by Tricia Goyer
on it.
The door to the pastry shop opened, jangling the small bell affixed to the jamb. Schaffner unemotionally peered above the print to see Rolf Kaufman. Kaufman’s eyes scanned the half-full restaurant, populated with coffee-klatch housewives taking a Saturday morning shopping break.
Schaffner silently stood to shake hands and offered his partner a seat. Then he turned the Zurich newspaper for his partner to see.
“Yeah, I caught it at the kiosk,” Kaufman replied. “Not great news.”
“Well, I have some better news. We’re back in business.”
“Oh?”
“A message from Heller last night. He has a job.”
Kaufman rapped his knuckles against the wooden tabletop. “Does anybody get hurt?”
Fair question, Schaffner thought, especially for their line of work. “There is always that possibility, but I don’t know yet.”
Schaffner took a sip from his coffee, then motioned for Kaufman to lean in. He lowered his voice. “He wants us to steal a painting—a very special one.”
His accomplice regarded him with a quizzical expression. Kaufman looked a bit like a rat with his pointy nose and narrow-set eyes.
“Ja, und . . . ?”
“The Mona Lisa,” Schaffner whispered.
Kaufman’s eyes widened.
“I received a follow-up transmission this morning. Heller said, upon reflection, he realized that his request places us in a, shall we say, very delicate position. That’s why he’s authorized Wessner to pay us five times our usual fee and half the money up front.” Schaffner’s chest tightened at the idea of that much money, but he tried not to let it show.
Kaufman whistled under his breath and rubbed his fingers back and forth, as if he was already holding the money. “I could use the cash. So where’s the Mona Lisa? I hope Heller’s not expecting us to go to Paris.”
“We’re in luck. The painting is at a chateau fifty kilometers from Geneva. He’ll send the exact location in the next transmission, but he wants us to discuss logistics with Anton Wessner before we leave the country.”
“Wessner? The Dolder Bank president? Why would he get his hands dirty?”
Schaffner shrugged, fingering the spoon he’d used to stir his coffee. “I’d guess for the same reason we’re going to steal the most famous painting in the world—money. We need to hand the painting off to him so he can store it in the vault underneath the Bahnhofstrasse, for which he’ll be paid handsomely I’m certain. Once he takes possession of the Mona Lisa, Swiss banking laws will protect everyone, including Heller.”
“You mean Göring.”
“I suppose they’re one and the same. Although, the way Heller has been skimming cream off the top, it’s a toss-up who has more loot stashed away in Zurich. At least, that’s what Wessner implied after one too many schnapps.” He softly smiled to himself, proud that he knew how to loosen the lips even of bank presidents.
Kaufman held up his hand. “I’m not surprised, especially with the way the war is going. Everyone is storing up something for the long winter ahead. Nonetheless, the colonel won’t be long for this world if Göring finds out. They’ll be able to write a new chapter in the Gestapo Torture Manual after Göring’s finished with him, but that’s his problem.” Kaufman slid his finger across his neck, mimicking a knife. “So when do we start?”
“As soon as we get the name of the chateau, we’re on our way. First we’ll have to find Wessner. I called his home, but there was no answer. He’s probably at his chalet outside Lucerne. He seems to go there every weekend in the summer. But no answer there, either.”
Kaufman crossed his arms and looked directly at Schaffner. “You’re saying the painting is at a private residence, with no police protection, one hour from the border, and all of France has a hangover? This sounds too easy.” He chuckled under his breath.
“I agree, but timing is everything.”
Kaufman’s eyes narrowed, and a smirk peaked the corners of his lips. “Say, Hansi, maybe we should keep the painting for ourselves. Work has been scarce.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” Schaffner shot back. “But I’ll give you two reasons why we shouldn’t. First, we couldn’t fence the Mona Lisa, not even for a fraction of its value. Second, the thought of the Gestapo stringing us up with piano wire is most unappealing.”
