by Janet Leigh
I started to object and then stopped myself. Marco felt my hesitation, and a wide grin spread across his face. “When we get back home, I should probably collect my payment. You have a tendency to get into trouble, and I would hate to miss an opportunity.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, and a zing of heat shot to my doodah. My inner voice started counting off all my missed opportunities in life, and I shut her in the closet. Which reminded me…we had an unconscious man spread-eagle on the floor. If the Nazis came in and found him, we would be next in line for the firing squad.
“What should we do with him?” I asked, focusing the conversation back on our current problem.
“We need something to restrain him.” Marco began searching the room.
I spotted an Oriental rug leaning up against the wall. Perfect—and it would keep him bound as well. “Over here.”
Marco and I unrolled the rug and contemplated how to get the comrade on top of it. He was tall and lanky, not a fat man, but the dead weight was heavy to push. I squatted down and tried to flip him over onto the rug. He didn’t budge.
“A little help would be nice.” I watched as Marco removed his rifle.
“I thought SuperJen had this one,” he said, squeezing my bicep. His jaw dropped in astonishment at my new upper-arm tone. “Impressive.” He helped me roll the man over until he was on top of the rug.
“I think you should change into his clothes, so we can sneak out of here.” Marco helped me remove the man’s clothes, except for his underwear. Ick. We decided to leave him with some dignity. Stuffing his sock in his mouth to prevent any unwanted yelling for help, we rolled him up like a cannoli. I made sure he could get air and prayed he wouldn’t be heard through the thousand-year-old rug. It probably had come from the Ming dynasty, so I guessed a little slobber from an unconscious Nazi wouldn’t damage it too much.
“I’m going back on guard duty. You put his clothes on and see if you can flatten out those tits. If they think you’re a dude, maybe we have a chance to get out of here.” Marco slipped out the door
I shook the soldier’s clothes out. They smelled of sweat and the dust that hung in the air from the raids. I quickly pulled on the clothes. The heavy jacket also hid my boobs. I tucked my matted hair up into the wool-lined helmet, which looked like a salad bowl. The wool scratched at the back of my neck as I fastened the strap under my chin. The pantaloons were a bit long but would be tucked inside the tall brown leather boots. I sat on the floor to tug on the first boot, but my toes crumpled against its toe.
“What the frig?” I asked out loud, examining the boot. The man had very tiny feet for his height. I shoved my foot in the other boot and stood, gingerly walking around as I tried to stretch out the boots. This was no good. I looked like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to shove my foot in the glass slipper. I opened the door.
“This isn’t going to work,” I said to Marco as I tiptoed around the room, demonstrating my inability to wear the boots.
“What’s wrong?” He peered through the doorway to identify the problem. “Why are you walking like those boots are six-inch stilettos?”
“For one thing, if they were six-inch stilettos, I could walk much better than I can in these boots. They’re not my size.”
“The comrade has small feet.” Marco grinned. “I guess we could cut off your toes.”
“Very funny,” I said as voices echoed from the adjoining tunnel.
“Hide!” Marco slammed the door in my face.
Hide? I stood staring at the closed door. Hide where? I ditched the small boots in a nearby vase and grabbed my clothes. The rows of chairs, tables, and art would act as a cover, but if anyone looked behind them, I would be spotted. On the floor leaning up against one of the tables were several large, framed works of art. I ducked under the table and pulled one of the paintings in front of me.
This was good. I had a straight view of the door, and unless the painting was moved, I was hidden. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when I noticed the comrade’s rifle. I had left it leaning against the wall by the door. If they came in, they would see it on the way out. Damn. I retrieved the weapon, ducking back into my hiding space just as the door to the room swung open. Great. I was hiding, and now I was armed. This would make it much more difficult for Caiyan to explain his “sick cousin” if I got caught. I quickly tucked my knees to my chest and made myself as invisible as possible.
