Chasing Mona Lisa (7 page)

“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.

Bernard grinned. “Too tough for you?”

“I don’t think so. Let me know if you find any silk stockings inside.” Gabi reached down and pulled the lever handle, and with a hard metallic clunk, the safe door swung open, accompanied with an immediate burst of applause from the women around the table. The safe, the size of an artisan breadbasket, was crammed with folders bound with thin brown strings.

Bernard, nonplussed for a moment, theatrically bowed and reached into the safe to retrieve the contents. “You’re one beautiful surprise after another.”

The Frenchman sorted through the stack. “Unfortunately, no money or stockings.” Scanning the folders, he mused, “I recognize German efficiency, but I don’t recognize the German words.”

“May I?” Gabi held out her hand and received the folders from Bernard. “The first one is a list of purchase orders for what appears to be artwork.”

Thumbing through the stack, she paused. “Now here’s something that may be of interest.” She pulled a folder from the stack labeled
Informanten
—informants—and extracted five or six pages, which were filled with columns for names, addresses, and telephone numbers. “Looks like a long census.”

She handed the sheaf of papers to Bernard, who scanned the column of names. Watching him, she could tell he recognized a few. Then his finger paused on one name.

She barely detected his whisper.

“It can’t be . . .”

Suddenly, an explosion rattled the windows, followed by distant bursts of small arms fire. Then the sound of heavy footsteps as Dubois stormed into the room. “A German troop truck has smashed one of our barricades a few blocks over! They could be heading here next!”

Bernard jerked into action. “Everyone out!” The room was filled with bodies in motion, then the sound of more partisans descending three flights of stairs coming toward them. A half-dozen beret-wearing Resistance members bolted inside, grabbing up rifles, boxes of ammunition, and each a Molotov cocktail or two.

“Wait—what about the files?” Gabi gripped them in her hands.

“And your money?” Eric took the backpack off his shoulder.

“Leave everything on the table—with them!” Bernard motioned toward the three women, who were hurriedly packing Molotov cocktails in wine crates. “I trust them with my life. We have to help!”

As they swept up their belongings, Gabi glanced back at the empty safe. There was something about this Bauche Brevete that caught her eye.

“Let’s go!” Eric waved his arm. “They’re waiting!”

“Just a second.” Gabi’s eyes quickly scanned the interior of the safe as the older women dispensed freshly made Molotov cocktails to partisans rushing down the hallway.

She reached inside and knocked on the base . . . detecting a false bottom.

“What are you doing?” Eric asked, waiting impatiently.

Gabi’s fingers worked the slider, and underneath the lid she discovered a small book. It was black, the size of her palm.

She slipped the thin volume into the pocket of her dress and ran toward Eric. Grabbing his hand, they sprinted out of the main building.

By now, a dozen Resistance members had gathered in the courtyard, each gripping small arms and Molotov cocktails.

“Where’s the patrol, Dubois?”

“They’re gathering like cockroaches near the Pont Saint-Michel. Perhaps they’re heading our way, or maybe they’re going over to the Sorbonne after what happened this morning. I’m not sure how long our comrades can hold out.”

Gabi’s heart raced. The French call to rush the roadblocks—“Aux barricades!”—and her sense of duty meant they had to do
something
, even if it was manning the rear guard or tending to the wounded. “We’re coming with you,” she announced, her jaw set. “We can help with first aid.”

The Resistance leader shrugged. “It’s very dangerous on the streets. I am concerned for your safety.”

“It’s dangerous
anywhere
in Paris. A tank shell could come through that window any second.”

“Too true,” Bernard agreed.

Gabi regarded Eric. He gestured his support with a slight nod.

Bernard reached for a knapsack filled with first aid supplies. “À chacun son boche,” he said quietly as he led them out of the courtyard.

To everyone his Kraut
.