Chasing Mona Lisa (3 page)

She regarded the squinty-eyed soldier with wide cheekbones. His accented German with unstressed vowels sounded Slavic to her ears.

“Just some food, medicine, and clothes,” Gabi said. “Take what you want, and then be on your way.”

The soldier with the teeth blackened by decay grunted. His emotionless eyes were dark as coal and devoid of any spark. Those same eyes moved over her body, sizing up her curves, reminding her of what he really wanted.

He swung his carbine off his shoulder and approached. Then he slowly circled behind her and used the tip of his rifle to hike up her skirt.

Gabi clenched her jaw and remained ramrod still, sensing that he wanted her to lose control—so he could lose control. She reached down and straightened her skirt.
Show no fear. You are Swiss. You are neutral
.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Gabi brought her right hand up to her mouth to mimic the eating motion toward the soldier in charge.

“Gestern.”
Yesterday
.

“There’s food in the car.” She pointed to the backseat. “Can I get it for you?”

The soldier nodded. Apparently hunger inside the stomach trumped a different type of ravenousness.

Resisting the urge to look at Eric, she took several steps to the passenger side door and leaned inside. The soldier with the carbine came up behind her and ran the tip of his rifle up her leg again. She shivered against the feeling of the cold metal against her skin but willed herself to ignore him. She would not acknowledge her fear.

Gabi grabbed the handle of a wicker basket. “We have some sandwiches with butter and jam you can take with you.” She forced a half smile.

She lifted the wicker basket out of the backseat and set it on the road. She lifted one flap and then moved her hand underneath the red-and-white napkins, feeling what she was after. Her hand wrapped around the grip. Her finger on the trigger. “We also have apples. I picked them just yesterday.”

The salacious soldier bent down for a look. With a rapid swoop, she lifted her arm and aimed the snub-nosed pistol.

He lunged, and her finger pulled the trigger. The bullet tore into his upper chest, next to the heart. Both hands involuntarily grasped at the massive wound as a burst of crimson immediately stained his gray uniform. A look of surprise, a strained wheeze, and within a long second, the soldier fell forward in a heap, legs twitching as blood pooled on the dirt roadway.

The gunshot lifted the fog from Eric’s mind and gave him an immediate boost of adrenaline. At the same instant, he dove for the other soldier, Juri, who had trained his pistol on Gabi. Jostled, Juri missed his target, but a metallic thud left a small hole in the back of the Mercedes. They fell into a heap. Rage consumed Eric—rage that Russians or Poles or whoever they were wanted to rape Gabi and then kill her.

The soldier’s pistol bounced away in the dirt. Eric put his years of gaining muscle from baling hay to work and wrestled him away from the weapon. When a fist crashed on his temple, he replied by pummeling his foe with blow after blow.

“Get away from him!” Gabi screamed. He knew she held her fire because she didn’t have a clear shot. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabi kick the soldier’s pistol into a clump of weeds.

The momentary distraction was to the soldier’s advantage. He threw himself on Eric, pinning his arms to his side. They rolled through the dirt, with Eric trying to push himself away and the soldier digging his hands into his torso, as if he knew that once distance was put between them, Gabi’s close-in shot would kill him.

Then a bloodcurdling scream—this from the Wehrmacht soldier. With ferocious determination, Eric had reached the broad hunting knife in his ankle sheath and plunged the razor-edged steel blade upward. The sharp knife had slipped through the coarse military uniform and under the sternum. Eric’s knuckles blanched white as his grip tightened around the handle.

Eyes wide with shock and disbelief, the Wehrmacht soldier pushed his boots hard against the road. Heels furrowed the soil, but there would be no escape. Eric kept the tension strong until the soldier’s arching body collapsed against hardpan. With a deep breath, he drew the knife out, wiping the heavy blade against the German uniform.

Rising on shaky legs, a feeling of intense relief came over him. Lifting his pant leg, he slid the knife back into his ankle sheath with finality. Neither of these soldiers would ever take advantage of the girl he loved.