A short, stout man dressed in the standard Nazi uniform entered, followed by Caiyan. Marco was left outside the door to guard the precious cargo. They spoke in German, and I could hear the excitement in Caiyan’s voice as he took in all the purloined treasure. He didn’t even give Marco a second look as he walked into the room.
The small man pointed at different objects, and Caiyan was nodding as they made their way toward me. I kept very still and clamped my mouth shut. I was afraid to breathe. The comrade came over to the painting and put his hand on the broken gold frame.
My inner voice was hopping around crying, Oh shit! Oh shit! My knees began to tremble, and my mantra started playing in my head: I’m Spunky, and I’m fierce, and I’m smarter than most men. Bad guys run and hide, ’cause here comes SuperJen. It was a stupid little ditty I had used in my childhood superhero games, but it was on automatic playback when I needed immediate courage. I pulled my knees tighter to my chest and aimed the rifle at the man’s thigh.
Caiyan bent down to get a better look at the painting. His brows shot up as he caught sight of me, and I glared at him. He immediately moved away from the painting and drew the comrade’s attention elsewhere. They spoke for a few minutes longer and then exited the room. Caiyan gave me a backward glance as he left, and I stuck my tongue out at him.
I collapsed against the wall, and a feeling of relief washed over me. Marco entered the room shortly after and came over to help me from my hiding space. My legs were shaking, and I mentally told myself to get a grip.
“What if they return?” I asked.
“They won’t. Apparently your boy Caiyan has made a deal with the accountant. That was the little man with him earlier.” Marco shifted and huffed as if all this was a total waste of time. “They’re going to his office to discuss the details of which things the accountant is taking for himself.”
“Caiyan is helping the accountant steal from the Nazis?”
“Yep, and you want to bet there is something in it for him too? You still want to help the bastard?” Marco asked, keeping his voice low.
I shrugged. I couldn’t leave Caiyan here, but it was obvious he had been planning this entire heist. “Now what?” I asked.
“I overheard the accountant tell Caiyan a truck would be here to retrieve some of the items and take them to a mine.”
“A mine?” I asked, tugging on the strap of the comrade’s helmet, which was starting to chafe my chin.
“That’s where they stored most of the priceless art and other stolen items until after the war. Didn’t you see the movie Monument Men with George Clooney?” Marco adjusted the strap on the rifle and fumbled through the pack on his hip. “Most of the things taken by the Germans were stolen from Jewish art collectors and Polish museums. The big players, like the Louvre, were quick enough to get all the treasures out before the Germans invaded.”
Marco extracted a cigarette and a book of matches from his pack. “Ah, thank you, my fallen comrade.” He put the cigarette between his lips and lit it.
“I thought you were going to quit smoking?” I asked. After he was shot, thanks to me, he had suffered some damage to one of his lungs.
“You make me nervous,” he said as he took a long drag on the smoke.
I thought about reaching up and taking a puff of the cancer stick myself. I was frazzled.
He dropped the cigarette and stomped it out with his boot.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, wondering if the waste not, want not adage applied to cigarettes. “You only took one drag.”
“You looked like
you might want to start smoking, and I felt guilty.” He smiled, and the dimple in his chin winked at me. He was gorgeous—even in this dimly lit hall with dust floating thick in the air. I asked myself why I was so into Caiyan and not Marco. Maybe I should give Marco a chance.
He eyed me. “I don’t know what is going on in that head of yours, but I’m starting to get scared.”
“Don’t worry. I have no idea what’s going on up there either.” I tapped my temple while my inner voice made a list of seven things she wanted to lick off Marco when we returned home.
“The way I see it, we wait for the truck. When they come to load the stuff, we make a break for it. With or without lover boy.”
“You know that’s not an option.” I huffed at him and paced up and down the hall. “I can’t leave him. Now that he knows where I am, he will come back for me.”
“And then I can bash him over the head, carry him out of here, and go home.”
