Chasing Mona Lisa (10 page)

“So the Germans are gone?” Gabi’s eyes widened.

“See over there?” Bernard pointed through the park of the Jardin du Luxembourg toward two sets of wooden barracks. “That’s where the
boches
were bivouacked. Too bad. They missed their day of reckoning.”

Gabi did her best to understand what Bernard must be feeling after four years of hated Occupation had finally ended. “Be grateful that Paris did not become another Warsaw.”

“Touché, Mademoiselle Mueller.” Bernard returned his gaze to the accordion player, segueing into another French folk song.

Gabi watched him mouth the words to “C’est Magnifique” with a smile growing wider by the minute.

Paris est libéré!

She sealed the memory in her heart, grateful to be a witness—and not the last casualty in Paris.

 9

A light breeze failed to dispel the uncomfortable sultry pall that hung over the Schorf Heath, a low-lying forested area northeast of Berlin.

Carinhall, a palatial hunting lodge with vaulted ceilings and thatched roof, could not shield the August mugginess from its owner, Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, who was feeling the oppressive heat in more ways than one. The second-in-command of Nazi Germany tugged at the gold Luftwaffe insignia attached to the collar of his pastel blue summer uniform while his aide-de-camp, Oberst Walter Heller, trailed in his wake.

“How did the Führer receive the news?” Heller cautiously inquired as they strode down the hall of the sumptuous residence.

Göring slowed his gait and came to a stop inside an ornate drawing room, where he surveyed the French cut-glass and ormolu chandeliers that hung from beams of oversized timber. The pair stood flanked by anterooms named Gold and Silver. Inside, hundreds of the finest Italian, French, German, and Dutch paintings and floor-to-ceiling Flemish tapestries occupied every available square centimeter.

“I’m afraid our beloved leader did not accept the latest situational report very well.” Göring let out a heavy sigh. “Just hours ago, the Führer asked General Jodl, ‘Is Paris burning?’ When told that the Commander of Gross Paris had surrendered with barely a fight, the Führer shrieked and flew into a rage. He called von Choltitz a mutinous cretin for disobeying direct orders.”

Göring had witnessed the volcanic eruptions before. He didn’t need much imagination to envision the Führer, with neck veins bulging and bloodshot eyes, working himself into a good lather. Direct orders from Hitler were not to be ignored, and the Reichskanzler had been specific, telling von Choltitz that the French capital “must not fall into the enemy’s hands except lying in complete debris.” Von Choltitz was lucky to be taken prisoner by the Allies. Whatever the conditions, a far less hospitable fate awaited him back home.

For Göring, the Teletype message from Berlin an hour ago declaring that Paris had fallen was distressing, though not unexpected. A silver lining in the gloomy transmission was that the most beautiful city in the world hadn’t been turned into a smoldering slag heap.

A week earlier, a source on General Jodl’s staff had told him that the 813th Pionierkompanie—Engineer Company—had strapped U-boat torpedoes underneath forty-five bridges spanning the Seine. A cache of dynamite had been also set aside to blow up the most recognized landmark in the world—the Eiffel Tower.
Sheer lunacy!

“Let’s look at some of my paintings,” Göring said to his aide, attempting an upbeat tone. Sometimes in low moments like this, he needed to be close to his art. The works of Old Masters gave him perspective and a chance to think clearly. On occasions, he believed treasures of the past spoke directly to him.

They continued along the white arabescato marble flooring he had personally selected from an Italian quarry. He had approved every detail of Carinhall’s construction, right down to the lavish door handles. The memory caused his heavy chest to swell with pride. No residence in the world housed as many pieces of exquisite art, all chosen by him.

“Each day that I’m here gives me immense satisfaction, Heller.” His gaze focused toward the masterpieces hanging on the walls, many having come from—or through—Paris, where Heller had traveled at his behest to purchase the very best art available on the market. Yes, purchase, because he could afford them. As Prime Minister of Prussia, Minister of Aviation, State Foresting and Hunting Master of Germany, Field Marshall of the Luftwaffe, and director of the Four-Year Economic Plan, his bank accounts overflowed with Reichsmarks.