Schaffner sensed that this would be his last big score. But a question nagged at his thoughts: What would the Reichsmarschall do with a painting that was beyond priceless?
Colonel Heller, with flushed face, felt his blood pressure rising from frustration. The pounding pulse filled his ears as he strangled the phone receiver.
“I called Paris yesterday,” he bellowed. “What do you mean—the telephone lines are down? Von Choltitz surrendered without firing a shot!”
“But sir,” the operator interrupted, “we’ve had sporadic success all morning—wait, the line just connected. I’ll ring you through.”
“Bonjour, Musée du Louvre.”
Heller took a long breath to steady himself, then slipped into French. He was careful to tone down his German accent.
“Are you open today?”
“For visitors, non, we are closed,” replied the female voice.
“I thought maybe with Libération, everyone would be at the Louvre celebrating.” Heller forced a lilt. The pretense of delight with events of the last twenty-four hours grated his nerves.
“No, we are closed today, except for a minimal staff. We expect to reopen in a week, monsieur.”
“Actually, I was looking for someone, one of your curators, Mademoiselle Perriard.”
“She’s not in today, sir. I suggest you call back Monday.”
The call clicked, and the operator was back on the line.
“I want you to try another number.” Heller looked back at his file and then dictated the phone number to Colette Perriard’s apartment. A voice answered, although it didn’t sound like Colette.
“I’m looking for Colette Perriard. Is she there?”
“No, I’m sorry, monsieur,” said a female voice. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. I believe she is with her boyfriend.”
Heller thought for a moment. “Is there a phone number? It is urgent that I speak with her.”
“Let me see . . . yes, she left it.”
Heller noted the number and thanked the roommate with flowery language.
He hung up and dialed the operator again, hoping that the lines stayed open.
This time, his luck had run out. Slamming the phone down, he took a deep breath and ordered himself to remain calm.
The German colonel opened a small notebook and turned to a dog-eared page. There were several entries lined through; the last one was the name of a chateau and a village.
If he didn’t reach Colette by tomorrow, then Schaffner and Kaufman would have to go with this one.
Good thing the parade doesn’t start until 2 p.m., Bernard thought. After celebrating “the greatest night the world has ever known”—as one Radio France commentator breathlessly described it—the champagne-filled citizens of Paris were understandably taking their time getting started the morning after.
With throbbing headaches, liberated Paris was still not entirely at peace. Bernard touched his fingers to his temples, noting his own migraine as he considered how the city hadn’t been cleared of German snipers, trapped in their sequestered perches, either out of touch with the news or wary to be seen in uniform.
There also were reports that a combat team from the French 2nd Armored was on their way to the Le Bourget airport, where a body of German troops threatened to counterattack. None of the celebrating citizens wanted to think the Germans would try to reclaim the city, but Bernard hadn’t pushed the worry completely from his mind.
After spending the night at Dubois’ flat in the 8th arrondissement, he had gone for a walk and witnessed sights that brought mixed emotion. At the Place de la Madeleine, a little girl asked an Americ
an GI for “another ball.”
In her small hands, she gripped an orange for the first time.
The sight caused his heart to ache. These small children had only known the Occupation. Then he witnessed a young woman Colette’s age stop an American GI and ask in halting English, “May I wash your uniform?” He was caked in mud from his helmet to the tips of his combat boots, his face so filthy that Bernard was uncertain if he wore a beard. He watched as she led the soldier into the family apartment to get him cleaned up.
Making his way toward the Place de la Concorde, he passed the five-star Hôtel de Crillon, where doormen wearing dinner jackets blocked casual visitors from entering.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
He shook his head in disgust: the Hôtel de Crillon—gilded, crested, tasseled, and ornate—symbolized the bourgeoisie excesses that he and his fellow French Communists vowed to change. Marx’s credo—“From each according to his ability, to each according to his need”—came to his thoughts. For France to become a nation where every person contributed to society according to the best of his or her ability and consumed from society in proportion to his or her needs—that was the utopia he sought and fought for. Now, more than ever, that dream was attainable.