“Maybe,” I said, and Marco looked hopeful. I wasn’t sure if it was the head bashing or the getting out of here that he liked more.
I pushed him toward the door. “You’d better get back out there in case any other Nazis want a tour of the merchandise.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Check on the comrade, change back into my civilian clothes, and plan our escape.”
“Aye, aye, Comandante.”
I used one of the confiscated mirrors to examine the current condition of my appearance. A small goose egg was tender at the base of my skull. The ringing in my head had subsided, and my nausea was gone. My inner voice gave me the thumbs-up, and I agreed it was a good sign—probably not a concussion. My hair was matted where the wound had bled a little, and I had bobby pins poking out haphazardly from my head. I coiled my hair back into the small bun and secured it with the pins. My broken shoes would have to do for now. I frowned at my reflection in the mirror. How was I going to kick-butt in broken shoes? My frown changed into a smile as I realized I was planning my outfit for butt-kicking. Maybe, I will make a decent WTF traveler after all.
I had just finished fastening the buttons on my jacket when I heard a commotion outside the door. I ran for my hiding spot, but before I could duck for cover, Caiyan burst into the room. Marco was following him, and they were growling profanities at each other.
“Would you two please stifle it?” I said as I wedged my way between them. “Caiyan, we need to go home.”
His green eyes were fuming and softened only a bit when he pulled his gaze from Marco to me. “The comrade thinks you are my secretary.”
“What happened to the sick cousin?” I asked.
“New plan, and it doesnae include this wise guy,” he said, throwing a thumb toward Marco.
“Look,” I said, poking a finger in his chest. “It may take all of us to get out of this mess you have gotten us into, and I’m in charge, so he stays.”
Caiyan smiled at this and crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t ye jest love a woman in charge?”
Marco grinned, and suddenly they were on the same team. Both smiling down at me like there was no possible way I was in charge. We didn’t have time to squabble about the details, because the sound of boots clicking on the stone floor resounded off the brick walls. Marco took his post at the door, and Caiyan and I waited outside the door with Marco, as if we were waiting for permission to enter.
The commanding officer in charge of the whole shebang came stomping down the hall, followed by the crooked accountant and two members of the Luftwaffe I would describe as bodyguards. The commander shot a curious look at Marco, but Caiyan interceded, directing the commander’s attention toward me.
Caiyan spoke a few words in German to the commander, and introductions were made. I was Fräulein Ingrid Svenson. Now I was Swedish—jeez, my heritage kept growing with Caiyan’s nose. I heard my name, and the commander looked me up and down and then licked his lips. Not good. My inner voice whispered the words sex slave, and I felt my knees wobble.
As we entered the room, the men spoke only in German and only to Caiyan. The accountant lifted a large ledger book he had been carrying under his arm and handed it to Caiyan. He opened it, skimmed through the pages like he knew exactly what he was doing, nodded, and then passed it to me and said something in Swedish.
I nodded and began to peruse the book. German. Everything was in German. How was I going to know what items they wanted on their truck?
Caiyan peered over my shoulder. He pointed to a number on the side of the register and spoke to me in Swedish. I examined the beautiful porcelain vase next to me. Written on the bottom was a number. Across the top of the register was a word that was possibly the place the art had been taken from, because I did recognize some of the words in that column. Kaiser-Friedrich was one of the German museums Caiyan had told me the art had been removed from and taken to the Flaktürme for safety.
There was also a list of names and what I would refer to as neighborhoods: Kreuzberg, Charlottenburg, Schöneberg, Spandau, Mitte. Each number corresponded to a very detailed description of the stolen item. Whoever was in charge of pilfering the loot had been smart enough to realize that one day these precious items would need to be returned to their rightful owners. The numbers were in sequence. My inner voice wiped her brow—thank goodness.
“Vat are we doing?” I asked Caiyan quietly while the commander was talking to his comrades.
“We are taking the art to a safer place,” said Caiyan.