Of the eight homes Göring owned, Carinhall was the one he loved most. He had intended to build a simple hunting lodge, but one remodeling project beget another—plus the need for more wall space to display his art. A small army of carpenters worked for nearly seven years, adding high-ceilinged atriums, oversized sitting rooms, and wood-paneled studies until his country home reached Versailles-like proportions.

“What do you think of our latest Cranach?” Göring stopped in front of a tall, rectangular oil painting that had replaced an inferior piece traded to an unsuspecting dealer.

Together, Göring and Heller took a long moment to study
Cupid Complaining to Venus
by German Renaissance artist Lucas Cranach the Elder. The tableau depicted Cupid as a naked, potbellied preschooler complaining to Venus, a long-limbed nude, that bees had stung him when he stole a handful of honeycomb.

“It’s certainly allegorical,” Heller replied. “It speaks to the idea that life is a mixture of pleasure and pain.”

“I see your point, Heller. Pleasure. Pain. A metaphor for these times.” For pleasure, Göring took great delight from indulging his appetite for masterpiece paintings, valuable jewels, and exquisite objets d’art, just as he satisfied his palate with sumptuous meals, expensive French wines, and Dutch cigars. He rather enjoyed the role of bon vivant and grand patron of art, music, and theater—mantles that underscored his exalted position within the Reich. He was a Renaissance man, the only member of the Führer’s inner circle with an upper-class upbringing who moved smoothly within sophisticated international society.

But today was one of those painful days—the loss of National Socialism’s crown jewel. At one time, Paris represented the Reich’s future, the inauguration of their
belle époque
—beautiful era. The loss to the Allies was further proof that the Third Reich’s trajectory was tilting back toward Earth. A horrific and deadly crash was inevitable unless Werner Heisenberg and his nuclear physicists could come up with a
Wunderwaffe
, a wonder weapon.

They approached a masterpiece by Flemish painter Jan Brueghel from the early seventeenth century.

“Ah,
The Vision of St. Hubert
, one of my favorites,” Göring declared.

They regarded Brueghel’s composition of a heavily wooded forest scene. At stage center, a proud stag stood before St. Hubert, bent on one knee and gazing at a light and a crucifix between the deer’s antlers. A white steed and hunting hounds surrounded the huntsman.

“Because of your love of hunting, Reichsmarschall?”

“St. Hubert is the patron saint for hunters—particularly deer hunters. His intercession was said to ward off rabies. Not that I believe any of that superstition.”

Göring studied the painting. He had never counted the number of tracking dogs in
The Vision of St. Hubert
, but today he enjoyed the diversion, which took his worried mind off the funereal dispatches from both fronts. He regarded the five beautifully drawn hunting hounds and thought about how they had nothing to worry about except for loyally serving their master.

If only life were as simple for him. He had joined the Nazi Party in 1922 after hearing Adolf Hitler deliver a mesmerizing speech about the great injustices of the Versailles Treaty. He ingratiated himself to the former Austrian corporal, who appointed him to command the Sturmabteilung (SA)—the brownshirts. A year later, he took a bullet in the groin for Hitler after Bavarian police broke up the Beer Hall Putsch. He nearly died, but he had proved his
mettle.

There was no one more loyal to the Führer, yet at this present time, he was in the Führer’s doghouse. Ever since the Battle of Stalingrad ended disastrously in the spring of 1943, Hitler had blamed him for the Luftwaffe’s deficiencies. He was shuttled to a side rail and replaced in the National Socialism hierarchy by Heinrich Himmler, the toadyish bootlicker of the Gestapo. Göring knew that he no longer had the ear of the Führer, who had been acting more and more erratic. The Führer’s nerves were kaput
,
evidenced by the trembling of his left hand.

Heller interrupted his thoughts. “The legend goes that Hubert, a Frankish courtier around the year 700, went hunting deep in the Ardennes forest on a Good Friday. A stag appeared before Hubert with a crucifix glowing between its antlers, and a heavenly voice reproached him for hunting on Good Friday.”

