Chasing Mona Lisa (4 page)

Colette smiled and gathered the papers in the file and straightened the bottom edges. Keeping up with the wry smile of a Florentine merchant’s wife and her constant moves caused Colette to rub her temples. But based on the events of the last few days, soon she—and all of France—could breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Colette looked up from her file. “It will be nice to get
La Joconde
home where she belongs,” she said to Anne.

The phone jangled, which Colette picked up.

“We have a problem,” a voice announced.

She immediately recognized the voice of Monsieur Rambouillet, her superior, a few offices away.

Rambouillet cleared his throat. “There’s a German major in my—”

The phone line went dead. Seconds later a commotion of guttural German shouts and heavy boots filled the hallway.

“What’s happening?” Anne asked, the color draining from her face.

“I’m not sure.” Colette set the black handset back in its cradle and stepped out into the hallway. Monsieur Rambouillet scrambled her way. A German officer and a soldier holding a bayoneted rifle followed with heavy steps.

Rambouillet, pale and clammy, mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I can’t understand a word this crazy German is saying!” he cried. “You have to help me.”

Colette stepped in front of her superior. She squared her shoulders and gathered her courage. “There seems to be a misunderstanding, Herr Oberst. How can I help?” she asked in crisp German that bespoke authority.

“I’m here to move a few paintings.”

Colette regarded the intruder. His uniform was all starch and shiny brass. Slight of build with a face pockmarked from scarred acne, the Prussian exuded arrogance. His pinpoint eyes made her skin crawl.

“Sir, this is the Louvre, and we work under the German Ministry of Culture. May I see your requisition documents, please?”

“Will this suffice?” The major unbuttoned his leather holster and pointed a pistol at Colette and then Rambouillet, who instinctively held up his hands at chest height.

Colette’s heart skipped a beat, then she steadied her nerves and took a long moment to study the German major, whose exertion had prompted two lines of perspiration to roll down his craggy face. To Colette, he reeked of desperation, which was the picture of a proud and boastful enemy teetering on defeat.

“But Herr Oberst, how will I explain this to the Cultural Minister?”

Without moving his gaze from Colette, the major aimed his Luger in Rambouillet’s direction and fired a single round. Rambouillet winced as powder stung his bald head. Behind him, wood splintered and scattered to the floor. Shock hung in the air with the acrid aroma of spent gunpowder filling the hallway.

Colette maintained her composure. “Herr Major, surely you’re aware that I’ll need to answer to the Ministry for any pieces of art released without the proper paperwork.”

This time the major slowly lowered his outstretched arm and pointed the pistol directly between Rambouillet’s eyes. “I’m sure the Ministry has more pressing matters to tend to at the moment . . .”

Colette stiffened. “Very well,” she said in a steady voice that surprised even her. “What do you have in mind?”

“A few souvenirs of my time in Paris. I’d like to see what you have in the Sully Wing,” he replied, while returning the sidearm to his holster.

Colette’s gaze narrowed. “Yes, let me see what I can arrange. You can follow me.” She turned to Rambouillet and switched back to French. “You may go back to your office. I’ll handle this.”

She had never seen a more grateful look in her life. Anne, who’d watched the encounter from the doorway, slipped away and joined Rambouillet down the hall.

Colette had trained for moments like this and knew exactly what to do. She stepped back into her office, and with a demure smile to the major, she lifted the phone. “I’ll just call the custodian and ask him to meet us at the storage area.”

The connection was made after two short rings. “Je cherche Monsieur Monet. J’ai besoin de le recontrer dans l’aile Sully,” she said.
I’m looking for Mr. Monet. I need to meet him in the Sully Wing.

A brusque, deep voice replied that Monsieur Monet wasn’t available. She hung up the handset. “He wasn’t there,” she said in German to the two men occupying her office. “I can try someone else—”

The German officer placed his left hand over hers before she could lift the phone to place another call. Her body shivered in response to his cold touch.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure you know the way.”

The major had good information, Colette thought. The Sully Wing was the easternmost annex of the Louvre, ringed by a thirteenth-century moat, and showcased invaluable eighteenth-century paintings from French artists like Fragonard and Watteau. Many had been wrapped, boxed, and shipped out in the fall of 1939, but with 15,000 works of art in the Louvre’s possession at the start of the war, thousands of paintings had to be left behind in the Louvre’s basements.

And now some rogue Nazi was treating the most famous museum in the world like a shopping gallery. She wished her boyfriend, Bernard Rousseau, had picked up the phone when she dialed Maintenance.

She led the Germans from the Richelieu Wing into the main palace courtyard, which was empty except for a pair of gardeners clipping potted hedges to the left of the Sully Wing entrance. The German major was a step behind her, followed by the soldier who had shouldered his carbine.