Gabi watched, as in a trance, while Eric retrieved the Swiss and French bills from the dead soldier’s upper left pocket. Then he grabbed the soldier by the ankles, dragged him across the dirt road, and chucked his lifeless frame into the roadside ditch. He could keep the change.

The other lifeless soldier received the same brusque treatment.

Eric hustled back to Gabi, and the emotions she’d been holding in overwhelmed her. Memory of the soldier’s breaths close to her lips caused her hands to tremble. If he’d had his way . . .

“No,” she whispered. She buried her face in her hands. Even though she knew she had the right to protect herself—and Eric—her stomach sickened at the realization that she’d taken a life, however justifiable the cause may be.

Eric stepped toward her, anger still flaring in his eyes. She wasn’t used to seeing him like this. She was both drawn by his strength and overcome by the image of Eric’s knife plunging into the man’s chest. Yet this was Eric . . . she looked into his face again.

His gaze softened as he neared, and Eric reached around the back of her waist and drew her close. “Thank you for saving our lives. You know that’s what you did, don’t you?”

Gabi struggled for the right words. “They were going to kill us and take the car after they got everything they wanted.” Her voice sounded flat. Her throat felt thick, making it hard to swallow.

Fear of death, fear of being so
violated
, had prompted her to do what she had never done before—shoot a man and take a life.

 2

Colette Perriard studied the faces of her fellow travelers on the Métro like one would study a great work of art.

Normally, Parisians were content to stare straight ahead or bury their faces in one of the collaborationist newspapers like
Paris-Soir
or
Le Petit Parisien
. On this Friday morning commute, however, perfect strangers eagerly shared morsels of gossip they’d heard on the street. Hope lighted thin and pale faces. Chins were held higher, like in the H. de la Charlerie engraving,
The Women March on Versailles
.

Bus service had been canceled because of the Paris insurrection that started almost a week ago, but below ground on the Métro, rumors buzzed like a swarm of locusts . . .

French tanks were seen passing through May-en-Multien during the night.

The Americans want to free Paris, but Montgomery doesn’t want to put British troops into harm’s way.

They’re waiting for de Gaulle to arrive from London.

Colette listened impassively, not sure what to believe. Someone even claimed that the Germans had decided to begin mass executions, starting at dusk.

She let out a slow breath. For her, the meaning of life was tied to the art she worked hard to protect and preserve. The liberation of Paris and the ultimate defeat of the Nazis would mean the recovery of priceless treasures and the restoration of sanity in the world of fine art.

She alighted at the Palais Royal stop and hurried from the tomblike oven. She climbed the last of the stairs and stepped onto a broad sidewalk shaded by pavilions and baroque buildings with colonnades. Here on the Right Bank was the center of contemporary Paris, home to palaces, government buildings, and museums, including the Louvre, where she worked as a curator.

Most pedestrians avoided eye contact as she walked a brisk half block to the Rue de Rivoli, one of Paris’s grand boulevards. The optimism of the underground Métro had given way to the reality of the streets: Paris would soon be under siege. Gazing toward the western horizon, she viewed pillars of brown and white smoke curling to the heavens, signs of skirmishes and pitched battles in the distance. Her stomach clenched, and she quickened her pace.

She reached the corner, preparing to cross, when a convoy of German troop trucks rumbled her direction. She stiffened, pausing her steps. Truck after truck thundered past—more than a dozen vehicles in each of three columns. The air thickened with plumes of sooty exhaust. As each truck passed, rows of seated German soldiers cast cold stares at the knot of Parisians waiting to cross the boulevard. Colette’s eyes met one soldier’s narrowed gaze, and a shiver traveled up her spine. Death was landscaped in the soldier’s look.

Perhaps the rumor about summary executions was right.

“I haven’t seen this many
boches
in one place since June 1940.” The observation came from someone she recognized from the Louvre’s Antiquities area. Several Louvre employees had gathered at the corner, patiently waiting to cross.