As he made his way up the Champs Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe, hundreds of VIVE DE GAULLE banners were being hung from second- and third-story windows and hundreds more were already pasted against regal buildings fronting the grandest boulevard in the world. Dubois had told him that printing presses had been running until dawn, and all morning long the radio had been heralding “de Gaulle’s march” down the Champs Élysées.
The muscles in his neck tightened and his footsteps grew heavier. He wished he could stomp out de Gaulle’s name. The synergy of frustration and pent-up anger built with the unfurling of each new banner.
Where was de Gaulle when blood from the Resistance had flowed? No doubt living in England in far more comfort than his fellow countrymen. He and his comrades were the ones who had done the heavy lifting. His shoulders slumped, considering he was just one among many countless and nameless fighters shunted to the sidelines by a general who seemed oblivious to their sacrifice.
This was de Gaulle’s rendezvous with history, the radio commentators said, the culmination of his four-year crusade, the unofficial referendum in which he would establish his authority and silence political rivals. Millions were expected to line the parade route from the Arc de Triomphe to the Notre Dame, where de Gaulle and local dignitaries would witness a Te Deum Mass of thanksgiving inside the famous cathedral.
Spotting a VIVE DE GAULLE poster on the sidewalk of the Champs, he swooped down to pick it up, studied it pensively, and then crumpled the paper into a ball. With a flick of the wrist, Bernard discarded it into the gutter.
In many ways, he and the French Communists had been tossed aside by an imperious and opportune general who thought he knew what was best for the French people.
Vive de Gaulle? Not if he and his comrades had a say.
From their vantage point at the Place de la Concorde, Gabi looked up the Champs Élysées, its thick borders black with cheering crowds. Young boys had climbed trees and lampposts overlooking the route. Women, children, and men lifted their faces, hoping for a glimpse of their national hero.
It was a few minutes before two o’clock, and everywhere she looked—from balconies, rooftops, windows, and curbs—hundreds of thousands of Parisians readied themselves to officially welcome Charles de Gaulle and the victorious Allies into Paris. This was their chance to formally embrace freedoms not felt in four years.
She, along with Eric and Colette, were scrunched behind a chain of police and firemen, who, with arms linked, attempted to hold back the encroaching crowd from the plaza. They were losing ground. Bodies pressed around them, and Gabi longed for a breath of fresh air.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Colette placed a hand over her heart. “The radio said two million people might be on the parade route.”
“Here, stand in front of me.” Eric stepped back and created a pocket for Gabi behind the arm-linked guards. “You’ll get a better view.”
Gabi welcomed the sheltered vantage. The parade was about to begin. Eric wrapped his arms around her, and a smile filled her face.
Vive la France.
Bernard, positioned alongside his leader, Colonel Rol, took a deep breath and exhaled. The anger and frustration was slowly being replaced by a sense of excitement. It was impossible to be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of his cheering countrymen without being buoyed by their mood. Besides, it was clear this would be the only public recognition his branch of the Resistance would be given for putting their lives on the line for four long years. His mind flashed back to those who’d died. If he’d walk straight and tall for anyone, he’d do it for his comrades.
The grand Arc de Triomphe stood over them, casting a shadow over those who’d survived. Bernard looked up into the deep recesses of the Arc, then to the varied commanders and back again to the cheering throngs. Someday he would tell his grandchildren about this moment.
General Charles de Gaulle, tall and poised, stood erect before France’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where he laid a wreath of red carnations on the massive granite slab. Then, with a symbolic gesture, de Gaulle extended a torch and relit the grave’s eternal flame, the first Frenchman to perform this solemn duty since June 1940.
