Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  He glanced to his window. “I don’t think we should take any chances. It’s more dangerous for all of us—and for the art—if you remain here. You need to leave now.”

  Colette reacted with mixed feelings. On one hand, it was the best plan for her personal safety, but then again, it was her job to be here. She didn’t want to leave the Louvre at this momentous time in history.

  “You said the Métro stopped running. I’d have to walk, and who knows how safe the streets are.” Colette hoped that sounded like a good enough excuse for her to stay.

  “That’s why I’m authorizing Anne to go with you. We can’t take the chance of a German staff car pulling up to the front door looking for a missing major. I’m requesting this for your safety as well as ours.”

  Colette realized that she couldn’t put her colleagues at risk. She looked at Anne, who nodded. “I’ll go get my things.”

  Five minutes later, Colette and Anne stepped outside the Louvre’s front entrance. The courtyard was deserted. The museum had been officially closed all week because of the wartime uncertainty.

  Colette scanned the horizon, marred by a thin film of smoke. She noticed a piece of white paper, burned black around the edges, floating to the ground. Looking skyward, a light rain of ash fell from the hazy sky.

  “My place?” Colette asked.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re more than a ninety-minute walk away. Same as me. I doubt we’ll find anyone to give us a ride on the Rue de Rivoli. It’s like everyone has disappeared.”

  Colette’s face brightened. “My mother lives off the Rue de Madrid in the 8th arrondissement. No more than forty-five minutes on foot. But we’d have to walk in the vicinity of the Hôtel Meurice.” She bit her lip, knowing they’d pass by the heart of the German command. “I don’t think anyone will bother us if we stay in the Tuileries Gardens.”

  “Good idea. And we wouldn’t know what we’d run into if we took a detour.”

  The two women departed the Louvre courtyard, linked arm in arm, in the direction of Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. They passed by the monument and continued along the gravel pathways into the Tuileries Gardens, staying on the left side of the park, parallel the Seine.

  Barely a ripple moved across the river’s emerald-colored surface. Barges, flat-bottomed boats, and Bateaux Mouches—the famous open-air tourist boats that roamed the Seine—were cinched tight to their moorings. The dozens of love-struck couples who normally lingered along the banks were absent.

  Anne followed her gaze toward the empty stone embankments. “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “How did you—?” Then again, Anne knew she and Bernard often sought solitude along the Seine during long lunch breaks.

  “I haven’t seen Bernard all week.” Colette swallowed hard, attempting to hold down her emotions. “I’m worried sick.”

  Anne drew Colette’s arm closer, patting it. “I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”

  They continued along the southern outline of the Tuleries Gardens, the largest and oldest public park in Paris. Colette looked through a cluster of deciduous trees toward the octagonal Grand Basin. No mothers had taken their children out to play with their small wooden sailboats, not on a day like this.

  Many of the green lawns had turned to dirt. Brown weeds infested the formal flowerbeds. Straggled new growth splayed from the famed hedges that outlined each rectangular quadrant of the park. Through the hazy air, she spotted a tendril of smoke rising from the Hôtel Meurice not far away.

  Then the sound of idling diesel engines caught her ear. She studied the source of the noise, and up ahead a half-dozen Panzers formed a phalanx in front of the Hôtel Meurice. Several German troop carriers were parked in the gardens. Others were positioned across from the front entrance to the hotel.

  Colette stopped in her tracks. “You see what I see?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never seen troop trucks parked there before.”

  “Or so many tanks on the Rue de Rivoli.”

  Anne paused, clutching Colette’s arm. “I don’t know about this. Maybe we should go back. Find another way—”

  Colette considered returning. Surely someone would be looking for the major by now. Her throat tightened as if squeezed by an invisible noose. She patted Anne’s hand and took another step forward. “No one’s going to bother a couple of women in the middle of the afternoon.”

  Against Anne’s protest, the two continued past the disheveled gardens, hooded by broad centennial chestnut trees. There was no sign of activity near the troop carriers, but as they drew closer to the Hôtel Meurice, she saw soldiers exiting the lobby and carrying boxes—toward a bonfire. Soldiers one by one dumped reams of paper into the flames.