“Where do you think they’re going?” asked another.

“Probably the Hôtel Meurice.” The man from Antiquities rubbed his hands. “That can only mean one thing—the German High Command knows the Allies are coming to liberate us.”

The Hôtel Meurice, located half a kilometer west of the Louvre, housed the top German military brass as well as the commanding governor, General Dietrich von Choltitz.

As Colette crossed the boulevard, she looked toward her office on the third floor of the Richelieu Wing. Working at the Louvre had been a wartime balm and had given her an opportunity to live adequately amidst the food and fuel shortages the last four years, comfortable by comparison to most Parisians.

With Paris on the cusp of liberation—or unruly revolution—every able-bodied employee had been called in to the Musée du Louvre. It was all hands on deck after Gaullist forces stormed the Préfecture de Police nearly a week ago and set Paris down a path of no return. No one knew what the next day or even the next hour would bring.

Colette drew in a heavy breath. She had a feeling that history would be made very soon—and she had a front row seat.

“Bonjour, Anne.”

Colette set her purse on the file cabinet and approached Anne Chavanette, who, like Colette, was twenty-seven years old and a Louvre curator. Anne stood up from her desk, and the pair leaned forward and lightly touched cheek with cheek—once for each side.

“Hear anything on the Métro?” Anne asked.

“The rumors get wilder each day. At least no one spoke of the Louvre getting blown up this morning.”

“You’d think the Allies would be here by now. I heard that Patton’s tanks turned in our—”

Colette held up a hand. “Right. And General de Gaulle will be parachuting into Paris to storm the Hôtel Meurice single-handedly and drive out the Nazis with a cowboy six-shooter.”

Anne waved her off. “You and your imagination. Can I pour you some tea? It’s a bit weak.”

“Sure.” Colette held out a chipped china cup for Anne to fill, then sat down at her desk and opened the top right-hand drawer. A small glass jar half filled with honey was still there. Colette picked it up to appraise how much was left. “I see you’re being a good girl.”

“I wouldn’t imagine using any of your honey. But since you’re here—” Anne walked over, and Colette handed her the small jar with a smile.

Time to get to work. She retrieved a set of keys from her purse, one of which she used to open the top drawer of the wooden file cabinet. The worn folder of Paul Cézanne, the Post-Impressionist painter, was the closest—right where she had left it yesterday. Inside the file were pages of information about his paintings and where they were located.

Cézanne apparently fancied himself as a philosopher as well. Several pages of his writings were included in the files, including this quote that leaped from the smudged pages: “Right now a moment of time is passing by. We must become that moment.”

Colette sat down and took her first sip of sweetened tea. She was certainly in the moment now. A liberated Paris and no longer working for the Germans were tantalizing prospects. She’d been hired in the summer of 1940 after her predecessor had fled for Vichy France because of Jewish ancestry. Since then, Colette had faced all sorts of pressures from the occupying victors. The Germans had been distressed to learn that Cézanne’s works as well as the Louvre’s priceless “show pieces”—led by Winged Victory of Samothrace, the Venus de Milo, and the
Mona Lisa
—had been evacuated the moment Hitler unleashed the Nazi blitzkrieg on Poland. What remained in the Louvre’s depleted basements were minor collections and lesser-known odds and ends—but all were valuable.

If only she’d had a chance to see the
Mona Lisa
in her position as curator, but the painting had already been safely hidden away for six months by the time she’d arrived. Of course now . . . if stories of liberation were true, she might soon get her chance. The prospect of planning the return of the
Mona Lisa
to her rightful place in the Salle des États thrilled her.

Colette sighed. She couldn’t think of that yet. Her work wasn’t done. The victory was not yet theirs.

She looked up from the file, turning to Anne. “Do you remember when someone from Reichsmarschall Göring’s office came here? I saw a soldier on a transport that reminded me of him today. Maybe it was the hard look in his eyes.”

