Chasing Mona Lisa (6 page)

“We had a run-in this morning with some German soldiers, except they were Polish or Russian.” Eric clucked his tongue. “Let’s just say they weren’t looking to see if our travel documents were in order.”

“What happened?” Bernard’s eyes finally moved to Eric’s, a look of concern clouding his face.

“Gabi saved us.” Eric’s hands paused, and he fingered a bundle. He again questioned whether he should have let Dulles talk him into bringing her to Paris.

He shook his head. “Quite a story, and I assure you that they are no longer a threat.” His words sounded cockier than he felt.

“I understand this problem. We’ve heard about those Ost soldiers.” Bernard reached for a pack of cigarettes, placing one in the corner of his mouth. “Extremely unpredictable. The German officers put them in front-line trenches and shoot any man leaving his post. Caged, wild animals, every one of them.”

As Bernard spoke, both anger and pain filled his gaze. Anger Eric understood, but the pain? There could be a thousand reasons for the emotion. Memories the freedom fighters carried with them were no doubt equally as graphic and painful as he and Gabi had just experienced.

Eric was nearly finished fishing out the francs and dollars from the door when Gabi cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, but are you in charge here, Monsieur Rousseau?” Her eyes were fixed on his.

The Resistance leader gave a slight nod and pulled at his navy beret.

Gabi pursed her lips. “We were instructed to convey a message along with the money and medicines. The message could not be written down. We must deliver it verbally.” Gabi looked over to Eric and then back to Rousseau.

Bernard flipped the lid of a silver lighter and lit his cigarette. “Please continue,” he said, blowing a line of smoke to the side.

“Do you still have the capability to pass along messages to your leaders?”

“The Resistance works through various networks, but I’m part of the senior leadership.”

“What I have to say may not be what you or the Resistance want to hear.”

Bernard stroked his stubbly beard. “And who’s the message from?”

“The highest levels of the United States military.” Gabi paused for dramatic effect. Then she plunged ahead. “First of all, the Allies do not want to be pulled into bare-knuckle street battles to dislodge the German garrison. That would be destroying a city in order to save it. The plan from General Eisenhower at Supreme Headquarters is for the Allied armies to bypass Paris and drive for Germany. Let the Nazis chase after them.” She spoke with confidence.

Eric held his breath, anticipating Bernard’s response. Anger flashed on his face, just as Eric had expected. Somehow the medicine and cash they’d just unloaded seemed like a paltry offering compared to what these men needed.

“That’s crazy!” Bernard growled. “Paris will become a mound of rubble, a diamond smashed into a thousand pieces. Surely this General Eisenhower can be persuaded that history will severely judge such a folly—”

Eric broke in, lifting his hands as if to calm the man. “Here’s how Dulles explained it to me. If the Allies were to rush into Paris, there would be firefights in the streets, and that would favor the Occupation force. They know these streets, they are well-armed, and they can make use of fortified defensive positions. Even if the Allies rushed in, they do not have enough food and petrol to supply Paris. Those critical supplies are earmarked for Patton’s tanks, which are sweeping across the plains south of the city and driving for Germany at this moment. We beg you to keep your powder dry for a little bit longer.”

Bernard held up his right hand. “
C’est impossible
. You can’t stop us from throwing out the
boches
. The situation will come to a head very soon.”

“Tell the Resistance leaders to wait,” Eric continued. “Our intelligence tells us that the German garrison is 20,000 strong. A full-scale rebellion means they’d have open season to destroy this beautiful city block by block. It would be a bloodbath.”

“No!” Bernard pulled his beret from his head, balling it in his fist. “They must die. They must pay!” The pain in his voice was fresh. His loss was an open wound.

Gabi took a step closer to Bernard. She dared to place a soft hand on his arm. “Learn from the Warsaw Uprising. At this very moment, Polish insurgents are being crushed underfoot by their German captors, who are defending ‘Fortress Warsaw’ and counterattacking the Russian Army.”

“We heard the same thing from the German propagandists,” Bernard conceded.

“So you know,” Gabi whispered. “The Warsaw Uprising started three weeks ago with high hopes, but the Nazis are ruthless. They’re torching neighborhoods, mowing down civilians. I fear Warsaw is a model for how Hitler’s armies will leave nothing but dead bodies and scorched earth behind.”

