Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  Eric could tell by the look on Gabi’s face that she didn’t share the same appreciation for the eighth wonder of the world. “Where are you taking us?”

  “We’ll skirt the Jardin du Luxembourg,” Bernard replied. “It’s a German stronghold. I know a safe house on the Rue de Vaugirard. I was there this morning. We should be there—”

  A shaft of light fell on the paved walkway fifty meters away. Someone had opened up the manhole cover. Voices could be heard—German voices.

  They were coming.

  8

  Bernard extinguished the flame inside the kerosene lamp. The cavernous passage was instantly cloaked in total darkness.

  Eric strained to hear the voices coming through the manhole.

  “Ich habe die drei in diesem Schach verschwinden gesehen,” said one.

  Bernard sidled up next to Eric. “What did he say?” he whispered in French.

  Eric drew close to Bernard’s ear. “He said, ‘I have seen the three disappear in this manhole.’ Now they’re discussing what to do. The leader is saying there’s no way he’s climbing into a dark cesspool to chase us, but one of the soldiers said there’s a lamp in the truck.”

  From their accent, these were real Germans—not Poles or Russians shanghaied into the Wehrmacht.

  “Wait. They’re still talking.” Eric cupped his ear.

  “One is saying that he wants to kill some frogs before he leaves Paris. Another soldier said he’ll join him. They’re basically volunteering.” Eric realized both soldiers were trigger-happy and itching for action. “I suggest we get going.”

  The Frenchman grunted his approval. Bernard relit the kerosene lamp, and they scurried along the walkway, the sound of their quick steps echoing inside the underground passage. When Eric—last in line—looked behind, he could barely make out the shaft of light in the distance. Then he saw one soldier land on the walkway, illuminated by the deep yellow hue of a kerosene lamp.

  “They’re coming!” Eric laid a hand on Gabi’s shoulder.

  “Stay with me!” Bernard whispered loudly. Ten meters ahead was the first intersection. Instead of crossing on a wooden plank, Bernard turned right with Gabi and Eric in close pursuit, taking them out of the Germans’ line of sight.

  A report from a rifle reverberated down the concrete passage. The bullet ricocheted off the metal pipes hanging from the ceiling. A second and a third shot followed, then silence.

  Eric checked his pocket and felt the smooth metallic finish of the Schmidt 7.5mm revolver. There wasn’t anywhere to hide in these tunnels. The German’s rifle carried a distinct advantage. Only at close range would Eric have a chance. Maybe Rousseau, who had a rifle draped over his back, was a sharpshooter, but in this catacomb-like setting, they couldn’t let the Germans get them in their sights.

  Gabi held her side and gasped for a breath, longing for fresh air and wondering if she’d be able to keep up the pace.

  They raced along the underground walkway with Bernard stopping periodically to check the street signs. At another intersection, more wooden planks were strewn across the bisecting channels of human waste. Bernard held up a hand and studied his options.

  “This way.” The partisan stepped across a makeshift bridge, then he beckoned for Gabi and Eric.

  Gabi hoped Bernard knew where he was going. The stench was getting to her. Leaky walls closed in, and with each step, the intense, claustrophobic oppressiveness wrapped its coils around her, threatening to pull her into the endless stream of raw sewage. She glanced down. Thick sludge and bits of tissue paper floated by. Gabi choked back a gag and continued putting one foot in front of the other.

  The German soldiers weren’t giving up. Their leather boots clamored in the distance with persistence. So far, Bernard’s changes of direction hadn’t shaken them off their tail.

  “Keep moving. Keep up,” he prodded.

  They pressed ahead in the dark tunnel. At the next intersection, Bernard ordered a left turn and followed a new channel. Minutes passed.

  He stopped suddenly and Gabi almost ran into him. Bernard placed his forefinger against his lips. They listened for their pursuers. Ten seconds of silence gave them their answer.

  Two Germans talked somewhere in the darkness. They had closed the gap. Gabi guessed them to be just beyond the last corner. They were making up ground.

  Bernard drew close to Eric and Gabi. “Change of plans. We have to get to street level now. I don’t want a bullet in my back—not at this late stage of the war.”