  “You see that, Anne? The Germans are packing up—”

  “Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” A sharp voice split the air. What are you doing here?

  Colette turned in the direction of the voice and gasped at the sight of a rifle pointed at her heart. Anne, momentarily frozen, squeezed her arm in fright.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” the soldier repeated in a horrible French accent. “Vous êtes des espions, non?” You’re spies, aren’t you?

  Colette sucked in a breath. Her legs urged her to turn, to run. Instead, she transformed her mask of concern into a warm smile. “Ist das wie Sie alle jungen Damen des Reiches behandeln?” Is that how you treat all young ladies of the Reich?

  The soldier lowered his carbine. “You’re Germans?”

  “Yes. My friend here”—she nodded toward Anne, whom she could tell didn’t understand a word—“and I are on holiday in Paris. We were supposed to leave Sunday, but things have been rather chaotic. All trains are canceled to Germany. So what should we do? And what about the bonfire?” Colette nodded in the direction of the plume of smoke.

  The soldier’s gaze fixed on her, and she broadened her smile. Though her heart pounded in her chest, she mimicked the flirtatious looks of the American movie stars she’d seen in the cinema.

  Gradually the soldier’s look turned to one of interest. Of protection.

  “The only thing I know is that we were ordered to burn documents and keep our eyes alert. It’s getting more dangerous by the minute. I wish I could walk you back to your hotel. It’s not safe.”

  Colette placed a hand over her heart, feigning horror. “Have the Allies arrived?”

  “They don’t tell us anything. Just that it’s dangerous to be wearing a German uniform on the street. Listen, you need to seek shelter. We could be attacked any minute by Sherman tanks.”

  Colette turned to Anne. “Let’s go back to our hotel,” she said in German, knowing her friend understood the universal word hotel and not much more. Anne, lips sealed, nodded her approval.

  “Good, then it’s decided.” She thanked the soldier, and they retraced their steps. When enough distance had been put between them and the German troop carriers, Colette spoke in French.

  “I told him we were Germans on holiday. We better return to the Louvre. The boches have better things to do than worry about a German officer going AWOL. I’ll feel safer there.” The worries over the possibility of someone coming to the Louvre now paled compared to the fear Colette experienced facing the soldier.

  “No argument from me,” Anne replied. “The sooner we’re in the palace, the sooner I can start breathing normal again. Besides, there are plenty of places to hide within those walls.”

  “You’re back.”

  Colette and Anne stood inside Monsieur Rambouillet’s office.

  “It’s getting crazy out there.” Colette removed her scarf and folded it in her hands as she related the unexpected confrontation with the German soldier in Tuileries Gardens.

  “Thinking quickly on your feet has served you well today. Perhaps it’s fortuitous that the both of you returned. Radio France is back on the air.”

  “Radio France?” Colette’s eyes widened. How long had it been since she’d heard a friendly voice
over the airwaves? Too long.

  Rambouillet reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. “Parisians, rejoice! You will soon be liberated!” a voice shrieked in joy. “A column of tanks led by General Leclerc just passed through—”

  A burst of static cut off the transmission. Rambouillet tapped the radio several times in frustration. “Radio France has been in and out since it returned to the airwaves, but our season of shame will soon be over.”

  Liberation! She squealed and hugged Anne.

  Warmth flickered inside Colette, as if the rays of sun shining through the window had pooled in her chest. With a deep chuckle, Rambouillet wrapped his arms around them both.

  “This time it’s true.” Colette’s words released as a breath, and she wiped the tears that had started to pool on her lower eyelids.

  “I really do think so,” Rambouillet replied. “Perhaps the next voice we hear will be that of the man representing the new French government.” He chuckled again. “We’ve nearly made it.”

  It was the word “nearly” that caused a thousand needles to travel up Colette’s spine. Surely the worst is over now . . .