Eric caught the look between Rousseau and Dubois that revealed how they thought things would be different in Paris. He reached out and placed a hand on Gabi’s back, urging her to continue. Pride again filled him at how capable she was for a young woman in her mid-twenties—and how dedicated. Even though she was shaken from today’s events, he knew it would not hinder her from performing the task she’d been asked to do.

She glanced to him and then pointed toward the western horizon. “You need proof? Take a look at the smoke. Who knows what that’s from? German reinforcements could be pouring into the Parisian neighborhoods where those church towers may have heralded
libération
a bit too prematurely. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Bernard effected a wan smile. “I’ll pass your message up the ladder, but nothing’s going to change. Our leader, Colonel Rol, declared that ‘Paris is worth 200,000 dead.’ That’s how far the Resistance is willing to push to rid ourselves of this national humiliation.”

Eric regarded Bernard’s confident body language, which confirmed his belief that the liberation of Paris was part of his destiny. Like the sound of a clanging church bell that could not be unrung, he knew there was no turning back for Rousseau and his Resistance members.

 5

The impact of the shovel echoed in Colette’s mind, and she grabbed the stair railing and paused. She stared at the marble step before her, knowing if she closed her eyes, she’d see it again—the sight of hedge shears being yanked from the major’s back.

Throughout four years of German rule, she’d heard stories of war, about the bloodletting and barbarous battles. She’d heard about men who’d received a worse fate, but never so near. She covered her mouth and nose with a quivering hand, sure the scent of blood was still in the air.

You have to get ahold of yourself. Those men are no longer a threat
. But that was only half of her worries. As Paris was drawing closer and closer to liberation, she wondered if other high-ranking German officers would have the same idea of pillaging the Louvre of her priceless artwork while they still had the chance.

Will I be able to handle their request so calmly next time?
She had to believe she would react in the same way. She longed for the hour when she could relax and release the breath she seemed to have been holding for years.

She continued up the marble staircase, and with each footstep she felt her composure returning and confidence building. Years of kowtowing to the Germans would soon be over, and life would return to some semblance of normalcy.

When she opened the door to her office, Anne jumped out of her chair to greet her.

“You poor thing!” Anne reached out and pulled her close, and Colette felt her body slump. She expected tears to come, but they didn’t.

She pulled back from Anne and pressed both hands to her temples. “The sound. It was horrific—”

“Don’t say anything. Push that out of your mind. It had to be done,” Anne rambled. “Here, have a cup of tea.” She poured her a cup from the ceramic teapot.

Colette sipped her lukewarm tea and could tell that her fellow curator had doubled up on the honey. “That’s very nice of you,” she replied unconsciously, lost in thought. Colette was no innocent when it came to man’s inhumanity to man. She had seen the same themes in the works she cared for. The artists of the past understood the human condition—the desire to conquer and subjugate others.

Anne’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “Monsieur Rambouillet wants to see us. We saw the entire incident from his office. When I’d heard you’d used the Monsieur Monet alert code, I feared for what would happen next.”

“If only Bernard was there. When it wasn’t his voice on the phone, I feared—well, I could barely walk across the palace courtyard. I knew that the German major wouldn’t hesitate to kill us. When he fired a shot in the hallway, I was sure both of us were next.”

“They are dead and gone, thank goodness. Let’s not dwell on it. You showed great courage.”

“
Merci
. That’s very nice of you.” Colette sat at her desk, feeling the strength that had carried her up the stairs ebbing away. She lifted the cup with both hands. “Give me a moment, and then we’ll go see Monsieur Rambouillet.” Though Anne had encouraged her not to dwell on the incident, she did not see the cup of tea before her eyes but rather the dark red pool of blood seeping from the major’s skull.

A few minutes later, after informing Anne that she was ready, the pair walked together into the senior curator’s spacious and well-appointed office. A light cabaret tune hummed from a mahogany-cased radio perched on his desk, its bouncy tune conflicting with the dull pain filling her chest.