As they approached the ornate double doors, the German major called to her, “Fräulein, one moment.”

Colette came to a stop in the magnificent courtyard and turned to face him. The major paused his steps and leaned in slightly.

“We will keep this our little secret,
ja
? If not—” The officer tapped his black leather holster, a visual reminder to Colette that he was prepared to use his Luger.

Colette did not respond. Her attention was directed elsewhere—to movement behind the Wehrmacht soldier. In one fluid motion, one of the gardeners swung a short-handled tool into the back of the unsuspecting infantryman.

With a muffled grunt, the soldier fell face-first to the cobblestone square, the blunt end of a pickaxe extruding from his back.

The German major swiveled and fumbled for his Luger as a shadow of a shovel darted across the walkway ahead. The broad blade of the tool struck him square in the face. The sharp crackling of bone and cartilage was muffled by splitting skin. The dazed officer covered his face and doubled over in agony, blood dripping between his fingers. Colette placed her hands over her mouth and stepped back.

Windmilling the shovel, the gardener brought the blade down hard against the back of the major’s head, flattening the base of his skull. The German crumpled to the ground. Colette stared in horror as the gardener delivered the coup de grâce—a pair of hedge shears ferociously driven between the officer’s shoulder blades.

A grotesque sucking sound caused her stomach to lurch as the long-handled shears were pulled from the dead officer. The gardener quickly removed the Luger from its holster and tucked it under his belt.

“Et voilà,” he said, breaking the silence with his gruff voice.
There you have it
.

Colette felt her world spinning. She knew that her code phrase—“Je cherche Monsieur Monet”—would alert the maintenance crew that she was in danger, but up until today, she had never needed to make that call. She moved to a nearby bench and sat down, taking several deep breaths to steady herself.

“Quick—help me load this pig.” The gardener beckoned his partner to give him a hand.

Within seconds, the second gardener wheeled a wooden handcart out from behind the potted hedges. Together, they heaped two bodies onto the cart and covered them with a green canvas tarp.

“Go back to your office,” the gardener said to Colette. “We’ll tell Bernard you’re okay.”

“Where is he?”

He adjusted his brimless beret. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, I don’t know where he is, but he is fighting for our liberation. Vive la France!”

“Oui, vive la France.”

Colette looked up at the summer sky, tarnished with smoke and haze in the distance. She could only wonder what Bernard was doing at that moment.

 3

Four years of Nazi rule in Paris had not sanded off the corners of Bernard Rousseau’s resolve.

For this member of the Resistance, fighting back against evil was a core value firmly lodged in the center of his being. That’s why he had volunteered for this early morning mission in the 6th arrondissement not far from the Latin Quarter.

As the cool morning air caressed his cheeks, his thoughts turned to Colette. He knew it wasn’t wise to have allowed himself to fall in love, but he could not deny the solace, the comfort he found in her arms. In the moments when he looked into her gentle gaze—or when his lips touched hers—he could forget that their nation was no longer their own.

Or maybe it was because each day could be his last that he allowed himself the pleasure of her company. It was selfish, he knew, especially since he never let his mind wander to the future. He never offered Colette more than today. She never asked.

As Bernard quickened his steps, he mentally prepared for the possibility of sacrificing everything for a higher ideal—a Communist France where the proletariat was no longer exploited by the bourgeoisie. Where common man could determine his own future, and all men care for their neighbors as seemed only right.

And kill as many Germans as he could along the way.

On a brisk June afternoon in 1940, Bernard had stood stoically on a crowded sidewalk along the Champs Élysées and cursed under his breath while the victorious German Army marched on cobblestones that hadn’t yielded to the leather soles of a foreign invader since the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. Their synchronized goose steps and collective smugness nauseated him that dark day, but it wasn’t until his father’s shocking death that he was motivated to fight the Aryan conquerors.

He eagerly fell in with the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, a Communist-run Resistance group that sabotaged German capabilities, fabricated false identity documents, and generally made themselves a pain in the derrière to the occupying force. The FTP and other confederate Resistance groups kept the candles of
liberté, égalité
, and
fraternité
—the tripartite motto of liberty, equality, and fraternity—lit during France’s darkest days.

Their illumination was increasing with each hour. On this cloudless Friday in August, four years and two months after the fall of France, the
libération
of Paris was imminent. He could feel it in his bones. If things fell as planned, the hated Nazis would be driven out, setting the stage for France’s Fourth Republic to become the world’s second Communist nation, united under Russian hegemony.

“When do you think we’ll see the first patrol?”

The question from Alain Dubois startled Bernard, who willed his mind back to the task at hand.

“Not too much longer.” Bernard smirked. “You know
les boches
. Regular as clockwork. Since they clocked in at 8 a.m., we should see them stirring at any moment.”

