Chasing Mona Lisa (14 page)

“Well, if you insist.” Madame Beaumont returned to the kitchen to fetch another plate and place setting.

As they settled into their breakfast of eggs and ersatz tea, Madame Beaumont proudly expounded on the latest gossip circulating the neighborhood. Thousands of Germans had surrendered, and those paraded through the streets were cursed by jeering mobs. Some German soldiers were tackled and strangled with bare hands; others put a pistol to their temples rather than face the vengeful crowds.

“Then I heard on the radio this morning that the Free French and the Allied forces are dealing with stray snipers. Perhaps they didn’t get the message that German forces had surrendered.” Madame Beaumont shook her head.

Colette sighed. “Or they want to have the last word—or last shot—on the way out.”

“Good point.” Madame Beaumont clapped her hands together. “The other big news report was that General de Gaulle will be leading the big parade this afternoon on the Champs Élysées.”

Eric set down his fork and knife. “I would imagine that Bernard will be marching.”

“Maybe. I don’t really know,” Colette said.

“He didn’t say anything when he left the party last night. I would imagine that’s why he’s busy this morning.”

“How long have you known that he was with the Resistance?” Gabi asked.

“I had my suspicions all along, but one thing we learned quickly under Nazi rule is that you dare not raise such a topic with anyone, sometimes even with your boyfriend. Bernard is passionate about his political views, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t be a passive observer throughout the Occupation, but we never discussed specifics. I think a tank parked in the courtyard is evidence enough.”

Madame Beaumont stood up and began clearing dishes. “Mademoiselle Colette is correct. We all lived in fear of being turned in to the Gestapo. Thank goodness that era is over. Listen, I’ll clean up and let you visit.”

The matron stacked the plates with silver forks and knives and returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

Eric could tell something bothered Colette. “Are you supposed to go in to the Louvre today?” he asked.

“No, my supervisor told me to return on Monday. Since I’ve been there, we’ve worked under German control. I can’t wait to see how things will change. I would imagine the first thing we’ll do is bring back the priceless art from their hiding places.”

Eric and Gabi looked at each other askance.

“I always wondered what happened to your most famous pieces, like the
Mona Lisa
and Venus de Milo,” Gabi
said.

Colette shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it’s no big secret now. The most valuable pieces in the Louvre collection were moved out for safekeeping shortly after Hitler invaded Poland. Many were originally taken to various chateaus in the Loire Valley, but when Germany conquered France, the most famous pieces were trucked even further south into the Unoccupied Zone. The last convoy crossed the Loire River just hours before the bridges were blown.”

“But didn’t the Nazis want to get their hands on priceless works of art like the
Mona Lisa
?”

Colette sighed, as if she was measuring her words. “We had to stay one step ahead of them.”

“That couldn’t have been easy to do,” Eric said. “We’ve heard rumors of how the Nazis deposited their plunder in Swiss banks.”

“Most likely true. Especially if the paintings happened to be owned by Jews. While German art museums and, uh”—Colette hesitated for a moment—“private collectors augmented their collections by confiscations of art from what they called ‘enemy aliens,’ they also embarked on a purchasing program of gigantic proportions.”

“You mean they bought the art they wanted?” Eric asked.

“Yes . . . there’s no use hiding what they’ve done. The Nazis were fueled by unlimited funds made available from the economies of the countries they conquered. But many of our works at the Louvre weren’t available at any price, and the Germans knew that. It turns out there were treasures that they could not steal.”

Eric listened intently, fascinated by what he was hearing. “You seem to know a lot,” he offered, baiting his hook, waiting for her response.

A guarded look crossed over Colette’s face, and she hesitated a moment before replying. “Large museum. Small staff,” she declared simply.

“I could imagine that you were put into some delicate situations.”

Eric dared to press her further. “You mentioned last night that you were a curator. Can I ask who is in charge of the
Mona Lisa
?”

Colette paused and looked suspiciously toward Gabi, then back to Eric.

“C’est moi,” she said.
It’s me
.

 
1
5

The heavy scent of coffee and cigarettes filled the air.

Hans Schaffner was surveying the café when a woman seated at a front table caught his eye. Even though she tended to a baby in a pram, he noticed she met and held his gaze. He didn’t mind keeping company with housewives whose husbands were away, but this potential liaison would have to wait. He cast her a warm smile, then with a sigh of reluctance, he brushed past.

Needing to keep his mind focused, he cradled a copy of the
Neue Zürcher Zeitung
and found an empty table in the back of the café, away from the other customers. What he read soured his
Kaffee crème
.