  Back in her office, Colette’s emotions rose and fell like the English Channel on a stormy day. Hope battled with fear. Uncertainty threatened to drown out excitement. She opened the file in front of her and then closed it again. It was impossible to focus. She turned her mind to the most interesting task on her desk, hoping that would do the trick.

  Seeing the file marked “Salle des États Exhibitions,” she set her mind on a new course. Very soon the priceless treasures that had been scattered across France would be brought back. The minor pieces now on display would return to basement vaults for storage and reassignment—which meant many of the world’s greatest paintings would once again fill the grand halls.

  A few weeks ago, when it became apparent that the Allies had finally broken out of hedgerow country and were moving west steadily, Monsieur Rambouillet had asked her to select paintings that would join the Mona Lisa in the Salle des États. What paintings should go on her left and her right? What mix of paintings would enhance the Mona Lisa experience rather than detract from her smile?

  Colette had eight pieces in mind. They were Old Masters that deserved to be in the same room as the genius of Leonardo da Vinci.

  A distant telephone ring pulled her back. After the third ring, Anne looked up from her typewriter. “Do you want me to get that for you?”

  “No, I’ll take the call.” Colette picked up the black handset.

  “Allô? Mademoiselle Perriard.”

  “You may continue to speak in French in case anyone is in the office with you,” a male voice said en français. “But I will now speak in our mother tongue.”

  The voice from Germany was weak over the static. She was surprised that phone service between Paris and the outside world was still possible.

  “Oui, monsieur. Continuez.” The warmth in her chest seeped out, and an icy chill filled its place.

  “You know who this is, yes?” the distinctive voice said in German.

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Then I will get to the point since we cannot be sure how long the connection will hold. We are entering an era of great uncertainty, but my colleagues and I desire to continue our relationship. The Reichsmarschall asked me to tell you that since the situation is more fluid, he is willing to reward your cooperation in a more tangible sense.”

  “Oui, monsieur. D’accord.” She tightened the grip on the handset, anger pounding in her temples.

  Got it. Instead of threatening to arrest and torture Bernard, you’re going to bribe me.

  “You will hear from us soon. I wish you a pleasant day.” The static-filled phone line suddenly clicked.

  Colette set the phone down, a bit dazed.

  “Who was that?” Anne came around to her desk.

  “My landlord. He said a German tank is roaming the neighborhood, so I should stay away.”

  Anne bought the story. “That was nice of him.”

  “Very nice.”

  Colette bit her lip and lowered her head. She’d assumed when Paris was liberated, Colonel Heller would be out of her life forever.

  She was wrong.

  6

  Bernard Rousseau’s quotation from Colonel Rol echoed through Gabi’s mind: Paris is worth 200,000 dead.

  She released her fists, attempting to comprehend the Resistance leader’s words. She couldn’t imagine such destruction, such loss.

  If you just sit back and wait, she wanted to tell him, the Allies will come.

  Yet she knew her words would go unheeded. A sense of urgency crackled through the Paris courtyard, and the fixed gazes of the men told her their minds were set. They would fight for their city, for their pride.

  “Let’s get these crates inside.” Bernard picked up the first box of medical supplies, and Gabi grabbed a box and fell in step behind the others, telling herself to be strong. The Frenchmen and Eric hefted the packed cases of medicines and bandages and mounted a set of stairs leading into the imposing entrance, dominated by a pair of marble columns. She kept pace behind them.

  Bernard led them inside a foyer that opened to a long hallway. “This is my aunt and uncle’s place.” The first door to the left was slightly ajar, which Bernard propped open with his foot. He motioned them inside the anteroom, where they set their boxes next to his.

  Gabi looked at her dirty hands. She still felt the soldier’s sweat on her skin and swallowed down disgust. “Where can I wash up?”

  “Down the hall and second door on your right.” Bernard held up his hand. “Let me direct you.”

  She followed him to a hallway door, and as Bernard opened it, the odor of barnyard assaulted her. A half-dozen cages filled with roosters and hens were haphazardly stacked in one corner. Two wooden cages, lying on a bed of tawny straw, filled the porcelain claw-foot bathtub. Gabi counted a half-dozen white and gray rabbits inside.

