that Schmidt pointed out another set of stairs, leading up into a loft-like area. Here a window had been opened, and the smell of the river drifted in with the air.

There was a small, red-tiled roof which extended out over the Arno. Several other roofs followed a similar pattern on different levels of elevation, so that there was a ragged path over the rest of the river.

Not caring anymore whether they were seen or not, Metz led the way out. The cool river breeze filtered through their clothes and massaged their tired limbs. One step at a time, they clambered up and down over the roofs—pausing frequently to help Berlitz with his leg or Hilden with his bad shoulder—until they reached the corner between the Ponte Vecchio and the apartment of the next street.

Here, Metz kicked in a shuttered window, and they slid into a tiny bedroom. They paused to rest and catch their breath.

" We have ten minutes to get down to St. Trinitia and find Victor Granzoli," Metz informed them, after checking his watch.

Schmidt groaned. " Then we had better get moving."

The words were said, dutifully, but no one moved to action. Metz turned to inspect their faces. Tired, worn, beaten, hungry, they were at a point where any ordinary man would have given up. But surrender was an impossible concept for them to grasp. This far into the war, the idea of wiping away all their tears and sweat with a white flag seemed mutinous to their very being. They were committed. They would die before the war's end, because they had no other choice.

But they would not complain. They had never complained, in all their years of hunger and thirst and terrible loss. The men of the 1st Fallschirmjäger represented something noble and honest, if there was such a thing in the realm of war.

If it was even possible to comprehend, this war had, at last, created something beautiful.