Zurich’s newspaper of record, customarily with a gray visage, was one of the most austere in Europe. Uncharacteristically on this Saturday morning, however, three rectangular photos were splashed above the front-page fold: a half-dozen French infantrymen aboard a Sherman tank that motored past adoring crowds on Avenue Victor Hugo; an older woman in a pleated summer dress running up to General de Gaulle to plant a grateful kiss on his cheek; and untidy rows of Wehrmacht prisoners—hands raised—parading past vengeful crowds.

“Nazis Driven Out of Paris,” blared the headline in seventy-two-point type—another rarity for the stolid Swiss newspaper. “Parisians Celebrate Hour of Reckoning,” stated the second deck.

Schaffner knew his fortunes rose and fell on the advances and retreat of the German front lines. For the last two years, the territory of the Third Reich had shrunk considerably—and so had the “jobs” he and his partner, Rolf Kaufman, performed on the behest of Colonel Heller. Sadly, most of the money wired into his bank account had been squandered on loose women, cheap wine, and mediocre card skills at the
jass
table. A chill of desperation passed through him as he reached for another sip of coffee. Their next job had to succeed. His lifestyle depended
on it.

The door to the pastry shop opened, jangling the small bell affixed to the jamb. Schaffner unemotionally peered above the print to see Rolf Kaufman. Kaufman’s eyes scanned the half-f restaurant, populated with coffee-klatch housewives taking a Saturday morning shopping break.

Schaffner silently stood to shake hands and offered his partner a seat. Then he turned the Zurich newspaper for his partner to see.

“Yeah, I caught it at the kiosk,” Kaufman replied. “Not great news.”

“Well, I have some better news. We’re back in business.”

“Oh?”

“A message from Heller last night. He has a job.”

Kaufman rapped his knuckles against the wooden tabletop. “Does anybody get hurt?”

Fair question
, Schaffner thought, especially for their line of work. “There is always that possibility, but I don’t know yet.”

Schaffner took a sip from his coffee, then motioned for Kaufman to lean in. He lowered his voice. “He wants us to steal a painting—a very special one.”

His accomplice regarded him with a quizzical expression. Kaufman looked a bit like a rat with his pointy nose and narrow-set eyes.

“Ja, und . . . ?”

“The
Mona Lisa
,” Schaffner whispered.

Kaufman’s eyes widened.

“I received a follow-up transmission this morning. Heller said, upon reflection, he realized that his request places us in a, shall we say, very delicate position. That’s why he’s authorized Wessner to pay us five times our usual fee and half the money up front.” Schaffner’s chest tightened at the idea of that much money, but he tried not to let it show.

Kaufman whistled under his breath and rubbed his fingers back and forth, as if he was already holding the money. “I could use the cash. So where’s the
Mona Lisa
? I hope Heller’s not expecting us to go to Paris.”

“We’re in luck. The painting is at a chateau fifty kilometers from Geneva. He’ll send the exact location in the next transmission, but he wants us to discuss logistics with Anton Wessner before we leave the country.”

“Wessner? The Dolder Bank president? Why would he get his hands dirty?”

Schaffner shrugged, fingering the spoon he’d used to stir his coffee. “I’d guess for the same reason we’re going to steal the most famous painting in the world—money. We need to hand the painting off to him so he can store it in the vault underneath the Bahnhofstrasse, for which he’ll be paid handsomely I’m certain. Once he takes possession of the
Mona Lisa
, Swiss banking laws will protect everyone, including Heller.”

“You mean Göring.”

“I suppose they’re one and the same. Although, the way Heller has been skimming cream off the top, it’s a toss-up who has more loot stashed away in Zurich. At least, that’s what Wessner implied after one too many schnapps.” He softly smiled to himself, proud that he knew how to loosen the lips even of bank presidents.

Kaufman held up his hand. “I’m not surprised, especially with the way the war is going. Everyone is storing up something for the long winter ahead. Nonetheless, the colonel won’t be long for this world if Göring finds out. They’ll be able to write a new chapter in the
Gestapo Torture Manual
after Göring’s finished with him, but that’s his problem.” Kaufman slid his finger across his neck, mimicking a knife. “So when do we start?”

“As soon as we get the name of the chateau, we’re on our way. First we’ll have to find Wessner. I called his home, but there was no answer. He’s probably at his chalet outside Lucerne. He seems to go there every weekend in the summer. But no answer there, either.”

Kaufman crossed his arms and looked directly at Schaffner. “You’re saying the painting is at a private residence, with no police protection, one hour from the border, and all of France has a hangover? This sounds too easy.” He chuckled under his breath.