Their perch inside a second-story apartment overlooked the Jardin du Luxembourg, where symmetrical gravel footpaths and scrawny lawns ringed the Luxembourg Palace. Luftwaffe Field Marshall Hugo Sperrle—one of Hermann Göring’s subordinates—commanded this stronghold for German forces that had occupied Paris like an iron fist in a velvet glove. Bernard was directed by his superiors to keep an eye out for anything beyond the usual troop movements. He and Dubois were positioned along the Rue de Vaugirard, which bordered the Luxembourg Garden’s northern flank.

Bernard pulled back a light curtain and held up a pair of binoculars. He scanned the palace grounds before locking on a wooden barrack situated in a rectangular orchard of apple and pear trees about a half kilometer in the distance. Clusters of German soldiers, with rifles slung over their shoulders, milled around a lineup of troop trucks. They were undoubtedly waiting for orders of the day. Or maybe they were being held in reserve to put down the latest insurrection hot spot.

Bernard inhaled a quiet breath of warm summer air—and then heard the unmistakable sound of a diesel motor. He didn’t need binoculars to spot a gray Panzer rumbling toward their position, crawling in low gear and making a racket from the metal caterpillar treads grinding on the granite cobblestones.

“A Panzer III,” he announced. He and Dubois were quite familiar with the medium-sized enclosed armored military vehicle, an obsolete battle tank of the German forces that was seriously outgunned by Russian T-34s on the Eastern Front. In urban hot spots like Paris, however, the Panzer III proved to be a formidable foe against a relatively unarmed citizenry. The only weapon available to partisans was Molotov cocktails.

The next sight caused Bernard’s stomach to tighten. Lashed to the tank turret was a French hostage. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Panzers use a human shield to protect themselves from crude homemade fire bombs.

Bernard looked down at a wooden crate containing a half-dozen incendiary devices. “I guess we won’t be needing those.”

Dubois swore in frustration. He leaned in for a closer look as the Panzer approached at low speed. “It’s Louis Michaud!”

Bernard nearly pushed Dubois to the floor to get a better look. Louis Michaud worked on the same maintenance crew at the Louvre Museum, but he had disappeared four days earlier. One of the guys at work said he had answered the call of the French Forces of the Interior—the Resistance group loyal to General Charles de Gaulle. The apolitical Louis, loyal and brave, had bounced from one Resistance group to another during the Occupation. The Germans must have captured him. And now this indignity—being used as a human shield to stop any attacks from the Resistance or citizenry.

“I’ll wager a
sou
the Panzer is headed toward the Sorbonne.” Bernard mopped a layer of sweat off his forehead with the back of his grimy hand.

“That’s a sure bet,” Dubois said. “Probably going over there to smash a few barricades set up by the students.”

They watched the German tank pass below their perch and rumble east toward Boulevard Saint-Michel. The Panzer commander stood in the gun turret to direct the driver. All tanks had notoriously restricted views when buttoned up in battle, which meant the tank commander was the eyes and ears when the Panzer was on the move. One of the gunners had opened the escape hatch, no doubt to help with circulation of air.

Louis Michaud came into focus, a black armband of the Resistance on his left sleeve. His face was a mask of fright. The Panzer crew members had secured his torso with ropes to the main turret and pinned his arms behind him. At least they weren’t dangling him from the 75-millimeter howitzer, letting him hang like a pig on a pole being led to the fire. Bernard had seen Panzer crews do that before, often for the sport of it. He shuddered at the memory of watching one of his comrades fall off the gun barrel, only to be chewed up by the metal tire tracks like a hand-powered meat grinder.

“What are we going to do?” Dubois pulled back from the window as the Panzer passed underneath their second-story aerie.

Bernard considered their course of action, but there was really only one option. “The same thing Michaud would do if one of us was lashed to a tank turret—he’d save us.”

“But how? We can’t chase after him. We could be shot if we run into a German patrol—”

“Here, grab one of these.” Bernard reached for a Molotov cocktail housed in a dark green bottle that had once held 750 milliliters of red wine. He tossed it toward Dubois.

Dubois snatched the bottle out of the air and placed it in his satchel, as well as a second fire bomb.

Bernard grunted. “Here’s the plan. We’re not going to launch any Molotovs from here. There’s a good chance we’d hit Michaud and burn him to a crisp. Plus we’d expose our position.” He spread the curtain to check the tank’s progress. “The Panzer is headed for the Sorbonne. He’s not moving fast, though. We can cut him off and save Louis.”

“Bernard, think this through. What if the flames get out of control or the tank blows up?”

“Louis would tell us to take that chance. Don’t you think they’re going to kill him anyway?”

