Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  Panic rose in her throat. She pushed against him, but he wrapped his free arm around her body and pressed his dirty tunic, caked with white lines of dried sweat, to her chest. She pushed against him hard, then beat him with her free fist, but he was too strong. His arms tightened, making it hard to move. Her power was no match against his.

  “You want me, Schatzi. I can feel it.” His hiss inside her ear brought images of a serpent’s tongue.

  “Forget it!” Gabi clawed at the hand squeezing her wrist, but his grip felt like iron.

  “She’s hot-blooded, Juri. I believe I’ll keep this one for a while.” The swearing soldier yanked on her arm and drew her close again—his mouth nearing hers. His putrid breath caused her to gag.

  “Let her go and fetch her purse. This isn’t all play,” said Juri, who shouldered his rifle and extracted a Luger pistol from his waist belt. “I’ll shoot her if she runs.” He raised the Luger, fixing it on Gabi.

  Juri seemed to be the one in charge. Gabi’s knees weakened seeing his gun fixed on her.

  “Then you can have your way,” Juri added with a snarl.

  With a frustrated groan, the other soldier snuggled his bulbous nose one last time in Gabi’s ear and then relaxed his grip. Releasing her, he moved around to the passenger’s side of the car.

  At her feet, Eric lay on the ground, facedown, not stirring at all. She crouched down to check on him, but her shoulders tensed as Juri stepped closer.

  Gabi defiantly looked up. “You can shoot me if you want, but I have to make sure he’s okay.”

  Feeling an overwhelming desire to hold him close, she cradled Eric’s head and inspected his scalp for a bruise. He moved slightly and groaned, and she released the breath she’d been holding. Her tactile touch discovered a bump the size of a two-franc piece on the back of his skull.

  She gingerly separated a thatch of red hairs and inspected the injury. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the other soldier discover her purse—hidden under the passenger’s seat. He rifled through its contents.

  “What are you doing?” Anger flared in her eyes. She eased Eric back to the ground and jumped to her feet. Gesticulating with both hands, she knew their only chance was to make a scene. “Get your hands out of there! Those are my things!”

  The Ost soldier, nonplussed, looked like he was sampling the summer fruits at a Saturday market. “We need money,” he said, unzipping her leather billfold and stuffing all the Swiss and French banknotes into the upper left pocket of his tunic. He dumped the loose change into his pants pocket.

  “There has to be more than this.” He strode around the front of the car and then approached Eric, kicking him in the backside.

  Gabi gasped. Eric moaned, and she saw his eyes open. Seeing the soldier, Eric attempted to rise but stumbled, falling to his hands and knees.

  The soldier pointed his pistol at Eric.

  “Wallet.” He fluttered his free hand.

  Highway robbery in broad daylight, but Gabi knew their troubles were just beginning once the soldiers had taken all their money. She helped Eric steady himself so he could reach into his rear pocket. With a shaky hand, he tossed the well-worn billfold toward the soldier.

  The Wehrmacht soldier caught the wallet in the air and wordlessly extracted a wad of bills. He pocketed them and flung the wallet to the dirt. “What else do you have?”

  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 si
x 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.