“Colonel Heller?” Anne refilled her cup with weak tea. “He’s the one snatching up art pieces for Göring—that fat hunk of sausage. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen the colonel in a while.”

“Good riddance.” Colette looked down at her file. She hadn’t forgotten the time when Heller asked her to go to the storage basement to identify a half-dozen paintings confiscated from Jewish families. He wanted an expert opinion about their worth. When she confirmed their authenticity and incredible value, Heller replied that the paintings and sculptures were destined for the
Führermuseum
in Adolf Hitler’s hometown of Linz, Austria. The conceit of those Nazis! Soon France would be rid of them. She wished for nothing more.

Until then, she had to appease types like Heller. Government-run museums like the Louvre fell under the control of the German Ministry of Culture and were subject to their whims and desires. Seeing German soldiers load their loot into trucks caused her heart to break.

“Liberation can’t be much longer.” Anne set down her cup of tea and inserted a piece of paper into her typewriter. “Is anything happening out there?”

“I’ll take a look.” Colette stepped over to their third-story vantage point overlooking the busy thoroughfare and pushed open the window to gain a better view.

“German tanks are coming this way, two or three blocks to the east.” A trio of Panzers ate up pavement in single-file fashion and would soon pass on the street below.

Her colleague stopped typing and rose from her desk to join Colette at the window. “Where do you think they’re going?”

Colette’s ears tingled from the exhaust notes of the powerful diesel engines. “When I got off the Métro, we saw a huge convoy of troop trucks. They had to be heading to the Hôtel Meurice.”

“Yes, I heard them pass too.”

“And now these tanks are moving in the same direction. Maybe an Allied attack
is
imminent.”

As a rule, Colette kept her distance from where the German High Command was posted. Most Parisians did the same, although some parents still visited the lovely sculptured Tuileries Garden opposite the hotel, where their children played by the pond with wooden sailboats. She leaned out the windowsill and regarded how the tanks purposefully maintained a straight line down the middle of the boulevard, which had emptied in the last twenty minutes. The few Parisians out and about skirted underneath the alcoves or slipped into the background.

Easy now
, she thought. All it took was a Resistance member to fling a Molotov cocktail at one of those tanks, and a trigger-happy tank gunner could punch a grotesque hole in the nearest building—or her office.

Anne stood on her tiptoes and leaned out the window. “I’m looking for Allied tanks, but I’m not seeing anything.”

Colette mirrored her movement. “Me neither. I’m sure we’ll hear shooting once the Allies are in Paris. This certainly is nerve-racking, waiting for something to happen.”

“What are you going to do when the shooting starts?”

“Stay here as long as I can. I would imagine that the Louvre would be one of the first places the Allies want to secure.”

Colette closed the window, which cut down the cacophony of sound considerably. Anne returned to her desk, while Colette turned to the wooden file cabinet and unlocked the second drawer. The file she sought was one she could find blindfolded. She bent over, let her fingers count off six files, and pulled out a binder marked
La Joconde
.

She carried the thick file back to her desk and untied the string holding its contents. Henri Rambouillet, her department head and senior curator, had given her a promotion that carried responsibility for the
Mona Lisa
back in 1942, one which raised eyebrows among other Louvre curators since she only had two years of experience. The hallway gossip was horrible. Some said the German cultural minister pressured Rambouillet because she had slept with him, but that was a filthy lie. It was her mother-tongue fluency in German that leapfrogged Colette over other applicants.

Colette skimmed the first few pages, which she could practically recite by heart. When Hitler was rattling sabers in the summer of 1939, at least one segment of the French elites believed him—the arts community. August vacations were canceled at the Louvre, and packing and crating started in earnest. A plan was formulated to safeguard priceless works of art like the
Mona Lisa
and Venus de Milo by removing them from the Louvre and hiding them outside of Paris for safekeeping.

Over the next four years, the famous painting moved more often than a green pea in a shell game. Currently, she was resting in a chateau outside the medieval town of Annecy, not far from Geneva.