Dubois shrugged. “Probably. I guess we owe it to Louis to give it a try.”

Bernard filled another satchel with two more Molotovs. Then he checked the pockets of his navy workpants. A French military revolver and six bullets in his right pocket. A lighter and pocketknife in his left. No identification.

He assessed Dubois. His comrade was similarly armed, except his rusty Belgian Pinfire pistol looked like it had last been fired in the Great War. Not much firepower against an armored tank. Still, they had maneuverability in their favor.

Bernard figured they were as ready as they’d ever be. “It looks like he’s heading over to the Boulevard Saint-Michel because it’s a wide boulevard. Panzer tanks don’t like tight quarters. We can still cut him off.”

The pair of partisans hustled down the building’s central stairwell. Bernard held up his hand when he reached the apartment building’s main entrance and leaned forward and listened. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door. A glance up and down tidy Rue de Condé revealed a deserted street: no cars and no people. Those with the resources had left this neighborhood days ago.

Bernard hurried onto the sidewalk, followed by Dubois. He felt awfully exposed, knowing that a German patrol would shoot first and ask questions later. They scurried down the street, and Bernard took a breath and slowed his gait when he spotted his first pedestrian—an elderly woman out walking her white poodle.

He tipped his navy beret as he passed by, and then the pair broke into a sprint toward the street corner. When they reached Boulevard Saint-Michel, he saw the gray tank heading in their direction, about 150 meters from their intersection. They had successfully headed off the Panzer.

“Here’s our chance.” For the next minute, Bernard outlined a plan. They would remain hidden, and when the tank passed, they would each rush the armored vehicle from behind and dump the burning gas bombs into the open escape hatch. Once the tank’s hull was ablaze, Bernard would jump on while Dubois would provide cover by shooting anyone exiting the turret.

“Once I’m on the tank, I’ll slice through the ropes binding Louis. Then it’s a matter of jumping off before it’s too late.”

Dubois cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

Bernard ignored his friend’s concerned gaze. “We have to work quickly. No more than thirty seconds.”

They took cover inside an apartment stairwell and listened for the approaching Panzer. Bernard wondered if these were his last minutes of existence.

He reached for the silver Zippo in his right pocket and noticed a slight tremor from the adrenaline rush. Nonetheless, in one smooth motion, he flipped open the lighter and lit the strip of white undershirt stuffed into the neck of the wine bottle. Then he held his flaming weapon steady for Dubois to ignite his own incendiary cocktail.

From his crouched position, Bernard peered around the corner of the stairwell at Boulevard Saint-Michel, where the sycamore and poplar trees that lined the broad sidewalk partially blocked his view. From afar, Michaud looked resigned to his fate, strapped to the tank turret.

He knows this isn’t going to end well for him
. He and Dubois had to try. They were his only chance. Even if they weren’t successful in saving Michaud, then at least another Panzer tank would be taken out of commission.

The rumble of the diesel engine reverberated through the neighborhood as the Panzer III drew closer. The tank, Bernard noticed, had started to veer toward the far side of the broad boulevard, perhaps anticipating a right turn into the Sorbonne. This would make for a longer sprint—and give the tank commander more time to spot any partisans approaching from his left flank.

Bernard held up his left hand while his right gripped the flaming bottle. Louis Michaud, he noticed, happened to be looking in their direction—and their eyes locked.

We’re coming to save you!

Bernard waited . . . waited . . . and at the right moment, just as the Panzer passed, he sprinted toward the moving tank. Dubois was in his wake.

Michaud was yelling something, but Bernard couldn’t make it out over the noise. He raised his right arm, closing the distance between him and the Panzer. He needed to get as close as possible to the open escape hatch.

Michaud cried out, shaking his head vehemently. This time Rousseau could make out his words. “Bernard, don’t! Don’t throw it! It’s our tank!”

Bernard paused for a split second—enough time for the tank commander to draw his sidearm and place him in his sights. The tank lurched to an awkward stop. Rousseau and Dubois froze in their tracks, holding flaming bottles in their right hands.

The tank commander, wearing a garrison cap and radio earphones, lowered his pistol and turned to the partisans.

“Michaud’s right,” he called in the accent of a Parisian, eyeing the burning bottle in Bernard’s hand. “We stole the tank this morning. One of their Panzers has our boys pinned down at the Sorbonne. Michaud volunteered to be a hostage so we wouldn’t get hit.”

Bernard looked at the blazing wick—and had to get rid of the Molotov cocktail
immédiatement
. He waved Dubois to follow him, and they stepped away from the tank and tossed the Molotov cocktails curbside. Two explosions shook the ground, and he wiped the perspiration beading on his brow. Only then, Bernard released a heavy breath and watched the small explosions burn harmlessly.