  “Will it be safe? You said we could be near a German garrison.” Eric’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Bernard shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Gabi held her arms tight, attempting to stop them from quivering. “Do you know where we are?”

  “Near the Jardin du Luxembourg, I believe. We could open the manhole cover and discover an entire boche battalion on patrol, but I say it’s worth the risk.”

  Behind them, the plodding of the soldiers’ footsteps grew closer. They still hadn’t turned the last corner. Gabi held her breath, waiting.

  “How much longer?” Eric reached for his revolver. “If we have a ways to go, I think we’re better off surprising them when they come around the corner.”

  “It’s not much further. Our chances are better up above than down here.”

  Gabi nodded and covered her nose. “I agree.” Any plan that allowed her to escape this fetid hole was her first choice.

  Bernard turned and continued on, blazing a trail on the stone walkway. Gabi scrambled to keep up.

  Returning to her quickened pace, her head felt light. Was it from the fumes? The running? The fear? Maybe all three. She focused on Bernard’s back, pushing herself on. Just then her right foot slipped. She stumbled and before she could catch herself, her foot dipped into the churning sewage.

  “Yeech,” she hissed through clenched teeth as she yanked her right foot out of the dirty water.

  Eric took her arm, helping to right her. “Don’t think about it. Keep moving.”

  Bernard hadn’t stopped. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widened in fear. “They’re gaining on us. The next manhole shaft is just ahead.”

  He picked up his pace, sprinting with the kerosene lamp held aloft.

  Ten seconds later, Bernard found the set of metal rungs leading to the street. “Here, hold this.” He handed the lamp to Gabi and scampered up the ladder. She looked up to see the Frenchman pressing both palms against the manhole cover. He pushed harder, grunting, but without success.

  “She won’t budge,” he groaned. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and slammed the butt against the cast-iron cover. A dull thud echoed off the walls of the tunnel.

  Gabi glanced behind her. The German soldiers’ pace had quickened. Time was running out.

  “Let me up there!” Eric grabbed a rung and flung himself up the manhole shaft. Bernard shifted to one side to give Eric some room.

  Eric’s jaw fixed and his eyes narrowed in determination as he pounded his shoulder against the manhole cover. Bernard joined in, hammering the edge with the rifle stock.

  Gabi looked back. In the dim light, she saw the silhouette of a coal-scuttle shaped steel helmet belonging to the Wehrmacht. He couldn’t have been more than seventy-five meters away. As the soldier knelt and shouldered his carbine, Gabi climbed the metal rung with her right hand, steadying the kerosene lamp in her left. She shimmied up the vertical shaft as two gunshots ricocheted off the metal ladder with a flash of sparks.

  The gunfire reverberated through the sewer tunnel, intensifying Eric and Bernard’s efforts.

  In seconds they would be shot like fish in a barrel.

  “C’mon, Eric,” she whispered, while holding up the kerosene lamp.

  She watched Eric lean into the steel cover with his back, using his legs against the ladder rungs to leverage himself, but it appeared the heavy iron cover had been sealed shut with cement.

  The German soldiers took off in a sprint.<
br />
  “They’re almost here!” Gabi called.

  Eric strained and a primordial cry burst from his lips. A grating sound hummed through the tunnel, and dust and small bits of sand showered them. Next came the scrape of metal on metal and the heavy cover tilted slightly.

  More sand and dust tumbled down. Gabi lifted her face and watched with squinted eyes. With renewed energy the men pushed harder.

  Just then, the manhole cover disappeared. A commotion of voices and cries filled the air, and suddenly Eric and Bernard were gone. Vanished.

  Daylight flooded the sewer shaft, temporarily blinding Gabi. Dropping the lantern to free her hands, she grabbed the ladder and scrambled toward the street surface. She heard the lamp carom down and sounds of breaking glass as it smashed into the stone walkway, splashing kerosene across the walls and in the path of the advancing

  soldiers.

  Seconds later a swirl of heat and black smoke propelled Gabi upward into waiting hands that wrapped around her arms and launched her past the street level. She fumbled for her footing like a marionette on a string.