The crowds hushed in a moment of silence, giving Bernard an opportunity to clear his mind. He moved his gaze to watch de Gaulle—with the eyes of Paris upon him—turn and inspect Leclerc’s tanks and armored vehicles that ringed the Étoile. General de Gaulle’s regal air and measured steps spoke volumes about the political power that he expected France to bestow.
Police cars led the procession—one with a loudspeaker announcing that de Gaulle was “confiding his well-being to the people of Paris”—followed by four tanks from the 2nd Armored. Bernard had never experienced this type of gathering before, and he understood the worry of the police. Enemies could still lurk among them. To eliminate de Gaulle would be a small but significant victory for the Germans, even in retreat with tails between their legs. The emotional crowds, surging forward on both flanks, were held back by members of the Free French Resistance as well as policemen.
As promised, de Gaulle made sure he was front and center, towering a head taller than his companions, at the parade start. “Messieurs, remember to stay behind me,” he said as the march began down the Champs Élysées to nearly hysterical chants of “Merci!” and “Vive de Gaulle!”
The thunderous acclaim of a nation had begun.
From a distance of more than one and a half kilometers, Eric could feel the excitement surge among the mass of humanity ringing the Place de la Concorde with its giant Egyptian obelisk.
From Eric’s view, the procession of police cars and tanks was orderly enough, but the rest of the parade flowing down the Champs Élysées resembled a disorganized mess. Minutes passed as the advancing parade moved at a slow but steady pace. Thirty minutes later, as de Gaulle neared their position, a kindergarten-age girl slipped through adult legs and handed the general a bouquet of flowers. He accepted with a smile and lofted her high before setting the girl down and pointing her toward her parents. De Gaulle then turned and handed the bouquet to—Bernard Rousseau!
Eric rubbed his eyes, making sure he was seeing correctly, but it was indeed the Frenchman.
“Salut, Bernard!” Colette yelled.
Bernard looked up at the familiar voice. He smiled and moved toward them, but as he took a step forward a rifle shot split the square.
At the crack of gunfire, thousands of onlookers fell to the pavement. Eric pulled both Gabi and Colette down under outstretched arms as screams of panic waved through the crowd. Eric crouched down, but not before he looked up to witness a sentinel moment. As thousands cowered, including Resistance members marchi
ng alongside, de Gaulle maintained his ramrod posture and moved indifferently forward, fully ignoring the chaos and panic.
He maintained his methodical gait as the parade made the bend onto the Rue de Rivoli—as if now invincible. The surrounding throng seemed to be bowing.
As his steps continued forward, panic turned into applause; first a ripple, then swelling into a tidal wave. The crowd was now delirious with adoration. De Gaulle had summited the peak into the pantheons of French immortality. The impromptu coronation was complete, christened with peals of “Vive de Gaulle!”
A brave man, Eric thought. He never flinched.
Bernard worked his way to Colette and wrapped his arms around her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Colette replied over the din. “It doesn’t seem as though anyone was hurt.”
“I have to go,” Bernard said. “I’ll meet you at the Brassiere Lipp after the parade.”
“Wait!” Colette reached toward her boyfriend, but he was already lost in a sea of humanity closing in behind the procession.
From the pedestal of the Obelisk of Luxor, Antoine Celeste scanned the front of the parade through binoculars, checking to see if anyone had been hit. He saw a man leave the route for a moment, then return alongside Colonel Rol.
Recognizing the face, he seethed. His brother’s untimely death would not be forgotten.
Celeste’s revenge would be unexpected and painful.
16
The party had never stopped at the Brasserie Lipp.
Gabi and Eric followed Bernard and Colette past the crowded tables toward the back of the restaurant where a red velvet curtain separated the main floor from a private room. Eric’s hand protectively held Gabi’s, and she noticed his eyes scanning the room as they walked.
Even during the victory celebrations pulsating through Paris, Eric was alert to any danger. She appreciated that about him, knowing his vigilance had protected her. She knew that he would continue to watch out for her well-being.