“Vat about our sick cousin?”
He rolled his eyes. “We are documenting everything. The orders are directly from the führer,” Caiyan said through clenched teeth. He turned, flashing a smile toward the commander, who had started issuing orders to the soldiers. “Act like a secretary and use the ledger. It has a list of everything in this hold.”
“Vat do I do?”
“You’ll check off what we take to safety. And quit saying vat. You sound like a vampire.”
“Everything?” I asked, gazing at the full tunnel of stuff. Apparently, we were supposed to make sure the paintings, sculptures, and artifacts listed in the book made it on the truck, while the tables, chairs, and other pieces of lives were left behind to be destroyed by the fire. Of course, I had to give the commander a break, because he didn’t know the flak tower was going to catch fire, destroying the contents, just like he didn’t know his beloved führer was going to commit hara-kiri real soon.
“Aye, except you and I are looking for two specific paintings.”
“You should drop the aye if you want to stay alive.”
He smiled. “Touché.”
“What do these paintings look like?”
“The first is the Madonna holding a child by Giovanni Bellini, and the second is a portrait of a woman wearing a gold dress.”
The commander came over and said a few words to Caiyan. Then he and his men turned on their combat-boot heels and left. Caiyan and I stood alone in the treasure room.
“That’s it?” I asked. “He’s just going to leave us alone in here with all this?” I waved my hand toward the tower of vases and chairs.
“We’re not free to leave.” Caiyan pointed at the door. “There’s a guard outside to make sure we don’t take anything before the truck arrives to transport these to the mine.”
“The guard is Marco,” I reminded him.
“What’s he doing here?” Caiyan grumbled.
“He’s here to save me.”’
“Ye don’t need saving. Yer with me, and since when does Marco travel?”
“Since he started working for the WTF.” I took a deep breath. I might as well tell him. Now was as good a time as any, and he couldn’t scream at me, because of the tight quarters. “I’m transporting for him.”
“No yer naugh.”
“Yes. I am. Orders from Jake—and besides, I can transport for whomever I want.”
“No, you cannae.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“Jen, I have seen the way he looks at ye, and I don’t like it.”
“Why?” I tilted my head, looking up at him. “Because it’s the same way you look at me?”
His green eyes contemplated my words, and the scar that split through his upper lip became more prominent as he pressed his lips together. “Maybe.”
“Marco has a few new friends,” Caiyan said nodding toward two guards that had arrived. “They’re the movers.”
Marco was keeping the soldiers occupied sharing cigarettes. Most of the items were packed toward the back of the room, so there was a bit of a distance between us and the door, which the commander had ordered propped open. I was afraid the soldiers might hear me speaking English or see us swipe the paintings.
“How are we going to sneak these paintings out the door?” I asked in my library voice.
“Patience,” he said, frowning at me. “We have to find them first. You start on that side of the room, and I’ll start here. As ye pull items, check them against the list. If they’re on it, move them to the middle, so the movers can start loading the truck.” Caiyan started toward the back of the room and stopped midstride. “Jennifer, what’s rolled up in this carpet?”
I came up behind him and saw our captive was wiggling a bit. “Um, that’s the Nazi who was guarding the door.”
Caiyan frowned at me and uttered a few words in Gaelic. He gave the carpet a swift kick, and it stopped moving. Together we dragged the carpeted Nazi behind a rather large chifforobe.
“Back to the search, darling.” Caiyan began to help me, and together we spent a few hours lugging precious art to the door for the soldiers to move to the waiting truck.
Most of the paintings were wrapped in brown packing paper, but I managed to pull the paper back enough to get a glimpse inside. These were lovely works of art. Many were portraits I assumed had been plucked off walls where families had been looking at them for generations. Caiyan started on the opposite side of the room, and I wandered over to see if he had found anything. He was examining the contents of a small gold pouch.
I walked up behind him and said quietly, “I don’t think the painting’s in there.”