  Righting herself, she looked around to see that she stood among dozens of Parisians. Loud cheers echoed in her ears.

  Just then, the crack of a rifle sounded and a bullet scorched the air behind her head. The noise of the crowd silenced. Some darted away from the hole. Others crouched down, looking for the source of the shot.

  Like a gopher emerging from his hole, a German helmet popped out. In a single motion, Eric pulled Gabi aside. Then with all his weight, he stomped on the helmet with his heel. There was a crunch as cervical vertebrae compressed, then gave way with a loud snap as the soldier’s head fell awkwardly to the side. His dead weight, propelled by gravity, slammed into the second advancing infantryman. With a clattering of metal on concrete, both fell into the river of sewage with a deep, heavy splash.

  Eric looked at Rousseau. “What now?”

  “Leave the rats to their bath. Quick, help me with the cover.”

  Sounds of Germanic swearing became muffled as the heavy cast-iron cover slid back into place with a hollow thud. The crowd, swelling in size, cheered with approval. Another round of applause erupted as a Frenchman with a pencil-thin moustache took Gabi in his arms and kissed her full on the lips.

  “Je m’excuse, mademoiselle. Paris est libéré!” Paris is liberated!

  Eric, bent over with hands on his knees and breathing heavily, looked up at Gabi with a knowing smile. They’d barely cheated death.

  Gabi peeled herself from the Frenchman and rushed into Eric’s waiting arms. As he drew her close, she could palpably feel their hearts pounding against one another.

  As her pulse slowly returned to normal, Eric looked into Gabi’s eyes. “Have you taken a look around?”

  Without releasing her grasp on Eric, Gabi turned to see a boulevard adjacent to one of the largest parks she’d ever seen—and a parked tank.

  “That’s one of ours!” she exclaimed in surprise. Adoring Parisians surrounded a French tank with the tricolor and Cross of Lorraine stamped on its armor plate. The tank commander stood in the open turret. He took turns swigging gulps from a wine bottle and laying kisses on a beautiful young woman wrapped in his left arm.

  “This is amazing.” Gabi filled her lungs with fresh air. Thousands of people had poured into the streets, mad with exhilaration. Church bells pealed across the city, heralding the departure of the hated Germans and the return of liberty. France was once again France.

  Gabi took in the unrestrained joy beaming from the Parisian faces. The city was proud and alive again, and they were eyewitnesses to it. Eric pulled her tighter.

  An accordion player tapped out the first bars of “La Marseillaise,” and the Parisians quickly drowned out the musician as they sang their national anthem with fervor.

  Marchons, marchons!

  Qu’un sang impur

  Abreuve nos sillons!

  Eric led her to a low stone wall and patted the surface, motioning for her to sit. She did, leaning into him. With breathless wonder, her eyes took in the frenzied, joyful scene. What appeared to be perfect strangers kissed with abandon. Many guzzled from green wine bottles. Accordion folk music picked up again and the crowd waved miniature French flags from side to side.

  Gabi met the eyes of Bernard. He clapped his hands to the squeezebox beat. She waved him over. “When did the tank arrive?”

  “I was told just fifteen minutes ago. The 2nd Armored Division of General Leclerc rolled into Paris this morning, and even though the Germans had promised to defend Paris to ‘the last cartridge,’ resistance was isolated and sporadic. That’s why we heard the church bells earlier. Then the 2nd Armored captured the German commander of Paris, General von Choltitz, at the Hôtel Meurice. Once word got out about von Choltitz’s surrender, the cowards put their tails between their legs and stormed out of Paris.”

  “So the Germans are gone?” Gabi’s eyes widened.

  “See over there?” Bernard pointed through the park of the Jardin du Luxembourg toward two sets of wooden barracks. “That’s where the boches were bivouacked. Too bad. They missed their day of reckoning.”

  Gabi did her best to understand what Bernard must be feeling after four years of hated Occupation had finally ended. “Be grateful that Paris did not become another Warsaw.”

  “Touché, Mademoiselle Mueller.” Bernard returned his gaze to the accordion player, segueing into another French folk song.