  Bernard stuck a finger through the cage and scratched the furry forehead of a rabbit with a frosty white coat and black rings around his eyes. “Each morning, the older ladies chop a few forbidden blades of grass at a nearby park. It’s all we can do to keep our menagerie alive. When they don’t make it . . . into the soup pot they go. With the rationing, at least it’s protein.”

  He offered a low chuckle. “We joke that our meat rations are so small that you can wrap them with a Métro ticket, as long as it hasn’t been punched. Otherwise, the meat will fall through.”

  Gabi smiled and nodded in understanding. She thought about the few times a month when they had enough butter to spread on Mother’s baked bread. “We have rationing in Switzerland for butter, eggs, and that sort of thing.”

  “We hear about the Swiss rations. In Paris, we get two eggs, 100 grams of cooking oil, 100 grams of margarine, and a kilo of flour each month. Sugar is nonexistent. For many of us, the staple is boiled rutabaga. Before the war, rutabaga was cattle feed. I’ve lost ten kilos since Hitler danced his jig at Compiègne.” Bernard patted his flat stomach for emphasis.

  When Gabi finished washing up, she found everyone in an oversized dining room, where three women occupied a rectangular table topped with empty wine bottles, corked flasks, and strips of shirts. Copies of collaborationist newspapers rested next to underground flyers blaring the war-cry headline “Aux Barricades!” To the Barricades!

  “Our weapons factory,” Bernard announced. “If there’s one item we’ll never run out of, it’s empty wine bottles. These Molotov cocktails are quite effective against German Panzers, except when they tie one of our own to the gun turret.”

  “Seriously?” Eric inquired.

  With a twinkle in his tired eyes, Bernard relayed the morning’s drama.

  After listening, Gabi approached the women at the table, taking an empty spot. The pungent smell of turpentine permeated the dining room. She watched as one woman poured a liquid into an empty wine bottle and stopped it with a cork. Then a strip
of cloth was dipped into a bowl of the same liquid and tied to the bottle’s neck.

  “All you have to do is light the rag, toss the bottle at the tank, and whoosh, you’re in business,” Rousseau said. “We heard about them from the Finns, who put them to good use against the Russians and Commissar Molotov earlier in the war. Now we’re doing the same. Otherwise, we’d be attacking the Germans with our bare hands. Look at our weapons, such as they are.”

  Gabi and Eric redirected their attention toward the far corner, where a dozen rifles were loosely stacked.

  “We fight with what we can,” Bernard said. “Rusty rifles from the Great War, even muskets from the days of Napoleon III. And our ammunition supplies are dreadfully low. Without our fire bombs, we’re no match against Panzers and machine gun nests.”

  Gabi noticed a house safe perched at one end of the long table. “Where did you get the Bauche Brevete safe?”

  Bernard’s eyes widened. “How do you know the make and model? Women are more interested in silk stockings than in security safes.” He leaned forward, eyes fixed on her curiously.

  Gabi smiled to herself.

  “Not all women.” She regarded her nails, then met his gaze once more. “My grandfather was a locksmith. So where did you find this classic?”

  Bernard removed his beret and ran his right hand through his jet-black hair. “We pilfered the strongbox from the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was in a Nazi accounting office, and we thought it might contain cash. We haven’t figured out how to open it.”

  Gabi looked at Eric, who rubbed a slight smirk from his face. She approached the cast-iron safe and gave its combination dial a gentle spin. “Mind if I try?”

  An incredulous Bernard waved his arm like a Moulin Rouge maître d’ sweeping a showroom. “Please, be my guest.”

  Gabi leaned her ear against the combination dial and concentrated. All eyes turned to her as a hush fell over the room. She turned the dial slowly to the right, her eyes closed and her ears detecting vibrations to reveal whether she had “hit” either side of the notch on the wheel. This particular model, though, was a safecracker’s delight: each click was confirmed by a tactile lurch in the wheel. In less than two minutes, she stood up.