“Ach—more superstition. I would have never guessed that side of you.” He regarded Heller and his close-cropped black hair. The colonel was twenty years his junior and considerably more trim. “Heller, how long have we known each other?”

“Let’s see. In 1937, you plucked me out of my art studies at the University of Berlin. I have served you faithfully ever since.”

“Yes, indeed. You have undertaken many sensitive tasks for me over the years.”

Heller registered surprise. “That’s correct, Reichsmarschall. It has been my honor.” The aide regarded him with a wry smile. “Can I be of service to you in some manner? I assume that’s why you invited me.”

“Very perceptive. The fact is, I want you to contact our people in Zurich. For a sensitive mission. One that could determine my fate—and yours.” He let the thought hang in the summer air.

“I’m listening, Reichsmarschall.”

He looked over Heller’s shoulders, then glanced behind to ensure they were alone in the main hallway. “What I am about to say to you must stay within these walls. This is for your safety as well as mine. Do you understand?”

“Jawohl, Herr Reichsmarschall.” The officer clicked his boot heels.

“How many paintings are in my possession?”

“Total? Including the paintings in all your homes as well as the special works kept in Switzerland for safekeeping?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“I can’t give you a highly accurate number, but it’s close to 2,000.”

“Are any of those paintings priceless?”

Heller assumed a quizzical look. “We purchased them at prices you were willing to pay on the open market. Then there are the confiscated pieces in the inventory, which came at no cost. That doesn’t mean they aren’t quite valuable. The Jews have an eye for art.”

“But nothing in my possession could be placed in the priceless category.”

“Correct. Priceless paintings, by definition, are national treasures that cannot be bought or sold at any price. May I inquire why you are asking?”

“Because I desire to add a priceless piece to the collection.”

“Excuse me? I’m not sure what the Reichsmarschall—”

“I’ve been giving this some thought, and I have a particular piece in mind.”

“But sir, as I just said, priceless paintings do not have a price. There is
no
purchase tag.”

“Which means we’ll have to acquire it . . . by other means. There is more at stake here, Colonel Heller, than just another addition to the collection. Our very survival may depend on this.”

Heller muffled a cough. “What priceless work did you have in mind?”

“The
Mona Lisa
.”

 
1
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Gabi glanced over at Eric, his head thrown back in laughter, immersed in revelry. She couldn’t believe they were really here, celebrating Libération—lucky to be part of this, and even luckier to be alive.

Last night, while loading up the Red Cross sedan for their journey to Paris, Gabi contemplated her love for Eric, and how much it had grown. Her days before becoming an OSS agent seemed like a lifetime ago, when her feelings for Eric paled by comparison to what she felt now. Thoughts of almost losing him made her shiver involuntarily.

Her instincts to stand by the man she loved had been tested, more than most would experience. Now, seeing him safe, happy, and basking in the warmth of the moment filled her heart with a peace greater than she had ever felt. She understood better that true commitment meant being together in the good times . . . and the bad.

She entwined her arm with Eric’s as they strode past the medieval hotel’s oversized gate, bent and broken by the Nazi troop carrier. Beyond the entry, hundreds of celebrating Parisians from the surrounding neighborhood had poured into the cobblestoned courtyard, drawn by festive music and news that George Beaumont had opened his wine cellar.

“Isn’t it great that the accordion player brought the party over here?” Gabi clapped in rhythm to “Fleur de Paris” as the setting sun was about to dip below the Paris skyline. Orange light swept their faces one last time on a day that would never be forgotten by history.

“Shall we dance?” Eric placed his left hand on the small of her back and swept his right arm like d’Artagnan of the Four Musketeers. The only thing missing was a cape and feathered hat.

“I’d love to.” Gabi curtsied. “But first I have to change my shoes and put on fresh clothes.”

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the house and smiled demurely at Eric.

His eyes scanned her new outfit. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. I was hoping . . .”

“Hoping I’d do this?”

He approached her and opened his arms to her, and then pulled her into a hold. They lost themselves in the throng of revelers. Gabi’s eyes locked with Eric’s, and she leaned into his hand supporting the small of her back. The movement felt safe and secure and made her hope that she would always feel this way in days to come. When he drew her close, she lay her head on his right shoulder. The tension that had bottled up all day evaporated in his embrace.