“I agree, but timing is everything.”

Kaufman’s eyes narrowed, and a smirk peaked the corners of his lips. “Say, Hansi, maybe we should keep the painting for ourselves. Work has been scarce.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Schaffner shot back. “But I’ll give you two reasons why we shouldn’t. First, we couldn’t fence the
Mona Lisa
, not even for a fraction of its value. Second, the thought of the Gestapo stringing us up with piano wire is most unappealing.”

Schaffner sensed that this would be his last big score. But a question nagged at his thoughts: What would the Reichsmarschall do with a painting that was beyond priceless?

Colonel Heller, with flushed face, felt his blood pressure rising from frustration. The pounding pulse filled his ears as he strangled the phone receiver.

“I called Paris yesterday,” he bellowed. “What do you mean—the telephone lines are down? Von Choltitz surrendered without firing a shot!”

“But sir,” the operator interrupted, “we’ve had sporadic success all morning—wait, the line just connected. I’ll ring you through.”

“Bonjour, Musée du Louvre.”

Heller took a long breath to steady himself, then slipped into French. He was careful to tone down his German accent.

“Are you open today?”

“For visitors,
non
, we are closed,” replied the female voice.

“I thought maybe with Libération, everyone would be at the Louvre celebrating.” Heller forced a lilt. The pretense of delight with events of the last twenty-four hours grated his nerves.

“No, we are closed today, except for a minimal staff. We expect to reopen in a week, monsieur.”

“Actually, I was looking for someone, one of your curators, Mademoiselle Perriard.”

“She’s not in today, sir. I suggest you call back Monday.”

The call clicked, and the operator was back on the line.

“I want you to try another number.” Heller looked back at his file and then dictated the phone number to Colette Perriard’s apartment. A voice answered, although it didn’t sound like Colette.

“I’m looking for Colette Perriard. Is she there?”

“No, I’m sorry, monsieur,” said a female voice. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. I believe she is with her boyfriend.”

Heller thought for a moment. “Is there a phone number? It is urgent that I speak with her.”

“Let me see . . . yes, she left it.”

Heller noted the number and thanked the roommate with flowery language.

He hung up and dialed the operator again, hoping that the lines stayed open.

This time, his luck had run out. Slamming the phone down, he took a deep breath and ordered himself to remain calm.

The German colonel opened a small notebook and turned to a dog-eared page. There were several entries lined through; the last one was the name of a chateau and a village.

If he didn’t reach Colette by tomorrow, then Schaffner and Kaufman would have to go with this one.

Good thing the parade doesn’t start until 2 p.m.
, Bernard thought. After celebrating “the greatest night the world has ever known”—as one Radio France commentator breathlessly described it—the champagne-filled citizens of Paris were understandably taking their time getting started the morning after.

With throbbing headaches, liberated Paris was still not entirely at peace. Bernard touched his fingers to his temples, noting his own migraine as he considered how the city hadn’t been cleared of German snipers, trapped in their sequestered perches, either out of touch with the news or wary to be seen in uniform.

There also were reports that a combat team from the French 2nd Armored was on their way to the Le Bourget airport, where a body of German troops threatened to counterattack. None of the celebrating citizens wanted to think the Germans would try to reclaim the city, but Bernard hadn’t pushed the worry completely from his mind.

After spending the night at Dubois’ flat in the 8th arrondissement, he had gone for a walk and witnessed sights that brought mixed emotion. At the Place de la Madeleine, a little girl asked an American GI for “another ball.”

In her small hands, she gripped an orange for the first time.

The sight caused his heart to ache. These small children had only known the Occupation. Then he witnessed a young woman Colette’s age stop an American GI and ask in halting English, “May I wash your uniform?” He was caked in mud from his helmet to the tips of his combat boots, his face so filthy that Bernard was uncertain if he wore a beard. He watched as she led the soldier into the family apartment to get him cleaned up.

Making his way toward the Place de la Concorde, he passed the five-star Hôtel de Crillon, where doormen wearing dinner jackets blocked casual visitors from entering.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose
. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

He shook his head in disgust: the Hôtel de Crillon—gilded, crested, tasseled, and ornate—symbolized the bourgeoisie excesses that he and his fellow French Communists vowed to change. Marx’s credo—“From each according to his ability, to each according to his need”—came to his thoughts. For France to become a nation where every person contributed to society according to the best of his or her ability and consumed from society in proportion to his or her needs—that was the utopia he sought and fought for. Now, more than ever, that dream was attainable.