  Gabi watched him mouth the words to “C’est Magnifique” with a smile growing wider by the minute.

  Paris est libéré!

  She sealed the memory in her heart, grateful to be a witness—and not the last casualty in Paris.

  9

  A light breeze failed to dispel the uncomfortable sultry pall that hung over the Schorf Heath, a low-lying forested area northeast of Berlin.

  Carinhall, a palatial hunting lodge with vaulted ceilings and thatched roof, could not shield the August mugginess from its owner, Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, who was feeling the oppressive heat in more ways than one. The second-in-command of Nazi Germany tugged at the gold Luftwaffe insignia attached to the collar of his pastel blue summer uniform while his aide-de-camp, Oberst Walter Heller, trailed in his wake.

  “How did the Führer receive the news?” Heller cautiously inquired as they strode down the hall of the sumptuous residence.

  Göring slowed his gait and came to a stop inside an ornate drawing room, where he surveyed the French cut-glass and ormolu chandeliers that hung from beams of oversized timber. The pair stood flanked by anterooms named Gold and Silver. Inside, hundreds of the finest Italian, French, German, and Dutch paintings and floor-to-ceiling Flemish tapestries occupied every available square centimeter.

  “I’m afraid our beloved leader did not accept the latest situational report very well.” Göring let out a heavy sigh. “Just hours ago, the Führer asked General Jodl, ‘Is Paris burning?’ When told that the Commander of Gross Paris had surrendered with barely a fight, the Führer shrieked and flew into a rage. He called von Choltitz a mutinous cretin for disobeying direct orders.”

  Göring had witnessed the volcanic eruptions before. He didn’t need much imagination to envision the Führer, with neck veins bulging and bloodshot eyes, working himself into a good lather. Direct orders from Hitler were not to be ignored, and the Reichskanzler had been specific, telling von Choltitz that the French capital “must not fall into the enemy’s hands except lying in complete debris.” Von Choltitz was lucky to be taken prisoner by the Allies. Whatever the conditions, a far less hospitable fate awaited him back home.

  For Göring, the Teletype message from Berlin an hour ago declaring that Paris had fallen was distressing, though not unexpected. A silver lining in the gloomy transmission was that the most beautiful city in the world hadn’t been turned into a smoldering slag heap.

  A week earlier, a source on General Jodl’s staff had told him that the 813th Pionierkompanie—Engine
er Company—had strapped U-boat torpedoes underneath forty-five bridges spanning the Seine. A cache of dynamite had been also set aside to blow up the most recognized landmark in the world—the Eiffel Tower. Sheer lunacy!

  “Let’s look at some of my paintings,” Göring said to his aide, attempting an upbeat tone. Sometimes in low moments like this, he needed to be close to his art. The works of Old Masters gave him perspective and a chance to think clearly. On occasions, he believed treasures of the past spoke directly to him.

  They continued along the white arabescato marble flooring he had personally selected from an Italian quarry. He had approved every detail of Carinhall’s construction, right down to the lavish door handles. The memory caused his heavy chest to swell with pride. No residence in the world housed as many pieces of exquisite art, all chosen by him.

  “Each day that I’m here gives me immense satisfaction, Heller.” His gaze focused toward the masterpieces hanging on the walls, many having come from—or through—Paris, where Heller had traveled at his behest to purchase the very best art available on the market. Yes, purchase, because he could afford them. As Prime Minister of Prussia, Minister of Aviation, State Foresting and Hunting Master of Germany, Field Marshall of the Luftwaffe, and director of the Four-Year Economic Plan, his bank accounts overflowed with Reichsmarks.

  Of the eight homes Göring owned, Carinhall was the one he loved most. He had intended to build a simple hunting lodge, but one remodeling project beget another—plus the need for more wall space to display his art. A small army of carpenters worked for nearly seven years, adding high-ceilinged atriums, oversized sitting rooms, and wood-paneled studies until his country home reached Versailles-like proportions.

  “What do you think of our latest Cranach?” Göring stopped in front of a tall, rectangular oil painting that had replaced an inferior piece traded to an unsuspecting dealer.