She closed her eyes and let the soaring music take her to a tranquil place. A thousand flutters—like ripples on the Seine—stirred as he gently led her around the littered cobblestones of the courtyard. It seemed right that she was here, sharing this moment with Eric and those around her. Never before had people opened their hearts as the Parisians did that afternoon. Streets flooded with joy, the people were intoxicated by unsuppressed freedom, hugging and kissing anyone within arm’s length.

Gabi knew this party would not be over anytime soon. Every face was etched with pure delirium—joyous women dancing on their toes, schoolgirls once again—while their laughing partners held hands aloft. Those who weren’t gamboling about were clapping to the lively beat, savoring the moment.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Mueller?”

Gabi looked over. It was Alain Dubois.

He gestured for her to come closer and motioned for Eric to follow. “You have a telephone call.”

“It must be Mr. Dulles.” Gabi looked to Eric.

Eric steered her away from the music. “I sent him the phone number in my transmission an hour ago.”

Gabi straightened the pleats on her dress, as if the OSS chief were waiting inside the front door. “How’d he get through?” Gabi wondered aloud. “The phone lines must be jammed.”

Eric looked pensive, as carefree feelings faded. “More importantly,
why
is he calling now?”

They followed Dubois to the second-floor apartment, which earlier that morning had been a Molotov factory. Boxes of empty wine bottles were still stacked in a corner, and strips of clothing—the wicks—were piled in an open box.

A Resistance member held the telephone’s handset. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say—
Who wants to take the call?

Eric motioned to Gabi. “Your English is better,” he said in Swiss-German.

“Hello?”

“Gabi, wonderful to hear your voice.”

“And yours as well, Mr. Dulles.”

“I understand the Parisians are painting the town red tonight.”

“I don’t think I heard you correctly—” The connection was garbled.

“Sorry. American slang. What I meant to say is there must be quite a party in Paris. I want to thank you and Eric. You risked your lives for others, and we are proud of you.”

“It has been an interesting day. But we’re safe now.”

The American chief in Switzerland affected a more serious tone. “Thanks for delivering my message to the Underground. We were a day late and a dollar short since Leclerc’s tanks stormed into Paris today. Ike was livid when he heard what happened. He ordered the 4th U.S. Infantry to assist but felt his hand had been forced by the Free French. History will be the judge, but it looks like the Gaullists have won control of Paris, at least for now. How are Rousseau and his Communist pals taking the news?”

Gabi paused. “I haven’t seen Bernard for several hours, so I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay. If you hear anything, let me know.”

“We’ll stay in contact.” Gabi smiled and nodded toward Eric, who was straining to follow her side of the conversation.

“So when are you coming back?”

“Eric and I talked about that earlier. We don’t want to be on the road until after the Germans clear out, so not for several days. There’s a problem finding petrol too. Plus, we heard there’s going to be a victory parade down the Champs Élysées tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, but be alert. The war isn’t over, and you might learn something useful. If I need to reach you, I’ll either call or transmit a message at the usual times.”

“We’ll be in touch.” Gabi thanked Dulles for the call and hung up the phone.

Eric pressed closer. “What did he say?”

“He approved of our plan to stay in Paris, to be his eyes and ears. A lot is happening right now.”

“He’s right. Things are very fluid.”

Another raucous cheer rattled the windows overlooking the courtyard. Eric took Gabi’s hand in his and led her over to the view. There, in the corner of the room, was the empty safe, still ajar.

Gabi reflexively felt for the black book that she had slipped into her pocket earlier, but the small volume wasn’t there. In an instant, she realized that she left the black book in the pocket of her soiled skirt upstairs. She’d check into it later.

Outside, the party had picked up intensity. Another accordion player had joined the mix, swelling the ranks of partying Parisians. Celebrants of Libération covered every cobblestone in the courtyard. Gabi pointed to the half-dozen revelers jitterbugging on the Panzer. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony.

“Shall we get back out there?” Eric tilted his head. “I’d like to finish our dance.”