Rambouillet reached over and lowered the volume, then hurried around his desk, opening his arms wide to embrace Colette. “You saved my life. When that
boche
officer walked into my office and waved his Luger in my face, I thought today would be my last. You followed the plan to perfection.”

The music stopped, and Colette pulled back from his embrace, turning her head to the radio. Perhaps there was an announcement forthcoming from the German Ministry of Propaganda. The Germans still held control of the major radio stations in Paris, and everybody knew what the announcers
didn’t
say was more telling than what they
did
report. Usually the pronouncements on the radio were the opposite of what was really happening.

Rambouillet raised the volume in time to hear the familiar voice of Roger Villion, the infamous collaborator, echoing through the speaker:

The following is an important announcement: The authorities are appealing for calm. Do not believe the rumors that you are hearing on the streets. You are urged to stay inside your homes, where you will be safe.

Rambouillet lowered the volume as an accordion-driven folk song came on. “My brother called ten minutes ago. A friend told him that French tanks were seen passing through Porte St. Cloud.”

Colette’s lips parted. Porte St. Cloud was on the southwestern periphery of Paris. “French tanks? I thought the Americans were coming to rescue us.”

“At this point, who cares? This really could be it.” Rambouillet smiled at the women. His eyes narrowed into thin half-moons as his cheeks pressed upward. “I know. What can you believe? But this one makes sense to me. The Métro shut down an hour ago, so something major must be happening.”

“Great news.” Anne clasped her hands together, a wide grin brightening her face. “Just to think, after all this time—”

“No time to celebrate yet.” Colette tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Until we see that swastika come down at the Hôtel Meurice, the Germans are still in charge.”

“I agree.” Rambouillet strode back to his desk and pressed his hands on the surface. “Which means you must leave.”

“Leave? But why?” Colette felt the weakening of her knees once again. To stand up to the German major was hard enough, but walking away was impossible.

“You know how it is with informants these days,” Rambouillet stated. “Someone could have called the Germans and told them about today’s incident in the courtyard. The
boches
pay good money for information like that. Whom can you trust?”

He glanced to his window. “I don’t think we should take any chances. It’s more dangerous for all of us—and for the art—if you remain here. You need to leave now.”

Colette reacted with mixed feelings. On one hand, it was the best plan for her personal safety, but then again, it was her job to be here. She didn’t want to leave the Louvre at this momentous time in history.

“You said the Métro stopped running. I’d have to walk, and who knows how safe the streets are.” Colette hoped that sounded like a good enough excuse for her to stay.

“That’s why I’m authorizing Anne to go with you. We can’t take the chance of a German staff car pulling up to the front door looking for a missing major. I’m requesting this for your safety as well as ours.”

Colette realized that she couldn’t put her colleagues at risk. She looked at Anne, who nodded. “I’ll go get my things.”

Five minutes later, Colette and Anne stepped outside the Louvre’s front entrance. The courtyard was deserted. The museum had been officially closed all week because of the wartime uncertainty.

Colette scanned the horizon, marred by a thin film of smoke. She noticed a piece of white paper, burned black around the edges, floating to the ground. Looking skyward, a light rain of ash fell from the hazy sky.

“My place?” Colette asked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re more than a ninety-minute walk away. Same as me. I doubt we’ll find anyone to give us a ride on the Rue de Rivoli. It’s like everyone has disappeared.”

Colette’s face brightened. “My mother lives off the Rue de Madrid in the 8th arrondissement. No more than forty-five minutes on foot. But we’d have to walk in the vicinity of the Hôtel Meurice.” She bit her lip, knowing they’d pass by the heart of the German command. “I don’t think anyone will bother us if we stay in the Tuileries Gardens.”

“Good idea. And we wouldn’t know what we’d run into if we took a detour.”

The two women departed the Louvre courtyard, linked arm in arm, in the direction of Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. They passed by the monument and continued along the gravel pathways into the Tuileries Gardens, staying on the left side of the park, parallel the Seine.

Barely a ripple moved across the river’s emerald-colored surface. Barges, flat-bottomed boats, and Bateaux Mouches—the famous open-air tourist boats that roamed the Seine—were cinched tight to their moorings. The dozens of love-struck couples who normally lingered along the banks were absent.

Anne followed her gaze toward the empty stone embankments. “You miss him, don’t you?”

“How did you—?” Then again, Anne knew she and Bernard often sought solitude along the Seine during long lunch breaks.

“I haven’t seen Bernard all week.” Colette swallowed hard, attempting to hold down her emotions. “I’m worried sick.”

Anne drew Colette’s arm closer, patting it. “I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”

They continued along the southern outline of the Tuleries Gardens, the largest and oldest public park in Paris. Colette looked through a cluster of deciduous trees toward the octagonal Grand Basin. No mothers had taken their children out to play with their small wooden sailboats, not on a day like this.

Many of the green lawns had turned to dirt. Brown weeds infested the formal flowerbeds. Straggled new growth splayed from the famed hedges that outlined each rectangular quadrant of the park. Through the hazy air, she spotted a tendril of smoke rising from the Hôtel Meurice not far away.

Then the sound of idling diesel engines caught her ear. She studied the source of the noise, and up ahead a half-dozen Panzers formed a phalanx in front of the Hôtel Meurice. Several German troop carriers were parked in the gardens. Others were positioned across from the front entrance to the hotel.

Colette stopped in her tracks. “You see what I see?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen troop trucks parked there before.”

“Or so many tanks on the Rue de Rivoli.”

Anne paused, clutching Colette’s arm. “I don’t know about this. Maybe we should go back. Find another way—”

Colette considered returning. Surely someone would be looking for the major by now. Her throat tightened as if squeezed by an invisible noose. She patted Anne’s hand and took another step forward. “No one’s going to bother a couple of women in the middle of the afternoon.”

Against Anne’s protest, the two continued past the disheveled gardens, hooded by broad centennial chestnut trees. There was no sign of activity near the troop carriers, but as they drew closer to the Hôtel Meurice, she saw soldiers exiting the lobby and carrying boxes—toward a bonfire. Soldiers one by one dumped reams of paper into the flames.

“You see that, Anne? The Germans are packing up—”

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” A sharp voice split the air.
What are you doing here?

Colette turned in the direction of the voice and gasped at the sight of a rifle pointed at her heart. Anne, momentarily frozen, squeezed her arm in fright.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” the soldier repeated in a horrible French accent. “Vous êtes des espions, non?”
You’re spies, aren’t you?

Colette sucked in a breath. Her legs urged her to turn, to run. Instead, she transformed her mask of concern into a warm smile. “Ist das wie Sie alle jungen Damen des Reiches behandeln?”
Is that how you treat all young ladies of the Reich?

The soldier lowered his carbine. “You’re Germans?”

“Yes. My friend here”—she nodded toward Anne, whom she could tell didn’t understand a word—“and I are on holiday in Paris. We were supposed to leave Sunday, but things have been rather chaotic. All trains are canceled to Germany. So what should we do? And what about the bonfire?” Colette nodded in the direction of the plume of smoke.

The soldier’s gaze fixed on her, and she broadened her smile. Though her heart pounded in her chest, she mimicked the flirtatious looks of the American movie stars she’d seen in the cinema.

Gradually the soldier’s look turned to one of interest. Of protection.

“The only thing I know is that we were ordered to burn documents and keep our eyes alert. It’s getting more dangerous by the minute. I wish I could walk you back to your hotel. It’s not safe.”

Colette placed a hand over her heart, feigning horror. “Have the Allies arrived?”

“They don’t tell us anything. Just that it’s dangerous to be wearing a German uniform on the street. Listen, you need to seek shelter. We could be attacked any minute by Sherman tanks.”

Colette turned to Anne. “Let’s go back to our hotel,” she said in German, knowing her friend understood the universal word
hotel
and not much more. Anne, lips sealed, nodded her approval.

“Good, then it’s decided.” She thanked the soldier, and they retraced their steps. When enough distance had been put between them and the German troop carriers, Colette spoke in French.

“I told him we were Germans on holiday. We better return to the Louvre. The
boches
have better things to do than worry about a German officer going AWOL. I’ll feel safer there.” The worries over the possibility of someone coming to the Louvre now paled compared to the fear Colette experienced facing the soldier.