Before Gabi could answer, the musicians broke into “La Marseillaise”—the fifth time she heard the French national anthem since they were pulled out of the Paris sewers. The memory required fresh air. She opened the window a little farther as the opening stanza permeated their thoughts with emotion:

Allons enfants de la Patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!

Yes, children of the Homeland, your day of glory has arrived: Friday, August 25, 1944, a date that would forever be etched in French history.

Colette turned the corner onto Rue Racine and heard the rhythmic clapping to the patriotic music. Her eyes glistened in happiness. Excitement rose in her throat. She was sure that Bernard, and what sounded like a good part of Paris, awaited her at the Maison Beaumont.

An hour ago at the Louvre, a dozen American troops had rolled into the Cour Napoléon in a half-track troop carrier escorted by two French tanks. For Colette, their arrival signaled the end of a dark era. With the palace secured under Allied guard, there had been a collective sigh of relief as Rambouillet told everyone to go home. She tried three times to call Bernard, but the line had been busy. The Beaumont residence was a Resistance gathering point, and she figured Bernard would be there, or his aunt or uncle would know where he was.

On her way from the Louvre, she saw Parisians bang open their shuttered windows. They’d poured into the streets and threw themselves into the arms of total strangers, howling in happiness. Men and women embraced her, kissing both cheeks. From balconies, windows, and doorways, from plazas, boulevards, and barricades, Paris pulsated with unrestrained jubilation. The sound of church bells, building in depth and intensity, rang over the city.

Colette’s feet glided effortlessly over the cobblestones during the half-hour walk to the Left Bank. She could see the Maison Beaumont in the distance. Neighbors milled around the entrance—still a couple hundred meters away—when the sound of footsteps following her on the sidewalk caught her attention.

A chill crawled down her back. She hesitated. The footsteps were gaining on her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. Something told her not to look back. To pretend she didn’t hear.

She picked up her pace again, remembering the warning from French soldiers at the Louvre. They’d told her to expect German stragglers—snipers and soldiers separated from their units. Was one of them after her now?

She was a mere fifty meters from the Beaumont residence and thought to call for help, but realizing they wouldn’t hear her, she started to run—

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. A paralyzing scream stuck in her throat while she pushed hard into the man’s chest.

“Colette . . .”

She found herself looking into a face she recognized.

“Bernard!”

He held her to his chest, and their lips met. Never before had a prickly beard felt so good.

She pressed against him, joy replacing fear. “You scared me. I didn’t know who was following me.” Colette touched his cheek, his neck, reminding herself it was really him, awash with relief.

“Sorry. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Mission accomplished.” Colette playfully thumped him on the chest. “I’ve been worried sick about you. It’s been a week since you disappeared. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I answered the call of duty—for France. For our future.” Bernard outstretched both hands and took hers. “I heard about what you did at the Louvre today. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you myself, but I’m glad you’re all right.”

Colette looked into his eyes and held them. Something was different; he seemed a bit aloof. She held his gaze, willing to lose herself in the security of his embrace. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

Bernard stroked her cheek. “I’m fine. Just a very long day, and I have many things running through my head.”

He reached into his right pocket. Then he held out a closed hand. “I have something for you. My grandmother gave this to me before she died. She wore it every day. I want you to have it.” He opened his hand, revealing a heart-shaped gold locket.

“Bernard—I couldn’t.”

“Today is special in many ways, but it is mostly a new beginning—the freedom to live and to love again. My grandmother would approve.” He unclasped the necklace and fastened it around the nape of her neck.

“It’s lovely.” Colette fingered the pendant and opened the small ornamental case, revealing a snippet of black hair.

“I didn’t have a photo, so I included a lock of hair. I hope you don’t find it too sentimental.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “No, not at all. It’s perfect. I’m seeing a different side of you. Thank you, Bernard.” She tipped on her toes and their lips met again. Stepping back, she admired the locket, then looked to him.

Studying him skeptically and noting his fresh olive shirt and dungarees, she said, “You look so . . . what I mean is . . . you don’t look like you’ve been fighting Nazis.”